Time is never on our side.

If we’re being completely honest, 2017 was a pretty shitty year in a lot of ways for a lot of people. That said, there were some bright spots. And as we descend upon the death of this year with all the enthusiasm of Yeats’ “rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born” it pays, perhaps to celebrate and share those bright spots.

This marks the first of my end of 2017 posts doing just that. Six favorite new songs that were released in the past year.

Chicano Batman — “Friendship (Is a Small Boat in a Storm)”

Holy hell, this band snuck up on me out of nowhere via, of all places, an add for Johnny Walker. It was so compelling I became a fan not only of Johnny Walker, but also of Chicano Batman. I saw them in concert with friends earlier this year when they came through town promoting this album, playing a sold-out show at The Crocodile. Such an amazing experience. And this song, the first single they released off the new album, remains my favorite. Smooth and sexy, combining notes of funk, soul, and ’70’s Tropicana sound.

Aldous Harding — “Horizon”

Taking it down a notch, this is from the new folk powerhouse Aldous Harding from New Zealand. I’ve been a fan of hers for a year or two, and several of her earlier songs are on a writing playlist for the Winter Lullaby novel I’m slowly chipping away. Her voice and emotion is magical, like a force of furious nature that bears few comparisons. If you get a chance to see her live, do not miss it. Still kicking myself for missing her show in Seattle earlier this year that a good friend and co-worker went to. It was apparently an amazing experience.

Hanson – “I Was Born”

Never let it be said that I don’t have a weakness for a solid pop hook. This original song, recorded for a greatest hits album released this year, was the perfect, hopeful, and infectious as fuck pop song this summer needed. It never fails to lift my spirits. And let’s be honest, we all needed a bit of that this summer.

The National – “The System Only Dreams in Total Darkness”

I credit one of my oldest and best friends for turning me on to The National a few years ago with the impromptu gift of two of their earlier albums. Then a year or two ago, she took me to see them play at the Paramount and god DAMN these guys put on a hypnotic and amazing show. If you’re not on board with The National, get their new album. It’s already scooped up a well-deserved Grammy nomination. Brooding, complex, smart as hell, and one incredible guitar hook & solo make this one I haven’t been able to get enough of since it came out.

Propagandhi – “Victory Lap”

For those who like a little bit of rock, can I direct you to Propagandhi? Canada’s most underrated political punk band, these guys are pure fire. I was marginally familiar with them because of John K. Sampson who went on to found The Weakerthans (who I adore). Propagandhi reminds me a bit of Bad Religion. Same fire, same crisp musicianship and lyrics that channel my rage, make me want to crank it up until my eardrums bleed as I dance in my chair at the ol’ cube farm! The whole album is incredible, but this song stomps HARD.

Kesha – “Woman”

The anthem this year needed. I’ve been a fan of Kesha for a few years. Heck of a musician. Clever, passionate, with her eye on the ball. And she’s a fighter. God. I probably love her more than her previous music (though Warrior was really tight). But her phoenix from the flames album Rainbow which came out this year after a long delay and protracted legal battles is a motherfucking testament. I don’t think there’s a bad track on it. But “Woman” is (narrowly) my favorite. It’s fun and defiant and it features the Dap Kings horn section which makes EVERYTHING better. Possibly my favorite song of the year.


Twitter is a Tool

Posted: October 12, 2017 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

Pictured: Twitter’s preferred user–a troll.

I used to have some variation on a certain conversation about Twitter from people who didn’t use it. They didn’t see the point. They’d tried it out, and couldn’t figure out why anyone would use Twitter. My explanation always amounted to this: Twitter is a tool. If you don’t need that tool, don’t use that tool. Not everyone has a use for it. It’s just that simple.

For me, Twitter was kind of a crucial tool for a long time. I found about open calls for anthologies that led to some of my favorite short stories. I cultivated a community of other people who were crazy enough to take a whack at this lonely, chaotic writing thing. I needed Twitter for marketing when short stories and occasional novels were published because if people don’t know about them, no one will buy them. Even though sometimes it’s like shouting into an indifferent wind.

I started following people who widened my world view, got plugged into social movements that made me a better, more aware person. I’d always advocated for social justice, but Twitter helped connect me to the people on the ground doing the work, helped show me the how much work still needed to be done, helped me shape my narrative to push towards progress.

But no tool is perfect.

That’s been made abundantly clear the more I use Twitter. Their platform is not a public space. Sure, it FEELS like one at times. But it’s not. It’s the difference between a public square that’s owned by the people and a food court at the mall that’s owned by the mall. And the mall has a vested interest in controlling parts of that conversation. And more importantly, monetizing it.

