Friday, October 21, 2016

FREE FRIDAY FICTION: Welcome to the End: Part 3 -- Recover

Our story continues.

Want to catch up on the previous installments? They can be found here.


The cries and chattering from the wailers stops. Caroline rolls onto her back and lets out a scream that comes from some place so deep inside of her that I don’t know if she realizes that place even exists. She grabs for her arm, but I stop her. I reach into my bag and pull out an old shirt. I tie it tight near her shoulder — a tourniquet. Thanks, Boy Scouts.

Caroline starts to stand, and I help her to her feet. The burning wailers are giving off enough heat to make us sweat. I pull a canteen off the side of my pack . It’s heavy with water. I pour enough on each of the creatures to give us space to access the stairs.

Caroline lets her arm hang limp at her side. She whimpers. I drape her good arm over my neck and slip a hand around her waist. We move up the stairs.

“Hang on,” I say. “We’ll can get you a proper bandage.”

Back in the doctor’s office I lay her on the couch in the waiting room and go dig through bins and drawers until I find gauze, cotton and a sling. I grab more than I need. I’ll put the extra in my pack to take back to the camp.

Caroline is sleeping, and I roll her gently to her side. She’s not more than 17, one of those girls who’s all attitude. Completely unaware that all the boys have a crush on her. I move a messy blonde ponytail out of the way of the makeshift bandage that I put on moments ago. Blood rushes back to the gash in her arm and I push handfuls of cotton hard against the wound. I wrap it tight with the gauze. Caroline pulls her arm away out of instinct but doesn’t wake.

I secure the gauze, drape her arm across her chest, and will let her sleep. We are safe here. I’ve locked the entrance. There are enough dead wailers in the stairwell to keep any others away. Besides, the couch in the doctor’s personal office will sleep better than anything I could find back at camp.

I walk over to the window and look back out at Dallas. The fires. The river that’s overrun its banks. The buildings that were there a few weeks ago, but are either gone or split in half. My mind starts rebuilding all of it, putting the pieces back together, until what I see is the city I moved to just months earlier.

Blue skies replace the smoke and clouds that have been ever-present. Warm sun on my cheek replaces the reality of bitter winds.  Sounds of traffic fill what was a silent doctor’s office just moments ago.  

I see me on the sidewalk 15 stories below. I’ve just exited Union Station, my train depositing me at the edge of downtown, putting me in Dallas for the first time in 15 years. I have a pack over one shoulder and am dragging a rolling bag behind me. It’s the middle of the day and this part of downtown is mostly empty except for a few vacationers looking for the street where Kennedy was killed.

I repeat the address of my new apartment over and over again in my head. I’ve decided to walk there to get a feel for downtown and the city and almost immediately regret that decision. Even in the spring, Texas gets hot. It’s more than a few blocks to my new place, and by the time I get there my back is covered in sweat. My hair sticks to the back of my neck. I need a shower and new clothes, but everything I own that’s not in the rolling bag won’t be getting here for at least a couple of days. At that moment it’s on the back of a truck coming from my place out in California, so I’m stuck sitting under a fan in the living room of my new place stripped down to my underwear and letting the cool breeze cause me to nearly shiver.

Back in front of this window, I ask God to push the cosmic rewind button.  To put me back under that fan shivering in my underwear.

Caroline stirs and calls my name. I step away from the window and back into a darker and cooler reality.

“Mack?” she says again as I approach.

“Yeah,” I tell her and touch her shoulder. She turns her head.

“We need to get back to camp.”

I shake no. “Not tonight,” I drop to a knee in front of her. “Whatever wailers that your little firecrackers didn’t kill are still out there and probably close by. We are better off here for the night. We’ll go back to camp in the morning.”

Blood has soaked the cotton and is starting to come through the gauze. I grab the extra cotton and gauze from my pack and rewrap the wound. A tear drops off Caroline’s cheek and wets the gauze. I look up and she wipes another tear from her eye.

“This hurts, Mack.”

“I know it does. Let me see if I can find something for that.”

I dig through the cabinet that Caroline broke into earlier and find some of that doctor-level aspirin. I bring her a couple of tablets and the canteen from my pack. I tell her that this will help her sleep as she swallows both pills. She stretches out on the couch, and I leave her for the night.

I take my pack with me into the doctor’s personal office and lean it against the arm of the couch. I collapse onto the cushions and pull both boots off. I haven’t been in just socks in days, and I hear my feet thanking me for the opportunity to suck some real oxygen.

