It's not easy to write about Wernicke-Korsakoffs, but I feel like I have to do it.

I survived Wernickes, and although I have Korsakoffs, few know it unless I tell them. That makes me a rarity, unfortunately. I wish everyone recovered from that set of serious illnesses, I wish no one suffered from it, I wish no family member had to deal with a loved one who is lost to either illness. I wish more people knew about the disease, if the other wishes can't come true.
   I wish a lot of things. Wishing isn't enough. I wrote a little book called Green Goblin, and it's selling some copies. It's a good little book if I do say so myself, and I hope more people read it. Green Goblin is my account of the acute phase of the illness, the part that takes place in the hospital for the lucky ones. Undiagnosed and untreated, Wernickes can be fatal.
 Green Goblin is good as far as it goes. Few who have had Wernickes have ever, and I mean ever described what it was like. Most can't. And since I can, I felt I should. I felt I had to do it.
   I wrote that book a couple of years ago, and now I feel I have to take the next step. I have to face the disease again...this time from the comfort of my chair. This time from the discomfort of my chair. I'm sober, but have to look back on getting sober, if I have any hope of helping people get to and through what I had to go to and through.
   I intend to give it my best shot. I'm not sure when I'll be done with it, but look for an announcement here when I finish and publish it. I think the writing of it will go quickly. I think when I peel away the mental bandages and examine the wound, I'm going to want to rip away the gauze and look fast.

Odds against me? I'm fine with that, and here's why...

I got my proof copy of Sexton Sand (Sexton Chronicles IV) today. It wasn't the first copy sold, and I think it's cool that I know who bought the first copy because he told me when he bought it. Lulu gives me a way to make sure I get the first copy, but I don't play it that way. You see, I'm hopeful. I'm full of hope that one day, although the odds are against me, these self-published Sexton Chronicles books (genre: fantasy. BUY 'EM TODAY) will hit the big time.

   Odds are against that happening to self-published books. It's been done, so I know it's not impossible, but odds are against it for a variety of reasons. I won't enumerate those reasons because I really don't care what they are.

   This isn't the first time in my life the odds were against me, and it won't be the last.

   Odds were against me living much of a normal life when I had my first epileptic seizure when I was about six years old. Through no fault of my own, I beat the epilepsy.

   Odds were against me when I declared, at the age of 10, that I would be a 13-year-old Eagle Scout. I made it with days to spare.

   Odds were against me when I decided to go for a full-tuition scholarship to college when I had a 3.0 grade point average in high school and played no sports. I got one.

   Odds were against me meeting a sitting President of the United States in the White House. I did.

   Odds were against me in 2005 when, through a fault completely mine, I fell ill with Wernicke's Encephalopathy and Korsakoff's Disease. I beat it--with a lot of help from a lot of people and God.

   So when I look at the odds of going from self-published to big time, I know it's been done before.

And I intend to be another one. Have a great day. It's up to you.

How does it feel to get a book you wrote?

I'll tell you!
   It's exciting and strange and scary all rolled into one.
   Tomorrow I expect to find Sexton Sand (Sexton Chronicles IV) in my mailbox. Lulu is fast with the orders, considering they print one book at a time. I won't be the first one to receive a copy, and I'm fine with that. I don't get my books for free--because printing costs money--and sometimes I have to wait until I have the cash before I can order a book. I take it as a compliment now when someone beats me to the first copy.

   Still, the book will be in the mail. I know that  book better than anyone alive. I was there when the words Chapter One appeared at the top of a blank page in my word processor. My hands typed the first sentence. My brain (which sometimes I like to call Ralph the Muse) unfolded the first scene, breathed life into the dialog, and drew first blood.
   I was there, or rather here at my desk when I hit the inevitable moment I'll call the "Uh-oh, now what happens?" moment in every manuscript where I wonder if maybe--just maybe--I have come up with a false start that needs to be deep-sixed to the recycle bin. That doesn't happen to me often anymore. This is my 8th book.
   I'll never forget the day Sexton showed up on my doorstep. After years, decades actually, of dreaming I would one day hold a book I wrote in my hot little hands, it was there. I was afraid to open the box. Seriously! I put it on the dining room table and stared at it like it contained some sort of dream-killing bomb. I wondered if the sentences that flowed so easily from my Ralph-the-mused brain through the keyboard, to the screen and finally to the printer, would make any sense in the light of day sandwiched between two thin pieces of cardboard.
   Finally, I cut open the box and gazed on Sexton. My first book. My first foray into the world of Seeking the Paying Customer. Sure, I published the book as a Kindle book a few months earlier, but the Kindle thing didn't seem real. For one thing, I don't have a Kindle and didn't have the software to read the book on my computer. I had no way to see the finished product in that case. The book was (and is) selling as a Kindle book...but it wasn't real to me. Real was in the box on the dining room table. Pulsating. Throbbing and whispering to me, "Open the box, Mr. Author guy. Open the box. See what you have made!"
   When I finally dared open the box, I'm man enough to say my eyes fogged up a little. It was beautiful to me. I counted the hours until school let out so I could take the book to show my wife the teacher, and see her face when she saw that my first book was (of course!) dedicated to her.
   It was cool.
   I was just as excited to open the box with Sexton Spice, but not afraid. I was just as excited to see Storm Clouds Over Sexton, and Just for Fun: A Little Sexton and Some Other Stuff, and Green Goblin, and Bouffon Vert, and Return to Sexton.
   Tomorrow. I got an email the book was mailed on 8/12, and tomorrow is 8/15. The book should be in my mailbox. Sexton Sand. It's a good book. I know. I've read it a couple of times when I revised and edited it. It's got a fancy cover that combined a couple of photos in an artsy-fartsy way. It was my first experience with a photoshop-type program.
   I know I'm not as excited as I was when Sexton arrived, but I'm still excited. I'll get it in my hands and stare at it for a while, remembering how it felt to pound on an electronic typewriter in my room in the fraternity house at college and dream of seeing my book for sale one day. I'll look at the construction of the book. Then I'll flip through it to make sure it's all there, knowing that it will be all there but checking just the same. I'll stick my nose in it and pretend I can smell the paper and ink. If you want to know why I can't, order a copy of Green Goblin.
   I:'ll carry it around with me for a couple of days, pretending I'm trying to see if it's durable but really just showing it off a little. I'm entitled, don't you think? Sure...it's pride, pride in the effort it took to produce a good work of fiction, pride in producing a work I feel is good enough to sell with my name in big letters on the cover and spine.
   My book. That is...
          ...That is, until you buy your copy. After you buy your copy, it becomes your book. That's when I get to feel really good--when I know you're being entertained reading your copy of one of the Sexton Chronicles.