That’s why they ban and silence people who cause waves. Who name names. Who disrupt their paradigm. They’ll allow thousands of pro-Russian bots, actual Nazis, and every flavor of abusive troll under the sun because it encourages engagement. (Note: Nazis are blocked on Twitter in some European countries, which proves that not only does Twitter know who they are, they have ways to ban them here, too.) Twitter played an active role in spreading propaganda generated by foreign intelligence operations. They are partly responsible for Trump, and almost seem to encourage some of the president’s most irresponsible, patently abusive and dangerous online behavior. He’s practically their mascot at this point.

And yet when decades of sexual harassment in Hollywood is exposed to the sun, they silence those trying to hold people accountable.

In Twitter’s logic, blaming Puerto Rican’s for dying, calling for the silencing of voices speaking out against police brutality, and goading North Korea into nuclear war from the highest office in the land is acceptable behavior.

Calling bullshit on a movie star who turned a blind eye and helped cover up decades of horrible sexual misconduct that you were a victim of is call for censure.

We see you, Twitter.

You’re a tool.

And if a tool is toxic, if a tool causes cancer, let’s say, it doesn’t matter how useful it is. It has to go.

So I’m taking a break from Twitter for a while. It sucks, I know. I have a book to promote that just came out. I’m gearing up for a busy month of writing. The world is quite literally on fire and I can’t honestly trust the news to keep me informed of all the nuance of the worst of it.

But I can’t do this anymore. I need a break. I need to be able to get to work and not already be angry. I need to turn off my lights and go to bed and not be terrified, depressed beyond words, or disgusted with what’s happening in the world you put at my fingertips.

Enjoy your trolls.

I’m out.


I’ve shared this cover on Facebook and Twitter the other day, but I was saving putting it up on my blog until I had a few minutes to talk about the book and representation.

When looking at old blog posts, I found some talking about working in this setting, on this project, from April of 2013. It’s been a long time coming. Back then, from the very beginning, I’d not put a romance element in the novel. Because it wasn’t that kind of book. It was, on many levels, a coming of age story that revolved around a sheltered academic finding her place in the world–surrounded by untrustworthy mentor figures.

I’ve got nothing against working romance elements into my books. Several of them have some kind of romance sub-plot. For some reason, it never felt right for Preston, the protagonist of Of Rooks & Ravens. I don’t know why.

See, back in spring of 2013, I was just kind of finding out about Asexuality and Aromantic personality types. They’d always been there, but they typically weren’t talked about. Thankfully, there’s Tumblr. And it was a great resource of first-person accounts of what it meant to be ace/aro. But Jughead from Archie Comics notwithstanding, there’s not a ton of ace/aro representation out there. Especially in genre fiction.

I realized, the deeper I got into the book, that Preston displayed ace/aro behavior. So, I steered into it. It was a good fit, and helped me make better sense of the character. But most importantly for me, the fact that she was ace/aro wasn’t at all important to the book. It’s just who she is. It doesn’t define her.

No, what defines Preston is her smarts. Her academic drive. Her curiosity. And some difficulties with male authority figures due to an emotionally distant father. She also has a strong love of books and coffee and pastries from the rival nation, the Caliphate of Dust. She’s a lot like some of my favorite people.

And it was important for me to do those friends justice. It was important for me to give them a hero they could identify with.

By the time I was done, I had grown to love Preston. I’ve even come to love her mentor, Yuri Vostov–in a way.

I can hardly wait for you to meet them starting September 30th.

Of Rooks & Ravens should be launching from Razorgirl Press in a week. I’ll be at their booth at Geek Girl Con for signings most of Saturday. I’d love to see you! Come on by! If all goes well, I’ll be handing out convention exclusive D&D 5th edition stat blocks for some of the unique dangers of Ravensgate.

raven wing

When I created Anwat al Masewei over twenty years ago, I didn’t ever think it would bring me here.

I was engaged to my second wife, an artist, and we had the idea to do a fantasy comic book. Something different. We created a few characters, she did a few drawings, and I sketched out the idea of this city–a fantastical city built on a delta surrounded by cliffs and salt wastes and deserts beyond that.

But things happened, and we moved on to other projects.

A few years later, I was in a D&D game and had the chance to run a short interlude episode, so I recycled the city and used it as a port of call. I soon realized I really enjoyed that as a game location, so I set about building out the setting a bit more. That became what I referred to as the Anwat setting, and I ran a long, fruitful game there as I built out the Caliphate of Dust.