I take long and deep breaths, and my vision begins to fade. My body starts to fight off the deep and restful sleep that it needs, and I wrestle with my instincts. “Let it come,” I’m telling my brain. “Let it come.”

I focus on the ceiling fan above me to keep my mind occupied and think about nothing but sleep.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Storytelling lessons from my 4 year old

Ellie is almost 4 years old, and she's starting to tell coherent stories that she makes up on her own. We play a lot of pretend. I'm usually some superhero and she's a princess. Now, that princess usually has some kind of super power, so she's somewhat a princess in name only. But it's fun.

That playing pretend and storytelling is starting to bleed over into our night time routine, and it's actually teaching me a bit about my own storytelling. A good thing. Not going to complain, even if it was a bit unexpected.

A couple of examples:

I was putting her to bed one night in the last month or so, and she asked for a story. Like I mentioned, she's getting into superheroes. She's not a DC or Marvel girl. If they have a cape or a mask or a cool uniform then she's in. She really seems to like Captain America.

So, this night she asked me to tell her how he was born. So I tell her an abbreviated version of the origin story. Steve Rodgers. Scrawny kid in Brooklyn. Experiments. Boom. Captain America. It was a bit more dawn out than that, and in the middle of it she stopped me and said "Dad, this is boring. Add Elsa and Anna." So, I did.

Then the other night we are sitting in her room, and she tells me that she's going to tell me a story. It involves princesses (her and her sister) and a castle that I made up a couple of years ago. There's a tall tower, a windy staircase, and any time I tell her these stories their mom is making breakfast in the kitchen.

So, her story starts with the princesses waking up and going downstairs for breakfast. Then in the middle of breakfast the evil witch comes and turns her mom into a monster, dad into Captain America, but he's trapped in a closet. She and her sister both get changed into something else that's slipped my mind at the moment. But it was crazy. It made no sense, but she got so into the telling of it that I got wrapped up in the moment. It didn't matter that the logic didn't work. She was excited about it, and I wanted to hear what was next.

Now, here's the lesson, and this for me as much as anyone else.

Get out of your head when you tell stories. Let the story go where it wants to go.

Too often I'll have an idea and then hesitate when it comes time to write it down, either while outlining or drafting. I shouldn't do that. I should let the story go where it wants to go. Let my mind take it to places that may not make a whole lot of sense, because that's where the passion is. That's often where I do my best writing. It's when I've found the flow of the story, and I'm letting it wash around me, not bothering with thoughts of "Does this make sense?"

My favorite reading experiences are the ones where you can feel the author's passion for that particular tale. Yes, we all love our books or stories, but you can tell as a reader (at least I think you can) when a writer telling the story with passion. At least I feel like you can. There's more to the reading experience than just getting things from Point A to Point B. I really believe that passion comes from being fully in the story and letting it go where it wants to go.

Now, you can't necessarily make illogical jumps or ignore natural laws. But other than that, don't let those ideas that seem too weird or too unexpected die on your mental vine. Put them down. Let them run. See where they take you. You can always call them back in the editing process if you find they didn't work.

So, that's it. Storytelling lessons that I learned from my 4 year old. Hope it was helpful for you. It was for me.

Thanks, Ellie. Daddy love you.

Friday, October 14, 2016

FREE FRIDAY FICTION: Welcome to the End: Part 2 -- Attack

After a few weeks off, our story continues.

Missed Part One? Find it here.


Caroline looks to me, her eyes asking “What’s next.” I grab the handle to the door that leads to an interior hall. It doesn’t open. Locked.

“Back upstairs” I say and start taking steps two at a time. Caroline follows. The wails increase with each foot fall.

I check the door on nine. Locked.

Ten, eleven, and twelve. All locked.

“It’s a security thing,” Caroline says. “They lock from the inside. We won’t get in.”

Hard nails skitter down concrete steps. Cries come from below. I push past Caroline and back down.

“Where now?” She asks as I lose sight of her on the steps above me.

“To our stuff,” I shout.

I get to eight and two wailers are already there. Two quick shots hit each of them in the chest because they aren’t more than a couple feet away. They scream and collapse. Their brothers and sisters cry out in response, louder now than ever before.

I look for Caroline. She is coming down the steps three and four at a time, recklessly trying to catch up. Her machete swings wild at her side, a wailer only steps behind her.

I fling my arm up — trying to aim.

