ETA: I forgot to mention this one! I’m over at Quackers and Tease today, giving away a free download of Trevor’s Song. Even if you’ve already got a copy, why not help spread the word? My royalty statements will thank you!

To celebrate Groundhog Day and Punxy Phil not seeing his shadow (guess those vibes I sent as we drove home from our sledding weekend took hold), Lulu is offering a 20% off sale today (the second) and tomorrow (the third) only.

Here’s the link to my Lulu page. If you’re an author with a Lulu page, link it up in the comments and I’ll include it here.

If you’re a reader who still loves the print (versus the e-book), go! Buy! Have at it!

Use coupon code NOSHADOW305.

Check out these authors and add ’em to your shopping cart:
Paul Mansfield Keefe
My good friend Maria Savva

You long-time, die-hard groupies may recall my visit to Yellowstone National Park in 2007-8. It was over New Year’s; I packed into three or four layers (I think four) and traipsed out to Old Faithful to watch the last eruption of 2007. We toasted the old lady with champagne. Part of my heart broke that night; I feel such a pull to that area. If there was a way for me to pick up and write about my rock stars from that part of the world, I’d be there in a heartbeat.

I’d link to those old posts but it turns out that when we fled Blogger for WordPress, the pictures got lost and the posts are all messed up. I’ll ask the Tour Manager to fix them, or — better yet — show me how.

Keeping my passion for the place alive and burning is Beth Pratt. I’m not sure what this woman does, but she’s living in Yellowstone. I, of course, am harboring an incredible jealousy for her. And a desire to be her friend and sit at her knee and hear about her adventures. I want to learn from her. Hell, I think I want to BE her.

Lucky me ’cause she’s got a great blog: Beth’s Excellent Adventures: Life In Yellowstone. I’ve been following it for awhile now and I eat up the amazing pictures she gets and her strong but sensible words.

She’s also into conservation and giving back, joining with Harrison Ford and Conservation International. She was doing a fundraiser with them, but it seems to have ended January 31. Which was yesterday. Ugh! I hate being late to a party.

You guys know I like to give away a part of my royalties to charities. Maybe, at some point down the road, I’ll do another one (right now, I gotta make some bucks to cover my overhead!) and include Conservation International. It’s too early to tell; I’ve got other irons in the fire and I’m still trying to bring you guys some new books — and some other stuff, too.

Lots going on over here… lots of changes about to happen. I did a Tarot card reading the other day and drew the Death card as my outcome card. I was totally not surprised. Let’s hope whatever ends is the bad stuff and whatever begins is amazingly good…

Yellowstone, take me away…

If this is your first time visiting with Trevor and the band, welcome! This short fiction ties in to my novel, Trevor’s Song, and will appear in a future Demo Tapes anthology. You who’ve read the book may be quick enough to catch a reference to it, but don’t feel bad if you don’t. This story contains no obvious spoilers — but is the perfect reason why you’ll want to pick up one of my three books and become a proper Trevor Wolff (or Mitchell Voss) groupie.

Mitchell was, Trevor quickly noticed, too dumb or too naïve or too sheltered or too stupid, or too something to realize what had just landed at his feet. Probably all of the above; the idiot was certainly a work in progress.

Trevor, however, was none of the above. When the song ended, he gave Mitchell the old familiar nod, the one to tell the frontman to stand down for a second.

Mitchell stepped back from his microphone and crossed his arms over his chest. Waiting.

Trevor sniffed. The asshole wasn’t giving him the right sort of invitation. Really. This one deserved an introduction. It was going to be good.

But, of course, the guy was too stupid or too something to realize what those round, red pyramids were. They weren’t fucking streamers, like he was probably thinking, what with the strings hanging down from the middles of them, at the top of the peaks. They were way better.

Trevor hoped there’d still be adhesive on the backs. Usable adhesive.

He shoved his bass onto his back and knelt to pick them up. Sure enough, both were right there, waiting for him. This was too good, too perfect.

And then it got better. They hadn’t been used.

He heard a few giggles when he stood up. “These from you?” he asked, leaning out into the barrier space between the stage and the fans. It wasn’t terribly big; hell, the whole place was on the small side. Two hundred people, tops. And only about half that who’d turned out to see the band. And three girls standing there, giggling, their faces flushing with something other than the energy the band was giving off.

One of them had given him a new toy. Even if no one was stepping up to claim responsibility. Yet.

Fucking figured. Even something as simple as this, and no one had the balls — or, in this case, the tits — to own up to having done the deed. Maybe she’d reveal herself later, come up to him after the show, pull the front of her shirt aside so he could see them in action, properly attached and waiting for the sort of attention only Trevor Wolff could give them…

He straightened, feeling Mitchell watching. Eric was curious, of course, and Daniel had stood so he could see over his drums. Not that there had been anything to watch yet, but it was time…

He peeled the paper backing off the adhesive. With his best snigger, he did the same to the other paper, trying to keep both cradled in the same hand. It wasn’t easy; the tassel kept trying to drip between his fingers. Finally, he let it.

Mitchell started tapping a foot. Never a good sign. If the idiot’s face had started to turn red, Trevor didn’t know. He wasn’t looking.

Trevor turned his back on the crowd. Daniel watched as Trev put his new toys in place.

Mitchell took a step back. His eyes got huge as he realized what Trevor had found. With a shake of his head and an arm wiping across his mouth so no one would see him smile, he turned back to the crowd. “And which of you pussies helped Trevor get all dressed up tonight?”

That introduction was better, Trevor decided and turned around, his bass still slung behind him. He grinned and thrust his chest out as far as he could, then did everything he could to make the tassels spin in circles.

Fuck, Stacia made it look easy. But that’s why she was Riverview’s top stripper. And why Trevor was only a bass player.

The crowd didn’t quite roar, but they didn’t fall quiet, either. Trevor could hear some laughter, and a lot of whoops. He tried to shimmy his shoulders. He took three steps forward and four back. He looked over at where Eric should have been, except the guitarist was in the wings, his face buried in a towel and his shoulders shaking harder than Trevor’s.

Trevor tried a few more of Stacia’s moves, and then the audience let loose, howling, cat-calling, and cheering like mad. Still behind his drums, Daniel encouraged them.