Then I started a second came. Influenced by the courtly politics of George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones books, this one would be more recognizably European. So I started fleshing out the Caliphate’s northern neighbor, the Vale Lands. That went on to become my longest running, and most enjoyable experience as a DM ever. By this point, I realized what I really wanted to do was build up the world enough to publish it under the open license for Dungeons & Dragons 3rd Edition.

And so the book was built out. 86 pages of setting, religions, history, culture, politics, intrigue. As the Anwat game came to a close, I moved those players over to Ravensgate to tinker about the mountainous border city and college of necromancy. It had a bit of an anachronistic, cold war vibe–the Medieval analog for 1950 Vienna, perhaps. For mood and theme, the Portishead song “Sour Times” really came to epitomize the feeling of that game. It was, sadly, short lived for a variety of player reasons.

But it had lasted long enough. The world was built. The corners filled in. Everything was ready to get formatted out, the charts checked over, art commissioned…

…and then the open license was killed as they moved on to their 4th Edition.

What’s a guy to do? Well, this guy kept playing and fleshed out a few other corners (namely the Frost Islands). Meanwhile, I kept working on other projects. Until I realized that all the work I’d done in building the Anwat (and Vale and Ravensgate) locations didn’t need to be wasted work at all. Sure, there might not be the need for a game book anymore, but damn if it didn’t provide a rich setting bible for the purposes of writing fantasy.  I’d already written a few short stories set there.

And when I’d killed off the Ravensgate game, I did so in a particularly apocalyptic manner. Why not do something with that? The original outline was for a trilogy, because that’s what all the cool kids are writing. Three primary story arcs with a big cast of characters spread out over the three books.

I got writing, and at some point realized what I really wanted to do was less a trilogy and more of a triptych. So I hacked everything apart and put it back together with each of the three arcs having its own book, with the three books happening more or less simultaneously, all spurned by the same apocalyptic opening act. I liked the new structure. And it let me focus on different themes for each arc rather than make for one big muddled arc for ALL of them.

The first one, Of Rooks and Ravens, features a young, ACE academic forced out of her comfort zone and in the company of an untrustworthy (and at times unwelcome) mentor. While the book has gone through multiple drafts and revisions (and even more after selling it to Razorgirl Press who will be releasing it at the end of September), the book has remained a coming of age story that explores questions of culture and identity.

And I love it dearly. I wasn’t really aware when I was writing it that it was Gothic high fantasy. But apparently, it’s Gothic high fantasy. I blame the weather. And the dead things.

Interestingly, the second book in the triptych, Redemption of the Yellow Wolf, about families and second chances, is something like half done with the first draft. And the third, The Sea In His Blood, is maybe 25% finished and focuses on late-in-life responsibilities to make your life count for something. Yet neither of these books are likely to be my next novels.

First, I need to finish the next Cobalt City novel, which I should be able to wrap up in the next month. There are too many people waiting for that one. And the nature of that one is too timely to let sit. And then, while there are other books I’d love to be doing, I’ll be diving back into events that arose from Of Rooks and Ravens for something else entirely.

At some point soon, before the end of the year, certainly, I’ll begin writing a new trilogy, entitled A Conspiracy of Feathers. I don’t know if high fantasy espionage is a genre yet, but that’s what I’ll be doing. And the first book, Thrush Among Vipers, lets me return to where it all started, back in Anwat al-Masewei. I’m really thrilled to be working in this world, and even more excited that other people get to be able to see it soon.

In the meantime, keep watching this space (or my other social media) for pending cover reveals, launch information, and readings in your area!


Novel Fuel

Authorial Essentials

I know I’ve discussed the current Cobalt City novel RESISTANCE once or twice before. For new readers (or those with the memory of goldfish), RESISTANCE is the novel I started last November as a way to process what I saw as our country’s decline into fascism and straight up dystopia. I’d hoped to be finished with it by now. I’m only 2/3 of the way through it, but picking up speed as I near the end. The goal is to have this draft done by sometime in October.

See…I process the world around me in my writing. I suspect most writers do that, to some degree. It’s part of that whole “write what you know” chestnut. Our life, our experiences, provide a filter and springboard in many ways for our stories. I’m a pretty political person. I pay attention to what’s going on in the world around me, the good and the bad, and I try to learn from as many people from as many different viewpoints as I can. I don’t always succeed. And sometimes that viewpoint is little more than ill-informed hatred that, upon examination, I can dismiss.

Several of the Cobalt City books have provided filters for me to process parts of this world through the medium of superhero storytelling. This actually came up with my therapist the other day, which might be a bit of an overshare, but she think’s it’s healthy, so I’m inclined to agree. I can’t fix the world. I can’t FIGHT the world.

