Sneak Peek - MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD

You will be amazed to hear I've had to do a bit of reshuffling my schedule once again. It's just that kind of year. We've got family visiting, I've got the usual big summer music gig at the end of the month, and a looming deadline for Carina Press. So I've jumped from Blind Side to Murder Takes the High Road in order to hit that deadline.

Blind Side is still going to happen, never fear. It's just being postponed a few more weeks. In the meantime, I'm enjoying reliving memories of my trip to Scotland a couple of years back. I'm using our tour itinerary, though changing names of hotels and so forth so as to not get sued by people with no sense of humor about murder occurring under their roof.

The unofficial blurb:

Vacationing librarian Carter Matheson must solve the murder of fellow tourists when someone begins picking off members of a mystery-themed bus tour traveling through the scenic highlands and islands of Scotland.

It's pretty much a classic cozy mystery with a generous dollop of romance and sex.

Here's an unedited excerpt:

 A gust of windy rain hit the small window in the corner. It sounded—and felt—like someone had thrown ice tacks at the glass. I opened my suitcase and dug around for the least wrinkled shirt I could find, and ended up selecting a black soft-wash long sleeve crew T-shirt. I remembered enough from my country dance days to know a ceilidh was not a formal event.

The door rattled noisily in its frame as someone banged on it.

“At this point the handyman's just going to be in the way,” I grumbled.

John leaned out of the bathroom and opened the door.

Trevor stood on the landing wearing a ferocious scowl and the blue cashmere sweater I’d bought him for his thirty-ninth birthday.

 “It’s for you,” John told me.

I gave him the look that speaks volumes, as we say in the librarian biz.

Trevor, too, was giving him a look. “Do you mind?” he said.

“Yep. I do,” John replied. “I’ve got thirteen minutes left to get ready for dinner and you’re about to take up way too many of them.” He withdrew into the bathroom once more, though the door remained open.

“Fine. Whatever.” Trevor swung back to me and realigned his glare. “How dare you go around telling everybody that Vance tried to shove you in front of a car?”

There wasn’t time to stop and argue. I hastily kicked out of the blue jeans I’d been wearing all day and pulled on a clean pair of black jeans. “I never said that.”

“Bullshit, Carter. Everyone on the bus was whispering about it.”

“I can’t help what people saw.” Okay, yes, I probably could have phrased that more tactfully. Trevor’s face got redder. I said quickly, “What they think they saw.”

“You sure didn’t try to correct them.”

I pawed through my suitcase for a clean pair of socks. It wasn’t that I didn’t have plenty of clean clothes, but from the state of my suitcase, you’d think Hamish had thrown our suitcases down a cliffside before stowing them in the bus’s luggage compartment. I threw a harassed look over my shoulder. “How do you know what I did or didn’t do?”

“I know you, Carter. I know how you operate. You’re doing everything you can to ruin this trip for me.”

That got my attention. I stopped digging through my suitcase, and straightened up so fast I’m surprised I didn’t throw my back out. “Explain how I’m ruining this trip for you?”

“Every time I turn around, there you are again with that accusing stare.”

“Really?” John said from the bathroom. I think both Trevor and I had forgotten he was still in there.  I certainly hadn’t thought he could hear us over the sound of running water. We both stared at him, framed in the bathroom doorway, slowly, deliberately drawing the razor across his square jaw. He scraped away another snowy drift of shaving cream and said to Trevor, “Because you’re the one who keeps showing up at our door.”

 “Our?” Trevor looked even more taken aback. “How does this involve you?”

“It’s my room. Half my room.”

I think it genuinely threw Trevor. In any event it was a second or two before he turned back to me. “Do you really want to do this here?” he asked in a tone I knew only too well.

“I don’t want to do it at all. Look, I’m not accusing Vance of anything. I don’t think he deliberately pushed me into the road. If you’d shut up about it, people would lose interest in the subject.”

“He’s right,” John said.

“Nobody asked you,” Trevor snapped.

“If you’re going to have this conversation in my room, then I have a right to express my opinion.”

It probably wasn’t funny, but somehow at that moment, it seemed funny.

Trevor opened his mouth but I cut him off.  “Okay, time out. In fact, game over. Trevor, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not leaving the tour. And if that’s going to ruin it for you, sorry. I have every much right to be here as you do.”

“This is just more of your passive-aggressive—”

“Uh, no,” John said, rinsing off his razor. “That’s aggressive-aggressive.”

