tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62145722536127126672024-03-19T15:39:19.216-07:00Rob LopezWriting FictionRob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-77037216026973535542023-11-01T04:50:00.001-07:002023-11-01T05:31:01.588-07:00Sorcerer: Lessons For Writers<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhLR3Zonl3Jkr6s3WCi5oSfguTKdSPlDqdwQ5ATJFIpBQKDERYMFnBGNfo9yciJ-w2Bhg0f7ONutFuNDcmfGqTkaQo9Lc0Ha7n4SgYwWK3200Z9CEooesZAQcxn7NbwnJ1josEmn1neuxVuLiPQHJ9XMeNVUokRPdtzewlRbRaTRikKVRZFVbJFZKv88/s952/sorcerer-os-cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="640" height="737" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhLR3Zonl3Jkr6s3WCi5oSfguTKdSPlDqdwQ5ATJFIpBQKDERYMFnBGNfo9yciJ-w2Bhg0f7ONutFuNDcmfGqTkaQo9Lc0Ha7n4SgYwWK3200Z9CEooesZAQcxn7NbwnJ1josEmn1neuxVuLiPQHJ9XMeNVUokRPdtzewlRbRaTRikKVRZFVbJFZKv88/w495-h737/sorcerer-os-cropped.jpg" width="495" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I watched <i>Sorcerer</i> yesterday. I'd never heard of the movie, but I read a commentary suggesting that this was an overlooked masterpiece. It was released the same month as <i>Star Wars</i>, back in 1977, and pushed to the sidelines by George Lucas's blockbuster and quickly forgotten.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Roy Scheider was in it. He was the star of <i>Jaws </i>two years prior. I liked <i>Jaws</i>, so I watched <i>Sorcerer</i>. What follows is a writer's view of a movie. It contains my opinions on what makes a story work, with insights into structure, characterization and even marketing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It also contains spoilers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">First off, I'd just like to say how awesome the movie poster is. That image is taken directly from a scene in the movie. More on that later. But it's a beautiful image.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The movie is about four men from different backgrounds who are stuck in poverty in a small village in Colombia. The four men need money to get out, so they volunteer to transport a load of unstable dynamite through jungle and rough terrain to a mine where the explosives are needed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Not that compelling a premise, to be honest, but there have been many movies about average characters from comfortable backgrounds who are forced to work together to survive in some harsh wilderness setting. From that era I can remember <i>The Flight of The Phoenix</i> and <i>Deliverance</i>. These kinds of movies work best when highlighting the interactions and conflicts between the characters and how they cope with being tested by their environment. Get that right and you've got a good story.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Sorcerer</i> doesn't get it right. Here's why.</span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Prologues</span></h2><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Amateur writers love prologues. Professional writers discourage their use. Why? Because prologues are hard to get right and often unnecessary.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Why use a prologue? Well, some stories start slow and take a while to build, so a prologue can be inserted with, say, an action scene, to spice things up prior to the actual story. That way they serve as teasers, promising readers, or an audience, that things will get exciting later on if they stick with it.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The question to be asked is: why not make the story more interesting from the get-go and hook the reader with that instead? You don't need a prologue then.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A prologue that exists simply to provide backstory is the kiss of death. Readers will just skim past that.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What does this have to do with the movie <i>Sorcerer</i>? Well, <i>Sorcerer</i> has <b>four</b> prologues.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes, you read that right. The first three prologues are not even in English. This caused moviegoers to walk out of theaters, thinking they'd accidentally walked into a foreign movie without subtitles.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Very avant-garde.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The film makers had to display a disclaimer in theaters to clarify the confusion. When you have to explain something to an audience that isn't readily obvious with mere viewing, you know you've done something wrong.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The prologues take up the first twenty minutes of the movie.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How essential are they? Not very. They exist to explain why the four characters are in Colombia to begin with. You don't need prologues for that. A skilled writer or director can extract that information from the characters themselves. Bring it out in dialogue and let the actors act. Removing the prologues would allow for more screen time to actually explore this and develop the characters better.</span></p><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Characters, what characters?</span></h1><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For this kind of story, the interaction between actors is key, and for that you need complex and fully fleshed out characters.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Sorcerer</i> gives you question marks instead.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">First, we have the Assassin. He shoots a man. Why? We have no idea. He flies to Colombia, stopping by in the village where the story takes place. He's only in transit, but he decides to stay instead. Why? No idea. When the call comes for volunteers to drive the trucks, he puts his hand up. Why? No idea.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There could be some compelling reason for why he does these things, but we never find out what they are. He dies and takes his secrets with him. He didn't need to be in the movie.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then we have the Terrorist. A radical young Arab who plants a bomb in Jerusalem. His friends are killed by Israeli security forces while he alone escapes. Why did he choose to go to Colombia when he had a dozen Muslim countries to hide himself in? No idea. He works at the mine. He volunteers to drive one of the trucks. Why? No idea. Later, he gets to use his unique knowledge of explosives to clear an obstacle that prevents the trucks from reaching the mine. That's his one contribution. He has a potential humanizing moment when one of the other characters talks about a wife in Paris. Does this make the terrorist wonder about his own relatives back home? The friends he lost? The innocents he killed with his bombs? We'll never know because he dies abruptly the following minute.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So how do the other characters feel about having a terrorist in their midst? They don't know and we don't know, because the characters barely talk to each other the entire movie. Almost no conversations. The characters just don't matter to each other. And they won't matter to you either.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Frenchman is the only person we ever understand. In his prologue we see him with his wife. They share moments in their rich life. Their relationship is strong. But he's a businessman and his business is in trouble. A prosecutor is on his case for something illegal that happened regarding finances, and the Frenchman is forced to leave the country. In Colombia we see him working as an engineer at the mine and fixing truck engines. Does he have a background in engineering? No idea. Maybe sipping champagne in Paris gave him that insight. He remains the most likable character. He never killed anyone that we know of. He could be the main character of the group. The leader. Alas, he dies abruptly and that's the end of him.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Gangster is the main character. He's played by Roy Scheider, the only recognizable name on the billing. His gang raids a stash in New Jersey that belongs to a more powerful gang. The gangster has to flee the country to avoid the hitmen. He lives in the Colombian village next to the mine. What does he do for a living there? No idea. We never see him work.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The arrival of the assassin could have been interesting. Maybe he was a hitman sent to kill the gangster. That would have been worth exploring, and added something to the story. Or something to keep us guessing with.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nope. It's never used. Another opportunity missed.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The director described Roy Scheider as an 'everyman' type of character. He was also described as that in <i>Jaws</i>. What that really means is that Scheider is a bland actor. He's supposed to be a hard-bitten gangster, but he's no De Niro and he doesn't really convince. His leadership is not pivotal to the success of the mission, he doesn't show any special skills that make him indispensable, and he remains gruff and unlikable.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At the end of the movie, when the gangster receives his reward from the mining company, two obvious American hitmen step out of a taxi and walk into the bar where the gangster is. It looks like the Mafia found him after all, and there's no happy ending.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's a neat twist. Unfortunately, we don't really get enough from the character to care about him, so his end doesn't matter. The movie ends with a shrug.</span></p><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The bones</span></h1><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The problem with the movie's plot is that it's a skeleton with no flesh on it. This is what a first draft looks like. Great potential, but in need of more to fill in the gaps and strengthen the story.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's weak and watered down. Conflicts between the characters? Wasted. Motivations? Not explored. Development? Doesn't happen. Exploration of the local situation? Only hinted at.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The entire movie is a teaser trailer for a movie that never got made.</span></p><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The details</span></h1><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's not a lazy movie. There really is attention to detail. Like the scene in Jerusalem. And the angry revolt near the mine. Setting the valve clearances on an engine while it's running (how many writers would know that?). The nitroglycerin leaking from the dynamite. The ingenious method used to improvise a trigger for the explosives. There's a ton of details such as these that imply serious research.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And the crossing of the rope bridge with the vehicles is easily the most amazing scene in the movie. It may be worth the price of admission alone.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But details and scenes of suspense don't make a great story. They are what you hang the story off. On their own they are just the framework. But where's the story?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The characters are the story. They always are. Nobody, for instance, creates a story about rocks. Not unless they make the rocks talk. In which case, they are no longer rocks.</span></p><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What's with the title?</span></h1><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Titles are important. They are the first thing you market. <i>The Shawshank Redemption</i> was a box-office flop. It grew via word-of-mouth to become a much-loved classic. But it was a box-office flop. Because nobody could tell from the title what it was about.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A title should give you some information about what you are going to get.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My first ever novel was titled <i>Even The Dead Dance To Live</i>. Cool sounding title, right? Can you guess what kind of novel it was? What genre? Whom the intended audience was? I'll give you a moment to figure it out.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Got it yet? That's right, it was a science fiction space opera. Did you get it?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No. Who would? It was a terrible title. Cool doesn't mean good, not in this game.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So the movie is called <i>Sorcerer</i>. Have you read anything in my review so far to indicate why it was called that? No. The director/producer called the movie that because one of the trucks in the story bears that name. Is it obvious in the movie? No. Is it referenced within the movie? No. Is that particular truck - the one in the poster actually - pivotal to the plot or a character in its own right? No. The truck doesn't make it to the end of the movie. Nor does the star of the movie even drive it. He drives the other truck.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's an arbitrary name that makes no sense. The movie was based on the book called <i>The Wages Of Fear</i>. That's a better title. But they chose <i>Sorcerer</i>. Like <i>The Shawshank Redemption</i>, the movie was D.O.A.</span></p><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Responsibility</span></h1><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The movie bombed in 1977 and lost a ton of money. Many people weren't aware of its existence. Most people forgot about it. Nowadays, critics are trying to revive its reputation. It was misunderstood. It was experimental. The audience were too stupid to appreciate it. The movie was shot in a French New Wave style similar to <i>The Battle of Algiers</i>.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When I watched it I too was reminded of <i>The Battle of Algiers</i>. But <i>The Battle of Algiers</i> was a dramatization of actual events, with many key players, none of whom can be stars, because that's real life. <i>Sorcerer</i> was fiction, much smaller in scale and ambition. The nouveau style didn't suit it, and made it look silly instead.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The director defended the movie, claiming it was a metaphor. He referenced a single line by the Frenchman's wife as justifying the entire plot. It doesn't, because it was easily forgotten, and he hadn't added enough elements to truly frame the metaphor. Simply saying it afterwards doesn't make it so.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He said he wanted to make a movie without melodrama, sentiment or heroes to root for. He succeeded and produced something bland, pointless and not worth getting out of bed for.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Critics like to laud experimental flops as being brave and therefore deserving of praise merely for existing. In this case they forget that <i>Sorcerer</i> was beaten by another experimental movie. That movie was <i>Star Wars</i>. It's hard to understand these days the risks that George Lucas took with that movie. Sci-fi movies were meant to be B-movies at that time. No one was supposed to take them seriously. George Lucas took his B-movie seriously. He was also lucky that he had a wife who was an excellent editor. She at least had the basic elements that she could work with.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's unlikely she would have been able to save <i>Sorcerer</i>.</span></p><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Lessons for writers</span></h1><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Sorcerer</i> was a movie. Movies aren't books. But stories are stories and lessons can still be learned. Especially when it comes to trying to sell those stories.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Look at the image in the movie poster. Now look at the title. Do they fit with each other?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Titles and book covers draw attention and lead a reader to the description. Together, these things create expectations. Will those expectations be met once the reader begins reading the story? If not, how willing are you to test a reader's patience?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How necessary for a story is a scene? If it's not really that necessary, consider scrapping it. The same goes for characters. Either make them more necessary or get rid of them. You can always give their lines or actions to another character instead.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Love a character or hate a character. Just don't make them indifferent. Characters need weight. Flimsy and weightless characters float away, never to be remembered again. Leading characters need more weight.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Don't get caught up in research at the expense of the story. Cool details are secondary, not primary.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Breaking accepted story rules takes skill. Following accepted rules is easier. Check your ambitions. Experimental stories or techniques crash and burn with only the slightest of mistakes. Standard stories are more resilient. Understand what you're doing.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Everyone makes mistakes. Just don't blame your readers.</span></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-48749765127782743302023-10-31T12:29:00.001-07:002023-10-31T12:29:23.530-07:00Updates and Housekeeping<p> <span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The Operator</i> has been out for about a month now, and while it hasn't broken any records, it's doing better than I expected considering this is my debut in the Thriller genre. I've been busy with deliveries at work as orders ramp up for the Christmas season, but I've been sketching out and outlining the next book in the series, with a couple of scenes being drafted already. Matt Beach's next adventure will be more of a spy thriller, and will thus be a <i>little</i> more complicated and subtle. Up to a point. But I'm tossing ideas around and setting things up ready to begin writing properly in January. In the meantime I still need to figure out a few more ideas for the plot.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Before that happens, however, I need to get the paperback of <i>The Operator</i> out. Fortunately I've booked a week off next month to sort out the formatting and the cover for the size I need, then I'll order a proof copy. If it is to my liking, then I'll publish the paperback on Amazon by late November of early December.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The eagle-eyed among you will notice that my Science Fiction Space books have been removed from my Amazon catalog. <i>Shakespeare's Requiem</i> wasn't doing so well - nobody was reading it - so I've retired it to focus on expanding my Thriller catalog. <i>Hell's Gate</i>, which wasn't doing so badly, has been suspended from publication while I figure out what to do with it. It was Book 1 of a series, but Book 2 fell apart in the making. Unfortunately, the way <i>Hell's Gate</i> ended made it clear there would be a follow-on. I may change the ending to make it more a stand-alone book and republish it. I'd like to continue the series, but I'm focused on Matt Beach for the moment, and will be for a couple of years I think, so it may be a while before I produce a sequel to <i>Hell's Gate</i>. Or it may not happen. It's hard to tell.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">October felt like a long month. Let's see how November pans out. And no, I'm not thinking of Christmas yet. That still feels far off, even though people are saying it's just around the corner. It's not.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And I've just realized that I'm writing this on Halloween, which is fairly significant across the pond. It's growing in significance here in the UK too. But I don't give a crap about it, and never did. It wasn't part of my childhood. If it was part of yours, I'd like to hear it.</span></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-33563096706287167102023-09-04T06:38:00.000-07:002023-09-04T06:38:04.578-07:00The Operator<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdiTv2pzlYIyInCYcowcvWj6G25ySJqcF7924DO_ojbtUHZw2RMrUwpXVMHlOGGUS3Pe8nBOdCrbjqBJpDdNgvULjWWLuk70FBpvazgVl5W_eP-I5JfqKEVg-0i0aqg-Fauvdv1_VK_KqOd6wAlgg77QeYd1cwv5cSlbylw9Ayt0sc_tz3gAxmgq15vPU/s344/The-Operator-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdiTv2pzlYIyInCYcowcvWj6G25ySJqcF7924DO_ojbtUHZw2RMrUwpXVMHlOGGUS3Pe8nBOdCrbjqBJpDdNgvULjWWLuk70FBpvazgVl5W_eP-I5JfqKEVg-0i0aqg-Fauvdv1_VK_KqOd6wAlgg77QeYd1cwv5cSlbylw9Ayt0sc_tz3gAxmgq15vPU/s16000/The-Operator-small.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm pleased to announce that my new novel, <b>The Operator</b>, is now out on pre-order at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CH6PV4DQ" target="_blank">Amazon</a>. It goes live on September 8th, 2023.</span></div><p></p><blockquote><p lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Former
Navy SEAL Matt Beach runs a bar in the Bahamas. He’s living the
life. Then a stranger comes into his bar and offers to recruit him
for some shady purpose, saying he was sent by an old buddy of Matt’s.
