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March 17th, 2020 For those interested, an upcoming novel of mine, Iris Incredible, will be released later on this year. Having special abilities doesn’t make someone a hero. Using them for the right cause does. The world wasn’t ready for Iris Incredible before. It is now. Synopsis: Vicar (Vic) Farbstein, seventeen, an average high school student in every way, happens upon an alien who has come to Earth in search of warriors to defend her world. With a long, unpronounceable name, he calls her Iris, with her blessing. Iris has abilities—flight and strength—and soon, the NSA discovers what she can do. Led by Agent Randolph Haynes, he urges her to keep a low profile and blend in. Blending in, though, isn’t something Iris can so readily, as the destroyer of her world, Kherter, a fearsome giant of a man, sends his forces to Earth to destroy her as well as enslave mankind. Iris manages—barely—to beat them back the first time, and in doing so, reveals herself to the world. Vic accepts her as a friend, and so do many others at first. The press dubs her Iris Incredible, and she is hailed as a savior, a mantle she is unwilling to assume. Her only goal is to find someone who can help her in her own cause. When Kherter and his forces return to ravage downtown Eugene and subsequently threaten the world, human nature takes over. Trust turns to mistrust and fear, and Iris becomes a pariah, as does Vic. Soon, social order breaks down as the worst of human nature comes to the fore. In spite of the public’s antipathy, Vic and Iris take on Kherter’s forces in one, final, all-out assault. Iris knows what she has to do as does Vic, and they engage in a battle that will determine the future of mankind. https://www.devinedestinies.com/coming-soon/978-1-4874-2836-5-iris-incredible/ One structure stood out, a shabby, single-story building that stood on a hill and had a large satellite dish on top of it. It had once been an observatory, but it had closed down due to government funding cuts. Now, Mr. Nolan owned it. He was our resident amateur astronomer. A widower, he’d been there for like, forever. It seemed that he had some pull with NASA, or so I heard, and the observatory was linked to a large transmitter in the mountains. The government allowed him to set it up. I’d met him only once about a year back, when I went downtown on a rare outing to see a movie at the local theater. He bent my ear for thirty minutes on how he was onto some kind of breakthrough. Even though I wanted to go inside the theater, the situation demanded that I listen politely. Fortunately, he stopped talking and excused himself. He had to get back to his experiments. While he wasn’t a bad guy, he came across as more than a little obsessed. Everyone said he was some kind of recluse. Recluse didn’t fit. He was more of a hermit. A man in his late sixties, portly and bearded, he had the appearance of everyone’s favorite—if somewhat loopy—uncle. His big thing was radio waves, talking to the stars, as he put it. When I saw his lab, though, smoke was pouring out a small window. “Holy crap,” I muttered as I dropped my bags and ran inside the open door. Thick, acrid smoke filled the small lab where he worked, and I found him lying face down. A number of machines, wrecked by overheating and their subsequent explosion, still burned, sending out fumes that practically choked me. I cracked a few windows for ventilation and then turned Mr. Nolan over. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. “Sir, are you okay?” No response. I shook him, and then I put a finger to his neck like I’d learned in CPR class. No pulse. “Oh, holy shit. This is not good.” Not good wasn’t the right expression. Stone-cold dead fit better. After uttering my semi-sendoff to him, I checked around and found his cellphone on a nearby table and called the police. After that, I called the fire department. Other kids had smartphones. My foster mother couldn’t afford one, so I made do with payphones and the cheapo push-button phone at my house which was at least twenty years out of date. The house itself was way older than the phone, seventy years, if not more. My room was small, but it was a room. I had enough space for a used study desk, a shelf for my books, an old but serviceable second-hand computer, and a closet for my clothes. That was it, but I made do. Here, though, was a different matter. Mr. Nolan was dead, and the smoking equipment gave me no clue except to think it had somehow overloaded. A small fire extinguisher lay under a smashed table, so I hosed down the machines. They were shot. His computer still worked, though, and a picture on it leaped out. It was a map of the constellations, although I’d never seen anything like that before. “Antlia Two galaxy.” Right, like I knew about the heavens. Just the basics, really, but a quick search told me the Antlia—or Ant—galaxy lay about point four-two-two million light years away. What had he been searching for? My answer came a second later, as the air shimmered, seemed to part with a sharp snap accompanied by a whiff of burnt ozone, and, oh, holy crap! A portal formed, one roughly six feet in height by three wide, white and bluish around the edges. This couldn’t be happening…but it was. Movement came from inside the portal, and then a figure stepped out, clad in a white, formfitting bodysuit. A young woman, maybe my age, stood in the room, blinking at the light and waving away the stray wisps of smoke. She was my height with an angular face, dark brown skin, deep-set and slightly slanted brown eyes, and with long, black hair. She gazed at me with interest. From her looks, she seemed to be vaguely Asian, but not, and then I checked myself. Where she was from, I doubted they cared about the terms we used on Earth. In short, she was an alien, the first this world had ever seen—that we knew of—and it freaked me out. My freak-out factor jumped another five notches when a stream of words poured from her mouth. Okay, she could speak, but to me, it was all gibberish. Not knowing what else to do, I pointed at myself and spoke slowly. “Hi. I’m, uh, Vic Farbstein. Do you have a name?” If that didn’t sound lame, I didn’t know what did. Welcome to Earth, hope your trip was fine. Couldn’t I think up anything more insightful to say? More unintelligible gibberish followed, and then she pressed the back of her neck and subsequently made a gesture with her hands, something to the effect that I should talk to her. It looked like a quacking duck, but I got the idea. “My