“Will you keep out of it?” Trevor shouted. “This isn’t any of your business.”

The lights flickered and went out. 

The Quick Brown Fox

It's that time again.

The starting-work-on-a-new book time. I don't like to dramatize writing. Yes, it is work. The amount of focus required to produce a decent mystery novel is pretty intense. And, weirdly, the longer you've been writing, the more difficult it is.


That saying about pride going before a fall? I was aching with the impact of my landing as I stood in the bar area of the Caledonian Inn, trying not to watch Trevor and his new boyfriend meeting and greeting our fellow tour members that first night in Scotland.


Well. Sort of. I mean the technical parts of writing--how to construct a plot, how to write believable conflict, how to create real-seeming characters--all that kind of thing, how to stack the building blocks of fiction, is obviously, after *cough*-many years no longer a giant question mark. What is a giant question mark, remains forever a giant question mark, is coming up with a fresh take, a fresh angle, figuring out how to use the old words in new ways.

Because...that's part of the test for all writers who last any length of time. Eventually you use up all those first ideas, those initial ideas you were burning to write for so many years. Eventually you've used all the good words a million times. I mean, there are only so many ways to say it -- whatever "it" might be -- and some words and phrases are just more effective than others. Yes, you could say it a different way. But can you say it a better way?

I've held all kinds of jobs, and though writing has its challenges, it's sure as hell not as difficult as teaching. Even my rule as an evil corporate overlord was tougher in some ways than writing for a living--despite the fact that I always knew I was going to walk away from being an evil overlord the minute I saw a crack in the wall. But a successful writing career is still a demanding profession/sentence. The pay is irregular, there are no health or retirement benefits, no safety net at all really, because the industry is always, always in flux.

I honestly don't think that's what makes writing so tough though. I think a large part of the reason I dread the start of a new project (and I do) is because it's almost like willingly sinking yourself into a manic state--BRING ME THE HALLUCINOGENS!! Or like a medium submitting herself to a dangerous trance. However cerebral and rational the writing of a new project feels at the start, it always reaches that point of complete immersion, where the imaginary world becomes more real than the real world...and every disruption is enough to send me into fury, like the Wicked Witch of the West shrieking for her flying monkeys.

Oh, those first few painful pages...


Vance leaned over to whisper in Trevor’s ear and for a second I couldn’t remember what Rose was talking about. Oh, right. This ten-day tour of the Scottish Highlands and Islands specially tailored to fans of famed mystery author Dame Vanessa Rayburn. Every stop and every stay was planned around settings in the Rayburn books. The high point of the tour were the four days to be spent at Vanessa’s own castle on the island of Samhradh Beag.


Even after all this time the first, say, third of a new book leaves me feeling like...how does this work? Is this how I do it? It's like reinventing the wheel Every. Single. Time. There is nothing so flat as the first words of a new story landing on a blank page.

I might as well be writing The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs a hundred times. That's pretty much how it feels. In fact, those are probably the opening words to my autobiography.

The start of every new book is an act of faith on the part of the author. However it feels--and it always feels like what am I doing here?!--eventually the story takes over and it's all you can do to keep up with it.

So this is where we are. MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD destined for Carina Press and a first week in December release. Watch for it!  And by "watch for it," I mean don't fall across the tracks because this train has no brakes...

Sneak Peak: JEFFERSON BLYTHE, ESQUIRE

“That is a brilliant disguise.”

I glanced down and met the bright blue gaze of a girl. She was about my age, or maybe a little older. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? Masses of curly platinum hair, a fierce nose that was too big for her thin face, a wide mouth painted tangerine.

I smiled. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but something about her reminded me of Amy, if Amy hadn’t been…Amy.

No, that wasn’t fair because Amy was pretty and this girl really wasn’t, although she definitely had something. She looked at me with bright expectation, and that was confusing because girls like her did not expect much from boys—men—like me.

That’s not a complaint, by the way.

Anyway, we were standing in the middle of Heathrow Airport, and I was trying to figure out where I was. I mean, I was in London, obviously. England. But it was like I’d stepped off the plane into a different world. Onto a different planet. A very busy, very noisy planet. Where the natives did not speak my language. That’s because people in England do not speak English. Or at least, not the same English that you and I speak.

Of course, in fairness, no one can ever understand anything being said over airport loudspeakers.

