This is a beautiful cartoon with a wonderful message. Just figured I should share it with you all. Hope you like it.
It’s a sensation, a gnawing urge I honestly don’t know if I could ever ignore, don’t know if I would if I could. This addiction drives me on when other people might quit, beyond the limits of my sanity, to a place where I finally find some peace.
Writing is not like anything I can adequately describe – an ironic fact regarding I write for a living. It’s like a mechanic saying he’s unable to talk about an engine. But it’s the truth. I started writing one day and things just fit. All the cloudiness of my life washed away with the clicking of a keyboard.
I guess that must be what it feels like to anyone who finds their purpose in life. There’s a certain clarity, a sense that the rest of your life now means something more than it did the day before. I feel that no matter what hardship befalls me from now until they bury me with my boots on, I’ll be okay. Because the words will always be with me, that release valve for my soul. It brings me tears and joy, releases my tears and my joy, allowing me to create anything I choose, anything I desire. Nothing else matters; this is what I’m here for.
I don’t know if this is the same for all writers. Some that I talk to seem obsessed with making money, others with fame. I’m not sure which I am. I’d like money, sure. But if you’re looking to make money there are much less painful ways of getting it than writing; selling your organs on the black market, for instance. Don’t ever think that writing is a gateway to a fortune. Don’t think of J.K. Rowling or that Twilight chick and imagine you’ll write a book or a series and make millions. You can’t go into this game like that. Be positive, certainly, but not delusional. Go into it with your eyes open. Chances are you’ll sell a few books, hopefully make enough money to buy a Happy Meal, and maybe change a person’s life in some small way. Maybe more than one.
You know, unless you work at it.
And when I say work, I mean work. My entire life now revolves around the business of being a writer. Every day I wake up and think about it, every night I dream about it. Am I obsessed? Definitely. But my obsession doesn’t hurt anyone, and my wife is very tolerant. So I’m happy, or as happy as an obsessed scribbler with a million worlds running through my mind can be. Could be worse much, I could like politics.
So become a writer, if that’s your thing. It’s more than just stringing together a few words and counting your money, but if you’re destined for it, the price doesn’t matter.
Ahh, 9 Killer Thrillers… Another book bundle… They’ve become increasingly popular of late and you’ll no doubt see more with time. So what makes this limited time bundle offer different from others? Of course, 9 full-length thriller novels from 9 acclaimed bestselling authors for .99 is one heck of a bargain, but what makes this particular bundle stand out?
Consider the following about the novels in this bundle:
• Praise from the likes of Janet Evanovich, Stan Pottinger and Lisa Gardner;
• Thousands of reviews and average ratings of 4.2, 4.3 and 4.4 stars, even one at a whopping 4.7;
• Hundreds of thousands of copies of each already in distribution;
• Bestseller rankings as high, or as low, as #1;
• Sustained Top 100 author rankings;
• Nine bestsellers from nine bestselling authors…
9 Killer Thrillers for only 99 cents, featuring…
Russell Blake – King of Swords
Michael Wallace – The Devil’s Deep
CJ Lyons – Snakeskin
MJ Rose – The Halo Effect
Melissa Foster – Traces of Kara
John L. Betcher – The 19th Element
Claude Bouchard – Vigilante
Luke Romyn – Corpus Christi
Nick Russell – Big Lake
You’ll never get a better deal…
I am constantly asked about genre, as though it’s a mark of quality, and I find myself wondering about how important such a thing is. Is genre just a title, a category to help us group stories into classes of pre-determined judgment, or is it something more?
Stephen King’s books are widely regarded as horror, but this is also the man who penned such greats as The Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile. Neither of those stories would ever be thought of as horror, unless you’re an idiot. He also wrote The Running Man and the somewhat cult-classic Dark Tower series, both possibly classed as science fiction, and yet somewhat not. I mean, if you really delve into any of his novels, there’s a hell of a lot more there than mere horror, and yet everyone seems to think of him as a horror writer.
My first publisher classed The Dark Path as a horror novel, a genre I would have never imagined when I wrote it, and yet it’s gone on to great success from both people who profess to love and those who detest horror. Since taking things into my own hands, I’ve decided to change its categories to action/adventure and thriller, both of which it slots perfectly into, and yet these do not define it. The same goes for my Prometheus Wars series; both books could be classed as anything from mythology to paranormal, but the heart of the books is adventure, and as such that’s how they’re categorized, much to my chagrin. Tiny boxes make for even smaller windows, and when trying to get readers to notice you, you want the biggest damn Plexiglas window in the world.
Genre is a useful tool, but it’s also a double-edged sword. For instance, I know there are hundreds (possibly thousands) of phenomenal books out there I will probably never read simply because they’re classed as romance novels. No matter how gripping a synopsis reads I doubt I’ll dip my toe into a romance on the off chance it slides into a stereotypical estrogen-fuelled sappy-saga.
No offense to romance fans, but I’d rather put my face in a blender than read about heaving bosoms and engorged loins. And yet I know chances are many of those stories classed as romances are brilliant, and in no way limited to what I perceive a stereotypical romance to be. This is my loss, and all because of my prejudging of the genre, much like another reader might see a book classed as horror and expect to be terrified by ghosts and scary clowns.