name’s Vic. It’s short for Vicar. This is Eugene, Oregon. We’re in the United States. Uh, welcome to Earth?” Oh, God, that verged from lame to beyond the territory of the ultimately lame. My interstellar visitor didn’t seem to mind, though, as her hand stopped moving, and she pressed the back of her neck again. “This is…English you speak?” Call me shocked. “Uh, yes?” “What is that?” She pointed to the computer. “It’s, uh, it’s a computer. You search for information on it.” “Instruct me.” Instruct her. Alien or not, she didn’t give off any bad vibes, although in many movies, the aliens searched for information on how to destroy the world while smiling. Still… I went to the main information bar and typed in a word. “Let’s say you want to search for galaxies.” Considering where she was from, it fit. “Galaxies,” she repeated. I typed in the word. Immediately, over a hundred sites on galaxies appeared. “Do you understand how to use it now?” The woman nodded. “I understand.” She went to the keyboard, gazed at the letters, and then she tapped a few keys. A PDF file of a dictionary came up. She scanned the pages at light speed and didn’t say a word. Two minutes later, she went to another file, this time about human anatomy, and then to another file about weaponry. Then her fingers flew across the keyboard and, oh, man, she’d somehow tapped into an army database. This was bad news. Once she finished with that, she went on to view more files concerning biology, botany, and then one more about North American culture. Finally, perusal over, she turned to me. “My name is Irsheenuasa…” I got the first name okay, but the other names—if those were names—they went right over my head. “Sorry, could you say that again, please?” The visitor didn’t get angry. “It is Irsheenuasa Mataruuyanaskanma Iztyoonmiya. I am pleased to meet you.” Call me stupid, but I couldn’t get my mind or my tongue around the second name. It sounded like a cross between Russian and Japanese, but not. In any case, stunned by her ability, my mouth dropped open. Then with an effort, I said, “You learned English that fast?” She pivoted around on her the ball of her foot in a graceful motion, and with an equally graceful motion, she swept her hair from the back of her neck. A tiny node stuck out, just above the top of her spine. Once back to facing me, she said, “That implanted bulge you saw is a universal translator. All our people receive one when they’re fifteen of your years. In fact, everyone in our galaxy has one. It makes communication between the races easier. I am roughly eighteen years old by the way you count time passing. I downloaded your language. Now I can use it.” A moment of uncertainty flickered in her eyes. “It may take some time before I can use it rightly.” Well, so far, so good, save for the rightly comment, and I told her so. She offered a toothy smile. “You said this planet…it is called Earth, yes?” “Yes. What are you doing here?” Trigger question—her face twisted out of true and morphed into a cross between a snarling hyena and a gargoyle. “It is Kherter. He is after me. I had to find somewhere to hide. I was on another world, scanning the heavens, and a signal came from this planet. It was something I did not expect. I traced the signal here.” ----------------------- If anyone is interested in further updates on my work, sales, or the writing process, they can reach me at [email protected]. Feedback welcomed! ------July 10th, 2019 Join Jake Cullen, disabled teen writer, on a ride through the Internet that has to be read in order to be believed! An all-powerful and sentient AI named Miranda. Anime characters, line dancing, pirates, octopi, and an extremely mean guinea pig named Duster. Conceive the incredible. Achieve the impossible. https://www.amazon.com/Cyber-Sprite-J-S-Frankel-ebook/dp/B07S3QJQ8J/ And, due to popular demand, here's an excerpt of Cyber Sprite! Entitled, "The Chase" we have Jake and Miranda inside the Internet as avatars, running from King V, an immensely powerful virus. Enjoy!! The screams of the infected sims followed us, and outside we searched for a vehicle. Soon, we found one, keys in the ignition. Miranda took the driver’s side. “Where do we go now?” I yelled as we got in. “Anywhere but here!” We roared off in a whirl of dust. Soon, we got on the highway. Why couldn’t she simply snap her fingers and get us out of here? Asking her, she replied, while focusing on the road, “I’m flustered, okay? Right now, I can’t concentrate. That V, he’s bad news.” Worse news was coming, as a tank appeared in the rearview mirror. A tank. They were supposed to be slow, powerful things, but this one motored along at high speed, and soon was only a few yards behind us. “Why did you pick a station wagon?” She glanced at me, frustration plainly written all over her face. “It was the first car there was, okay? Now let me drive.” Fine, let her drive. I stayed tense, though, as the tank kept pace with us, and soon the boom of a projectile whizzed over our heads and exploded a few yards away. “Gah!” Miranda screamed and swerved to avoid it. Another projectile blew up five feet from our car, rocking it and sending us off course, but Miranda grimly hung onto the wheel and kept us going. The other drivers gave us a wide berth. Either they’d been programmed to do so, or else King V had taken them over as well. The latter didn’t seem likely. If he had, they’d have probably tried to run us off the road. While it pissed me off that Miranda had lied about me having the files, all the same, it was a smart move. I wasn’t a free-floater, not exactly, and I could always exit the internet. Miranda couldn’t. Neither could V, for that matter. We kept driving, and a few more projectiles whistled over our heads, taking out three cars that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Suddenly, the tank stopped firing. Astonished, I asked, “Why’d it stop shooting at us?” Miranda pointed straight ahead. “That’s why.” Following her finger, aw, hell, this couldn’t be happening! A squad of WWII fighter planes was coming straight at us, guns blazing. “Hang on!” she cried and jumped the barrier to another lane. The rat-a-tat of the bullets missed us by a few inches. The planes roared overhead and passed us by, setting up for another strafing run. Unfortunately, we’d entered into traffic going the opposite way. Horns honked and the cries of, “Dumbass, you’re going the wrong way!” echoed in our ears. Yeah, tell me something I don’t know! Miranda spun the car around and the world shot by in a blur of screeching tires and