And Now A Word From Our Sponsors!

Greetings, Castaways.

I seem to have picked up some regular blog readers (who haven't signed on as followers yet, for some reason) from some really cool places recently, and I want to personally acknowledge them. So to our newer readers in China, Romania, Spain, Germany, Poland, Cyprus, Belgium and other unexpected places, I say, "Welcome, and thank you for viewing!"

In case you don't know it, I write novels, mainly thrillers and science fiction.  My debut novel Becoming NADIA won the EPIC Award for Best Thriller, so if you like a white-knuckle ride through the pages, feel free to check it out. You can read a free excerpt at:

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/becoming-nadia-detail

Part Two of the series is another thriller with deep discussions of identity and relationship titled Unalive:

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/unalive-detail

Of course, we wouldn't leave you hanging, would we? So we finish up the story of Nadia Velasquez with Book Three, Critical Mass:
https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/critical-mass-detail

How do you like that cover art? My artist is Delilah K. Stephans.

Now, the series at this point is technically complete. But there's just one loose end that we need to sew up, and that's the story of the origin of the Pinnacle's most dangerous secret agent Jenna Paine:

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/lies-and-paine-detail

I had a lot of fun writing this series, and I think you'll enjoy reading it. It's getting a lot of great reviews from all over the place.

And now we return you to our regularly scheduled program, already in progress...

Microcebus Murinus at Bear Cave

...and, Happy Saturday, fellow castaways!

I trust your week was fruitful, if not downright peachy.

I missed last week's post, because the Keith family had to get away. It was the first family vacation we've had in almost twenty years, believe it or not. We seem to have hit a point where all the medical specialists in Western Lower Michigan are comfortably making their car payments, so it was our turn to have some family time that didn't involve surgical waiting rooms or a massive, multicolored wire medusa stuck to someone's head after a sleepless night. So we took to it with Gusto.

We rented a cottage at a camp resort about an hour and a half away (little steps, people, little steps!) and settled in for a week of fishing, boating, and out-of-touch-with-all-electronics leisure.

And got what IT specialists refer to as "an undocumented feature.".

Maxwell showed up on the third day, eager to meet the new residents of the Manager's House (what the resort called our cottage. Long story, but it used to be the resort manager's house, several owners ago. Okay, I guess it wasn't such a long story, but there you go. It was a nice little place with two bedrooms and a pull-out sofa in the living room that had this bar--) *One hundred medieval soldiers on nearest hilltop scream, "Get on with it!*

Okay, so there was this mouse. A little gray rat-bag of a mouse that at least had the decency to not run over someone's face in their sleep, or gnaw through our Pop-Tart boxes before he showed up (albeit late on Wednesday night, without even bothering to knock. Oh, the nerve).

What is it about mice that draws them to females of our species? What is it about their timing that makes them always show up when the man of the house is engaged in manly functions not related to having immediate freedom of movement? O Mouse, must you rob Man even of his dignity? I was deeply involved with such a movement-restricting manly activity when an unearthly shriek was heard coming from the kitchen area of the house (the kitchen? Seriously? How stereotypical. This mouse obviously had no imagination).

Okay, so I had maybe this one shred of malicious glee, imagining the ages-old war erupting on the other side of the bathroom door with one micro-bear and three females of my species. Then I shook myself-- from my reverie (where was your mind?) and thoroughly washed my hands before dashing bravely into the living quarters, where my wife was perched screaming on a dining chair as my daughters dashed from refuge to vain refuge in various corners while this tiny gray shadow dashed furiously from corner to corner, under the couch, behind various appliances, and in general trying to cover as many square feet as it could at one time, with my gallant and courageous sons in hot pursuit, heaving shoes, fishing lures, and kitchen utensils in a manner that would have made George S. Patton cringe in terror. Where's a timed artillery barrage when you really need it?

With a battle cry handed down from father to son since the days my ancestors swung claymores and charged into action wearing kilts (not little dresses! Although they immobilized the enemy into helpless fits of laughter just before being hacked into little bits by claymore-wielding ancestors), I bellowed our traditional Nya-a-a-a-a-a-rgh!!! (c)  before wading into the fray.

The enemy was under the stove. My spinning rod was fit with a Hula-Popper. It was the perfect combination of floppy bits, metal hooks and tiny ends that would surely drag the fugitive into the open where it could be dispatched with authority and determination. Although, as I swept the weapon under the stove, I wondered where I would get a kilt with which to immobilize the creature by helpless fits of laughter before performing the dreadful deed. I am a traditionalist, after all.

After several minutes of fruitless mouse-fishing, I came to the conclusion the creature had chosen a tactical withdrawal, at least for the evening. We settled in for the long haul, switching sides on the living room floor (I would take the side closer to the kitchen). The kiddos settled into their beds on either end of the cottage, and the rest of the night passed in a tenuous state of detente.

