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I’ve had forgettable teachers. Some that were going through the motions, counting the days to retirement. Others were well-intentioned but just not really engaging or inspiring at all. I’ve also had a few who were memorable but for being awful—professors who were so invested in their own publishing efforts they used the same syllabus ten years running with nary a change and taught completely by rote, or worse, teachers who seemed to detest their lot in life, their students, their classroom.

But I’ve also been lucky to have a number of teachers at various levels who had a profound impact on my life, who pushed me, made me uncomfortable, demanded things of me, made me accountable, brought out my best even when I seemed intent on stopping them. And in almost every case, it was because they not only cared or encouraged, but because they called me out on my shit. And no one did this in such spectacular, verbose, vicious, and still humane fashion as Robin Metz, a literature and creative writing professor at Knox College.

I’d taken a couple of fiction workshops with Robin, and he lived up to his reputation—an amazing professor who talked three feet above almost everyone’s head, the sort of teacher who delights in being the brightest guy in most every room and never dumbs down his vocabulary or presentation, but just expects you will either try to keep pace or fall behind. Robin was also my advisor, and I considered him my mentor. Which makes this next bit unconscionable.

It was my sophomore year, and I was taking another fiction workshop. These classes met once a week, often for a grueling four or five hour session. And since we were on the trimester system at Knox and it only met ten times, Robin made it clear that you shouldn’t miss a class unless you were dead or dying. Or Jeff Salyards. Who, for reasons not entirely clear, decided to be a total assclown that semester in all his classes, even the one in his major taught by his mentor, and who also had a massive ego, figuring he could coast, pull all-nighters, and still do just fine, thank you very much. That was my usual m.o., but I was in overdrive that trimester. Or underdrive.

I missed three fiction workshops out of ten. And didn’t have a legitimate excuse for a single one. Not even an illegitimate excuse. Well, unless drinking counts.

But wait. I’m only getting started. Each student would have at least two stories workshopped in class, preferably three, then revise everything significantly and turn in a portfolio of no less than 35 pages at the end of the trimester. I only submitted one story early on, and it was half-hearted at best and it got lambasted, deservedly so. I don’t even remember what it was about. And I missed another class when I was supposed to turn in my second story, and kept making excuses the remainder of the semester for why that never happened. Already on a roll, I decided to skip the last class. Which, coincidentally, was also when Robin changed the date when the portfolio was due, moving it up several days.

Finally, it was finals week and time to polish my “portfolio,� which so far consisted of one story that was barely salvageable if I had interest in trying, which I didn’t, and half of another story I’d started but never mustered the enthusiasm to finish. I was wandering around campus, thinking about what to do, or Pop Tarts or something, when I bumped into Kris Choma and Mike Smith, two other writers in the class. Mike asked me how my portfolio was coming along.

I replied, “Not so hot. But at least I have a few more days.�

They looked at each other, then back to me. “What are you talking about? It’s due tomorrow. Oh, wait, you missed the last class, didn’t you. . .?�

After several minutes of manic laughter and falling into a bush, I sprinted to the library and got started—I had about 30 hours to put together 35 pages. But instead or buckling down and making something of the crappy raw material I had, I decided I was going to go in a completely different direction and write and submit the first few chapters of a science fiction novel as my portfolio. That’s what I wanted to write all along, but Robin had dissuaded me.

I wrote like mad, but being sleep-deprived, slap-happy, and under the gun, when I struggled with some character names I decided to go with “Laro Xes� and “Repus Nam� (go backwards, word by word, yep, you have it—genius. . . sheer. . . genius). I also included gratuitous sex scenes just for kicks. The chapters ended up being 33 pages rather than 35, but I was out of time. After running into some problems in the computer lab printing it, I raced across campus and found Robin’s office locked tight (I was an hour or two late). Pages in hand, I continued running across town, but he wasn’t home, so I dropped the package in his mailbox, dusted my hands off, and congratulated myself.

So, to recap: I missed about a third of the classes; only submitted one story for workshopping and it was atrocious; opted to write something completely brand new for the portfolio that Robin hadn’t seen before; chose science fiction, even though Robin was adamant that young writers should master the fundamentals before jumping into speculative fiction, anything postmodern, etc.; chose to hand in three chapters of a novel I just started instead of self-contained short stories; cackled at my perverse and ridiculous character names; fell short of the minimum page requirement; and delivered the whole package of awesomeness a few hours after deadline.

I was pretty proud of myself. I felt like these crazy introductory chapters were top-shelf. After all, I’d worked really hard on them for more than an entire day straight.

So imagine my surprise when I got my grades next trimester and discovered I got a C in fiction writing. My major. From my advisor. I was shocked at first, and then ticked off. Yes, it was last minute, and incomplete, and late, but damn it, I’d worked my ass off and was genuinely happy with what I produced in that white hot burst of creativity. Those 33 pages were Grade-A.

I checked Robin’s office, but he wasn’t there, so I tried the Gizmo—a little snack shop café on campus. Sure enough, he was sitting alone at a table, all tweed and salt and pepper. I marched up to him, said hello. Robin smiled, no doubt imagining I was humbled and contrite, and ready to talk about how not to repeat the debacle of my last semester.

Instead, I help up my “report card� and said, “I don’t understand.�

“Oh?� he replied. “What can I help you with?�

“You gave me a C? Really?!�

Robin’s affable smile disappeared, bushy mustache precariously balanced over now tightly-drawn lips, his eyes narrowed and not friendly. “Sit down,� he said. It was not a request.

I did, suddenly feeling less sure of myself. And over the next two hours, I figured out why alarm bells were going off belatedly. I had stomped in there, indignant, ready to present my case why I deserved at least a B—at least!–and my disproportionate arrogance set Robin off and incurred his wrath. He ripped me a new one in such incensed, articulate, elliptical, hyperbolic, and brilliant language, I was absolutely stunned and could do nothing but sink lower in my chair, occasionally offering brief responses when required, but otherwise silent and paralyzed as I suddenly realized mistakes were made. It was like being berated by a furious combination of Abraham Lincoln, James Joyce, and Edgar Allen Poe. I didn’t even understand everything he said, but there were anecdotes and allusions aplenty, literary history and tirades about frittered potential and ill-deserved smugness along the way, but the message he kept circling back to again and again was, in so many words: “I can’t believe what a colossal asshole you are.�

In the middle of this scalding scolding, Kris and Mike saw us and started heading over until I shook them off. Something about my defeated expression and troglodyte posture, and the veins pulsing in Robin’s head, told them that it was a really bad time, and they moved away. Fast.