When that same buddy winds up dead, south of the border, Matt sets
out to find out why.</p><p lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Pursued
by mysterious assailants and stonewalled by corrupt officials, Matt’s
investigation takes him from the swamps of Florida to the jungles of
Guatemala. What he uncovers gets more sinister the deeper he goes.</p><p lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p><p lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As
the danger grows and the stakes rise, Matt will need to use all his
skills just to survive.</p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">99c on pre-order, $2.99 once it goes live.</span></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-21570394572298683582023-06-28T12:17:00.000-07:002023-06-28T12:17:35.123-07:00Rogue Timetable<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHnPpjQtI7X8dv4XncWyWf2DjcuOta5uLTSP42bjZTzbA8PW8Yu5l-Gu3pO4KxlyQSQ89jgpgMcmlLFF7CNbCSIP2a-fUlkzkwZhDs9IDbUB8xRqLW9rdvcJJt67La_M67n7cpH3uZ1rd0k9kieRmvKhVx0l9FMcFzi3nreQKSu0zhQV0sg9U3-_Hk3zA/s914/Blog-Post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="914" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHnPpjQtI7X8dv4XncWyWf2DjcuOta5uLTSP42bjZTzbA8PW8Yu5l-Gu3pO4KxlyQSQ89jgpgMcmlLFF7CNbCSIP2a-fUlkzkwZhDs9IDbUB8xRqLW9rdvcJJt67La_M67n7cpH3uZ1rd0k9kieRmvKhVx0l9FMcFzi3nreQKSu0zhQV0sg9U3-_Hk3zA/w400-h250/Blog-Post.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">There's a new hero in town, and his name's Matt Beach. Coming to a book near you.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Eventually.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Remember when I said I'd be writing when I can, sometimes in the van during work breaks? I did that. And the results were ... not quite what I hoped.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I finished the first draft in March this year, and I hoped that the draft could be polished into a final book, ready for release by Easter. Yeah, no. Turns out the first draft was pretty bad, and needed more than just polishing. It needed a complete rewrite.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">So that's what I've been doing, and I'm about 75% of the way through it. It's a lot tighter and more professional now, but these things take time. It's looking more like a summer release now. Maybe even fall.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">What can you expect from this offering? Well, it's definitely a thriller. You can call it a spy or action thriller. Or action mystery. I'm up in the air about that, as I am about the title. But it is an old-school thriller, set in modern times. Inspired by the likes of Alistair Maclean, Len Deighton, Martin Cruz Smith and Jack Carr, to name just a few. It will follow the adventures of an ex-Navy SEAL investigating the death of a friend, and will journey from the swamps of Florida to the jungles of Guatemala.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Fast paced? Action packed? Very much so. It will also be the beginning of a series. Possibly a long one. I think this character can carry it. I'm already sketching ideas for the sequel.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I'll post again when I have a definite release date.</span></div>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-54619144032174239252022-10-31T09:38:00.000-07:002022-10-31T09:38:06.709-07:00A Complete Change Of Course<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3IQ7NTYFz25HwBxxF5QIbTVidhxbOLk97-iIT886tWZqGXA4wZBGx-rCJAgglc-LOxzkqmbvRzjO_S0jVidAy9lQjXLpp6whD5KForBUQPkuDGxC8FyNMbwKdTXTXR_wGJav-MTgSXUCFYzYt6RLpqYhSdfZ9KqY8C4jXNQXqUOc21pPjExHQZWN/s2048/August%202011%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1346" data-original-width="2048" height="421" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3IQ7NTYFz25HwBxxF5QIbTVidhxbOLk97-iIT886tWZqGXA4wZBGx-rCJAgglc-LOxzkqmbvRzjO_S0jVidAy9lQjXLpp6whD5KForBUQPkuDGxC8FyNMbwKdTXTXR_wGJav-MTgSXUCFYzYt6RLpqYhSdfZ9KqY8C4jXNQXqUOc21pPjExHQZWN/w640-h421/August%202011%20001.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm beached. I was sailing merrily along after publishing <i>Solar Storm</i>, and things looked good. The sea was flat calm and life was almost easy. Then Covid hit. Clouds had already been gathering before then, for no sea remains calm for long, but after that it was a full-on storm. The sequel to the <i>Solar Storm</i> series, <i>Into Darkness</i> (an apt title if ever there was one), didn't do so well. In music-industry parlance, it failed to chart. Loneliness and depression were already lashing at me, and financially things were looking grim. With no demand (seemingly) for any more of my post-apocalypse books, I tried a science fiction book, writing a story that had been with me for some time. It was actually the last of the stories that had been in my head for years.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It flopped. I thought it was a great story, with possibly the best cover I've ever done, but nobody cared. By then I'd reached the end of my tether, and I'd also run out of money. I got a job delivering groceries for a well-known UK supermarket chain. I'm still there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's given me a lot of time to think. There's an unmistakable beauty to driving a delivery van to villages in South Shropshire and the Welsh hills. I see the dawn mist in the valleys, and sunsets over distant mountains. It's been very therapeutic, which is pretty rare for a job. I get to see great places and I get paid for it. I cannot complain.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The science fiction sequel I've been writing this year kind of sputtered out and died of apathy. I used to put my heart and soul into my books. I have neither now. I used to be a seat-of-the-pants type of writer, what we in the trade call a <i>pantser</i>, and it's an approach that involves me getting lost in the story to the point of actually living it. I would start with a vague idea, maybe something for an ending, then I would wing it, wandering through the story and seeing where it would take me. It's a very undisciplined way of writing a novel, but it also creates more of an experience - almost like a drug trip - which enters the story itself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Unfortunately, pantsing requires a lot of time getting into the role - a bit like being a method actor. And writing when I'm not in the mood it produces writer's block. Or some forced drivel that later gets deleted. Now that I don't have so much time - and being easily distracted by my various troubles - it's a style of writing I can no longer sustain. So I'm left with a choice: find another way to write, or quit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The opposite of pantsing is plotting. Plotting is logical - you write out the plot beforehand, so that when you start the story, you know exactly what to write next, because you know the plot. I could never get this method to work for me, however. I get my story ideas when I'm <i>in</i> the story. In the zone, so to speak. Out of the zone, I'd stare at the page, just not feeling it, and the page would stay bare, the ideas failing to materialize. But as I said, I'd reached a dead end with my normal style of writing, and while it had a good run, it couldn't continue. So last month I set about constructing a plot for an action thriller, scene by scene.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Perhaps I hadn't persevered enough in trying to write plots before, but this time I managed to create a full scene-by-scene synopsis. Does it have the same soul as my past works? Possibly not, but those stories are written now, and my bank is dry, so I need to make new stuff up. That is a writer's job after all - to make stuff up. A bit like journalism, but without the immorality (and no, I don't buy that crap about journalists writing <i>The Truth</i>. I read their stuff and, as a writer, I see right through that crap. I see the manipulation of emotions and the attempt to lead the reader, because that's exactly how it works in fiction too. Just for different reasons).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And why an action thriller? For the money. I'd been watching Amazon's <i>The Terminal List</i>, and found it to be better than I expected (seeing what streaming services had been putting out recently kept my expectations in the basement). And I used to read thrillers. Plus I always like to include action in my stories, and military or ex-military characters. So I thought it would be a good test for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's a nakedly commercial enterprise, written by hand on paper, often during breaks in my van as I watch sunsets over the hills. I can't say where this is going to go, or whether it will come to anything, but I'm giving it a shot.</span></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-85463577249453063802022-02-02T05:34:00.003-08:002022-02-02T05:34:43.947-08:00A Series Name Change<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEdvSzw-EU29Zzmd1MHTlNpiquNV0sgbWEWwawFMEAQsfKK_whXQ5zkdVIS0ACIGC0U5iC-hZCycYaMzQfY7pbAQi_s4LhQCbq9392S0ZDvWxquJ8OBMw4oeeTbftB3PaOm4I2NLBnh0uLqLEtPqJOpqiYw8jDgIYe0-AuusliQLvzoMsiF1R8-klR=s549" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEdvSzw-EU29Zzmd1MHTlNpiquNV0sgbWEWwawFMEAQsfKK_whXQ5zkdVIS0ACIGC0U5iC-hZCycYaMzQfY7pbAQi_s4LhQCbq9392S0ZDvWxquJ8OBMw4oeeTbftB3PaOm4I2NLBnh0uLqLEtPqJOpqiYw8jDgIYe0-AuusliQLvzoMsiF1R8-klR=s16000" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">When I first released <i>Hell's Gate</i> not long ago, it was to be the first book in a series known as <i>Gene War</i>. That's bugged me since, because that's a dumb name for a series. In fact, it was a last minute change, as it was meant to be <i>Ezra's war</i>. So I changed it back to what it always should have been. This suits the series better, as it really does revolve around the title character.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One reviewer has already described Ezra as mentally ill. That's not correct, but clearly Ezra's not going to everyone's cup of tea. As an author, that's a risk, but anybody who's read my books should know that I'm not really into vanilla characters. Or vanilla stories, for that matter. Well, each to their own.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Circumstances in my personal life have also changed, leaving me less time to write than before. I already wrote slow, so this pushes any timelines out into the weeds. I could even have a George R.R. Martin moment.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I do my best with what I've been given, but I <i>am</i> working on Book 2. It'll just take time. But <i>Ezra's War</i> promises to be as intriguing as the character himself. With a whole galaxy to play with, I hope this will be as exciting to read as it is to write. It should be worth the wait.</span></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-60609892269245441802022-01-01T04:36:00.000-08:002022-01-01T04:36:06.478-08:00Asimov's Foundation and Climate Change<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSRd94QmV7HfQpTkC6AiuDHpLaTCQYkLb_XsoeVa0A_EtNHuuXqeD2WVpuhgtrDBux1r3pgWzjAfckqTZrn6wiBZa6kOQHtVo2Tm6lBoSiCqYlHSMt8xkUe1Aa1Lr_Yht7HDbueMXo3ks/s964/foundation-asimov-cover.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="940" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSRd94QmV7HfQpTkC6AiuDHpLaTCQYkLb_XsoeVa0A_EtNHuuXqeD2WVpuhgtrDBux1r3pgWzjAfckqTZrn6wiBZa6kOQHtVo2Tm6lBoSiCqYlHSMt8xkUe1Aa1Lr_Yht7HDbueMXo3ks/w390-h400/foundation-asimov-cover.png" width="390" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In Isaac Asimov's book, <i><b>Foundation</b></i>, a character named Salvor Hardin says the following:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">"We're receding and forgetting, don't you see? Here in the Periphery they've lost atomic power. In Gamma Andromeda, a power plant has blown up because of poor repairs, and the Chancellor of the Empire complains that atomic technicians are scarce. And the solution? To train new ones? Never! Instead they're to restrict atomic power ... Don't you see? It's Galaxy-wide. It's a worship of the past. It's a deterioration - a <i>stagnation!</i>"</span></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Asimov's <i>Foundation</i> chronicles the decline and fall of the Galactic Empire. If that sounds familiar to you as a <i>Star Wars</i> plot, it's because it is. George Lucas stole the idea wholesale, as have many others. And Asimov himself stole it from the historian Edward Gibbons, who wrote the famous <i>The History of the</i> <i>Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire</i>, first published in 1776.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Curiosity at what makes a great civilization decline and fall has only recently interested Western thinkers. Before the 17th Century, the Roman ruins that lay scattered and crumbling throughout Europe didn't really concern many people. Peasants broke them down for stone to build their houses and wells, and Lords showed scant regard for their preservation. Nobody cared. In Britain folk were either focused on day-to-day survival or making war on the French.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was only in the 17th and 18th Centuries, when Britain found itself creating the largest empire that had yet been amassed, that certain thinkers began to wonder what exactly happened to the Romans. After all, if the mighty Roman Empire could fall, maybe the British Empire could too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As unthinkable as that was at the time, serious intellects began to look into it. This was a time when Roman ruins became quite faddish. Rich nobles built ruined follies on their estates, and young gentlemen and their ladies traveled to Italy to marvel at the decrepit ruins that local Italians had never given much thought to. Theories abounded on the symptoms and causes of the rise and fall of civilizations, and it was sobering to think that every civilization that had existed before ours had fallen. Not just a few. <i>All</i> of them. It seemed clear that every civilization had an expiry date, and after the disaster of WW1, thinkers like Oswald Spengler and Arnold Toynbee gained prominence as they delved deeper into the subject.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After WW2 the fad faded. The United States was the new superpower, the new empire of sorts, and a period of hope prevailed that took us eventually to the moon. Asimov, however, had not forgotten his pre-war influences, and the thinking that went before. The passage he wrote above illustrates the dying phase (the decadent phase) of a civilization, where the optimism has faded and civilizations get buyer's remorse.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">They stop thinking outside the box and instead retreat to more familiar territory, both figuratively and literally. They play safe and circle the wagons. Religion becomes mysticism and critical thinking becomes pessimism.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Hardin's quote illustrates perfectly, during the different phases of rise and fall, how a civilization <i>solves its problems</i>. Because there are always problems to solve, even when one has become dominant. A failing civilization, however, having sat on its laurels for too long, is unwilling to expend the same amount of effort to solve a problem as they had done when they were a rising, hungry star. In <i>Foundation</i>, the galactic empire is more willing to silence warnings than to heed them, because solving problems is hard. The elites prefer to focus on keeping their power and their wealth, even as they are being warned by the doomsayer Hari Seldon that they will lose both.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We are not short of doomsayers here at the beginning of the 21st Century, and it's tempting to think that Hari Seldon, if he was real, would be one of them, with Climate Change being uppermost in his mind. If it were turned into a very simple contemporary movie, it would have the politicians and business elites all disbelieving the scientist and his young and ardent followers, thus bringing calamity down upon humanity. In fact, I've just described the plot of the new Netflix movie, <i>Don't Look Up</i> (watched it last night, very funny).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But Hardin's quote reminds us that it's not simply a matter of <i>believing in the science and getting the message out, </i>as some in the climate-change movement believe, and I'll give you an example of why, and what it means for the rise or decline of our own society.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Full Disclaimer: I believe Climate Change is real. Despite the subject having been heavily politicized here in the west, with a lot of media and social-media hype, there is, for me, a clear sign that it's not all hype, and that is the fact that Russia and China are spending millions to begin exploring and exploiting the melting Arctic regions, with plans to protect their investments by military means. They see the Arctic as an important geopolitical region of the future, and these are not the type of governments to be swayed by Greta Thunberg throwing a tantrum at the United Nations, or climate activists gluing themselves to the pavement as they block roads or runways to protest government inaction. In Russia or China, that kind of action would see them thrown into a dark prison, with little chance of getting out again. No, these governments have compelling reasons to do what they do, and they have their own scientists. If they believe Climate Change is real, then my guess is that it is.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's possible you don't believe Climate Change is real, and that's fine, but for this particular example, let's just accept that the climate activists and their supporters <i>claim</i> that they believe in Climate Change, and follow that claim to its natural conclusion to see where it takes us.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And this wasn't originally intended to be a long post, but bear with me on this.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So climate activists, and their media and political supporters, are saying that our industrial societies, with our carbon emissions, our deforestation, consumerism and meat-eating habits are harming the planet, which will lead to global temperatures getting high enough to cause us real harm, and possibly even extinction-level catastrophe.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fair enough. So what are their solutions? Cut back on industrialization, consume less, eat less meat, fly less and recycle more. And build more wind farms and solar panels.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That's about it. There might be slightly more complex engineering solutions around the edges, like clean-hydrogen engines and the like, but those proposals don't get shouted as much, nor funded much. Now if you look at the above paragraph, do you see how closely it resembles Hardin's quote at the beginning of this article? "Do less and return to the windmills of the past." It's not really a solution. Wind farms and solar panels don't provide enough base load to run a civilization, and are less efficient than the fossil-fuel powered stations they are supposed to replace. Recycling won't cut down on carbon in the atmosphere, because recycling requires energy itself. And cutting back on energy consumption in our societies means willingly adopting austerity, like monks entering a holy order. It should be obvious that people won't do that, no matter what they might say to pollsters. Many societies have had their ascetic types who lived on sand and locusts and practiced soulful meditation. Many still have those who live a simpler life off the grid, returning to traditional methods of living. But these people have always been a minority. Even when called upon by a powerful church to give up worldly pleasures, people rarely do. The Catholic Church could not even get its young men to cease masturbation. Just because someone asks people to do something, doesn't mean they will.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The alternative to asking, of course, is simply to coerce people. Police them. Tax the hell out of them. Make them poor. They'll consume less, then. One doesn't need to be a historian to know how that ends. Remember when I mentioned earlier about the regrowth of mysticism in declining civilizations? Most of the loudest climate activists, including Ms. Thunberg, are gripped by some mystical vision of a very unreal society that, enmasse, willingly chooses eco-piety, and doesn't need to be forced.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And the politicians who now tow the ecological line? How realistic are they? Let me give you an example from my own country of Britain: Our Prime Minister has announced that all new cars after 2030 will be electric. Thereafter the number of polluting internal-combustion engines on our roads will be phased out (helped no doubt by punitive tax tariffs). On the face of it, this could be a good thing. Less pollution, better air quality, less reliance on volatile petroleum markets in geopolitical hot spots, less reliance on fuel that we know will run out someday anyway, and quieter traffic flows. It sounds like the future, right?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Well, it's kind of a lop-sided future, because while the Prime Minister announced these measures over a number of years, I don't recall a speech where he would authorize the mass building of nuclear power stations to cope with the massive ramp up in power use. I also don't recall green activists criticizing him for that. Their only complaint, indeed, is that they don't think Boris is moving quickly enough. They want mandatory electric cars a lot sooner. And electric public transit systems.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's almost like everyone thinks that electricity is magic, and doesn't need to be produced by industrial means. This is why I sometimes think that activists who <i>claim</i> to be worried about climate change and its effect on people, can't actually be that worried. Because if they were, they would be more serious about solving the problem, rather than just offering faddish lifestyle choices.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ah, but that's because they are not worried, and it's all just really a conspiracy to deprive people of their freedoms, and ... give power to elites, who can ... do stuff that they can't already do ... for some reason.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">No, it's not a conspiracy. It's exactly the kind of thinking that Asimov's character outlined in the book, and it fits with the inadequate problem-solving metrics present in declining societies.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">To be sure, nuclear power is only a limited answer. Make no mistake, we are a fossil-fuel civilization. One only needs to look at 17th Century life to see what fossil fuels lifted us out of. More will be needed to move on to the next phase of energy production if we are not to slide backward to being at the mercy of mother nature. Without the fossil-fueled industrial revolution, we would not have the longer lives, education, healthcare, information technology, food production or government systems we enjoy now. Or the individual rights and freedoms that are simply not possible in harsher times or places. So there's a lot at stake.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But if we're not looking at radically new and scalable forms of energy production, then we're not serious about avoiding catastrophe. Largely because people, including college-educated activists, don't understand the sheer amount of effort needed to keep a civilization going. Because our ancestors made it all look so easy. It will take more than windmills and personal guilt-trips to keep civilization going in the face of continuous challenges.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In China, they recently tested a full-sized Thorium reactor. Thorium reactors are safer than nuclear, with more fuel available for them in the world, and produce much less radioactive waste. Why China? We've actually known about Thorium reactors and their benefits for over sixty years now, and programs to test and develop them existed in the US. But they were closed down. We should be building a ton of them now. We have the knowledge, and we were ahead of China in the science. But we gave up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now that would have been a serious solution. Another would be Fusion power. Again, the Chinese are ahead in developing this. It requires ridiculous amounts of money in research, but we haven't been willing to commit, and so Fusion power remains science fiction, at least here in the West. Again, another serious solution left hanging.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Do you see what I mean about us not really being serious about solving that which we claim to be afraid of? Instead we make performative gestures, promote lifestyle choices and complain about a lack of piety among the masses. If those don't sound like the actions of some out-of-touch, decadent, self-satisfied aristocracy, then I don't know what does. This is how societies fail.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Hari Seldon would not have been fooled by the climate treaties, play-acting, crocodile tears, messianic rhetoric and mystical movements. He would still have recognized an empire that, whatever it might say, did not really want to survive. And he would have moved his Foundation to China.</span></p><p></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-74934822744465751942021-11-23T05:57:00.000-08:002021-11-23T05:57:33.126-08:00Cowboy Bebop - My Thoughts<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLT0OpbVaQZ-tX9mvB6Zy7Crr21zbQnxNQgc9Q6Tr8W5pZiGqzMWZ_fUL-E5ATHCsKjdU3zPOAnUU2VGO_nXGtNWsDbf_82Dwg5I2B7BltXE3GMIlZHixgHg93QfSojFMAAXffNYFZdQ/s1920/cowboybebop-blogroll-1629719704976-1637525685549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLT0OpbVaQZ-tX9mvB6Zy7Crr21zbQnxNQgc9Q6Tr8W5pZiGqzMWZ_fUL-E5ATHCsKjdU3zPOAnUU2VGO_nXGtNWsDbf_82Dwg5I2B7BltXE3GMIlZHixgHg93QfSojFMAAXffNYFZdQ/w640-h360/cowboybebop-blogroll-1629719704976-1637525685549.