Caroline dives to the floor, and I fire. The concrete above her explodes. Shards and dust shower down. The wailer yells behind her and a talon-covered foot lands next to her head. Another shot and the creature falls. Caroline scrambles to her feet, breath racing. I put two more bullets into the creature’s head for good measure.

She pins her back to the wall. Another wailer comes down the stairs, its hollow eyes pinched almost shut by its gaping mouth. Two more are behind it. Before I get the gun up, Caroline swings the machete and draws a gash across the wailer’s chest. Black goo — what used to be blood — cascades down the creature’s front. It takes two more steps then stumbles. Caroline brings the machete down on the back of the wailer’s neck and buries it half deep into the rotting flesh. She struggles to pull the machete from the wailer’s spine, and one of the trailing wailers swipes at her with an open hand. One of the claws catches her arm and slices through her bicep. The machete clatters to the floor.

A quick shot catches the wailer in the neck. It screams out and is matched by what sounds like a hundred similar voices. The wailer tries to lift the arm again but it’s lost function. Another shot catches it square. The thing stumbles backward with two quick steps and falls to the ground, taking down the creature behind it too.

Caroline grabs the two unlit lanterns and throws them onto the stairs across from her. The glass explodes and the smell of oil fills the stairwell. More wailers are coming down the steps when she throws the lit lantern. It breaks into a half dozen pieces and the suddenly loose flame sends the oil ablaze. The two wailers who’d just fallen are also on fire. One is dead. The other quickly dying.

The remaining wailers retreat up the stairs.

I reload my pistol and step to the stair rail. The line of wailers starts just a few floors down, and it’s unending.

Caroline scrambles to her pack and up ends it. The contents scatter across the landing but what she’s looking for somehow rolls to her feet. She grabs the black globes and says a string of words that sound like nonsense. She tosses the globe to me.

“Throw it down the steps. Get it as close to the ground floor as possible.”

She keeps chanting something that I can’t understand. I drop the globe down between the railing and watch as it pinballs its way to the bottom floor, all the wailers distracted briefly from the two people up on eight.

Caroline grabs my jacket sleeve and pulls me to the floor against the wall with her. She doubles over into a ball, and I do the same, interlocking my fingers across my neck like I’ve seen so many kids do in those film strips they showed us in school. There’s a pause then a pair of explosions rock the building.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Fanning the flames -- 2 Timothy 1:6-7

It feels weird to talk about gifts or talents, to acknowledge that you think you're good at things. At least it does for me. I don't like talking about myself. Not at all. And saying that you think you are gifted in one way or another is definitely talking about yourself.

But just because we don't like to talk about it doesn't meant that we don't all have talents. We do. But reading through the Bible the other morning I came across a verse that challenged me, so thought I'd share it here. Faith is, after all, the third F in the tagline up top.

"6 For this reason I remind you to FAN INTO FLAME THE GIFT GOD, which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline."

It's 2 Timothy 1:6-7, and the emphasis there is mine. And I know that how I'm reading it is not necessarily how Paul meant it when he wrote it, but this verse really hit me.

"Fan into flame the gift of God." 

For some reason, fire imagery has come up a lot in my work lately. I'm pretty sure I have some discussion of a fire being whipped into roaring flame in Digi City. And there's definitely similar imagery in the current WIP. So it's certainly something I've been thinking about. So maybe that's why the fanning into flame language struck me as I read.

This is kind of how I see the talents thing. When we are being formed God takes out his Holy Measuring Cup and gives us all an equal measure of everything that makes us human — kindness, love, compassion, etc ...  Then he looks at each of us individually and gives us a little extra in a few places. Those extra portions are our gifts and talents, and He has an expectation that we will take those and do something with them. That we won't waste them in the service of nothing.

Now, I don't think that we have to take those talents and use them specifically for church work or kingdom goals. We can use them in other ways. I do think — and this does feel weird to type — that one of my gifts is written communication. I'm good with the words. Or pretty good. Good enough for someone to pay me for them and for the clients I work with to be happy.

Still, I wonder, am I doing all I can with those gifts? I think about it often. Have I fanned the flames? Or am I letting them smolder, eventually to go out? 

I don't know that I've done all I can. I pray about it. I want to be a success as a writer. I want to use those talents for good things, but am I? I don't know. I'm not sure that anyone will ever feel like they've done everything they could with all they've been given. I guess I'm not alone in these feelings. But I feel like God wants to do more through me. I just don't know how. It's a trust thing in the end. Let Him lead. Follow where you think He's going, knowing that He's not going to take you down a path He hasn't equipped you to walk.