I wish I had Robin’s speech on tape—it was absolutely amazing and mesmerizing, beautiful and horrible in equal measure, culminating with the one line I remember exactly: “You are a failure not only as a writer and an artist, but as a human being.�

OK, admittedly a bit ruthless. But my skull is like a lead bunker and he needed the big bombs to get through, as he tried to impress upon me just what a complete and utter jackass I’d been, disrespecting him, the other hardworking students in the class, and myself and my talent. Robin wanted me to see how I was squandering a wonderful opportunity and wasting everyone’s time, and if he had pulled his punches, I doubt I would have received the message. He could have failed me, and by all rights, should have. But as he said, the grade was immaterial. Something bigger, more lasting, and of greater consequence was at stake.

And it worked. I got it. I stumbled out of the Gizmo in a fugue, uncertain what had just happened, with no idea where to go, but having perfect clarity about one thing: I had been given a pass when I didn’t deserve one, but there wouldn’t be another. It was time to do better or change majors. Or maybe join clown school.

Robin’s impassioned indictment wasn’t completely transformative—I never became the best student on campus, and still occasionally imploded or suffered from delusions of grandeur, but not on that scale. And I had enough self-awareness after that to check and catch myself more often than not  (although David Foster Wallace gave me another well-deserved a few years later, so nobody’s perfect). But still, if Robin hadn’t taken the time to deliver that verbose and grand speech, to really try to get my attention and impart something, I probably would have bobbed along through the rest of my college years, maybe beyond, failing to realize that writing is a craft and requires dedication, commitment, and most of all, work. Lots of work.

At the end of the day, talent only gets you so far and you can only play the potential card a limited time. You have to sit your ass in the seat and write, and you have to develop some kind of apparatus for critiquing your own writing. But most of all you have to work hard at it. Craft doesn’t happen on its own or through wishful thinking.

Robin taught me that. I need a refresher now and then, but he helped instill that in me, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

When I was 24, I decided I need to buy a motorcycle. I didn’t know how to ride one, but I figured I would teach myself after I bought it. I’d seen David Hasselhoff ride one—how hard could it be? So I started looking online and asking around, when my good buddy Mike told me his brother had just bought a new bike and wanted to offload his old Kawasaki for $400. I was all over it. The only problem was, Mike lived in Pennsylvania and I lived in Illinois. But I hadn’t seen him for a while, so really, it was the perfect excuse for an excursion.

I decided I was going to get a one-way flight, rent a van, load the bike, haul it home, and start teaching myself there. But there was a secondary problem—I didn’t have what folks like to call “disposable income�. In fact, being a teaching assistant in grad school at the time, I didn’t even have what folks call “income.� However, I’ve always been resourceful (read: stupid) and I did have a Sears card. To this day, I’m not sure why I had a Sears card, and even less sure why it was my only credit card. But it made sense at the time, and I hadn’t used it much, so it dovetailed nicely with my perfectly logical “buy motorcycle on the other side of the country even though I don’t know how to ride one� plan. So I got some family and friends to tell me things they wanted from Sears like camping gear, sweatshirts, and appliances, I bought them with the card, and they gave me cash. Plus, Sears had a relationship with Budget, so I could rent a van on the card as well. Trip: financed. Who needs income?

My stepmom also graciously offered her Shell card to pay for gas on the trip home, and a phone card for emergencies. She pretty much knew this trip would somehow involve emergencies. So, off I flew, proud of my ingenuity and grateful my father married a smart woman. After four days of tremendous drinking and reminiscing—some of which I remember vividly and fondly, much or which I can’t recollect in any detail at all—I picked up my van, bought the bike, and loaded it up. But on the way back to Mike’s place the night before I was going to ride out, we took a wrong turn. These were country roads, and the next turn wasn’t for several miles, so I pulled onto some grass to head back the way we’d come. And promptly got stuck in some mud. Which was strange, as it hadn’t rained for several nights, but I was too hungover to think much about that. Plus, we were in the country—strange things happen in the country. Mike and I tried everything to get it free, but it was sunk deep. We walked back to his folks� place a few miles away, resigned to asking his dad to help get it out with his jeep the next morning.

But when we drove up, we saw the deep trenches the van wheels had left, but no Budget van. It’s a bad feeling when your own vehicle isn’t where you parked it, but worse still when it’s a rented van carrying a motorcycle you just bought. Turns out, this wasn’t some random field, but some guy’s property. That he had just landscaped the day before. And he wasn’t thrilled I had torn his sod to pieces.  So he called the cops and had the offending vehicle towed way the hell far away.

After calling cop shops and sheriffs aplenty, we finally discovered the van in an impound lot an hour down the road. Of course there was a ticket, the tow fee, and a price to get that rented vehicle out of the impound lot. The lack of income was suddenly more keenly felt—I was short at least a hundred dollars. Mike’s dad agreed to front me the money, I’m sure to get rid of me more than anything, but when we finally found the van in the lot, I noticed that the lock on the driver’s side door was hanging from its wires. You couldn’t help but notice—it was just dangling there, like an eye plucked from the socket. I was incensed, and asked the cops what the hell happened. The yokel just smiled, and said they didn’t know what contraband might be in the van, so they had to break in and check things out. I asked why they didn’t use a slimjim or whatever they called it—why the hell did they rip the lock out?! He just kept smiling and said, “Door was stubborn. You got a complaint, take it up with Judge Travis in two week’s time.�

I didn’t have two weeks, or even two days. The clock was ticking. So, I swore under my breath and paid the assclowns who had fucked up my rented van with money borrowed from my friend’s dad. I grumbled, but figured every road trip has at least one major snafu, so this was mine. Best to get it out of the way.

Mike wanted me to stay one more night, but my plan involved riding down to Memphis to visit some old friends and then head back north to the Land of Lincoln, so I decided I would hit the road that night rather than waiting for the morning. Not wanting to show up in Memphis completely broke, though, I reluctantly returned the fringed saddle bags I bought at a Harley shop out there. Yes, I bought leather saddle bags for a 15-year old $400 Kawasaki. And no, I didn’t use the cash to immediately pay back Mike’s dad. There was drinks to be drunk in Memphis, and I was pretty sure my Sears and Shell cards would be no good.

I took off, planning on driving straight through the night. The first pit stop wasn’t a problem. But there was a long stretch where I hadn’t seen a Shell station for hours. I didn’t have a cell phone, and even if I had, this was before smart phones, so I just kept driving in the middle of the night, hoping I would eventually see the golden seashell in the sky. They were everywhere, right? Surely my plan wasn’t flawed. And I figured if I actually ran out, I could always hitch it and use the saddlebag money to get some fuel. But that would mean leaving the van again, and spending money dog-eared for Long Island Iced Teas. Oh yeah, and hitchhiking in the middle of the night. So I watched the fuel gauge drop below E until, coasting on fumes in some dark state out east, I rolled into a Shell station and gave out a loud whoop! My blind faith in dumb luck was rewarded and restored.