The next day, we explained through sleep-starved lips at the camp store our exploits of the previous evening. The staff set us up with appropriate anti-cebus weaponry, and we set about laying out our ambuscades. With much-practiced hands (I grew up in Rodent Central, after all), I supplemented each bait tray with a smear of chunky peanut butter (Mice love peanut butter. Everybody loves peanut butter. Anyone who doesn't love peanut butter is a weirdo) and set them in various strategic locations, most notably beside the stove (The last place Maxwell was seen). After spending the daylight hours engaged in various leisure activities (Be jealous. Be very jealous), we retired for the evening.

Sometime in the night, our older daughter grunted and swatted at her face, thinking maybe Maxwell had just made a guerrilla raid on the residence. This triggered an instantaneous response from her sister, who raised the alert with a series of blood-curdling screams emitted in that frequency range and amplitude reserved for sonic weapons. In other words, from over in their room there arose such a clatter I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. I promptly tripped over three fishing poles, a tackle box and three life preservers before stumbling into the room and clotheslining myself on a canoe paddle stretched across the doorway.

After determining the absence of threat, I assured the girls Maxwell would be more interested in the kitchen than the bedrooms, and spent the rest of the night in restless anxiety.

Sometime between the false alarm and the dawn creeping up over the eastern horixzon, however, Maxwell Mouse met his maker. We were almost sorry to see him thus undone, but what can you say. It's a war, son; no one comes out clean. The rest of the week remained largely uneventful, much to our relief. I think we actually slept the next night or two.

So what what do you do to relax?

Blog-Bomb 3: Rhobin Courtright!

Hey, fellow castaways!

This week, I want to share with you one of my new favorite science fiction authors. For those who aren't familiar, a blog-bomb is just a surprise entry highlighting someone in particular, chosen strictly at my own caprice.

For BB3, I chose Rhobin L. Courtright, author of Crewkin. Okay, so maybe this is just as much about the book as it is about Ms. Courtright, which may make this more of a review than a true blog-bomb in the purest spirit of the blog-bomb intent. But I claim rights to trhe term, and I'll make it what I want. So there.

First, I have to say I'm a big fan of Robert A. Heinlein and his style. I'm not so much a fan of authors like Arthur C. Clarke et al. I enjoyed 2001, in spite of the fact that throughout most of the book, NOTHING HAPPENS! Heinlein had some "draggers" too, but most of his books were excellent examples of action in a science fiction universe.

Rhobin Courtright's Crewkin was one of the first electronic books I bought, and a finalist for the 2012 EPIC Award for Best Science Fiction novel. After reading it, I heaved a huge sigh of relief that I entered my own novel in a different category, because I'm not sure Becoming NADIA would have beaten out Crewkin for the sci-fi category.

 

Renna Markham 3 is the only survivor of a long-haul star freighter that died in an incident so horrific that the Markham Corporation (owners of the ship, de facto, Renna) and  doesn't even want to talk about it. "Podders" as Renna and her crewkin are called, are so ingrained and isolated from "normal" folks like us, they don't even know how to survive socially, and the standard practice in any ship failure is for the entire crew to "join" by committing suicide. But for some reason, Renna wants to continue leaving. Her first great act of defiance is to walk out of the company clinic. I cheered. Now, for me to get that attached to a character less than one page in takes some damned good dialogue and a situation I can identify, and Ms. C did that marvelously well. Frighteningly well.

 

 Her second act of defiance is to grow hair. I don't want to explain it, you'll just have to read it yourself.

The Story then becomes centered around Renna's struggles to assimilate into a human society, wandering from job to job on the in-system short-haul space freighters, only to be shunned by crew after crew for her strange habits and customs, accumulated from her life as a member of a Podder crew. I think many of us can understand what it's like to be on the outside looking in, and I felt that sting deeply, even after she finds herself in with yet one more short-haul crew. Only this bunch have problems of their own. Each one is another misfit in his or her own way. So take one dysfunctional short-haul crew, add a Podder and shake well. You get some interesting colors.

Then, the other subplots start appearing. The cargo they took on at their last port, the one they are depending on to keep the ship's owners from bankruptcy? There's something odd about that. 

And that's just the beginning of "interesting."

Now, in the middle, there's some Clarke-esque moments where I thought the pace could have been a little more "on-spot." But I'm not going to fault a chess master for setting up his pieces for a checkmate, either. And the pace picked up nicely toward the grand climax at the end, and a very satisfying conclusion was reached.

I closed the book very impressed with the way it all fell together, and you guys want to read it, if you haven't already.

Thanks for a great ride, Rhobin. I look forward to more.

