A new voice in fantasy, J. Daniel Sawyer has already left an indellible mark on his readers with his trademark tales of human desires and the moral complexity they create.

Contains: Lilith, Angels Unawares, The Coffee Service, We Create Worlds, Control Room, The Man In The Rain, and Train Time, plus a new essay, poetry, and bonus material.

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Step into Rick’s parlor. Don’t mind the bell on the door or the old fashioned cash register. Buy a manufactured novel, fresh from the computer—a first edition. Sit in the easy chair or lay out on the sofa. Strap on a helmet and a skinsuit and take a swim on Europa. He can be trusted. Really. It says so on the door. In ten foot high letters, right above the shop front, he tells you exactly what they do:

“We Create Worlds”

And they do it on the cheap.

You can find the story at Amazon and Smashwords.

—Story Sample Below the Cut—

We Create Worlds
by J. Daniel Sawyer

Grand re-opening!

This month only, get a free Hawaii upgrade with any family picnic!

Teach your children about planetary science. Show them the only other place in the known universe to have alien life! Free souvenir photobook with our new ‘Europa Excursion’ scenario. SCUBA certification required, training available.

Take your spouse to an exclusive adults-only resort in Luna City and get a free add-on fantasy package of your choice!

Chose from the best in manufactured literature available anywhere. For a limited time, buy one—get one free!

Opening the universe to you every day with state-of-the-art virtual reality.

We Create Worlds.

It was the same copy as our radio ads, but in the layout it popped. I arranged the words around a good solid curve. Busty, but subtle. Catchy. Nobody would know why they couldn’t stop looking at it, but when a human being sees an eddie or a zoomer it gets distracted. When the shape is disguised, hidden, or cryptic, the brain won’t let it go.

I was the best damn flyer we’d ever put out. Nobody’d used flyers for years—messy, environmentally unsound, irritating. Well, let me tell you, my dear voyeur, one generation’s headache is another’s heroin. Flyers may have been useless back when everyone was putting them out, but now they’re paper gold. Something tangible, makes the offer real. People can touch it, feel the little texture cues, the scent of the paper, and they believe that what they’re buying from us is also real.

So, for the shop relaunch, I went bollocks-out. Over the top, loading in all the subliminals, pheremonals, visuals, and NLP tricks. I knew they actually didn’t work for much, but it was a special occasion, and the owners appreciated the extra effort.

The crowning achievement was the new name—it’s the real reason the relaunch worked. Gone were the days of “Adult Realities.” It was “Rick’s Virtual Playground” no longer—false advertising anyway, since I never owned more than 3% of the shop and didn’t really want to. I mean, Christ, board meetings with the old Sicilians every quarter? Count me out. They smell like garlic and look like death on a good day, and they know this market about as well as a high-speed hunk of lead knows how to tap dance.

Now the new name…ah, the finest gift the goddess ever gave me for the price of a tab. It was straightforward. It was snappy. It reeled ‘em in like pike on a bait chain. It was perfect.

I’d done it up in a sign ten feet high across the front of the building, lit up so you could read it for a mile down the street: “We Create Worlds.”

And we do it on the cheap.

Hey, everyone needs to escape, and slipping off into a world where your brain doesn’t know the difference is a hell of a lot better than slipping your brain down into a needle. I’m a paramedic, and I know it. And, like any good paramedic, I give out treatments. I don’t cure.

Temporary, palpable escape into the worlds made in the closet. They’re gagging for it. Who wouldn’t be? They sit in cubicles, or plugged into net terminals, or hassled to death by their kids all day, and the real world just don’t have the shine it did when they were teenagers.

Everyone—and I do mean everyone—who walks through that door needs me. I mean, they could do it on their own. Most VR shops are self-serve. You walk in, order something up on a screen, and do your business. Most kids buy a home rig – they’re not quite as good, but they’re damn cheap. Nothing’s stopping ‘em, nobody’s holding a gun to their head to make them come here. I have to work for my bread. And if the shop doesn’t run well, I don’t eat. If it runs at a loss, I don’t breathe.