It wasn’t until one of his new toys fell off his t-shirt and he fumbled at it, finally managing to catch it and stick it on his bass like a new knob that he’d had enough. Maybe it had something to do with Mitchell, who’d come over to Trevor and was motioning that he was going to pinch the pastie — and Trevor’s tit under it, too. As if Trevor had tits, being a man and all, but that was another story. If you were gonna play the part, you couldn’t bitch when someone else wanted to join in. It was always better with company.

Whatever. Trevor didn’t fucking care — so long as Mitchell didn’t squeeze too hard. He was getting a moment, thanks to stupid-head beside him here.

Or… maybe not. If the guy’d had a clue, Trevor never would have gotten this chance.

He twirled the tassel on the fallen pastie as ge stuck it to his bass and grinned. Too bad there weren’t more people here; it would take awhile for the word of this to spread.

Trevor looked back at those three girls in the front. He’d bet just about anything on one of them approaching and offering to show him the moves he’d botched so badly. Fuck, he wasn’t a stripper. He was a bass player in a rock band, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t have to know how to twirl a tassel.

Just so long as she did, Trevor figured they’d be set.

I’ve been all over Facebook and Twitter with this one; can’t believe I forgot to tell you guys, as well. (which is why you ought to be following me in both spots!)

Author Thea Atkinson runs a cool site called GonzoInk. One of the fun things she does every month is called Rate Me Some. She posts three book blurbs. No author names. No cover art. Just words. You vote on the one you like and one lucky person who leaves a comment will win a copy of the book that gets the most votes. (e-book only, I’m afraid. Maybe an author will kick in a print copy down the road? Hmm. Not a bad idea!)

Now, I am NOT telling you this because Trevor’s Song is one of the three books being blurbed this month. Or because so far, there’s only one comment, which makes it sort of a slam-dunk for Thea to pick her winner.

Nope. I’m telling you this because I think it is SUCH a cool concept. I hope you’ll all play along each month, whether or not my books are being featured. I hope you’ll help make this a success.

And in the meantime, if you’re in need of an e-book copy of Trevor’s Song, go vote. And leave a comment, too. The chances of you winning it are pretty darn good.

Although, the royalties from your purchase are also pretty darn good. Ya know?

Dude. I am old enough to remember when there was a time before Zakk Wylde. (Which is really effing scary, since he claims to have been around for 25 years now. Yikes. No wonder my neighborhood Mary Kay saleswoman told me she lusts after my face. Here I thought it was a compliment…)

I have decided that makes me too old for the test that is included in his new book, Bringing Metal to the Children: The Complete Berserker’s Guide to World Tour Domination. After all, I may or may not have been doing this before Zakk Wylde. Or maybe I was doing it with him…

Still, you guys know I’m a sucker for this sort of book. It won’t be out until May, which is a long time for me to wait. Anyone know of an advance copy you can send my way???

And remember, keep an eye on Rocks ‘n Reads for all the reviews of my music-oriented books — and anything else that strikes my fancy along the way!

So one of the things I’ve been juggling lately is a presence on a new-ish message board, Bestseller Bound. I’ve found a very talented, smart, savvy group of people to hang with (and they put up with my Tech Idiot issues!), who are gung-ho at helping each other succeed.

Which, if you hang out at Win a Book, you know is an attitude I share.

I’m actually a bit chagrined at not telling you guys about this sooner — those of you who e-mail with me on a regular basis know what’s up in my world, and the rest of you will probably find out later rather than sooner — but one of the cool folk, a dude named Joel Kirkpatrick, took the first chapters from a whole slew of us and put them into THREE different anthologies.

It’s a great way to meet some new authors (hint!). I’m in Volume 2, so of course I suggest you start there. Downloads are, you’ll notice, free. That’s to entice you to download them, get to meet the gang, and then go buy the full version of the featured books.

The anthologies are availble on Scribd and 4Share. The links, of course, take you to pdf formats of Volume 2, featuring me. (Isn’t that a Trevor-like thing to do?) You can get to Volumes 1 and 3 from there, in case you’re sick of looking at that hot dude on the cover of Trevor’s Song.

Versions for the Kindle are in the works, and … I don’t know about Smashwords. Drop Mark Coker a note and tell him you’re upset he wouldn’t let Joel list the anthology there, even though almost all of us have the featured books listed there. (And that may be the only complaint I’ve ever had about Smashwords. I hope that remains the case.)

C’mon. Go meet some new authors and check out my friends while you’re at it.

My friend Darcia Helle put together a better page all about the anthologies. Go check it out. She’s got a link to the awesome trailer, to all the different sites where you can download the anthologies, the various formats… the whole shebang. Check it out; you’ll see why Darcia’s so cool.

I’ve had this tab open in Firefox for awhile now. It’s news from Blabbermouth that Tim “Ripper” Owens, he who inspired Jennifer Aniston and Mark Wahlberg movies, has re-opened what was called Tap House and is now Ripper Owens Tap House.

This is one of those rare times when I can actually do more than dream about going to this place. You see, it’s in Akron, which is only a couple of hours’ drive from Chez West of Mars. They are boasting about a family-friendly menu (darn it. Guess there goes any shot I had of going without the kids) and being able to handle high-volume times of day. They also book national and local acts, as well.

My kind of place. Despite not being able to dump my kids for a few hours. I mean, I LIKE my kids and all and they’re at cool ages. But… being without them for a bit is always a good thing. Otherwise, when they leave the nest, will I know how to act?

Anyone who’s up for a weekend road trip to Akron, let me know and we’ll see what we can work out. That’d be a WAY cool meeting place, no?

Rock bands of all sizes and statures are faced with the spectacle of bad reviews. The men who make up mega-band ShapeShifter are no different. They’ve weathered more than their fair share of poor opinions. So when they heard the story of Nestor Maronski and his abduction, they wanted to show their support for the authors and people whose lives and careers Maronski poisoned. They asked me, the ever-intrepid Kermit Ladd, to help facilitate the process.

maronski headline

ShapeShifter guitarist Eric Wallace and bass player Trevor Wolff sat down with Isabelle Forbes, the long-time maid of the Maronski family.

Eric: So, Isabelle, I’d offer you my condolences on the loss of Nestor, but I don’t want to be premature. Are you sure he’s dead?

Isabelle: Er… Thank you. I don’t know for sure that he is dead. All I know for sure is that he is missing. Police are interviewing people to try to find out where he is and whether he is still alive. A lot of people wanted him dead; writers mainly. Indie writers.