But in Cobalt City, I can. So I do. And sometimes it surprises me how that manifests. The huge cast (spread out over seven arcs that condense down into four arcs and then into, essentially one) is all grappling with the same core issue: what are the responsibilities of heroes in a country that has turned toward fascism? Who do they serve, and what are they willing to risk?

Amid these larger arcs are three isolated chapters that help provide context, coloring in a larger view of what’s going on in the country and world. These chapters also allow me to write about things I see going on right now, every day in the news. As such, they’re proving to be particularly brutal to write. They’re a little too immediate. A little too real.

The first one was from the point of view of a C-list vigilante hero who was a police detective in her day job. As protest marches continue to grow around the city, the city, bowing to pressure from the federal government, is changing how they deal with protests. They’re bringing a more militarized presence, prepared to treat them less as peaceful marches than riots. While she understands the righteousness of the protests and the protesters, and knows first hand that yes, there are good cops, she also knows all too well that there are bad ones, too. She sees the conflict escalating from a perspective no one else in the book has, knows it’s a powder keg, and knows it’s only a matter of time before someone lights it.

The final of these chapters will be coming up in a day or two, and shows two heroes, both rich white women, returning to the country from Brazil after a mission, and will, hopefully, be the easiest of the three to write. I know they’re going to encounter problems with security overreach. And I know it’s going to raise blood pressure over privacy issues when I get to it. Thankfully I don’t have to deal with that one, yet.

In the meantime, I just finished wrestling with a chapter that I thought was going to be a fun little aside but proved me wrong.

Chapter 23, in which Xia Lo, former (and kind of still current) enforcer of Cobalt City’s underworld is meeting with the Asian Business & Community Alliance over police inaction regarding increased harassment. They’ve come to her, asking not only to maybe apply some pressure on the police to take these claims more seriously and increase patrols, but also to help them form a volunteer civilian protection force. Not a neighborhood watch. Effectively, a militia. And she knows that while it will help against random violence, it could also be seen as a provocation–reason for the government to use ICE to disrupt the community and sow fear. But maybe it’s a risk worth taking. Maybe it’s time to go to war. Because lives are already at risk. Businesses have been damaged. People have been not just confidently and loudly threatened in public, but outright attacked, including one who was shot dead in a bar in the Hollows (also, the only crime for which there had been an arrest) while the killer shouted that “This is OUR country now!”

It’s making me angry.

It’s making me angry, because this is happening. Not just in Cobalt City, but here. In Seattle. It doesn’t matter if it’s a community that the president or any of his sycophants have singled out for abuse. Violence, threats, harassment against Muslim and Jewish communities have surged, due in no small part to people in power vilifying those communities. But beyond that, this atmosphere of hate has seemingly empowered bigots of all stripes, with the only thing they hate more than people who are different is being called on it. It’s a terrifying time.

And I don’t know how to deal with it. So I write about it.

I write about it so that maybe shed light on a bigger part of the narrative–both Cobalt City and ours. I write about it to encourage people to stay strong in the face of authoritarianism, to push back against Fascism, to protect your neighbors, your friends, your co-workers from the hatred and violence of bigots. I write about it to show that no, if you punch a Nazi that doesn’t make you as bad as them, that standing up to protect someone from harassment and violence is fundamentally different than standing up to oppress someone. I write about it to show that no one is threatening your way of life or your culture simply by enjoying theirs, that it’s not just YOUR country–it’s all of ours, so fucking learn to share.

We’re on an express train to dystopia in this country right now. But it’s still not too late to fix things. Even now. Not everyone can march. Not everyone can go on strike. Not everyone can punch a Nazi in the head. Do what you can. Do what you need to. Then catch your breath and get back out there. And hydrate. Always remember to hydrate.

I might be able to fix Cobalt City. I’m counting on all of you to help fix the rest of it.

In like a wet lion

Rainy Spring in Greenwood

He hears thunder and steps outside, eyes on the horizon.

He’s been hearing thunder. It’s been more frequent since November 8th.

Still no storm. But it’s coming.

If history has taught him anything, it’s that the storm is always coming.

He shivers, rubs the goosebumps on his arms. Rubs his aching eyes. He’s been feeling tired, lately. Tired, sad, angry. It is the new normal. He tries and fails to remember a time in the last six months when a day could pass without incident. Tries and fails to remember a day in the last six months when he couldn’t feel the doom creep in.

He saw a doctor and the doctor gave him pills to fight it.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of this,” she says.

“For how long?”

“Since November 8th.”

“Will these help?”