Yeah, I know, I know. The suit slobs aren’t good people to owe money too. It’s a high stakes game, but then, where else are you gonna get the money for a place like this? The market conditions are tough—nobody dared to build an arcade after the Xbox, and nowadays, nobody wants to go up against Sony and Disney in VR. Nobody’s that crazy.

Well, nobody that works at a bank, any road.

So, I provide adventure. I provide service. I keep my shop clean and my nose bent and do what I can to keep the customers satisfied. The job is its own reward, and the benefits are brilliant. When they leave here after a couple hours of happy delusion, their nonsensical grins tell me how long it will be until reality gets the better of them and they come back for the next fix.

Most are satisfied with a manufactured novel, though they don’t sell like they used to. Some people like to keep their fantasy at arm’s length, or at least enjoy the illusion that their secret peccadilloes are private. In the old days, they were the hook on a pretty direct route—they’d start out with the books, then move on to a good old fashioned hunter-killer game with a human quarry. A while later that palled and they’d switch sides in the game, and at that point, they’d need a jack for their fix, every time. The route ain’t so direct anymore, and our focus has changed a bit, but we still have something for everyone.

For example, Sunday afternoons are introverted loser day, with men coming in fresh from church for some serious worship with a projection of the pastor’s wife or the dance troupe leader.

You can see it, can’t you? We provide a valuable community service. Our Notorious World Leaders series gives the sadists a way to let off some good steam by officiating a human sacrifice, keeping a healthy harem of captive and unwilling women plundered from neighboring tribes, orchestrating battles, playing Torquemada or Bathory, or having a good old fashioned pedophillic dismemberment orgy with the Borgias or Tiberius. The only serial killers you’ll find operating in this one-horse town are the ones that come in here on Thursday night. People are kept safe, nobody gets hurt, and the owners stay happy.

If Pilate had my shop he’d never have needed a cross. No half-baked desert hippie could have had a chance to raise a ruckus when everyone else got top shelf stress reduction at hand.

Of course, when you keep a shop, each day is pretty much like the next, and that’s all there is to say. But man, oh man. That day started off with a rash of sorority birds lining up to use all the arenas at once. The suits ain’t compatible across genders—form-fitting sensor nets, them—and I ran dry on the fem suits at one point. The things don’t wash themselves, and those girls weren’t having no tea party.

No, for them it was a standard Hunter/Killer program—jungle variety terrorism, nice for working up a good sweat, and let me tell you, those birds are sadistic. Wouldn’t want to be set on them in a dark alley after seeing what they do to their friends over a game. And, holy hell, I had to network all the arenas together at once—when I spec’d the system for this place I didn’t get one designed to handle that much. Hey, I work on a budget, what could I do?

It was a royal bitch getting’ them routed around the fail-safes, but that’s why the the Red Man lost his shirt to the big penguin. There’s always a way. And it was worth it, let me tell you. At a hundred bucks a piece every hour I earned nearly a week’s commission in one day, and that ain’t the half of it. Ain’t gonna forget this’n—average day gets me maybe twenty regs at the outside and a couple itchin’ tenderfeets, but this place was hopping like a cockroach in a frying pan.

With sororities you can always tell the leader, she tugs the others around like a brood of goslings. She was shorter and rounder than the rest of them, but she moved like an empress and her voice was like chocolate.

“What’s the big occasion?”

“Oh, just a birthday party for one of the sisters.”

“You girls in a sorority then?” A blind rabbit could have smelled the Greek solidarity from the mint patch if he still had his nose about him, but it kept her talking.

I swiped her card and glanced down at the monitors. Her sisters were all at different points in the peeling process—did I say those VR suits are like a second skin? I forgot to mention how much they don’t look like real skin. Getting’ them gone was a definite improvement, at least until they finished their shower off and found their street clothes again. Not an ugly one in the bunch.

