West of Mars

Thanks to the generosity of my bud Hank Phillippi Ryan, I’ve got one autographed copy of Hank’s debut novel, Prime Time, to send to a friend in the US. (This is the re-release on Mira Books, with the sexy cover. Check it.)

Prime Time… let’s talk about it ’cause you do NOT want to miss its re-release. Why not, you ask?

WELL. Look at the accolades it won:

Winner of the prestigious AGATHA Award for Best First Novel
RITA Nominee Best First Novel and Best Romantic Suspense
DAPHNE Nominee Best Romantic Suspense
RT Reviewers Choice Award Winner and TOP PICK

Hello? You missed it???? I’ve got my copy sitting on the floor behind me (along with the follow-up, Face Time). I’m going to read it and then we’ll have more Hank goodness around here.

Here’s the cover blurb:

PRIME TIME introduces forty-something investigative reporter Charlotte (Charlie) McNally. Charlie’s smart, savvy and successful—but she’s worried her news director is about to replace her with a younger model. Now—she’s on the hunt for the story that will save her job.

Is it hiding in her email? Charlie begins to suspect some of that annoying Spam clogging her computer is more than cyber junk. She discovers it actually carries big-money secret messages to the big-shot insiders who know how to decode it. Problem is, the last outsider who deciphered the system now resides in the local morgue.

It’s either the biggest story of Charlie’s career—or the one that may end her life.

Charlie’s also facing another dilemma: what happens when a top-notch TV reporter is married to her job—but the camera doesn’t love her anymore? It’s an action-filled page-turner, with humor, romance and a scheme so timely and innovative you’ll wonder why someone hasn’t tried it. A twist of an ending will have readers going back to the beginning to check for all the clues they missed.

To enter, leave a comment. Yep, I’ll give extra entries for anyone who blogs about this or otherwise spreads the word (Twitter, Facebook, or if your friend enters and says you sent them).

You have until next Tuesday, July 7, and then I’ll contact the winner, so be sure to leave your e-mail address! No contact info, no entry. I’ve got books to read and, more importantly, books to WRITE.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is toys. I was flummoxed by this prompt, as I’d had my heart set on posting this. And then I realized I could: Kerri and Trevor toy with each other. Is it a stretch? You tell me.

One more thing before we get to the fiction, and that’s the subtext here. There’s a lot being alluded to but not said. How much can you pick up on, including a reference to our latest friend, Soul Bendorff?

Rusty and Mitchell stood side by side, not touching. That fact alone was enough to make Trevor stop and stare at them. Then he noticed what was on the TV.

Jackson Alcott had died. He’d been fifty-four.

Trevor lit a cigarette and came to stand beside Mitchell. He nodded at the TV. “What’s up?”

“They’re saying massive heart attack. I can believe it.”

“Did he sniff too hard?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Mighta swallowed wrong.” He grabbed Trevor’s cigarette and tossed it on the floor. The sound of his stomp broke up the hypnotic chatter from the tube. It also broke the trance Rusty had fallen into.

“He was supposed to do some shows next month.”

Trevor groaned. Rusty couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d tried to be.

“We’re fine,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t say it.

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“You think with Amy hovering over us like some fucking worried mother, we’re not okay? You’re fucking stupid if you think she’s not watching every last move we make.”

“She called me about ten minutes ago. As soon as we get home, she’s sending me to a cardiologist for a stress test,” Mitchell said. He snorted. “Like I need it. Onstage two hours a night. In the pool a couple days a week. I’m in good shape.”

“You smoke,” Trevor pointed out, holding his thumb and index finger to his mouth.

“Not as much as I used to,” Mitchell said. “I used to smoke a lot more than that.”

“Score one for me,” Kerri said.

Mitchell pulled her into his arms.

Trevor fought the need to gag. Of course these two could turn death into something sappy. Of fucking course.

“Oh, honey,” he said in his best fake-woman voice. “I couldn’t live without you.”

“But you won’t need to,” he said, switching over to a male voice. “Even if I die, I’ll be here. With you. Right here.” He put a hand over his heart and raised his head as if he was swooning.

To his surprise, Rusty broke away from Mitchell and kissed his cheek. “Whether or not you mean it, Trev, you will be there. I couldn’t get rid of you if I hired an exterminator.”

“Tried, huh?”

“Everything but,” she said.

He wandered off, not thinking about Jackson Alcott nearly as much as he was thinking about the fact that no matter what happened to him now, Rusty was stuck with him for life.

Alive or dead. He’d never leave her alone. There was something perfectly delicious about that.