   Tomorrow will be a good day.

Sexton Retribution (Sexton Chronicles V) Chapter 3

3

White light flared in his vision when they hit him again. Tom landed on his back on the sand. Catcalls came from all around him and bounced off the walls of the little prison in the desert. He stared up at the cloudless blue sky for a second and waited to see what his attackers were going to do. It was a showdown, but they didn’t know that. They thought they were teaching him a lesson because he made a comment during the morning meal that rubbed them the wrong way.

He kicked out with his feet and bucked his hips at the same time, throwing himself into a standing position. The looks on their faces showed the move had the result he wanted: they were re-evaluating him. They weren’t the first big guys to assume a little guy was an easy target based on his size. They also weren’t the first big guys to be wrong about that. He wondered as they came at him slowly, if they knew why he picked the fight or if they knew he picked the fight. They were the informal leaders of the prision. Bullies who picked on the people from their country as much as they picked on him.

He needed them and to recruit them he had to beat them.

“Maybe we should talk about this, gentlemen,” he said. His hands were in front of him with his palms out, held at about chest height. “Think it over before you start swinging again.”

“Think it over?” The one on the left said. He barked a laugh as dry as the sand. With a fat finger jabbing toward Tom, he said, “You should have thought it over before you called me fat!” His shirt was off. The sun gleamed on droplets of sweat on his tan chest. His gut stuck out father than his pecks, which looked like small fat breasts.

“You work so hard to maintain your bulk, I thought fat would be a compliment.” He grinned. The man was getting mad at him, madder than he was when he took the first swing. That was good. He watched the fat guy’s nostril’s flare. Come at me, bull boy. The other guy, the tall skinny one, was on the fat guy’s right. If he was smart, he would have moved away so Tom would have to choose which one to watch.

The fat one charged him; the skinny one was half a step behind. Tom put his weight on the ball of his left foot and spun out of the way when they charged him, he continued the spin and clocked the fat man on the back of the neck with his hands together. The man’s head went down as Tom opened his hands, put them on his back, and shoved. The man fell forward and slid on his belly on the sand. The skinny one turned, right into a punch Tom threw with his left hand. He hit the man squarely in the nose. Blood flew.

He moved back and waited for them to pull themselves together. The fat man pushed himself up, spitting sand. His eyes were full of rage. Rage and surprise. The tall guy was temporarily out of the picture. He was clutching his nose with both hands in an attempt to stem the blood and clear his vision.

The big one charged Tom, and he didn’t wait for the collision. He ran into it, charging the big man with his head down. The big man tried to wrap his arms around Tom, but he was moving too fast. He came in low and brought the top of his head up into the man’s chin. Teeth clacked. He punched rapid-fire with both hands and landed seven or eight blows on the man’s gut before he jumped back. Grunts turned into a roar. The big boy charged again with his arms open.

Tom charged the man charging him. The arms couldn’t close around him before he rammed his forehead on the bridge of the man’s nose. He felt the big man jerk back and grabbed his shoulders in both hands. Their eyes were inches apart—the fat man’s unfocused—when Tom rammed his right knee into the fat man’s groin. The roar turned into something that sounded almost meek when the pain from the blow rose into his stomach.

Tom cracked his forehead on the fat man’s nose and pushed him back in almost the same motion. When he landed on his back on the sand, Tom took a step and stomped on his stomach. One down, and maybe one to go. The tall guy was taller than Tom by almost a foot, just as wiry, and probably at least as strong. He took his eyes off Tom’s for a second and looked blankly at the man on the sand. When he looked back at Tom, it was without self-confidence.