 

Diffusion

Have you ever said goodbye to someone knowing it would probably be the very last time you saw them on this earth? I'm not talking about saying goodbye to someone who's dying. We all know that's a heartbreaking moment. But we also know and understand in our hearts that it's definitely the last time we will see them this side of The Veil of death.

This week, I'm talking about those who move through our lives as molecules of a fluid move around each other in a solution, touching, sometimes lingering, and then moving on, diffusing to the farthest corners of the Container. And as we encounter these people, we affect each other, even for just that briefest of golden moments. Sometimes that moment lasts, and that other molecule becomes an acquaintance, a friend, or even more intimate. And then, one day, everything changes.

I had a friend in kindergarten and first grade, named Pam. Pam and I hung out, we walked together to and from school, we played on the playground together, and we were best friends.

 

You might even say (though a six-year-old boy would never admit this) that she was my first love. One day, we were just strolling home from school, I lost in thought about some great adventure, she talking on about whatever occupied her at the moment, and I never noticed that somehow we'd walked right past her house, and she was already up the steps and gone. Oddly enough, that was the last time I saw her. She wasn't in school the next day, or the day after that. And when I went to her house, no one was home. Pam's shadow lingered in my heart for years afterward. I never got to say goodbye.

In High school, I had a group of friends. I call them friends because of the level of camaraderie we established as a group. It was one particular class, Stage Tech. I'd been a misfit through most of my school years, not finding any group with which I could identify. And in my junior year, failing Advanced Algebra, my counselor suggested Stage Tech class. We were the people responsible for every production at the school. We built sets for the musicals and dramas, set and ran lights and sound for the band and choir shows, learned makeup techniques (Curse you, Maybelline, for discontinuing Tan Number Two base!).

 

Anyway, I walk into the school auditorium, and there's this band of misfits like me. We weren't the lead actors (though eventually I did take a lead role in Teahouse of the August Moon), we were the "behind the scenes" people who nobody saw, and we liked it that way. It was the two-dozen-or-so of us against the entire world, and we were determined to leave our marks on it. And we did, along the catwalk above the auditorium, on the light booth walls, and in the "student lounge," a secret corner of La Porte High School of which only a select few are aware of its very existence. We were quirky together, we were misfits together, and were brilliant together.

And after graduation, we never saw each other again.

And those instances don't take into account all the other molecules that flowed through my life over the years. My first real girlfriend when I was a teenager, Mary Ann. Missy, the Frick to my Frack who almost became my first lead singer (she was a HUGE fan off Robert Plant). Dave and Jon, two buddies from my Air Force days, who saw me through some of the toughest times in my life.

 

And then, molecules part. Some drift away. Some conflict. Some move away. Some just...disappear. And we never have another chance to tell them what they mean to us, how much we love them, or even to say how terribly sorry we are about...that.

That is the worst part about goodbyes. That is a word or an action that causes damage. And to leave someone damaged is the worst thing a person can do. I know. I've left some damaged people in my wake, much to my shame. And my punishment for that  is to live with knowing each heart is precious, and to have done or said that, and not be able to fix it.

My heart aches with each life I've left behind, every heart that has touched me, and every heart I've touched. I may never again see them, and I miss them all. But I can't live my life in regret, either. The best I can do every time the ache rises, every time I think of them, is to remember what good came of our time together, and to pray for their well-being and prosperity.

It doesn't make m miss them any less. But I hope that wherever they are, if they remember me, that they might do the same thing.

That makes it a little better.

It also reminds me that with each new relationship, each new person I touch, however briefly, our echoes live on long after we leave each other. It makes me more conscious of how I treat them in the Golden Moment of our interaction.

Maybe if we all were more aware of that, we'd scream a little less and start getting along.

As If You Didn't Know

Greetings again, fellow castaways, riders on the Earth as we hurtle through space and time at unbelievable speeds.

First off, congratulations are in order for Abe. Grats, dude. Abe won a copy of Critical Mass, the third book in The NADIA Project. Which brings me to another point. The key to the win is, when the host asks for a comment, you gotta comment. I tried to make it super easy. If anyone has trouble leaving comment, email me at cyrus DOT keith AT yahoo DOT com.

Now for the topic this week: We've all seen what's been happening. eBooks are actually outselling hard copies in many markets, which is pretty cool. That's a lot of trees heaving sighs of relief there.

At the same time, there is the paradigm I seem to run into, which is odd to say the least. In my area, most folks still cling to their paperbacks and hardbacks, which is fine. Reading is reading, and reading is good. I like both, myself.

Even those with Kindles and Nooks are of the opinion that you aren't really  published unless they can walk into Barnes and Noble and see your work on the shelf. It's enough to make me want to bash my brains out with my keyboard sometimes. But then I have to remember, we're living in exciting times right now, with the transitions in the publishing industry. And with transitions come adjustments and shifts of mindset. Business practices an methods are changing as well.