I kept going, and somehow ended up taking the wrong route (I say “somehow�, but I’m not a good navigator when I’m solely navigating, so when piloting and navigating, it’s a foregone conclusion I would get lost at least once), and I didn’t really want to stop to buy a map—again, that there was drinking money!—so I just watched that little compass on the rented van dash, kept heading southwest, and figured I would hit Tennessee eventually and sort things out in the daylight.

Only, the sun rose, and there was no sign of Tennessee. In fact, the first sign I saw that gave me a clue as to my whereabouts was “Welcome to Missouri!�. So, I overshot it a little. No biggee. Who hasn’t overshot a state or two on a roadtrip?

I stopped, asked the clerk at a Shell station how to get to Memphis, and got back on the road. I was pretty tired, but I was too close to pull over now. So I blasted the music and the AC and pushed on through. But no matter what I did, my eyes kept growing heavier, and I was doing the head bob, when I must have fallen asleep. A deep, deep sleep. Because when I opened my eyes again, I was still going about 50 miles an hour, only now I was driving through small bushes and brush. About 40 yards from the highway. I looked over in horror and saw people who were still on the road pointing at me, wondering why a rented van was plowing through the Tennessee flora. I jerked the wheel, headed back toward the highway, but instead of slowing down, slowing my heart, and collecting myself, I gunned it, jumped the gravel, and almost drove a mini-van off the road in my haste to rejoin the flow of traffic.

But at least I was fully awake the last hour or so to Memphis.

After I arrived and told my buddy Casey the story, he laughed his ass off, told me to recharge a bit, allowed me to power nap, and then it was time to go spend my saddlebag cash that I had wisely not wasted on gas or maps or craziness like that. I don’t remember much of that short stay in Memphis. There was loud music. Big cups. Vomiting. Probably more drinking after that. It’s all pretty much a blur.

And then, utterly broke now, it was time for the final and shortest leg of the journey, the 8 hour drive up to Bloomington, IL, to register for classes, and the final couple of hours to Gurnee, IL, to return my dented, broken into, grass-stained rental van and start teaching myself how to ride that old bike.

Of course, I opted to leave in the evening. My last all-night drive had gone swimmingly, so there was no reason I could see not to try that again. There might have been some other compelling reason I left at night. Maybe that’s just when the money ran dry. But I promised myself, and Casey, that I would pull off the road if I started falling asleep again. Both of us knowing I was lying.

But as it happens, that wasn’t really the snafu on what should have been the shortest leg. A couple hours after midnight, I pulled off at a rest area to stretch my legs. And to poop. I don’t mention the last to be gross, but it is important information.  So I walked into the restroom and happened to notice a message written in Sharpie on a mirror: “I will suck, fuck, do what you want. 8-4. 2 am.�

Now, being tired, bad with dates and times, and generally oblivious, all I thought was, “People are weird.� And then I hit the stall. And I was in there minding my own business, doing my own business, when I heard someone else come in. I don’t think much of it—it was a public restroom after all. Some bathroom stalls, the space between the door and the wall is small. You know, for privacy. And some stalls, well, they just aren’t made that way. I heard someone whispering something—which was strange, as that’s kind of frowned upon in the men’s restroom—and when I looked up I saw an eye in that space between the door and wall. It took me a shocked second or two before I realized the peeper and whisperer were one in the same.

I screamed, “Get the fuck out of here!�

The guy mumbled an apology and raced out of the restroom.

I washed up and headed out to the van, adrenaline pumping, still kind of stunned about the whole thing. The parking lot was empty except for the van. And the lone figure leaning up against it, hands in his Dockers pockets, looking uncomfortably like Bernhard Goetz.

Now, I was pissed, but equally confused. A seriously surreal WTF moment. I walked up to the van, hands not in my pockets, but balled into fists, ready for anything. I stopped a few feet away. He just looked at me from behind big glasses, not whispering, but not saying anything in a normal tone either. Dead silent.

I took a deep breath. “That was you? In the restroom?�

He nodded, suddenly looking hopeful.

“What part of �get the fuck out� did you not really understand?�

He shuffled his loafers and looked at the pavement, and mumbled, “Sorry, I just thought you wanted to meet out—�

“Get. The fuck. Out. Before I crush you.�

He saw I was getting angry-slash-sociopathic, nodded and jogged off. And when I say jogged off, I mean out of the pool of yellow sodium arc lamplight, and off into the night. Away from the highway. Just ran out into the wilds of southern Illinois.

It takes a lot to freak me out, but that kind of did it. My head was not in the game when I stopped at a Shell and fueled up. It wasn’t until I stopped at another Shell much further down the road to get some Pop Tarts that I realized I didn’t have the Shell card. I checked the van. The parking lot. No dice. I realized I must have left it behind at the last station. The only problem was, I had no idea where that station was. At all.

It didn’t involve a breakdown or a crash or a dead body, but this constituted an emergency as far as I was concerned. So I got a map, used my stepmom’s calling card, and called every Shell station I could. Not having the aid of the Internet, I called one, and when they hadn’t seen it, called information to find the next if the last station couldn’t direct me, and repeated this for close to two hours, probably racking up hundreds of dollars, before I finally found it. Several hours in the rearview.

So back I went, gripping the steering wheel so hard I nearly pulled it out of the mount, cursing myself and the creep who might or might not have been a perverted ghost the entire way. It’s a good thing the van got good gas mileage.

Who doesn’t like to add on 7-8 hours to a 8-10 hour roadtrip? Why the heck not, right?

So, many, many hours later, I pulled into Bloomington during a thunderstorm. I’d lived there for a year, knew my way around fairly well, but between the rain, sleep exhaustion, a hangover I could feel in my bones, and my mind replaying the eye and the whisper on loop, I went the wrong way. On a one way. And nearly killed about a half dozen people. And ended up jumping a median, sparks flying, to avoid an oncoming truck, and nearly lost the muffler. On my rented van.

So I drove about 400 miles an hour the last leg of the trip. And when I finally got there and opened the back door to the van, I discovered that between all the offroading and median jumping, the bike kickstand had punctured a hole in the floor of the van and torn up half the rubber paneling. It took me another hour to get the bike out of there. When I returned the van, the lady behind the counter asked if there was any damage. I stared at her, eyes red, shaking a little, fighting off manic laughter, and just shook my head and handed her the keys.