“I left him alive because I almost like him,” Tom said in a near whisper. “How do you think I feel about you?” He grinned with no hint of friendship.

His grin was returned. The skinny man’s grin had the special malice held by someone with the upper hand in a mismatch. His eyes went to his hand. Tom wasn’t sure where he got it, but the sun glinted in a piece of metal about two inches long sticking out between the man’s fingers.

In a blast of speed and burst of sand behind him, the tall man charged at Tom. His hand went back, straight back, and he tried to jab Tom’s stomach when they closed. Tom slipped to the side, easily avoiding the blade and the hand holding it. He grabbed a handful of the man’s hair with his left hand and rammed his right palm against the man’s Adam’s apple. He slipped his fingers around the side of the man’s chin, shifted his left hand so he gripped the side of the man’s head, and twisted. The snap of his neck crackled the dry air. His feet went out and he fell back on the sand, staring at the sky with unseeing eyes.

Tom spun on the big man on the ground. He was pushing himself up, made eye contact with Tom, and looked at the body of the other man on the sand. Tom stepped toward him and in a low voice said, “Him, I didn’t like.” He reached out with his right hand. “Are we done fighting, or would you like the study the sky like he is?”

“Done. We are done fighting, little man.”

“Call me Viper.” Tom reached out and let the big man grab his right wrist. He helped him to his feet. In a whisper only the other man could hear he said, “We’re going to put our energy to good use, you and I. It’s time we took over this place. Understand?”

“I do.”

That was all the conversation they were allowed. The guards approached and pulled them apart. Tom looked over his shoulder only once. He wanted to see which cell they dragged the fat man to. Two more guards were dragging the dead guy away. Tom didn’t watch them.

Speckles on my glasses: spray starch and cat sneezes

Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be a smartass...

I do the ironing around here. I don't mind the task, and I'm good at it. What I'm not good at is throwing away empty cans of spray starch. Call it a random bit of neuroticism. I just don't like to toss aerosol cans in the trash or recycling bin or trash. I see them as small cans that could blow up.

  My wife picked up an armload of empty spray starch cans from the basket next to the ironing board. She gave me The Look #643--a variation on look #5--that says "My husband is a lovable moron."

   I chose to ignore, cheerfully, the look. In an attempt to make half an excuse, I said, "They're all empty."

   She chose to push the button on one.

PSSSSSSHHHHT! came the sound.

   Speckles on my glasses. Lots of speckles.

          The world went gray, and I couldn't move my eyebrows for half an hour. Speckles. The can? Not so empty.

   The other day I picked up one of our cats. I get along great with the little nutless wonder, I really do. When I pick him up, he puts one paw on either of my shoulders and usually starts to purr while he licks my cheek.

   This time, no purr. He pulled his little head back and looked confused for a second.

   Then PSSSSSSHHHHT --sneeze. Cat sneeze.

   You know? Cats refuse to cover their mouths when they sneeze.

   They cover their owners.

Speckles on my glasses. Lots of speckles.

Sexton Retribution--Chapter 1 and Chapter 2

I'm not going to post every chapter of this book, but I'll post the first 10 chapters. It will give you a taste, and I hope it persuades you to buy the books!

1

King Rolof was fit to be tied, and Benecala thought he might have to do it: tie him. He looked at the red velvet curtains covering the door to the balcony for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes with the same glowering stare each time. Benecala watched him carefully. Given that the king had a penchant for doing whatever he wanted regardless of the good advice his wizard gave him, it was possible he would make a dash for the balcony and address the crowd below.

John was sitting on a bench against the wall to the right of the king’s chair. He was as nervous as he had been in years. It wasn’t hot in the room, but his armpits were dripping against his ribcage and he wished he could unbutton the top of his white shirt, or at least take off the velvet cloak he was wearing. The crown felt heavy on his head, too. He didn’t blame Rolof for not wearing it very often.

“I fail to see the morality in it,” Rolof muttered.

“The morality in what, sire?” The question came from Raj, the only one in the room who could possibly understand how King Rolof felt. Raj was a Crescen, once the King of Crescens. Although he ruled only briefly before a demon took over his body, he ruled long enough to know what it was like. “The morality of keeping yourself alive because your country needs you?”

“That part I understand.” He jabbed a finger at John. “What I see as immoral is sending him out in my stead—having him pretend he is me—so the people of this country can rally around their king. The king who is, in practice and in fact, hiding behind a damn curtain!”

“It worked for the Wizard of Oz,” John said. The looks they gave him made him wish Andy looked more like the king than he did. They would have laughed if Andy made the joke, even if they didn’t get it. Andy was the one with the reputation of being a funny guy, but he was out in the streets, one more pair of eyes protecting the king. He was out in the clammy chill of the day, mingling with the dirty, smelly massed, but at least he wasn’t the one who was going to be blasted by druids if the protection wasn’t enough.