It used to be  big thing to be published, and yes, "published" used to mean being in the big stores or even the mom-and-pop store down the block. But now, being published could mean you just threw something through the processing mill at Amazon. As a matter of fact, one of the kids at the local high school did exactly that, knowing the work was substandard. But he did it just to prove the "being published" meant a different thing now than it did only ten years ago. Of course, he pulled the book back down before I could hunt him down and hang him from the library roof. But he made his point.

Now, like any new technology, the human mind has to take some time to catch up. People have to get used to the new definition of "published." Does that mean being published doesn't mean anything anymore? God forbid. What it doe mean is that buyers need to be more aware that there is substandard work out there, and just because something is published doesn't mean it's any good. Not every self-pubbed author invests in editing and cover art.

Electronic publishing doesn't spell the death of paper books, not by a long shot. And it's sill not easy to get a book published the right way, by which I mean that some effort as been made to present it, to make it a quality work before it gets unleashed on an unsuspecting public.

But publishing has taken quantum leaps in technology and technique in the last few years, and some folks (even the big publishers) have yet to make the adjustments needed to catch up and keep up with the changes. Some still overcharge for eBooks. The recent price-fixing scandal showed us that the "old regimes" still cling to obsolete business models, and are tying their best to force the market to stay where it is. But in spite of their best efforts to steer market forces, the market won't have it. Some will get it, and prosper. Others will go by the wayside. Either way, adjustments have to be made.

"Published" still means something. Depending on your definition of "published."  Kind of like when one man got us thinking about the real definition of the word "is."

Themes and A GIVEAWAY!

As you've seen in my last post, besides a writer, I'm also a musician. So it only follows that music has an influence on my writing. I draw parallels from certain songs, and when I started writing, it occurred to me that certain characters and scenarios kind of had their own theme songs.

I tried listening to music while I was writing, but that didn't work. All too often, my mind would wander to the song being played, and I would focus on the lyric instead of what I was trying to write. So I'd get all caught up and swept away by what was supposed to be inspiring me. I don't know if any other writer runs into that same thing. But on the other hand, I have to have some kind of noise going on in the background or I can't concentrate. TV works great for tat, because it's not lyrical as rule.

Anyway, back to what I was talking about, let me show you what was happening in me when I was writing The NADIA Project. I stared out without a theme song, but as I passed the halfway point in Becoming NADIA and the bottom line message of the story came floating to the surface, what also came to light was Natasha Bedingfield's song Unwritten:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7k0a5hYnSI

My goodness, it just summed up Nadia's character so perfectly, I played it constantly on my car to finish the book out (Notice how Nadia loves to feel rain on her skin?). So Nadia h her theme song.

And when I was writing Unalive, it was right about the time someone introduced me to Within Temptation. This time, two songs stood out, one as a theme for the overall project, and one just for Jenna Paine's character, kind of as a toll to sculpt her:

What Have You Done:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_aYivBntOC4

and The Howling: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bqRn0rLq1c

Actually, it's kind of hard to tell which one is for which element. But you can see they both give us a sense of Jenna, and a long-ago loss of innocence.

Critical Mass  and Lies and Paine came together about the same time. As a matter of fact, Lies and Paine began as the first chapter of Critical Mass. but it kept going in a direction I didn't want for the novel, so I spun it off into the novella. So I didn't delete it. I just pruned it off so it could grow on its own, and I'm glad I did, because the series feels complete with its addition. The theme from those two works was a slam dunk, and that was Halestorm's I Miss the Misery:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpJAmlnBxoA

That song just seemed to capture Jenna's barely-focused rage, where throughout Critical Mass  we see her riding the edge of cold justice and blind vengeance, falling first on one side and then the other, and compromising right and wrong in the process. Like I've said to anyone who's asked about her, by the time you finish Critical Mass,  you're either going to love Jenna even more, or hate her guts.

As you go through my work, I think you can probably see the influence that each of these songs has exerted on the overall story. And I think my work is better for it. Does your music influence your writing, or do you listen as you rad and let it filter into the story as you read? Let me know.

From the comments, I'll pick a random winner and they can get an eBook from my series (our choice!) So make sure you leave your email address when you comment.

The Story is a Song

Greetings, fellow castaways!

I was listening to some music the other day and it hit me. I was really getting into the piece that was playing at the time, and when the next piece came on, it just punctuated my epiphany.

So pardon me if you already got this, but it's a big thing to me. A story is like a song.

The music I was listening to was from Rush's album Moving Pictures, specifically YYZ and The Camera Eye:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zmrz0_oqe4A
and
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTXQfoCUuZk

It's a challenge for a songwriter to create an audio panting in one's brain. There must be breaks, changes, segues, alterations to keep one's brain stimulated and interesting. This is especially true when there are extended instrumental passages like the pieces I mentioned above, and I hope you checked out the links to see what I mean. If not, feel free.