“Yeah, over at State. We’re having an end-of–the-year party next Wednesday, would you be interested?”

“Interest is my middle name, consider me there! Ah, here we go, your total is three K. If you like I can bill you monthly, or I can put it all in…or rather through…right now.”

“Hell, put it through now. Better than dealing with the bills.”

“Okay,” I punched my transfer auth into the keypad, “Looks like we have a winner. So…” I glanced at her American Express, “Erin, how can I find you this weekend? Saturday nights can be mighty cold up on that old drafty campus.”

She pursed her lips at me and winked, then slipped a card into my hand as I passed the AmEx back. Smooth as a velvet tongue, that girl. “Call me.”

Before I could continue the conversation a gaggle of her cohorts emerged from the dressing rooms. They flocked around her like she was a kool-aid vendor from Guyana—who could blame them? Her voice sounded like it walked out of a sex factory before they’d had a chance to fit it with a good suit of clothes. The other girls might be a pleasant diversion, but Erin…

I waved them out, just in time. Four hours of solid estrogen pollution hangin’ think in the air is enough to make any duffer choke takin’ a breath. Once I recover though…well, let’s just say that Erin’s way of plotting an ambush in the arena gives me the shivers. There was something there with that girl, and I couldn’t wait to find out what it was.

The bell on the door wasn’t my idea, one of the morons who owns a pile of stock certs has a bit of a fetish for things that dingle. His cat, his children, his goddamned cigar cutters, always dingling with those little rancid bells like they crawled out of Santa’s pants for air. Last time I saw him I had to spend the whole night in an arena watching old Beatles concerts until I couldn’t hear the dingle anymore over the constant torture of “Hey Jude” running through my brain. The bell was his revenge—he didn’t like it when the changeover caught him with his pants down in front of the other dons.

At least it’s only Mrs. Alvarez. She’s a regular, comes in here every now and then to fetch a new manufactured novel. She prefers insipid little romances, the ones that feature secret adulteries and long lost lovers cropping up in unlikely places. But I don’t judge, she’s a good customer, brings a lot of class to the place.

She’s plain, always wrapped up in that wool trench, too old to be really interesting. If my commission structure allowed it, I might feel sorry for her, stuck in what must be a loveless—or lifeless—marriage. If she were younger…nah, not worth it, and I don’t get paid for that. She likes her books, and I’m her bartender, not her magic man.

Even so, I programmed a new set of variables into her presets that she should find mildly shocking and very entertaining. I wouldn’t be doing my job if she wasn’t a little shocked, after all.

Way back in the beginning, we were only a manufactured book store. I got the place funded because I wrote the system. Best virtual AI in the world. This one can actually tailor the manufactured novel to the style of a thousand different authors, which set us apart and got us a more literate clientèle.

The literate ones, back when they were still a good demographic, were the ones who could afford the perks we were offering. I kept the easy chairs and couches even since that business dropped off—we haven’t needed the space yet and people do like to sit down and relax while they read, free of charge. Keeping them around usually means they’ll buy more than one.

Problem was that shortly after we opened, the fad died off. Literacy was passe again, and all the real book junkies went back to “sapient” novels, saying that stories written by humans were more “artistic.” That kind of pretentious nonsense was bad for business.

With that kind of boneheaded appeal to “culture,” we could either change our marketing strategy or we could fold. The money men didn’t fancy their investment failing after only a few thousand percent return, so we added manufactured movies and porn, and it did the trick. Business soared. We eventually made enough to install a few VR arenas and a couple of private rooms for those with advanced tastes.

Of course, none of them—especially not Dingle Man—listened to a damn thing I said. They spotted a good thing and ran with it, and they bought all the advertising they could. We were gonna saturate the market, expand, set up franchises. Well, they thought so.

They didn’t reckon with the main problem: VR porn is big on burnout.