Rolof looked at the faces in the room. Raj gave him an encouraging smile and a shrug that seemed to indicate he should relax and let the plan unfold. Benecala’s face showed deadly seriousness, and King Rolof realized quite suddenly that the wizard was not going to let him give the speech no matter how much he begged, pleaded, cajoled, or even ordered him to allow it. John was the only one not looking at him, and that was fine with Rolof. It allowed him to see what the other two did to make him look like him. They did a very good job, he had to admit. His hair was the same shade of red as his, and the beard the wizard created looked very much like his. John was only a little smaller than him, but the distance from the crowd afforded by the balcony, and the fact that few in the crowd had ever seen their king up close made up the difference. John would be a passable double.

†

Sistelli watched the crowd with suspicion. The suspicion was part and parcel of his role as a colonel in the Protectors Guild of Sexton, and it had been running higher than usual since the druids attacked the palace from a ship—one belonging to the king before it was captured, somehow, by druids. It had been a month since the attack on the back wall of the palace drove a hunk of it down the cliff to the bay below. King Rolof had not been seen publicly since that day. Many believed he was dead.

They were gathered in the square before the palace on a rainy morning because word had gone out that the king was going to make an appearance on the balcony, and perhaps address the citizens. Sistelli felt it was time for that to happen. Not that anyone asked him, of course, or that they would ask him. His role was to keep the king safe no matter what, and some of those in power thought the attack on the palace was a sign of dismal failure on the part of him and his men. It was a ridiculous notion, and a persistent one.

He scowled at a group of young people that shuffled by his position on the corner. They were staring at him, not with the admiration or fear he had come to enjoy, but with something that was almost contempt. One of them, a young blond man, met his eyes. He couldn’t stand the glance and looked away within a second or two. Not for the first time of late, he wished he could leave the guild and spend his energies and time with Questa, building their whoring operations in the city. Business was good, the money was good, and he was in charge, but he needed to maintain his image as a protector, not to mention the contacts within the guild he might need should trouble arise. They had nothing to fear from the druids, but their whoring operations were illegal. Tolerated, but illegal. As long as he was inside the guild, he would be in a better position to protect his interests than if he wasn’t.

He needed to pull his mind back to the task. Given the attack on the palace and the way rumor and fear of magic spread from person to person, he needed to at least appear vigilant and watchful. The sky was overcast with a silver mass of clouds, but the light from the clouds was still bright. He put the side of his hand to his forehead and looked at the rooftops of the buildings around the square. Several of his men were in strategic positions on the roofs of buildings around the square, with crossbows trained on the crowd. If they saw a glimpse of a red eye, or a hand raised as if casting a spell, their orders were to take a life. There would not be, nor could there be, another attack in the city.

Two more of his men, also armed with crossbows, were under the balcony on either side of it. They watched the first few rows of people in the crowd, and were also under orders to kill anyone who made suspicious hand gestures or had red eyes. The crowd was also interspersed with protectors who were not from his unit, and still more managed the crowd from the sides and rear. This was the most protected appearance of the king he had ever seen or heard of, and they were still nervous.

A man passed him and looked at him a little too long. He was shorter than Sistelli by a few inches, and his build was the kind of stocky that would probably turn to fat in his later years. His hair was a little strange: dark brown or black, but the ends were a much lighter shade, a greenish blond. His beard was black and full. Their eyes met for a moment, and the man smiled before he shifted his eyes to look at someone in the crowd. He waved at whoever he was looking for in the crowd, and moved along his way. There was something about the man that seemed familiar, but he didn’t have time to wonder why.

Andy’s heart was still beating hard when he broke eye contact with Sistelli and pretended to look for someone in the crowd. He had been watching the colonel for several minutes—long enough to see his eyes when he checked on his men in the crowd. It was the first time he remembered being glad Sistelli was as paranoid as he was. The guildsmen on the roofs were well placed, and there was no doubt in his mind they would kill anyone who even looked like a threat. Whether or not they actually were a threat wouldn’t bother Sistelli a bit. Once again, Andy was glad he had stronger moral fiver than the scumbag guild officer.

The reaction of the crowd told him the curtain had finally opened. It got very quiet in the square, as if three or four hundred people held their breath. He sidled between two big men in clothes only half a step up from rage, and looked up at the balcony. He blinked. The man on the balcony could have been King Rolof. He knew it wasn’t, but only because he knew it wasn’t.

Three or four seconds went by the the quiet felt uncomfortable. I might as well be the first one, he thought as he sucked in his breath to shout. “There he is everybody! Good King Rolof! I knew he was alive. Three cheers for the King of Sexton!”

That did it. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers. He looked around, and even stood on tiptoes with his hands on the shoulders of the men in front of him. Young and old shouted cheers for their king. There was a mix of income groups in the crowd, including some who looked rich and some in the middle, and the two workers in front of him. They shouted at the balcony—greetings of welcome, cheers of relief, and even a few strongly worded suggestions of what to do to Crescens that were graphic enough to make Andy cringe.

John raised his hands to quiet the crowd, and forced himself to smile. “I AM ALIVE!” was all he got out before the cheers of the crowd roared through the square again.