I don't think there's some big conclusion to this post. Not surprisingly, it helps me to write when I'm working through stuff, so thanks for letting me ramble on God for a bit. I'll probably be doing a bit more of this in the future. It's something I've wanted to do for a while. It's why I added Faith to the tagline when I added the header years ago, but I've always been hesitant. But this is my blog, right? And if there's anything I shouldn't be hesitant to talk about ...

Friday, September 2, 2016

FREE FRIDAY FICTION: Welcome to the End: Part 1 — Wailers

I write a lot. Like, a lot. I have a lot of ideas. Again, a lot. It can feel a bit overwhelming sometimes. There are things that I really like that sit on my hard drive or in various other places that never see the light of day. So, to combat that, I wanted to excerpt the first part of something I'm working on. It's the first part of the first chapter. I don't know how long it will be or how many parts it'll have, but I'm going to try publishing it in pieces here so I can get it out. I think I have enough for three excerpts right now. So, for the next three Fridays you can expect pieces of this.

I eventually want to publish it in a completed form. But, until then, it'll be blog fodder. If I do publish it, that's a variation of the cover on the right. The subtitle "Five days later" may or may not be accurate. Still working out that part. For now, enjoy.

Welcome to the End//Part One — WAILERS

I scratch a match on the side of the box, and the red tip sizzles to life. I put the flame to the wide wick inside the lantern, praying that the little bit of liquid sloshing in the bottom is oil and that there is enough to light our way home.

A moment passes then the wick catches, and an orange glow fills the room. This place is full of antiques, just as I’d remembered from a few months previous. Back when everything was normal and I was here to get a lingering sore throat checked out.

Caroline comes around the corner and hits me in the face with the beam from her flashlight. I turn quickly from the brightness and tell her: “Turn that off. Save the battery.”

She does then steps closer to look at the lantern.

“What happens when the oil’s gone?”

“Oil’s easy,” I say. “Look around and make sure there’s nothing else we need here. Put anything you find in your pack. We’ll go in five minutes.”

I place the lantern on top of a stack of out-of-date magazines sitting neatly on the table. Caroline goes behind the receptionist’s desk and rummages through drawers. Small pads of paper and a few pens go in her pack then she heads back to the medicine case behind the nurses’ station. She beats the lock with the butt end of her flashlight. The pills and potions inside still go for a price if she can get them out.

I leave her to her case and move to the doctor’s personal office.  The wall behind his oak desk is covered in shelves. Those shelves covered in brass antiques, mostly more lanterns and other nautical equipment polished to a high shine. The big prize, though, the thing I want more than anything else here, is on the top shelf: a gas mask with leather straps, metal buckles and tinted glass over the eyes. I pull it from the shelf and stare at it, turn it over and over in my hands. I study the fixtures, investigate the glass.

There is no practical reason to keep this thing, but it looks so damn cool. I shove the mask in my pack then fall into the large wingback chair behind the desk. My body sinks deep into the quilted leather cushions, and I rub a hand along the arm, closing my eyes and letting myself settle for a moment. Rest. It’s been rare over the last month, when we’ve counted sleep in minutes, not hours. My eyes close; my breath deepens, and I begin to drift off.

Caroline bangs on the open door and snaps me out of my shallow half-sleep.

“I wake you?” She smiles.

“Not quite sleeping yet.” I stand and pull my pack from the floor. I drop it onto the seat of the chair, put two more lanterns on top then push the chair out to the front of the desk toward the door.

“Really? We’re taking that with us?” Caroline asks.

I don’t answer, just push the chair past her.

“Whatever,” Caroline says. “You’re the one who’s going to have to get it down 15 flights of stairs. Hope it’s worth it.”

“Grab the lantern,” I tell her as we pass it.

Caroline does and steps ahead of me. She stops at a window and points out toward a neighborhood. “See that fire out there? The one in Highland Park.”

I move to the window and ask: “Which one?” Dallas is still new to me and considering all that’s happened in the last month, I haven’t had time to learn neighborhoods. Also there are at least a dozen fires burning out there.

Caroline points again, more precisely indicating a neighborhood not too far past downtown. Or it doesn’t seem too far from this perspective.

“My dad’s place,” Caroline says and walks toward the front door.

The casters on the chair squeak their way down the hall. I stop at the door to the stairs and pause. I hand the two unlit lanterns to Caroline then put the pack on my back. I grab the chair by the arms then lift and turn it upside down. The seat rests on my head and the back falls behind me.