At first, we had new customers come in and order full-on orgies, hard-core S&M sessions, and some stuff that still gives me the shudders thinking about it. Caligula had nothing on those morons, let me tell you. The thing is, you drop-shift a guy from vanilla sex with his high school sweetheart who he married in the little chapel down the road into that kind of theater and they’ll just stop showing up after a couple sessions. They knew what they wanted, what they wouldn’t admit to anyone, and they jumped right into it.

You gorge yourself for three days straight on caviar after eating graham crackers your whole life, and you just ain’t hungry anymore. And that’s assuming they lost interest—I spent a good month hiding from one pissed off woman who found her man out when he couldn’t get it up anymore.

So as sure as you get fertilizer out of a politician, when that happened things went downhill fast. That pissed off little missy got the community involved. The Baptists did what Baptists do best, boycotting us, picketing, blackmailing customers, the whole bit. We were gonna have to fold, and if we did it would be my arse in a sling. All that work, straight down the sewer pipes and flushed out to sea, and the money men’s special collection agents rapping on my door. There’s always gotta be someone to blame, and it’s never them.

I had to think fast before they found a better use for my head. I brought the problem to them, suggesting that we change the whole image. We could be wholesale fantasy, cater to everything, family friendly and the whole cartload. We’d change the name of the shop, and restrict the hard-core stuff to regulars who were already so hooked that they had no one at home left to tell.

They bought it, which meant I could stop sleeping with a gun under my pillow.

The re-branding was the last step, and we’ve done pretty well for it all. Saturday is family day—officially, anyway—and we keep the family scenarios fresh. The Hawaii offer from the ad is particularly popular, and it keeps the kids and the adults coming back for more. What starts as a novelty becomes an indispensable family pastime.

I don’t do too badly for it, either.

Damn that dingling door, always bombing the tracks right in front of a good train of thought. “Adds to the homey atmosphere” my eye. Paul—another regular—came in strutting like a peacock with a branch up his arse. About normal. He asked for the Battle of Waterloo. Again. Most people would want some variety, perhaps even a little triumph. Not this master of the financial universe.

“Paul, have you considered trying out one of the battles Napoleon won?”

“No, no.” He dismissed the idea with an aristocratic wave of his hand. “If the first great emperor won the battle already,” he snorted, “Child’s play. I deserve the honor—no, the glory!—of a more difficult battlefield.” His smirk…god…it’s almost as if he likes getting his arse kicked as penance for his success.

“You know, if you want challenge, I could up the danger by having Napoleon captured rather than killed.” Now, to confirm my theory.

“Ah!” sucking the air in like a goddamn elephant, “Give the first great emperor a chance to defeat the enemy from inside their own encampment.” Anticipation grew on his face and he tucked his right hand into his coat front.

“You cut a dashing figure, my lord. Your doom awaits you in arena 2. You’ll find a fresh suit and helmet in the dressing room.” I handed him the code card with the enhancements and he accepted it with an air of indifference, before sticking his puggish nose in the air and striding back to the dressing room. The piglet as an emperor.

Before he did “Waterloo” he played in H/K programs as the prey. The moment he began to outfox the computer, he upgraded to hopeless battles. He’s been doing “Waterloo” for two months, five days a week. The program says the battle lasted the better part of a day and a night, but Paul started out with three hour runs and whittled it down to under one. Every time he and comes out glowing like he’d had the best sex of his life. I think he’s beginning to believe he is Napoleon. Still, he isn’t the most colorful face I see every week.

Falk takes the cake for that. He is our biggest hard-core customer. If what I’ve seen on the monitors is any indication, the man has more imagination and concubines than Solomon. His stamina is almost as impressive as his credit line.

Almost.

The owners love him, he drops more money here every week than any two other people combined. I love him too; he’s usually around all day, so if I ever get bored, the screen for his booth is only a click away. It ain’t just entertainment, he’s so hooked that I can jack up the prices on him and he doesn’t mind. As long as I don’t pump them so high that I lose him, the owners cheer me on rather than sending me a dinner guest.