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I like it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I watched the first five episodes of the Anime version a while back. It was okay but it didn't grab me and I never went back to watch the rest. So when I heard Netflix were releasing a live-action version, I got interested. Seeing all the negative reviews by fanboys of the original interested me more. I'm weird like that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So far, about ten episodes in, I'm finding this live-action version more accessible. It's gorgeous to look at, tightly scripted and the actors do a really good job. The show's got a lot of heart, I love the chemistry between the main characters and even the side characters do a great job. The world it's set in is a strange blend of sci-fi and old world tech, and the retro elements add to the charm. I'm getting strong <i>Firefly</i> vibes from the characters and story so far, and that can only be a good thing. It's a lot of fun to watch.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Unlike Joss Whedon's <i>Firefly</i>, I hope it gets a second season. And I hope I haven't jinxed it with the comparison. It's obvious that a lot of money and work has gone into making this new version of <i>Cowboy Bebop</i>, and I, for one, want to see it rewarded. It's one of the few things released this year that's actually worth watching.</span></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-12993325255332528722021-11-09T04:48:00.000-08:002021-11-09T04:48:13.203-08:00Time and Space<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj035u9cW5qzOtFu5WLM4dPi0DM0f0Y1KnMO0Tomuhr_gvTTSFvHSt4URRFZDGM2B6cUNKbBPNLpqQq2xEZrhgnnwuM9pT7C-PNja9IqqE8ROLntw1fe0Y-JPTNGnV1GHAA27crjinhVo/s500/Blog-Pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj035u9cW5qzOtFu5WLM4dPi0DM0f0Y1KnMO0Tomuhr_gvTTSFvHSt4URRFZDGM2B6cUNKbBPNLpqQq2xEZrhgnnwuM9pT7C-PNja9IqqE8ROLntw1fe0Y-JPTNGnV1GHAA27crjinhVo/s16000/Blog-Pic.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My new book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09KV93SWS" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Hell's Gate</a>, is out. It marks my return to Space fiction since <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0136S5AWU" target="_blank">Shakespeare's Requiem</a></i>. It's very different. In a way, it needs to be, considering <i>Shakespeare's Requiem's</i> relative lack of popularity. That was my first novel, and I've written about its problems recently on <a href="http://www.roblopez.co.uk/2020/08/reprise.html" target="_blank">this blog</a>, so I won't rehash the details, but <i>Hell's Gate</i> is a more traditional space opera with a much wider scope.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Space opera or military sci-fi?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I struggle to tell the difference, sometimes. Certainly, <i>Hell's Gate</i> is about a singular battle on a distant world, and aficionados of history will detect the references to a certain battle in our own history that I won't give away. In fact, I was going to reference another battle, further back in ancient history, but that was lost in the edits. But it's certainly a military story, and all the key characters bar one are military personnel in the midst of doing their duty.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But there's a wider sweep that will travel through the stars in the rest of the series, and an obvious subplot of genetic enhancement that frames the story. It's also the tale of particular individuals; their loves, lives and tragedies. And science, politics and ideals. There will be new worlds for readers to discover. And more battles to fight.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Call it Military Space Opera. Or Space Military Fi. I don't mind. In the end, as with all my stories, it's about people. It's the only thing I really care about.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Space Fiction. It's fiction set in space. It's about the characters.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Oh, but Science Fiction is a genre of ideas</i>.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No, it's not. It's a genre that rips off ideas, and there's nothing wrong with that, but when it's packaged as being somehow original and more important than the idea's source, then it just becomes pompous and deluded. And it attracts the pompous and deluded. Some people like to grab hold of something to make themselves feel more important. They call themselves enlightened. Psychologists call that insecurity.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I'm insecure too. The thing I'm most insecure about is my writing speed. I write slow. My <strike>competitors</strike> fellow Indie writers seem able to crank out a novel every month. The successful ones, at any rate. Their success makes them more visible, obviously. The ones that write like me are probably also invisible to me, as I am to them. In the Indie publishing world, speed equals success. Not always, but mostly. In this new age of social media, it's about catching attention (a difficult thing in itself) and then holding attention. I imagine that if the average Instagramer stopped posting for a few days, weeks or months, their readership would lose interest and they would slide down the algorithms until they no longer feature near the top of people's feed, thus rendering them invisible. Less likes and shares makes them more invisible still, and so it goes. Indie publishing is the same. Without a publisher to promote us, a book store to feature us or reviewers in mainstream media to recommend us, the Indie writing world adapted by adopting the social media model. It was the only one available. The sheer number of writers out there makes it difficult for a single book to get noticed by a casual browser, or even a more determined browser sometimes. So tactics are required. I'm not complaining. It's just something I've had to learn about the mass digital age. We're working in a crowd. It's natural.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's not a tactic I can use. I tried, once. There's numerous posts and videos out there about how to write quickly: Outlining, formulas, writing routines. The trouble was, when I attempted the same, trying to just let my fingers flow over the keyboard, injecting the first thing on my mind, the result was, well, formulaic and routine. Vanilla characters in a vanilla plot, walking and talking through a vanilla world. It was boring. Because it's hard to come up with something nuanced and thoughtful when you're typing as fast as you can. Especially if you're planning to publish it the moment it's finished, rather than going back and rewriting it. Write several books like that, and they'll essentially be copies of the previous book and formula with the names changed.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe I'm just not a genius. Because of that, the next book in <i>The Gene War</i> series won't be published until next year, so if you're new to my writing and you're hoping to see the next book out by Christmas, then I'm sorry. There's a lot of ideas to unpack from <i>Hell's Gate - </i>and so many directions for the new series to take - that I have a lot to think about. I think a lot while I'm writing, which is why I'm slow. I very much <i>explore</i> the story while I'm still in it, and I'm not above going back and rewriting whole sections if I've had a better idea later on.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And this new series isn't planned. It's as much an exploration for me as it will be for you. I don't know quite where it will go. That doesn't mean that it will be a bunch of random shit that doesn't really fit together when you get to the end. I'm too professional for that, and I've learned a lot about the craft of writing since I started all those years ago. I mean, the <i>Survival EMP</i> series that I did - my one successful series - wasn't planned at all. Neither the series, nor the individual books, were outlined in advance. All I had were a few basic ideas and the odd scene. But what I produced was a tight narrative with the perfect ending - if I say so myself. So I don't write wild, disjointed crap. I like it to be worth everyone's time, including my own.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So it will be with <i>The Gene War</i>. Average lead time for one of my books, if I'm honest, will be about eight months. Some people don't want to wait that long. That's okay. But that's my speed. It just takes me time to come up with new ideas (or rip them off). But I promise you that this series will cover a dynamic, far-reaching and varied story. It will be - what's the word? - <i>Epic</i>. And if you read <i>Hell's Gate</i>, you may catch a glimpse of the wealth to come.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Just don't expect the next one in a month. Patience.</span></div><p></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-32633372160939136382021-11-04T04:59:00.002-07:002022-02-02T05:15:09.445-08:00Hell's Gate<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMI3N7OIxJidMXd9u0EGWpg76D-O5DnEG2b4EeIZTh6rfimd-GPnudT4cC7fViCLLdMGH1_9TxXH1xEjtl6Gy4Ah-LMtM7htVn3SnjEcVb-EZDozUax-GmmLLMe3lrtbaRMI0jIWVHCYrGPQ_smOQ6P2cVJwkCV6-cSPVhNgZPXM0ED2jtSTOpKhHt=s549" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMI3N7OIxJidMXd9u0EGWpg76D-O5DnEG2b4EeIZTh6rfimd-GPnudT4cC7fViCLLdMGH1_9TxXH1xEjtl6Gy4Ah-LMtM7htVn3SnjEcVb-EZDozUax-GmmLLMe3lrtbaRMI0jIWVHCYrGPQ_smOQ6P2cVJwkCV6-cSPVhNgZPXM0ED2jtSTOpKhHt=s16000" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A new and exciting Military Science Fiction series is about to begin:</span></div><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;"></p><blockquote><p lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">A reluctant hero will
rise from the shadows and shake the pillars of power in the galaxy.</span></b></p>
<p lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Commander
Michael Ezra is a pariah in the Outer Systems Alliance. Cold-blooded,
detached and reckless, he’s considered a danger to the crews that
serve under him. The war against the alien Ravagers, however, is not
going well, and Ezra is sent out one more time. He must prove his
worth by undertaking what amounts to a suicide mission.</span></p>
<p lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But
Ezra is a pawn in a much larger game, and the mission is not all it
seems. As the Alliance prepares its assault against a hitherto
unknown alien planet, unseen hands work to unfold a hidden agenda in
the outer colonies. Estranged from his friends and distrusted by his
crew, Ezra fights a lonely war, against both the enemy and his own
superiors. Few know who he really is, or why he became that way, but
he alone knows the dark fate that awaits them all.</span></p>
<p lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When
the time comes, he could become mankind’s greatest hope. First,
however, he must survive the hell they are about to be plunged into.</span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Book 1, <i>Hell's Gate</i> is available to pre-order at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09KV93SWS" target="_blank">Amazon</a>. It goes live on Tuesday 9th November, 2021.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">You can read the first sample chapter right here:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Hell's Gate - Sample Chapter 1</span></b></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A starship is never silent. When the main drive has been shut down, a vessel continues to breathe, just like its occupants. Pumps and recyclers throb from the bowels. Pipes carry water and cryogenic fluids through the decks and passageways. Vents hum on the bulkheads, an audible whisper that you can hear when you’re trying to sleep, and a sound that you want to hear when your section’s been sealed off behind airlocks. Field generators buzz, point-defense turrets whirr and maintenance bots clank as they make their way on magnetic caterpillar tracks through ducts filled with fiber-optic looms and laser reflectors.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">On really old ships, the entire hull creaks as the cold exterior vies with the warm interior, frosted armor plates twisting over heat diffusers on the vessel’s skin. Even newer ships groaned after a hyperspace jump, the compressed length stretching itself like someone getting out of bed. Whether it was a star cruiser or a small frigate, every ship had its own unique sound and feel. Until it died.<br /><br />Silence was a ship’s enemy, and it didn’t sneak up like some shadow in the night. It pounded the hull with missile strikes and ripped open plating with laser fingers. When the air was sucked out with the debris, there was still the sound of the comm system in your ear if you had your suit and helmet on, as regulations demanded during an action, but that was little consolation as the only thing communicated at that point were conflicting orders, the screams of the dying and the cries of those cut off from the escape pods. When the power went completely and the lights snuffed out, there was only the total blackness of the tomb and silence’s clammy embrace.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And if you didn’t have your suit on, you couldn’t even hear your own scream.<br /><br />Michael Ezra needed some of that silence right now. It meant he wouldn’t have been able to hear the cries of his crew as they perished.<br /><br />But the battle was long over, and the sounds were in his head, where even the vacuum of space couldn’t touch them.<br /><br />The bunk creaked as he turned over, facing the bulkhead again. The light glowed persistently in his cell. He thought about the final moments of the USS Emilia Jane: his last command. And if his superiors had anything to say about it — and they did — it would certainly be his last command.<br /><br />He’d been on patrol along the edge of the Shaenua Nebula, and had detected the leaking radiation from the damaged engine of a Ravager Butterfly-Class ship. Ordering a pursuit, he’d caught up with the warship, his optical sensors confirming a visual sighting as it reflected the glowing fluorescence of protostars lighting up the gases of the nebula cloud.<br /><br />He shouldn’t have engaged. The Emilia Jane was a Dagger-Class destroyer, an old patrol and interdiction vessel, but it was outclassed by the similar sized Ravager ship. Ravager technology was somewhat superior to that of the Outer Systems Alliance, and their ships had proven deadly in numerous encounters. Ezra’s orders were to signal his contact to the fleet and await reinforcements before commencing his attack. The Ravager ship, however, angled toward the nebula, looking to hide in the ionized gases and the gamma beams of a pulsar. Within the chaotic radiation emissions, it would likely elude alliance sensors and eventually get away.<br /><br />Ezra wasn’t about to let that happen. The Ravager ship was running at half speed, and he judged that its combat capabilities had been reduced by whatever had struck the vessel.<br /><br />He judged wrong. Closing to ten thousand klicks, with the Ravager ship just a mote of light against the stars, he unleashed his hex-grid laser batteries and missile swarms. The Ravager ship took damage and its shields went down. What happened next perplexed him even as he floated in the dark afterward, his crew dying around him.<br /><br />The background nebula glow dimmed briefly around the Ravager ship. In the next instant a beam more powerful than should have been possible for such a small vessel slammed into the Emilia Jane, tore down its shields and ripped through its armor. Ravager missiles arrived soon after.<br /><br />Only the arrival of Alliance reinforcements hours later prevented the survivors of the Emilia Jane from breathing their last, but by then the Ravager vessel was long gone.<br /><br />That last reading from his sensors however, before the screens went dark, stayed with Ezra. Rescued, taken into custody and charged with negligence and insubordination, he nevertheless remained hooked by that moment. His career was over, his reputation destroyed along with his ship, but that sensor reading continued to bug him.<br /><br />Because it shouldn’t have been possible.<br /><br />The cell door clanked and rolled back. A man in the black uniform of the Intelligence Corps stood outside. “Mind if I come in?” he said.<br /><br />Ezra wasn’t aware he had the right to refuse entry to anyone.<br /><br />“If you want,” he said.<br /><br />The intelligence officer gave him a brief smile and stepped forward. The door slammed shut behind him. “May I?” he said, gesturing to a chair.<br /><br />Considering how he’d been treated since he’d been rescued, Ezra found the intelligence officer’s manner oddly polite.<br /><br />“And if I said no?” he asked.<br /><br />“I’d stand,” said the intelligence officer, as if it were obvious.<br /><br />“Take a seat,” said Ezra.<br /><br />The officer did so, and Ezra noticed something strange. There were no unit or fleet designations on the man’s uniform.<br /><br />“I trust you’re being treated well,” said the man.<br /><br />“I suppose.”<br /><br />“And you are Commander Michael Ezra.”<br /><br />“I was.”<br /><br />“Of course. Mr. Ezra, what led you to attack in the way you did?”<br /><br />Ezra said nothing.<br /><br />“The cameras and microphones have been turned off for this interview,” said the intelligence officer. “You can speak freely.”<br /><br />Ezra doubted that and maintained his silence.<br /><br />“I read your report.”<br /><br />Ezra gazed quietly at him.<br /><br />“It was interesting.”<br /><br />Ezra ignored his cue to speak and studied the intelligence officer. He was older than most Alliance intelligence officers. Probably late thirties or early forties. Intelligence officers straight out of the academy served on frigates and worked their way up the fleet, depending on how good they were. The best got jobs at Alliance headquarters. The worst got stuck on ships like this one, an aging squadron flagship tasked with coordinating the patrols of obsolete destroyers like the Emilia Jane in interstellar backwaters where nobody expected to see action — until they unexpectedly did.<br /><br />“Why did you disobey orders?” asked the intelligence officer. It looked as if he genuinely wanted to know.<br /><br />Ezra kept his mouth shut.<br /><br />“You’ve had an interesting career,” said the officer. “Three disciplinary hearings, demoted twice for insubordination, six different posts in three years.”<br /><br />The intelligence officer scratched his chin as he weighed Ezra up.<br /><br />“Yet in spite of all that, you still managed to get your own command, helped no doubt by our current shortage of qualified captains. And you were warned in no uncertain terms to keep your nose clean. But you still went after that Ravager ship alone. Did your XO protest about that at all?”<br /><br />The Emilia Jane’s XO was dead and Ezra didn’t feel it appropriate to answer that question. The intelligence officer’s eyes gleamed, however, as if he knew what Ezra wasn’t willing to tell.<br /><br />“What made you so certain you would win that encounter?” asked the officer.<br /><br />“Everything is in my report,” said Ezra.<br /><br />“Not everything,” said the officer absently.<br /><br />For a moment he looked off into the distance, and Ezra realized he was reading off a retinal screen. That meant the conversation was definitely being recorded. It also meant something wasn’t right.<br /><br />Retinal screens were not standard issue to lowly intelligence officers.<br /><br />“Who are you?” asked Ezra.<br /><br />“That doesn’t matter right now,” said the officer, still reading. He was probably digesting the report.<br /><br />“I don’t have anything else to say,” said Ezra.<br /><br />The officer focused back on him. “Actually, I think there’s a few things you’d like to say, but that’s none of my concern. I’m more interested in your state of mind. Was it a desire for vengeance that caused you to attack?”<br /><br />Ezra knew better than to answer that.<br /><br />“Was it because of what happened on Regis Prime?” persisted the officer.<br /><br />Ezra weighed up whether to reply, trying to work out what the officer was looking for. Something to incriminate him with? Evidence for the court martial? They already had enough to throw him out of the Outer Systems Navy if they wanted, and more besides.<br /><br />“No,” he said.<br /><br />“So losing your homeworld didn’t affect you emotionally?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />The officer pondered the answer for a moment.<br /><br />“Did you know what the odds were when you went after that Ravager ship?”<br /><br />“Yes, I calculated the odds.”<br /><br />“Every other captain in the navy would have hesitated to do what you did, and with good reason. Were you afraid?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Have you ever been afraid?”<br /><br />“No. Are you recording this?”<br /><br />The officer gave him a sly smile. “Not officially.”<br /><br />“So you are.”<br /><br />The officer didn’t acknowledge that, and simply moved on. “How do you feel you were treated in the orphanage?” he asked.<br /><br />“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”<br /><br />“The orphanage on Regis Prime,” pressed the officer.<br /><br />“Still not relevant,” replied Ezra.<br /><br />“Your scores in science and math were outstanding. Best in the system. Several systems, in fact.”<br /><br />This was definitely a test, but Ezra was not sure what he was trying to provoke.<br /><br />“So what?” he said.<br /><br />“How did it feel to be a prodigy?”<br /><br />“I didn’t.”<br /><br />The officer glanced across the cell, reading something else on his retina. “You’re on record as saying that we should be more aggressive in this war. You told your last CO that we were being too defensive.”<br /><br />“We should be taking the fight to them.”<br /><br />“Are you speaking rationally or emotionally?”<br /><br />“Rationally. It should be obvious.”<br /><br />“Not to everyone. What about the losses?”<br /><br />Ezra didn’t answer and the intelligence officer leaned forward in his chair.<br /><br />“What motivates you?” he said quietly.<br /><br />Ezra stayed silent.<br /><br />“I’m curious. Aren’t you?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />The officer sat back, seemingly satisfied. “I think that’s the first lie you’ve given me,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Ezra.” He got up to leave. “One more question,” he added.<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“Do you remember Dr. Quinlan?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />The officer gave him that same satisfied look, then turned away.<br /><br />“Who are you?” asked Ezra again.<br /><br />The officer passed his hand over the wall pad and the cell door rolled open.<br /><br />“You can call me Rosebud,” he said with a smile.<br /><br />He stepped out and the door clanked shut behind him. In the upper corner of the cell, a green light blinked on in its dark glass casing to indicate the camera was back on again<b>.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">End of Sample</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To read more of this tale of war, loyalties and deception, head on over to <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09KV93SWS" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and get a pre-ordered copy for just 99c. A new adventure is about to begin.</span></p></div>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-72610216936256691652021-07-04T14:30:00.005-07:002021-07-05T02:22:56.063-07:00Where I'm At<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrkoNfviIh6lT7-LgXrUEGcv_rxVLIk3OsuyYTh929pR4HlmjidGG-lKkyDKT4X0UlPMuXExqI2kOmdZ2fKUVXKNbMpmdU8pfBlem_qf3BOrRK3bkrDAkhKyL9Jge0ebQDax8ZvOT6IE/s2048/The+Gate.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1357" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrkoNfviIh6lT7-LgXrUEGcv_rxVLIk3OsuyYTh929pR4HlmjidGG-lKkyDKT4X0UlPMuXExqI2kOmdZ2fKUVXKNbMpmdU8pfBlem_qf3BOrRK3bkrDAkhKyL9Jge0ebQDax8ZvOT6IE/w424-h640/The+Gate.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hell's Gate</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Does it look gloomy? That's just me practicing some photo manipulation. It's actually a photo I took of a cemetery gate in Wales some years ago. I just added the rain and dark skies. But <i>Hell's Gate</i> will be the title of the next novel, though it won't be a gothic urban fantasy. I just needed some art for the article and I haven't perfected any sci-fi pics yet. And I'm quite pleased with what I'm learning with Photoshop.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But in case you missed the last post, the next novel will be military science fiction, and the first of a new series. And it's been hard going. It's now July and I thought I would have finished the first draft by now, but it's taking longer than I realized. I remember when I wrote <i>Solar Storm</i> that I thought I'd bitten off more than I could chew: Following the story from three different points of view, with detailed geographical locations that spanned half the world. Plus I spent a long time agonizing over how exactly Rick would make it home. <i>From the Middle East!</i> Yeah, that took some figuring out. I gave myself that problem. I mean, I could have placed him in Florida. Kept wondering if I should change it. The final result was epic, but I often wondered what the hell I was doing, and why I was making it hard for myself. But that's the way it goes. Sometimes you write the story, and sometimes the story writes you. Or itself. I don't know. But if you want to try something different, you have to learn to catch curveballs. And not complain when they smack you in the face.