burning rubber. “Hang on!” she cried. Soon, we got back on course, heading back in the direction of the planetarium. The sound of the fighter planes came through loud and clear, as did the chatter of their machine guns. Bullets whizzed around us, and Miranda yelled, “Keep your head down!” Holy crap! The possibility of getting blown up real good once again entered my mind. The planes behind us came closer, their guns spewing out bullets at an impossible rate. They smashed into the car and shattered the windows. Miraculously, neither of us got hit. Then I smelled smoke. Risking a look behind me, the rear of the car was on fire. They must have hit the gas tank. Wonderful. “Uh, Miranda, we’re on fire.” “I know.” “So what are you going to do?” “Ramming speed.” Uh-oh, this meant trouble. When King V had said it, oddly enough, it didn’t sound so menacing. When Miranda repeated it, I knew things were going to get hairy. The fire was now in the back seat, the flames licking at my shoulder, and I tried to keep my panic under control. “Miranda?” The planetarium loomed into view. “Hold onto my shoulder,” she commanded. “This is going to be close.” Up ahead was a wall of sims, creatures, and critters waiting for us, fangs out and claws ready. The fighter planes behind us had swooped in low, and they were only a few yards away. Aw, crap. I checked the rearview mirror. Each of the planes was piloted by a King V clone wearing goggles, a bomber jacket, and saluting us with an evil grin. The grin, though, soon vanished, and their faces simultaneously got a somewhat tired expression on them. Maybe V was tired of chasing us. Whatever the case, he was still a scumbag. “Ready,” Miranda muttered under her breath. She shot a glance at me. “Ready?” Ready for what? The fire scorched my back, and I jerked away. “Oh, hell.” “Hang on!” She stomped on the accelerator and the station wagon shot forward. We were almost upon the wall of creatures, and the planes’ machines guns had begun to chatter once again. “Miranda?” “Almost ready.” Oh, God! “Hurry!” “Ramming speed!” Just as she plowed into the wall of unearthly critters, she snapped her fingers, and we found ourselves on the corner fifty feet away as the station wagon and the planes collided with the creatures and drove them into the planetarium. Silence, and then the structure erupted into a huge ball of fire. Numerous adversaries either blew up right away or staggered out of the conflagration on fire, screaming incoherently. They soon collapsed into smoking balls of disintegrating byte matter. “So much for the planetarium,” she said with a rueful tone. “I really liked that scenario.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- July 21st, 2019 My first article on this semi-new site. This site is going to focus on my novels, articles on writing, and the occasional movie review. I'll also have links to my novels. Now, being upfront, I am NOT the publisher. That honor goes to Devine Destinies dot com, FinchBooks dot com, and Regal Crest dot biz. You can purchase my novels at those three sites or on Amazon, and I'll give the links at the end of this article. So, take it away! On being prolific... Many people have called me "prolific" vis-a-vis me turning out novels. Well, not to toot my own horn too much, but, yes, I've been quite productive. That is a fact, if over thirty novels in the past five years is any indication. Other writers have written more, and others far less. To me, being productive--not to be confused, unfortunately, with being successful in the financial sense (darn!)--simply means budgeting your time to do what you love the most. Many writers have complained that they don't have the time in which to pen their work. I get it, I really do. They have full-time jobs, family, friends, social functions, pets...the list goes on. And many people simply love procrastinating. (I do, too, so I get that as well). I also work--not as often or as much as I'd like, to be honest--and I have my wife to take care of. However, I still get stuff done, and below is a basic primer on how to get sh!t done and still have a life left over for yourself. If there's a secret to being productive, then it's budgeting your time. Of course, family comes first, as it should. If you have children, young children, or children with special needs, then they MUST come first. Same deal if your spouse or your parents need care. But, if you want to get that novel done, here are a few 'hacks' (and I really don't care for that word, preferring to use tips, instead) to help you along. One: set aside a chunk of your day or night to writing. Get your thoughts down, save the file, and then do whatever else needs to be done. That time is your time, so don't let anything interfere unless your SO/child/parent needs 'round-the-clock care. Two: in line with the above suggestion, don't worry about perfection. Some writers can't abide by writing down anything less than what they consider to be perfect. In contrast, I never worry about that. I simply get the basics down, leave notes on what happens next, and finish writing for the night. You can always edit later on. Always. You can't edit what ain't there, and you can't worry about perfection, for that's a nebulous concept. Just get those all-important thoughts down and keep on keepin' on. Three: limit social functions if they aren't helping you. I know many people love going out, going to bars, hoisting a few, kicking back, etc. Nothing wrong with that. But if boozing up cuts into your writing time, then why bother? You have to decide which is more important to you. Four: get your zzzzzzzs in. Many writers tend to burn the candle at both ends. I've done that, but my health eventually suffered. While it seems cool to write late--and sometimes, if you have a deadline, it can't be helped--in the long run, it's counterproductive. Five: take care of you! This is perhaps the most important tip of all. In the past couple of years, I've suffered health issues that have prevented me from working at full capacity. High blood pressure, herniated discs, and this year, colitis and ileitis have really done a number on me. As someone once said in a movie: "You can't arrest the bad guys if you're dead." In the same vein, you can't turn out a good novel unless you're well enough to write it. So take care of you. Get your health checked regularly. Trust me. You'll be glad you did. LINKS! https://www.amazon.com/J.S.