The four musketeers are painted. I must say that my painting skills occasionally soar to heights very nearly approaching the underbelly of mediocrity. This wasn't one of those times (I'll aspire to mediocrity another time), but sometimes it happens.

Aramis, Porthos, Athos, and D'Artagnan.

More importantly, the manuscript for Justice Resurgent is (I hope) being proofread by one of the extremely talented people who suffer though such things for me. But the most fun I had this week was writing on, not one, but two novels. A while back I started writing a new novel, but I felt guilty that I had not yet done the sequel to my YA Fantasy Finding Jack Book One The Orb (FJBOTO, or The Orb). More importantly, a particular fan of that book keeps insisting that I write the sequel right away. So, I decided to ease my conscience, get that fan off my back, and work on the sequel: Finding Jack Book Two The Rod (FJBTTR or The Rod). I can't stop the new novel either, so I have to do both. That's a rookie mistake, but it's how I wrote Smoke, Justice Resurgent, and The Orb--working on all three until I had to focus on each one in turn to write the last portion of each.

I had to re-read the last couple chapters of The Orb to get back into the right mindset, and to pickup right where the first book ends. I'm only a few thousand words into it, but it's a fun one to write.

Here are a couple excepts from The Orb, copyright 2016--used with the author's permission, of course--all other rights reserved. These are from the last third of the book. (Also, the paragraph indentation didn't transfer properly).

Nazanzires stirred. A familiar fragrance filled her olfactory receptors. A certain and distinctive incense lingered in the air. Her eyes snapped open as she recognized the scent…of sorcery. Magic had been brought, or wrought, within the confines of her den; a whiff of wizardry mingled with the usual odors of her habitation. Like an aromatic spice, the perfume permeated the entirety of the cavern.

She turned her head about, searching for a tell-tale stream emanating from the source of the odor. In a few seconds she had found not one, but three sources. One source she traced to the wall where she knew it had been for a time; but now it had been activated, and its odor aroused. There she also found the trace of two humans, each with the scent of sorcery upon them.

The location of the familiar item radiated a pulsing red hue of a scent. The other two streams smelled of latent, unused power; one bore a swirly pastel scent. The other struck her suddenly; even in its dormancy it burned with a steady white intensity.

Nazanzires reared back in pain and anger as the piquant white scent seared her nostrils. She felt an instinctive wave of wrath rising within herself. She opened her jaws and, with more than a hiss, but less than a roar, spewed her fiery breath at the area with the heaviest concentration of the stinging stench. She drew back to the far side of the lair. She ran her scaly tail along the wall, rapidly clicking the bony ridge scales against the rock. The action served as a sort of release of nervous energy, a calming exercise. She knew that smell. She knew its source. She would regain her composure before she left the lair to pursue the thieves, one of whom bore that baneful stone.

...

...

Jack closed his eyes, expecting to be consumed in flame. He opened them a moment later to see fire nearly engulfing himself and the stranger; but the fire turned away, unable to penetrate some unseen shield that protected the two of them.

“You’ve been rousing monsters. You won’t live long here!” the stranger shouted grimly over the sound of the pounding flames.

Jack didn’t have any response. He looked around. Vinto lay unmoving near the tree where the horses had been tied. The horses were nowhere in sight.

The flames stopped. Jack glimpsed the silhouette of the dragon rising from its swooping attack. The beast flew over them. As the dragon passed, the stranger rose, and ran toward a patch of trees, nearly a hundred yards away.

Nazanzires turned back toward the sorcery. Her first flaming onslaught had been ineffectual against the power of the stone. She knew that her fire could not penetrate that shield. She also knew somewhat of the workings of the stone. She knew that eventually her attacks would deplete the power of the stone. Then would the bearer be at her mercy.