 

2

John was taken aback by the cheers. It wasn’t his first public appearance, or public speech—if a season of high school forensics counted as public appearances and public speech—but it was his first time people really thought he was a king. It was heartwarming and a little surprising to feel the joy, real joy, the people in the square shouted up at him. Or at Rolof, who they thought he was, but he wasn’t, but they didn’t know that...

Speech, John, he thought. Make the speech!

“Yes, I am very much alive!” he shouted. “As you can see. People of Sexton, we have been attacked! Savagely attacked.” More shouts went up, and this time they weren’t joyous. There was anger in them. Calls for revenge. He held up his hands wit the palms out. “The cost to us of that attack was not devastating. We lost a few bricks to the sea...”

More shouts. They knew damn well most of the back of the palace fell to the bay. They were the great unwashed, but they weren’t dumb. He was glad King Rolof was able to remember that, but he could see—standing over the people as if he really had command over their lives—how easily a king could feel like he was more than a man. The shouts were angry calls for revenge. One voice carried to him clearly and it was representative of what the others were probably shouting. “We’ll kill the bastards!”

He held up his hands, palms out. “Let us not be hasty in deciding who we will kill! Leaning forward, he went on. “Lives were lost. Lord Mage Benecala lost his daughter, Quaiva. She was with child, but the child was not killed. She was my friend. I knew her well when we were little and we remained close.” His voice choked a little. He was beyond acting. Although he was thinking more of Tom’s loss than his own, it still hurt to know she died when part of a ceiling collapsed on her while she gave birth. He hammered the railing with both fists. His anger was real and matched by that of the crowd.

“Do you know who killed her?” he shouted when he straightened. “Do you?”

The cry went up from the crowd. Different voices. Different volumes, but the same cry. “Crescens!”

“No!” The crowd went quiet so suddenly he almost lost his train of thought. “Crescens did not kill her! She was not killed by soldiers. She was not killed by citizens of that country. She was killed when magic cast by druids was hurled at the walls of a symbol of this nation. Magic cast by druids! Druids!

“We are in the midst of a war, my people. It is a bloody war. Your sons are fighting this war as we stand where we are. They fight in the desert. They fight on the sea. They fight each other like men. Make no mistake...we will win this war.”

Cheers went up again. The tone was powerful and resolved. He had to bring them around, and give them something...something to direct their anger against. Something they could do to help the cause. “Remember this attack! It was more than an attack on this pile of rocks we call a palace. It was an attack on what we are as a nation. Remember as well...” He leaned forward again and swept his eyes across the mass of people in the square. “...Druids. Priests of a god that cares nothing of men and women and children. Druids did this! There is a long history of war between us and the Crescens, but every one of those wars was directed one way or another by druids!

“I will tell you how you can help the effort. Would you like to help the effort?” The question was one that made Benecala itchy, but it was Rolof’s idea and it was endorsed heartily by him and Andy. The crowd roared their assent. Before he could speak, the real King Rolof’s voice came through the curtain behind him.

“Be careful now, John. Do not over incite them. You could cause a riot if you do not proceed with caution.”

John held his breath for a second, pretending he was waiting for the crowd to calm. “Be vigilant. If you see a rat, kill it. The druids are capable of changing their shape. They like to become rats—for that is what they are in human form, and it is natural for them to assume it when they spy on our streets and neighborhoods. Be vigilant. Look each person you see in the eye. If the eyes are red as lamps outside a whorehouse, continue on your way and find the nearest protector. They will handle the situation.” There was a slightly muted roar. Mistrust of the guild ran almost as high as the public’s trust in it. He wondered if Rolof knew that, and realized he probably did.

“They can take other shapes and forms as well, but their eyes always give them away. Red as coals, they are. They stand against all that we stand for! They want this land...but not the people on it. If they had their way, there would be no Sexton man, no Sexton woman, and no Sexton child left alive. We will not stand for that, will we?”

The sounds from the crowd answered his question. Hats were tossed in the air. It was like seeing a multicolored wave sweep the square. He held up his hands again and waited for them to calm down.

“Now let me tell you what we will not do. I say this—nay, I order this—as your King! We will not blame the people of Crescens for the attack on the palace! We will not!”

The mood of the crowd changed like the colors of a traffic light, from green to red, in a hot second. A few started to boo and it spread. He couldn’t let that continue. Didn’t need Rolof to tell him that.

“The people of Crescens are not of themselves evil! You know this! You are all good enough to know this!” He continued to project his voice, but toned it down so it wasn’t a shout. “For a long time we have had Crescens live peacefully among us. You buy from them in the bazaar. You seek the fabrics they import. You sell them grain, and buy their beer. They are people. Same as you, if different in some ideas and fashions.

“The soldiers fighting our soldiers—your sons—in the battlefield, must be fought. We will do that as long as the druids running Crecens make us do that. We will be victorious in this war when druids are destroyed. I urge you...I beseech you...do not panic. Do not kill until you see the reds of their eyes!” A little line stolen from the American Revolution couldn’t hurt, he thought. “But when you see red eyes, act swiftly.”

“Well played,” he heard Rolof say through the curtain. “I think you have them now. Finish it.”