“A bowtie would have been even better,” the girl offered. Her smile was sly, knowing. “A bowtie would suit you.”

Okay, so now I knew she was making fun of me. I smiled again, to show I could take a joke, tugged down the brim of my hat—which I was already feeling a little self-conscious about; I’m not really the kind of guy who wears hats—and started walking. She walked with me.

People passed us, coming and going, lugging guitars and backpacks or wheeling luggage and children. Heathrow is one of the busiest airports in the world.

“Where are we going?” The blonde girl asked.

“I’m improvising.”

As a matter of fact, I did have a list. A partial list which included, in no particular order:

The British Museum

Soho

The Victoria and Albert Museum

Ministry of Sound

Claridge’s

The Savoy

The London Eye

The Tower of London

The Globe Theatre

Since I only had four days in England, there was no way I was going to get to everything. But that was okay. The idea was to explore, investigate, broaden my horizons. Or at least get the hell out of Dodge for a while.

She put a hand on my arm. “I think we should go somewhere quiet. Don’t you?”

I paused. Looked at her in alarm.

Surely not? Her makeup was kind of dramatic, and her lacey black top was pretty sheer, but no. No, she was not professional. Just persistent.

“Actually, I’m meeting some people,” I said apologetically, though I’m not sure what I was apologizing for.

She laughed outright. “I should think so!”

This was getting strange. ER. Stranger. I said, “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Her brows drew together. “What are you…” I missed the rest of it as, overhead, a blurred female voice delivered some vital piece of information that no one could make out. There was no mistaking my new friend’s expression though. She looked alarmed and then increasingly angry.

“…suitcase, you’ve got the hat,” she said as the voice above us cut off. “If you’re planning to…” Another overhead announcement. This time the voice was male, but the message remained garbled.

I thought it might be a good idea to bounce, and I smiled, nodded, and turned away. Tightly clutching my suitcase, I hurriedly resumed my search for the Underground.

According to the Heathrow website, the Piccadilly Line provided the most cost-effective rail route between Heathrow Airport and the capital. The capital being…Central London? The trip was supposed to be less than an hour, with trains showing up every ten minutes or so even off-season. And July was not off-season. According to legend—and the website—there were three London Underground stations, but it took me a while to find even one because I kept looking over my shoulder for the girl who sort of looked like, but was definitely not, Amy.

Once or twice I thought I spotted her a few yards behind me, hair like a white bush and a look of fierce concentration on her pale face. Each time she was lost to view.

Assuming she was there at all and not busily accosting some other international traveler.

Finally I found a station, boarded the “Tube” seconds before the doors whooshed shut, and staggered to a seat. I sighed and wiped my forehead, knocking off the hat that had drawn so much unwanted attention. I looked around uneasily, but there was no sign of pursuit. People had out maps and brochures and electronic devices and snacks. No one was paying me any attention.

I picked up my hat, brushed it off, and set it on the seat beside me.

It was just an ordinary hat. Your basic Peter Grimm paper fedora. The kind of thing a lot of guys wore. Not guys like me, maybe. Or not like the old me. But I wanted to be the kind of guy who wore a hat if he felt like wearing a hat. And where better to test the look than on another continent where you wouldn’t have to face anyone again if it didn’t work out?

And then there was that half-heard reference to my suitcase. What was that about? I looked over at my suitcase. It was old, it was battered. That was kind of what I liked about it. It had belonged to my grandfather. Like the book, that tweed, striped suitcase had traveled with him to Europe in the 1960s. It was starting to show its age, sure, and more so after the trip across the Atlantic and down a couple of conveyor belts…so, come to think of it, maybe it hadn’t been the wisest choice.

Especially if it was going to trigger outbursts from crazy English girls.

I looked cautiously around once more.

All clear.

Relax. It hadn’t been the greatest start to my trip, but it was already in the past.

Speaking of the past…

I fumbled around in my backpack and took shelter behind The Book. Esquire’s Europe in Style.

My grandfather had regarded this book as a kind of talisman when he’d made his grand tour fifty years ago. It had been his idea—after the thing with Amy—that I should go abroad for a couple of weeks. He claimed his trip had been a turning point in his life, and there was no question that I was at a crossroads.

I studied the battered cover, decorated with cheeky orange and purple cartoons. I opened to my bookmark.