As she turned, Nazanzires saw the bearer of the stone running away. She swooped back toward the retreating figure. The figure turned, holding a strange object in one hand, the stone in the other. The figure pointed the strange object at her. She stuttered in her flight as a force struck her. Delayed, but not deterred, she continued toward her target. Again the wave of force struck her. It was stronger this time, but she only shuddered under its impact without breaking off the attack. She dove downward, spewing flame.

Jack managed to roll to his stomach. He pressed himself against the earth, and the dragon swooped over him toward the stranger. Standing now, the stranger held the orb between himself and the dragon. The beast’s flaming breath beat upon the unseen shield without burning the stranger. But the stranger was being forced backwards, as if he were inside of a ball being pushed by a strong wind.

When her fiery breath stopped, Nazanzires did not turn away. She came straight at the stone-bearer. Only as she was about to impact the figure did she pull up to drive her talons toward her target. 

I note that The Orb is available now for only $0.99. That's real value!

While the saga of the war machine will continue, I prefer not to discuss that epic adventure today. Progress on Justice Resurgent is happening; just one more bend and it will be the home stretch at break-neck speed. I could finish it this month, but I'm having difficulty focusing on it because another idea for a fantasy series has possessed me. It's something that I've had in my head for years, and have made notes about from time to time--and now is the time to do it. Because I'll be away from civilization, I won't be able to write this week on JR, but I will be able to do some more plotting, characterization, and setting notes for the fantasy series using that centuries-old word processing system known as paper and ink.

I'm learning that when it comes to writing and marketing, I've pretty much done it all wrong. I've written in three completely different genres. Apparently, I'm supposed to pick a genre and stick with it, build a following and reputation within that genre because, according to Amazon--unlike me--most readers do not jump genres; they read within a single genre. Amazon's algorithms don't understand how to market my works when I do that. So I'm leaning toward making the fantasy genre my genre for a series--the first books will be in the swashbuckling, flintlock or gunpowder fantasy genre, but the prequels I've got in my head also cover the pre-Columbian. Of course, I haven't forgotten the Finding Jack series, also in the fantasy genre, that I'll finish.

(Of course, if anyone has read any of my books and can't live without more books written by me in the western or humorous noir mystery genre, let me know).

I've noticed that just about everyone thinks that they can write fantasy. Most of the stuff I've found that I wasn't previously familiar with isn't very good (that's just my opinion; lots of people seem to like it). Most of it seems like it was written by a fairly talented fifth grader, or is crammed with profanity in an attempt to create "gritty realism"--or it may just be a substitute for talent (that's my opinion). Of the recent fantasy that I've read, I've enjoyed Brandon Sanderson's Stormlight Archive; James Alderdice's Brutal, and Ken Jorgensen's Kusunoki Chronicles. I can't say enough good things about the Kusunoki Chronicles. I previously reviewed the first book in the series, Pride of the Samurai. I've just finished the second book, Treachery of The Daimyo. Both are 5 star reads. Again, I'll say that there's something about Jorgensen's writing that resonates with me--and I don't think it's just because he writes above the fifth grade level. I may eventually post a review of the second book. I know there are at least 4 books in the series, and now I have to read the 3rd one. Back to my point, everyone seems to think that they can write fantasy, but few do it well; Jorgensen does it very well.

***

Have I seen any superhero movies? One might remember that I've been pretty clear in my overall distaste for that movie genre. However, there are 3 exceptions to my superhero disdain: The Shadow, The Incredibles, and The Ant-Man. I know there are many complaints about that first movie, but it is one of my favorites--and I have a few complaints about it as well--but a man redeemed from evil, sometimes on the brink of sanity who possesses the ability to cloud men's minds, AND WHO USES 2 POLISHED COLT M1911 AUTOMATICS IS ABSOLUTELY AWESOME (here's a link to information about the actual weapons used in the movie). I like a hero with a backup plan. He's fallible, and often lacks confidence--and the movie wasn't all special effects. I've already gushed about The Incredibles, so I won't repeat myself.