She gives him a sad smile and a shrug. She gives him the pills. He wonders if she takes them herself. He wonders if they help her.

The do pills help. They blunt the anxiety. Blunt the panic. The internal screaming now a dull roar. The stabbing hopelessness now a dull ache.

The pills help. But they can’t stop the storm.

He can see it on the horizon. A wall of rain-fat clouds bearing enough lighting to set this country on fire. It waits there, terrifying and inevitable. His friends have seen it. His family. Most of them, at least. They’ve talked about the storm.

The storm has been building for a while. The rich getting richer, finding more and more things to steal now that people have no savings, now that people live paycheck to paycheck. They tell people to pull themselves up by their bootstraps while, in the same breath, stealing their boots.

Now they steal our future. Our education system. Our environmental protections. Our insurance. Our voting rights. Our civil liberties. God help you if you’re black or brown, because they can steal your freedom or life without consequence.

We’ve watched them do it.

We’ve seen it happen, unfold with our own eyes and raged and marched in the thousands, demanding justice, demanding changes.

No changes. No justice. Just riot police and tear gas. The storm cannot hear our cries over the thunder.

We’ve seen cowards and kleptocrats, despots and opportunists, ignoring rule of law because their peers in power will do nothing to stop them. Then they conspire to change the rules to keep that power. Maybe forever.

Or at least until the storm.

Because a storm is coming.

A storm that will topple the powerful and restore balance, that will wash the streets with its fury. A storm that will shake the boardrooms and penthouses and government offices. A storm that will empty the prisons and tear down the border walls and slums. A storm that will finally crush the patriarchy and white supremacy.

A storm is coming. Because it has to. Because he doesn’t know how explain to some people that they should care about others. Because he cannot understand how some people don’t understand that basic concept.

He hears the thunder again.

No. He is the thunder. We are the thunder. He looks about, sees those close to him, sees the storm build in their eyes.

They rise as one. They become clouds. Rain-fat and electric as the the charge builds to that first bolt of lightning.

Novel Fuel

Authorial Essentials

If you’ve been reading this blog for long enough, you’ve probably heard me talk about Of Rooks and Ravens, the big, weird fantasy novel set in the world of Ravensgate. If you have missed all the randomness about how the project evolved, that’s okay. It’s a Gothic high-fantasy with an ace/aro female academic forced by fate into a world of intrigue, politics, and birds.

You’ll love it.

Anyway, the big change is that I found a publisher for the book last year and we’re in the edit process so that we can launch in early October of this year. And I realized that this was a great opportunity to talk about edits. And more importantly, working with publishers and editors on edits.

So get yourself an iced coffee and pull up a chair. Shit is about to get real.

I don’t know how many times I’ve edited this book. This includes at least one and a half edit passes heavy enough I’d almost consider them rewrites. It got at least two big edits before I let anyone read it or the first time. And a few more since then.

And you’d think with all those edits, all that time, the book should be in really damn good shape, right?

Well, yes and no.

If you do your job well and the stars align and you get your manuscript out to the right people, all of your previous edits might be enough to get it noticed. They might like it. They might, heaven forbid, actually think it’s good!

But that doesn’t mean you’re done.

Because why the fuck are you settling for good?

With a talented editor or two by your side, you should set your sights on great. But even if you never quite reach that vague plateau, if you commit to the collaborative process with good editors, you can at least attain better. 

They are your allies. They are there with the same goal you have: to tell the best story possible. No, they aren’t always right. But trust me on this: neither are you. Take your ego out of it and learn to listen.

Anyone who has gone through this process knows there are different degrees of editing. Everyone should at least have an extra set of eyes looking for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and the level of things a copy editor looks for. But ideally, you will find an editor who challenges you to look at the manuscript in new ways and find things that you overlooked.

“But Unca Nate! I’ve gone through this novel with a fine-toothed comb three times. I created this world! How could I have overlooked anything?”

Again, don’t get defensive. Do you know how much work I’ve done in Ravensgate? Years and years of work on this university city in the high mountain pass next to a vast, dark lake.


Guess what? It never occurred to me until the last set of deep edits that Preston had never eaten fish before because no one would eat something that came out of that giant, dead lake. It never occurred to me that despite the altitude and the cold that it was weird  the lake never froze over. You’d think someone would have commented on that

And then in an edit meeting yesterday something else occurred to all of us. Not only is the lake, which is so central to the city not even mentioned until the second chapter, but I’ve never thought to actually give the lake a goddamned name.