Trevor: Some fucks are too mean to die. Maybe Nestor wasn’t really human. Maybe he’s some evil fucking demon who’s immortal and … what?

[Trevor cuts off as Eric gives him an odd look. Speaking for myself, Kermit Ladd, I must say I’ve never heard the usually practical Trevor speak of demons and other immortals, and I have spent a non-inconsiderable amount of time with this band and these men who make it up.]

Eric: You were called in to view a lineup of potential murder suspects. Some people think you let the killer walk. I’m the son of a minister. I get that sort of charity. But for the people who don’t quite get it

[Here Eric eyes Trevor, who feigns innocence, ignorance, or both], can you explain?

Isabelle: I was called in to view a line up, yes. I didn’t recognise any of the suspects. [At this point Isabelle seems unable to maintain eye contact with Eric. It’s almost as if she is hiding something]

Trevor: You sure about that, there, gorgeous Isabelle? You’re not hiding anything now, are you? Like how you didn’t want to put someone away for having the balls to do something that should’ve gotten done awhile ago?

Isabelle: It was dark in the hospital room, I couldn’t see anything clearly. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to identify anyone who was there.

[Isabelle reddens]

Trevor: Yeah, yeah, sure. Like we buy that. Know what we do buy? Maid’s outfits. Want to wear yours when you come over later?

[Isabelle appears shocked and does not reply]

Eric: Can you save it for later, Trev? Isabelle, what’s next? Who inherits the Maronski estate? What will you do for work?

Trevor: I could use a maid. In a maid’s outfit. I bet you’re a better maid than that girl Mitchell and Rusty use. She won’t even fucking talk to me. Me! Trevor Fucking Wolff. And I’m way easier to take care of. I don’t leave whirlpools of blonde hair in the shower when I’m done.

Isabella: Um… [she coughs] I’m not sure about inheritance. As I said, Nestor may still be alive. If he died, I know that he has made quite a detailed Will, and I’m not at liberty to disclose the content of the document, but let’s just say the beneficiary would be someone unrelated to Nestor.

Trevor: It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one set to inherit it all.

Eric: Trev, what makes you say that?

Trevor: Why else would she hang around, waiting to see what happens to old Pissyface? Unless the cash is going to something like screech owls. That’s what I’d thought about doing, you know. Giving it all to the screech owls.

Eric: There might be hope for you yet, Trev. Charity. Isabelle, I don’t guess there’s any way…? I thought I heard Nestor did some good in the world.

Isabelle: I’m not sure where you read that, but I can safely say he did not.

Eric: Nestor was unconscionable to the writers whose books he reviewed. Was he that way to you, too?

Red Barn review

Isabelle: I’m not sure how much I can tell you.

Trevor: Hey, we’re ShapeShifter. You can trust us. Besides, Mitchell’s not here. He can’t put anything into a song if he doesn’t hear it.

Isabelle: What I say won’t go any further? I’m just worried in case he’s still alive.

Trevor: Why? Think he’ll come after you? I told you, Isabelle, you’re going to come work for me. I’ll protect you — and your maid’s outfit. So c’mon. Spill it. You can trust us.

Isabelle: Well, he used to have very strict rules, about when his breakfast was delivered, how much milk went into his coffee, that sort of thing, and he got very angry if everything wasn’t just so. He threw some coffee on me once.

Trevor: That’s it? Coffee? You think that was bad? You fucking think I was born with this schnozz? And this is after some magic-hands plastic surgeon tried his best to make it right, too. I’m fucking lucky I can breathe and you’re going on about coffee?

Eric: Trev, c’mon. For Isabelle, it was traumatic. The best way to deal with this sort of trauma is to talk about it.

Trevor: For you, maybe. But c’mon, Isabelle. Let’s hear it, so I can make sure I’m the better boss. Shit, I’ve got the cooler name. That ought to count for something.

Isabelle: [ignoring Trevor’s remark] Nestor was a hard man to work for. Many of the house staff were fired or left of their own accord because of the way he treated us. He was very rude. Always putting people down. He didn’t pay me much.

Trevor: Think he was hoping you’d offer some other services for a bonus? I promise you won’t have to worry about that with me. Give it time, babe. You’ll be begging for some of the Wolff magic.

[Eric rolls his eyes. Your intrepid journalist, Kermit Ladd, keeps expecting Trevor to put his hand over the bulge in his pants, but Trevor’s hands continue to alternate play with a cigarette and a lighter.]

Eric: Was there anything redeeming about Nestor? Even as a kid?

Trevor: Jerks like that? No fucking way. They’re rotten from the get-go. Trust me. I know these things. Grew up with a few of ’em. Nestor was missing something essential, you know what I’m saying? Probably didn’t know what to do with a girl, not if he thought he could treat those writers the way he did. Hell, I bet he wasn’t even friends with his left hand. I bet his left hand wanted nothing to do with that fucked-up personality. I bet it wished it could get sliced off and run away and get transplanted onto someone better…

Eric: TREV! Cool it, man. Show Isabelle some respect.

Trevor: What does it look like I’m doing? Have I sniffed that apron she’s got on?

Isabelle: Nestor was, as you say, rotten—to the core. He was always having tantrums. I started work at the mansion when he was a teenager, and he was impossible to deal with. I was only a few years older than him and he used to treat me terribly. He often told me I was incompetent, made me feel so small. But his parents were such wonderful people. They treated me well, so I stayed.

Trevor: Yeah, that loyalty thing. Gets a guy every time.

Eric: You did what you thought best.

Isabelle: Yes, I did.

Trevor: Are you a music fan?

Isabelle: Yes, but Nestor would never allow music to be played. Even at his parties. His parties were just full of chatter. He once had a relationship with a musician and it turned sour. Since that time I have never heard him play music in the house. He doesn’t even own a TV.

Trevor: A musician? Do we know her?

Isabelle: Er… you might know him.

Trevor: Him.

Isabelle: I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.

Trevor: Go for broke. Spill it.

Isabelle: I’m not at liberty to say.

Trevor: Who asked Liberty? And who the fuck is Liberty anyway? Eric, you know any chicks named Liberty?

