Fisting Immortality

I’ve decided Martuk needs to do more fisting.

It’s something I’ve been thinking about for weeks, nay months, actually, but after watching the sudden and quite unexpected success of the obscure author E.L. James (Google her) newest book in her very difficult to find Fifty Shades of Baby Got Back series (is that what it’s called? I think that’s what it’s called), I think it’s time to take a deep breath, find my quiet space, remember my Safe Word, relax everything and just let it happen. Just allow the Writer in me to open up to Martuk and the rest of his merry Martuk … the Holy crew fisting things.

For instance, E.L. James writes:

“He grabs me suddenly and yanks me up against him, one hand at my back holding me to him and the other fisting in my hair.

So, with that in mind, in the pivotal scene between Martuk and The Elder (before the sacrifice and the demons and the bloodshed) in the first book, what had read:

“He took a sip, allowing the liquid to linger in his mouth, on his tongue, obviously savoring the sensation.”

would now be

“He took a sip, allowing the liquid to fist his mouth, fist his tongue, obviously enjoying the sensation.”

See? Instant bestseller, right?

Or in 1st century Jerusalem, after he’s cursed with Life Everlasting, when Martuk sits with the Messiah:

He shoved the bread in His mouth, the glass of wine now in hand. Silently chewing, His eyes watched me as He washed it down with a healthy drink. Swallowing, He then sighed, focusing, inhaling deeply, exhaling, growing quiet as His eyes narrowed.”

would then become

“He fisted the bread in His mouth, the glass of wine now in hand. Silently chewing, His eyes fisted me as He fisted it down with a healthy drink. Swallowing, He then sighed, focusing, fisting deeply, exhaling, growing quiet as His eyes narrowed.”

Now THAT’S a memorable passage, right? RIGHT?

Wow. I think this might actually work!!!!!

You think the second book, Martuk … the Holy: Proseuche, could do with some good ol’ fashioned fisting?

Let’s see.

Okay, let’s start with Martuk talking with The Sister, his friend, in her apartment in modern day Paris:

I sat back as well, my arms stretching up and along the back of the sofa. “And I will continue my tale, if this is what you’d like.”

With a gentle smile on her lips, she nodded, urging me to begin.

Wrapped in the comfort of her apartment, the dark of a Paris night outside, the cool air from the open windows kissing my flesh, my heart feeling safe, my soul feeling secure, I took a deep breath.

And cradled in her kindness, I dove back into the blood-soaked memories of this, my life.

might be

I sat back as well, my arms fisting the back of the sofa. “And I will continue my tale, if this is what you’d like.”

With a gentle smile on her lips, she nodded, fisting me to begin.

Wrapped in the comfort of her apartment, the dark of a Paris night outside, the cool air from the open windows fisting my flesh, my heart feeling fisted, my soul feeling fisted, I took a deep fist.

And fisted in her kindess, I dove back into the blood-soaked memories of this, my life.

Hmmm, I might need to think about this one.

Okay, okay, I’m not throwing in the towel just yet. How about later, when Martuk discovers his friend Tiber in the hills surrounding 3rd century Antioch?

His skin rippled with the swarming of those that feast on the dead. Their small white bodies crawled out of his ears and wiggled from his nose and spilled from his lips to litter the smattering of hair on his slender chest.”

could easily be

His skin fisted with the swarming of those that fisted the dead. Their small bodies fisting his ears and fisting his nose and fisting his lips to litter the smattering of hair on his slender chest.”

Um … that’s probably another one I need to carefully consider.

You know what? Perhaps this E.L. James-style of, oh, what’s it called, writing? — yeah, I think so — might not be the right fit for Martuk.

Because no matter what I do or how hard I try, this fisting just isn’t working. I’ve done it this way and that. In modern Paris and ancient Uruk one thousand years before Christ. Even 1st century Jerusalem with the frickin’ Messiah! I even had Martuk’s friend fisting up in the hills of 3rd century Antioch and, still, nothing. It just feels somehow wrong. Off. Not right.