To be able really to dig Britain, you must be the sort of person who prefers the quiet and subdued to the noisy and strident, and who’s more comfortable with old leather, varnished wood and polished brass than with chrome and plastic. It helps to have a slight allergy to bright colors, loud talk and high-pressure operations in general…

Due out this November. Preorder now:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

It's Official

Just signed a contract with Carina Press for two new projects for 2016.


Fair Chance. Third and final book in the All's Fair series.


You know what's coming. Right? ;-D I don't need to tell you anything more about this one?


And a traditional mystery standalone called Murder Takes the High Road.

A vacationing librarian must solve the murder of fellow tourists when someone begins picking off members of a gay bus tour traveling through the scenic highlands and islands of Scotland.

I believe I mentioned elsewhere that LB Gregg and I plan to take Scotland by storm in October. Well, I don't travel anywhere that it doesn't inevitably turn into a book. Though happily so far I have not been involved in any real murder investigations.

And I would like to keep it that way!

Advent Calendar - Day 15 - EXCERPT

Today we have an excerpt from one of my personal favorites, Snowball in Hell. I'm not sure if it really qualifies as a "holiday" story, but the holidays are certainly an important part of the novella. Anyway, here's a bit of bittersweet vintage mystery from the 1940s.

BLURB:

It's Christmas 1943 and the world is at war. Journalist Nathan Doyle has just returned home from North Africa--still recovering from wounds received in the Western Desert Campaign--when he's asked to cover the murder of a society blackmailer.

Lt. Matthew Spain of the LAPD homicide squad hates the holidays since the death of his beloved wife a few months earlier, and this year isn’t looking much cheerier what with the threat of attack by the Japanese and a high-profile homicide investigation. Matt likes Nathan; maybe too much.

If only he didn’t suspect that Nathan had every reason to commit murder.

EXCERPT:

Spain proffered a pack of Camels. Nathan took one, and Spain leaned forward to light it for him. Spain’s hands were large and well-shaped. His lashes made dark crescents against his cheekbones. As though he felt Nathan’s stare, he raised his eyes -- and Nathan couldn’t look away.

He stared into Mathew Spain’s long-lashed hazel eyes, and he realized with sudden terrible clarity that Spain knew all about him. Knew exactly what he was. Knew it as surely as though Nathan’s ugly history were an open file on his Spain’s tidy desk. In fact…Nathan glanced at Spain’s desktop as though somehow the explanation could be found there, because how did Spain know? How? Had it become that obvious? Like a scarlet letter branded into his skin -- or the mark of Cain?

Hot blood flushed Nathan’s face, and just as quickly drained away, leaving him feeling light-headed. He drew back, drawing sharply on his cigarette. He sat very straight.

Spain flicked his lighter closed, put it away. He seemed to be in no hurry.

“Why am I here?” Nathan asked, blowing out a stream of blue smoke. His voice was just about steady.

Spain watched him, eyes very direct between his straight, black eyebrows.

“Why didn’t you mention you were with the Arlen kid on Saturday night?”

“I wasn’t with him,” Nathan said. “I ran into him at the Las Palmas Club. We had a drink together.” He shrugged.

Spain leaned back in his swivel chair and rubbed his chin. “Listen, Sir Galahad, it might interest you to know that the lady in question didn’t mind throwing you to the wolves. She said it looked to her like you were pretty angry with Philip yourself. Like you were mad enough to kill.”

“She doesn’t know me very well.” Nathan studied the ashes on his cigarette.

“Did she threaten to kill her husband and Pearl Jarvis?”

“She might have.” Nathan smiled wryly. “I wasn’t listening that carefully to tell you the truth.”

“Why’s that?”

 Nathan said slowly, “I went there for a few drinks and some laughs, but after I got there…I realized that really wasn’t what I needed.”

“What did you need?” Spain asked -- and Nathan, for the life of him, couldn’t think of how to answer.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked away.


* * **

Christmas coda here.

Book Trailer for FAIR PLAY

I've been sharing this on social media, but it would be remiss of me not to share here as well. So for your viewing enjoyment: FAIR PLAY the movie.

Okay, the movie-like book trailer. ;-)

Setting up house with his new lover was tricky before arson landed his former radical father in the guest bedroom. Now ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills has to figure out who is willing to kill to keep Roland's memoirs from being published.

Or, as they used to say in the day, Bring it home, Daddy-O.