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So here I am again, dodging demonic pitchers. <i>Hell's Gate</i> not only features multiple POVs, but the world it operates in has to be created from scratch: The landscapes, moons, star systems, weapons, starships, creative physics, political and domestic backdrops ... it takes time, and I'm not done yet. It's going to take a lot of editing to make sure it all works in sync.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I also need to do the artwork for the cover. Now, if I was smart, I'd pay a professional to do that for me. I am smart, but I'm also broke, and good sci-fi covers cost a lot. They're also harder to do than the post-apocalypse covers I'm used to - you can't just take stock art of some location with people and add a color filter. That's why I'm taking a crash course in photo manipulation and digital art. I want the next cover to be absolutely amazing. Because the last cover for <i>Into Darkness</i> was not.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The <i>Into Darkness</i> cover has been bugging me for a long time. I got ambitious, and learned some new techniques, but I completely forgot about making it genre appropriate. This is very important in book publishing, and I knew this, so I've got no excuse. I got neck-deep into the details of the art itself and ended up with a cover that gives readers the impression of being a dark horror novel, rather than an EMP Post-apocalyptic thriller. I poured my heart into that work, then felt deflated when, after putting it out and taking a deep sigh of relief, I took a step back and looked at what I really had.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Into Darkness</i> hasn't sold as well as the preceding works, and I'm not sure if it was the cover, or the concept that moved away from the tried-and-tested 'Going Home' theme. I don't have any regrets about the story itself, but I guess rewards don't always follow risk. Or it could be the cover. It still bugs me. Once I've published my next work, I will revisit that cover, plus the <i>Undead UK</i> covers that now look a little dated. I can do better than that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What else is there? Oh yes, the Audio books have been a disaster. That hasn't been my fault, but a disaster it remains. I mentioned that the narrator (or rather, the producer for the narrator) for <i>Solar Storm</i> refused to narrate the next book in the series. In fact, they simply disappeared and didn't answer any further inquiries. They had headhunted me for the first book, which flattered me as I hadn't even been considering an audio book, but clearly didn't make as much money as they'd hoped. So they bailed. A smart business decision perhaps, but it felt like a stab in the back. So I auditioned for a new narrator, who worked on the next two books. Unfortunately, after many, many delays and postponements, the narrator pulled out of doing the last book in the series, citing personal reasons. I don't know. I can't seem to catch a break when it comes to audio books, and I wish I'd never gotten into it. I now have a series of four books, with only the first three having audio versions, and it's all taken so long that nobody's really waiting for the fourth anymore. It's going to be difficult to convince a narrator to do the last book of a series, which traditionally sells the least, and I don't have any money to compensate them with incentives, so I'm kind of stuck now and I don't know where to go with it. To be honest, I've given up. It looks unprofessional, but it's a mess I can't easily get out of.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Funnily enough, when I auditioned the last narrator, I had them in mind for <i>Into Darkness</i>, being the perfect voice for a southern gal. Considering how poor the sales have been, maybe it was better they didn't stick with me. Takes a lot of effort with little reward to do an audio production.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Bit like writing, really.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So that's where I'm at. Picking myself up and starting over. I haven't given up, and there are many more projects to follow, but I have had to digest some hard lessons about this business, and I need to figure out a sustainable way of working, and get better at making covers. I took a couple of wrong turns but I'm slowly getting back on track. If I had to make a prediction, I'd say the next book could be out in September. But, honestly, take everything I say with a pinch of salt, because I have no idea really. I can only try my best. But it will be epic, I promise you that.</span></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-12189452038895412472021-04-06T03:55:00.149-07:002021-05-04T11:05:11.493-07:00A New Project Is Coming<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Mf_MZpnqzAbcEDU4CZprehFcwgSam81fh5yPTi-KvwnMM8hCKY1ZoZECNIs7nHR4kb4Ww0fEFBr24Wyh2RcR7TU1JNahEu3Ck_tAuv2bjJ_rZzNZqEVPKDEekjlgEcrdn1DDaDOzohg/s1646/Starship%252C+low+res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="872" data-original-width="1646" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Mf_MZpnqzAbcEDU4CZprehFcwgSam81fh5yPTi-KvwnMM8hCKY1ZoZECNIs7nHR4kb4Ww0fEFBr24Wyh2RcR7TU1JNahEu3Ck_tAuv2bjJ_rZzNZqEVPKDEekjlgEcrdn1DDaDOzohg/w627-h332/Starship%252C+low+res.jpg" width="627" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Boldly going where thousands have gone before.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Something new is coming. A tale of heroism and impossible odds in a galaxy not far away ... well, quite close actually. In fact, the one we're currently in. But a whole bunch of stuff will be far away. And set in the future, with starships, space marines (oh yes), aliens (of course) and battles. Lots of battles. Yes, you guessed it, I'm writing a military science fiction series.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But Rob, I hear you ask. What about a sequel to <i>Into Darkness</i>, or more post-apocalypse fiction?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Fear not, I will not abandon the post-apocalypse genre completely (I like it too much), but I'm kind of burned out, and I didn't have a strong follow-up story for Darla and her crew, and I didn't want to churn out a second-rate sequel just to pad out a series. I want something better than that, and when I have it I will write it. But until then, I have decided to begin a project that's been sitting in my notebooks for a couple of years. How long will it be? I cannot say. When will it be out? Ditto. I only know that I'm 40,000 words into an intriguing story with some complex world-building that's taking time to shake itself out.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So what's it about? A disgraced starship captain who's been granted one last mission, a hot-shot fighter pilot facing her doom and an intelligence officer who's about to discover the frightening truth about the planet they're being sent to invade.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">And some other stuff. I can't give too much away, and I might even surprise myself with more stuff before the end. But it is coming. And it's going to pack a punch. Stay tuned.</span></div>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-40941856532316727092021-01-27T07:02:00.002-08:002021-01-27T07:13:49.571-08:00The Story of a Story<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRsQtAqE_w24HSfwhHDeJGF0F3nP3bN3TEwBmNb_FFE-D1WJKa4H0el7RXUMEWPEbUSaBAec1A9X9b2-m90M5Eo6nU6n4-QrdI2jxEnOLFLKW1rCxAHBj0sZD5iqAiz5VzAwIdcDqpM90/s2048/Mississippi+Rose+Plaque.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1498" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRsQtAqE_w24HSfwhHDeJGF0F3nP3bN3TEwBmNb_FFE-D1WJKa4H0el7RXUMEWPEbUSaBAec1A9X9b2-m90M5Eo6nU6n4-QrdI2jxEnOLFLKW1rCxAHBj0sZD5iqAiz5VzAwIdcDqpM90/s320/Mississippi+Rose+Plaque.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Every story has a story, and this is the story of the boat that almost never sailed, and the story that almost wasn't written. In two days, my new novel <i>Into Darkness</i> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08TB5NBV6">goes live</a>, which is a great relief as I can honestly say this is the most difficult project I've tackled of late.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I began publishing back in 2012, and I assumed that as I got better, writing would get easier. I mean, nothing could be more difficult than your first novel, right? Wrong. The writing gets better, but you set higher standards for yourself. And that initial stock of story ideas, usually inspired by everything you've read or watched up to that point in your life, runs out. Now you're on your own. Fast forward to 2020, and as I start writing <i>Into Darkness</i> I discover just how far from my comfort zone I am. I knew a little about Louisiana and New Orleans, but not enough to convincingly set a story there. I thought I knew enough about the Mississippi River (it's just water, right?), but as Darla, the protagonist, knows the river like the back of her hand, I realized I needed to know a lot more.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And steamboats. I needed to know about steamboats. Do you know how difficult it is to get real details of a working Mississippi steamboat beyond its ability to float and the view from the deck? I certainly didn't, and in any other story I might have gotten away with only a passing knowledge of such historical craft. In this story, however, the boat is itself a central character, linked closely to Darla. I won't spoil the plot for you, but suffice to say, I really needed a lot more inside knowledge than I possessed when I started the project.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And finally there was the military aspect. Or rather, the lack of it. In every book I've ever written, the main characters have been military or ex-military. I have studied military matters ever since school, where I used to draw fighter planes and tanks in my notebooks instead of paying attention in class. I'm comfortable with military hardware, history and tactics. In <i>Solar Storm</i> it felt perfectly natural to begin the story in Syria because I'd already studied the conflict there for some years. I'm no expert, but I had a reasonable grasp of how a soldier, even a Special Forces operative, would approach a problem.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #050505; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #050505; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Not so Darla. She's an ordinary citizen with zero military experience or training, an unusual background and a very particular personality. You'll understand when you read the story. So I was in uncharted territory and I needed to do a lot more research. In fact, I quit the book, not once, but twice, thinking I didn't really have enough to continue with this. I even began to doubt my own abilities as a writer (as any writer knows, continuous self-doubt is an occupational hazard). And of course, this was 2020. Once Covid hit and things went crazy, many things spiraled out of control.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #050505; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #050505; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Still seems crazy to me that the first sign of panic was the mass buying of toilet roll. Not just in the US, but all over Europe. As a writer of post-apocalypse stories, I was very humbled by this. In all my stories, and those of many other writers I know, the apocalypse usually began with the stampede to buy <i>food</i>. How wrong we were. It baffles me still to this day. I mean, preppers tend to focus on calorie intake, potable water and shelter, branching further into self-defense, medical items and leaving luxury non-essentials till last. I never pictured, nor portrayed, a typical prepper sitting in a bunker surrounded by toilet roll! Like, WTF.<br /></span></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So yeah, 2020 was weird and people proved to be even weirder. Getting deep into Darla's world while trying to keep my sanity was taxing, and progress was slow, with the result that the book was not ready in time to publish last year. For this, I apologize. It was not meant to take this long, and I was as disappointed as anyone else, but the fault is all mine.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Still, the book is finished and will be available to read very soon (and if you haven't already, you can read the <a href="http://www.roblopez.co.uk/2021/01/into-darkness.html">sample first chapter</a> that I've printed in the post below this one). So what can you expect? Well, a rich story set on one of the most famous rivers in literature, and for that I have to thank the late, great Mark Twain, whose influence runs through the entire novel. He not only wrote about it, he was a riverboat pilot with years of experience in navigating the fickle waters of the Mississippi. River pilots were the elite operatives of their day. I recommend his personal memoir of the period, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Life-Mississippi-%EF%BC%88Illustrated%EF%BC%89-Mark-Twain-ebook/dp/B0732M4Q9F" target="_blank">Life On The Mississippi</a>, </i>which shows exactly what it was like, told with his trademark wit and love of detail.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The other big influence is that of Joseph Conrad's <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Darkness-Joseph-Conrad-ebook/dp/B08TWGCTYC">Heart of Darkness</a></i>, whose title is similar to mine. Coincidence? I think not (don't sue me). The idea of a boat sailing up a great river into a dark continent of chaos seemed perfect for a post-apocalypse EMP novel, and I was surprised it hadn't already been done. Well, my own story changed many times during its creation and it doesn't follow either of the books listed above, but the influences are impossible to deny.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The biggest driver of the entire story, however, is the heroine herself, Captain Darla Jean Griffiths. She's quite unlike any of the main characters I've written before. Conflicted, controversial and headstrong, she carries the story on her back and is worthy of a part in any great novel. I count myself fortunate that she decided to appear in mine.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Check it out now on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08TB5NBV6">Amazon</a>.</span></div>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-37639719502832914862021-01-19T04:24:00.001-08:002021-01-19T04:31:34.736-08:00Into Darkness<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp0U9i9IJfW6sAEZqD9lt0lA4RCZKv0oegc-fHdSNqov4Xjs6SvRjxY5qSgW7d5788Og2MjO2eMkMt3vnvxObEZEiKiHDcyaR9j6nbCbQDddLM5Js2ggSYEhhxY1cJzonfC_eZO-1d6Z4/s1371/Into-Darkness-small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1371" data-original-width="914" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp0U9i9IJfW6sAEZqD9lt0lA4RCZKv0oegc-fHdSNqov4Xjs6SvRjxY5qSgW7d5788Og2MjO2eMkMt3vnvxObEZEiKiHDcyaR9j6nbCbQDddLM5Js2ggSYEhhxY1cJzonfC_eZO-1d6Z4/w266-h400/Into-Darkness-small.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08TB5NBV6" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">New Release!</span></p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">In post-apocalypse America,
one woman will become a legend.</span></b></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla Griffiths is a riverboat captain,
giving rides to tourists on her steamboat out of New Orleans. When a
devastating solar storm cripples the grid and leaves the local
nuclear power plant close to meltdown, Darla is one of the few people
who can safely evacuate the citizens of New Orleans before it is too
late.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But when anarchy reigns and a hurricane
threatens the city, Darla and her crew must risk their lives to save
others, and Darla will be forced to confront the darkness of her own
past, and the deadly secrets that imperil them all.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Into Darkness</i> is the
first of a new series of adventures on the Mississippi River from the
author of <i>Solar Storm</i>. Contains moderate language
and graphic action scenes.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Currently available for pre-order on the above link. Goes live January 29th, just in time for the weekend. Since the pre-order doesn't have the look-inside function, I've included the sample first chapter below.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Sample Chapter One</span></b></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Whenever Darla Jean took her paddle steamer out onto the Mississippi River, she always pictured herself as Mickey Mouse. Not the cutesy golly-gosh Mickey of the color era, but the gangly black-and-white Mickey from the cartoon Steamboat Willie, whistling nonchalantly as he piloted his boat up the river, doing his kooky, butt-wiggling dance. It was a happy image that fitted how she felt when she took her boat out for its daily tour. She liked black-and-white Mickey. He had just the right combination of quirkiness, mischief and smarts that appealed to her. When she was at the helm — and if there was no one to see her — she liked to dance too, because there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that she liked better than taking her baby out on the water. The smell of soot from her boat’s stacks would mingle with the diesel of the ocean-going cargo ships that docked at New Orleans. Oil patches floated on the water with the trash that trailed out toward the Gulf, and the odor of liquor, horse manure and car fumes would waft out of the French Quarter, mixing with the salty tang of the sea and the musky swamp smell left over from the hot summer. And all of it would be churned up by the paddle wheels of the <i>Mississippi Rose</i> as she backed out of her berth and pointed her bow upriver, passing under the bridges where at least one person would wave at the sight of history crossing the straight-line shadow below. Onward the old boat would steam, pushing hard against the Mississippi’s current until she was out of the city and, from the pilothouse perched high on the Texas deck, Darla could see over the levees the wide, flat plantation fields, full of sugarcane ready to be harvested. In the clearing air and under a deep blue sky, it was the closest thing to heaven.</span></p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But she had to remind herself that she wasn’t just there for her personal pleasure. Picking up the microphone, she made an announcement over the P.A.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming aboard the <i>Mississippi Rose</i>. I hope you will enjoy your cruise with us today.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A brown pelican flapped lazily alongside the boat, keeping pace for just a second before pulling ahead. Along the shoreline, pink-feathered spoonbills used their curiously shaped beaks to fish for prey in the shallow water.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“<i>Mississippi Rose</i> is a 148-ft. steam-powered sidewheeler, built in Cincinnati in 1936. She’s one of the oldest and smallest of the steam riverboats still operating on the Mississippi. Unlike many of the larger replicas that use fake paddles or diesel engines, Rose remains powered by her original coal-fired steam engines, and there are no screws or propellers pushing her through the water. The two sidewheels give us a lot of maneuverability and, with only a 4-ft. draft, a respectable speed too. The two silver trophies you can see mounted in the Grand Saloon were won at the Great Steamboat Race on the Ohio River in 2014 and 2016. That’s right, folks, we still race these boats today. In 1948, the vessel suffered a fire and sank just outside of Vicksburg but, being a steel framed boat, was raised and restored, showing just how tough these old boats can be. As you can see, <i>Mississippi Rose</i> is still going strong, with a lot of life left in her. And don’t worry about the risk of fire. Like every boat on this river, Rose is equipped with every modern safety feature and regularly inspected by the US Coast Guard, so just sit back, enjoy the ride and take in the view.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hugging the inner bank of a large bend to take advantage of the slack water, Darla watched the readings on the depth finder. The channel had been slowly collapsing on this bend for the last few months, and a change in the way the water rippled far ahead told her that a section of the bank had slid early into the channel. Turning the helm, she pulled the <i>Mississippi Rose</i> clear to bypass the obstruction, the sonar graph on the depth finder spiking upward.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Folks, if you look to your left, or port as we would say, you’ll see what looks like a knoll with cottonwood trees. In the past, that used to be an island. Feathercraw Island, in fact. Infamous in the old days as a hangout for smugglers and a place for illegal cockfights. The Mississippi has changed direction since, leaving it high and dry. You’ll find a lot of lakes inshore that used to be the Mississippi before it switched location. The river has always been a living thing, wandering wherever it takes its fancy, and if it wasn’t for the efforts of the Army Corps of Engineers, we’d probably be sailing on dry land right now, and New Orleans wouldn’t have a port.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As a girl, Darla had always been drawn to the river and its tributaries, going fishing with her father and uncle. After her parents separated and her mother moved to Jackson, Darla kept running away from home, begging to be adopted by her uncle and the shantyboat community he lived in. It wasn’t until Child Protective Services threatened to put her in a foster home that she relented and sulkily waited out the barren days before her next sanctioned excursion to the river. And the boat she most wanted to see was this very steamer, known then as the <i>Rebecca Jane</i>, which used to blow its whistle every time it sailed by. She told herself, and anyone who cared to listen, that she would one day own this vessel, and she had her chance when, as an adult, she discovered the <i>Rebecca Jane</i> rotting in a salvage yard and in need of heavy restoration. Against all advice she bought her dream and became what she always wanted to be.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“If you look to starboard, you’ll see some pilings and the remains of a brick grill. Used to be a houseboat commune there. After the Great Depression, thousands of unemployed workers and farmers took to the river, living in floating shacks and moving to where the work was. The Mississippi River hosted hundreds of little communities, housing several generations until they were regulated off the river. The Mississippi is the greatest commercial trade route in the United States, but for many people, it used to be a way of life.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A blob on her radar detached itself from the background noise, denoting an oncoming vessel, but Darla’s sharp eyes could already see the freight rounding the distant bend: thirty barges lashed together, each one larger than the <i>Mississippi Rose</i> herself, being pushed by a single tall white towboat. The barges probably carried as much as 50,000 tons of grain from the mid-west harvest, pushed along by the towboat’s 10,000 horsepower engines. There was nothing the Rose could do to compete with that, so instead of being a working boat, she was reduced to taking tourists on excursions and begging them to spend their money.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Folks, there’s still time to purchase a lunch ticket in the saloon. Our top chef, Jacques, has prepared a scintillating sample of delights, including …” Darla glanced down at some notepaper taped to the helm housing. “… Shrimp Remoulade Salad, Escargots — that’s snails to you and me — in some kind of sauce I can’t pronounce, and Huitres Thermidor. Ask real nice and you might even get some grits with that. If you’ve eaten already and you’d like to see some history in action, you’re welcome to go down to the boiler room where Manny the engineer will be more than happy to show you the workings of the steam engines and explain how they work.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The barges passed by on the other side of the wide river, but the <i>Mississippi Rose</i> still bobbed as it crossed the bow wave. The handheld radio slotted into the wall of the wheelhouse squawked. It was Manny from the boiler room.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Stop doing that!” he said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla grabbed the radio. “Say again,” she said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Stop sending people down to the engine room. I told you, I don’t have time to deal with those people and their damn fool questions.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla rolled her eyes. Old Manny got more cantankerous with each trip.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Deal with it, Manny. It’s part of the attraction.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh,” said Manny petulantly, winding himself up for a lecture. “You really want those people to see the steam escaping from the regulator? Or how I’ve got to wrap my hand before I go anywhere near it? You promised me a new valve and it’s been getting worse every week. Got a leak from the hot water pipe too, and it’s spraying onto the floor. I’m trying to bind it now, but if you want those tourists to come down and see me cursing while I try to fix it, then sure, invite ’em down. In fact, why don’t you ask if they’d like to volunteer to help? Got myself some bandages for when they burn themselves, and you’ve got insurance, right?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla restrained herself from answering and put the radio back in the cradle. Picking up the microphone, she got back on the P.A.