DON'T QUIT YOUR DAY JOB

I tried. I really tried. But my retired friend’s debut novel was so bad I just couldn’t get through it. I had to put it down after struggling through 56 percent of the thing and move on to something else.

Let me say right up front that this was NOT a science fiction romance novel, and the author was no one any of you faithful readers is likely to know. I generally have a rule about the books I read within this community—if I can’t say anything nice, I don’t say anything at all. Most of the pros in the SFR community have worked hard to get where they are; they seek out advice and critiques from each other; they deserve to be treated as the professionals they are.

But I’m sure you’ve all had this experience: the minute you mention you’re a writer, someone in your intimate circle says, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to write a book! I’ve got this great idea!” And they proceed to tell you all about it. And pump you for information about publishing and agents and all the rest. Advice which they will then ignore.

Just remember the second part.

That’s what happened with this person. As soon as they retired from their job (I’m using the nongender pronouns deliberately), they started on a huge historical/adventure novel with romantic elements. And, to give them credit, they finished their book and self-published it. Bravo! It’s no mean feat to write a book, after all, and the skills needed to either format and design a cover for the thing (or find someone to do it) aren’t to be sneezed at, either.

So, appreciating all that, and thinking that the person is of above-average intelligence (and that I enjoy the occasional historical novel), I thought, well, I should buy a copy of their book. Authorly solidarity and all that, right? And, what’s more, I should read it with a thought toward, possibly, giving it a review.

But, yikes! The first thing I tell aspiring authors is this: every writer needs a good editor. The biggest mistake beginning writers make is thinking they can do without one, because, I don’t know, they passed eighth grade English. Or, because Spell-Check. No! Good editors will not only keep their clients from making dumb grammatical and spelling errors. They will keep them from boring their readers to death with info-dumping; or confusing them with head-hopping; or throwing them into plot holes big enough to swallow a truck.

In the case of my friend, an editor would have saved them from the huge mistake of choosing a quirky system of punctuation that somehow substituted ellipses (. . .) for commas in the weirdest places, eg: “Sir . . . you are a fool!”, as opposed to the proper, “Sir, you are a fool!”. I spent most of the first few chapters reading the dialogue in William Shatner’s voice, with pauses in all the wrong places! I know this was a deliberate choice because the writer is an educated person who went to the same college I did. Such things were never allowed at my alma mater, even in the History department.

Then there were the many sentence fragments, which can be used to great effect at times, but not all the time. Not to mention the long, detailed passages of historical detail, which amounted to info-dumping. And the fact that the hero and heroine, who are meant to be a couple not only in this book, but in a series, were still not together after half the book. *sigh*

Needless to say, I won’t be writing that review. Instead, I’ll be trying to find a nice way to tell my friend what they need to hear about improving their writing. In the meantime, I needed to cleanse my reading palate. I started in on Stephen King’s latest, Billy Summer, and heaved a great sigh of relief. Now, there’s a man who knows his way around a keyboard!

Cheers, Donna

 

Happy Birthday to Me

 August is my birthday month. And this year not just any birthday. I turned 50. A milestone for more than just the number. It means I've enjoyed seven more years of life than my mum. I have so far survived a pandemic. I should have been going to Iceland to celebrate but considering the circumstances am grateful to have been able to spend it in Edinburgh instead, in the country that I've been told is a large part of my ancestry. It's also the place where I've met the most of my Facebook friends for real. 

We drove from home to York first, then up to Edinburgh via Bamburgh Castle (used as a backdrop to Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, the series Robin of Sherwood, and the first two Harry Potter films). 

In Edinburgh, youngest and I took a tour of the underground vaults, hearing of the persecution of witches and viewing some of the lovely instruments of torture, then learning of the crimes and hauntings of Edinburgh's underground. Worth a trip if you ever go that way.

We ate lunch in the park, then wandered the shops until an awesome dinner at a local Italian restaurant.

Then it was back to York and the local Shambles Market, where my favourite fossil and mineral stall got a good chunk of my spending money. A quick stop at Amble for lunch, and another castle - Warkworth - before home again. Fun but exhausting!

Presents from the family included a space rocket handbag from hubs, and a massive treat box from eldest, plus a spacey themed new rucksack I bought myself. 

All in all, turning half a century doesn't seem so bad...

The Recruit: An Adventure in the World of Draxis - Part III

This is a serialized short story set on the world Draxis, the planet that's central to my upcoming trilogy and frequently referenced in current stories in the Inherited Stars Series. 

You might think of Draxis as a legend comparable to the legend of Troy. For a long time the world wondered about this once-great civilization. Did Helen of Troy's face really launch a thousand ships? Did Achilles and Hector once engage in combat outside its gates? Did the great walled city of Troy ever truly exist?  

