Bonus Post - Cover Reveal

"A drifting Civil War veteran tackles the task of figuring out who's been spiking the apple cider at a Kansas dance hall owned by a family with twelve daughters."

Obviously not the cover of one of my books, but the cover of a friendly writer's book. Rachel K. (who is currently reading my book Smoke) writes western novellas based on fairy tales. Her site is here. Check it out. Not long ago, I reviewed her previous book, Cloaked. This book is the second entry in her Once Upon a Time western anthology series. Notice the texture on the clothing, the detail on the shoes, and the lines in the hardwood floor on that cover.

Dancing and Doughnuts is set for release in August 2018 (she must write like a woman possessed to get another book out that soon--apparently her habit of mixing espresso and speed really helps--of course, I jest; she's probably just extremely diligent), and is a retelling of "Twelve Dancing Princesses." No doubt it will feature dancing in western footwear, horses, (but not dancing by horses in western footwear), and--I hope--some shoot'em up action. I'm looking for a scene where doughnuts are tossed into the air and the hero shoots through the holes to demonstrate his proficiency with a shooting iron. I know James Garner already did that with...oh, here it is:

but I would still like to see it with doughnuts--maybe a dozen at a time. That would make a great scene in the retelling of Odysseus' homecoming--shooting an arrow through a dozen doughnuts (rather than the axe heads, or handles--depending on the translation). Just imagine that Odysseus was a mighty warrior...who liked to bake. But I digress; my apologies.

Dancing and Doughnuts already has a Goodreads page. Check it out along with Rachel's other books.

I spent part of last week at a professional training conference. It was good stuff. I met some people from around the state, and passed on a few of my self-promotional cards. A couple folks seemed genuinely interested in my books. I'm pleased with the recent sales of Smoke, but the sales are not nearly what they should be (if I judge based upon how fun it was to write the book).

I did find time alone in my hotel room after the daily sessions to re-engage in writing Justice Resurgent, the sequel to my first novel Justice in Season. I also did some more research on a particular stagecoach robbery that will figure prominently (a fictionalized version of the event) in the story. This week, I've enjoyed writing that part of the story. The focus has temporarily shifted away from the men and women striving for law and order to highlight the activities of the villains. The book is just over half-way complete. I expect a lot of action in the remaining chapters.

***

Mowing the vast expanse of grass (or the great swath of emerald sward--I'm pretty sure that I learned the word "sward" from reading Burroughs) chez-moi constitutes a weekly summer ritual. It's a big job. It beats going to the dentist, but not by much--except for the opportunity it gives me to listen to great literature. Last year, over the course of a few weeks, I enjoyed completing the audio version of Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities.

I've recently been listening to The Classic Tales podcasts. A couple weeks ago I learned that Louisa May Alcott wrote some short stories that she called stories of "blood and thunder" (if I remember the sobriquet correctly) before writing her famous novels and children's stories. One of these horror stories was "The Mummy's Curse." Although predictable, it wasn't bad. Most recently, upon seeing the title to a particular podcast, I immediately got an idea about how to resolve, or not resolve, actually, an issue that I've anticipated in the sequel to Finding Jack--The Orb; the sequel will be Finding Jack--Book Two--The Rod.

I had to look up a word today. That's not a bad thing. It's just a word that I should've known. I came across it in Louis L'Amour's The Mountain Valley War. That's ironic because I once told my son that he needed to read some science fiction or something besides of Louis L'Amour westerns in order to improve his vocabulary. I'm sure vocabulary is just one of the many things that that author could teach me.

***

Saturday was also a deferred maintenance reconciliation day. That's reconciliation by way of penance and blood sacrifice. I had been hearing my brakes moan like a wounded walrus in heat for some months. When the noise first started, I thought that it was coming from the car or truck next to me at the stop. Eventually I noticed a pattern: I was hearing the same sounds, more and more frequently, and no other cars were nearby. Of course, I had to spend another month thinking that I needed to do something about it; I kept forgetting; and with the motorcycle friendly weather, I was often spared the sound of those moaning reminders that diligence delayed isn't diligence at all.