John stepped back from the rail so he could see the crowd. They were waiting. He had their attention, and he had given them something to do. Helplessness on the part of a group of willful people was dangerous. “Druids. We fight druids. That they are among us is beyond doubt. Be vigilant. Be the brave people our ancestors were, the people who fought the beasts that killed their children, the people who tamed the forests and tilled the fields and built the city. We are those people! We are not animals who kill to kill ideas and who seek to bring about the ruin of civilization. Druids do that! We can, and must, and will defeat the druids.

“For my part, I am and remain your king! I have led troops in battle, and now I pledge to you that I will lead you as well. We will win this war. We—not me, we—will win this war against druids. If you see a red-eyed creature, kill it! If you are friends with a Crescen, or someone of Crescen ancestry, maintain that friendship! They are not the enemy, the druids are! If you know, if you have friends that are Crescens, talk to them about the druids. See what they have to say, and let them help you root them out. Will you do this?”

The cheers were loud enough to overcome the thunder in the distance behind the walls. It started to rain, not hard, but hard enough to obscure the balcony and the man standing on it.

In the crowd, Andy looked around. He was impressed at the way John picked up on their emotions and turned them the way they wanted. It was a lot better performance than the one he gave in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying as a high school junior, and a lot more important. He pressed his way through the crowd and headed back toward the palace. He liked the bit about red-eyed rats. Chuckled at the idea. He might not know it, he thought, but he just ordered a hit on every rat in the city whether its eyes are red or not. And I’m damn glad I’m not an albino rabbit. Those are toast, too!

Sexton Retribution -- Sexton Chronicles V

This will make a lot more sense after you've purchased and read Sexton Sand (Sexton Chronicles IV)

1

King Rolof was fit to be tied, and Benecala thought he might have to do it: tie him. He looked at the red velvet curtains covering the door to the balcony for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes with the same glowering stare each time. Benecala watched him carefully. Given that the king had a penchant for doing whatever he wanted regardless of the good advice his wizard gave him, it was possible he would make a dash for the balcony and address the crowd below.

John was sitting on a bench against the wall to the right of the king’s chair. He was as nervous as he had been in years. It wasn’t hot in the room, but his armpits were dripping against his ribcage and he wished he could unbutton the top of his white shirt, or at least take off the red velvet cloak he was wearing. The crown felt heavy on his head, too. He didn’t blame Rolof for not wearing it very often.

“I fail to see the morality in it,” Rolof muttered.

“The morality in what, sire?” The question came from Raj, the only one in the room who could possibly understand how King Rolof felt. Raj was a Crescen, once the King of Crescens. Although he ruled only briefly before a demon took over his body, he ruled long enough to know what it was like. “The morality of keeping yourself alive because your country needs you?”

“That part I understand.” He jabbed a finger at John. “What I see as immoral is sending him out in my stead—having him pretend he is me—so the people of this country can rally around their king...the king who is, in practice and in fact, hiding behind a damn curtain!”

“It worked for the wizard of Oz,” John said. The looks they gave him made him wish Andy looked more like the king than he did. They would have laughed if Andy made the joke, even if they didn’t get it. Andy was the one with the reputation of being a funny guy, but he was out in the streets, one more pair of eyes protecting the king. He was out in the clammy chill of the day, mingling with the dirty, smelly masses, but at least he wasn’t the one who was going to be blasted by druids if the plans failed.

Rolof looked at the faces in the room. Raj gave him an encouraging smile and a shrug that seemed to indicate he should relax and let the plan unfold. Benecala’s face showed deadly seriousness, and King Rolof realized quite suddenly that the wizard was not going to let him give the speech no matter how much he begged, pleaded, cajoled, or even ordered him to allow it. John was the only one not looking at him, and that was fine with Rolof. It allowed him to see what the other two did to make him look like him. They did a very good job, he had to admit to himself. His hair was the same shade of red as his, and the beard the wizard created looked very much like his. John was only a little smaller than him, but the distance from the crowd afforded by the balcony, and the fact that few in the crowd had ever seen their king up close made up the difference. John would be a passable double.

†

Sistelli watched the crowd with suspicion. The suspicion was part and parcel of his role as a colonel in the Protectors Guild of Sexton, and it had been running higher than usual since the druids attacked the palace from a ship—one belonging to the king before it was captured, somehow, by druids. It had been a month since the attack on the back wall of the palace drove a hunk of it down the cliff to the bay below. King Rolof had not been seen publicly since that day. Many believed he was dead.

They were gathered in the square before the palace on a rainy morning because word had gone out that the king was going to make an appearance on the balcony, and perhaps address the citizens. Sistelli felt it was time for that to happen. Not that anyone asked him, of course, or that they would ask him. His role was to keep the king safe no matter what, and some of those in power thought the attack on the palace was a sign of dismal failure on the part of him and his men It was a ridiculous notion, and a persistent one.