So is genre good?
Much like pigeonholing people, typecasting books so blindly is ignorant. And yet we need it. There’s no swifter way to identify subject matter other than genre categorization. It draws the reader in to read more about a book they will hopefully like, and until each author reaches the same heights of popularity as the King, we will continue to class our writing in such a way.
Hell has been unleashed into the world of men, we just don’t know it yet.
The Fallen wander unbound, unfettered by the chains imposed by God after their defeat in the wars for control over Heaven. One man, Albert Pointreid, unlocked the doors which separated Earth from Hell, and now humanity will pay the ultimate price.
Unless Jacob Hope can stop them.
The scars of the past rarely fade, but Jake has managed to heal many of his, knowing that to continue on his crusade he must enter the final battle as more than just a man, he needs to be a leader, a figurehead for all mankind.
Having managed a surprise victory over the immortal Abaddon, Jake sets forth to thwart the plans of the Fallen. His search leads him through exotic locations in a hunt for vital information to aid him in the final battle.
And yet information might be his greatest enemy.
Dragged into Hell, Jake is confronted by Satan, who reveals a secret which devastates all Jake holds to be true.
As Jake begins to lose control of the ever-darkening power contained within him, his confidence frays and his search for answers becomes more desperate.
The Lord of Hell has claimed him as his son:
My greatest friend.
Infinite blackness descends, a swathing, bloated thing that clings to my will, suckling my resolve like a cloak of leeches. A part of me knows the outcome of this encounter; a part I ignore, a part I detest for its honesty. I panic, but my feet remain rooted, knowing there is no escape.
But part of me does escape, it flees, stricken.
I beat and gnash and snarl. He laughs, the soundless sound hollow and voiceless. My fighting only feeds him. It is his bread, his wine.
My eyes flicker, expecting to see my dark tormentor, knowing they will see nothing. He is never seen, just as he is never heard.
He is my brother, my father, my tormentor, my protector.
He holds me close, his hollow chuckle a thing of terror, of comfort. Rooted in place my arms feel weak. I yearn to battle more but have no strength. He is my strength.
But there is no choice, no escape for one such as I. There is more chance of severing my shadow than of escaping my dark tormentor, and he knows it, relishes it, bathes in my anguish at the fact we will forever be together. Without him I am nothing, without me he cannot exist.
My tears sate his hunger, and I know he’ll soon break loose. Tread warily in his shade, flee for safety, lock your doors. The walls containing his wrath are crumbling, the mortar flaking like dead skin.
My hands start to tremble, my heart begins to quake. The terror flees, too terrified to remain. A wicked grin curls my lips and he knows that he has won. How I detest thee, and yet your soul gives mine peace. For without you I would quiver, the world’s walls towering above and around, encasing me like a cage. With you I am a free beast, a predator amid sheep. In your wake I know regret will come, as surely as scavengers follow lions, but for now I do not care.
My weakness gone, my dark tormentor runs free. My breath is his breath, my pulse his pulse.
My dark tormentor is me.
Sneak peek at the upcoming cover for Sins of the Father – Book 2 of The Legacy Chronicles
Remember to check out Corpus Christi, book 1 in this gripping series about a reluctant messiah battling against Armageddon.
My childhood passed me by, a joy, protected beneath an ever-present cloud. I ran everywhere, never walked; scuffed dozens of pairs of shoes, never knew why; always had scabs on my knees and elbows, didn’t care.
The one thing I did know, the awareness that never left me, was that someone watched over me. Not necessarily my parents, though they did their best, but an elusive someone always knew what was going on.
Adults. They were everywhere. They ran things. They knew what the world was all about.
And one day I would join them. Like an ever-promoted soldier, I would rise through the ranks until all answers were revealed to me.
So I waited, secure in the knowledge there was nothing to fear in the future.
Teen years arrived and I broke loose. I didn’t need to worry; the world lay secure in the hands of adults. I could party all I wanted, didn’t need to study – all I had to do was wait for adulthood. I yearned for it with every fiber of my being, searching for any opportunity to test if I had arrived at the golden doors of development, yet perpetually rejected. Much angst was caused during these years as my body became that of a man, and yet I remained ignorant to the answers I knew waited beyond the threshold of maturity.
Finally the day of the great event arrived… and I passed it by without realization. Years elapsed and yet the answers I had sought my entire life never arrived. If anything, more and more questions arrived, bundles and barrowfuls, most of which seemed to contain absolutely no answers.
I trundled on through life, certain I had missed something along the way. Still young enough to ignorantly think perhaps adulthood still beckoned. Maybe it waited until I married.
Yes! Of course, that had to be it.
Marriage came and went, and yet the numbing ignorance remained. Had I missed something again? I looked to my peers, all of whom seemed secure in their lives, and I sought to emulate their confidence lest I be ridiculed for my lack of understanding.
And then I spoke to them. Beyond the bluff and false confidence, it seemed, nobody had a clue. Life was a conundrum, seemingly without answer, and I remained condemned to walk my days stumbling among adults as ignorant as I. So I guess I need to shut up and get over it.
Maybe when I’m middle-aged…..