Life is Good

Tonight, Thursday night, is my Friday. I’m out of town all this weekend. But this evening I’m sitting here watching Transformers…IX? X? XI?  Anyway, I’m having trouble following the plot, though there are some good lines and I like Mark Wahlberg as the befuddled dad and wacky inventor turned hero.

 

I’m on my own all this week (for the first time in years) and I got ambitious and made myself dinner. Mashed potatoes, roast cod with garlic butter, and a glass of white wine. This afternoon I had a swim in arctic water and I’m writing a couple of blogs. By the way, if you’re not following Queer Romance Month, you’re missing out. There are some really excellent posts so far.

 

I’m feeling really good. The Boy with the Painful Tattoo is doing well -- I’m sure it helps that I’ve left it at the preorder price this week -- and mostly readers seem to be enjoying it. Which of course makes me happy. I did not do blog tours or review copies or basically anything to promote this one. There just wasn’t time. September was a marathon of obligations and commitments beyond writing. So I’m deeply grateful to the gang at Goodreads and Facebook for the launch parties -- and to the readers who took it upon themselves to spread the word.

 

I’m basically done for the year. Fair Play was finished over a month ago, so all that’s left now is “Baby, it’s Cold,” a Christmas novella in the Comfort and Joy anthology. I don’t think I’ve talked much about this one yet, but I’m joining pals LB Gregg, Harper Fox, and Joanna Chambers for a holiday project. I'm really thrilled about this one.

 

COMFORT AND JOY

 

Housebound for the holidays. Four contemporary holiday novellas about finding love in your own backyard. Even when you don’t have a backyard.

 

Rest and be Thankful by Joanna Chambers

Two stormy hearts find peace when feuding neighbors in the Scottish Highlands are trapped by a blizzard.

 

Out by Harper Fox

Can a stranger unlock the courage and passion in a young man’s captive heart?

 

Waiting for Winter by L.B. Gregg

Some mistakes are worth repeating.

 

Baby, it’s Cold by Josh Lanyon

Or maybe it’s the flu. Breaking up is hard to do -- especially around the holidays.

 

It’s out December 7^th, and I’ll set it up for preorders before the end of the month. You’ll be able to buy the stories as a collection or if you just want one particular story, you’ll have that option too.

 

But first, of course, is Fair Play. I feel good about it and I think it’s going to go over well. Especially since for that one I’ve got Carina Press to help me out. (This is why I still like to work with publishers. Sometimes you just don’t want to have to do everything yourself.)

 

I’ve pretty much figured out the schedule for next year, but I’ll wait to share that. There will be at least one surprise in the mix and at least one title readers having been campaigning for.

 

It’s autumn now. Despite my refusal to give up my afternoon swims. What do you have planned? What will make this autumn different from the autumns that came before?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those Mid-way Mid-draft Blues

Writing is such a weird business. You go days, weeks, months (sometimes years) thinking of nothing but the story you are working. Everything you read, watch, think is basically related to these characters and their world – even when it isn’t.

 

You crawl through the muck of that first draft. Dragging every godawful little word out one by one. Then finally you’ve got something coherent enough to be called “a first draft,” and off it goes to your editor. Who swallows bravely and tries to make sense of it before she bounces it back.

 

There is incredible jubilation after that first draft. Partly because nothing is more difficult than carving that “think” out of the concrete block your brain turns into. But then comes the second draft. That is when you feel the power and the glory (such as it is) of what it is to know your craft. The second draft is the fun draft. It is really, in my opinion, the only joyful part of the writing process. When you take that raw material, look at it with fresh eyes, and you suddenly understand what you were struggling to say.

 

The more time between drafts, the better, in my opinion, but modern publishing doesn’t really allow for this. If you steal yourself an extra week somewhere you are doing great (and giving production teams nightmares).

 

The first draft is just about…getting there. Arriving muddied and bloodied on the doorstep. The second draft is about writing. It’s about how you will shower, dress, and seduce the reader into losing her or himself in the story. It is about clarifying theme and refining characterization, it is about nitpicking every adjective (Dear God, how many times have I said dryly this time? – PLEASE tell me no one “swallowed hard,” etc.) It is the one stage in a long process where you feel like you maybe know what the hell you’re doing.

 

But then you hand that second draft off, and there is a real sense of letdown. Almost depression. Because no matter how hard you tried, the infinite possibilities for this story are gone. The story is what it is. It is now limited in what it can be and what it can achieve. And from this point on the changes are minor ones – you did not explain how Character A knew Character B was stealing eggs from the Farm at C. You repeated a phrase too many times. That kind of thing. The fate of the story is now determined. It is the kind of story it is, and you can already hear both the praise and the criticism.  