He scowled at a group of young people that shuffled by his place on the corner. They were staring at him, not with the admiration or fear he had come to enjoy, but with something that was almost contempt. One of them, a young blond man, met his eyes. He couldn’t stand the glace and looked away within a second or two. Not for the first time of late, he wished he could leave the guild and spend his energies and time with Questa, building their whoring operations in the city. Business was good, the money was good, and he was in charge, but he needed to maintain his image as a protector, not to mention the contacts within the guild he might need should trouble arise. They had nothing to fear from the druids, but their whoring operations were illegal. Tolerated, but legal. As long as he was inside the guild, he would be in a better position to protect his interests than if he wasn’t.

He needed to pull his mind back to the task. Given the attack on the palace and the way rumor and fear of magic spread from person to person, he needed to at least appear vigilant and watchful. The sky was overcast with a silver mass of clouds, but the light from the clouds was still bright. He put the side of his hand to his forehead and looked at the rooftops of the buildings around the square. Several of his men were in strategic positions on the roofs of buildings around the square, with crossbows trained on the crowd. If they saw a glimpse of a red eye, or a hand raised as if casting a spell, their orders were to take the life. There would not be, nor could there be, another attack in the city.

Two more of his men, also armed wit h crossbows, were under the balcony on either side of it. They watched the first few rows of people in the crowd, and were also under orders to kill anyone who made suspicious hand gestures or had red eyes. The crowd was also interspersed with protectors who were not from his unit, and still more managed the crowd from the sides and rear. This was the most protected appearance of the king he had ever seen or heard of, and still they were nervous.

A man passed him and looked at him a little too long. He was shorter than Sistelli by a few inches, and his build was stocky of the kind that would probably turn to fat in his later years. His hair was a little strange: dark brown or black, but the ends were a much lighter shade, a greenish blond. His beard was black and full. Their eyes met for a moment, and the man smiled before he shifted his eyes to look at someone in the crowd. He waved at whoever he was looking for in the crowd, and moved along his way. There was something about the man that seemed familiar, but he didn’t have time to wonder why.

Andy’s heart was still beating hard when he broke eye contact with Sistelli and pretended to look for someone in the crowd. He had been watching the colonel for several minutes—long enough to see his eyes when he checked on his men in the crowd. It was the first time he remembered being glad Sistelli was as paranoid as he was. The guildsmen on the rooftops were well placed, and there was no doubt in his mind they would kill anyone who even looked like a threat. Whether or not they actually were a threat wouldn’t bother Sistelli a bit. Once again, Andy was glad he had better moral fiber than the scumbag guild officer.

The reaction of the crowd told him the curtain had finally opened. It got very quiet in the square, as if three or four hundred people suddenly held their breath. He sidled between two big men in clothes only half a step up from rags, and looked up at the balcony. He blinked. The man on the balcony could have been King Rolof. He knew it wasn’t, but only because he knew it wasn’t.

Three or four seconds went by and the quiet felt uncomfortable. I might as well be the first one, he thought as he sucked in his breath to shout. “There he is everybody! Good King Rolof! I knew he was alive! Three Cheers for the King of Sexton!”

That did it. The crowd erupted in applause. He looked around; even stood on tiptoes with his hands on the shoulders of the men next to him. Young and old shouted their cheers for the king. There was a mix of income groups in the crowd, including some who looked rich and some in the middle, and the two workers in front of him. They shouted at the balcony—greetings of welcome, cheers of relief, and even a few suggestions of what to do to Crecens that were graphic enough to make Andy cringe.

John raised his hands to quiet the crowd, and forced himself to smile. “I AM ALIVE!” was all he got out before the cheers of the crowd roared through the square

Two teens in a mini van wanted to race me and my BMW...and I let them "win."

It was years ago, but I still laugh at the memory. Something I saw in traffic recently brought back the memory.

I was about thirty years old. I owned an old BMW 323. It was loud, and it was powerful. Under the hood was a six cylinder engine, it was a rear-wheel drive vehicle, and a stick shift.

   I was minding my own business at a red light when I heard the vehicle in the lane to my left rev its engine. I looked over and saw two young men in their late teens. They had the van in neutral and were gunning the engine of their parents' mini-van, wearing big grins on their faces. They made a hand gesture I find more humorous in those situations than I can manage to take offense in.

   I put my car in neutral and revved my engine. The sound was mighty. The sound was impressive. Their van surged.

Let me be clear: I knew something they didn't know.

I saw the police cruiser on the other side of a building about fifty yards ahead, on the other side of the traffic light.

When the light turned green, they threw their van into drive and peeled away from the traffic light in an impressive array of shouts, smoke, squeals, and speed.

I stayed right where I was. They were quite surprised when the lights on the police cruiser came on.

...And the police officer didn't see the hand gesture and cheesy grin I gave those teenagers as I drove past at a stately 35 m.p.h.

Genesis of a book--Starting one isn't always easy

I finished Sexton Sand the other day and published it in paperback and hardcover (the links are available on this blog), and published it as a Kindle book, and a Nook book.

   Then I was left with a blank screen. The blinking cursor stared at me in a blinking sort of way at the top of the page. The next task had to be done, but it was a stalling tactic as well. Set up the header, the margins, and tell the program to double space. I suppose there's no need to double space because I do my writing and revision on screen as opposed to pen and paper. (When I learned to write, drafts were always done double-spaced so there was room for corrections and edits. Habit has me writing double-spaced.)