“Let’s go,” I say. Caroline leads the way, the lit lantern painting everything inside the stairwell with its dim glow.

I take the steps slowly, struggling to keep the weight of the chair over me. Caroline swings the lantern back and forth. I pause on the landing for the eighth floor, putting the chair down and leaning a shoulder into the wall. Caroline takes a seat and spins the chair to look at me.

“Heavier than you thought, old man?”

I shake my head. “About as heavy as I expected. But it’ll be worth it. While you all are sitting on milk crates and plastic lawn chairs, I’ll be sitting in that. I’ll be the king.” I smile; Caroline shakes her head. She pushes the chair backward and the casters squeak. A thump follows a few floors down.

We pause, look at each other. Caroline stands. It’s silent again.

“Push the chair,” I tell her.

Casters squeak. Another thump. Then another. They stop. I pull a pistol from inside my jacket. Caroline wraps a fist around the handle of the machete sticking from the top of her pack.

“I thought this part of downtown was safe,” she says.

“Nowhere is safe.” I push the chair again and the casters’ squeaks fill the stairwell.

Pained cries come from below, and Caroline backs against the wall.

“Wailers?” She asks. I nod.

The cries stop, but I can hear nails scratch against the outside of the building. They’re climbing, scaling the outsides to get to the roof.

I push the chair one last time. The cries return, but this time wailing from above answers their street-level cousins.

“We’re trapped.”

Monday, August 29, 2016

Outlining as a Biblical principle

We are on vacation as I’m writing this. (Not now as I'm posting it. We're back. All had fun. All worn out. Still.) My family is all asleep in bed behind me. I’ve got my phone and a Bluetooth keyboard in front of me. I’ve just finished writing probably 1000 words before hitting the sack myself. It feels good to be regularly productive. I feel the best about myself when I am laying down the good words with some regularity.

I’m writing the second book in what I hope will be an astonishingly successful space opera series with some definite Jarrett feel to it. Now, I say it will hopefully have Jarrett feel, but I am toying with the idea of publishing these as a serial. A true serial where one book builds on the previous and there are crazy plot twists and cliffhangers between books. Because of that, I am thinking of using a pen name for this one. It’s a pen name I’ve kept in my back pocket since I was literally a kid.

I have a good idea of where this overall story is going, but hadn’t really plotted out all the different episodes. I am doing that now for the second book, and I like where it’s headed. But I can’t help but feel like my product may have suffered from that lack of an outline in these early drafts. I have a lot of stuff that needs to be revised in the initial drafts of the first story. Big things, too. Not small. It’s OK, though. That’s what the revision process is for.

That said, plotting has been on my mind a lot lately. Even when I am spending time in the Bible in the mornings it’s there, and, if you think of outlining as creating a map, I’ve discovered a verse that proves that outlining is Biblical. Oh, and wait until you see the other post I have planned on plotting vs. pantsing. Like I said, it's something that's been on my mind lately.

Anyway, outlining as Biblical principle. Here you go.

Proverbs 4: 25-26

25 Look straight ahead,
and fix your eyes on what lies before you.
26 Mark out a straight path for your feet;
stay on the safe path.

Until next time, and hopefully that will be sooner rather than later.

Monday, August 1, 2016

Hitting pause on the New Eden series

I realized today that I wrapped up the first draft of my next story. Weird to say that I realized it, but sometimes weird happens. My concern while writing it was that I hadn't answered the main story question. I'd thought that I was going to need to do a bit more machining of the plot to get us to a place that satisfies the reader. But, just to make sure, I went back and read what I'd already written, and I think that main question is satisfied. So, with that question answered, story done.

Here's the thing, and this is why I'm writing. This story is in a new series. Probably going to be published under a pen name. I'm still debating that last part. So, this isn't the next New Eden story, and that's what I want to talk about.

I'm hitting pause on the New Eden series. I love it. I love the characters. I love the story and where it's going. I love writing it. The problem is, not enough people love reading it. And when I was writing it for fun, that was fine. I could still enjoy the process of creation. But I don't know that creation for the sake of creation is enough any more. I write to be read. It sounds a little weird and a lot selfish, but it's the truth. I don't want to do this creation thing in a vacuum. And while New Eden did have readers, their number was very small. Using all of my fingers and toes I could probably count them without the help of another person. So, treating this whole author/publisher thing like the business that it is, I'm not going to keep focusing on a product that's not of interest to consumers.

To pull the curtain back, Digi City has sold six copies since release. One was to me.