The highlight of the repair job, besides the oppressive heat and the fact that I was already fatigued from the grueling three hour mow experience in said heat, wasn't the smearing of my hemoglobin across the brake assembly--a necessary, but involuntary act aimed at appeasing the automotive deities--which I did while uttering the requisite litany--but the fact that my wife came out to assist me with the task. It could be that she yearns to see me engaged in something more manly than riding the lawnmower or tapping at a keyboard; or it could be that she's a nice person and wanted to give me help if I needed it.

She may have been surprised by the blood sacrifice. Not that she hasn't seen it before in various iterations. She just didn't understand that it was a requirement every. single. time. The old brake pads having died valiantly in duty, I consigned them to the automotive parts and accessories Valhalla, and installed the new recruits in their place.

***

Finally, a secretary at the office is reading Smoke. I bug her frequently about her reading progress. When she gave me an update this week, a line from that chapter came to mind: "Chivalry is not dead...and it didn't get any sleep either." I don't often remember specific lines that I've written, but that one stuck in my head based on the circumstances to which it applied.

I didn't get to a review of The Broken Gun. Maybe I'll do a double review of The Broken Gun, and The Mountain Valley War sometime soon.

PS (Why do I write "PS?" It's not like I'm doing a letter here--but this did come after I had finished the rest of the post, thus making it a post post scriptum) - While reviewing this for posting yesterday, my old wrestling coach and friend called to say hi and to express some other nice sentiments. What a perfect end to a busy day. It pays unexpected emotional dividends to have associated with nice people.

Cool story. I walked into the used book store today a few days ago. Usually, I'm met by the owner sitting behind the counter; he's often reading a book or gabbing with another customer. Today that day: nothing. Then I heard music of type that I'm unaccustomed to hearing in that establishment. It was like finding Canadian bacon and pineapple inside your taco shell. The sound came for the area of the store where the paperback sci-fi and westerns (among others) are shelved. Since those were the genres in which I was going to look, I lurched toward the music as if entranced--or at least with a modicum of curiosity--which is my favorite dosage, and the most I can get without a prescription.

 I found that the sci-fi books had been rearranged; that was a good thing. I also caught a lady in the very act of rearranging (I was going to say, "in flagrante delicto," but didn't want to risk the phrase being incorrectly taken in the sense of the second meaning). Naturally, I was forced into that old style of informal communication once known as conversation--completely unassisted by electronic devices. Nice lady. At one point she suggested a book with a story set in a location not too far from our town. That reminded me that one of my books is set in our very town. Ever eager to seize the opportunity for self-promotion, I said something about local settings and gave her a card that listed my books--if no one else will promote me, I'll have to do it myself.

"You're him," she said. For an instant, I felt like a celebrity. Turns out, she had just downloaded Finding Jack--The Orb after seeing a bit of publicity on the local internet news feed; she  had wanted to ask the host of that site about me when she had seen him across the street, but had decided against waving him down. We had a nice discussion about various book genres and what/who we enjoyed reading. What a pleasant surprise! I can only hope that she didn't find the experience so distasteful that she won't finish reading my book.

Follow up: I went back into the bookstore to pickup this book that Rachel K talked about on one of her blogs. I couldn't see anyone in the store. I gave a yell asking if anyone was home. No answer. I went to find the book anyway. While doing that, I heard voices in the back of the store. While the persons belonging to the voices moved back to the front of the store, I continued looking, and finally found the book. That's when I heard the lady say, "That Stanley Wheeler was in yesterday..." and that's where I interrupted. It's possible that she was going to say something nice or neutral about me, but on the odd chance that she had something of a different variety to say, I thought it might be a bit awkward for both of us if I overheard--and I didn't want to cower behind the shelves waiting for a chance to make a break for the door without being seen--so I said, "Be careful what you say, because I'm back."