Let Sears sort it out. It’s their Budget.

In the last year I’ve done several guest blog posts about violence and grief, lots of interviews fielding questions about grimness and depravity and pain. About as uplifting as blunt trauma or seasonal affect disorder. I realize I have no one to blame for this but myself�Scourge of the Betrayer is hardly sun showers and rainbows. But today, I’m going to cover some different territory. Something more whimsical and pure, something alluring and childlike, ground that is, dare I say, a wee bit enchanted.

Something woodsy this way comes

We’ve been taking the kids to the Bristol Renaissance Faire for a few years now. They are six, four, and two, so the perfect ages to appreciate the troubadours, pirates, knights, jugglers, acrobats, gypsies, sirens, lords and ladies, and the odd vampire, zombie, Shrek, and of course the wildly misunderstood patrons who finally have an opportunity to let their bizarre banners blaze in the sun.

Where the wild things are. . .

Having spent most of my formative years tromping through the woods in silly costumes pretending to be a hero or a goblin (or sometimes a goblin hero), playing D&D, reading far too much science fiction and fantasy for my own good, and generally imagining myself into so many other worlds and realms I routinely fell up stairs or walked into walls or had to have the question repeated two or three times, I am all too familiar with geeky and nerdy impulses and behavior. And a place like the Ren Faire is a perfect venue for likeminded people who dig that sort of thing to congregate for a lovely (or sweltering, or storming—it is the Midwest, after all) summer day. While all the folks who work and perform at Bristol are done to the nines as expected, gaudy and wonderful in velvets and wools, brocades and beadwork, scarves and corsets and leather, plenty of patrons show up in marvelous, elaborate, and in some cases ridonkulous costumes as well. (I’ve already had to have the chainmail bikini conversation with my daughters). The place does attract a unique crowd.

Signs, signs, everywhere signs.

But there are countless Fairgoers who might never have rolled a twenty-sider in their lives, who haven’t dressed up as someone else since Halloween as a grade-schooler, but still flock there to hoist giant turkey legs and take in all the sights and sounds. They could have gone to Gurnee Mills just down the road, or Great America a little further, or a billion places in Chicago or Milwaukee—but they choose to spend the day watching mud men and listening to drum circles, oohing at stilt walkers and cheering on belly dancers and singers. Regardless of who they are or where they come from, whether they LARP or play CRPGS or have no idea what those acronyms mean and couldn’t care less, everyone who walks through the front gate of the Faire comes for the unusual, some as a break from their every day lives, some as a continuation of it. But they come for the wonder and laughter and the opportunity to hear pipers and watch glassblowers and see some falconry and live some fantasy.

Carrying tunes to the heavens

They come because the place sings to the imagination.

Nothing captures this so well as my first time taking my two-year old daughter there (then an only child). She was wide-eyed and mystified as she looked around, amazed by the sensory overload of the place. Ribbons and tassels and sashes and eye patches, big snorting stallions and tight-fitting corsets, woad face paint and thigh nigh leather boots, puppets and big beards, limericks and madrigal chorus, whips cracking and the crash of lance on shield, charred meat and the wafting smells of sweat and dung and spilled beer heavy in the air. She did a hundred things for the first time that day—rode a pony, picked up a violin, had her face painted.

But the most remarkable thing, the thing I will always remember for the rest of my days, was watching her walk through “The Enchanted Forest.� It’s an area set aside for wonderful actors who are primarily dressed up as fairies—water, woodland, air, fire, spider, etc—to play with and entertain kids. Their costumes are crazy-involved and still elemental and simple, with perfectly applied makeup and body paint, leaves and twigs and bells and baubles and all kinds of artistic, gorgeous flourishes. They are fantastic in every sense of the world.

And the shtick they all stick to is they interact with the kids who visit the area, but not with words. The fairies smile and pull faces, trade pine cones for grass clippings, pat heads, and beckon, but they don’t speak to the children, even when spoken to.

Well met.

I was worried Gabrielle might be a little freaked out, and we’d have to usher her away to another pony ride or something, but she loved it. Which was great. But it ended up being so much more than that. While other kids, most of them older, came for a bit and then moved on, Gabi was totally absorbed, hunkered down next to the fairies, watching every gesture and expression, as locked in as I’d ever seen her with anything. This went way beyond focused. She seemingly understood the rules of engagement immediately and honored them completely, too—this girl, who loved words and couldn’t wait to learn and try out a new one, suddenly sat in total silence and rapture with the fairies the entire time they were together.

Watcha doing?

I stood to the side and watched as she gravitated to one fairy in particular. The fairy handed Gabi a small stone; Gabi turned it over in her hand, held it up to the sun to inspect it, and then handed the fairy a torn leaf or piece of string. The fairy traced the edge of her finger across Gabi’s cheek; Gabi reached up, and gently traced a finger across the fairy’s leafy wing. This went on for ages. They shared smiles and secret little exchanges. And I was nearly as mesmerized watching her as she was interacting with this strange new creature.

And then, sometimes a little slow on the uptake and still new to the whole parenting thing, it hit me. Gabrielle didn’t see a gifted actress in front of her, or make up or props, or any artifice at all. This girl, this creature, WAS a fairy to Gabrielle, just as if she’d stepped out of a storybook. She was a special being from a special place, and somehow Gabi intuited that the spell would last only as she maintained the silence. And watching them interact like that was almost like seeing a portal open myself. It really was magical and beautiful, and I realized that this moment would never come again, not exactly like this.

There were other things we wanted to see and do, but my wife and I didn’t want to be the ones to break the spell. We let Gabi stay in the glade as long as she wanted. Which was a very long time. Like, nearly forever. But it was fantastic, every minute of it. Some parents of older kids who weren’t nearly as enchanted noticed Gabi and the fairy and commented on it. One dad said, “Been coming here a long time with the family. Never seen anything like that. That’s something real special, right there.�

He wasn’t wrong.

When Gabi finally had her fill, stood up, and walked over to us, finally remembering that she had parents and a life outside the Enchanted Forest, my wife asked her if she had a good time. Gabi nodded, still seemingly under the spell.

I asked her what she was doing with the fairies.

Gabi looked over at the fairy and then replied, “We were talking things.�

Buds.

And it gave me goosebumps. And I don’t get those. Don’t even like them. But there was something about the whole thing that was so sublime and surreal, so wonderful, I’m sure I’m failing to do it justice. But it was awesome.

Now, what does this have to do with fiction, especially sword and sorcery/heroic fantasy? Well, maybe nothing, maybe everything. OK, most likely several notches closer to nothing. But hear me out.