Yet it worked so well for E.L. James. Her fisting seemed so natural! A bit clumsy at times, yes. And painful to experience on the page, most definitely. Still, though, she really made that fisting work. Just jammed her fist into any sentence she could find, regardless how well it fit or even if it should fit. Forget being gentle. Forget being kind. Miss James took no prisoners! She shoved it into everything everywhere.

But when it comes to my fisting, I think it might be time to pack it up. Call it a day. Obviously, despite silly things like hopes and dreams, it’s not for everyone. Not even my immortal Martuk.

In fact, now that I think about it, maybe the last thing he needs to be doing is Fisting Immortality.

The Increasingly Poor Decisions of EL James

If Variety is to be believed — and it’s usually more right than not — “author” EL James has decided to write the script for the second Fifty Shades of Grey movie. Let me attempt (and I can’t promise my head won’t explode while doing this, but I’ll give it a go) to count the ways this is so very, very wrong.

A) Screenwriting, especially the adaptation of a book to film, is more than recording in script-form what happened in the book. If Miss James’ fiction writing is any indication, her work as a screenwriter will almost certainly lack the finesse, sophistication, pace and, oh I’ll just say it, SKILL that a screenplay for a major Hollywood movie needs. As I’m learning with my own spec adaption of Martuk … the Holy, you need to have a ruthless eye for what’s essential and what can be consolidated or completely chopped. It’s a very delicate balancing act, one that Miss James, according to first hand accounts from production, steadfastly refuses to do.

Listen, if Kelly Marcel, a gifted screenwriter with some very good films under her belt, can beat her head against the wall for months trying to turn Miss James’ first person present tense narrative-free drivel into something – ANYTHING – that might work onscreen and still come up woefully short (due, in part, to Miss James’ constant intrusion and obvious need for control), how in the hell does Miss James think she can pull it off?

She can’t.

B) The success of a book adapted for film is found in the creative team that works WITH the author to successfully help the story make the transition. In other words, the author needs to surround themselves with the best team possible and then let go and allow those who know what they’re doing get busy and do what they need to do. The goal should be having the film be a success for everyone, and that’s damn hard to do if a newbie keeps inserting his or her busy-body into every frickin’ decision.

Miss James’ unwillingness to take her hands off the wheel — and Universal’s head scratching (and, in hindsight, no doubt desperate) decision to give her unprecedented control — has taken what could have been a fairly good film based on an infamously bad book series and turned it into a hilariously bad movie (one that had a great opening weekend, but has seen a 60% drop since then).

Allowing a hack writer to pen what will most certainly be an amateurish script is asking for trouble. It’s putting a hopefully respectable and respected Director in a position of having to work with something that might be impossible to shoot, forcing a production team to work for many months on something that reeks to high heaven from the get-go, and cornering a Studio — A STUDIO — into putting a successful franchise in the hands of a first time (say it again with me, kids) FAMOUSLY PISS POOR WRITER. After the reviews of the first film, they NEED the second to be better. Period. Full Stop. End of story. And for a non-screenwriter to demand she write the screenplay …

My god, a gamble of that magnitude makes even MY head spin. And the clueless arrogance and hubris of Miss James … I don’t even know where to begin.

C) The audience.

So, yes, let’s talk about the audience. The first movie had a smashing opening weekend. Driven by curiosity and, for fans, an almost knee-jerk need to defend something they like, people hit the theaters in droves. And if the reviews and audience feedback are any indication, the adaptation was a disappointing dud. One that made money, yes. But will it get repeat business, the cornerstone of every blockbuster franchise? Probably not. Will people be lining up as eagerly to see the sequel? That’s a big question mark.

Because if the sequel is as bad as the first one, the curious, having been sated with the first installment, may decide it’s not worth the price of a movie ticket and just catch it on PPV or Streaming. And the Fans Who Seek to Defend? Well, if they’re feeling disrespected — ANOTHER bad film of a book I love? Are they even TRYING? — they may reconsider.