-Frankel/e/B004XUUTB8/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1 https://www.devinedestinies.com/js-frankel/ https://www.finch-books.com/index.php?route=product/author/info&author_id=402 http://regalcrest.biz/j-s-frankel July 22nd, 2019 ------------------------------------------------------------ Since the release of The Next Phase: Outcasts 2, is imminent, here's a brief excerpt--and a link--to the finished product. Preorder it now, and if you haven't read the first novel, you should!! Carson handled the jeep skillfully, driving along the highway with grim purpose. Along the way, he glanced at a scanner that was mounted on the dashboard. “This is linked to a satellite,” he called out over the roar of the engine. “Our target is somewhere in this vicinity. Stay ready.” Flatland greeted us. How could someone hide in this area? It was one vast, open space. We kept driving, but then something—a brief movement—caught my eye. Anything that stood out from the general nothingness had to be something. “General, stop here,” I said. Immediately, he hauled the jeep over to the side of the road and cut the engine. “What did you see?” “I’m not sure.” “Describe it.” He sounded impatient. How to do it? “It looked like…like a shag carpet, brown all over.” “Wrapper.” “What?” Carson got out of the jeep quickly put on his uniform, and took a gun from the glove compartment. “That was one of Nordstrom’s creations,” he said while checking the chambers. Satisfied that his gun was loaded, he spun the chamber around and left the safety off. He was expecting action. “Let’s go get it.” Not him or her—it. We set off across the plains in a line, hoping that this creature wouldn’t attack or didn’t spit fire. Then again, I hadn’t asked. Goki stood about three yards away, and his smell wafted over. As Callie had said, he smelled like unwashed socks. “Stay on alert,” Carson reminded us. Silence ruled, broken only by a cool wind blowing against our faces. No one spoke, and only Carson’s heavy breathing along with the wind disturbed the soundless void. Slither then asked him, “Are you all right?” She sounded concerned, but why? She had every reason to hate him, or at least the people he’d worked with.“I’ll make it.” Callie whispered that the silence was getting to her. Joe murmured something about not seeing any action. Be careful what you wish for, as a flat, carpet-like object abruptly rose up in front of us. Slither screamed, “Wrapper!” Everyone scattered, but Goki stood tall, slashing at the thing in front of him. Roughly six feet tall by eight wide, Wrapper’s body reminded me of a carpet come to malevolent life. It had no head or nose, but a pair of tiny green eyes focused on Goki. The roach-man continued to slash away, and his claws rendered gashes and splits in the creature’s body. Greenish blood oozed out. Wrapper screamed, even though it didn’t seem to be badly hurt. Its cry reminded me of a baby crow mixed with a pig’s squeal, something that came out of manta rays’ mouth. Tiny, vampire-like teeth completed the deal. It then let out a horrible, high-pitched screech of rage. A split second later, it wrapped its body around Goki, squeezing him with such terrific force that he literally exploded in its grasp with a horrid sounding pop. His innards showered us, and the stench of his smashed organs practically caused me to heave. Carson fired, and the roar of his pistol broke the silence, accompanied by Slither’s screams. The bullets had no effect, though. “What are we going to do?” Callie asked. “I’ve got this,” Joe said. “Back off.” He inhaled, and then spun toward Wrapper, creating his own tiny tornado that took the monster off its feet and flung him to the ground. Wrapper lay there, stunned, and then Slither snaked her way over to it and did her own body-wrap thing. A few seconds later, I heard a distinct gasp, and Wrapper lay still. Soon after, it dissolved into the ground, leaving only a greenish-brown stain behind. Joe stopped spinning and stood bent over at the waist, heaving in great gulps of air. Callie went to his side to ask, “Are you okay?” “I’m still here,” he answered. “Wrapper isn’t.” LINK! https://www.devinedestinies.com/978-1-4874-2186-1-the-next-phase-outcasts-2/ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ July 23rd, 2019 On Being Prolific Many people have called me "prolific" vis-a-vis me turning out novels. Well, not to toot my own horn too much, but, yes, I've been quite productive. That is a fact, as over thirty novels in the past five years are any indication. Other writers have written more, and others far less. To me, being productive--not to be confused, unfortunately, with being successful in the financial sense (darn!)--simply means budgeting your time to do what you love the most. Many writers have complained that they don't have the time in which to pen their work. I get it, I really do. They have full-time jobs, family, friends, social functions, pets...the list goes on. And many people simply love procrastinating. (I do, too, so I get that as well). I also work--not as often or as much as I'd like, to be honest--and I have my wife to take care of. However, I still get stuff done, and below is a basic primer on how to get sh!t done and still have a life left over for yourself. If there's a secret to being productive, then it's budgeting your time. Of course, family comes first, as it should. If you have children, young children, or children with special needs, then they MUST come first. Same deal if your spouse or your parents need care. But, if you want to get that novel done, here are a few 'hacks' (and I really don't care for that word, preferring to use tips, instead) to help you along. One: set aside a chunk of your day or night to writing. Get your thoughts down, save the file, and then do whatever else needs to be done. That time is your time, so don't let anything interfere unless your SO/child/parent needs 'round-the-clock care. Two: in line with the above suggestion, don't worry about perfection. Some writers can't abide by writing down anything less than what they consider to be perfect. In contrast, I never worry about that. I simply get the basics down, leave notes on what happens next, and finish writing for the night. You can always edit later on. Always. You can't edit what ain't there, and you can't worry about perfection, for that's a nebulous concept. Just get those all-important thoughts down and keep on keepin' on. Three: limit social functions if they aren't helping you. I know many people love going out, going to bars, hoisting a few, kicking back, etc. Nothing wrong with that. But if boozing up cuts into your writing time, then why bother? You have to decide which