As for The Ant-Man, we saw Ant-Man and the Wasp earlier in the week. First, the story--meh. Didn't really care for it, especially the after-credits tie-in to rest of the Marvel pit of infamy. I did like the characters, especially the characters played by Paul Rudd, Evangeline Lilly, and Michael Pena. These three make the film worth watching. Those characters have substance. They're flawed and funny, and make you root for them. The superheroism is just a part of that substance, a very small part. These are characters who would be fun to follow even without the superhero issue--the superhero complication is just the catalyst that has brought them to our attention and that accentuates their idiosyncrasies. So...great characters, predictable story heavy on techno-dribble, but lots of fun.

The Craftsman war machine has terminated negotiations. The tips of the tall grass wave jubilantly in the wind, defiant, unyielding, uncut and spitting stinging imprecations with each windy ripple (which sounds like a drink: Windy Ripple, now in your favorite pastel colors with an aftertaste that resurrects memories of treated lumber and burnt hair). Civilization as we know it teeters at the edge of the precipice; the fate of humanity hangs in the balance. What has brought us to this terrible state? What is the cause of this our dismay, this forlorn future, this fantastical fate?

Word is that it is something called an ACR--it's broken. I don't know what the A stands for, but the C and R stand for compression release. Maybe the A is for awful, or ain't working. The internet, which is never wrong--Oh, I know--says that this is a common problem with the Briggs and Stratton 21 hp engine (and others of the B&S make with the overhead valve setup). The progression of part replacement/adjustment is battery, starter, valves, camshaft--with the latter being the only thing that ever needed to be replaced. Having already replaced the battery and starter, and adjusted the valves, I am unhappily awaiting the new camshaft upon which the ACR is found. It's supposed to arrive on Wednesday. Oh, what fun awaits.

I was able to terminate another successor in the line of Claude Roowener, Earl of Clay. I expect to have the lifeless body of the next heir-apparent tomorrow morning.

***

A friend lanced me with a bit of sunshine today. He told me that he started reading Smoke this week; he's half finished with it and is thoroughly enjoying the read. He really liked Justice in Season, but is even more taken by Smoke. It's always great to hear that someone genuinely enjoys reading something that I've written. Nice reviews posted to the sales site and Goodreads are also nice. My wife has started reading Smoke and professed her pleasure with it--but she kind of has to say nice things about it; I'm sure she's sincere, but she's still in the early chapters--she has plenty of time to lose interest or otherwise be disappointed in the book, but she won't.

***

Here is the gratuitous Star Trek picture of the week:

It comes from a fb group devoted to TOS. The episode was "Elaan of Troyius" which was written and directed by John Meredyth Lucas. I consider it one of the finer episodes of the third season. Spoiler Alert: The green man with the bladed accessory protruding from his back actually survived the episode. The picture, which captures Elaan, Kirk, and the ambassador sporting the cutlery, is representative of the fine direction throughout the episode. This is one of the episodes that I like rather more as an adult than I did as a kid--when I didn't particularly notice creative camera angles and that sort of detail. When I saw the picture, I thought Kirk should be saying, "Is this a dagger I see before me?" --but of course, that line isn't from that episode. France Nuyen made a perfect spoiled barbarian brat of a princess. Jay Robinson (who played the spoiled Emperor Caligula early in his career) absolutely sells his role as the slightly effeminate Ambassador Petri who is completely out of his league in trying to deal with the strong-willed Elaan--which point the knife perfectly illustrates. It's a top tier episode in my opinion.

Did I mention that Smoke is available in paperback?

There is a story to tell about the Craftsman war machine. The vast expanse of herbage remains unmowed; the story, therefore, remains untold. Instead, I might discuss the discussion that I led today after the regular instructor called to ask if I would take his class. The text message came while I was laboring with the latest mechanical manifestation of the war machine's taciturnity. I agreed. I enjoyed preparing for the discussion. It concerned a great story, a story of love and loyalty, jealousy and pride, friendship and fidelity, treachery and terrible carnage--I styled it as what we would've got if William Shakespeare had written Star Wars; it was just that good--meaning the story, not my discussion of it. I did have a terrific time leading the discussion; I can only hope the participants found it worth their valuable time. 