I love this business.

I love the people. I love the challenge.

I loved staying after hours. I’d turn off the experience recorders and use a private room myself. I had this program that started with a long massage with a golden-skinned Mexican girl, and I could make that one last until my balls were blue as a summer sky and I couldn’t walk straight. Ah, yes…

The stiff kinda ruined it for me—made me cut back and not go in so much. One of my regulars, should have been outta the store long time before closing—he must’ve paid in advance…it was a bloody mess. Slid a scalpel down his own throat…nasty, nasty. Put himself right out. Eighteen months back, now—last straw for the protesters. Apparently his “Secret Tryst” program was up—why does every lazy two bit git name his program like it was a c-movie?–and he couldn’t take reality any more. Made us shut the place down for six weeks to clean the blood out of the carpet and retool our image.

After all that time, I still couldn’t go back into arena two, it gave me the squeamies just thinking about it. So, I was careful. I couldn’t afford to lose touch like that. Better than the real thing, those created worlds, but I had bills to pay.

Paul finished his battle in only twenty minutes, a new record. Came out struttin’ through the shop glowing like a pregnant woman—you coulda lit a good sized orgy with the smile on his face. I reckoned he’d have to upgrade to the siege of Jerusalem next. I resolved to give his captors some personality next time—maybe some nice broom handles and some Vaseline—let him get his full penance in. That’d keep him happy until he was willing to move to a more hardcore scenario.

The sunlight spilled in over the hills between me and the bay, and I thought about the night at head. I didn’t have anything scheduled. I had to be in early tomorrow to supervise the system upgrade. We were adding a holographic arena in the old hock shop next door. All the demos made it look pretty slick. No helmets, just a latex face laminate for touch sensations. The images are projected in real-time and can be seen with the naked eye. No more retina projectors or VR bullshit. For those with the means, this is the next phase. I may have to try it, just for kicks. Mayhap it’ll ship with a trainer program—or I could use old faithful. Maya, the Mexican massage goddess.

When I went back to get Mrs. Alverez I found her layin’ back on the overstuffed velor sofa. She’d flopped her trench loose over the back so the wool prickled out, and her long peasant boots restin’ on the coffee table like it was a footstool, one crossed over the other under the fringe of her schoolmarm skirt and reading the manufacture I’d programmed for her. But it weren’t from one of the normal readers. She’d sprung the extra ten bucks for a hard copy and was making notes in the margins with a pencil.

In a manufactured novel?

I came close up behind her and tried to read over her shoulder, but her head kept getting in the way, so I cleared my throat. She turned around and looked up at me from her seat on the couch.

“I’m closing up, Mrs. Alverez, it’s time to go now.”

She nodded and closed her book, saying “Thank you, Rick. I’ll be along in a moment.” As she said so she put her book in her handbag and handed me her credit card.

As I walked back to my counter, something prompted me to glance back at her. Her hair had fallen from its usual matronly bun and was cascading in delicate black curls around her shoulders as she used a coffee table to stretch her muscles for the walk home. Her button-up trailed open and the edges hung loosely about her hips, showing a black bodice comin’ up outta her brown skirt. She couldn’t really be in her fifties …could she?

She looked up and nearly caught me staring, but I ducked behind my counter and performed the swipe. I punched in the auth codes, and “Transaction approved” flashed on the screen, and the console spat out a receipt for forty dollars US.

I thought about dialing up a massage program, but as I shifted my weight around on my feet I chucked the notion. I wanted to get moving. Needed to find a party to pull, or something to do. All day sittin’ behind the counter, washing suits, watching the experience monitors…I needed to get out and relax. Find something active to do.

I shut down the console and started the arenas on spin-down.