It goes without saying, really, but fantasy is fuelled by imagination, whether white-hot or fey and frosty. I mean, sure, all fiction is, and some would argue all non-fiction, too. But fantasy, regardless of the subgenre, requires a more potent injection of the wild, the bizarre, the horrific, the wondrous. The fantastic. Or else it would be crime drama or a cozy mystery or some other thing (see, I told you it was self-evident).

Even in fantasy that frequently gets categorized as dark and gritty, or low-magic, full of grime and shady characters, dark dealings and double-crosses, betrayal and revenge, filled with misogyny and hate crimes and torture and every other awful thing we see in our own real world, at the end of the day it has fantastic elements, at least on the edges, or infused in there somewhere. It’s fantasy, after all. See obvious point above.

And that day at the Faire, seeing my daughter tap into that creative place, so effortlessly, so fully, it amazed me, and made me a little jealous, really. Sometimes, all the gears get gunked up with other stuff (bills or flooded basements, characters that won’t cooperate or narratives that are all knotted up, or a thousand other things that seem to conspire to constipate the imagination, to poison the well). Some days, writing a fantasy story feels like the least natural thing in the world.

But it’s still in there, that same fascination, that same ability to explore, and willingness to allow transportation to another realm to happen. Sure, it might come easier to a little person who hasn’t overcomplicated things, or subjugated them, or become burdened by responsibilities and problems and information. Suspending disbelief is simple at that age, because believing is first and second nature, and the wee ones haven’t mastered cynicism.

Play, pipers, play. Or you with the stringed instruments.

But even to us old(er) folks, sometimes stymied and saddened, it’s never lost entirely. Buried, sure, maybe even broken a little. But it can be fixed, found, rekindled. It’s what draws droves to the Ren Faire every weekend in the summer, or makes millions buy Martin or Hobb or Abercrombie or Le Guin. The desire to discover the fantastic, in any one of its myriad guises.

Wonder is as wonder does.

Every writer has a different process, but for me, waiting for the muse, for inspiration to swoop in, for a spontaneous (or even summoned) lighting strike to kick things off, is a doomed proposition. Basically setting myself up for failure or a total lack of production. This last year, working on Veil of the Deserters, no longer in a vacuum or writing solely for myself, I’ve had to write whether I felt like it or not. When the writing is halting or painful, and I’m paralyzed by fear or anxiety, and the heavy uncertainty of it all, and I’m tempted to run off and do a thousand other less masochistic things, I just have to give myself permission to suck and keep on keeping on so I can at least get something on the page to work with.

It’s no great epiphany or guiding star or chakra-resetting mindbend or anything. But it does help (me anyway). I have no hair to pull out, but when I’m struggling with my fiction so much I want to punch a wall, either unable to find inspiration or completely dissatisfied with what I’m creating, and especially if I feel like I don’t have it in me to find my way, I try to remember that summer afternoon at the Faire. And how cool it was to witness unfettered imagination at play. Watching my daughter play with a real live fairy.

Fire it up.

And then I smile. And unclench. And take a few deep breaths. And maybe drink another beer. And try again. Try harder. Write through the lapse or lull, just write, knowing that sooner or later, the bullshit will fade and the writer’s block will crumble and it will all work out, so long as I keep punching those keys. I know the wellspring is down there—I just have to keep digging.

Raptor. I just like the word. Raptor.

I’ve seen firsthand the power of the imagination. And it is greater than any distraction or issue or setback or panic. You might have to encourage it more as an adult, fight harder to make it happen, look harder to rediscover it, dig deeper, but the imagination that allows you to believe in magic and the fantastic is still there.

And it trumps everything.

(NOTE: The pics of my daughter and the fairy were good old camera phone, but all the other terrific pics are courtesy of Steven Bourelle, a regular Bristol photographer who always manages to capture the right shot and was gracious enough to allow me to use some here).

Tomorrow is a day for honoring the lives of the men and women who died while in the U.S. military. But for me, since the age of 14, it has always meant something very different.

My father never served in the armed forces. He tried to enlist and failed the physical for some reason or other. But right before my 8th grade graduation, my dad died of a heart attack on Memorial Day. Years later, I tried to joke that he picked that day so that I had at least a halfway decent chance of remembering it each year, given how lousy I was with dates. But it was a hard joke to pull off, even with plenty of distance.

At age 14, I was old enough to know that he wasn’t infallible. I finally beat him in a foot race that year. He was bald, and had a lot of gray in his beard (though I would learn soon enough that both of those could strike earlier than expected). His diet stunk–he liked Spam and Velveeta sandwiches on Wonder Bread. So he clearly wasn’t perfect. But he was a perfect father for me. Kind, patient, hilarious, full of strength and integrity.

I’ve often felt deep sorrow at the parts of my life that he never got to see. He missed four graduations. He never met my lovely bride. He didn’t get a chance to hold my debut novel. And a thousand other landmarks. But now more than ever, my thoughts turn even more outward, and it hurts to think that my daughters never got a chance to meet the man. They would have adored him. Everyone did.

With every Memorial Day, the pain grew a little less sharp. But now, even all these years later, the sense of absence is still profound, maybe more so in some ways. When I feel myself freaking out at some craziness my kids are pulling and wish I could just call him and ask for some fatherly advice. Even if he couldn’t provide a perfect solution, he’d offer the perfect joke. There are days I know I could be a better dad, days I feel pretty lousy about the job I’m doing, and if I’m not frustrated beyond reason, I usually try to think about how he would have handled a situation. Because he always seemed to know just how to handle almost everything. And of course all the other days when my kids do or say something funny or precious or wicked smart, I wish he could have seen it all. And more importantly, I wish they could have met their grandfather, because everyone who did benefited. And they deserve the best.

My dad didn’t die serving this country. But he was and always will be the only real hero I ever had. And I still miss him.

And once again, an egregiously long time has passed since my last update. I’ve heard from plenty of folks that if you can’t commit to blogging regularly, don’t bother. Infrequent posting builds no audience, gains no traction, and does you no real good, only making you feel vaguely (or acutely) guilty for not being more consistent. Ain’t nobody got time for that. I’d like to blame it on the fact that I’ve been busy cranking away at Veil of the Deserters (which is 100% true—I just crossed over 100,000 words, with roughly 40K to go) or on the fact that I have three young girls and a day job (also irrefutably true, but less credible or compelling—there are plenty of other writers with families and commitments who manage to do this blog-business at least weekly). Or I could blame rabbit holes, wormholes, or alien abduction/probing. But really, it’s just me and lousy time-management. A good probing might actually get me in gear.