Eric: Nope, Trev. Sorry. Let’s keep focusing on Isabelle. We’re almost out of time. Could Nestor appreciate any of the arts? The ballet? The symphony? West Side Story? Surely someone who grew up with the money and privilege afforded him was exposed to this world.

Trevor: Yeah, like you were, Soul Boy.

Eric: I was!

[Before this can degenerate into an age-old argument between the two men, your intrepid reporter clears his throat. Silence falls.]

Isabelle: He sometimes went to the cinema or the theatre on his own, I believe. He has a vast collection of paintings and antiques.

Trevor: There you go. Sell those paintings and antiques. Since you’re quitting that place and coming to me instead, if Nestie-baby shows up, you can tell him you sold ’em so no one would have to worry that the new help stole ’em all. And you kept the cash ’cause he owed you hazard pay. With interest.

Isabelle: Are you serious about a job? After putting up with Nestor for so many years, I’m sure I could handle you. [She flutters her eyelashes at him] And, I am looking for work… ever since Nestor was murdered… Er… I mean, ever since he disappeared.

Eric: Well, hopefully this means a new start for you, Isabelle. You put up with an awful lot from Nestor, and no person deserves to be treated like that–

Trevor: I’ll say. I really do need a maid, you know. Even if you save the outfit for special occasions. I promise I’ll pay you better.

Isabelle: Well. I’ll definitely consider the offer. And I might take your advice and sell some of those antiques and paintings, but don’t mention that in the published interview [she laughs]; the old dog didn’t deserve to own them anyway. What was that you called it, ‘hazard pay’? I like that… yes, working with Nestor was definitely hazardous. I think I might like working for you. [The eyelashes flutter again]

Eric: I can vouch for him. He’ll pay you better. He might chase you around the kitchen table a few times —

Trevor: Hey! I don’t fucking chase girls and you know it. That’s your job. Girls come to me.

Isabelle: I’ll be sure to do that, Trevor. Thanks. And thank you, Eric, for the lovely talk.

At this point, the actual journalist in the room takes over. Hands are shaken, except by Trevor, who takes Isabelle’s hand and kisses her knuckles as gently as any gentleman ever could hope to. The maid flushes and leaves the room quickly. Eric leans close to Trevor and says something meant to stay entirely between the two of them, but the unflappable bassist merely laughs. And so it goes.

Need more of the Nestor Maronski story? Try here. Or here. Yes, this is quite the sensation!

Not sure who these Trevor and Eric dudes are? Then it must be your first time here. Check out the books they star in here — and feel free to use those buy links!

“Moist,” Hambone proclaims.
“Moist and meaty.”

He digs back into
his steak.
Poor thing.
Dead.
Harmless.
Doesn’t deserve the treatment
Ham’s giving it.

I don’t know who said
steak deserves anything.
‘Cept getting eat.

You don’t get
steak
on a roadie’s contract.

That means
we’re in a restaurant.
Me and Hambone.

I almost forgot
my restaurant manners.
Ham
never
had any.

“Moist and meaty!”
he yelps.

I try not to slide
under the table
to hide.

There might be
someone’s
steak
under there.

One that wasn’t
moist and meaty.

Believe it or not, this is a Three Word Wednesday post!

Ever wondered how real my fictional world is?

Me, too, sometimes. After all, I (thankfully) didn’t marry a rock star. My creation of Mitchell, Kerri, and Trevor was mostly my attempt to humanize people we put up on a pedestal.

Now, the E! Entertainment Network is showing us a glimpse of the real thing. It’s called Married to Rock, and it follows four very svelte women. Three are married to their stars. One is MERELY a girlfriend. I hope she sticks to her guns; from the first episode I saw, I could see danger signs in the relationship. Like I’m some expert… but that’s my point. If *I* can see danger, you know it’s there.

Anyway, the first episode I saw was the one where Susan Holmes McKagan (Hey, nice first name!) went out with the other women and got a bit toasty. And lost her house keys. ‘Cause, you know, she’s toasty.

She’s concerned Duff is asleep, and she doesn’t want to wake him. Which, really, is quite considerate. She decides to see if any windows are open. She’ll get in that way.

Sure enough, the bathroom windows are open. Susan begins to climb through.

This is where I paused my TiVo and let myself envision the scene as *I* would write it. (and we’ll ignore the fact that Mitchell and Kerri’s house is laid out much differently and has no bathroom window to crawl through.) I’d have Kerri crawl through that window and look up, only to find Mitchell leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in a tolerant look that plainly said she was busted — and would need a few years to live this one down.

I pushed play.

And what happens? Duff comes into the bathroom, very awake, a questioning but amused look on his face, and helps his wife climb through the window.

That alone was enough to hook me on the show, but I have to admit to being somewhat fascinated with Etty Farrell. I think there’s a worldliness to her, a wisdom, that’s going to allow her to really be the star of this show. As the show unfolds, we’ll be able to see if I’m right or wrong.

In the meantime, I’ll keep watching and checking to see how much more of my fictional world comes true on the small screen…

In the past, when I’ve done a Musical Hanukkah wrap-up post, I’ve let Chelle handle it. Since I took the fun into the real world, I figured Chelle had no business reporting on how well (or poorly, depending on your point of view) we all chipped in to do.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m disappointed. I was hoping to do better. Now, I have to keep in mind that November and December turned into a couple of rough months for me. Most of you know I lost my cat, Chanterelle, in mid-November. One post can’t sum up the brain freeze THAT saga inspired. And now that I have an only cat, things on the feline front are getting more frustrating — I’d like to be a foster parent for awhile, but while the shelter I’d like to work with has a great woman heading up the fostering program, the head of volunteering hasn’t been quite so friendly. In fact, he’s been downright hostile, refusing to reassure me I’m in the system and will get the e-mail telling me when and how to sign up for the first of the volunteer orientations I must take. Needless to say, I’m frustrated. So’s Cooper. He’s lonely, and guess who has become his replacement family member?

It ain’t the stuffed grizzly bear the kids gave him.

The cat NEEDS a feline friend. I am not a feline. Period.

There were some other things holding me back, as well. Personal stuff. It really ought to stay that way.

This means I didn’t get to promote the Musical Hanukkah Celebration nearly as much as I’d intended to. And… it shows.

In the two months I was counting royalties for my charity donation, I sold a total of 44 books, spread out over the three titles. There were no sales reported for the Apple bookstore, B&N, Sony, or Kobo or Diesel. Thus, these numbers are restricted to Smashwords, Lulu, and Kindle.