I’d like to take this moment to commend Alisha Knaff and Christine Smith from Razorgirl Press. The first time we sat down to talk edits, we went through an entire novel’s worth of notes and suggestions over coffee. It took almost three hours. After that edit pass, we sat down again and looked not only at those changes, but at the whole novel and, in particular, the first chapter which was annotated and flagged with tiny tweaks and questions like a conspiracy board of the Kennedy Assassination.

And we dug into those for over an hour, note by note by note.

It was the most intensively collaborative editing step I’ve ever experienced.

And I mean that in the best way possible. Because several of those flags marked things that were already great. Some were simple suggestions of revised word choice. And some were little tweaks to bring in more depth and detail.

I dug into the notes today and started the latest edit pass. Two pages in, and I had to take a break to write this post. Because no matter how good you think your book is, it’s possible to make it better. Because that book you read that changed your life, that blew you away and made you want to be a writer? I can pretty much promise you it didn’t just happen.

I loved Of Rooks and Ravens. I loved this weird story about an awkward girl forced out of her comfort zone and into a bigger world which she has to navigate alongside an utter bastard of an accidental mentor. I loved it more after that last edit pass I turned in earlier this spring. And holy shit, guys, I can’t wait for you to read what it’s going to be when we’re done.

You’ll be able to see for yourself in October. And pay attention to this space. I’ll be revealing more, including the cover, in coming months.



Red Leaves, Blue SkyWhen you’re a kid, there’s this concept of the “cool house” where everyone hangs out. I was fortunate as a teen growing up in Durango in that we had several such homes. Places where we could keep ourselves entertained in a what was, to many of my friends, a boring and sometimes downright hostile town.

For the most part, the parents at those houses were distant figures, keeping out of our way. Old before their time adults who didn’t know how to or care to interact with us at all as we undertook whatever activity we assigned to that particular home. We had the house for day-time parties and games, where the parents were often traveling, or where we could hunker down in the basement and play games when they were home. We had the house where we could listen to music late into the night and experiment with underage drinking in a relatively safe environment while the parents slept like the dead at the far end of the house.

And we had Eric’s house.

If we were going to camp out around a television and watch movies or read comic books, 95% of the time, it was going to be at Eric’s, tucked into the narrow den in what had at one point been a garage. The walls were covered with movie poster and a variety of geek artifacts abounded. It was here that we would have “Schlock Nights,” binging on 6-8 crappy genre movies in a row, all night long, fueled by Dr. Pepper and Doritos.

And no matter the time of night, if you had to go the bathroom, you’d wander through the living room and find Eric’s mom, Jan, watching TV or puttering around in her housecoat. She had a problem with her back, as I recall. That meant she slept in shifts rather than straight through the night.

Jan was something of an artist. And a sci-fi geek. And political. And unlike my other friend’s parents, she engaged with me. She didn’t talk down to me. I don’t remember if we had any long conversations, but we had innumerable small ones about all kinds of topics. One in particular, about the TV show The Prisoner when some network began re-broadcasting it, stuck with me particularly well for some reason. When I made my stage debut as Mr. Bumble in Oliver, she came to the show with Eric and proclaimed I was a better actor in that role than Harry Secombe. She even came to my first wedding. Jan was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, one of my favorite adults.

She had a mysterious past. A single mom who raised her only son while teaching on the Navajo reservation before moving to Durango. Apparently she travelled around the world before that. If you told me today she’d been a spy, I’d likely believe you. I certainly have no reason to doubt that.

Eric and I remained in touch, despite living thousands of miles away. I would still ask about Jan, who moved down the street from him in Cleveland Heights over 20 years ago. I was aware her health was failing. None of us live forever, and she had always seemed a little too rare for this world. So I suppose I wasn’t too surprised to learn of her passing peacefully yesterday with her son at her side at the end.

The world is a grayer, more mundane place for her loss.

Jan showed me that it was possible to live life on your own terms. That being an adult didn’t mean you had to stop being weird. That encouraging creative passions and nurturing kindness might not make you rich, but it could give you so much more instead. She was an inspiration and I loved her.

And she’ll be missed.



Toos of the Trade

Tools of the Trade

That’s the dream, right? Pack the bags and fuck off to some far-away place for an indulgent period of time to write, research, absorb your surroundings, and write some more.

If you’re like me, and I expect many of you are, you rarely get further than the closest convenient coffeehouse or bar.

But still the dream persists. We hold onto that “What if?” We Google the hell out of that dream destination. We scribble notes for that dream project that we would tackle if only time, money, and life permitted.

So, inspired by a conversation this weekend with a fellow writer, here’s my list of Top 5 dream writing vacation destinations and what I’d work on while I was there.