Listen, the sequel NEEDS to be stronger. Period. And it needs a better script and less author intrusion. The chances of that happening if Miss James is in charge? Slim to none. And with her contractual control? Good luck getting her to do rewrites or agree to cuts that everyone agrees are necessary, but that she believes are fine.

Again, my head, it’s spinning, spinning, spinning with how off the rails this can go.

In conclusion, what remains is this: for writers like me who are just beginning their Hollywood journey into AdaptationVille, the willingness of a Studio to allow even the slightest bit of control in the future is hanging by a thread. What if so-and-so ends up being another EL James with his or her hand in everything? And they have no idea what they’re doing? And they’re bullshit slows down production and costs us money? Ack! They’d run for the hills.

You know, it kinda sucks that, as writers, we’ve had to work doubly hard to help readers see they deserve better than the stupefying pile of stinking shit that called itself Fifty Shades of Grey. And, as readers, we’ve had to sift through the mountains of atrociously written Fifty Shades wannabes that have spread through the publishing world like an unfortunately timed yeast infection.

Are we now, as screenwriters and moviegoers, going to have to pay yet another price for The Increasingly Poor Decisions of EL James?

God, let’s hope not.

worse than mediocre – NY Times

A recent diatribe in response to a NY Times piece about Amazon’s Kindle Unlimited program:

Although the article focused on the problems with Kindle Unlimited (which I agree is grossly unfair to self-published authors) what really stood out for me was the claim that the last few years have been a ‘golden age” for writers. In my opinion, for readers, it’s been anything but.

As more and more decide they can “write”, quality plummets. And if you have a large social media platform, the chances of your sloppy, abysmal work gaining a following, becoming a bestseller, and getting hundreds of “OMG, this is SO GOOD!!!!!!!!!!” five star reviews is great. Which enables really bad writers to continue putting out really bad books. What also happens is you have a whole generation of readers who are never exposed to truly great storytelling and interesting, unique characters, and potential writers who hold up this bad work as the standard to aspire to.

How is that a “golden age”?

I have no idea what Amazon will do with Kindle Unlimited. Truth is, I don’t think they care. What I’m more concerned with is returning to the time when books were good and hacks who were slightly worse than mediocre weren’t applauded and rewarded.

Jonathan Winn

author of Martuk the Holy: Proseuche

I am no dream

(Another brief excerpt from the upcoming Martuk … the Holy:  Proseuche , the sequel to the award-winning Martuk … the Holy )

“So many lies.”

I knew this voice.  Though I didn’t turn, my eyes stubbornly shut as I pretended sleep, my arms hugging my chest and my back turned, the cloak drawn close against the night, I knew who spoke.

And I knew it to be impossible.

“I am no dream,” the voice then said in answer to my next thought.  “And what are you?  What did you think you would be?  At your end, what did you think awaited you?

“Turn and look upon me,” he then said.

I turned.

Judas killed the Messiah …

He kneeled next to me in the sand, the familiar dark eyes watching me.

And then he killed himself …

But he was not real, this Judas who now leaned forward.  He could not be.

Hanged by the neck from a tree …

Unless the words truly were lies and Judas still walked.  I reached for him, my hand almost on his arm.

He no longer kneeled within reach.  In a breath, he had moved, this Judas, this one who could not be real, now standing many paces away.  It had been too quick, this small journey of his.

It had been too quick.

I was going mad.

The money from the Priests at his feet …

“Tell me,” I said to this man who could not be Judas.  “Is that true?  Was their money at your feet?  From the Priests?  From the Temple?”

My voice, though but a whisper, sounded so alone in the desert, the words lost in the emptiness of this sun-parched world and the endless blue of the too big sky.

And I was alone now, the lie that disguised himself as Judas gone with the breeze.

I closed my eyes.

Yes, I was alone, so alone, and I was going mad.

Sexy beast … à la française

A Conversation with Syndra K Shaw
(note: due to the fact that we talked a long time, I’m breaking our chat into two parts. This is Part One with Part Two following tomorrow)

February 2013.