As writers, we also want to vary things through our stories to create the same kind of stimulus. We vary the pace by creating slower passages and breaks in tension. We tease by only revealing our world a little at a time. We drop cliffhangers and hooks in your visual path, making connections between your eyes and brain in the same way a musician creates a connection between your ear and your brain. And I think we're stimulating many of the same areas.

We may open with a mind-blowing chase or a fight, or with a slow, easy introduction to a day in the life of our main character. But sooner or later, things have to change. The tension must be either ramped up, or spooled down. New elements need to be brought in. The pace has to change.

Sean McMullen's novel The Centurion's Empire  is an excellent example.

The story begins in a storm on the Mediterranean Sea and a shipwreck that leaves our main character awash on a far shore. McMullen goes from there to a mysterious chamber in another land, where ancient, timeless beings have been watching our young centurion for their own end. The pace actually stays pretty slow for the first half of the book, but McMullen teases is with so many loose ends, we're dying to find out how they all fit together.

Then, when they do come together, he ramps up the pace and tension to a blood-pumping pace with international chase scenes, high-tech weapons and clever spy-gags that officially have us hooked. The pace continues in this rapid pace until the characters force a slow-down and a revelation that literally made me point at the page and say, "I never  saw that coming!"

The main reason I picked that particular book as an example, is that the author staggers the pace and does things in such a different way, it seems to go against what we've become used to in a book. He uses so many different tools and techniques, and brings them all together, bending them to his will like a composer for a complex music piece.

And the thing is, if any piece isn't doing its job, the whole suffers. If Alex Lifeson puts his guitar down and walks off to the nearest pub letting Geddy and Neil carry the tune, folks would surely notice.

So, as writers, this may come as a challenge, to look at your work in a new way, to create prose that slides through your reader's brain not like a lyric, but as a bass line. Make your scenery a drum beat. Make your characters the lead solos that give us the melody.

And if you're a reader, look for these elements in your favorite book, so when you come to that special part, you hear the story's own special song in your mind, and come away with a new appreciation for your entire library.

See you next week.

You Are Brilliant.

Even when you feel like a lump of green matter found in an armpit one midsummer's morning.



I don't know what it is, but most people I know have problems believing in themselves. Yours truly included. There may be a crack in our souls that lets our self-belief leak out. Okay, I'll grant you, some folks have no problem with self-esteem. Hell, some of us have exactly the opposite problem. You know the type. They change a light bulb by just holding it up and let the world revolve around them.

But I'd bet even they secretly go off somewhere and wonder what the hell they're doing and why.

When my first novel got accepted for publication, I had no idea how to handle it. When it won Best Thriller at EPICon 2012, imagine one tongue-tied man wondering what I did to deserve something so nice happening. I still have trouble accepting the whole thing. I mean, why should I of all people have something good happen to me?

Then I have to remember this: I was made by my God. And my God doesn't make mistakes. Granted, I'm as far from perfect as an aardvark with three butt cheeks and mange. I didn't say I was perfect. I said I'm not a mistake. And neither are you. You have a gift, and that gift makes you the only you on the planet. And believe it or not, the world needs what you have.

You see, you are the only one who can give the world the gift that you have, and if you don't give it, the world is missing it.

That's why we all have a dream. Some of us have more than one. When I was little, I wanted to dig dinosaur bones with Roy Chapman Andrews.

 

Okay, so it might have been weird for a four-year-old to dream of being a paleontologist. It's not any more weird than a four-year-old who can read and pronounce "paleontologist." I could even name every species of dinosaur that appeared in Fantasia. It never occurred to me that maybe I was born just a little late to dig with O'l Roy. He was my hero, and science was my passion. That, and being outside. Roy was an adventurer, an outdoorsman, and  a scientist. That rocks. I don't know why I never seriously pursued paleontology. I think maybe the math killed it. I create a giant sucking sound whenever I try to figure out mathematical problems. My brain just isn't configured for it.

 

Then I hit my teens. I heard Rush for the first time, and my new hero became Geddy Lee. Geddy Lee isn't a scientist, so he doesn't have to know math. He knows bass guitar, and how to put on a show with one.

 

 

The reason I picked Geddy was because Geddy plays bass, and everyone else wanted to play guitar. One of the reasons I really liked Rush's music was because everyone else I knew hated them, except maybe a handful of other misfits like me. I think I just gave my rebel side away. I taught myself how to play bass on a detuned six-string. Of course, I later got my own bass, which I still play forty years later. I'm probably not a s good as Geddy Lee, but I have fun. I was even in a band for a while, and we made a pretty good stab at making music. We even got our band name written on the men's room wall at the local oyster bar. But that's as far as we got.