We have to immediately erase the 7 books I sold at my local temple, during a signing. I told the temple I’d donate part of my royalties from that back to them, since they are a charitable organization.

Now we’re down to 37 books. Which isn’t bad, given how little promotion I wound up doing (oddly, most of my previous promotional jaunt happened in October!). Nice, big, fat donation, here I come!

But… 24 of those books came from Smashwords. And of them, 20 were freebies — copies of Trevor’s Song I handed out for reviews, downloads from the Troops as part of Operation e-Book Drop.

So I am making a donation based on the royalties for 13 books. Ouch. That’s not much more than I sold in the Kindle store in the entire month of December.

All told, the royalties I brought in came to $34.35. I’d pledged at least 50% — the more money I brought in and the more of my year’s expenses that were covered was going to up that percentage — and that leaves me with a donation of $17.25. About the same as I raised in three weeks in January for the Red Cross.

Yeah, I wish it had been more. Hopefully the momentum ball will roll faster in 2011. I’m aiming to give you TWO books and hopefully some 99c shorts (Anyone want to do me a cover or two?). And I’ve finished three interviews this week alone — and a fourth popped into my inbox this morning.

Now, before I sign off with pleas for you to post reviews of my books (good OR bad) and tell others to buy them, let me remind you that the page for direct donations is still up, if you’ve got some extra change you’d like to throw toward the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. Tomorrow’s Band Geek or Orchestra Dweeb thanks you. And so do I.

Since only one of you took me up on my offer to win a free book if you made a direct donation, Shaunie gets a copy of Thomma Lyn Grindstaff‘s Mirror Blue.

Why that one, and not one of the others? Well, because Thomma Lyn, being optimistic that there would be a million and one donations, sent me a copy. It’s here at my right elbow, so as much as it pains me to not read it, I’ll be sending that one on.

Now. I’m off to write a book. Or edit a book. Or something book related so that when next year comes and we do it again, we can donate a bigger chunk of change.

Daniel had been with Mitchell when the call had come in. It hadn’t taken a lot of discussion for the veto, but Daniel thought Eric and Trevor ought to know what had been suggested.

And then he’d run off to an interview, leaving Mitchell to do the dirty work. Or, as the case — of course — was, hear about it.

“It’s just not plausible,” Eric said, like he had to apologize for his opinion.

Trevor stared at him. “What the fuck? Plausible? Who cares about shit like plausible? It’s a stupid idea and you and Dans were right to say no.”

Mitchell wondered if Trevor even knew what the word meant. He’d be surprised if he didn’t; Trev was smarter than he liked to let on. But over the years, Mitchell had learned that Trev threw tantrums like this, he usually had no fucking clue what he was actually talking about. Especially because in this case, if he could understand Eric, he’d realize he agreed.

“We should absolutely care,” Eric said. “If our fans can’t trust us to be authentic–”

“Wait right there,” Trevor said, holding up a hand. He hadn’t had time to stick his cigarette into the corner of his mouth; he still held it between his thumb and index finger, like a roach. “What the fuck does authentic have to do with plausible?”

Bingo, Mitchell thought, trying to keep his face blank.

“Because,” Eric said, then stopped himself.

“That’s a fucktard of a reason,” Trevor said. He finally perched the cigarette in its place and shoved some hair out of his way. “Why not say something like it’ll taint the pool of samples, or Trev, are you going to do this willingly, or do we have to outvote you again?”

“Want us to?” Mitchell asked. It was getting harder to hold back a smile, but if he wasn’t able to, Trevor would go absolutely ballistic. Trevor’s life, after all, was all about the guy’s pride.

“No!” Trevor got up and started pacing. “I want… I want…” He froze, jerked his head up, and narrowed his eyes. “Do you fucks even care what I want?”

“Always have,” Mitchell said as Eric murmured something along the same lines.

“I want you to fucking use words I get! Is that too much to fucking ask for?”

Mitchell pretended to scrub at his face, the way he did when he got frustrated. He figured that this way, Trevor couldn’t see his surprise. Trevor had just owned up to something on his own.

That could very well mean the world was ending.

“Plausible means it’s believable. So if we’re doing something not plausible, we’re also not being authentic, which means real,” Eric said.

“Damn straight that shit’s not believable. Us, doing one of those New Year’s Eve TV shows?”

Mitchell pulled his hands away. “Unless we’re onstage that night and they cut to a live shot of us for a full song. I can see us getting away with that.”

“But not standing on some stage in the middle of fucking Times Square,” Trevor said before Mitchell could.

“I know people who’ve spent their lives dreaming of being there,” Eric said. “We’ve toured with some of them.”

“Which is why we’re on top of the world and they’re down there, still staring up at us,” Trevor said.

“You’d be surprised,” Eric said. “A lot of us grew up watching Dick Clark. It makes sense to dream about. Dick’s launched an awful lot of careers.”

“Launched? We fucking launched years ago,” Trevor sneered.

“Well,” Eric said, “try this. He can launch us into more homes faster than we may get there on our own.”

“Tell me this, Soul Boy,” Trevor said, bending down into Eric’s face. The guitarist leaned back.

Mitchell watched carefully. Trevor being this aggressive must be another sign of the Apocalypse. As if being invited to be on Dick Clark hadn’t been the first. They were adding up, fast.

“Why do we want to be in more homes, faster?” Trevor was asking.

Mitchell breathed again. So that was all Trevor wanted to know.

“So we can rule the Earth?” Eric asked, his gentle voice weak, as if Trevor being in his face was scaring him. “Remember? Doing that was your idea.”

“Yeah, but I never said we should get there this way.”

Eric shrugged. Trevor stood up and looked over at Mitchell. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I already did. If we’re doing a show and they cut in, fine. Otherwise, forget it.”

Trevor stopped cold, as if he hadn’t heard Mitchell say that the first time. He nodded as he thought that over. “So you’re telling me you’re willing to compromise?”

Mitchell sighed. “It’s not such a dirty word, Trev. Try it every now and then.”

“No.”

“I’ve seen them do cut-ins over the years,” Eric said. “It’s not selling out, Trev. It’s letting people join us. Think how many people have turned into ShapeShifter fans because they’ve seen us live.”