You’ll see why this is part of Only the Good Friday as you read on. Trust me. And yes, this time, you’ll want to trust Trevor, too.

kindle

Now here’s a good one for you. Kindle. Like kindle a fire. I get that. It’s not always the easiest thing on the face of the fucking planet to get a good fire started. Eric can do it. Eric likes to go camping and do all that outdoorsy shit. So when Eric tells yours truly that it takes some work to get a fire started, it takes a special kind of wood he calls kindling, that you have to nurse a fire and urge her along like some shy fan, I get that. I’ve had to nurse my fair share of girls. It’s not always worth the effort, believe me. Girls. They’re a crapshoot.

Eric says fires usually are worth it.

Fire’s some cool shit.

So why the fuck don’t we kindle cigarettes? Or candles?

And what’s with this kindle shit and books? That makes no fucking sense. It’s a stupid piece of plastic that shows the words in a book. No special firewood needed. Hell, no fucking fire involved. It doesn’t even look like a piece of kindling. Not that I really know the difference between kindling and any other stick in the fucking forest. Forests give me hives. No wonder Mitchell likes to hang out in ‘em. He knows I won’t follow him there. Wanker.

But I gotta talk up this stupid-assed thing called the Kindle ’cause you can now make my book zing through thin fucking air and read it on your thingie named after a stupid stick. That means Susan gets money, and she’s worth money. She lets me take this place over like I’m doing now. And she’s got a small enough ego to know I’m the one you all stop in to see.

And while we’re talking about the stupid stick, did you know you can make it show this blog? You bet your titties.

I still don’t get why a book’s named after a stick. I hear it’s all black-and-white and it doesn’t have the pretty colors a fire’s got. I’ve got a band to stir shit up for, you know? What the fuck do I care about books?

Except I star in one. So you gotta read it. You know you love me and need more of me.

I have NO IDEAS what to write a Thirteen on this week. That’s SO not like me.

I keep opening windows and shutting them, ten words in.

NO IDEAS.

This, friends, is a problem.

1. Problem: 1 a: a question raised for inquiry, consideration, or solution b: a proposition in mathematics or physics stating something to be done2 a: an intricate unsettled question b: a source of perplexity, distress, or vexation c: difficulty in understanding or accepting

2. In the grand scheme of life, is one difficult Thirteen so problematic? I mean, think about it.

3. Cats and dogs need homes and people to love them.

4. Hell, so do many children. Orphaned or not.

5. Have ya seen the economy? THAT is a problem.

6. Ever noticed there’s a scale to problems? There’s your problem, which is always the biggest and most Earth-shattering, and then there’s everyone else’s.

7. Including the problems of cats, dogs, and kids.

8. The problem isn’t that I have no idea for a Thirteen. It’s that something’s sapping my creativity.

9. I know what it is. It’s an addiction.

10. See? I told you it was a problem.

11. I’m trying to wean myself off this addiction.

12. You can help. Leave me lots of comments. I’ll return the visit.

13. And you can have more Trevor.

Dewey used to do a Sunday Book Coveting post that I always loved to scroll through.

Now I’m doing one of my own.

I’ve come across two books that I am dying to read. They’re very different books, yet they’re both perfect Susan reads.

The first is Do the Devil’s Work For Him: How to Make it in the Music Industry (and stay in it!)

(Why do non-fiction books ALWAYS have these really long titles????)

Authors Amy Sciarretto and Rick Florino have teamed up and interviewed lots of music biz folk. It sounds like Amy joined the industry not long after I left it; heck, I could have been her. So of course I’ve GOT to read what she’s got to say.

And to switch gears to a nice paranormal romance, Number One Novels alerted me to this one. It’s called Salt and Silver, and it is the debut novel by a woman named Anna Katherine. I love the mental image of a guy sitting by a trap door all day long, waiting for demons to escape through it. Just… ooh. I love it. I’ve got to read this and see where it goes.

So… to the authors of these two books, I invite you to send me a review copy. While I don’t review books here on the site, I would be glad to hook up with my good friends at Front Street Reviews, or with any of my many book blogging friends and guest review over there.

Those of you who remember my recent introduction of Soul Bendorff have been wondering just why I felt the need to create him. Here’s your answer. This was inspired by a true story.

Lately, new people been contactin’ Chelle. Seems there’s more goin’ on in the music world that has nothin’ to do with shows and new CDs and all the musical goodness we be used to.

Chelle’s thinkin’ this is some good stuff that’s happenin’, even if it’s got to do with someone Chelle wouldn’ta thunk of. That’s probably good, too. Even Chelle needs her eyes opened every once in awhile.

It’s them schools up in Riverview that’re behind this. The same schools that educated our four favorite boys in ShapeShifter. Seems they’re smart enough to understand that people’re pouring into Riverview right about now, and all because they want to get close to where the latest music revolution began.

Them educators in Riverview know this. They thought they’d praise one of the influences of ShapeShifter. They want to remind their teachers to get off their duffs and open their eyes. Try new things that’ll benefit not just their kids, but every last body in the world.