Mrs. Alverez came out from behind the display case and picked up the card and receipt, and I pushed her out of the store as politely as I could. No customers, nothin’ left to do, and I needed the air.

I punched the lock code, turned to walk off. I nodded at her.

“Good night, Rick. I’ll see you soon.” She gave me an ‘alf smile and kept lookin’ at me outta the corner of her eye even while she walked away. Her heels clopped steadily on the concrete as she walked out to the parking lot.

I needed to go find a way to unwind, but the breeze picked up and I caught a little smell of flowered talc on the breeze. Her boots stopped, I looked back after her and saw her taking a moment to look up at the moon, faint and hazy through the dull red sky.

She’d been writing—writing!—in the margins of a manufactured novel. She’d wasted pension money—you can tell a lot about a bird by the card she uses—on a hard copy when I knew damn well she had a serviceable reader.

She wasn’t moving, just standin’ there on the corner. Hell, I didn’t have any plans anyway. It wasn’t more than a minute’s walk to where she was leaning on the telephone pole.

“What were you doing in there?”

She looked at me like I’d spit on her shoe. “Excuse me?”

“Making notes on the manufacture, why were you doing that?”

Mayhap I was intruding. She arched her eyebrow at me and I suddenly felt like a little kid. Out from behind the counter, not working a party, not trying to chat someone up, I suddenly realized I had no clue what I was doing.

“Why the sudden interest, Rick? I’ve heard of stranger things happening in that shop of yours.”

“It just ain’t…normal. I mean, it’s a machine-made book; why…” It wasn’t a text book, wasn’t a croquet manual, wasn’t a bleedin’ astrophysics paper. It was a manufacture—pure entertainment. “It’s weird.”

She sighed into the night. “It’s a long story, Rick. Why don’t you walk me home and I’ll tell you about it?”

I hesitated, the cold city night tickling the back of my throat.

“Come on, I’ll cook you dinner.”

End of sample. ©2007 J. Daniel Sawyer, All Rights Reserved

Read the rest at Amazon and Smashwords.

You can find the story at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords. Below, you can find a sample.

Enjoy!

—Story Sample Below The Cut—

Tap, tap, tap.

The cane foot tapped measuredly on the plank, hammering out a steady tick-tock rhythm. It was not a rubber foot, such as had been common on cane-feet for a century now, but a proper pinned steel cane foot, suitable for a weapon or a prop to lean on or a scepter with which to gesticulate. It kept its clock-like rhythm even as a steam engine pulled out of the station, a few feet from the bench where its owner sat in his frock coat and top hat, measuring the minutes in percussive time.

The late afternoon summer was dry and hot, save for the oppressive blasts of humidity that coated the ticket window with fog for a few brief moments when a locomotive deigned to grace the lonely platform with its presence. The endless in-between times stretched on like the deep-split grain of the wooden planks that seemed to continue uninterrupted from one floorboard to the next. Across the double-tracks, past the far platform, flies and weevils swarmed above the autumn grain, taking from it what pickings they could before the harvest.

It was the last day of summer. Soon the dust would rise from the fields and the northern world would hunker down for a winter season that was comfortable and warm, circumscribed by brick and fiberglass, hearths long since replaced by electric heaters. The days when people froze to death for want of wood, or heating oil, or gas were well gone, but the anachronistic frock coat and cane went seemingly unnoticed on the forgotten railway line, where steam power serviced the nostalgic aging population whose automated homes drew nuclear power from the worldwide grid. The coming months would be a time of hibernation for Europe, but neither the cold slow yearly death the old world had endured, nor the slowed down fallow time of the new world were in the future of this man from out the storybooks of Conan Doyle or the misty streets of Whitechapel. And yet for all his out-of-place formality, the bench he sat on was wrought iron, and the foot of his cane kept perfect time. He seemed a fixture in the weatherbeaten station.