Phone in hand, I press 2, listening to the brief sing-song of beeps as the number in Paris is dialed. Three small rings later — it’s always three rings –, Syndra answers with a very polite “oui?”. The accent is pleasingly French, the voice both warm and inviting, a slight sense of flirtation teasing the ends of her sentences as if she’s going to burst into a fit of giggles at any moment.

Sitting here much too far away in the States, I can easily imagine this chic writer of e-roms (erotic romances) in her new apartment near La Parc Monceau at her very clean, very shiny desk, leaning back in her red leather swivel chair, a scarf wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes out the window to the park across the street, phone in one hand, orphaned earring in the other, a slight smile on her lips as she patiently listens to me blather on in what is surely an awkward combination of French and English.

I’ve known Syndra for years — we’ve agreed that it’s ten years though I insist it’s closer to twelve — and consider her one of my dearest friends. Family, even, although her French sensibility would scoff at such an overt display of American affection. Still, I’m sticking by my guns. I consider her family. I cannot imagine life without Syndra.

When I published my first book, Martuk … the Holy, in 2012, she was the first to call and congratulate me, the first to send flowers and chocolate, and the first to read it, sending me a lovely, very detailed private review that was both immensely supportive and brutally honest. “I would not be your love,” she explained, “if I just told you how wonderful it was. And it was. But there must be something, even if it is a small thing, to criticize and make better.”

And she was right. As always.

So I was understandably overjoyed when she turned to me several months later and asked my opinion. She had an idea for a story. Perhaps even a book. Maybe a few. A New York lawyer named Ronan Grace (love it!) falling in love with a Greek billionaire named Mikalo Delis (love it even more!). She shared with me the vision she had, one she thought could span several books and a whole group of secondary characters.

As she talked, I heard something I’d never heard before. Her voice quavered, she spoke quickly, she’d run out of breath as she talked about her Ronan and her Mikalo and the two of them together and the struggles they faced and the love they felt and the journey they’d take. I could feel this story, these characters, in her voice, living in her, and I knew without a doubt this was something she had to write.

And I said so.

She worried it’d be horrible. Then let it be, I said. But at least write it, let it live, let it breathe, let it have a life of its own.

She was afraid no one would care or would read it or would make fun of it. Then fuck ’em, I shot back. Write it for you. Let that be enough.

And, after a few more weeks of needling her, she finally sat down and said “Okay, today is the day. I’m letting Mikalo live”.

With that, came her first book, Mikalo’s Grace.

Now, several months later with the release of the sequel, Mikalo’s Flame, she’s finally relented to my pestering and agreed to a phone interview I’d record and then transcribe. She’d take a quick look and approve, and I’d then put it up on my blog that very few people see anyway.

The consistent, persistent lack of eyes was what finally got her to agree, I think.

That said, here’s what we ended up with (minus the chit chat at the beginning) …

Jonathan: Tell me about Mikalo’s Flame.

Syndra: I think it’s a stronger book than the first —

Mikalo’s Grace —

Yes. I think I found my rhythm a little more and integrated a bit more of a drama-driven narrative this time. I was also a bit more confident and a little less scared.

You know, I liked Mikalo’s Grace —

You did?

Of course I did. I told you that, like, seven billion times —

Right —

But I also thought it needed more, I don’t know, drama or something.

Oh, yes. You did say that.

Yep. And I think you really got it with Mikalo’s Flame.

Thank you. Maybe you’re right. I think you are.

Let’s just say I’m right, okay? Was that a goal of yours? To add more drama or something to the second book?

No, not necessarily. I want each book to be better than the last — the thought of my writing staying the same book after book frightens me —

It should. Nothing worse than writers who write the same way all the time.

Yes, it makes sense to force yourself to grow. Even if you stumble, at least you’re trying to be better, you know? But with Mikalo’s Flame I really was just following the map I have laid out and what happens in the first book was what I had planned to happen in the first book and what happens in the second book was what my map says was going to happen in the second book. Does that make sense?

Barely.

Oh you —

No, no, I get what you’re saying.

Well, you should because you’re the one who taught me how to chapter map, or whatever you call it.