They put pictures of Soul Bendorff all over the schools. The administration offices, their mission statements, even the stuff to hang in the schools. They want the teachers and the students to think beyond.

That’s a good idea. Chelle thinks everyone oughta think beyond.

Of course, not everyone be seein’ things the way Chelle does. There’s been some people who think that a drunk like Soul Bendorff ain’t the best role model for the kids of Riverview. They been openin’ their mouths and soundin’ off.

The school answered them by sayin’ that Soul was brave enough to be a revolutionary. That if he was a kid today, maybe the way things is right this second, with everyone so uptight about every last thing, Soul woulda turned out different. Maybe sober. Maybe with a minimum wage job and a lot of regrets.

By usin’ Soul as an example, they say, they’re pushin’ kids to be different. To think big and reach for something great. To think about the tragedy that Soul turned into, drinkin’ himself to death and all the way he did. Greatness takes discipline, they say. The school ought to be teachin’ their kids both greatness and discipline.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Them schools in Riverview are aimin’ to be every bit as revolutionary as Soul himself was. Chelle’s so into it, she’s thinkin’ of movin’ out there and goin’ back to high school, herself.

I originally wasn’t going to answer this week’s Booking Through Thursday question, but Marie at The Burton Review stopped in and said she was looking specifically for it.

Like Trevor, I take requests.

Here’s the question.

One of my favorite sci-fi authors (Sharon Lee) has declared June 23rd Fantasy and Science Fiction Writers Day.

As she puts it:

So! In my Official Capacity as a writer of science fiction and fantasy, I hereby proclaim June 23 Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Day! A day of celebration and wonder! A day for all of us readers of science fiction and fantasy to reach out and say thank you to our favorite writers. A day, perhaps, to blog about our favorite sf/f writers. A day to reflect upon how written science fiction and fantasy has changed your life.

So … what might you do on the 23rd to celebrate? Do you even read fantasy/sci-fi? Why? Why not?

Well, the 23rd is next Tuesday. I’m not big on Tuesday celebrations; I don’t even mark Fat Tuesday. But … there’s a first time for everything.

HOW I’ll celebrate needs the second half of the question answered. Do I read Fantasy and Science fiction?

HELL YES.

In fact, I was at a book sale last week with my best friend Bridget, she who is my right hand at Win a Book, and I handed her a copy of the classic William Gibson novel, Neuromancer. Her son may or may not be ready for it; he’s pretty advanced for his age and frankly, it’s been so many years since I read it, I can’t remember much more than how mind-blowing it is. I ought to read it again, just to see how it’s held up.

The best science fiction, we were taught in that class in graduate school (the class in SciFi/Fantasy, of course!), was prophetic. Certainly, most days, I feel like we’ve moved firmly into an Aldous Huxley world. Brave New World, meet the present. Shit, I even get spam trying to sell me soma.

For me, it’s more than the prophecy. It’s the world-building. Be it space ships or a truly new race of being, think about it. We writers talk often about world-building. But in Science Fiction and Fantasy, world-building is taken to new levels. Everything from the ground the characters (do or don’t) walk on to the air they breathe. From how they dress (why don’t the skimpily-clad women ever fall out of those obnoxious tops they’re always given?) to what they eat. From their government structure to society’s structure…

Okay, this brings us back to how I’ll celebrate SciFi/Fantasy day. During that class I mentioned taking in graduate school, the one that exposed me to A Scanner Darkly, to Vonda McIntyre, to Kate Wilhelm’s brilliant Where Last the Sweet Birds Sang. Sheesh. It’s been fifteen years and these books, bought used and well-worn, still hold an honored place on my shelves, even as books that have been autographed to me by friends come down. (No offense to the friends; in fact, it’s a good thing, as my book spines have faded over the years from the natural light in here)

Wow. That was quite the run-on. Sorry. I got carried away with the great books I read that semester. (and that was only the tip of the iceberg!)

It seems to me that the best way to celebrate is to pull out the world I began building. It was the option offered to the creative writer in the class: write your own science fiction.

You never really appreciate how hard it is until you try to do it yourself.

In the meantime, while you’re checking out those great books I mentioned, check out these authors, too:

Roger Zelazny’s Amber series
Robin Hobb’s entire body of work

All this and I didn’t even tell you about how I got started reading SciFi/Fantasy.

Ah, well. That’ll keep for another day.

Go read.

Ugh. My brain is whirling, and I’ve been thinking about this all day.

The worlds of Science Fiction and Fantasy are rich. They’re lush. They ARE for everyone; it’s a matter of sampling bunches of it and finding what you like.

Go for it. I promise. You’ll love what you find.