 

There is definitely relief – great relief. The book is done. If you were to die at this point, the book could still go forward. It no longer really even needs you. Anyone can do these edits.

 

And so there is a kind of letdown. We start every story with a sense of excitement and endless possibility. Whether you outline or not, every story begins with endless possibility. But by the end of the second draft, this story has narrowed to a particular set of events with a determined outcome. You know how it ends.

 

And that’s where I am this morning. I sent Fair Play off yesterday afternoon and today I feel…meh. I loved writing it. I loved researching Washington and the Puget Sound and the anti-war movement of the 1960s. I learned about Black Bull whisky and Montreal and organic farming. But now it is done and there is a definite letdown.

 

We talk about reader addiction, but I think there is writer addiction too. And that is never more clear than when the rewrite is handed off and that particular high is finished. Done. No amount of accepting commas and removing echoes can bring it back.

 

But there is always the next story…

 

And in the meantime, I thought you might enjoy seeing the cover reveal for Fair Play!

 

Sneak Preview - FAIR PLAY

No cover art yet, but I'm currently working on the edits for Fair Play, and I thought maybe you'd enjoy a snippet for today's blog.

Elliot’s phone rang as he was climbing into his car.

For maybe the first time in his life, he was disappointed to see Tucker’s name flash up.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Where are you?” Tucker asked.

“Bellevue.” Elliot stared out the windshield at the distant blue of Lake Washington. A very nice neighborhood with its lofty views and safe distance from downtown Bellevue. “Where are you?”

“I’m here. Home. I’m on Goose Island.”

“You’re early.”

“And you’re…where? You’re not here. Your dad’s not here. What’s going on?”

“It’s kind of a long story.” But Elliot condensed it into a couple of sentences that left Tucker sounding winded on the other end of the line.

“You think your dad went underground. And you’re…what? You’re trying to find him by talking to his former revolutionary pals?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“What the hell, Elliot.”

“What does that mean? What the hell?”

Tucker made a sound of disbelief. Not quite a laugh. And certainly without humor. “You know better than anyone how a civilian getting involved in an investigation can hinder --”

“I’m not just a civilian.”

“Yes, you are. Worse, you’re an emotionally involved civilian.”

It wasn’t easy, but he managed not to lose his temper. Or at least not let his anger show in his voice. “How do you think this should work? Someone tries to take out my dad and I sit around grading papers and painting miniatures?”

“How I think it should work is you take a step back. A big step. Like it or not, you are a civilian now. You’ve been out of the field nearly two years. You need to leave this to Seattle PD.”

“I’m not getting involved in the investigation. I just want to know where he is.”

“Bullshit. He told you to stay out of it. And the fact that you can’t stay out of it -- your inability to respect parameters -- is the reason he left.”

Elliot sat up so straight he almost hit the ceiling of the Nissan. “My inability to respect parameters? What are we actually talking about here?”

“We’re talking about the fact that your father is a grown man capable of making his own decisions. He wants you to stay out of this. You need to respect that.”

“My father is nearly seventy. Someone is trying to kill him. I get that you don’t always understand family relationships, Tucker, but even you ought to be able to follow that I can’t stand aside and not make any attempt to find him.” That time Elliot didn’t bother to hide his anger.

Tucker didn’t usually raise his voice. When he got mad, his voice went deeper, lower. The chassis was scraping the pavement as he growled, “You know, you can really be a condescending prick sometimes.”

“You know what, so can you. And you don’t even have the justification of caring about anybody.”

“I care about you, you asshole. Which is why I don’t want you getting any further involved. Your father made his choices. You live by the sword, you die by the sword.”

“Die by the s-s-sword?” Elliot was stuttering in his rage. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not literally, obviously! I just mean --”

“I can’t wait to hear it. Actually, I can wait. I’ve got people to see. I’ll talk to you tonight. Unless you decide to stay at your own place again.”

“No way,” Tucker said. “I’ll be here. And you’re damn right we’re going to talk.”

They disconnected simultaneously and forcefully, in fact, had they been pressing something other than cell phone buttons, there probably would have been a detonation.

Coming in 2014

Wait…that’s NOW!