   The cursor kept blinking.

   I wrote the following...testing to see if I liked it as the opening sentence:

"White light flared in his vision when they hit him again."

   It's not a  bad opening sentence. It brings an image to mind and sets the stage in a short, easy to understand sentence.

   Yeah. I might use it at a later time. For the moment, it won't get used. Oh, I like it. It just doesn't start the book where I want the book to start.

   I stared at the blinking cursor for a little while, waiting for the magic. The magic is the moment when the blank screen fades and I see a scene in my mind's eye. In this case, I see the scene through the eyes of Colonel Sistelli--a not very nice, but occasionally honorable leader in the Protectors Guild of Sexton. Sistelli is watching the people gathered outside the palace. They're waiting for the king to address him. The king hasn't been seen in the days after the attack. Rumors are starting to spread through the streets that he might be dead. As if having a dead king wasn't bad enough, he had no heir.

   Suddenly, I had my first few sentences. Here they are:

"Sistelli watched the crowd with suspicion in his eyes. The suspicion was part and parcel of his role as a colonel in the Protectors Guild of Sexton, and it was heightened as he faced the crowd outside the palace. It had been a month since the druids attacked the place and destroyed the wall over the cliff above the bay."

Sometimes I get stuck when I'm trying to write, but here's how I beat it.

Writer's block. You've probably heard of it, and probably experienced it yourself. Maybe it was a school paper you sat down to write, but nothing came. Writer's block is like that, but nothing comes for a long time, long enough to make the writer wonder if it ever will come. I know what that's like. It's what happened to me after I came out of the hospital after Wernicke's Encephalopathy.
   Most of the time when I get stuck, it's not writer's block. It won't last long. It's just a wee bit of blank-screen-itis. My mind's way of telling me it's not ready to produce. There is no Ralph the Muse to whap me upside the head with his trusty, rusty tennis racket.
   That's when I start posting on Facebook. I let my mind roam free. Respond to friends. Tell a story or two. I write through the little gap in whatever book I'm working on.
   I think it's actually healthy. I don't focus much on whatever I'm banging out on the keyboard while I'm banging it out (as friends of mine on Facebook can probably tell.) I just have a little fun for a while. What I'm actually doing is letting my mental "back forty" fill up with Sexton stuff.
   When the mental back forty is full, I can usually tell. An image of a character in the Sexton books comes to me, doing something. Or a phrase will appear in my mind, ready to jump start the page, or the chapter, or the scene.
   Then I leave Facebook cold and start writing.

You've read the samples--now the book is done! Sexton Sand

Sexton Sand is published!

I was talking to a friend at work today, and she was glad Sexton Sand is ready for her to buy for her Kindle. She confided in me that she started another series (gasp!) while waiting for me to finish this book, but that she was really looking forward to reading it. I was tickled--not physically, but mentally. I accept the compliment that she's been waiting for me to finish this book.

   Others have been waiting for it as well, and now it's ready. I have published several sample chapters along the way, and I hope you like them.

   The book is available from www.lulu.com/spotlight/Misticuf as a paperback, hardcover, pdf download, and epub. It's also available from Barnes and Noble's website as a Nook book, and Amazon as a Kindle book.

Now that this one is done, I'm going to get started on book 5 in the series. I think I'll call it Sexton Retribution. When you finish reading this one, you'll understand why.   The link to the first book in the series, Sexton, can be found on the upper right-hand side of this blog. Click for a sample, and click to buy. Take time for a summer adventure without paying four bucks a gallon in gas.

Went to the library to check on MY book...

Last week I donated my hardcover copy of Sexton to the library in the small town in which I love to live. I autographed it, wrote where to find the rest of the series, and carried it across the street to the library. It was accepted, quietly, by the guy behind the counter.
   A little while ago I walked across the street to see if it was on the shelf yet. I walked proudly to the fantasy section and perused the titles there. My book was nowhere to be found. Not all libraries accept self-published books, even by local authors. The one I worked in as a teenager won't accept my books because they're self-published. (See if they'll get a donation from me. They can hold their collective breath for quite a while before that'll happen.).
   The library in this town accepts self-published books and takes pride in local accomplishments. It's one of the many reasons I love this town.
   I walked up to the fantasy section and looked at the books, hoping to see mine nestled in among the greats, the not-so-greats, and the rest.
   My book wasn't on the shelf. I wondered if it was sitting in a forgotten corner in the back room.
   Out of curiosity and feeling a little peeved, I went to the computer that serves as the card catalog of the modern era and searched my own name.
   Guess what I found! My book has been "CHECKED OUT". I was thrilled!
   Grinning and half skipping, I made it halfway home...and realized I wasn't going to make a penny from that book. I laughed and winced at the same time. You know... It's good to be read, and I'm going to guess that whoever is reading, and I'm sure, enjoying that book probably wouldn't have bought a copy anyway.
   Besides, maybe this time the library will buy the other books in the series...then I will have sold at least one copy.