But some latest bit of news deserves a post. (Actually, there are about ten things I should have written about, but this is the most recent and therefore still remotely fresh; plus, I’m a self-absorbed bastard, so it’s hard not to write *something* about this ). I got an email yesterday and learned that I was selected as a finalist for the . Every year, the Baltimore Science Fiction Society, Inc. (BSFS) presents the Compton Crook for the best first novel the year before in the genres of science fiction, fantasy, or horror. Last year, Germline won, and for 2010, it was another author you might have heard of, , who got top honors for Windup Girl. Going back, there are plenty of noteworthy finalists and winners, so it’s a tremendous honor to be considered. I’m stunned, humbled, and absolutely thrilled that Scourge of the Betrayer made the cut. The award will be presented to the winner at in May.

Thanks to all the BCFS members who selected me for the finals for the Compton Crook this year. E.C. Meyers, Jay Kristoff, Myke Cole, and Heather Anastasiu are also finalists, so kudos to them. Win, lose, or draw, I’m thrilled just to be in the running. There were over 40 authors considered, so being one of the last five standing is its own reward.

OK, it’s time to unveil the cover art for Book 2, Veil of the Deserters. (Wow. That was so bad I’m going to keep it).

I’ve had to keep this under wraps until I got publisher approval. And it was hard. Really hard. Because, frankly, I think this is splendiferous. Uber-awesome. Kickass. Insert other excessive adjective for overexcited celebratory crazy talk here. And I just wanted to share it soooo badly. The book itself won’t be out until the fall/winter, but it feels really good to finally reveal this bad boy.

When Night Shade told me they were going to use a different artist for the second book, I was a little nervous. OK, a lot nervous. But they assured me that was rock solid, and when I visited his site, I had to agree, though being neurotic, I was still a mite uneasy. And this didn’t disappear at all when Night Shade said they wanted this cover art to be a contrast to the first one. I liked the first one. It was moody and evocative and atmospheric. And cool. But then they said some magic words: “action�; “dynamic�; “fight scene�; and “input.�

This last one was big. Typically, writers don’t get a lot of say in the cover art unless they are self-publishing or have last names like McBigshot. But Night Shade Books invited me to give some synopses from some heavy-hitting scenes in the book, and any other notes I wanted to add.

Mistakes were made. They really should have been more specific with their invitation.

I described what Braylar, his sister, Soffjian, and Braylar’s opponent should be wearing and using in excruciating detail. Including tons (and still more tons) of reference pieces—photos from museums, sample images of various coats of plates, ranseurs, some Norwegian mace heads that were carved to resemble demonic faces, lamellar armor, Byzantine scale armor, the way mail isn’t opaque and allows light and shadow through, and rustles during movement. I included the caveat that, yes, it’s fantasy, not historical fiction, but I really tried to capture some realism in the combat scenes in the books, and most covers fail woefully in this regard, and have impractical armor that would be impossible to move in or offer no protection whatsoever. I argued that real armor could be attractive and eye-catching, even if it predated full on plate with all the artistic flourishes, and sent a ridiculous number of images to prove my case. Sure, maybe only purists will notice or care about some of these details, but it was important to me, so I described it in triplicate.

And above all, I stressed about 33 times that Soffjian, while attractive, should absolutely NOT be cheesecake—no cleavage, no mail bikinis, no overt objectification. Her armor needed to be functional, and she needed to look athletic, proficient, dangerous, and no less badass than her brother.

Which is to say, I made a total nuisance of myself, and fully expected the publisher and artist to nod, smile politely, and ignore the hell out of me, all the while thinking, “Who the hell is this jackass? And why did anyone ask him what he thought in the first place?!�

But I was stunned and pleasantly surprised—they not only listened, but the artist totally nailed it. The whole thing. The colors, the way everything pops, the movement. And I’m so impressed with the level of detail Michael achieved I can barely put it in words—it’s phenomenal. . . the sleeves and aventail shifting and flowing, the tassel on Soffjian’s ranseur, Braylar’s splinted vambraces, the siblings� matching long dagger/short sword (a staple of Syldoon and Memoridon armament). And on and on. He used plenty of what I sent as inspiration, and was truly inspired.

Yep, I’m biased, but I think it’s absolutely beautiful. It’s almost a shame we have to put a title and author name on there. Almost.

Today is my birthday (along with Elvis, David Bowie, Soupy Sales, R. Kelly, Shirley Bassey, Stephen Hawking, and my Grandma. That’s a lot of big hitters. Especially Grandma. She was a 6� German woman—you didn’t mess around with her).

So, since my birthday comes right after a new year kicks off, this usually prompts me to get all deep and reflective about the last year or two that just passed and to plot the course ahead. Or drink egg nog that’s expired, gripe about my feeble mortality and impending doom, and scream at neighbor kids to get off my lawn.

This time two years ago, I’d been agent hunting for seven or eight months and exhausted more than three-quarters of my dream list. Based on feedback I’d gotten from a number of agents who requested and read the full manuscript, I was at a crossroads—make some significant revisions, or plow ahead querying with the manuscript as it was and let the chips fall. I’d already been working on and off on the thing for a decade, so I was pretty much burnt out. But my gut told me that given that the agents were echoing each other quite a bit (and were allegedly professionals who knew what acquiring editors were likely to pony up for), it was probably smart to reevaluate, make some pretty big changes, and then query the remainder of my list.

I tried talking myself out of this. More than once. It was going to require some big cuts and rewrites. Painful. Lots of dead darlings. Whole villages. Maybe an unincorporated city. It was going to make my eyes bleed. But I grudgingly admitted it was necessary. Or felt necessary. So I gritted my teeth and got to it.

And I’m glad I did, because almost immediately after finishing the revisions and sending a handful of queries out, I got a couple of offers from agents. After long conversations with both and some serious consideration, I chose . Good choice. A few months later, we had an offer on the table from . And last May, a leaner, meaner, tweener Scourge of the Betrayer hit the shelves.

I knew the book wouldn’t be for everyone, but initial reviews were generally positive. And in the tail end of 2012 and first week of 2013, I was stunned and thrilled (and you haven’t seen thrilled until you’ve seen a 6�4�, 225# bald guy jumping up and down like a 6-year-old on a Halloween candy bender) to see Scourge pop up on a good number of year-end lists:

: The Best of 2012

Barnes & Noble: The Best Fantasy of 2012

: 2012 Books of the Year

: Favorite Debuts of 2012

: Best of 2012 (Honorable Mention)

: Best Debut of 2012 and Best Fantasy of 2012

: Highlights of 2012 (Honorably Mention)

: Top 5 Novels of 2012 (Honorable Mention)

: Top 10 Releases of 2012 (Honorable Mention)

(Blog): Favorite Books Read in 2012

Now, I know this is totally subjective. And for everyone who loved the book or was intrigued enough to want to see Book 2 and to include it on a year-end list, there was someone out there who hated the thing and used the pages to line his ferret cage or wipe his ass (note: I hope he got paper cuts. The human, not the ferret.). But still, it’s more rewarding than I can say that some reviewers out there thought enough of Scourge to add it with the main entries or as an honorable mention. And it’s humbling to appear next to the likes of , , , , , , , , , , or . Even briefly. Seriously, those are some fantastic writers.