Trevor looked from Mitchell to Eric and back again. “Maybe.”

Mitchell gave Eric a quick wink. “That means okay but it kills my pride to admit it.”

Trevor snorted.

Mitchell stared in fascination. Part of him wondered if he looked like that when he snorted, nostrils flared and drops of snot flying, face totally constipated. The other part couldn’t believe Trevor Fucking Wolff had just fucking snorted. That was about as beneath him as compromise.

Of course, he’d just done that, too.

Maybe, Mitchell figured, it was the final sign of the Apocalypse. If so, there was no way in Hell he was doing Dick Clark. Fuck that. He was going to be at home, in bed with Kerri.

Just in case.

Have you missed the fiction around here? I have. I’ve got some other goodies coming up, as well, so stay tuned. This is my #FridayFlash, #SundaySnippet, and Three Word Wednesday post. I may stop writing to the prompts; I don’t know yet. I feel like they’re not as good as when I just let my brain fly on its own.

Holy open tabs, Batman. It seems there’s been a bonanza of rock books I need to tell you about. And that doesn’t include the ones people have sent me for review! (Remember to keep an eye on Rocks ‘n Reads for the books I review. They’re not all rock books, you know — although the majority are.)

Coming in the Spring will be Ronnie James Dio’s memoir. Well, in the title, it’s called an autobiography. Later in the article I read, it’s called a memoir. Ultimately, I’m not going to quibble (at least until I review it) because, hey, this is Ronnie James Dio. If he wants to call this book a bass drum, I might look at him funny. But I’ll read it anyway.

Although, given that he’s now watching out for us from the wherever-after, it’ll be hard for him to call it anything without a Ouija board. Which I do NOT own.

Next up is some good, old-fashioned fiction. Check THIS one:

Former BROKEN HOPE/current LUPARA guitarist and author Jeremy Wagner has signed a book deal for his debut novel, “The Armageddon Chord”. The book is slated for release in August 2011 in digital format, trade paperback, and a special, limited-edition hardcover through kRP Publishing.

Okay, this guy needs to raise Lupara’s profile ’cause I haven’t heard of them yet. But check OUT this picture of Jeremy. He ought to be the movie version of my Daniel. I am following him on Twitter. Wonder if he’ll be interested…

Back to the books…
Think there are enough bios about Metallica floating around the world? Nope. Me, either. (or me, too, depending on how you answered.) Now there’s word of one from British rock critic Mick Wall. It’s called Metallica: Enter Night — The Biography. And if the interview I’ve linked to is any indication, let’s hope there are smaller paragraphs in the book… holy text blocks, Batman! Yikes! That was HARD to read.

Think we’re done???? I mean, hello? I said this was a MEGA book coveting!

Duff McKagan, who I might be falling in love with after watching him (and his wife. OMG, talk about Kerri come to life!) on Married to Rock, also has an autobiography/memoir coming out. Yep, add that puppy to our list.

And finally…
This last book has less of a metal feel to it. In some ways, it’s a history book that might be more important to me (yes, to ME) than Dio’s book. That’s because it’s a history of MTV. Here’s what the article said:

“MTV Ruled The World: The Early Years Of Music Video” is the first-ever book to focus solely on the channel’s important building-block years, specifically from the MTV’s launch to when its original group of VJs left the channel.

Greg Prato is the author. He’s written other books with really long titles; ahh, non-fiction. How I do love thy coloned titles.

Did I mention I’ve got a crush on Jeremy Wagner now? Did I NEED to???? Sheesh. His wife is one lucky woman.

There ya go. Four, five books, and two crushes. I’d say that’s a pretty good take for one day…

If you’d asked me how I thought I was doing in conquering the TBR mountain range in my office, I’d have told you I was failing. After all, the stack behind my desk of series and rock books has grown to new, scary heights. It has become a new Western peak in the TBR mountain range. Surely this was my worst year for reading since before I started keeping track.

Yet the Eastern Peaks have shrunk. Those are my mass market books, stacked four deep and with two columns bookending (ha) the area that’s four deep.

There’s even been movement in the Southern Ranges (those on the floor, under my desk). Of course, deciding I wasn’t going to finish the first Cirque du Freak book immediately took 11 off my stacks…

Also shrinking was the Eastern side of the Northern range. Those are the hardbacks and trade paperbacks. If I’m dedicated, I might be able to decimate the farthest Western Peak of the Northern range; right now, it consists of 22 books. Surely I can read 22 books in 2011?

Sure I can. To my surprise, I read 93 books in 2010. That might go up by one, if I finish the book by my old professor and mentor Reginald McKnight, He Sleeps. We’ll see. (I didn’t, but did finish Erle Stanley Gardner’s The Case of the Fenced-in Woman.) This is the most I’ve read since 2007, when I read 97 books. So close to 100 that year!

Not bad, considering all the fiction I’ve been working on. (Even though I only got one book out this year. I’m aiming for 2 in 2011, so you know. Hold me to that, okay?)

So here’s the highlights:
I bookended the year with indie reads: Sue Lange’s great Uncategorized and Darcia Helle‘s Enemies and Playmates. Very good, that last one. Darcia’s got some serious chops, so be sure to look both of these women up.

I revisited old literary friends who had series new and old: Jennifer Estep, Robin Hobb, Rachel Vincent, Kathy Reichs, Charlaine Harris, Linda Fairstein, Jonathan Kellerman.

I checked out writers I’ve been meaning to read: JR Ward — yes, I finally began to experience the Brotherhood! And Lisa Kleypas, who is every bit as good as people say she is.

I read books by authors I know online but hadn’t read yet: Anya Bast, TJ Bennett’s The Promise. Loved ’em both. Same for Rebecca Cantrell’s debut, A Trace of Smoke. And then there’s Mitchell James Kaplan, whose By Water, By Fire is brilliant — and who came in person to book club and sat in my own living room to chat with us.

Don’t forget CJ Lyons, who asked me to read some books she’d put up on Smashwords. Really, people, if you are a fan of CJ (and if you’re not yet, you should be), get these. They are great fun! Total formula, but I’m a fan of formula (which makes this a compliment). And CJ handles it really really well.

Some literary gems: Diane Smith’s Letters from Yellowstone. I adored this book, even though when I read Janet Fox’s debut, Faithful, I saw similarities in the plots of the two.