That’s just because I’m always forgetting my good ideas and need a reminder.

This is because you’re old.

Shut up. I am not. You’re older.

Hush.

Back to Mikalo’s Flame, we have to talk about Mara Byzan.

Oh, The Byzan. I actually love her.

You actually know her.

(laughs) No comment.

But she is based on someone you know and see, like, all the time, right?

No comment!

It’s not like anyone’s going to see this blog.

You have a point. Okay, Mara is inspired by someone I know, but the character in the book is a bit more over-the-top than —

Than the real person.

Who you know too, by the way. And you know what she’s like and you know how loud she is and you know how long her fingernails are.

Yeah, she’s a scratcher. Okay, no comment. Moving on, how do you write? Tell me about your process.

Okay, I listen to music like you taught me and I sit either on the couch with my computer on my lap or at my desk. And there is always a glass of wine and a glass of water.

What kind of wine.

White in the afternoon, red in the evening. Of course.

And you just sit and type and write your book?

No, I sit and look at the keys and the book magically writes itself.

Is that your way of telling me I just asked a stupid question.

How many No Comments do I have left?

Two. You have two No Comments left.

Then No comment.

I’ve lost control of this interview.

Well, you’re no Barbra Walters, that’s for sure.

Damn! Kitty’s got claws.

(Syndra snorts with laughter)

I’m writing that you snorted, just so you know.

You’re mean.

Now, French is your langue de naissance — (tr: birth language)

Oh, very nicely said.

Merci. Do you write in French and then translate into English?

Oh my goodness no. I write in English because that is where the market is. And in France, self-publishing a book is looked down on. So I won’t even bother going that route. I’m quite happy writing, as best I can, in English and puis parler de français dans ma vie tous les jours. (tr: … then speak French in my life every day)

Do you find a difference between your French sensibilities and your American friends?

Absolutely! Americans are talkers. They share their lives, their love, their feelings. They embrace you immediately with open arms and, like that, you are their friend. We are much more reserved in France.

That’s true. It was a huge deal when you first invited me to your apartment.

I know. One’s home is for one’s family. And in the States, one’s home is for one’s family and friends and co-workers! I just can’t imagine having my husband’s co-workers over here.

You were the first person I’ve visited who had guards stationed at the entrance.

(laughs) That was because of what my father does. It was nothing.

Not that I was complaining —

Oh yes, that one guard was very handsome —

In a Mikalo-sort of way —

Yes, I think so. But I am no longer there, so …

You mentioned your husband. So, your American readers know you’re married.

Yes, but my family is very private —

I know, I know. But you do have a fascinating heritage and a fantastic family. It’s all very interesting. Your father’s work, your mother —

Yes, yes, yes, I know. But I’m so afraid of accidentally interrupting their privacy with something I say. So it is better to not say anything. You know this.

No problem. Can we talk about your years in boarding school?

That’s like asking an inmate to talk about his years in Sing-Sing, but sure, why not.

You didn’t like it?

No, I hated it. I wanted to be home in Paris with my parents and there I was, cold and alone in England with a bunch of very mean girls who thought they were better than everyone because they had money and really strict teachers who didn’t care if you were homesick. And it was so regimented. Your shoes had to be shined and your socks had to hit just under your knees and your skirts had to be a certain length, your hair neat and, preferably, tied back with a bow and, oh my god, I just hated it.

And you escaped.

No, I was politely asked to leave —

So you were kicked out.

Yes. But it backfired because I then spent my last years of school in Switzerland which was even worse. I swear I could hear dogs on heavy chains growling from beyond the hedges.

Then you came New York.

No, I went to University in England and then came to NYU in New York.

Where we met.

Yes.

Tell me something I don’t know about you.

You know almost everything about me!

Then tell the three people reading this something they don’t know about you.

They have no idea who I even am.

Work with me here —

Okay, okay. I am very polite, but I don’t mind correcting sales girls when they’re rude.

Oh yeah, I’ve seen that. You’re vicious!

No, I’m not. I just very calmly tell them what they did wrong and how to do it better.