But even if making a cameo on some lists like that is validating or gives me the warm fuzzies, I know the book could have been better, tighter, richer. And the goal is to one up it with Veil of the Deserters. I want to make every 5-star review shine brighter, and convince everyone who gave Scourge 3 or 4 stars that it’s worthy or going up the scale for the sequel.

So, that’s what I’m shooting for in 2013. Submitting the manuscript for Veil of the Deserters in July (Crom willing), and seeing it come out in the tail end of the year. The book’s kicking my ass now. I really hope it kicks yours later.

It’s award season. Red carpets. Plunging necklines. Sparkly pumps. Posh tuxedos. Up dos, down dos, Sumerian weaves. All kinds of glitz and glam and nuttiness. And, of course, the Hugos and John W. Campbell awards. For those unfamiliar with how things work over there, check out the site for more info.

I always feel a little funny doing the promotional thing, sort of like a snake oil sales guy. But in this day and age, if authors don’t pimp themselves on occasion, there aren’t too many other folks who will step up to the plate. Well, there’s Aunt Bathsheeba. But we try to keep her under wraps as much as possible. Like, seriously hidden and restrained. But she is surprisingly wiry and strong, and sometimes gets out in the world to make mischief. I digress. The point is, I’ve got to beat the drum myself here. So, here are the awards I’m eligible for (or someone who worked on Scourge of the Betrayer could be up for):

John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer: (Note: this is not a Hugo award, exactly, but the nomination process is remarkably similar, and the form is part and parcel with the Hugo, available on the, you guessed it, Hugo page.)

Best Novel: Scourge of the Betrayer

Best Editor, Long Form:

Best Professional Artist:

And I’m also shamelessly ripping off (ahem, “judiciously appropriating�) idea here (it’s ok—he’s plotting to steal my mojo), but if you’re eligible to vote, and you’d like your very own voter copy of Scourge of the Betrayer, please email me (see ) with proof of eligibility (your name on the attendee list for WorldCon 2012, 2013, or 2014, the email confirmation or receipt for your membership, etc.) and I’ll be delighted to send you a copy of the book in the format of your choice (PDF, EPUB, or MOBI). Well, not papyrus. Or human skin. So, not any format, and not even any electronic one, but the three I listed. What do you want, it’s free?

Anyway, whether you take me up on that or not, if you are eligible, vote! This country is going to hell in a hand basket, and voter apathy is part of the problem. Don’t be part of the problem.

I suck at balance. I don’t mean the balance beam, although I’d be as graceful as a drunken donkey up there, too. What is that thing, four inches wide—have you seen my feet? And I’d die on a tightrope, even four feet off the ground. With a safety net. I digress.

No, I refer to compartmentalizing, prioritizing, mapping out a day, a week, a month to get things done, keep things moving, and not suffer too many panic attacks trying to juggle the day job, the dad/husband job (fun, but don’t let anyone tell you it doesn’t require work, because they are single and stupid if they do), and of course the writing job, continuing on Bloodsounder’s Arc and cranking away at Book II. All without suffering mental illness from sleep deprivation. Or slipping into a fugue statue and wandering around the neighborhood in my moose pajamas, mumbling obscenities to myself.

I do have a hard time balancing during any given day, but I’d have a much harder time if it weren’t for my wife, Kristen. She encourages me and supports me in a multitude of ways, and while the writing itself is a solo affair, it wouldn’t be possible without her patience and understanding as I pursue this crazy dream of someday doing this thing full time.

But beyond the obvious support, on a more practical front she’s done plenty of promotional work for me and the series: organizing the book launch party, calling local bookstores and papers to set up events and interviews, and most recently, building me an Author page on Facebook.

I know it’s really hard to quantify what social media or most other promotional efforts do to boost recognition and generate sales. Mostly it’s anecdotal. And a lot of disagreement about what those anecdotes truly mean, or what we can glean from them. But most writers and agents still seem to agree that you can’t pull a J.D. Salinger in this day and age, and the publishers don’t have the resources, time, or inclination to do the PR and promotional heavy lifting—authors have to do their part to spread the word. Somehow.

I don’t always do a great job of that either, so my gratitude for all my wife’s help is doubled. Trebled. Quadrupled. What comes after quadrupled?

Anyway, check out the FB page if the spirit moves you, and give it a Like if you like. Every bit of support helps.

, author of series as well as , among other hardcore epic and urban fantasy novels, tagged me to carry the torch for “The Next Big Thing.� Ordinarily, I’m not a big fan of anything even remotely resembling chain mail letters, but for those unfamiliar with the TNBT concept, if you’re tagged, you answer a series of the same questions as other authors who’ve gone before, and you try to enlist 5 authors to do the same after you. The idea is to help showcase other authors and their work and drive traffic to their sites, and help every deserving author get some clicks and recognition (and hey, maybe some sales while we’re talking).

Another debut author, , originally asked me to do this a while back, and being absolutely swamped, I passed. But please check out her site, too. She rocks, and her work is smart and willing to challenge in interesting ways.

Given how late I jumped into this thing, it wasn’t surprising that I couldn’t entice, coerce, or blackmail five other authors, since many have already done it or decided not to, but I did manage to drag three more into the mix:

: was his most recent work until a couple of weeks ago, a clever, layered, rich fantasy novel that’s not afraid of risks, and packs plenty of rewards. He has a brand new young adult fantasy novel called , available on Amazon now. Right now. Go see. It’s there.

: John is a fantasy and young adult author who is also a father and husband, and teaches full times, so I’m sure we’d have plenty of war stories to share about trying to balance writing and the rest of life. The first two books of his series, Season of Destiny, are being shopped by his agent now. Fingers crossed.

: Zack is another newbie, and his debut, , is slated for release in March, 2013. He’s another one of those writers who seems to delight in bending genres to his whims, and he has a wicked sense of humor. Which is a plus.

Please give them a look—while there are plenty of sensational seasoned writers out there cranking out beautiful novels, it’s always fun to discover some new voices in the field.