Of course, there are the staples of my life: rock and roll. Joe Meno’s Hairstyles of the Damned could have been the first stand-out of the year, but I happened to read Brian Francis’ The Secret Fruit of Peter Paddington too close together for two books with a lot of similarities. So we’ll call the first standout What the Librarian Did, by Karina Bliss. I read a lot of rock books this year (19 of 93!), but only a few were standouts. RJ McDonnell comes immediately to mind; I read both of his books this year (Rock and Roll Homicide and Rock and Roll Ripoff). Why isn’t RJ on Smashwords? If you use Smashwords, drop him a note and tell him you want to see his books listed there.

Rachel Cohn hit it with Pop Princess. So did Sarra Manning with Guitar Girl. It’s pretty sad that the young adult rock and roll fiction is better than the adult stuff. I mean, hello? MTV generation. What happened us??

Melody Lane to the rescue, with Lex Valentine coming close.

Three Cups of Tea left me aching for more books to sell and more royalties to donate to charity. It was only one of an unusual number of non-fiction for me. Included on this list is Jim Lindberg’s Punk Rock Dad, Mark Kurzem’s The Mascot, and Helen Epstein’s classic, Children of the Holocaust. Don’t forget Joel McIver’s To Live is to Die.

In an unusual move for me, we read a lot of Holocaust lit — both with my book club and me, myself, on my own. Book club read Those Who Save us (Jenna Blum) and The Diplomat’s Wife (Pam Jenoff), and you can see some other titles above (Rebecca Cantrell, Mark Kurzem, Helen Epstein), Tatiana de Rosnay’s Sarah’s Key, which was fascinating if not as shocking as I’d heard.

Mary Sharratt is an author who I’d only experienced once before. I LOVED Daughters of the Witching Hill. A definite stand-out; I still think about quite a bit of it.

Of the 93 books I read, I didn’t finish 22 of them. I don’t make myself finish anything I don’t like. Not when I’ve got mountain ranges sitting here beside me, taunting me with their very presence…

On to 2011. I encourage you guys to pick up any books by the authors I’ve mentioned here. If there’s no title and you’d like a suggestion, let me know. And feel free to leave some of your top picks in the comments. You know I love comments!

**Just a reminder to go on and use these links on the book titles to click through and buy stuff. You’ll get either Powells or Smashwords unless I tell you otherwise. (Links on author names take you to author websites.) I’ll make a few pennies, and those pennies help support this joint. Or will be turned into a giveaway for you guys. Whatever I’m in the mood for.

All right, I’m moving to California so I can be closer to our friend Mary, over at BookHounds. Seriously. I’m the rock and roll fiction expert, but SHE gets all the books! What’s up with THAT???

Yep, that means this book came to me via Mary. Well, the book itself hasn’t. Not yet. Just the knowledge of it has. That’s why I’m writing this post: I covet this book. Gotta read it.

It’s Rules to Rock By, and it was written by Josh Farrar, who’s been around the music biz a bit more than I ever was. Here’s the blurb:

You’d never guess it now, but Annabelle Cabrera used to be a rock star. And not like her mom or dad called her a “total rock star” after she won a spelling bee or something. She was a real rock star, the bassist of Egg Mountain, the most popular band in the New York music scene. But when her parents uproot her from Brooklyn and move her to Rhode Island so they can record their own album, Annabelle feels lost. Starting a new band isn’t as easy as she’d hoped, the school’s rival band is a bunch of bullies, and her parents are so immersed in recording that they’re completely neglecting Annabelle and her younger brother. How can Annabelle truly make herself heard?

And while we’re dishing on Mary, let me point out another one she’s brought to my attention: Steven Tyler’s upcoming memoir, Does The Noise in my Head Bother You? Yes, boys and girls. Steven Tyler. Aerosmith. One half of the Toxic Twins (and the cool light blue t-shirt I have that pokes fun at them. Dad of Liv. American Idol judge. And on and on.

You know, together, Mary and I could rule the rock and roll world, at least in books. Maybe that’s why it’s so bloody hard to get our hands on promo copies of some of these babies…

Our last Musical Hanukkah Celebration piece is slipping in under the wire here. I’m including it as a Sunday Snippet, since it’s set in my fictional city of Riverview, but if you’re here as part of that, only Eric appears in any of my books. Eric’s worth knowing, however.

Springer didn’t have much hope, but he jammed his fists into the pockets in his jean jacket and tried not to hunch his shoulders. He’d never get noticed if he was staring down at the ground. Confidence, baby. Jason at work said it was all about making people think you were confident, even when you were about to piss yourself with fear and nerves. Given how many people were around, Springer decided he’d try anything to stand out from the crowd. After all, even the girls looked like him. Every single person hanging around had long hair and wore a jean jacket.

One more thing about keeping your head up, Springer noticed. You saw things. That didn’t mean he recognized the van that pulled into the small lot at the back of The Rocket Theater. After all, it looked like twenty others he’d seen since he’d been standing across the street. There was no reason to pay any special attention to it. But for some reason, he did.

“Hey, Springer!”

He looked around at the other people hovering on the corner with him. No one looked familiar.

Then he caught the movement from across the street. From someone standing in a shadow near the door to the backstage area.

He raised his head a bit higher. The person responded by changing the way he waved. It went from a wide arc for attracting attention and turned into an invitation.

Springer swallowed hard and jogged across the street, darting between cars, curious who had recognized him — and why. It wasn’t like he had a ticket this year. He could hear a few jealous comments from the pack behind him, but he didn’t care. He’d been picked — for something.

It was Eric Wallace who was waving madly at him. “I thought that was you. Ready for another great year?” the guitarist asked. The guitarist of ShapeShifter had noticed his pretend confidence.

Springer jammed his hands back in the pockets of his jean jacket and gave in to the need to bow his shoulders. “No ticket,” he mumbled.

Eric leaned closer and asked Springer to repeat himself. Springer couldn’t bring himself to be any louder.

“Oh, no problem. I need a PA tonight,” Eric said. “It’s not paid and I’ll run you all over the place, but you’ll get to see the show with the rest of our staff.”

Springer knew he looked like an idiot, the way his head jerked up. His mouth was probably hanging open, and his eyes were probably huge. Like he cared. The important thing was that he’d been deemed cool enough to help out.

Eric gave him a minute to get it together. “Ready?” he asked.