is more important to you. Four: get your zzzzzzzs in. Many writers tend to burn the candle at both ends. I've done that, but my health eventually suffered. While it seems cool to write late--and sometimes, if you have a deadline, it can't be helped--in the long run, it's counterproductive. Five: take care of you! This is perhaps the most important tip of all. In the past couple of years, I've suffered health issues that have prevented me from working at full capacity. High blood pressure, herniated discs, and this year, colitis and ileitis have really done a number on me. As someone once said in a movie: "You can't arrest the bad guys if you're dead." In the same vein, you can't turn out a good novel unless you're well enough to write it. So take care of you. Get your health checked regularly. Trust me. You'll be glad you did. ---------------------------------------------------------------- July 27th Another excerpt from The Next Phase: Outcasts 2 Against me, conventional weapons were useless, but apparently, Smyth thought he could get away with it and motioned for the chief to step aside. “Sullivan, you forget who’s running the show here. My power comes straight from Washington.” The chief didn’t budge. “I haven’t forgotten anything, but there’s no need to escalate things. I’ve known Mitch since he was a boy. He’d never do anything like what you’re implying, and Joe is the same.” A standoff ensued, with Dornier in the middle. He was watching both men, but his hand hovered near his chest where his gun was in a shoulder holster. I had the feeling that if the lieutenant went for a shot, he’d never make it. However, Smyth wasn’t the type to let things go. “I’m going to repeat myself. I am in charge here. You, your pissant police force, you’re hopelessly outclassed. You couldn’t enforce the law. Now, we have to do it.” The rage built again. I was hoping that it wouldn’t, but it did, and then the surge hit me harder than it ever had. The shift began, and I felt the monster in me come out. When it did, the additional strength came with it, and I effortlessly pushed Sullivan out of the way and came face to face with Smyth. “You want to take me in? Try it.” Lieutenant Tough Guy took a step back. “What in the hell are you?” “The product of science. You wanted to see the monsters? Here’s one of them. Go ahead, take me in.” He went for his gun, but I was faster. I snatched it from his grasp and crushed it, tossing the now-useless weapon away. “Try again.” This time, he let loose a punch that connected with my jaw. He then pulled back, shaking his hand in pain. “You... you—” “Freak?” What a moron. “You going to call me a freak like you did before? Maybe you’re thinking of calling me a monster. I just used that word. Or are you going to call me a creature-feature? Take your pick.” "You’re going down for this.” Was I now? “You’re going the opposite way.” Without another word, I grabbed him by the lapels and jumped up, my wings coming out as I did so. Sullivan shouted for me to come back, but it was too late. Up and up we went, with Smyth losing his tough-guy persona and yelling, “Stop this, you punk! Stop this!” “Are you saying to put you down or drop you? Right now, I feel like dropping you. And let me break it down to you on what falling is. The first ten feet isn’t so bad. It goes by real fast, and you don’t think of it. Are you listening?” “Yes... yes.” Terror flashed in his eyes. Good. “Then your speed picks up, and you start to flail your arms and legs. I’ve seen it. You still listening?” “Yes!” I flew faster now and pushed myself to go higher. “All right. So you’re falling faster than ever now, and then you start to tumble head over heels because your balance is gone. You fall even faster, you’re totally out of control, and you probably piss your pants. I’ve seen that, too.” By this time, we were roughly six hundred feet off the ground. My wings beat the air, the sky was cold and clear around us, and Smyth had started to babble incoherently, so I shook him. “Listen up. I haven’t told you the best part. So you’re falling, falling out of control, terminal velocity, and the ground keeps getting bigger and bigger and closer and closer. Then...” “What?” “It’s over. And right now, I’m just about ready to let go and watch you go splat. You want to find out?” He screamed, “No! Okay, you can stay free, just get me down.” “What’s the magic word?” “Please.” Good enough for me. I reversed course and gently landed on the ground outside my house. Smyth fell to his knees. To his credit, he didn’t piss himself. He did, however, vomit all over the grass, and a foul stench filled the air. With a groan, he lay on his side, swearing and still retching. If you enjoyed this excerpt, please check out this novel and my others at my publisher's website. https://www.devinedestinies.com/978-1-4874-2186-1-the-next-phase-outcasts-2/ For those of you who wish sales--and who doesn't?--here's a little reality check. You need to practice patience. Ya, really! I ain't the most patient person around, but here's what I've learned since I started writing. 1. You write your book. You get it edited, you get that nice cover, you advertise it on FB and Twitter and other social sites, you tell your barber, hairdresser, BFF, local termite...you let the world know YOU'VE GOT A BOOK OUT!! 2. Then you wait. And wait. And wait. You wait for reviews and sales and the recognition. And then you wait some more while advertising and writing your next book and so on and so forth. So, after steps one and two, what's next? Reality, that's what. And the harsh and cold reality is that if your name isn't J.K. Rowling or Stephen King or some other famous writer, and unless you're the writer who captures lightning in a bottle, then you're going to have to wait and hope for the best. Other things I've learned... Likes. Lots of people like my posts. I like many other posts, too. But all the likes in the world won't get you sales. It rarely happens. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't do it. You should. It's a good practice to get into. We're all in this together. I want sales as much as anyone else, but if I can get the word out about another author whose work I admire, I'll do it. Railing against those you've sent out books for review won't work. More than likely, it'll work against you. So be patient. It bites, but getting angry won't help. Sharing posts and tweets? Sometimes that helps get the word out to those who might want to read a different genre. I don't know if the sharing on FB helps or not, but I do it, anyway. It's better than doing nothing, and,as mentioned above, if I can help out another author, then no problem. Really, patience is your biggest virtue, and it's something you should practice as much as possible. Keep writing, keep smiling, be positive, and maybe you'll get those sales. -------------------------------------- August 2nd, 2019 Creating memorable characters You want to write memorable characters? Fine, here's how you do it, free advice, you don't need to buy a book of mine to show your gratitude even though it would be greatly appreciated. :D 1. Make 'em flawed. ALL of them. ALLLLLLL of them! If you write Mary Sue/Gary Lou characters--those impossibly perfect pieces of protoplasm that never sweat, never swear, always have a sunny disposition and nary develop a zit--that would bore the hell out of me. Instead, make 'em flawed. Physically, I do well with that. Many of my characters have something physically wrong with them. Either they have ptosis (google that; I used it in Ether) or a missing limb (the upcoming The Associate) or they have a limp as a result of an accident. Physical disabilities are easy to write, really. You simply have to work them into the story at key points. As an aside, I've been dealing with health problems as of late--colitis, ileitis, high blood pressure--and while they are manageable, they are often uncomfortable things to deal with. I'm no longer young, and therefore, no longer have that sense of invincibility and immortality that I had in my twenties. More's the pity. Back to the matter at hand. Physical flaws can often translate into psychological ones, as people can and do notice that something is different about your protagonist/antagonist. They'll notice--perhaps say something--and that can be used to your advantage. Make your characters, hero/heroine or villian, make them psychologically damaged in some way. Phobias, biases (as long as they conquer said biases) hangups, social awkwardness, self-doubt...whatever...make 'em flawed. 2. Challenge them. Dump them in a situation where they have to react. If you have them in a safe zone all the time, how are they going to grow, and where is your story going to go? Short answer: it won't go anywhere. Remember, challenges can and often do propel the narrative in the direction YOU want it go. If they don't go anywhere, uh-uh, that's a no-can-do-Crackerjack thing for me. My characters either sink or swim. That's how it goes. Allow me to add that in some cases, death should be a real possibility. Of course, that depends on the genre you're writing in. I write YA Fantasy, so I'm dealing with demons, aliens, and angry Internet viruses. My characters, while not in constant danger, do face injury and they have to deal with that. They also have to deal with loss. 3. Make 'em grow. A character, at least a main one, has to evolve over the course of the book you're writing. If they remain in static mode, then why would a reader be interested in them. Moreover, the character has to realize that they MUST grow. They MUST adapt and overcome. These are but the basics. There are fine shadings in between, as there should be, and it's up to every writer to make their character relatable, and therefore, memorable. --------------------------- August25th, 2019 A New Life A new life...And...today's topic is...gender switching. Sounds odd, yes? Why would someone write about that, like yours truly, for example? Well, for one thing, it's a story. For another, gender switching is as old as the hills. Most people think that Virginia Woolf's 'Orlando' was the first piece of fiction about a gender switch. Not true. It's been speculated that gender switching goes back as far as ancient Babylon. In ancient Greece and Rome, in their mythology, the Greeks often had their gods or goddesses take human form or animal form, and sometimes shifted genders. They thought nothing of it, at least, the storytellers didn't. (I have no idea what the gods thought, though. At any rate, through their power/magic, people were, at times, transformed into animals or monsters. Calabos is one; Medusa is a more famous example. Ovid's Metamorphoses had people being turned into animals or trees. If that ain't a switch, I don't know what is. In the Arabian Nights, there are gender switches and cross-dressing. Shakespeare also used gender disguises a lot. Given that women weren't allowed to be onstage back then, it was necessary to dress the male actors up as women. So, on to more modern stories. Most of the gender switch novels these days use either science or magic to get the plot going. Sometimes both--that's fine. The problem arises when the person changes from John to Jane and automatically desires a man, or, reverse things, and you have Jane to John and immediately they want a hot chick to bed down with. While that may be entertaining if it's written well--and a great number of gender switch novels I've read have not been, IMO--that "automatic switching of thought processes" never made sense to me. It would, if John were gay and preferred men. OTOH, if John is straight, that switcheroo loses something. Should John wake up with his mind in a female body, he (now she) would still prefer women. I never thought that way nor did I write my gender bender novels that way. With Twisted, it was intended to be more humorous, exploring that sudden shift from male to female. In Charlie Mattews' case, he had no choice in the matter. It was an accident and he had to come to terms with being Angella of Avernon, a warrioress who has to fight not only the evil king--there always has to be someone evil!