You actually brought one girl in Hermès to tears.

No, it wasn’t Hermès —

Pretty sure it was. The one on the Right. On the, what is it, the Rue de faubourg Saint-Honoré, I think.

Yes that’s right. But no, that wasn’t it. French sales girls are very tough. It takes a lot to make them cry. What you’re thinking of was at Barney’s in Beverly Hills. But if she couldn’t handle a bit of gentle criticism, what was she doing being such a mean little bitch?

Lesson for the day: don’t get on Syndra’s bad side.

(laughs) Now everyone is going to think I’m mean.

No they won’t. They’ll probably applaud your honesty and want to go shopping with you. So, more books?

Oh yes! I love writing —

And you can’t turn your mind off.

So true! My characters are very vocal. There is definitely a third Mikalo book —

Mikalo’s Fate.

Yes. And then I’m considering doing a spin-off Series for Deni, Ronan’s friend.

She’s perfect for that.

I know. I’m obsessed with her these days. I’m also thinking about doing a series or a series of novellas or something on Mara Byzan. Have her hit bottom and pull herself up.

A redemption.

Something like that. I’m not sure yet. We’ll see.

How could you leave Mikalo? The man is perfect. I mean, he’s one sexy beast!

I know!

I know who he’s based on.

No, you THINK you know, but you don’t.

Um, I’m pretty sure I do.

You might be right. But Mikalo is several people all rolled into one.

He’d have to be. The guy is almost too perfect.

Well, until you discover his secrets in the third book.

See, now you’re just being a tease.

Of course. But I love him. He’s just so … (sighs)

We really should talk about your creative process.

Oh no. They’ll think I’m insane.

I don’t think so. They’ll probably think it’s just like how they work.

You think so?

Sure. So …

Okay, my characters live and breathe in me. They have distinct voices, distinct ways of speaking, of acting. I close my eyes and type, basically trying to keep up with what they’re saying, with what I’m hearing, and how they’re saying it.

That sounds fascinating.

Or like I should be medicated.

(Jonathan laughs)

You laugh, but I’m serious. I actually woke up one morning with the names Ronan Grace and Mikalo Delis in my head. Knew their story, the arc of it, the pace of it. Knew their voices and their bodies. Knew all of it.

But that’s a good thing.

It is what it is.

Oh my god, that’s so French of you.

Mais oui. (But yes) Do you think others work like this?

I’m sure of it. You know I do.

But you ARE crazy. You don’t count.

True. I really want to talk about the third book. Is that okay?

But I haven’t written it yet.

I know, I know, but it is in your head. You know their story and you know what’s going to happen. And I think it’d be fun to talk about.

Perhaps.

So, let’s start with Mikalo’s Flame and then talk a bit about the third book —

You mean the one I haven’t written yet —

Right, right. Now tell me a bit about Mikalo’s Fate.

( … to be continued tomorrow)

Before then, if you haven’t already, go and get her new book Mikalo’s Fate now. It’s a great read. :)

A quiet cul de sac

A couple days ago I caught snippets of an interview with Patricia Cornwell, the bestselling author of the Scarpetta series, among other things. She talked about her work — which I found mildly interesting –, she solved a staged case — something a team had spent three days planning which she walked into and nailed in an hour –, and she spoke about her wife.

Yeah. Her wife. Which makes her gay, I guess.

You see, this is one of those issues that both Matters and Doesn’t Matter. If you’re curious Why It Matters, head over here. If you want to know why I believe It Doesn’t Matter, keep reading.

You see, there are readers who will now no longer enjoy her books. People who loved her work, loved her characters. Adopted them into their lives as if they were real people dealing with real problems. Eagerly looked forward to the next installment. The next leg of the journey. Knew they could find a solid escape from their lives between the pages.

But now because Miss Cornwell is different — and she’s been fairly open about her sexuality for several years, but it’s new to me, so I’m writing from that perspective –, they’ll turn their backs on her.

You see, she’s not like them.

Because she doesn’t think crumbling tortilla chips over a casserole, tagging the word Fiesta on it before insisting on being applauded for her culinary genius, they won’t buy her books.