That's not what I'm going to write about. I promised a review of Pride of the Samurai by Kenneth Jorgensen. Let me do it now. I see that I can also loan that ebook to someone. I would be happy to do that if I knew how; and who would like to read it.

But first, here's a picture of a local building--I'm going to work this into the second book in the Finding Jack series. There are elements in it that I think will fit well in the story.

I should preface my review of PoftS with a brief synopsis of my expertise on all things Japanese. I've known several people who spent some time in Japan. I can locate Japan on a map or globe. I once had a Japanese roommate--mostly what I can say about him is that he bought a lot of rice--he bought it by the bag, the 100 pound bag. The primary source of my expertise is James Clavell's Shogun; I saw the miniseries, and I read the book--so I got that going for me. So, as you can see, my qualifications and expertise concerning all things Japanese, and particularly feudal Japan, are beyond question. I even remember several a couple phrases in Japanese that I learned from watching Shogun. If that doesn't convince you, then wakarimasen as to what will.

Fiction featuring fantasy in feudal Japan has never been something that I've pursued for pleasurable reading--until now. PotS begins an epic fantasy: The Kusunoki Chronicles, of which there are 4 books (so far). I've only read this first one; I can't say what the others contain. PotS begins the adventure of twin brothers, Akashi and Kanto. Akashi learns that he has the power to work the tama, a magical power that seems to emanate from the Japanese homeland--some might think of it like "the force" from another popular series which has some roots in a similar culture. The use of the tama is forbidden; it's not forbidden in the sense that a sincere apology and some meaningful probation time are demanded; it's forbidden in a way that a stirring of the innards with a short sword, or a permanent separation of the skull from the shoulders is mandated--and that also goes for the people who knew about it and didn't tattle. 

Anyway, in addition to the usual discovery of the forbidden power and the sort of apprenticeship that goes along with it, the story tells of the Kunusoki family and some of the politics of the time. The characters are almost all interesting and constantly developing. The dark side of the force in this epic comes from the foreign invaders. These viking-like enemies have a great magical power; they seem to go through the armies of the homeland like a shotgun blast through a screen door. Akashi, and other shinobi (users of the tama) may be the only power that can resist the invaders.

As I said in a previous post, PotS is the best book of fiction that I've read so far this year. I give it five stars. I am now committed to reading the next book in the series. 

On a different topic, I am also pleased to say that I got to sign a couple paperback copies of Smoke this week--I hope to sign more in the near future. 

A sky painted in watercolor gray looked down upon me with all the joy of a boy who had lost his favorite toy. It was threatening to cry. I knew that I had only a limited amount of that currency issued to each of on a daily basis to complete the daunting, but not overwhelming tasks before me. In fact, I would say the tasks were merely whelming, definitely not overly so.

It was like this, see. Last Saturday the mower went on strike again. It had had some complaint about needing a new starter motor. I had immediately broken off negotiations...and ordered a new starter motor. The local apothecary of parts had said that they would have to order it. I had decided that I could do that on my own. So I did.

Saturday, I returned to negotiations with the new starter motor in hand. I made a blood-free presentation. It went so efficiently that my wife couldn't believe that I finished as soon as I had. The biggest problem had been a set of bolts on the engine cover were masquerading as 10 mm but which were in in fact 3/8 inch; those guys had taken the 10 mm at first, but when things got tough, they just shrugged their shoulders and refused to tighten up. I brought out the 3/8 and showed them who was boss, but good, see.