The lady kindly said she just wanted to tell the owner that I had stopped by. She also wanted to tell me that she is on the local library board; they may be interested in having me speak at the library. I happily volunteered to waste oxygen for as long as they would like to have me do so.

***

Last year, while on the annual fishing trip with El Supremo and The Musketeer, I made a joke with the punch line "Quiet Earp." (That's now my tag for lame joke references--which I probably won't use much, because my jokes are kind of pretty awesome). This year on our fishing trip earlier this month (with a different musketeer), during which I caught the first (and biggest) fish, I made an equally bad joke. I'm not sure why I find it funny, because it's not. Anyway, one of my fishing companions made a comment about the wind blowing the boat into the shore. That reminded me of a book. I asked if they were familiar with the famous story of the cub scouts who were caught in a strong gust. They were not. I informed them that the story was more commonly known as "The Wind in the Webelos."

I don't think I've got anything left today that can top that joke for extreme lamitude (Yes, I made up that word; "lamitude" sounds better than "lameness;" although, 'lamefulness" sounds good too); I'll end with that.

Next time, maybe, a word about The Broken Gun by Louis Lamour.

Philip Marlowe: Private Eye
"Blackmailers Don't Shoot"

I had never even heard of this series that debuted on HBO in 1983. Of course, I was out of the country at that time, and wouldn't have had cable anyway. So it's not like I would've been able to see it. I thought this was the first episode. I see now that it was actually the first episode of the second season. I'll have to go back to see the first season. Nope. Just checked. The first season isn't on Prime.

I think Powers Booth does a fair job in the role of Marlowe. In this episode, he is hired by a mobster to protect his movie star girlfriend from blackmailers. The dame gets kidnapped; Marlowe mounts a four-corpse-count rescue, and demonstrates the superiority of hot lead over cold rolled steel. That's it for the show--average stuff. I liked the old cars. I do wonder if it would be better in black and white.

The story below has little to do with the actual episode, other than the pictures which I use as the basis for my own (mis)creation. I call it: LIPSTICK AND LEAD

There was someone on my phone. He said he was troubled by a skin condition that left dark bands across his face. I told him that I could see that, and asked him to put down my phone. 

I gave him a bar of soap and a towel. I told him not to fall asleep on the newspaper, and his skin condition would probably clear up. 

Later, I went down to the club. I met a dame that I knew. Clare had tried to disguise herself with a dark wig, but I recognized the earrings...and her particular shade of lipstick. I had a hankering to sample that lipstick; it was the color of strawberry jam, and I wagered that it would be twice as sweet. I asked her about a sample. She blew smoke in my face. She was waiting for another man.

He waltzed in beneath a white hat that he wore like a halo. A dark red handkerchief peered from the breast pocket of his pale jacket like a crumpled and tipsy rose. I thought about that; I imagined that someone could write a song about that sweet tipsy rose; but what did I know? 

I watched the two of them walk out together. I couldn't tell what she saw in him. I mean, sure, he was a sharp dresser. He made more money in an afternoon from his women's apparel dry cleaning business than I made in a year. Sure, he drove a nice car that didn't belch smoke and knock like a pair of peg legged pirates dancing on the quarterdeck, but wit, good looks, and charm should count for something. 

The following day, I wandered in the direction of Clare's apartment. I wanted to make sure that she had found her way home without any trouble. I should've known there was something wrong when a strange man bumped into me. He was walking about with a telephone receiver pressed to his ear. The cord from the receiver disappeared into his jacket; there was no telephone in sight. He kept wandering along, repeating, "Can you hear me now?"

He seemed like a strange bird, but I liked the idea of a portable telephone--sort of a wireless unit. I wondered about such an instrument. What if it could take photographs and play music? Nah. The radio tubes and film would make it too bulky for handy portability. Oh well.