She’s not like them.

Because she doesn’t spend every third Saturday staring at the ceiling wondering if she turned the oven off while the Mr. plugs in an impressive thirty humps before popping off, they’ll deny themselves the joy of her talent.

She’s not like them.

Because, in their minds, Miss Cornwell and her Mrs. — her MRS!! — are “others” who more than likely suit up every night for sexy intercourse with enough power tools to make a mechanic piss himself with envy, she’s not worth the read.

But it doesn’t matter.

Miss Cornwell writes books. Has been doing it for years with bestseller after bestseller with the next bestseller, her 20th, released this week. And for anyone who knows what the writing of a book entails, trust me, it ain’t easy. Who she loves, who she sleeps with, doesn’t really enter into the equation. The books she writes from here on out will more than likely adhere to the familiar, quite successful formula established by her earlier work.

In other words, I doubt her characters will start trolling Home Depot before heading home to Dykesville and their quiet cul de sac off Clitori Corner.

And, for some, that won’t be enough. In my opinion, that’s their problem. No one is obligated to reveal the truth of who they are on the Front Cover just so you, a potential reader, will feel comfortable.

The readers of hers who are mature and have their priorities in check won’t be thrown, won’t be bothered. Will continue to read and enjoy what she offers, wife or not.

Anyone else is welcome to donate those books of hers they refuse to revisit and enjoy to their local library or used book store, head on home to their own quiet cul de sac between Raging Hellfire and Eternal Damnation Lanes, light a candle, crack open the Good Book and begin working their way through all those “begat”s and “so sayeth he”s.

Personally, I’ll take Cornwell.

fingers crossed

It’s been a long time since I’ve read for pleasure.

You see, most, if not all, of my reading is research.

For Martuk it was learning as much as I could about the ancient city of Uruk, the polytheistic religious beliefs of the time, and then, generations later, the world that was 1st century Jerusalem. Not only the brief rise of a soon-to-be crucified Messiah, but the politics, the government, the reality one finds in histories that aren’t Christian-based.

For Martuk … The Holy: Proseuche, the upcoming sequel to Martuk, I’m immersed in the sometimes shocking violence of 4th and 5th century Christianity. Bishops plotting and killing and destroying the lives of other Bishops. And the Pope, the most powerful man in the world at the time, always involved, forever scheming. Emperors claiming the Christian faith while still practicing their polytheistic religions and ancient magic, especially in Constantinople or, as it was called then, New Rome — much to the lingering resentment of that lumbering, wounded, dying beast Rome.

And, of course, all of this happening while the Christian world broke in two, the true Nature of Christ debated with swords and armies, a Priest threatened with death if he called the Virgin Mary Theotokos (aka God-Bearer), the East soon breaking away and remaining Orthodox, the West going on to become the Christian religion we recognize today.

And Jerusalem going from a forgotten slum to a haven for Christian tourists, stall after stall offering splinters from the “real cross” and other trinkets.

It was a fascinating, historic time.

And it makes for fascinating reading. I love it. And it gives an unusual weight to my work. A weight I believe my stories deserve. The need I have to wrap my characters in these rich histories, giving them historically accurate roads to walk while talking to historically accurate people, being too strong NOT to dot my “i”s and cross my “t”s.

But there are times, I’ve been told, when you gotta close those big books, give the brain a rest, and dig into a really good read. Fiction. Spooky. Expertly written.

And instead of dusting off one of my favorites and wandering down yet another enjoyable, though familiar, path, I’ve decided to read something new from someone new.

I mean, the author has a very long, very successful career, so he’s hardly “new”. But he is to me.

So, as silly as this sounds, I’m a little excited. It feels like that moment when you organize the desk, leave a voicemail greeting explaining you’ll be out for the next two weeks, go down the elevator, give a friendly wave to the Security Desk, and leave the building, finally AT LAST on vacation.

Now let’s just hope my work-a-holic nature will let me have a brief break and enjoy a good book.

Fingers crossed.