That question was left unanswered for centuries, until the ruins of Troy were discovered -- a vast, walled, Bronze Age metropolis  -- just as Homer described it and just where he said it would be. 

Now imagine Troy as an entire planet lost to time -- but buried in a very different way.

The Recruit was originally written as bonus material for Draxis--a scene turned inside out and told from a different character's POV. I hope you enjoy your first venture into the lands of Draxis, and that you'll come back for more of The Recruit in future blogs. 

This is Part III. For those who read the previous two parts, there's a brief recap below, or you can read Part I and Part II by clicking these links:

The Recruit: Part I

The Recruit: Part II

Or if you'd prefer to read all parts posted to date, you can find it here: 

The Recruit - All Parts to Date

Recap to Date

In the last snippet post, Baranar had just met a new recruit to the Death Rangers--a company of hardened men who patrol the ancient, dark and menacing forest nicknamed The Green Death. This new recruit is to be Baranar's partner. 

Baranar and his peer, Gallin, wager about how long this new recruit will survive (not long) but the stranger overhears their conversation and confidently counter-wagers them his sword that he'll survive the tasking. 

Then something catches Gallin's eye. The new recruit carries a Blade of Duumarr, the weapon of an order of deadly assassins believed to all be long dead at the hands of a past High Priest. If this stranger carries the blade, could he possibly be a lone survivor? Baranar follows the man to the stores, dreading the thought that his new partner may be a deadly assassin.

Part III begins as Baranar and his new recruit begin their duty as rangers in The Green Death.

_________________________________

My back to a tree, I chewed a length of Sibba bark, its spice biting my tongue, and studied the recruit. He stood in a tiny, open glen, staring up the hypnotic pipe of a Tree Well—a rare glimpse of sky surrounded by a circular wall of impossibly tall trees. Tree Wells often created illusions in the human brain of being trapped in the depths of a bottomless pit with no means of escape. A sensation of suffocation was the usual, and milder, reaction. Some went mad and tried to claw their way up to the unreachable heavens from the primordial floor. Those hapless souls were picked off by the hordes of flesh-eating limb dwellers that waited overhead.

But the recruit seemed unaffected, his face tipped to the heavens with the faint trace of light on his cheekbones. Was he praying? A chill swept over my skin. A Dumarrakhan might pray before battle. So rapt in his thoughts, the recruit was unaware what lurked in the ebony shadows just beyond the clearing.

I grimaced. This one would need no help finding fate.

The Green Death was ancient and wicked. No one knew how long it had existed. The trees never died here. They grew tall as mountains, spiking thousands of feet into the atmosphere. Below the treetops, countless layers of canopies formed distinct levels, each thinner of vegetation and deeper in twilight than the one above. Little light filtered through the tangled masses of leaf, limb and vine to the forest floor below. By day, a ranger might not always require lit lamps to travel, but by night, the Green Death was as dark as the miles-long lava tubes of Sarcassius. Though not as still and never as lifeless.

Something shifted in the twilight, little more than a blur of black in blackness to my trained eyes. I didn’t see, so much as sense, the fluid steps of a stalking farratora. I braced my knees and pressed my back to the tree, ready to jump. Where one farratora prowled, a dozen more were sure to follow.

It crept up on the recruit from the forest gloom. I knew from experience it would launch without warning from heavy-muscled haunches and twist its head mid-flight, driving upper and lower saber-toothed fangs into the recruits back, crushing or severing his spine. Then, he would lay paralyzed as the beast began to feed and the rest of the pack closed in to tear him apart.

This recruit would pay the price of overconfidence, and Gallin would have his prize. But more than that, a burden would be lifted from my shoulders and a threat eliminated. I might yet see my ninth season.

To be continued... 

BEWARE THE FLESHEATER

No, I’m not talking about zombies. I'm talking about this fierce looking combat knife called the Flesheater. 

It was designed by world renowned martial artist and retired USMC Master Sergeant AJ Advincula (my sensei), and custom made by knife maker Jim Hammond.

It's also the knife my alpha gladiators use in my sci-fi romance series, The Survival Race. We’re first introduced to the knife in book one, Captive: An Alien Abduction SciFi Romance, where broken-warrior Max uses it as he and his “mate,” Addy, escape from alien captivity.  

This 14 inch knife, with its nine inch re-curve blade, was designed for one thing: combat. And Max knows how to wield it in a fight. 

I own this knife (though my husband mistakenly believes it's his, but let's not open up that can of worms) and train with it. Let me tell you, it is one serious weapon. You can cut a limb off with this thing! 