When I got to Clare's apartment, the door welcomed me in, hanging open on its hinges with the casual lassitude of a slack-jawed yokel draped over a porch swing. I quickly got over that welcome feeling when I met the barrel of a black revolver with a meaty hand and an even meatier man behind it. He said that he had been expecting me. He had a message for me. He gave me an address; he told me to be there at a certain time if I ever wanted to see Clare again. I was happy to let him leave without getting a sample of either his ammunition or his lipstick; I didn't think that shade flattered him.

I arrived on time at the designated location, but a French maid refused to let me enter. When I explained that I had an appointment and promised not to leave things in a clutter, she let me pass without answering any riddles.

The man with the white halo lay on a table. A masseuse was squeezing him like a tube of toothpaste. I had to do a double take to see if the masseuse possessed the arms of a wolf-man, or if he had bathed in used motor oil. I decided on the former. Angel-man explained that a couple goons had jumped him on the way to Clare's place. They had taken Clare, and wanted a hefty ransom. He had the ransom money, but he wanted me to come for moral support. The rich man needed my moral support; so I had that going for me anyway. He didn't actually say, "moral support;" he called it protection, but I knew what he meant.

 We went to the abandoned factory were the bad guys had taken Clare. She had lost the wig but managed to keep her earrings.

 I was calculating the odds of precisely drilling the goon who held Clare without mussing her gown,

when a dapper dude with a fist full of pistol persuaded me to forsake my arithmetic and to drop my piece.

Angel-man swooped in with full halo and wings like an invincible heavenly messenger to the rescue. The trouble was the bullets; they didn't know about the invincibility of heavenly messengers. While he was busy not dodging dapper dude's thunderbolts, I scrambled for my heater and sent the dapper man several rapid epistles from Messieurs Smith & Wesson. 

With both Angel-man and the dapper dude engaged in sharing their blood types with the concrete and hailing cabs to the after life, it was just the three of us: Clare, the kidnapper, and me. I thought that would've made a catchy tune, if one of us had been named McGee. Alas, we were McGee free, and two guys with one frail almost never works out. Clare took the initiative. She introduced the kidnapper's instep to the business end of her open-toed high heeled shoe. He felt a sudden and intense need to create some space in their relationship. I gave him a pill for the pain, delivered via my remote-high-speed-injection system.

And then there were two. She didn't blow smoke at me. She offered me a sample of her lipstick. It's never polite to refuse a lady.

Regarding Infinity War: I have discovered that the location of the final infinity stone, as well as the manner for obtaining the gem which will create incredible (perhaps infinite) power, is a matter of extreme importance to many. Nevertheless, it holds no interest for me. I've outgrown super hero movies; I don't intend to see this one.

I did recently get to see a movie that I enjoyed again: Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep. I have to admit that remembering this movie while I was writing Smoke helped me to establish some of the texture for the novel, including the jabs about the main character's height. The other movies and books that were helpful included The Maltese Falcon, This Gun for Hire with Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake, The Big Heat with Glenn Ford and Gloria Grahame, and My Favorite Brunette with Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour.

This scene from The Big Sleep of Marlowe and Vivian's first meeting differs significantly from the first meeting between Noah and Monica, the main characters from Smoke, but there are some similarities.

I must admit to some disappointment that sales of Smoke have not yet skyrocketed. I suppose that I have no one to blame but myself for the lack of marketing that I have done. I recently read that social media is an extremely poor marketing tool. I'm looking into other possible tools. In the meantime, I've read up to the current point of my sequel to Justice in Season so that I can finish it. I hope to have the sequel available by the end of the year. I have to confess that I really enjoyed reading the manuscript to the current point. Is it terribly shallow and narcissistic to admit that I think I'm my favorite author? Links to my books are at the top of the page.

I did get to see the first episode of Philip Marlowe: Private Eye. I clicked some screen shots. I'll put them in another post.