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Ladies and Gentlemen, now might not be the best time to visit the engine room, but the viewing deck is open if you want to see the big wheels turning. If you need a little more entertainment, then after the desserts have been served, I’m sure Jacques can be convinced to whip out a harmonica and play you some Louisiana blues. Just don’t ask him to sing unless you want to lose your appetite.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla closed the mike and winced, wishing she hadn’t added that last part. Flippant sarcasm didn’t go down well with paying customers. It wasn’t a good look for the company. If she could afford it, she’d hire someone more professional to do the commentary, but in the meantime, she had to remind herself to say less. And get those parts ordered before the boat broke down completely.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Returning to New Orleans, the <i>Mississippi Rose</i> cruised past the gigantic tankers berthing at the refinery, the hulks towering over her. They were the future, and the steamboat was a relic of the past.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After the tourists had left and the boat was tied up at the wharf, Darla walked through the carpeted saloon where the bar staff were cleaning up.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Miss Griffiths?” piped up a voice.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla turned. “Yes?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was Nina, one of the new waitresses. She looked worried about something.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Uh, one of the customers complained, uh, about the toilet. I think it’s blocked.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla sighed. “I’ll get on it.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nina hovered a little longer. “Miss Griffiths?” she said again.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla, about to walk away, said, “What?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nina smoothed an imaginary crease from her apron. “It’s about my pay,” she murmured.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What about it?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You, uh, promised you’d pay me for the extra hours last month, but it’s been two weeks and, uh, well …”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla couldn’t recall any issues with wage payments. “I’ll look into it.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Uh, it was four hours.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sure, don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla left her and entered the galley. Jacques the chef vigorously scrubbed down the surfaces in his cramped kitchen.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Jacques, I need a word,” said Darla.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jacques was creole, and to him, that meant he was royalty. At least, that was the impression Darla got. Apparently he’d been a top chef in some prestigious establishment and had trained under luminaries she’d never heard of, but whom he was keen to stress had been masters of the culinary arts. She never understood why he took this job and was convinced he was misinterpreting his role.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“This menu we’ve got,” began Darla. “It’s too complex. I mean, seriously, duck and oysters? Swordfish? What happened to gumbo, biscuits and gravy?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jacques picked at a stain around the edge of a hotplate. His pots were already clean and hanging in order according to size. A row of knives on the wall gleamed, each one honed to maximum sharpness.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“We can do better than that,” he said, running a cloth around the induction cooktop he’d pestered her to purchase the previous year after complaining about the original wood-burning stove that had come with the boat.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No we can’t, Jacques. We can’t. I can’t afford these kinds of ingredients anymore. I’ve got to get the ticket price down because we’re just not getting enough customers. We can’t compete on the same level as the Pride of Orleans, so it makes no sense for us to charge near the same.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I know the chef on that boat,” sniffed Jacques. “He’s not so good.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s not a competition. Do you hear me? We have to work with what we’ve got. I’ve ordered new supplies and I need you to make a different menu for next week. Enough of the fantasies. This isn’t the Bon Ton Cafe. Just give me a simple menu with bread pudding to finish. And no, I’m not buying whiskey for the sauce.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jacques narrowed his eyes. In his fifties, with salt and pepper hair, his lined face retained an aggressive hardness. His hands were scarred from a lifetime of burns and cuts. He had a reputation for intimidating the bar staff and waitresses, demanding the utmost from them. As a result, the turnover of saloon staff was high.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“When I signed up for this job,” he said quietly, “I accepted the low wages and the inadequate kitchen. I did so because I saw the potential of you and this boat. You said you wanted to make this the finest boat on the river, and I agreed. To achieve such a thing, you have to embrace quality. I will not waste my time cooking mediocre meals for this kind of money. If we do not aspire to be the best, then you have no further need of my skills and I will move on.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla raised her eyebrows. “And where will you move on to, Jacques?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“There are a dozen restaurants in this city that will be happy to accept my services.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Name one. I’ll give them a call.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jacques maintained his gaze but said nothing.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Just give me a menu I can afford,” said Darla, “that’s all I’m asking.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Walking outside and taking the stairs down to the main deck, Darla paused to watch the <i>Pride of Orleans</i> sailing by on the beginning of its cruise. A large sternwheeler boat with an extra deck, it looked like a floating hotel. Packed with tourists, it had a jazz band playing in its saloon. With a pedigree as old as the <i>Mississippi Rose</i>, it had nevertheless converted its boilers to diesel-fired steam, vastly improving its efficiency. No smoke rose from its stacks, and on the pilothouse were mounted a pair of golden antlers. When Darla had told her passengers about the silver trophies her boat had won, she neglected to mention that they were for achieving second place in the races. The <i>Pride of Orleans</i> had beaten her both times, and thus got to wear the coveted antlers.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The <i>Pride of Orleans</i> blew its whistle in salute, and Captain Hartfield waved at Darla from his pilothouse. Darla waved back, suppressing her envy and planting a smile on her face. Walking along the stage to shore, she considered her application for The Great Steamboat Race next year. The forms still sat somewhere on her desk in the office, and after choosing not to participate this year, she wondered whether she ought to. It was good publicity, and she had to seize every opportunity to drum up trade, but the thought of losing again rankled. The modifications she’d planned for her engines hadn’t been carried out, and her boat’s competitiveness slipped further and further behind with each new problem she found. The makeshift repairs were mounting up, and she worried that she’d lose her certificate of seaworthiness at the next inspection.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the wharf, outside her tatty trailer of an office, stood a man in a suit, clutching a briefcase.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Miss Griffiths?” he said as she approached.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Who’s asking?” she replied.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Darla Jean Griffiths?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla stopped, hands on hips. “What?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m from the bank,” said the man.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Are you the owner of the Rose Steamship Company?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla squirmed a little. She would like to have said she wasn’t, but she was standing right by the sign.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I guess I am,” she said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The man handed her his business card. “Mark Stevens, from Eastside Commerce Bank. We’ve been trying to get ahold of you, but you’re not answering your calls or replying to our emails.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Uh, I’ve been kind of busy,” said Darla.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mr. Stevens pulled a manila envelope from his briefcase and gave it to her. “You’re three months behind on your loan repayments, and this is the third warning. I’ve been instructed to tell you that if you don’t make your payments by the end of this month, we’ll call in the loan and put your business into administration. You know what that means.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla sighed and nodded.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m just doing my job,” said the man. “Good day, Miss Griffiths.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla wanted to tear the envelope up. Digging into her pocket for the keys, she unlocked the office and threw the letter onto her desk. Sitting heavily in her squeaky swivel chair she looked out the window at her boat and shook her head. All those years of hard work just seemed useless now.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She knew this day would come and she’d done her best to stall it, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow. Pulling open the bottom drawer of her desk, she looked down at the half-bottle of bourbon that currently acted as a paperweight to a pile of bills, weighing up whether now was the right time to finish it off. Deciding against it, she slammed the drawer shut. The application for the steam race lay under the computer keyboard. Pulling it out again, she studied it and thought for a while. There had to be some way of improving the cash flow problem. If she could somehow find a way to make this month’s payments and increase the number of passengers, she might be able to make it till next season. Winning that race could really boost her company’s profile.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She wanted to see those antlers on her boat.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Losing herself in that fantasy, she failed to notice the figure approaching her office until he was standing outside the door.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She thought at first it was a hobo staring in through the door glass. His untidy hair was down to his shoulders and his beard bushy and unkempt. His eyes were like pits, deep and brooding, and they gazed darkly into the office like a cat looking into a bird cage. He opened the door and stepped inside.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Can I help you?” said Darla cautiously.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’ve come about the job,” murmured the man, barely moving his lips. His jeans were worn along the creases and sagged badly. His woolen cardigan was clean, but a little odd in the September heat, and a variety of tattoos vied for space on the backs of his hands and the base of his neck.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t recall advertising for a serial killer,” she said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The man’s face creased into an ironic smile.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Steward,” he said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That your name?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No, the job. The one on your website. My name’s Zack Leary.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla couldn’t think of anyone less likely to be a steward. His countenance alone would have the passengers running for the life rafts, and she couldn’t imagine any of them even daring to ask him for a menu.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Not sure that job’s open now,” she said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Any job will do. Here …” he said, pulling out a creased and folded sheet of paper. “My resume.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla unwrapped the resume, trying to ignore the coffee stain on one corner. A quick skim-through confirmed what she feared. Zack had no experience of river or maritime work. His jobs included bar work, construction, fruit picking and being a lifeguard. Darla glanced up at him, trying, and failing, to picture him in speedos on a beach tower. The resume included a claim that he’d graduated from college, and a ten year work gap that went unexplained. The whole thing looked made up and Darla wondered why he didn’t have a probation officer or social worker to help him lie a little more convincingly.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Business is in a downturn,” she said, handing the resume back. “Can’t afford to take anyone on.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I can work for half-rates,” said Zack, deadpan. “Or cash if you want to keep it off the books.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t work like that,” said Darla.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Okay,” said Zack ruefully, refolding the sheet. “I guess I’ll be going then.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I guess you will.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Thanks.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla watched him go, wondering how long it would be before she found herself in the same situation. On the other hand, if she did, she’d make damn sure she had a binder to keep her resume looking good and coffee-free. Scribbling a reminder to remove the vacancy from her website, she took off her captain’s jacket and hat and pulled on a set of overalls.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Leaving the office, she paused when she saw a figure leaning against a dumpster by the wharf entrance. It was a guy and he looked as if he had been waiting for her. Lean and tall, he stubbed out his cigarette and walked over, rolling his shoulders in a way she knew he’d learned in prison, though he’d always tried to affect an air of toughness, even before his first stint inside.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Eric Whelan,” she said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hey, babe,” said Eric, exaggerating his gait. “Did you miss me?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Not really.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sure you did.” Eric turned to admire the boat. “So you called her Rose. I like that. I hear you got a vacancy aboard. Don’t mind if I try out for it myself. Be like old times, you and me on the river, and you know I can handle any boat.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla narrowed her eyes. “Oh, I see. You sent your buddy first to test the waters, knowing he’d never get the job. What was he, your cellmate or something? You and Zack go back a long way too? What did you promise him?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know what you’re talking about, babe. I just got out of the joint and I’m looking for work. An honest living, right? You got yourself a nice company here. Stands to reason. I’m your man.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No you’re not. We’re done, Eric. We were done a long time ago and I’m not going back to that. Go talk to your buddies on the mile. Maybe they’ve got some weed you can sell or a car you can jack.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eric shifted uncomfortably. “I ain’t like that no more. I got rehabilitated.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh sure. Third time lucky, right?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eric glared. He had the deepest blue eyes, and there was a time when she thought of them as puppy eyes, all vulnerable and looking for love. But she’d seen those same eyes harden and knew he could flip in an instant.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the boat, Jacques came out onto the deck with the garbage. He paused to look at who Darla was talking to. Eric glanced up at him and narrowed his eyes, squaring up his shoulders.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Don’t forget me, babe,” he said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He walked away, glancing back once more at Jacques before turning a corner and disappearing.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The swift change of behavior confused Darla, and she wondered what just happened. She looked back at the boat herself but Jacques was already gone.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Whatever. Eric was old news and Darla had bigger things to worry about.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Back on the boat, she entered the boiler room. Manny was letting the steam out to depressurize the boilers, his work pants slipping low as he bent over the valves.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You’ve got more hair on your ass than your head,” Darla said above the noise.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Manny hiked up his pants and ran a hand over his bald scalp. “It’s gotta grow somewhere,” he said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Grabbing an inspection light, Darla got beneath the pipes, looking for the leak.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“We can braze this,” she said.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I thought you said you were going to get new parts.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Must have been static on the radio. You need to be careful about getting the wrong idea with that.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla got the acetylene tank and torch and wheeled it over, grabbing the gloves and goggles.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Manny turned to face her, sweat accentuating the lines on his face. “Young lady,” he said firmly. “If you don’t give me the parts and tools I need to do this job, I swear I will quit.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Yeah,” drawled Darla, pulling on the gloves. “All I hear is promises. You and Jacques should run away together some time. The owl and the pussycat.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Wait,” said Manny. “Jacques said he was gonna quit?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Not really. He just kind of implied it.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You think he will?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Nope.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“He’ll never quit,” said Manny, reassuring himself. “He’s got too many people looking for him.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sure. He did mention all the restaurants out to poach him.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No, I mean he’s got people really looking for him. Bad people.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What, like Child Support?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No, no, real bad people.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Jacques?” said Darla, incredulous.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I mean it. He’s on the run. I heard someone tell me Jacques is ex-CIA. Used to be a hitman. Pissed the wrong people off. Now he’s lying low, on the lam. Pretends to just be an ordinary guy, but you’ve seen how he handles his knives. He could kill a man with a paper clip.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla snorted. “And this someone, would he be the same person who claimed to have proof that the moon landings were faked?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“They were, I tell you. Now come on, you’ve gotta admit there’s something strange about a top chef working on a boat like this. Don’t it make you suspicious?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I think I’d be more suspicious of the CIA teaching their agents culinary skills. You think they serve Huitres Thermidor at Langley?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Poison. They learn how to hide it in the ingredients. Makes sense.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Only to you.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darla slid under the pipes and lit the torch.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Secrets,” said Manny sagely. “People got secrets on this boat. That’s why they take to the river.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sure,” said Darla. “Nothing to do with needing a wage or nothing.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Manny gave Darla a smug look. “You got secrets too. You act tough, but you’re hiding stuff. I know it.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Annoyed, Darla extinguished the torch and slid back out, raising her goggles. “If you’ve got nothing else to do, there’s a toilet that needs unblocking in the saloon. After that, try flushing yourself down it.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was a lot of work to do to prepare the boat for the next day’s excursions. After the food supplies arrived and were unloaded, the truck bringing the coal sacks pulled up, and everybody had to help bring it all aboard. Once everything had been squared away, the decks were scrubbed and the brass polished until the <i>Mississippi Rose</i> gleamed, its white paint and black stacks glossy in the sunlight. As the last person to leave the boat, Darla checked the padlocks on all the doors and hatches. She gave the arch of the paddlebox an affectionate pat, pulled the chain across the gangway and walked ashore.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the office she fired up the computer and got changed while it took its time to boot up. Accessing her emails, she scrolled past the repeated bank warnings, and the dubious marketing and financial offers, and opened a River Authority weather warning. Apparently a solar storm was due that night, and the authority was warning all boat captains that the atmospheric interference could introduce errors into GPS systems and create ghosting on radars. Darla didn’t take the boat out at night, so it didn’t concern her and she moved on to the next email, which was a notification of another review of her business on one of the many tourist sites she was listed on. Clicking the link, she hummed a little tune while the computer slowly connected to the site.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She wished she hadn’t bothered. Some anonymous customer had given her a one-star rating, with the comment: <i>A ramshackle boat run by rank amateurs. Not worth the money</i>.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">End of Sample</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Order your copy now for only 99c before January 29th 2021 at <a href="http://Amazon.com">Amazon.com</a></span></p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-28209450937915304092020-08-22T05:00:00.001-07:002020-08-22T05:03:40.507-07:00Resurrection<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgFaoXc1dXCvlx5al3GSjIpk1QoCH-6tIv1AnBHcvju6VHgex-iH0GXaRpW-YAwvGqp5drJVINwYy-k4Enyr_k8CwDjSyw_O8cX3zzyfh38NKuaeEAJLKlFRrn1E_g0wOMu5ny42fvno/s540/Small-Shakespeare%2527s-Requiem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgFaoXc1dXCvlx5al3GSjIpk1QoCH-6tIv1AnBHcvju6VHgex-iH0GXaRpW-YAwvGqp5drJVINwYy-k4Enyr_k8CwDjSyw_O8cX3zzyfh38NKuaeEAJLKlFRrn1E_g0wOMu5ny42fvno/s0/Small-Shakespeare%2527s-Requiem.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I first published this novel, under a different title, back in 2012. It was my first published novel, titled <i>Even The Dead Dance To Live</i>. No, I didn't understand the concept of marketability at the time. It was intended as a gritty, realistic space adventure, but I got a little carried away. For the realism I spent months researching conditions on the planets and moons in our solar system, and the proposed scientific and engineering ways of being able to live on them. For the grit, I pored over accounts of the Lebanese Civil War and life under the Mexican cartels. Turned out to be a little too gritty for some people's tastes. More Tarantino-in-Space than Star Trek.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div>One reviewer nearly had a heart attack reading it, and told me he thought the book was disgusting and that the protagonist was 'a monster'. The book plummeted down the rankings until it hardly sold at all.<p></p><p>After writing more successful novels, namely the Survival EMP series, this book (now titled <i>Callisto: Dystopian Space</i>) lurked like a red-headed stepchild in my catalog. Embarrassed, I unpublished it. Like the story's protagonist, however, this book refused to lie down. Drawn to rereading it, I was struck by how much my writing has moved on. But I was also by how deep, detailed and philosophical this story is. I'll make no bones about it, the violence is unrelenting. But there was also something else, something I've since lost in my journey to becoming a more commercial writer. Reading it again, I found it hard to put down and I got a glimpse into a mind I'd almost forgotten.