Don't believe me? Watch the ten second video below from karate camp 2013. (Yeah, karate camp isn't your typical camp, folks).

Relax, no humans were hurt in the making of this video. We simply took a rolled up tatami mat and soaked it in lake water. This dense, waterlogged tatami is supposed to simulate the muscle of a human arm. If you wanted to simulate bone, you'd add a dowel to the center of the mat. Anyone can cut through tatami with a sword, but you need to have good technique with a short blade. Play the video clip and watch what this awesome knife can do. 

*Warning* Don't do this at home kids.

If Max could see me, I hope he'd be proud.

For specifics on the Flesheater knife, its history and design—including the unique four grip handle—I encourage you to click over to Custom Knife Maker Jim Hammond's website.

Here's an except from Renegade (book 3) in which Max teaches scientist Griffin (this book’s hero) how to use the Flesheater combat knife to slit a throat as Griffin will be competing in the Survival Race.

***

Dawn cracked the sky. Chirping birds took flight as Max and Griffin approached the tree line of Duncan’s house. Max thrust a dagger hilt into Griffin’s hand. “Slit his throat.”


“Whose throat?”


“The tree. Imagine it’s your opponent. Slit its throat.”


Griffin glanced up into the branches. “He’s a little tall—”


The whack upside his head came hard and fast. 
“Don’t be an idiot.” Max grabbed the knife, slunk behind the tree trunk—roughly the width of a human head—and wrapped an arm around it. You hold the man’s head snug against your shoulder and neck. This prohibits him from moving and exposes his throat. Then cut him.” He sliced the tree. “It’s as simple as that. Your turn.”
 

Feeling stupid, Griffin slit the tree’s throat a few times.


“Moving on.” From behind, Max’s hand clamped down on Griffin’s nose and mouth, suffocating him as his head jerked back against Max’s body. Back arched, he saw sky. 


Max stepped backward and Griffin, helpless, stumbled backward with him. Max jerked him left and Griffin stumbled left, trying to keep upright. He jerked right, and Griffin stumbled right. “See how your body follows wherever I move your head?”


See it? No. Feel it. Absolutely.


“Feeling vulnerable?” From the laughter in Max’s voice, he enjoyed having the upper hand. 


Vulnerable was an understatement. Griffin struggled to breathe beneath the strong hand crushing his nose and mouth.


Flailing his hands to hit Max’s face or poke his eyes didn’t work. His head tightly pinned, Griffin was helpless as Max dragged him in circles. Good thing he didn’t eat breakfast, or the dizziness would’ve made him vomit. When Max stopped, something sharp burned across his neck. 


Griffin crumpled to the ground, clawing at his throat. It wasn’t cut as he feared. It was scratched. 


“Fingernail,” Max said. “There’s no time to slice you open for real.” 


“Uh. Thank you?”


“Here.” He gave him a hand up off the forest floor. “You try.”


After a moment to regain breath and bearings, Griffin stood behind Max and snaked an arm around his face. 


In a quick motion, Max slipped the hold. A hand clamped over Griffin’s mouth and nose again. His head jerked backward. A fingernail sliced his throat. “Too slow. Do it again.” Max shoved him away. 


On the next try, forest and sky spun. The ground slammed into his back, knocking the wind out of him. 


“Take control or you’ll be thrown.”


He coughed and gasped until his breath finally normalized. “Can’t you stand still for a minute until I get the technique down?”


“Where’s the fun in that? Get up. Do it again.”


Each frustrating time Griffin tried, Max countered and simulated slicing his throat. His neck burned. Sweat dripped into the raw wounds and stung. 

And then it happened. 

Maybe Max had fatigued from two hours of training on an empty stomach or maybe Griffin finally learned, but with quick and controlled movements, he found himself slicing a thumbnail across Max’s neck.


Chin high, shoulders back, and chest expanded with a deep, satisfied breath, Griffin was ready to take on the world. 


“Took you long enough.” 


Yes, it did. But the fact was Griffin had done it. He’d learn how to slit a man’s throat. 


Why the hell did that make him proud?


***

Each book in the Survival Race series (CAPTIVE, FEARLESS, and RENEGADE) are stand-alone sci-fi romances in which each book's couple finds their happily ever after. No cheating. No cliff hangers. If you enjoy...

• Alien abduction/ alien captive stories


• Action adventure romance


• Enemies to lovers


• Dark, brooding alpha males


• Strong, fiery females


• Exciting scifi romances with a fresh twist

...then buy a copy and enjoy the adventure and romance today!

 
Stay safe out there!
~K.M. Fawcett