Anyway, onto the Q&A. . .

1) What is the working title of your next book?

Veil of the Deserters. The alternative working title is Rock I Routinely Bang My Head Against, Leaving Bloody Smears in the Crevices That Might Actually Be Kind Of Beautiful. Except It’s Blood. On a Rock.

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

I wrote Scourge of the Betrayer pretty much by the seat of my pants, and over a long period of time, and in some places that surely shows. Knowing this, my agent, , forced me to slavishly come up with a synopsis for the rest of the books in the series. Which I railed against and resisted with every fiber of my being, and even after reluctantly agreeing, still tried to half-ass on more than one occasion. And he’d politely but persistently ask me questions, force me to reconsider things, and rewrite the damn thing, which led to even more profanity-laced resistance. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t just a useful (if excruciating) exercise, but gave me a good idea where things might progress. I still allowed for room to deviate and explore, and who knows, I might have to tear that synopsis into shreds at some point, but it is helpful as a rough map.

So, for those who liked Scourge but pined for a stronger female who wasn’t a whore (ex-whore, to be fair to Lloi), Veil of the Deserters will showcase a nice sibling rivalry between Braylar and his sister, Soffjian (who kicks all kinds of ass, and isn’t a slattern, barmaid, crone, or haughty princess). And for those hungering for more deep world building, the Syldoon and their structure and politics feature prominently, and the more mystical or fantastic elements (the Memoridons, the Godveil, the Deserters, Bloodsounder) are fleshed out considerably in the sequel as well.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Fantasy, as the big old umbrella, and then, depending on your definition of subgenres, anything from dark fantasy to heroic (or at least anti-heroic) fantasy.

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

I’ve given this far more thought and attention than it warrants, but. . .

Captain Braylar Killcoin: The man is lean, cold, calculating, with a biting sense of humor, and yet somehow still sympathetic. He is also a haunted man, in more ways than one. Ten or 15 years ago, Daniel Day Lewis would have been absolutely perfect. He could have walked in, read one line, and I would have called off the auditions. But he’s a bit older than the role calls for now, so looking at the younger generation of actors, Christian Bale would be a fine choice. He has mad range, he can obviously play haunted (see The Mechanic; seriously, go rent it, it rocks), and he can project dark undercurrents and still manage to be charming and even endearing.

Soffjian: Braylar’s sister, and every inch the badass he is, though in a much different way. Tall, athletic looking, attractive, but in a severe and sort of dangerous way (as opposed to cheesecake or sex-objecty). The actor playing her needs to exude arrogance, intelligence, and tightly-coiled power. Lena Headey (of Game of Thrones fame) would be rock solid (especially as a brunette). Kate Beckinsdale or Charlize Theron (with darker locks, a la Aeon Flux) would be good backups.

Arkamondos (Arki): This one is tricky—the young actor playing Arki has to convey both naiveté and still be somewhat alert and perceptive; uncertain, sensitive, and wildly out of his depth, and still doggedly persistent. He also needs to pull off being both repelled by his new violent company and fascinated by them at the same time. This requires some deft subtlety and an absence of overacting. Craig Roberts (Jane Eyre) is an up-and-comer with a young Dustin Hoffman vibe who could play vulnerable and still not get dwarfed by the other big names on set (he’s in Red Lights with Robert DeNiro).

Matinios (called Hewpsear): As far as Syldoon go, Hewspear is refined, cultured, and somewhat stately (even if no less skilled at bloodletting than the rest of the company). He is older than the rest of the crew, a counterpoint to his hot-headed cohort, Mulldoos, and generally accepts circumstances with a twinkle in his eye or a knowing wink. If I didn’t tick him off by passing earlier, Daniel Day Lewis would be great, but if he walked, Laurence Fishburne or Jeremy Irons would be fantastic.

Mulldoos: On the surface, Mulldoos is all foul-mouthed, tough as boot leather, fist-clenched badassery. Not only does he not suffer fools, he might backhand them or stab them in the face, depending on his mood. A real tough customer. And beneath that, he’s meaner still. But beneath THAT, he is also fiercely loyal, boldly honest, and would lay down his life for his comrades without question. If he could be coaxed into a non-lead role, Russell Crowe would own this part.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A young chronicler has even more of his naivete brutally stripped away as his journeys with the Syldoon expose him to greater deceit, treachery, combat, gross humor, and profanity.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

The book is published by , and I’m represented by .

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

I’m still in process right now, a little over a quarter of a way through the first draft. It helps to have a deadline out there to light a fire under my ass, but it can still be slow going sometimes. I hope to finish the first draft in a few months, polish the heck of it for several more, and still get a manuscript in on deadline. Or even before. Although I wouldn’t have any idea how that feels, and it might throw off my entire equilibrium or sense of self, so maybe safer just to shoot for on time.

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I sort of hate doing this, but the Green-Eyed Monster and I are drinking buddies, so know that when I mention some wildly successful fantasy book or author, I do so with liquor in hand. Veil of the Deserters shares some of the rough gallows humor of any Joe Abercrombie novel, and a similar “embedded journalist� accompanying a tough military company as T.C. McCarthy’s Germline or Glen Cook’s Black Company books (although the dynamic is decidedly different, as the chronicler in my Bloodsounder’s Arc series is a naïve dork on the outside looking in, rather than a jaded or nihilistic member of the company).

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Scourge of the Betrayer? My wife? My parents? Is this a trick question?

The original idea for the whole series revolving around a scribe accompanying a military troupe came from two sources: Jean Froissart (chronicling a fair chunk of the Hundred Year’s War) and Gerald of Wales (traveling around in, wouldn’t you know it, Wales during the 13th century). The chief difference though, was instead of being a royal clerk or aristocrat, I wanted my chronicler to be a bored scribe who had no clue what he was getting himself into by signing on for the gig, and instead of journeying among warriors who at least paid lip service to chivalric ideals and behavior, he jumped in with a group of excessively violent, crude, and nefarious soldiers led by a cursed captain.

So, Veil of the Deserters (or Bloody Rock) continues this saga, only Arki (the scribe) has managed to gain enough traction with the group that he isn’t entirely in the dark about every little thing this time, and his naivete and charming innocence is being slowly whittled away. Chunk by bloody chunk. He comes to learn about the politics among various Syldoon factions, the purpose and power of the Memoridons, and some inkling of what might actually lie beyond the Godveil. And all I’ll say about that is the Syldoon don’t subscribe to the theory of letting sleeping dogs lie. And that might be bad. Very bad.

10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

Besides the gratuitous sex and violence, creative cursing, and pitch black humor, you mean?

Not a damn thing.