In celebration of yesterday, when a woman at the pool wouldn’t give her lounge chair to a woman with a bad back but instead insisted that it go to her friend’s apparently invisible kids, I bring you…

Thirteen Examples of Bad Behavior, ShapeShifter style

1. Call Mitchell Mitch.

2. Argue religion with Eric. Deliberately.

3. Scalp counterfeit ShapeShifter tickets.

4. Sell unauthorized t-shirts in the parking lot for ten bucks before and after the show.

5. Shove die-hard fans out of your way so you can be in the front of the pit, where you prove to the world you don’t know the band’s songs.

6. Approach any of the guys when they’re out at a restaurant, having a meal. Bars are fine; ask for all the autographs you want. But don’t come between a ShapeShifter and his food.

7. Jumping on top of the two girls beside you to get the pick Eric’s just thrown into the crowd.

8. Bugging the band for an autograph that you turn around and sell on eBay.

9. Ladies who hog Trevor. There’s more than enough of him to go around.

10. Fans who tailgate before the show, getting so drunk, they puke and pass out before ShapeShifter hits the stage.

11. When the band reaches out to slap your hand, don’t grab on. Fingernails, even short ones, can cut.

12. Saying, “You look taller on stage.” Particularly to Trevor, who’s not giving the Tallest Man in the World any night sweats, ifyouknowwhatImean.

13. Anyone who tries to steal the band’s gear. Any band’s gear. Hands off. Get your own.

Party on the bus
After the show.

Too many beers
And cookies.

The kind with the
Great
Big
Blob
Of icing
On top.

Beer and cookies
Don’t mix.

Or beer and icing.
Who knows.
Doesn’t really matter
Except that
Whoever brought those cookies
Ought
To be
Shot.

The cats woke me, as they’ve been doing lately, this morning at six. A sliver of sunshine was trying to sneak its way into my North-facing bedroom and I smiled.

Last night, my Penguins won the Stanley Cup. Pittsburgh became the first city whose sports teams won the Cup and the Super Bowl in the same sports year.

Now, regular readers around here, or those of you who know me via Facebook, know that the Tour Manager and I have been Penguin season ticket holders for years. Heck, I moved to the corn-and-soybean fields of NorthWest Ohio (I’m always West of things, it seems!). For two years, I existed on a steady diet of ice hockey while I earned my MFA in … ice hockey? The diploma says creative writing, but the experience was heavily weighted toward the ice.

I learned to play. To coach. I’d spend my Saturday nights at the ice arena, watching the Falcons (interestingly, I arrived the year after current head coach Dan Bylsma left). After the game ended, I’d take myself home and flip on my TV, settling with a manuscript in front of Hockey Night in Canada. (do NOT try telling me Don Cherry’s a jerk. You’ll only make me think you’re one, yourself.) The rest of the week, it was ESPN’s Hockey Night. Detroit’s Fox 50’s broadcast of Red Wings games. Whatever I could find. I wanted hockey.

I have been saying lately that after all that hockey, I moved back to Pittsburgh a fan of … all the Canadian sports teams. Not a fan of the Wings. I can’t tell you why.

Most likely, it’s a ‘Burgh thing, as we like to say. There’s a vibe this city has, one you feel as soon as you get here. Long gone are the smoky skies and bad air (unless those power plants West of us — see? West again — blow their badness our way). What’s here instead is a first-class city. Top-notch health care. Twenty-two colleges and universities. Amazing arts and leisure activities. Three rivers.

And champion sports teams.

Yeah, I know, the Pirates haven’t had a winning season since before the Pens won their first Cup. But this is Pittsburgh. We’re a hopeful bunch, always reaching for bigger and better. The Buccos will get there. The Pens returned. So did the Steelers.

Hell, so did I.

I left Pittsburgh, determined never to return, three times.

I came back, like some yo-yo, three times.

I’m glad I did. Not just because I’m now here to witness this amazing explosion of sports excellence. Not just because the Tour Manager was here, unbeknownst to either of us, waiting for me.

It’s because of that Blue Collar reputation the city’s got. People here work for what they want. They don’t wait for their dreams to come to them. They go out and make them happen. Like The Demo Tapes. Like the Penguins. Out of the playoffs last January, this dude who’d done his undergrad in NorthWest Ohio breezed in and turned things around. An entire city returned to a dream of Stanley Cups at the bottom of Mario’s pool.

There are promises that come with championships won. Promises of excellence, of an ether filled with dreams. One day, that’ll be me, we all think. Maybe it’s not our hands on the Stanley Cup that we’re dreaming of. Maybe it’s a book for sale in a bookstore. Maybe it’s to be able to live without pain. Maybe it’s something as simple and yet monumental as being able to find your strength and reach for a better life.

This is what it means to be from Pittsburgh. West of Mars is simply a location that’s part of Pittsburgh. Part of this legacy of the quest for greatness.

Pardon me now, please. I’ve got some dreaming to do.