--but also fight his/her thoughts of affection for Sharon, a young woman Charlie/Angella's age. Let's just say it's complicated. In the case of Fight Like A Woman, our MC, Kyle Sorton, chooses to enter a woman's body in order to save his life as well as hers in the process. (It's scifi, so go with it!). The uncertainty and fear is there, yes, but as a woman, a warrioress, Kyle--now Rinarra--can do a LOT more than most people his/her age. Call it an equitable tradeoff. In both novels, though, I kept the MC's thoughts true to their source, that is, they still liked women and the thought of being with a man was...uh-uh. No, just...no. To do otherwise would have been an injustice to the character. In any case, if you're in the mood for something decidedly different, something fun and interesting and thrilling--both novels feature a lot of action, although Fight Like A Woman is more serious in tone, check out those novels. You might be enlightened a little, and I know you'll enjoy them. https://www.amazon.com/Twisted-J-S-Frankel-ebook/dp/B00ISYC33W/ https://www.amazon.com/Twisted-J-S-Frankel-ebook/dp/B00ISYC33W/ ------------------------------------- September 1st, 2019 Getting the tone right For any writer, getting the tone right of any work you start is essential. Do you start off light and then get dark, or do you go dark right away and THEN get darker? Every novel is different, every writer is different. For me, since I primarily write YA Fantasy, I tend to start out light and then gradually shift the mood to something darker, something more menacing. I never go downright black--although I came close with The Internet and its sequel, Azrael: The Internet 2--but those two novels came perilously close. So, the question is, if you're going to do it light to dark and then back into the light again, how to work it? It's actually very simple. With YA Fantasy, anything goes, really, but I like to have my characters start off in a mundane sort of existence--school, summer vacation, isolation, and then drop something unexpected into the mix, or I drop THEM into the mix. Either way, it works. The 'darkness' comes from a situation they're not used to, and they have to adapt. It's during that adaption process that things can and do get dark, but if the character does what I want--and I'm the one guiding their actions, after all--then they will adapt and overcome. In my current WiP, Dating Mara Lontez, I decided to depart from my usual formula and begin somewhat dark. We have a juvenile delinquent on the cusp of adulthood living in a halfway house, and he suddenly meets the titular heroine, an alien who crash landed on Earth roughly three years ago and is...well, not going to divulge any details, save to say that our main character, Nelson B., is not the nicest person around. He's already been through a lot, is rather cynical, and has trust issues. He's also an ex-con. Meeting Mara is his dream, as she is the one who got him out of a heavier sentence, but the dream turns into a nightmare when a situation arises that even he, a streetsmart guy, can't handle. Neither can Mara. They're suddenly thrust together and have to depend on each other, and that's where the tension and drama arise. Now, at this point, you're probably thinking, "Trope City, baby!" In a way, you're right, but keep in mind that most novels, whatever genre they're written in, are filled with tropes. It's what you do to subvert them that will separate your work from everyone else's. Whichever way you choose to handle it, don't make things easy for your hero/heroine. If it's too easy, then where's the conflict and/or the drama? You have to build that from the get-go. Bottom line: don't be afraid to get dark from the start. Just my thoughts for today. Happy Labor Day Weekend! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- September 15th, 2019 Peripheral characters and why you should care about them... In almost every single novel, no matter what genre it is, there is always at least one peripheral character. I'm not talking about the antagonist or the best friend. Those are necessary. I'm talking about the peripheral characters who are mentioned somewhere along the way and may factor in later on in the novel. They serve a purpose, at least to me. They can show the hero/heroine the error of their ways, help the MC(s) realize their strengths or faults, or add substance to the narrative, and to my way of thinking, they can be just as important as the MCs or the secondary characters. As an example, in The Next Phase, Outcasts 2, a peripheral character named Paul is there. He's a bully and a punk, and he was first introduced in Outcasts as an antagonist to Mitch, the MC. Although Paul's role in the first novel is small, he serves his purpose as setting up Mitch for his future heroic endeavors. In the sequel, Paul returns once again as an antagonist, but--spoiler--he's killed by a monster. (Yes, the novel is a fantasy!). At that point, Mitch realizes that although he disliked Paul intensely, he would never wish death upon him. That inclusion of Paul's death is only a few lines, but it serves to show Mitch's thinking take a different path, one of good. But I digress. Thing is, for me, I pay as much attention to my peripheral characters as I do the main ones. I describe them, give them individual tics and characteristics, and I try to make them as memorable as the MC(s) or the main secondary characters. You don't have to go overboard on description. A few lines will do, but doing so will give your novel a new level of depth. Bottom line: love all your characters and treat them as people, real people, not throwaways. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- November 6, 2019 Numbers matter--or do they? When you publish something on Amazon, the main platform for selling and buying books, it all becomes a rankings/numbers game. Many writers live and die by their rankings, and, in a way, that's not a bad benchmark. How low (which is better) your book is in your genre and the overall scheme of things may be a factor in selling more. After all, look at J.K. Rowliing or Stephen King. Their books are consistently iat the top in their respective genres, which means they're selling and doing well. Good for them; all the respect in the world for what they write. However, in a broader sense, numbers can be misleading. If one buys a book on Amazon, the rankings fall, sometimes as much as a million and sometimes even more. Recently, one of my novels was at roughly the 1,850,000 mark. It had received a number of fine reviews, and readers gave me positive feedback. The ego is a fragile thing, so, yeah, mine got pumped up. Still, that mark made me think the book wasn't that popular, and it sure as hell wasn't selling like it should have. Well, someone bought a copy, and the rank dropped to around 150,000 for a few days, and then it slowly began to rise. That's how it goes. Another thing to remember is that numbers don't reflect how good a book is. Some people will buy a novel just for the sheer awfulness of it all, or they'll buy it to see what the controversy was all about. That happened to another novel which I won't mention save to say it caused a good deal of controversy and butthurt when it came out. (I read the excerpt, and, to me, it was dreadful). Yet, it is still selling. Go figure. Stiil another thing is the KU free reads. Many authors involved in that program boast that their book is in the top 100 or so...but that's for FREE reads. That's somewhat misleading. Hey, if MY books were