 

My latest dream was to become a published author, and I chased it with everything that was in me. That was the one that finally took. That's how you tell a dream. It's something you pursue with a passion. You may not know right now what your dream is, but dearest, you have one. Believe  me. If I can have three, you can have one. I sincerely believe that every single person on earth has a built-in dream, and that dream is what you are meant to be. If you have nothing else, have your dream, and chase it. Because the world needs your dream.

 

Because you are brilliant. God doesn't make mistakes. He makes dreamers. And when they find their dreams, He laughs with happiness, claps his hands and tells all of Heaven how proud He is of them. And that, my friend, includes you.

A Night (Or Two) At The Menger

I only started this blog last April, so it was after EPICon 2012.

But I can only say that that week at the Menger Hotel in San Antonio was one of the best of my life, as well as one of the most eventful. And I never told all you fellow Castaways about it. Shame on me.

The Menger is the oldest continuously-operated hotel in the country. It was where Teddy Roosevelt used to sit at the end of the bar and recruit his Rough Riders for the Spanish-American War. Carrie Nation burst through the door with a hatchet in another era and hacked a large chunk from the same bar (I sat at that same spot). The Menger is also one of the most haunted places in the US. It's literally a stone's throw from the Alamo, where 300 Texans held off Santa Ana's Army to the last man. It is said that night watchmen at the Alamo have seen shadowy figures dressed in buckskins and frock coats kneeling in a circle, as if in silent prayer, disappearing in a cloudy puff when approached.

Some of you don't believe ghosts exist, or that our understanding of them is so far off that we can't even define what they are. That's okay. I know what I've experienced throughout my life. I'm not bothered when someone wants to explain away what they have never experienced. I just know that ever since I was old enough to remember anything, I've had odd encounters with vague entities that behave with varying degrees of apparent intelligence. I don't bother trying to explain them anymore. I just know when they're around. And at the Menger, they're around.

 

The second I stepped over the threshold and into the lobby, I could feel something was there. Yeah, you could say I wanted it to be there, and so I manifested this feeling to fit my own paradigm. Okay, whatever. It's kind of a musty, empty feeling that floats right through me. I call it my RADAR. It only happens in certain places. Anyway, I walked into a wall of the stuff as soon as I walked in.

 

The first night I woke up at 4:15AM to a light, persistent tapping at my door. I got up and looked through the peephole at -- nothing. Okay, I thought. Old building, old pipes. No prob. Fifteen minutes later, it came back, and this time I shot out of bed and immediately focused on the source of the tapping. It was definitely someone's knuckles on the door. And, of course, I found nothing when I looked.

 

At 7AM, I got up for breakfast and went down my hall toward the elevator:

 

I took this pic just to show how long the hall is. But about fifteen steps down, I walked through an area about five feet long that felt like a sudden, overwhelming sadness, which lifted as soon as I walked through it. The dark area in this photo is just a dim zone between lights. That's important for later. Just bear with me.

 

Now, the most significant aspect of the visit belonged to one corner of one staircase right off the rotunda:

Here is the corner:

 

Now, this is where the important part comes in. Every time I walked around this corner, in either direction, I felt strangled, just briefly, in a not-quite-physical way. So I took a couple of shots here. As soon as I snapped the second one, a wall of energy hit me, like a sudden swell of static. In fact, I couldn't stay there anymore.

I found some of the other authors and editors attending the con, down in the courtyard. I shared what happened, and one of them, Doctor Ellen Spain, came back to the spot with me. I wasn't specific about what I felt when I told her what happened. I wanted to see how she reacted coming around the corner.

And sure enough, she stopped ten feet before she even got to the corner, looked at me, and said, "He doesn't like you." No s**t, Sherlock. Okay, I didn't say that to her then. But she took some shots herself of the area, and one of them was this one:

 

 

Now, let's talk about this. The parlor at the bottom of the stairs was just as brightly lit as the stairwell. Look at the fourth step down in the shot. It's several shades darker than the rest of the staircase. Others went back later and took photos from the same spot, and they all showed the brightly-lit parlor at the bottom.

 

There were a lot of other places in the hotel where I ran into other "things," and not all of them were neutral or kind. But I do count this week as one of the best, and not just because I won the EPPIE for my book (though that was enough in itself!)

 

Now, if you still need proof, there's only about a hundred YouTube videos taken at the Menger, and the ones that are faked are obvious. In spite of all I do believe, I am a bit of a skeptic, believe it or not. I can usually spot a fake. And it's hard to peg Doctor Spain's photo as anything but authentic, in part because I was there when she took it.

 

So believe what you will. I stand by my experiences. And this was one cool experience. Has anyone else run into someone they didn't know at the Menger? Let me know.