</p><p>Inspired once more, I changed the title to something more reflective of its content (if less market-friendly) and designed a new cover for it. It was time to bring my wayward stepson back into the fold, because #GingerLivesMatter. I don't expect it to sell any better than before, but it deserves a place in my collection, rubbing shoulders with its sleeker, more polite cousins. It is what it is and that's all it needs to be. Its earned its place at the table.</p><p>For the brave and the curious among you, it's available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0136S5AWU" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.</p>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-29845348645291525422019-12-01T15:09:00.001-08:002019-12-01T15:09:26.839-08:00EMP effects on Nuclear Power Plants<span style="font-size: large;">If a Solar Storm shut down the grid, how safe would we be from nuclear power plant meltdowns? Not very, it seems.<br /><a name='more'></a></span><div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In my book <i>Solar Storm</i>, I touched on what would happen to a nuclear power plant in the event of a complete grid and transport shutdown. At the time, within the story, I assumed that problems at the McGuire Nuclear Power Plant to the north-west of Charlotte would produce some unique problems for the city. It wasn't until I did my research for the third book <i>Solar Dawn</i> that I discovered that there were <i>two</i> nuclear power plants on the Catawba River, and that Charlotte's problems wouldn't be unique at all. The threat of nuclear meltdown and fallout would affect both of the Carolina States.</span><div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">With this in mind I went looking for nuclear power plants on the Mississippi River, which is where my next novel, <i>Into Darkness</i>, will be based. I found not one, not two, but <i>three</i> nuclear plants on the river between New Orleans and Vicksburg. That's a 200 mile stretch of the busiest and most important waterway in the US under threat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the whole of the US, there are 90 nuclear reactors, mostly scattered from mid to eastern USA. If you live in the midwest, you're less likely to be affected waves of radiation swamping your town when things go pear shaped. The same can't be said for anywhere else.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So why would a solar EMP cause problems for nuclear reactors in particular? The first thing to understand is that nuclear reactors are very difficult to shut down. The reactor core, usually a series of metal rods, is where fission takes place. This fission creates a lot of energy, but it also creates a lot of heat. Like, a <i>lot</i> of heat. If you were to immerse the rods into a municipal swimming pool, it would probably boil dry in 24 hours. Reactor cores need a lot of cooling, so water has to be continually pumped around them. Switching a reactor off, however, does not instantly stop the fission. It takes time. Several days, actually. And it's necessary to maintain the cooling, otherwise the core will literally melt down and cause an explosion. And water pumps require electricity to work. Do you see where I'm going with this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Let's take a specific real-world example: Fukushima.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In 2011, an earthquake off the coast of Japan caused a giant tidal wave, a tsunami, that swamped coastal areas. The Fukushima nuclear plant, situated on the coast, was affected. Nuclear plants seem always to be situated near water. I assume it's because they need access to water for cooling, but I'm not sure. Anyway, Fukushima got more water than it bargained for. The plant was flooded and the power distribution system destroyed. The backup pumps were also destroyed. In the emergency, the reactor temperatures started to climb.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Okay, this was Japan. The plant was modern, unlike that of Chernobyl. The Japanese are excellent engineers and incredibly hard working and efficient. After the tsunami, assistance could be called for. The electricity grid in the rest of the country remained intact and functioning. Communication systems remained intact. It was theoretically possible for every skilled engineer in the country to be driven or flown to the site. The army, navy and air force were available to help. Replacement generators and pumps could be shipped in from the mainland, or even from abroad, in just a few hours. Japan is a wealthy nation, and some way could have been found to keep the cooling water pumping in the reactors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As it turned out, however, it wasn't that simple, and in spite of the best efforts of many skilled people, the reactors overheated and blew up. It was the second worst nuclear disaster in history.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So a reactor blew up in spite of all the theoretically available assistance, in a country that maintained a working infrastructure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Again, I think you can see where I'm going with this. Imagine a devastating Carrington Event-sized (or bigger!) solar storm blowing the grid and wreaking havoc with the <i>entire infrastructure</i> of the continental United States. Imagine that engineers at the 90 or so reactors in the country only had some local help, because they couldn't call for assistance and nobody could bring any even if they knew it was necessary. I think you can guess the likely outcome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you're prepping for the end of the world, you don't want to be within 50 miles of a reactor. In fact, to be sure, make that 250 miles. Doesn't matter how many cans of food you have stored, nor how deep your home-made bunker is. The land around you will be poisoned. And you don't want to be down-river of a reactor either, no matter how far away, because the water will be poisoned too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We put a lot of effort into making sure that nuclear power is safe. Currently it's the safest of all power production. Nature, however, never sleeps and is more than capable of rendering our best efforts futile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Which is why writers like me continue to write post-apocalypse stories. Because one never knows.</span></div>
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Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-65195102273281411062019-11-26T10:48:00.001-08:002019-11-26T10:48:47.212-08:00Solar Storms<span style="font-size: large;">Solar storms are both fascinating and frightening. They're a natural phenomenon that we can't control and they have the potential to wipe out many of the gains of modern civilization. But what are they?</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;"> I covered some of the science in my own novel, <i>Solar Storm</i>, but basically it's what happens when the sun belches out a magnetically charged glob of plasma into space. Why does the sun do this? Because it's a highly energetic fusion reactor filled with clashing magnetic fields that occasionally react with each other to eject plasma into space.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Throwing stuff into space is something the sun does on a regular basis. We actually get hit by charged particles from the sun quite a lot. It's what causes the phenomenon that we call northern (or southern) lights, or <i>aurorae</i>. Charged particles interact at the poles with the magnetosphere that surrounds and protects earth, giving us beautiful colors. Sometimes a large encounter of such particles can affect astronauts and even passengers on planes flying at high altitudes, which is why these things are monitored to reduce exposure, but down on earth we merely take pictures if we're lucky enough to ever see an aurora.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Generally speaking (and I'm trying to keep things uber-simple here), that's the low level stuff that the sun throws at us. Occasionally we get the big stuff, known as a <b>Coronal Mass Ejection</b>, and you can liken it to a blob of lava sent into space. This stuff varies in size but is always highly charged, and if it happens to hit the earth as we orbit the sun, interesting things occur.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bored of the science yet? Let's jump straight to the event that put Solar Storms on the map: The <b>1859 Carrington Event</b>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">One day an English astronomer named Richard Carrington noticed a cluster of dark spots on the sun. The next day he read about the most bizarre incidents occurring in the US and concluded they were connected, duly filing a report with the Royal Astronomical Society. That was the day the science of solar storms began.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the USA, newspapers wrote of night skies bright with weird colors, so bright in fact that miners assumed it was the dawn and began making their breakfast before their shift. Huge surges of electricity through telegraph wires melted platinum electrodes, gave electric shocks to telegraph operators and caused sparks that set printer paper on fire. For the <i>whole of the next day</i>, long after the storm, electricity continued to surge through the wires, allowing the operators to disconnect the batteries and continue sending messages down the still-electrified wires.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The telegraph was a new thing then, which is what gave everyone their first clues as to the power of such events. The same thing could have happened a million times before without anyone really noticing much. So how did the solar storm create electricity in the wires?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you fold a piece of wire and rotate it between two powerful magnets, a current will be induced in the wire. This is how electricity generators work. The impact of the charged plasma on the earth's magnetosphere turned our atmosphere into a giant generator.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The interesting thing is that both the incoming plasma and our magnetosphere contain negative-positive polarities, just like a magnet. This is why we can get compasses to point to the north pole rather than south. If the earth's polarity shifts (as it will do one day), the compass needle will flip the other way. Now, if the polarity of the arriving plasma aligns with that of the earth, it will have zero effect. It can be the biggest mass ejection ever recorded, but it will just slide over us and do nothing. If the plasma is <i>opposite</i> aligned, however, the resulting electromagnetic pulse (EMP) on earth could be catastrophic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now, here's the thing. The Carrington Event is the largest geomagnetic storm ever recorded. But in actual fact, it wasn't really recorded. All we have are observations and anecdotes. The scientific instruments to record data about the event hadn't been invented or built yet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>We don't know what the relative polarity of the Carrington Coronal Mass Ejection was.</i> We don't even know how big the ejected plasma cloud was, nor how long it was in contact with the earth's magnetosphere for. We only have educated guesses.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>We have no idea if that was the most that our sun was capable of</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And that's the scary thing. Our modern world has a lot more than telegraph wires now. We have wires going everywhere and in everything. We have sensitive electronics that need to be protected from even the smallest of surges. We have wire fences (yes, fences induce electricity too) and aerials and wiring looms. And we rely on all of it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We cannot predict the sun's activities yet, we can only record the polarity of a coronal ejection when it's about an hour from hitting us and we don't know how big the 'big one' will be. But we will do one day. That's when we'll learn how vulnerable our civilization is.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-55142680556564509212019-11-03T12:25:00.001-08:002020-04-13T05:31:02.639-07:00The Road Runner<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoFzLOq6SgEzIYg2dn5SddLN9gdig-oHYQl5UzXH4BbNz3awmRyF_vkoQsb4qfg5ZDQ8pb3CP-SRHAbdsA7L1UP00CRJPpKX9Q_Fpyso0V-Y1g4IpDgfIjTDGhlQyGL3PPY6AX4nB9uPY/s1600/%252772_Plymouth_Road_Runner_%2528Les_chauds_vendredis_%252710%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="1377" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoFzLOq6SgEzIYg2dn5SddLN9gdig-oHYQl5UzXH4BbNz3awmRyF_vkoQsb4qfg5ZDQ8pb3CP-SRHAbdsA7L1UP00CRJPpKX9Q_Fpyso0V-Y1g4IpDgfIjTDGhlQyGL3PPY6AX4nB9uPY/s400/%252772_Plymouth_Road_Runner_%2528Les_chauds_vendredis_%252710%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plymouth Road Runner - Wikipedia photo by Bull-Doser</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">If you've read <i>Solar Rising</i> you'll be familiar with Packy's Road Runner. If you haven't read the book yet, spoilers ahead.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The Plymouth Road Runner was a slightly lesser known 70's muscle car, but in my story it becomes virtually another character. Packy has a knack of accumulating objects to which he then forms attachments with. In the last three books it was his Mac-10 submachine gun, but in this book, it's the Road Runner that captures his heart - after Dee, of course.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The Road Runner first appeared in <i>Solar Dawn</i>, making only a brief appearance before Rick gifts it to Lou - over Packy's protestations. I had no actual plans to bring the car back into the limelight in <i>Solar Rising</i>, but Packy clearly had different ideas. What follows is more than just a love affair. Packy's Road Runner provides some of the most thrilling, nail biting car chase scenes that I've ever written. In fact, the only ones I've ever written.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I've been writing action scenes for a long time now, inspired by many that I've read, all the way back to my youth. But I don't recall ever having read a detailed car chase scene. I assume it's because such things don't lend themselves to literary description, but then again, that can be said for any scene involving action. I don't know what readers think about it (yet), but I enjoyed writing it a lot. If you like old-school car chases - before they got theatrical and a little too fantastical (looking at you, <i>Fast and Furious</i>) - then you'll enjoy this one possibly as much as I did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But what was the Road Runner, and where did it get its name?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The Plymouth Road Runner first came out in 1968, as a cheaper alternative to the more famous cars like the Mustang and Challenger. Stripped to its basics and retaining only raw power, with few options available apart from speed, it was built as a back-to-basics muscle car. Its name derives from the Warner Brothers Road Runner cartoons, and Plymouth paid for the rights to use the name, logo and even designed a 'meep meep' horn to emulate the cartoon character.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYhDkawFh-x7cOquUnRqq6ilD4NGgpV8aYTRmgl73tgjeviB4xdWzaypM7BOtGX-WrjCNywoCOifcIfPlQJQFyBO4ABCS0KaInpyGJGYRaAMH8x1oKOa1tmQNB2-gzWFKs8bto4Vm__Gw/s1600/Plymouth_Road_Runner_1969_Emblem_LakeMirrorClassic_17Oct09_%252814598616764%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="1200" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYhDkawFh-x7cOquUnRqq6ilD4NGgpV8aYTRmgl73tgjeviB4xdWzaypM7BOtGX-WrjCNywoCOifcIfPlQJQFyBO4ABCS0KaInpyGJGYRaAMH8x1oKOa1tmQNB2-gzWFKs8bto4Vm__Gw/s320/Plymouth_Road_Runner_1969_Emblem_LakeMirrorClassic_17Oct09_%252814598616764%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">By 1972 it had gained a few luxuries like air conditioning and power steering, but it also acquired a great fuselage-style body and a hefty range of V8 engines. The one used in the story is - of course - the biggest available, at over 400 hp. I think you can see from this video exactly why Packy fell in love with it. I know I would have.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-63231910698619918092019-10-26T12:04:00.000-07:002019-10-26T12:04:39.828-07:00So what now?<span style="font-size: large;">I haven't written much in this blog over the past couple of years, but I plan to write more updates and articles, and I'd like to begin with my plans for the next few books.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;">First out of the gate will be a new post-apocalypse book, currently called <i>Into Darkness</i>. This is a working title, so things could change, but I'm confident of keeping this one as I like it and it suits the premise of the book. It will be set on the Mississippi River in the same timeline as <i>Solar Storm</i>, utilizing the same natural disaster. I didn't see any point in reinventing the wheel for this one, and writing <i>Solar Storm</i> gave me a lot of ideas that I was unable to include in the series. In spite of using the same phenomena, this will be a completely new story with new characters and won't simply be a rehash of the last series with new names. I mean, it's tempting to do that, and I see a lot of authors do it, but I want to bring something new to the table.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, will <i>Into Darkness</i> be a standalone book or a series? Good question. I'm not sure yet, as I have to see how much material the writing process generates. It's possible that I'll publish it initially as a standalone, but if there's sufficient interest I may write sequels that expand into a series. I'm not trying to tease you, it's just that it's early days, and I have a few other projects I'd like to write too, and they vie for my attention on an almost daily basis. Regular readers will know that I'm not a lightning fast book-a-month writer, so I have to pick my projects carefully. But rest assured, new books will keep coming. I don't want to disclose too many details yet, but the new book will feature a female protagonist, and the journey (small plot clue there) will be exclusively from her point of view, with fewer military elements compared to my last books. In fact, this will the first novel I have written where the lead character isn't a former soldier. It won't be any less exciting though, I can promise you that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Regarding more military matters, I plan on writing a series of space opera/military sci-fi books sometime in the future. I can't say when exactly, but I have a lot of strong ideas for a series that have been filling up my notebooks. Doesn't mean I'm giving up on post-apocalypse, it's just another branch. Eventually I hope to alternate between the two genres. In fact, I had considered writing sci-fi under a different name, but I don't see the point. I mean, it's still me writing them. I'm just giving my readers a choice. Eagle-eyed readers who have been with me for a while will have noticed that my X-Troop sci-fi books are no longer listed in my catalog. Considering they were my first effort at a series, I don't think they're up to scratch in the quality stakes, so I removed them. I don't think anyone actually missed them, but there are a few elements worth salvaging from them, and I'll be introducing them into a new series of space novels, somewhere in a galaxy far, far away. *sarcastic smirk*</span>Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-34435648846569534272019-10-06T03:48:00.003-07:002019-10-06T03:51:33.666-07:00Solar Rising Is Out Now<div class="tr_bq">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwmW8bVcFwezo5GtoG9HovRZB2zW4C1KwbUfUuz1-frxBHn2b2xXtIEIlcN_hnoaHgyDZHLclTiF7twQ82DGhqYauPxI4wJD1ylHiP2xCMvYgQonw3GOSEume7rqX5h0Fc7eo5FGXM7U/s1600/Small-New-Solar-Rising.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwmW8bVcFwezo5GtoG9HovRZB2zW4C1KwbUfUuz1-frxBHn2b2xXtIEIlcN_hnoaHgyDZHLclTiF7twQ82DGhqYauPxI4wJD1ylHiP2xCMvYgQonw3GOSEume7rqX5h0Fc7eo5FGXM7U/s320/Small-New-Solar-Rising.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Solar Rising, the fourth and final book of the Survival EMP series, is out now for pre-order. Get it now while it's just 99c.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick Nolan's family and friends have survived the Solar Storm and the horrors that followed, but they're not out of the woods yet. They now face their greatest challenge.</span><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">In their darkest hour, the survivors must rally if they’re to get their freedom back.</b></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Outsmarted and outgunned, Rick Nolan has reached his lowest point. His wife has been taken prisoner by the new Asheville regime, his best friend is dying and his people are scattered and in hiding. His arch-nemesis, Major Connors, is about to consolidate his tyrannical grip on the region.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Branded an outlaw and forced into the mountains, Rick has to do more than just survive. He has to fight back, but the odds are against him. Torn between saving his wife and protecting his children, Rick is under pressure, and Connors isn’t done with him yet.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">In a deadly cat and mouse game, Rick will need every ounce of ingenuity to stay ahead of his foe, and the stakes have never been higher. One mistake and he will lose everything, and everyone, he loves.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://amzn.to/2AYl5E9" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://amzn.to/2nkq7r6" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Read the first sample chapter <a href="http://www.roblopez.co.uk/2019/10/solar-rising-sample-chapter-1.html" target="_blank">Here</a>.</span></div>
Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-4832952195806015382019-10-06T03:37:00.001-07:002019-10-06T03:49:05.318-07:00Solar Rising - Sample Chapter 1<h2 style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">J</span><span style="font-size: large;">im Fairbanks locked the main door of the Black Mountain firehouse, picked up his lantern, checked his shotgun and turned east along State Street for his long walk home. A chill in the night air aggravated an old knee injury he’d sustained in a motorcycle accident, and he stretched his legs to ease the twinges. The old Toyota sedan he’d been using had been taken from him, and he made a mental note to acquire a bicycle from Emily Lucas. She’d taken to repairing them and was now one of the town’s main suppliers. A few shotgun shells would be enough to barter for a basic model with patched tires. It had been a while since he’d ridden one, and the ride up the hill to his house would be tough at first, but at least he’d be able to coast into town easily in the morning.