I think that the New Eden stuff has struggled for a couple of reasons. One of them is me. I haven't written them fast enough. Three stories, the equivalent of approximately 65,000 words in five years. That's painfully slow progress in a world where authors are regularly releasing series books at one month intervals. That's on me.

The second problem is also partially on me, I suppose, and that's that the New Eden stories, while clearly cyberpunk, don't necessarily hit all of the subgenre's major tropes. If you accept that the main theme behind cyberpunk is the idea of "high tech, low life" then the New Eden stuff is square. But the bigger tropes, those things that the readers expect (mainly a hyper tech society), aren't there. New Eden is run down. There's no electricity to much of the city. No lights, and classic cyberpunk is full of neon. So, while it's fair to call them cyberpunk, they aren't really. Not what the readers want anyway.

There's a third issue, and it's one out of my control. The cyberpunk category at Amazon is overrun with books that aren't cyberpunk. So much so that it's difficult for readers who want a true cyberpunk book to find anything that they'd want to read. Instead they'd find very traditional sci-fi, some sci-fi romance, and even some weird stuff that I don't know that I want to talk about here.

So what's next? Writing something that has a chance to succeed. To find a readership and make me some money. A few years ago I had an idea for a setting. It was a space station out at the edge of the galaxy, and I called it Transfer Station: Zulu. It was a place, much like New Eden, that felt like fertile ground for stories. It would allow me to tell stories that I wanted to tell with characters that felt like mine but in a way that may be more appealing to more readers. The space opera and space Marines categories on Amazon are popular. The readers of these genres are a lot like romance readers. They do it voraciously. They need a lot of books to keep them happy and their Kindles well-stocked. They are also readers who are open to indie published books.

With that in mind and my setting already in place, I began plotting, and that's how we get to where we are today. A finished space opera story. One that's rough but that I like. It definitely has holes, and it definitely needs a bit of depth added. But I can do that in the editing. That's what it's for, after all.

Thursday, July 7, 2016

On killing your darlings and making stories logically satisfying

Spent the morning working on the WIP. It's a space opera/military piece that I'll share more about later, but I tweeted at the end of my half hour morning write. That's not unusual. I somewhat often recount how the morning went on Twitter. Thought today's little burst of messages was worth sharing here. It's all about logically satisfying plots. I think that this barrage of tweets makes sense as a group. If not, let me know in the comments, and I'll be glad to clarify.

Oh, if you're not already following me on Twitter, do that here.

Sunday, June 19, 2016

Happy Father's Day

There are three things that I really like being. I like being a husband. I like being a writer. And I like being a dad.

So, for you on this Father's Day, a dad story.

The girls are adorable, as usual. Dad not as much.
I mentioned in a previous post that we recently made a quick trip to Kansas City for a family wedding. It was a great trip. Lots of fun. But also lots of time in the car and getting the girls in and out. One of those times I was buckling Ellie in and she was asking about rain. She's asking about rain and weather a lot lately. We have some theories as to why, but we do a lot of calming her when we get thunderstorms (and thunderstorms are a big part of spring in Texas).

So we are in the car and she asks me "Why does it rain, daddy?" And I immediately start trying to remember all I can about evaporation and clouds and the water cycle. It's old information learned years ago. It's not in any mental instant recall files that I'm desperately trying to access.

Gina is across the seat from me getting Haddie situated, and I am guessing she's sensing my very modest panic. She pipes up with "God's just watering the plants so they can grow big and strong." Ellie says a simple "Oh, God's watering the plants."

Sometimes I may make this dad stuff harder than I need too. I'm just thankful that God made kids, at least my two, resilient, funny, loving, and curious enough to ask questions that make me think.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Digi City is out now. Plus ... DEALS!!!

Today's the big day. Publication day for Digi City, the latest story out of New Eden, and the first story from what I'm calling the In-between. I hope you've already pre-ordered your copy. If not, it's OK. Go ahead and get a copy here today. It's finally available for immediate download.

But that's not all. As a way to celebrate the new release, I've dropped prices on all the other books in the New Eden series. From today until Saturday, you can get Chasing Filthy Lucre for free. That's the series starter at no cost.

Finding Faded Light is just 99 cents instead of its regular $2.99. That means you can get all three books in the New Eden series for less than $2. Quite the deal if you ask me.

And I apologize for how much this sounds like an infomercial. 

Get your copy of Digi City here.
Get your copy of Chasing Filthy Lucre here.
Get your copy of Finding Faded Light here.