A Surprise Guest!

Greetings, Fellow Castaways!

This week I am geeked and honored to have my first guest post.  Okay, maybe this doesn't qualify as a PURE guest post because I'm monopolizing the first section, but hey, it's my blog and I'll run it like I want. I'll turn the page over to my guest after I let you know who it is.

The first book I read from this author won me over instantly. I am into science fiction and Greek mythology anyway, and to see the two combined in such a unique and fresh way in her debut novella Dioscuri was refreshing to say the least.

 

Preview or Buy this book here

 

I've read her Chronicles of Elei beginning with Rex Rising, and her other works as well, and I can tell you, this lady is going far. My first Blog-bomb was about her, and it's my honor to finally have her as a guest today. She has a new series out that she wants to highlight, and I'm sure it will be every bit as captivating as everything else she puts her hand to. Everyone say hello to Fantasy Author Chrystalla Thoma:

 

Chrystalla: HI dear Cyrus, thank you for hosting me on your blog today. :) 

Let me introduce myself:

I am Greek Cypriot (Cyprus is an island-country in the eastern Mediterranean close to Turkey, Israel, Lebanon and Egypt). I’ve lived in different countries (France, Germany, England and Costa Rica) and did a variety of jobs – from teaching linguistics at university to teaching languages, working as a tourist guide, as a translator and editor to being a cashier at KFC. It’s all been interesting. Although my native language is Greek, I studied English (I have a BA in English) and have been writing my stories in English for the past decade. 

I was asked to write about writing, and I decided to talk about why I write fantasy and science fiction. It is, after all, the question I’ve been asked the most in my life. Greeks and Greek Cypriots, in my experience, are for the most part not interested in such genres, considering them only fit for children. They are not “literary”. 

So why fantasy? Why not write my memoir (as suggested to me, for whatever reasons) or a drama set against the backdrop of the economic crisis, or even a deep philosophical book about the meaning of life, the world and everything? 

Because these are the genres explored by “serious” writers, at least around here. 

Therein lies the heart of the problem: I don’t write in order to prove myself to others as a writer. Therefore, I don’t write in genres that don’t express me, such as the above. I need to write from my heart, and my heart tends toward the magical and the unexplained. Magic is, after all, divine, mystery is a dancing ground for the soul. I write because I must, because I need to rework all that happens to me, all I wish and hope for, into stories to explain the inevitable and the terrible, transform the nightmare into a happy ending. 

Symbols, magic, the crossing between the worlds of the dead and the living and the mythical structure of the fairytale and legend, they form a background for the core of the tale. The people asking me why I write fantasy don’t seem to realize that the story is *not* about elves and dragons, but about those existential questions they want me to put into a drama or a memoir. Instead of writing out my views and my sorrows, instead of questioning the existing opinions out loud, I rephrase the questions (and the answers) into conflict and the original meaning of drama: (plot-moving) action. 

But there is more than that, more than a rephrasing of the important questions: Fantasy allows me to be free, to go beyond reality. Fantasy is ritual and transcendental. From ancient times, around the fires in the caves, we have been exploring the unknown through tales of magical power. The unknown remains. And we are still exploring.

 

Cyrus:  Awesome introduction, Chrystalla, and thanks for letting us see your world just a bit.

 

Like I said, Chrys is working on a new series, and it's my pleasure to present you with a little preview of  Boreal and John Grey. Stay tuned at the end for buy links and more places to find Chrystalla's work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

During the 13th century In Iceland, epic poems and tales called Edda spoke of the aelfar – the elves. Tall and pale – their name means ‘white’ – these trickster beings brought misfortune and illness, and exchanged healthy children with sickly changelings.

Now the Gates are opening once more between worlds and the elves are back.

Ella Benson, Paranormal Bureau agent, fights all that comes through the Veil – dangerous Shades crossing into our world. But increasingly dangerous creatures are slipping into her city, her work partner has just gone missing, and a mysterious – and, frankly, quite hot — guy saves her life. His name is Finn and, as it turns out, he’s a natural when it comes to fighting the Shades.
When after centuries of peace the Gates between the worlds start opening and our old enemies, the elves, make a comeback, Ella needs a new, temporary partner. Enlisting the mysterious Finn is a no-brainer, until she realizes he is guarding dangerous secrets of his own.
Together with Finn, and the fate of the world on her shoulders, what’s Ella to do but grab her weapons and figure it all out, one way or another.

Read the complete First Season of the series Boreal and John Grey, books 1-5 (The Encounter, The Gate, The Dragon, The Dream and The Truth) at a special price with an Author’s Note at the end.

This is urban fantasy verging on paranormal romance. A sexy love story set against a backdrop of dragons, trolls and magical portals, fast-paced action scenes and suspense.