</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /> Approaching the checkpoint close to I-40, he turned off and took the street that wound up to the substation. A battle had taken place here only the day before, and the Asheville militia who’d taken over the checkpoint were jumpy at the best of times. They were liable to shoot him first before checking whether he was friend or foe, and in the current atmosphere, he wasn’t sure how he’d be classed anyway. It was better not to take chances with the new authority that ran the town. <br /><br /> Crossing the bluff where the substation sat, he took a dirt path up onto the old toll road where he began his ascent, his knee aching. It was with relief that he reached his property, set back from the road and nestled among the trees. The light from the swinging lantern showed up the graves at the side of the drive, and while he’d gotten used to seeing them, he didn’t want to dwell on the names inscribed on the wooden markers. His wife, his mother-in-law and his son represented three generations that had been wiped out in a single winter, and the event was too recent to take lightly. Indeed, unlocking the front door of his empty house was enough to bring painful reminders of what he’d lost. Standing in the hall and listening to the silence was difficult to bear, and while he’d resisted all attempts to rehouse him closer to town, he still delayed coming home, so that each day his journey got later and later. In time, when his heart was less heavy, he might appreciate the precious memories that resided there. He certainly didn’t want to forget. But for now it was just too much to take, and he needed to stay busy, returning home only when he was tired enough to guarantee instant sleep. <br /><br /> Setting his lantern on the kitchen table, he reached up to open a closet. He’d opened a can of tuna in the morning and he figured it was better to finish it off before it attracted mice. There were some cans of meat, vegetables and peaches, but no sign of the tuna. <br /><br /> He must have eaten it all and forgotten. He forgot a lot of stuff these days, his weary mind simply refusing to retain information. Deciding against opening another can, he took his lantern and headed for bed. His hunger could wait till the morning. <br /><br /> Entering the cold bedroom, he put the lamp on the dresser, propped up his shotgun and removed his coat. As he half turned to drape it on a chair, he froze, catching his breath. <br /><br /> A stranger sat on his bed, pointing a pistol at him. The empty can of tuna sat on the nightstand. <br /><br /> Jim stared down the barrel of the gun. He considered turning quickly to snatch up the shotgun, but the hand that held the pistol was rock steady, and the barrel never wavered. He recognized it as a Glock, and the finger was on the trigger, already depressing the safety lever. One twitch, and Jim would end up with a hole in his chest before he’d even dropped the coat. <br /><br /> The stranger was dressed in army camo with an armored vest. His breathing was silent and his posture was easy, like turning up in people’s bedrooms was something he did all the time. <br /><br /> Jim swallowed and ventured to break the silence. <br /><br /> “How did you get in?” he asked. <br /><br /> The dark eyes in the stranger’s unshaven face never blinked, and Jim’s fear intensified at the menace they radiated. <br /><br /> “What do you want?” Jim said, his shaky voice sounding higher than he would have liked. He didn’t want to show this stranger that he was afraid, but his vocal chords betrayed him. “If it’s just the food …” <br /><br /> “Shut up,” said the stranger, his voice leaden. <br /><br /> Jim bit his tongue. <br /><br /> “You’re the mayor,” continued the stranger. <br /><br /> It came across as an accusation. <br /><br /> “No,” said Jim. <br /><br /> “Yes, you are.” <br /><br /> “No,” interjected Jim hastily. “Not anymore.” <br /><br /> This seemed to pique the stranger’s interest, and he waited for Jim to continue. <br /><br /> “I’ve been replaced. I’m not the mayor anymore. They, uh, they’re sending another guy to replace me. From Asheville.” <br /><br /> The stranger took this information in. “Move across to the middle of the room, away from the shotgun,” he said calmly. <br /><br /> Jim shuffled across, still holding his coat. <br /><br /> “Now sit on the floor and cross your legs.” <br /><br /> Jim did as he was told, his knee twinging as he forced his legs into position. He was now at eye level with the Glock, which wasn’t a position he relished, and any attempt to lunge for his shotgun from here was fraught with risk. On the other hand, he was closer to the nightstand. In the small drawer, he had his .38 revolver, and he was at the right height to reach across and draw it if the opportunity arose. <br /><br /> The stranger’s eyes missed nothing, catching Jim’s guarded glance to the nightstand. Keeping the Glock immobile, he reached behind him with his other hand and held up the revolver. Jim’s heart sank, and any hope he had for getting out of this situation alive evaporated. <br /><br /> “Tell me about Asheville,” said the stranger. <br /><br /> “If you shoot me, there’s militia nearby that will surround this house in an instant.” <br /><br /> “I said, tell me about Asheville.” <br /><br /> “Well … what the hell do you want me to say?” <br /><br /> “Who’s in charge?” <br /><br /> “I don’t know. Some goddamn senator and a two-bit general.” <br /><br /> “How many troops?” <br /><br /> “I don’t rightly know. The military guy …” <br /><br /> “Connors.” <br /><br /> “… that’s the one. Well, he said he had four platoons around Black Mountain. And they sent fifty of our militia to Biltmore for training. And maybe there’s more. Wait … you know this guy?” <br /><br /> The stranger said nothing, and something dawned on Jim: “You’re the guy they were after. You attacked the town!” <br /><br /> The stranger’s silence neither confirmed nor denied the deed. <br /><br /> “You’re the raider from Round Knob,” added Jim. <br /><br /> The stranger took offense to this and leaned forward ever so slightly, an action magnified by the undercurrent of anger in his voice. “I’m not a raider,” he said. <br /><br /> “I didn’t mean that,” stuttered Jim, even though he had. He thought hard, trying to figure out what this stranger could possibly want with him. “I had nothing to do with the attack on your camp, okay? I didn’t order that. My people were not involved.” <br /><br /> The stranger’s eyes bored into him. “A woman was detained here yesterday. Where is she now?” <br /><br /> “A woman?” Jim’s feverish mind sorted through the jumble of memories. “A woman. Sure. They took her to Asheville. They say she’s going to be tried for murder. She’s going to be hanged.” <br /><br /> The stranger’s hand tightened on the grip of the pistol. “When?” <br /><br /> “I don’t know. I’m not in charge anymore. They don’t give me that information. They’re still holding some of our people in Asheville. Kids, mainly. I don’t like this any more than you do. We didn’t ask for this.” <br /><br /> The stranger looked at him for a while, and Jim wondered if he was weighing up whether to kill him or not. He thought about his own shotgun, though he was careful not to look at it this time. If this was truly the end, it would be worth lunging for it. The gaping barrel of the Glock, however, suggested otherwise, and Jim knew he wouldn’t make it. <br /><br /> As if reading his mind, the stranger stood, and, with the pistol still aimed, strode to the shotgun. Holding the pump-action grip, he jerked the weapon up and down, ejecting cartridges onto the floor until it was empty. Then he tossed the shotgun onto the bed, causing the unloaded loose rounds of the revolver to jump in the air, chinking together as they landed. Jim could see there was nothing worth reaching for now. <br /><br /> “Get up,” said the stranger, “and put your hands behind your head.” <br /><br /> Jim had developed cramp in his legs and he had difficulty standing. As he straightened up, he considered a last act of resistance. He was under no illusion as to the likely outcome, however, and it would be an undignified end in his own family home. Wearily, he lifted his head. <br /><br /> “If you’re going to kill me,” he said, “let me die by the graves of my wife and child.” <br /><br /> The stranger acted like he hadn’t heard. Taking the lantern, he said, “Move. Toward the back door.” <br /><br /> Followed by the stranger, and with his own shadow preceding him as he walked through his home, he unlocked the back door and stepped into the yard. <br /><br /> “Keep going,” came the stranger’s voice. <br /><br /> Jim walked stiffly across his overgrown lawn, opened the gate and continued walking into the woods. Without his coat, the cold seeped quickly into his clothing. He shivered once, but it wasn’t because of the temperature. His shambling shadow foretold a fate he hadn’t imagined for this night. In the recent past, while mourning the deaths in his family, his thoughts had touched on the possibility that he didn’t want to be around anymore, that maybe it would be better if he could join them so he wouldn’t have to endure the pain he felt every day. Now, however, with a gun at his back and low branches brushing past his face, the very idea of his demise filled him with sadness. The times he had walked with his wife through these very woods, the moments of seeing his boy grow up, all those memories were suddenly vivid and raw, and the thought of having them snuffed out in a moment nearly dropped him to his knees. To lose such things seemed like the greatest injustice in the world. <br /><br /> “Stop right there,” said the stranger. <br /><br /> Jim halted, swaying. Breathing hard, he tried to think of a prayer to recite, but he’d never been much of a church-going man, and various phrases tumbled through his mind, each failing to connect. As he tried to find something to mentally grasp, the seconds crawled by until he could stand it no more. <br /><br /> “Shoot, damn it,” he said. “If you’re going to do it, do it now or go to hell.” <br /><br /> He received no reply. <br /><br /> A breeze sighed in the branches. Jim’s fear and anger boiled over and he turned to confront his antagonist. <br /><br /> But he wasn’t there. Only the lantern that had been placed on the ground. <br /><br /> Jim looked around, thinking the stranger was still nearby, staying in the shadows and toying with him like a cat with a mouse, offering him the illusion of freedom. Nothing moved, however, and he couldn’t hear a thing. Tentatively, he moved toward the lantern, hands still clasped behind his head. When nothing happened, he slowly lowered them and picked up the lantern, holding it before him. The sweat that he hadn’t even been aware of trickled cold down his face, and his eyes darted left and right. <br /><br /> It didn’t matter how long he waited, though. The woods stayed silent, and it was like the stranger had never even been there. <br /></span></span><br />
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<br /> “There’s no telling what a man like that is going to do.” <br /><br /> Chuck put wood on the fire beneath the bubbling pot. Doug, with one arm in a sling, gazed into the darkness, the light of the fire playing over his pensive face. <br /><br /> “What can he do?” he said. “He’s got Red and a couple of other guys with him, but that’s about all. We’re in no shape to fight.” <br /><br /> Chuck straightened up. Figures emerged from the forest, bringing more firewood. The cabins and lodges of Camp Grier were silent and dark, the atmosphere somber. Only the building that Sally and Harvey had turned into a medical clinic showed any signs of life, candles burning in the windows. There were many wounded to tend. <br /><br /> “No, we’re in no shape to fight,” admitted Chuck, “but you try telling him that. They’ve got his wife.” <br /><br /> “It’s a damn shame,” said Doug. “And who is this Connors guy, anyway?” <br /><br /> “Rick’s old commanding officer, by all accounts.” <br /><br /> “So he’s military as well? Surely, this has to be some kind of mistake. They’re both on the same side. If Connors really is an officer, and not some bandit, then he can be reasoned with. Maybe we need to send some kind of delegation to explain. We can set up a dialog and find a solution to this that doesn’t cost any more lives. Maybe even get some help for Scott,” added Doug with a glance toward the clinic. <br /><br /> Chuck stooped to pick up a basket, and Doug helped him with it, tipping blood-soaked bandages and towels into the boiling water. <br /><br /> “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” said Chuck. “There’s something about Connors that doesn’t sit right with Rick. At least, that’s the impression I got. They’ve got some sort of history together, and I think it’s kind of dark.” <br /><br /> “How dark?” <br /><br /> “I don’t know. I don’t like to pry.” <br /><br /> “Me neither, but … well …” <br /><br /> “I know. A little more information would be useful right now. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m worried that Rick’s going to get himself killed.” <br /><br /> “Can you talk to him?” <br /><br /> “I don’t know him that well. I mean, he’s a nice enough guy, but … he’s not the same right now. Even his own son is afraid to approach him. He’s volatile. I think he’s ready to take the fight to Connors, whatever the consequences.” <br /><br /> “This is something we don’t need now.” <br /><br /> “It’s out of our hands.” <br /><br /> Doug picked up a stick to stir the pot’s contents. The sharp metallic odor of blood rose from the simmering water. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he leaned back as he prodded the roiling cloths. <br /><br /> “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said. “It’s bad medicine.” <br /><br /> A guttural cry of pain from inside the clinic caused him to flinch. <br /><br /> Chuck sighed deeply. “I think any kind of medicine would be good right now,” he said.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">*****</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Get Solar Rising on <a href="https://amzn.to/337Zepw" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://amzn.to/2nkq7r6" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a></span></span></div>
Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-62034575241314445932018-12-05T13:15:00.000-08:002019-09-25T06:55:22.299-07:00Solar Dawn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SuyYq9VtlUI_hL0Ihe-QdLWWB2gi-7OBpRULlh94awH43lmWeZOZkORh-zYfb7f0_TXi2AU1Woguer8Vf-8oCvfZQH5WfMmVKLw3h98bKpTMMoorjKb39iMWhqjC1vuIbAkhA8Hw2_w/s1600/Small-New-Solar-Dawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SuyYq9VtlUI_hL0Ihe-QdLWWB2gi-7OBpRULlh94awH43lmWeZOZkORh-zYfb7f0_TXi2AU1Woguer8Vf-8oCvfZQH5WfMmVKLw3h98bKpTMMoorjKb39iMWhqjC1vuIbAkhA8Hw2_w/s1600/Small-New-Solar-Dawn.jpg" /></a></div>
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Solar Dawn, the third book in the Survival EMP series, is now available on pre-order for just 99c at <a href="https://amzn.to/2QIYN2J" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and <a href="https://amzn.to/2QAdKUw" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a>. The book goes live on December 12, 2018, after which the price goes up to $2.99.<br />
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Since Amazon doesn't provide the 'read inside' function during the period of the pre-order, I have pasted the first chapter below for you to sample.<br />
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<i>Book Description:</i><br />
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<b>The
storm has ended, winter is over and a new dawn will rise in American
history. It may not be the bright future many hoped for.</b></div>
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Rick’s
family and friends have survived the predations of raiders and the
ravages of winter. Now they have to leave the radioactive city of
Charlotte, striking out for the mountains. Following in the wake of
previous refugees, they encounter a land picked clean of resources,
with embattled settlements hostile to strangers and gangs dominating
the areas in between.</div>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rick
finds that safe havens are hard to come by, and his military
experience might not be enough to keep his family safe. New forces
are rising that could spell doom for them all.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Sample Chapter 1:</i></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b>1</b></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">If the walls of the
Myers Park clubhouse had ears, they would have heard many things:
From the jubilation of the wealthy members at the building of the
clubhouse in 1921, to the dismay of the same members as their stock
values crashed during the Great Depression that followed soon after.
From the upsurging economy during the Second World War, to the
whispered worries about sons or grandsons leading companies and
battalions in Europe and the Pacific. Thoughts about America’s
position as a global power would have been tempered with gossip about
colleagues with communist leanings, the stubbornness of workers’
unions and their mob affiliations, and the blatant lack of patriotism
among the Vietnam War protesters. Business deals would have been
hashed out over a bottle of Chateau La Legune in the restaurant,
political deals and requests for funding over bourbon in the bar, and
advice about offshore accounts and tax loopholes by the ninth hole.
The resignation of Nixon would have been quietly celebrated, Carter
commiserated and Clinton generously indulged. The rise of the
financial industry in Charlotte would have brought in a new breed of
member, and the second financial crash in 2007 would have had them
pursing their lips in despair. The devastating solar flare of 2017
would have been met with silence in the empty corridors as the lights
went out, and the building’s last memory would have been the
crashes of the gunfire, the whimpers of the dying and the tears of
those who survived.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lauren, stalking the
corridors of the clubhouse with an old M16 rifle, had zero knowledge
of what might have preoccupied the minds of former members, but she
retained a vivid recollection of the latter event. The blood spilled
in the boardroom and the scorches from the gas-bomb fire still
stained the floor boards. Such things had passed to the back of her
mind in the immediate aftermath, with everyone focused on the
day-to-day work of survival, but now that they were planning to
leave, she couldn’t help but think about such things, adding her
memories to whatever secrets the old building might have retained.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Perhaps someone else
would move into the building after they left and wonder at the bullet
holes on the walls, the chain-link on the windows and the grave
markers out on the golf green. Lauren felt the urge to carve her name
into a door, simply to mark her passing and show she once existed. If
she had the talent, she would have painted a mural depicting the last
battle and everyone who took part in it, and in that way nobody would
be forgotten. She should have commissioned her daughter Lizzy to
begin the work, but it was too late now, and Lizzy was too obedient a
child to have considered drawing on the walls by herself. Lauren knew
that her son Josh had already carved his initials into a windowsill,
which was to be expected, but he’d also carved the name: <i>Skye</i>.
When asked why, he’d just said it was someone he once knew, but she
couldn’t get any more information out of him than that. He’d been
quiet since the battle, but she couldn’t tell whether it was
because he was depressed or simply re-evaluating his life. He’d
been forced to grow up fast and she was barely keeping up with the
changes.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Passing Packy’s
room, she saw that he hadn’t been shy about scrawling on the walls.
He had more graffiti than the average prison cell, with gems like,
<i>You DO have to be crazy to work here</i>,
to the more cryptic: <i>They lied. Dream all you want. </i>In
among his meandering thoughts, there was also the more heartfelt,
<i>Mom</i>. Simply that. It
was a brief clue to some of the deeper churnings of Packy’s
unpredictable mind, and about the only thing that made sense, given
the recent loss of his parents in this very building, but it remained
hard to tell what his feelings were, given he still acted like a
goofball. In his own way, he was as opaque as Josh. While Josh was
clearly growing up, Packy seemed to have ditched that concept in
favor of his own unique and unfathomable path.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In
the grand ballroom, the others had gathered their remaining supplies,
ready for transportation to the promised land – or at least
someplace else that hadn’t been affected by the radioactive cloud
that covered Charlotte after the McGuire nuclear plant blew. They’d
waited out the winter for want of a better place to hole up, but now
the weather was improving, it was time to get moving again. April was
three months pregnant, and the safe development of the fetus was
foremost in her mind. She didn’t go outdoors anymore, but
considering they all drank water from Briar Creek, which flowed from
the north, it wasn’t enough to just stay inside. They needed
somewhere clean where they could grow food without thinking of the
long-term effects.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Chuck brought in
another tray of seedlings from the greenhouse, adding them to the
trays laid out in the ballroom. He carried them in his left hand as
his right arm was still weak from the shoulder wound he’d
sustained. At his age, Lauren suspected the arm would never heal
right.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Lizzy, give Chuck
a hand bringing the plants in.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lizzy and Daniel
should have both been helping, but they were distracted by a kid who
was even younger than they were: Baby Jacob. Sally was giving him his
daily examination, trying to keep the stethoscope on the baby’s
chest, but Jacob was more interested in rolling over to dash across
the floor.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">He’s fine,”
said Sally, letting him go.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Sensing freedom,
Jacob sped off, his little limbs pumping the floor at a fast crawl,
his bare butt wiggling. Lizzy and Daniel both giggled as Jacob tore a
determined path to the plants.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lauren snapped her
fingers to attract Lizzy and Daniel’s attention. “Hey, there’s
work to do.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Jacob paused,
wobbling as he stared up at Lauren, then resumed his journey with
renewed gusto. His mother, Dee, scooped him up before he reached the
plants and laid him on a table to put his cloth diaper back on.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’ll give Chuck
a hand,” said Sally, closing her medical bag.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’m good,”
said Chuck. “You worry about the little feller there. He’s so
full of beans, there’s no telling what he might try to do. I say we
hitch a trailer to him. He can bring in everything in one shot.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">You won’t be
laying a finger on him,” said Dee without looking up.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">April sat on a
chair, stroking her belly. She was barely showing, even at three
months, but she did that every time she was close to Jacob. “He was
joking, Dee,” she said gently.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Dee
acted like she hadn’t heard, focusing totally on Jacob. Apart from
allowing Sally to examine him, she remained aloof from everyone in
the clubhouse. Lauren noted that April spent a lot more time trying
to ingratiate herself with Dee, softening her demeanor in an attempt
to connect with the young mother, perhaps identifying a common bond
now that she was pregnant. Dee simply ignored her the same as she did
everyone else. To Lauren, April’s efforts were painful to watch. It
was like seeing a school-kid trying desperately to make friends with
the snobby bitch from the in-group. Whether that was down to April’s
hormones or not was hard to say, but the regression was embarrassing.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Okay, people,”
said Lauren, “it’s time to get everything squared away. The guys
should be back this afternoon and we need to be ready to go.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Chuck shrugged as he
turned away. Overhead, the alarm-cans jangled on the pulled wire.
Lauren shouldered past Chuck and ran along the corridor to the
service ladder that led to the OP on the roof. Josh waited, crouched
behind the sandbags, sighting along his rifle at some distant target.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Group of people
coming this way,” he murmured, keeping his head low.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lauren slid down
next to him and took out her binoculars. A small procession of people
were coming across the golf greens. Lauren focused, counting eight of
them. They weren’t moving tactically, and Lauren couldn’t see any
weapons. They appeared to be wandering refugees, but they were headed
straight for the clubhouse.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Should I fire a
warning shot?” asked Josh.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lauren glanced at
him. He’d learned a lot from this winter’s encounters, especially
from his father. It was comforting to know she could count on him
right now, even though he wasn’t old enough to shave.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">No, but keep your
sights on whoever might be the leader. I’ll go down and see what
they want.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Sliding back down
the ladder, she called out: “We’ve got company! April, you watch
the children. Sally, you back me up.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Unlocking the side
door by the kitchen, she went out onto the pool terrace. There were
two pools and a Jacuzzi, all filled with stagnant water. The
burned-out apartment block next door loomed over the fence –
another reminder of the fierce fight during the winter. Checking that
she had a round in the chamber, Lauren slipped the safety catch off
and took position behind a semi-circle of sandbags. The group of
refugees kept coming. Looking up, they saw her, and began walking
past the raised terrace, up the slope toward the barbed wire.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">That’s far
enough,” called Lauren, aiming her rifle.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">There were five men
and three women, all in their thirties or forties, though with the
straggly beards, dirty faces and unkempt clothing, they could have
just appeared older than they actually were. After the harsh winter,
everybody looked older.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Hey there,”
said the leading man, halting. He had a pinched face and he squinted
up at Lauren, studying her. The whole group did, assessing her
without a trace of emotion on their faces. Having survived this long,
they probably weren’t impressed by much anymore.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">What do you
want?” said Lauren.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Major Connors
sent us,” said the man. “Told us you had supplies and you would
help us out.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">And why would he
tell you that?”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Sally came out onto
the terrace, toting a shotgun.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Because it’s
true,” said the man, his gaze switching from Lauren to Sally, then
back again. “Major Connors is in charge of this district now and
said you had an obligation to help. Said that you were soldiers and
these were his orders. Wrote it down on this piece of paper, he did.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The man reached to
his pocket and Lauren called out, “Keep your hands where I can see
them.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The man held his
hands out, eyeing Lauren. Behind him, the others were unmoved. “Can’t
really show you your orders if you don’t let me get them out,”
said the man.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">We don’t take
orders,” said Lauren, “and I don’t know where the Major got the
idea that we would, but he’s mistaken. We don’t have a lot of
supplies and we can’t help you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">A thin smile spread
across the man’s face. “He said you’d be awkward about it.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Awkward’s got
nothing to do with it. We’ve only got enough to feed ourselves. I
suggest you go back to him and let him know this isn’t a military
outpost and we’re not under his command.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">You want to keep
it all for yourselves, is that it?”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">There is no
‛all’.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Prove it to us.