Overcome by the sheer brilliance of my proposal, the mower accepted it immediately by roaring into action. I still needed to battle the two weeks worth of wild jungle growth that is my lawn before the sky let loose with its tears. My yard is like The Ponderosa meets The High Chaparral--if the former were covered in lush grass and the latter boasted thistles and morning glory in lieu of cactus and chaparral, and had a gopher.

Although I had neither Hoss, Little Joe, Buck, nor even Blue to aid me, I rode into battle on the Craftsman war machine determined to conquer or die do as much as I could before the rain came. The yard knew that resistance was futile, but resist it did. Fortunately, it used the Mahatma Gandhi method--its resistance was entirely passive. Unlike the British, I had no conscience to whisper against the wholesale massacre of the little green grassy fakirs. It was slow going, but I maintained the massacre at the best possible speed with no remorse whatsoever.

Finally, the gray sky finally couldn't hold its water any longer. It began with a light sprinkle like the first tears of sadness welling up and trickling down childish cheeks. I continued the massacre unmoved. Gradually, the tears increased until great gouts of tears fell as the sky sobbed uncontrollably. I was over half finished with the task. Moved by moisture rather than remorse at my murderous mayhem, I relented while the storm passed.

When the sky had stopped its whining, I let the turf dry a while while I whiled away the time at other things, including making sure a couple of my books were now on sale at Barnes & Noble for the Nook.

Finding Jack is now available at B&N for Nook.

Justice in Season is now available at B&N for Nook.

I resumed the mayhem at the earliest opportunity because the crybaby heavens still had that gray look of sadness that threatened to break into a fit of weeping at any time. In fact, the weeping began before I had finished mowing. I carried on the labor of slaughtering the herbaceous army arrayed against me and my war machine in spite of the heavens' lament. I finished wet and weary, but triumphant over the foe.

Of course, my murderous work was yet incomplete. There remained a gopher to confront. I didn't want to face that saber-toothed menace without backup. When the sky had finished its bawling, I took a small boy to use for bait help me set the trap. He likes to carry the shovel. In a matter of moments we had laid a cunning trap for the clawed ruiner of turf--which sounds like a good name for a literary character: Claude Roowener of Turf, Earl of Clay.

This morning I checked the trap. Claude will ruin no more turf.

Don't forget, Smoke is on sale on Amazon, but the sale ends the 12th. After that, you'll have to part with at least $2.99 to peruse the pages of that work which is destined (or not) to become the literary gem of the century.

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.

Bogey, Bacall, Books, and Basketball

A humorous observation occurred to me this afternoon. Thinking of it made me smile. I knew that I would have to include it with my post tonight.

I would...if I could remember it. Trust me. It was very funny. 

The other thing that made me laugh recently was watching To Have and Have Not when Lauren Bacall's character Slim says, "I'll don't think I'll ever be angry again at anything you say." I think the smile we see from Bogey's character Harry is genuine, not mere acting. Her mockery of the other pretty woman in the movie is very good. I laughed out loud.

I will have more to say about that very enjoyable movie at a later day. For now, I liked it. I was reminded not only of Casa Blanca, but also of The Maltese Falcon, and Beat the Devil.

Some corrections to Justice in Season have finally been posted to Amazon. There were a number of minor-but-annoying errors in the book, including one in the very first paragraph. What was the cause of such stupidity? How were egregious errors tolerated and posted in the original? I have a theory about that. A good friend did proof read the manuscript for me. I implemented the proof reading corrections indicated. Unfortunately, I had a couple copies of the manuscript on the computer. The copy that I had originally posted to Amazon was not the one that I had corrected. I believe that I deleted the corrected version right after I posted the Amazon version. I finally went back through the manuscript and corrected most, if not all of those errors.

You can get your copy of Justice in Season here: Justice in Season 

Here's an excerpt from the beginning of chapter XIV:

Upton’s gunshot boomed.