Mexico City

I’ve heard nightmare stories about Mexico City for years. Mostly by people who watched the movie Man on Fire or have a view colored by their interpretation of crime statistics filtered third hand through other people. Is there crime in Mexico City? Of course. There’s crime everywhere. And it’s a huge city with some extreme disparity of wealth from neighborhood to neighborhood.

But it’s also beautiful city rich with art, culture, and history. A good friend visited there recently and every photo she posted made me want to visit more. Ok, maybe not every photo. I’m still not sure about the consumption of chile-roasted grasshoppers, though I hear they’re delicious. I just can’t wrap my taste buds around that yet.

But a month to wander around, hit the museums and libraries, the markets and cafes–that would be incredible.

I have a short story I want to do about a couple of occult “problem solvers” who themselves happen to be dead. It was inspired by a drawing that same travelling friend did. I’d also really love to write some early Gato Loco stories, maybe a novel, that take place during the beginning of his vigilante career. And I can’t imagine a better way to capture that spirit than some full immersion.


I’ll admit, I didn’t really see the appeal of Paris until a few years ago.

Ok. So I was wrong.

A month hanging out on the Left Bank, living on black coffee and pastry at outdoor cafes with a notebook on my table? Yeah, that’s pretty much perfect. Give me a camera to capture the buildings, the streets, the flow of the city, and I’ll be in heaven.

I’ve been thinking of writing a series of short mystery stories featuring Jean-Paul Sartre, one of my dad’s heroes. I picture him and Simone de Beauvoir in post-war Paris solving mysteries. Tie that in with some Existentialism and the atmosphere of the city at that time and it practically writes itself. Though I’d really want to soak up as much of that Paris atmosphere–and coffee–that I could before I undertake that kind of endeavor.

New England

I’ve never been to New England. Odd that I’ve been drawn to setting stories there in the last several years. Maybe my brain is trying to tell me something.

On top of setting Cobalt City there just south of Boston in the crook of Cape Cod, I’ve also got a (languishing) punk rock fable called Winter Lullaby set in the fictional western Connecticut town of Devil’s Gap, and the ostensibly YA project Tastes Like Teen Spirit about a young cannibal who falls in love with a serial killer in Pluto Falls, New Hampshire. Also fictional.

But give me a month, preferably October, to pack up a rental and drive from town to town on back roads, stopping where I need, writing where I can, making myself sick on red leaves, apple pie, and maple syrup, and I promise you, I’ll find those fictional towns.

Fez, Morocco

I’ve been wanting to go to Morocco for decades. I want to go to Fez, the high mountain city that happens to be home to one of the world’s oldest universities, in particular. I’ve been fascinated by the Almoravid period, in particular (1040-1147), for much of that time.

Though I’d want to incorporate much of my month there into a big, optimistic sci-fi novel, mostly I’d want to write non-fiction. Essays about the use of public space in Moroccan culture, and studies of urban design. So, lots of time sipping mint tea at cafes (you see a theme by now, I expect), and walking the narrow streets. Taking language classes in the afternoon, maybe even a camel tour out into the Atlas mountains to see a little bit of the countryside.

As for that sci-fi novel, it’s going to take place in three locations. One is near orbit, so that’s out of the travel plans. The part that takes place in Morocco involves a former NASA astronaut, the last American to go to space, who is finding a late-in-life career as a consultant to a pan-African space program that is building an orbital launch platform in an international race to send a manned mission to Mars. He gets caught up in the intrigue and politics of the mission, very much a stranger in a strange land.

But I feel I need to have that experience to do it justice.

As for the third part of the book…


I’ll be honest. I don’t know how I landed on Cameroon when I was looking at African countries near the Equator to set the other third of this book. Something about the country just grabbed my imagination. I’ve decided the launch platform for the space agency is located there, and one of the three main characters is a mid-level security supervisor for the site who begins to suspect a plot to sabotage the program. And when he is attacked and left for dead, he figures out someone on the inside, higher up on the chain of command, is part of the conspiracy.

Of all the five travel destinations, this one is the biggest wild-card. I don’t know much about Cameroon. In fact, one of the deciding factors might have been their national basketball or soccer team snagging my innate love of underdog sports teams. But I’ve been wanting to visit Africa for a long time, and it’s a huge continent with even more huge cultural diversity. At some point, you just have to roll those dice and open yourself up to the experience.

That is, if I ever get the resources to do any of these writing vacations.

In the meantime, there’s always the coffeehouse across the street.

Novel Fuel

Authorial Essentials

On May 16th, Meerkat Press will release their eagerly awaited superhero anthology Behind the Mask. (It’s available for pre-order now and the advance reviews have been great and the table of contents boasts some exciting names.)