Let us in to take a look. If what you say is true, you’ve no reason
to object to that.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lauren couldn’t
understand why he was so insistent. “Turn around and go back the
way you came. There’s nothing here for you.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The man turned
around to address the others. “See? She wants us to starve. Doesn’t
care whether we live or die.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">One of the women
screwed up her face in disgust. “You’s lying,” she said to
Lauren. “You got a basement full of food that you’s meant to be
giving out. You a liar.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lauren scanned the
group, looking for signs that someone might be reaching for a weapon
while she was distracted, but all she saw were eight pairs of feral
eyes glaring back at her. Whatever these people were like before the
storm, the months of hardship and starvation had changed them. The
hatred was palpable.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">You’ve got the
wrong idea,” she said, taking up the slack on the trigger.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">No, you’ve got
the wrong idea,” said the man. “I’ve got a signed statement
here that says I have the <i>right</i> to shelter here, and you got
the <i>responsibility</i> to take us in on behalf of the state of
North Carolina. That’s the <i>law</i>.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He reached toward
his pocket again.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">You keep your
hands clear,” ordered Lauren. She ran hastily through her options.
Who the hell were these people with their strange demands? She could
see Sally from the corner of her eye, no doubt waiting on her cue,
but Lauren wasn’t sure how to defuse the situation.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Dee came out onto
the terrace, hugging her baby and gazing impassively at the group.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The man’s smile
broadened as he looked at Dee, his hand still moving toward his
pocket. “Well,” he said. “It’s just a few women here, that’s
all.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">End of Sample</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Book available at <a href="https://amzn.to/2QIYN2J" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and <a href="https://amzn.to/2QAdKUw" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a></span></div>
<b></b><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-32214511269324695282018-07-16T08:10:00.002-07:002019-09-25T07:36:27.758-07:00Half-time Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Apparently, some place called France won the World Cup yesterday. The English went home rather displeased.</span><br />
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Can't say I've been keeping up, to be honest, though I have been gripped by the Thai Cave Rescue, which really did show humanity at its best. But these are all distractions from the job in hand, which in this case happens to be <b>Solar Dawn</b>, the third book in the <i>Survival EMP</i> series. It contains neither knights, soccer nor shrubberies. And it's not finished yet.<br />
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I suppose there's still time to squeeze them in somewhere...<br />
<br />
But no, the serious work must continue. What can you expect from <b>Solar Dawn</b>? Well, a whole bunch of things, including a few changes of location. Expect to see more of the mountains of North Carolina, as Rick's group prepare to move. I can't give the reasons why, but the story will take a new turn. There's also new characters to meet, and you're going to hear a lot more about the mysterious Major Connors, who appeared at the end of the last book.<br />
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With all the extra stuff, however, the story gets more complicated. On the one hand, I want to give the reader the same rich experience that they've (hopefully) come to expect from my books. On the other hand, it means more work for me, so the story isn't being written as quickly as I'd like. Sometimes, writing late in the evening, I wonder if I've bitten off more than I can chew.<br />
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The good news is that <b>Solar Dawn</b> won't be a repetitive rehash of previous themes. The bad news is that I'd been hoping to contain the new stuff in one book and make this the last book of the series, rounding it off as a coherent trilogy. I've come to the conclusion however that there's just too much material to cram into one book, so I will need a fourth book to properly finish the series.<br />
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Of course, if you like the series, you'll be glad it isn't ending yet. That's understandable. It's just I'm not a fan of series dragging themselves out for the sake of it, so I only wanted to add another book if there was a very good reason. Luckily, there is a good reason. I just hope you can be patient with me.<br />
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For the reasons stated above, I can't give a definitive date for when the next book will be out. It could be a while. But at least the World Cup is over now.<br />
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<br />Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-66517572652748889872018-03-13T11:45:00.000-07:002019-09-25T06:55:59.690-07:00Solar Winter: Sample First Chapter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Chapter 1</span></b></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">With its
old-fashioned charm and relative isolation, it could have been
paradise.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Hugging the banks of
the slow-flowing Cape Fear River, the hundred-acre farm was a
snapshot of what it must have looked like when Scottish settlers came
to this part of North Carolina, clearing the trees and planting their
first crops in the loamy soil. Deer would have poked their
inquisitive noses out of the surrounding woods, and flintlock muskets
would have belched smoke to bag the first wild turkeys. Maybe the
settlers would have seen Indians across the wide river, or paddling
in their war canoes to trade pelts for trinkets, one warrior tribe to
another. Wood would have been chopped and sawed, with chisels cutting
notches for interlocking pieces. Barns and outbuildings will have
been erected by multiple hands working in community. They would have
been smaller, perhaps, than the large cypress barn Sergeant Rick
Nolan was currently looking at, but the principle was the same.
Running his hand along the rough, knotted fence, he pondered for a
moment the grim train of fate that had brought him here.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The farm was
paradise lost. The cleared fields, the rough pastures and the
surrounding woodlands were filled with tents, tarps and strung
washing. Flies hovered over the stinking latrine pits. Garbage
littered the ground. Rowboats arriving from upriver unloaded stores
on the bank, guarded by disheveled cops and unshaven soldiers.
Shotguns and batons were wielded to keep back the crowds of people
who gathered in the hope of getting food. A sheet hung on the side of
the barn, crudely painted lettering proclaiming the presence of FEMA
camp 107.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Many such camps
existed now, and the Cape Fear River was the highway that linked them
all. Since the solar storm fried the grid and put most vehicles out
of action, the rivers returned to their traditional role of carrying
freight. The only problem came from finding enough freight, and
enough boats, to feed the exploding riverbank populations. The nearby
city of Fayetteville, its store shelves bare, emptied its citizens
toward the camps, and more came from farther afield. People arrived
faster than the food, and even Fort Bragg, just fifteen miles to the
north-west, struggled to cope. Not since the Civil War had so many
military minds been forced to contemplate the age-old problem of how
to supply massed armies using just hoof and oar. Except Civil War
logisticians never had to contend with the issue of feeding every
civilian as well. Plus, they had the advantage of steam power, trains
and the telegraph.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick walked through
the debris of cardboard packaging and empty MRE pouches. Vacant faces
stared as he passed by in his dirty, bloodstained cargo pants and
body armor – vaguely military, but not quite so. Questing eyes
tried to ascertain whether he was an authority they could trust, or
somebody they should be avoiding. Paranoia hung heavily over the
clustered family groups in their sagging tents. Lone wolves prowled
the camp, either because they were looking for something or because
there was nothing better to do. Scavengers picked at the trash,
hoping to find a crumb that somebody had missed. Patients lay in rows
outside the medical tent, triaged by overworked nurses who had to
choose between those they could help and those they couldn’t.
Anybody with a fever was left to sweat it out. Pamphlets trampled
into the dirt warned of the risk of cholera from drinking untreated
water. Bodies with sunken eyes and wrinkled hands lay by burial pits,
patiently waiting to be interred. Grave diggers leaned on their
shovels and hiked their kerchiefs over their noses as they waited for
a bedraggled minister to bless the dead.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The inside of the
cypress barn was stuffy and rank, with straw laid down on the
concrete floor. In the stalls were mothers with young babies, given
priority shelter under the high beamed roof. Rick strode past them
all until he found Dee.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The last time he’d
seen Dee, she was the bubbly blonde with the Meg Ryan hairstyle,
joining him and the other guys from his small unit as they
fraternally celebrated the end of another tour, taking over the bar
of Carlos’s joint in the early hours of the morning. Walt had
proudly announced the news of her pregnancy, and got down on his knee
to propose to her, theatrically pulling a ring from his pocket. After
the tears and the hugs, they toasted the engagement and Walt’s
goofy smile as he contemplated fatherhood.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It seemed so long
ago.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Dee’s hair was
dark at the roots now, and as wild as the hay left in the iron
feeding cage at the end of the stall. The baby in her arms was
swaddled and sleeping, its little mouth opening and closing as it
sucked on an imaginary nipple.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Dee looked up as
Rick’s shadow fell across her. Wonder glowed on her features as
recognition dawned, and she glanced behind him, looking to see who
else had arrived. Her face crumpled when she realized Rick was alone,
and the glow faded.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">They said you’d
never make it back,” said Dee, her voice breaking. “Now I wish
you hadn’t found me, because I know what you’re going to say. I
wanted to keep hoping.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’m sorry,”
said Rick heavily. He took a pair of metal ID tags from his pocket
and held them out to her. “I did everything I could.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Dee took the tags,
tears cutting tracks through the dirt on her cheeks as she ran her
thumb over the embossed name and number of her fiancé. “Walt
always said your team was the safest place to be. Said you would
always lead them out. I wanted to believe you’d bring Walt back.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick didn’t want
to correct her on any of those points – didn’t want to admit out
loud the mistakes he felt he’d made. “I’m sorry,” he said
again.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">How many of the
others made it out?” she asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Just me and
Scott.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Each word weighed a
hundred pounds, and Rick felt guilty about being able to say them. A
bunch of guys now couldn’t. He gazed at the baby, remembering when
his own children looked like that, and of the vow he made to keep
them protected. He was sure Walt would have made the same.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">We need to get
you out of here,” he said.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Dee wiped her face
and stared into the distance. “They said I couldn’t get onto the
base. Couldn’t verify my ID because the systems were down. Said
Major Connors was unavailable. Unable to contact him.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">We’re not
taking you to the base. We’ve got someplace else.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I thought they’d
take care of me, you know? Serving the flag and all. Thought they’d
take care of their own.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Forget Connors.
You’re as much a part of my team as Walt was. We take care of each
other.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">They wouldn’t
let any of us in. There’s a bunch of us here. It’s so messed up.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick kicked at the
straw with his boot. “None of that stuff matters now. You’re
coming with us.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The baby stirred,
and Dee uncovered her breast to feed it. “Where to?”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick glanced around,
aware that this conversation wasn’t as private as he would have
liked. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Is it far?”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Kind of.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Secure?”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It’s a work in
progress.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Dee moved the baby
into a more comfortable position as it fed. “I can’t really
travel now. Maybe in a few months.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Might be too
late, then.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It’s too soon
to go. It was tough enough getting here. I don’t have a whole lot
of energy, and I’d only slow you down. You’re better off leaving
me.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I wouldn’t
leave a dog here.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’m not your
dog, Sergeant Nolan.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick looked at her.
Saw the defiant gaze, the protective embrace of the child.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">You know that’s
not what I meant.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In the opposite
stall, another mother looked up and threw a glance of admonishment,
like she didn’t believe him.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve got
friends here,” said Dee. “We look out for each other. You know
how that works, right?”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I do.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Dee stroked the
baby’s head. “I didn’t mean to patronize you. Just wanted to
let you know how things are. I’m grateful you found me and all, and
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">…</span> told me about Walt. I
…” Her voice broke again, and she squeezed her eyes tight to stop
the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to keep it all together. I
knew something like this would happen. I just <i>knew</i>.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">She dissolved into
sobs, and the baby, sensing her distress, quit feeding and started
crying too. The other mothers gathered around to console her, and
Rick stepped back.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’ll wait
outside,” he said to nobody in particular.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Down by the river, a
fight had broken out, and the cops responded with batons, knocking a
couple of guys down and pushing back a crowd that threatened to surge
toward the supply boxes being carried to the farmhouse. Insults and
hand gestures were thrown at the authorities. Around the camp, heads
turned lazily toward the noise, like it was a regular occurrence.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick waited until
the disturbance died down and a simmering indolence returned to the
scene. A woman holding a baby came out of the barn.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">She says she
wants you to go,” said the woman.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick stared at her
for a while but kept his thoughts to himself. Nodding once, he walked
off.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Scott waited by the
camp gate, looking like a hobo who just happened to find some body
armor and a rifle. Lack of food left him more rangy and pop-eyed than
ever, with a beard so unkempt it would have made a backwoodsman
blush. Holding onto two bicycles, he chatted with two soldiers who
also looked a little worse for wear. Walking up to him, Rick
retrieved his M4 carbine and Glock.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Is she coming?”
asked Scott, turning from the conversation.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick shook his head,
slinging the carbine and holstering the pistol.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">One of the soldiers,
a corporal, stepped forward. “Man, I just want to shake your hand.
I can’t believe you made it back from Syria.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick glared at him,
as if he’d broken some protocol.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">They were just
curious,” explained Scott, knowing well the look on Rick’s face.
“No harm in telling them.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Yeah, man,”
said the corporal. “It’s a pretty amazing story.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Then just keep it
to yourself,” said Rick brusquely. “There’s guys out there who
still haven’t made it back, and folks here still waiting for news.
I don’t want them hearing rumors and hanging onto false hope.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">No, sure. I
understand. But damn, what a journey. You guys are Delta Force,
right? Real hardcore.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick clamped his jaw
and Scott hastily intervened. “The corporal here was just telling
me how things have been at the camp.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Uh, yeah,” said
the corporal, glancing from one to the other. “It’s been pretty
bad, man. The other day, they were rushing the fences, demanding to
know why we were getting fed more than them. I mean, do I look as if
I’m getting my three meals a day? The pounds are falling off me,
man, but some jerk spread the rumor around that we were withholding
rations from them, so there we were, pointing rifles and yelling at
them to stand down. Seconds away from a massacre, I tell you. Can’t
say I’d be sorry to administer some ballistic therapy to a couple
of assholes in particular. They do nothing but bitch and whine, and
they’re getting the others riled up. Captain says we’ll be
getting some relief soon, but I ain’t seeing none.” The corporal
leaned in and lowered his voice. “We’ve had guys skipping out,
and I don’t blame them. My folks are in Michigan and I ain’t had
word on how they’re doing. If this keeps up … well, you know what
I mean.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick certainly did.
The system was breaking down, even here, and soon there’d be
nothing to put back together, no matter how much people tried. He
thought about Dee and contemplated going back one more time to try
and persuade her. At least for the sake of the child.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">On the other hand,
he remembered her defiant look, and suspected he wouldn’t get far
with that. He wasn’t good at persuasion. Didn’t have the patience
for it, which was why he was a soldier, not a diplomat.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">By the camp gate was
a wooden outbuilding, the side of which was covered in creased
photos, hand drawn pictures and written notes – all pleas to locate
missing loved ones, or to let others know they were here. A door
opened and an officer who looked more disheveled than Scott stepped
out, scratching his groin and dragging a pump-action shotgun.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The corporal
groaned. “Looks like Captain Asshat’s woken again. Stays in that
shack whenever there’s trouble outside. Says he’s doing vital
administration, but I think he’s just jerking off. Started off
highly strung and he’s getting flakier every day. If the girl don’t
want to go with you, you can take him instead. It’d make my life
easier.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The captain looked
around until he fixed indignantly on the group at the gate.
“Corporal,” he shouted, “why are those civilians still armed?”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">They’re not
civilians, sir,” called back the corporal.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The captain didn’t
appear to believe him and strode over, holding the shotgun out in
both hands like a baton. “Who are you?” he said, addressing Rick.
“Identify yourself.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick glanced back at
him. “Sergeant Rick Nolan, 409522002.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Why are you out
of uniform?”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Just back from
deployment. Sir.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The captain appeared
affronted that Rick didn’t turn around to address him properly.
“Where were you stationed?”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick rolled his eyes
at Scott. “That’s classified.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">What’s your
unit?” blustered the captain.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">That’s
classified too. Sir.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The captain circled
around until he was face to face with Rick. “What gives you the
right to be out of uniform, soldier?”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick didn’t bother
making eye contact. “You don’t have to concern yourself with me,
Captain. Simply go back to your shack and carry on with your job. Or
exercise your wrist, I don’t mind.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick took hold of
his bike and made to move off, but the captain jumped in his way.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I know your
type,” said the captain contemptuously. “You think that just
because you’re special forces you can disregard the chain of
command. Stand to attention when I’m talking to you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick narrowed his
eyes at him. “Out of my way, Captain.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The captain failed
to heed the warning. “That’s an order, soldier. You either show
me written confirmation of your assignment or I’ll be forced to
arrest you for insubordination and being absent without leave.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rick kneed him
savagely in the groin. As the captain doubled up, gasping for breath,
Rick plucked the shotgun out of his hands and tossed the weapon to
the corporal. “You want to be careful there, Captain. You’ll give
yourself a hernia.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The captain
collapsed to his knees and Rick mounted his bike and cycled past the
bemused soldiers. Scott tipped them a salute and followed behind.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’m guessing
you’re pissed that Walt’s girlfriend didn’t want to join us,”
he said, drawing up alongside.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I promised Walt
I’d check in on his kid. Doesn’t feel right to leave them here.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Yeah, I know, but
what can you do?”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Nothing, and that
was what irked Rick. Autumn leaves drifted down off the trees,
carpeting the road now that there was no traffic to disperse it.
Three miles up the road they passed the tractor and trailer they’d
seen earlier on the way to the camp. The tractor was a little old
Ferguson, low tech enough to still be running after the EMP, but it
had broken down and the farmer, black oil stains on his hands, was
still leaning over the engine, a ratchet wrench dismantling another
engine component. Attached to the tow hook was a huge trailer loaded
with grain, two soldiers riding shotgun on the top. They looked
bored.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">If this was the best
that could be done, the future did indeed look grim for the half
million people waiting in this part of North Carolina alone. In the
rest of the state, the population ranked at ten million, a twentyfold
increase since the pre-industrial era when people lived in small
homesteads.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Never an optimist,
even Rick was overwhelmed by the thought that most of them weren’t
going to make it through this first winter. It was entirely possible
that his own family would be among them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BF9F6TV" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BF9F6TV" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.51cm;">
<br /></div>
Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6214572253612712667.post-20729970462544712732018-03-13T11:38:00.000-07:002019-09-25T06:56:13.596-07:00Solar Winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjre3S-XiZBmTgjSGm72SpY4jxsfA2TlDudoWsU-OKH0Fr_2IEp2cHJUoqJUPftE5u-3NxEpODH0m-NJtgIOmHQZscwl93v3-76ZzERPWOX5ifV0GlqDvNLMuedpN0lbxOQdYTjnKC-wgg/s1600/Small-Solar-Winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="360" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjre3S-XiZBmTgjSGm72SpY4jxsfA2TlDudoWsU-OKH0Fr_2IEp2cHJUoqJUPftE5u-3NxEpODH0m-NJtgIOmHQZscwl93v3-76ZzERPWOX5ifV0GlqDvNLMuedpN0lbxOQdYTjnKC-wgg/s400/Small-Solar-Winter.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Solar Winter, the second book in the Survival EMP series, is now available on pre-order for just 99c at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BF9F6TV" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BF9F6TV" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a>. The book goes live on March 20th.</div>
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</div>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<b>How
do you survive when you haven’t prepared?</b></blockquote>
<blockquote style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
The solar
storm has all but destroyed American society, and the survivors are
left picking over the ruins. Rick’s family and friends face a bleak
future. Winter’s coming, and with it the greatest test they’ve
ever had to face together. With no supplies, and nowhere safe to bug
out to, they’re starting from zero. </blockquote>
<blockquote style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
Forgotten
skills have to be relearned, and improvised solutions are needed just
to stay alive. But time is running out. With each passing week come
troubling signs of a more immediate threat than hunger. Dangerous
foes lurk nearby, and Rick’s tiny group cannot stay hidden forever.
Ready or not, the time will come when they have to fight. Or be
annihilated.</blockquote>
<br />Rob Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11243259935247675354noreply@blogger.com0