 

So 2014 is upon us like the wolf upon the fold, and I have been hemming and hawing about what’s coming up from yours truly. And partly that’s because I hate to commit lest I fail to deliver, and partly it’s because having the illusion of creative freedom keeps me more…creative.

 

But two projects are contracted and already have release dates. Those would be Stranger on the Shore due out from Carina Press May 5^th (yes, you can preorder, it’s already in edits) and Fair Play, the sequel to Fair Game. (I think FP is due out in November -- also through Carina Press.)

 

So really those are the only two projects absolutely set in stone. That said, there are a couple of things planned for this year that will happen -- I’m just leery about attaching dates to them.

 

The Boy with the Painful Tattoo (Book 3 in the Holmes & Moriarity series). Much anticipated, I know. I’ve got some 15 queries in my inbox at the moment. The hope (and prayer) is to have this out before the summer. It should have been out before now, but to be honest it’s a tricky place in the series -- a turning point -- and I keep mulling over it and trying to decide what I really want to do here.

 

Yes, it will be in digital, print, and audio.

 

Also pretty much for sure this year is Winter Kill (digital, print, audio). That’s the one about the FBI agent and the sheriff’s deputy in the Pacific Northwest (serial killer, environmentalists, Native Americans, etc.)

 

Then we have all the Very Likely to Happen (maybe even before the Will Happens, and those include Ill Met by Moonlight (sequel to This Rough Magic) and Bite Club (sequel to Mummy Dearest). These are both novellas which means pretty quick and easy to write provided I don’t get distracted and lured away by other projects.

 

Ill Met By Moonlight will be paired with TRM in a print anthology -- and there will be an audio book. There should also be a general historical print collection with a new short story. I’m sort of tossing that idea around to figure out what would work best -- should I include IMbM and TRM in that? Or should I leave them in their own print collection? Or both? I’m undecided.

 

I believe I mentioned elsewhere that the last three Adrien English novels have been picked up for Japanese translation by Shinshokan? And we’re continuing to look into more possibilities for translation in other corners of the globe.

 

Finally we have the stuff that should happen, but I don’t want to think about right now: Haunted Heart: Spring, Dangerous Ground 6, Christmas stories, etc. I am very eager to write the sequel to Snowball in Hell, but the original story I’d planned is now pushed back for a book or two within the series. In the words of Stewie the GPS voice…recalculating. And that long talked about project inspired by The Monument Men seems like maybe its time has come...

 

The reality is I can only do 4 -5 projects a year without straining -- strain does not produce the best work, so it’s a matter of figuring out the right projects for the right time. And how I do that is to calculate what I am most eager to write with what you are most eager to read. Sometimes I come up with the perfect solution. Sometimes…not so much.

 

Anyway, that’s where we stand as of this moment. Things could change. They often do. And very often what you have to say plays a part in that. So feel free to speak up now!

 

The New and Improved Schedule

Well, whether you consider this an improved schedule or not is probably a matter of opinion. I don't even know if I consider it improved, I just know I needed to give myself a little more breathing room.

So without further fuss, here's what's lined up for the rest of the year.

Snowball in Hell now available

A quick note to let you know that Snowball in Hell, my WW2 norish mystery romance is now available through Carina Press. Also through Amazon's Kindle, B&N Nook, and over at All Romance Ebooks.

It's 1943 and the world is at war. Journalist Nathan Doyle has just returned home from North Africa--still recovering from wounds received in the Western Desert Campaign--when he's asked to cover the murder of a society blackmailer.

Lt. Matthew Spain of the LAPD homicide squad hates the holidays since the death of his beloved wife a few months earlier, and this year isn’t looking much cheerier what with the threat of attack by the Japanese and a high-profile homicide investigation. Matt likes Nathan; maybe too much.

If only he didn’t suspect that Nathan had every reason to commit murder.

Book Trailer for Snowball in Hell

I think authors are as bewildered as anyone else as far as what works for promotion and what doesn't. I don't know that book trailers sell books, but they're relaxing to work on. What's not to enjoy about matching pictures to music and mulling over the important elements of your story?

Anyway, I worked on three trailers yesterday, and this one is the only one that seemed acceptable to me. (The SO looked at it and said, the music should have been the music of the era, but I really like the juxtaposition here -- and the soundclip, a bit of a song, by Muse, is absolutely perfect for Nathan's state of mind.)

Anyway. Voila.

Not sure if this will show up on LJ or not, so you might have to pop over to Blogger to view...