Both horses leaped forward. Fredericksburg, with McBride hanging on his side, bucked and leaped forward again. McBride held to the reins and front of the saddle. When the horse leaped the second time, McBride bounced himself up from the ground with his free leg, grabbed the saddle with his right hand and swung onto the back of the bay. Immediately the horse began swerving to the side. Fool’s Gold already led by two lengths. Quickly, McBride righted himself in the saddle, leaning forward. Fredericksburg straightened out and maintained Fool’s Gold lead at three lengths.

The James Blossom Store, specializing in boots, shoes, hats, clothing, dry goods, groceries, hardware, and mining equipment at low cash prices passed by quickly on McBride’s right as he left Main Street behind him. He could hear the spectators roaring and cursing. His attention remained fixed upon the actions of the locomotive between his knees; here was pure power and McBride could sense the horse’s strength and vigor from his toes right up to his teeth. ...

Text copyright © 2013 Stanley Wheeler

All Rights Reserved

The exciting sequel, Justice Resurgent, remains incomplete pending the completion of my humorous mystery novel, Smoke. The latter is nearly complete; it currently stands at over eighty-thousand words. I had anticipated completion at that number of words, but it looks like another three or four thousand will be required to bring this very fun story to its conclusion. It will be available in early 2018.

For a little light fantasy that both young and old can appreciate, try Finding Jack - Book One - The Orb. 

Finally, I watched a great basketball game on Tuesday night. It was the girls' JV game. Some may disagree, but I think the girls' games at this level are much more entertaining than the boys' games. The shooting is about 15-30% from the field. You never know what's going to happen next, or even where the ball is going...and the players don't seem to know either. It's pure fun: like roller skaters on ice, with unicorns, balloons, pandas, sloths, a swarm of wasps, and a self-aware ball all playing a different game in the same location.

The home team had fallen behind, but were gradually making up the deficit as the last two minutes bled from the clock. They finally tied it up, then fell behind by three. Finally, with about a second and a half left on the clock, the home team, down by three points, had the ball out of bounds at their own basket. After the timeout, they threw the ball in-bounds to a player who usually held the ball for 6-8 seconds before doing anything with it. This time, she turned and then quickly turned back to pass the ball to the girl who had just come in bounds. This girl, who I believe was the leading scorer, immediately shot from the corner outside of the three-point line as time expired. The shot, the only three-pointer attempted that night, arced high before coming down to pass through the basket. The game went to overtime. 

I wish I could say that the home team triumphed in the overtime... 

Joan

Saturday I was able to devote some time to the noir novel. I think I've just about finished writing the cemetery scene. (I've never noticed until just now how similar the words "cemetery" and "symmetry" sound...obviously different...yet an eerie resemblance rests just beneath the surface...just like things rest beneath the surface of the cemetery. On second thought, they're not that much alike, aside from the consonant pattern. One has more syllables. Never mind.) Before I got distracted, I was about to write that in keeping with the noir theme, I viewed Fritz Lang's 1945 noir thriller, Scarlet Street. It starred Edward G. Robinson, Joan Bennett, and Dan Duryea. Robinson and Duryea are among my favorites of the era. At one point in the film, Joan Bennett, pretending to be a painter, says, "The way I look at it, every painting, if it's any good, is a love affair." I thought that was the most interesting line spoken in this dark film. The thought coincides exactly with my thoughts about writing. And I'm going to give the name "Joan" to one of the characters in the novel in honor of the actress.

Speaking of writing, here's a photo provided by Google Earth of the actual Weiser Classic Candies, a fictionalized version of which gets frequent mention in Finding Jack Book One, The Orb.

Here is the cover of my most recent publication. It is available on Amazon. Here is the link: Finding-Jack-Book-One-The-Orb-ebook. I wrote it in short, episodic chapters. Most chapters are only about 1,000 words, although the latter chapters run significantly longer.
The story takes place in a fictionalized version of a real town: Weiser, Idaho, and its alternate dimensional sister location of Shington.