This is particularly relevant to me because my Cobalt City story “Madjack” happens to be between those pages–a fact I couldn’t possibly be happier about. It’s particularly joyous for me, because the concept of Madjack has been kicking around in my cranium in some capacity since late 1991. And I can pinpoint it with that much accuracy because the two initial inspirations were Marvel’s Captain Britain with a costume that was more Jack of Clubs and less flag and… wait for it… Freddie Mercury.

The original Madjack was a British man with a terminal illness who could hold off death but only as long as he remained in his transformed Madjack self. Which he did for a while because he feared what would happen to him after his death. But when the time came, he accepted fate and sacrificed himself so the team could live.

Yes. The martyr trope. Such anguish. Much wow. What can I say? I was 22 and Queen’s “Show Must Go On” devastated me.

And I thought that was it. But still the idea of a Madjack–not a person so much as a concept that was passed down, a symbol of something unknown–it stuck with me on some level.

Fifteen years later, I was living in Seattle and part of a writing group that tried to turn out fresh material every other week. Somehow, Madjack resurfaced. But this time, the story centered on young man from a wealthy family in Hong Kong whose industrialist father dies under mysterious circumstances. Forced to return home from the states, he begins to uncover that his father might have been, much to everyone’s surprise, the superhero known as Madjack. And what’s more, his father wasn’t even from “around here,” and it was up to this young man to pick up his father’s mantle and legacy to avenge him.

And honestly, I never finished writing the story. Never got more than a few thousand words into it. Something was missing.

That’s the thing with what I call “junk drawer” stories. They’re often little more than neat concepts or characters looking for something else to make them complete.

I thought I had that something just a few years later when my love of early David Bowie sparked with the Madjack idea. What if, just what if Ziggy Stardust really HAD been an alien who came to Earth and became a musician? What if his own daughter didn’t really know if it was true or not? A musician in her own right, trying to forge some kind of her own path in the shadow of her exponentially more famous father, what was her story? It’s worth noting that at this point, Madjack moved away from the normal superhero tropes of “person with super strength and force fields and flight” and into something more complicated–“person with extreme empathy and projective empathy, with the other powers stepped down to take a back seat.”

I even plotted out a full novel I’d intended to write for NaNoWriMo in 2015. Called Throne of Stars, it was going to involve the new Madjack hiring John Gallows to act as her bodyguard during a week long period of shows in Cobalt City while she figured her shit out and processed her father’s death (and the followup attack of the aliens who killed him in the first place.) Think the movie The Bodyguard, but with a teleporter with self-esteem problems in the Kevin Costner role.

The problem is, I still couldn’t find the damn hook, and it was bugging the hell out of me. But I figured I could put it back in the junk drawer and let it rattle around a little bit longer. There was no pressing reason I had to write it now, right?

Then January 10th, 2016.

I was back in Durango, staying with my mom and helping my son move when I heard David Bowie died. I was a wreck for a couple of months. And let’s face it. 2016 was a brutal goddamned year.

I got talking with a few of the other Cobalt City authors, and we started kicking around the idea of writing stories about rock and roll set in the city. And I knew I had something with Madjack. I needed to do something with her. I had a few false starts, but something was missing. There was an emotional core that was missing, and I couldn’t find it.

So I went on a drive. No destination in mind, I just packed up my laptop, put a few CDs in the car stereo, and took off in a northerly direction. Sometimes it’s just a matter of getting out of your head and letting things happen. It certainly was in this case.

I don’t honestly know how many times I had to hear this particular song before it clicked, but suddenly it did. I listened to it again and things started falling into place. I kept listening to the song as I raced to the nearest place with coffee and an electrical outlet. And in doing so, I figured out the heart of the story. I posted up in a Starbucks in some anonymous mall off the interstate and dropped down the first half of the story. The next two days, I wrote the rest of that first draft and sent it out to a friend for another opinion.

I loved the hell out of it, but didn’t know what to do with it.

I mean, what to do with a superhero story where no one is fighting crime? Who wants a superhero story about a person dealing with their complicated family life and questions of identity?

Then Behind the Mask showed up on my radar, looking for stories of superheroes on their downtime. It was perfect timing. Weirdly perfect timing.

So now Madjack is almost out in the world and I can hardly wait for you to read it and the other incredible stories in Behind the Mask. I think you’ll enjoy. Madjack will even play a part in the Cobalt City novel I’m currently in the middle of. Her journey is just beginning.

Oh, and the song that provided the final spark? I borrowed my protagonist’s name from it.