free, I'm willing to bet that my rankings would be a LOT lower than they are. Who doesn't want something for nothing? (Rhetorical). The one thing to keep in mind is if the book goes up in price to, say, $2.99, then how many copies will it sell? THAT is the number to watch for. Therefore, I don't put any stock in, or pay attention to, free reads on KU or any other venue. Case in point. A friend of mine recently told me that they had a free book that got something like 1750 downloads when it was free. On the surface, that sounds great, but the kicker is that they got about five sales when this author jacked up the price to around three dollars, if memory serves. So, again, free on KU doesn't always translate into sales once the price increases. Sure, some people will pay for it. If the author's work is good enough--and I know this particular author is a fine writer--then, to me, it's worth paying that amount, but by and large, not that many people will. Price is ALWAYS a major factor and no one can tell me different. So should you pay attention to the numbers? I used to, but I haven't as of late. My main purpose is to write the best novel that I can and hope for the best. Advertising is the name of the game; marketing rules, and how well you market is another factor in your book's success or failure. However, that's another topic for another article. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- December 3rd, 2019 TAKING YOURSELF TOO SERIOUSLY? Take your writing seriously. Yourself...? Every single day I read at least one post by someone who's just written something and wants the world to know about it. Nothing wrong with that. You should be proud of what you've written, as should we all. After all, no one knows better than you how hard it is to be a writer, to suffer and agonize and sweat and cry over a manuscript. No one knows better than you how hard it is. In four simple words, the struggle is real. For me, it's the same story, slight pun intended. Where it diverges from the norm is when you take yourself too seriously. I think at one point in our lives, we’ve all made the mistake of doing that at times. I have, and I learned from it. Those delusions of grandeur stayed in my head for a few minutes, and then the harsh and cold reality filtered in. Outside of a relatively few number of people, no one really knows who I am. That's neither good nor bad. It just is. Yet, I've seen some writers--I stress the word "some" and certainly not all--promote themselves from here to the four corners of the Earth, proclaiming themselves to be the next greatest thing since sliced bread. Well, that's their right. These days, you have to self-promote if you want to get anywhere, especially in the writing field. What with so many writers out there, y'all don't want to get lost in the crowd. But when it's done too often--bragging about winning awards that no one's ever heard of, talking about being the next big thing in writing, boasting about being better than everyone else and knowing everything there is to know about writing, taking selfies and bringing up every little tidbit that's supposed to thrill us and this and that etc. etc. etc--it stops being self-promotion and verges into outright douchebaggery. (Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit...or maybe not). Fact is, as good as you get, there's always someone better. As famous as you may become, there's always someone more famous, or wealthier, or better liked, or whatever. Again, that's neither good nor bad. It just is. When people ask me what I do for a living, I tell them I'm an ESL teacher and that I write as a sideline. I'd love to make it a fulltime thing, but so far, financial success has eluded me on that front and that's where YOU can help...but I digress. ;) Bottom line: be proud of what you've accomplished, but temper it with the knowledge that there are always more mountains to climb and that in a hundred years or so--maybe less--your name might not ever enter into anyone's conscious. That's a reality check right there, and a welcome one at that. --------------------------- February 3rd, 2020, the year of the wawa... The other day, I read someone's post dumping on a writer who's well known for his sarcastic twitter responses and his use of foul language in his books. This person was simply venting on this writer's fame--I don't know how famous he is, really, as I've never read his books--and saying, basically, "What does he know?" Two answers came to mind. One, this writer is a name in literature and you're not. Two, even if the writer's stuff is crap, don't be hatin' on them. Let's focus on number two, and, like the number, I'm of two minds on this. On the one hand, I agree with the dumper. After all, it's free speech. Their opinion. Their thoughts, and they're entitled to 'em. The only time I'd go against the "everything is okay to discuss" is when it verges into anti-this or that speech, hate speech...you get the idea. But otherwise, yes, it's all good. Opinions matter. However, ther downside is while you've got free speech, you're not free from the consequences of saying so. In this digital age--especially in this digital age--anything you say can and will be held against you. So be careful. If you're a writer and you dump on someone and then YOU want people to buy YOUR book, what do you think is going to happen? Use some common sense, please. The thinking of "This person's writing is crap" is something we're all familiar with. To be honest, in the past, I have received novels for review in the past that I thought were utter garbage. Some I couldn't finish. Some I wanted to run over with a truck. Repeatedly. But I never--NEVER--called them total drek in my Goodread's blog posts, unless they were total drek, and I never savaged the writer. Ever. You simply don't do that. I DID say things about the pacing, POV, style, theme, and so forth, but always with a constructive eye. I never got personal, and neither should anyone else. Reviewing is all about the book, not the writer. And, to be honest, I've read some well-known writers and wondered how in the hell they got published. But that's what this writing game is all about. Even if I think their style or characters or something is terrible, the fact remains that they got published. So, don't be hatin' on that. If they got published, that means they had something that resonated with the public, and newbie writers would do well to remember that. In the end, we're all writers and we should strive to be objective, or as objective as humanly possible. |