Springer nodded, wishing his tongue would do something other than pulse like a panting dog. At least it was inside his mouth, and at least he’d managed to seal his lips shut. There was hope.

Eric handed him a laminate. “Don’t lose this. Now, go find the production office. Inside somewhere, there’s supposed to be a box full of pictures of the band. Please bring them to the dressing room, along with a box of Sharpies.”

As he hung the laminate around his neck, Springer started walking toward the stage door.

“Hey, Springer!” Eric called.

Springer turned, but kept walking backwards until he splatted against the wall.

“Thanks. We need cool fans like you.”

The impact points from the wall immediately stopped hurting. Springer wasn’t even sure his feet were touching the ground as he fumbled for the door and disappeared inside, intent on finding the production office and earning a spot working for Eric. Suddenly, it wasn’t so hard to hold his head up and have confidence.

Remember, if you haven’t picked up my books, they are now 50% off at Smashwords — but only until January 1. And yep, at least 50% of the royalties from the sales will head off to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. If you’d like to make a direct donation to the Foundation, I’ll be entering you in a raffle to win some really cool books. C’mon. Help out tomorrow’s rockers. Or orchestra members. Or music fans…

How is a Merry Christmas post considered a promo tale?

Well… I’m the one bearing gifts. For you, for your friends, for your family, for anyone who woke up this Christmas morning (even in a metaphorical sense) and found a new e-book reader under your Christmas tree.

From now until January 1, all three of my books are 50% off at Smashwords. And yes, at least 50% of my royalties will be donated to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation.

Here’s the link: Susan’s Page at Smashwords

And here are the codes:
Demo Tapes: Year 1 — UN55K
Demo Tapes: Year 2 — UC87W
Trevor’s Song — zk52R

And yes, the coupon codes are NOT case sensitive. Why do you ask?

Merry Christmas, gang. If you got anything good, talk about it in the comments. And stay tuned for YOUR chance to Meet and Greet, coming in January.

My friend Alice Audrey used Trevor’s Song as her Tuesday Teaser this week. The Teaser is a meme where you post a few lines from the book you’re reading — or, in Alice’s case, have finished but want to spotlight. Alice has been kind enough to feature me twice. (here’s the link to the original one.)
Interestingly, my friend Shaunie did the same thing, back in October. Twice, even.

Yesterday’s teaser from Alice was one of my favorites — and given how many favorites I have in that book (like both of the ones Shaunie picked. And Alice’s first. And…), it’s not surprising. It’s from page 147 in her edition (it’s on like 199 or 213 in my print copies; weird.), and it’s the part where Trevor is saying things don’t bother him. His sarcasm (I hope) drips off the page. So does his pain.

Because it was taken out of context, one person who left a comment said, ” I wonder if he’s the silent suffering type… maybe the music is where he vents out his frustrations.”

Alice initially laughed, then became intrigued by the question.

So allow me to answer it. Since I am, after all, the creator of the indomitable Trevor Wolff.

If Trevor were Mitchell, sure, he’d communicate through his music. Mitchell does it constantly. If you listen closely enough, he speaks through his music. Thankfully, Kerri is quite good at hearing what he’s saying. But… who better to understand a man than his own wife?

Trevor, though… Trevor’s a horrible musician. He’s also not terribly great at communication. After all, he grew up in a household of fear. He grew up needing to hide certain things from the world, and wishing he could hide other things — the perpetual black eyes, the broken noses. Those sorts of things spoke for him, and they aren’t exactly the sort of thing most people want to be around.

In short, if Trevor weren’t so charismatic, he’d be a loser. His only talent is for getting away with things the rest of us can’t. He stirs the pot, and he does it well. He can bluff his way through almost anything… until you hand him a bass guitar.

In my fictional world, it’s a well-kept secret that Mitchell is actually the guy playing bass on the band’s music. Even Trevor doesn’t fully grasp the full extent of Mitchell’s late-night replacement sessions, and Trevor’s a pretty perceptive guy — even when, like in the teaser Alice posted, he’s pretending not to be.

***
In the comment trail, Alice said something else that intrigued me. She said, “The kinds of things that bother Trevor would terrify the rest of us. Not that he’s some big bad vampire or SEAL or anything. Just that his perspective on life is filtered through a different lens.”

It’s that first sentence that gets me. The things that bother Trevor would terrify the rest of us.

This is hard for me to comment on. I’ve never had to face most of the things Trevor has to. Some of it is terrifying when I think about it, yes. But when I’ve been in the moment, holding my breath over a diagnosis or watching a door be closed and arms folded over a chest, there hasn’t been time to be terrified. Only to deal with what’s being laid at my feet as calmly and coolly as possible. There’s no room for terror and then later, when you look back and reflect, you realize how stupid it is to get terrified now, when things are over and done with.

That’s Trevor. I guess it’s also me.

At any rate, Alice has picked up on this approach Trevor and I share. In some ways, because we met via our blogs and because she’s read all I’ve made public that features Trevor, she knows him as well as anyone and I shouldn’t be surprised by her insights.

Yet, I am.

Maybe this is a writer thing. We face so many rejections, so many reviews where the reader misses points that we (and our beta readers and the others who help bring our books to live) thought were obvious. In a sense, we are continually set up for not only rejection, but complete miscommunication. We expect that slap-down, the negativity.

Thus, someone who gets it so utterly is cause for celebration. And that’s what I’m doing here. Celebrating, and hoping you’ll join me. Alice gets Trevor. I know a lot of you regulars do.

Those of you who’ve been supporting this year’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration get a huge vote of thanks from me. It’s been a crummy two months, as I said in an earlier post. I haven’t been able to shout about this from the rooftops the way I’d intended.

However, many of you have done it for me. You’ve helped with Tweets over on Twitter. You’ve shown me new ways to expand my audience. You’ve pointed out places I can devote some time that’ll pay off for me nicely. You’ve made posts on your own blogs, on Facebook… you’ve donated directly to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation, and you’ve given gifts of my three books — to yourselves and to friends.

You’re not only helping me, you’re helping other kids, who may grow up to be like Trevor. Only, hopefully, they’ll be better musicians.

(PS — you still here? Stay tuned for some final fiction from the Musical Hanukkah Celebration. And a new game in the new year that’ll help us all meet some fun new people. I hope you’ll plan to play along!)