The first episode in the series is free so you can sample it – here:

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/Encounter-Boreal-John-Grey-ebook/dp/B00AVVDFGO

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Encounter-Boreal-John-Grey-ebook/dp/B00AVVDFGO

Excerpt:

Finn’s attention had strayed to a counter covered in blades of all shapes and sizes. He reverently touched a katana. Then he lifted a throwing knife. He twirled it between his slender fingers and Ella wondered if he’d cut himself to shreds. But he didn’t.

Her new partner. She shook her head in disbelief. How had things changed so fast?

“Grab two of those,” Jeff told Finn who jerked back and almost dropped the knife. Jesus, talk about jumpy. “And throwing stars. Shuriken. Good for catching the Shades from a distance. Pure iron, special delivery, came in today.”

Finn hesitated, glanced from Jeff to Ella, then ran his hands over the knives and stars. His eyes fluttered closed, as if he were playing a musical instrument, fingers moving lightly over the shiny blades. Ella held her breath.

“Good weapons,” Jeff said, “all of them.”

That snapped Finn out of his trance. With a little sniff, as if to say he’d be the judge of that, he proceeded to pick up various knives and test their balance and grip, spinning and thrusting them through the air. So graceful. It reminded her of the first time she’d seen him fighting Shades, moving like a dancer through the night.

When Finn selected two knives and prepared to pass them through his belt, she turned to Jeff. “Sheaths?”

 “Sheaths, yeah.” Jeff, who’d been staring at Finn, blinked and pulled out several from a drawer. He threw them at Finn who snatched them out of the air without missing a beat.

Jeff whistled, brows rising into his hairline.

Finn lifted his shirt and took off his belt to attach the sheaths, and Ella had to drag her gaze away from his perfect abs. She resisted the urge to fan herself. Whoa, baby. How hadn’t she noticed the night before?

Oh, right. Finn, passed out in her car and then her couch, covered in blood. His abs hadn’t really been the first thing on her mind.

“That looks like a nasty wound.” Jeff nodded at the stained bandage on Finn’s side, and she made a mental note to check that too, later. Soon she’d need an organizer for all those mental lists.

Finn buckled the belt and sheathed his knives. He looked up and grinned. His smile was startlingly beautiful and she found herself gaping — again. God, get a hold on yourself, girl.

“Like a porcupine,” she muttered, her own lips lifting in a matching smile. It was nice to see Finn happy — or at least pleased with his weapons. “What about guns?”

“Here, Finn.” Jeff lifted a Heckler and Koch USP CT pistol for inspection, a calculating gleam in his eye. What was he going for? “Semi-automatic, lightweight and accurate. Give it a try.”

A concentrated look on his face, Finn stepped forward to receive it. She opened her mouth to ask if he knew how to use it, but she needn’t have worried. He checked the magazine, and when Jeff threw him a shoulder holster, he pulled it on, tugging on the black leather straps as if he’d been doing it all his life.

Jesus. Who was he anyway?

The straps pulled on the neckline of his t-shirt, exposing a swath of muscled chest and his left shoulder. Before he adjusted it, a mark drew her eye, sort of like a starburst. A birth-mark?

“Have you used one of these before?” Jeff beamed at Finn, obviously considering him a kindred spirit.

“Similar one,” Finn grunted. He sheathed the pistol in one of the two holsters hanging over his ribs and folded his arms. Armed to the teeth, legs spread, head bowed, he looked ready to take on a whole army of Shades.

Jeff winked at Ella. “Well, well, Elly. Where did you find him? Ex military, is he?”

That was a thought. Might also explain why Finn was so mum about his identity and past. “Thanks, Jefferson. Now we can go to the lab. Finn?”

Finn lifted his head, his gaze unfocused. “At your command,” he whispered, shoulders tensing, back straightening, and the funny thing was he didn’t seem to be pulling her leg at all.

Where to find the complete season 1:

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/Boreal-John-Grey-Season-ebook/dp/B00DC7R39O

Amazon UK:  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Boreal-John-Grey-Season-ebook/dp/B00DC7R39O

 

About the author:

Greek Cypriot with a penchant for dark myths, good food, and a tendency to settle down anywhere but at home, Chrystalla likes to write about fantastical creatures, crazy adventures, and family bonds. She lives in Cyprus with her husband and her vast herds of books. She writes mainly fantasy and science fiction. Her dystopian YA science fiction series “Elei’s Chronicles” (Rex Rising, Rex Cresting, Rex Equilibrium) is available on Kindle and in print. Shorter stories set in that world are also available, and a Companion to the series is also in the plans.

Where to find all Chrystalla’s books and series: http://tinyurl.com/buth6k6

Other links:

 

Blog: http://chrystallathoma.wordpress.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/chrystallathoma

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Chrystalla-Thoma/117863861560579