The steel band left small indentations in the old, grey oak, and the cane’s wielder was beginning to regret his promise to await the train from Bonn. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. Leaving Gibraltar, they each had business to attend to, loose ends of past lives to tie up before they embarked together for the new frontier. She could have flown in, of course, the airport was near enough from their ship’s moorings. Or she could have driven, but somehow, even back in Morocco, the steam train had seemed best. It had seemed fitting that they leave their old world behind in its proper style, and the Orient Express and a few of the other remaining locomotives on the planet ran right past their destination.

So, it had been settled. They had kissed goodbye with promises to meed in two months. There had been chats, and vid calls, and letters, and every other sort of communication that was available to them, and when they got busy and went without each other for a few days or a week, their reconnection was that much sweeter for the absence. She was a hunger for him, as real as his need for meat and far more dearly sought, while he was to her like water. That’s what she had said, over and over again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

That was what she had said, and he had believed her. But he had been here, waiting on the Orient Express, its last run of the summer, for two days. It had been delayed, there had been no word. Perhaps a mechanical breakdown had stranded it in a high pass – but he discarded the notion as soon as it occurred to him. This wasn’t the nineteenth century – there were were sat phones and radios, and if nothing else the ticket agent should know something.

But if he knew anything, he wasn’t telling.

She was a practical woman, not one to wait around for repairs. If the train were stranded she’d probably found a flat to let while she waited, even though the train had comfortable accommodations, she’d want to take advantage of a last chance to explore an alpine village. She’d dig in and sample the culture, find a club with a good local band and drink microbrews. She’d tour the local historical monuments and maybe have a long conversation over chess in whatever language was spoken in that remote corner of the world.

She spoke all the languages, she’d have no trouble blending in. But when her train departed she’d be on her way to him again, forsaking whatever brief affair she found to occupy her time, to be her last hurrah.

Assuming she had gotten on the train at all. Assuming she would tear herself away from her new life by the stranded train.

Tap. Tap. Tap…

—

End of sample. ©2007, J. Daniel Sawyer. All Rights Reserved

Read the rest atAmazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

All the original writing for Free Will is now done. I have a few days of continuity tweaking ahead of me, and then some cutting, but it really is now all over but the shouting.

New equipment for the studio arrives this week, and I’ll be resuming production on everything in two weeks after I give things a proper shakedown and take a day or two off.

What does this mean for you?

Predestination and Free Will paperbacks (and Free Will ebook) in June. New episodes of Sculpting God in June. New episodes of Free Will starting in July, and continuing through to the end of the book.

It’s been a marathon–two years of work plotting and researching, and four solid months of aggregated writing time over those two years.. Final count: 212k words. Manuscript page count: 848. (Don’t worry, that will shrink as I shake out the continuity).

Time to crack the champagne!

Mondu, once an AI designer at the top of the Nigerian IT industry, needed to escape from a life that was eating him alive. He found refuge as a shopkeeper in the depths of the Amazon, at a unique resort. It’s a preserve for all forms of Amazon life–reptiles, mammals, and human and material culture. No modern technology allowed.

It’s the kind of place where some people come here to disappear.
And others come to hunt them.

Also available as an ebook at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

You’ve heard the story of Adam and Eve? Don’t be so sure. The Bible doesn’t tell the whole story, but if you look closely you see where something has been removed. First, God creates “man” male and female, and then, a few verses later, he creates woman again, this time from Adam’s rib. Where did the first woman go?

If you’ve ever read the Babylonian Talmud, you know. She was kicked out of the Garden of Eden for not being properly deferential, and she went on to become quite notorious in her own right. A sexual predator, a dark goddess, a spurned woman, and the first feminist, this is her story in her own words.

Lilith.
Also available as an ebook at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

When last we left Rick, he was having a pleasant–if confusing–day. But will it last?

Find out, in the conclusion to We Create Worlds.

This is the story of Rick. He’s a scurrilous, irascible scoundrel, with a heart of gold. Not in the sense of being warm and fuzzy and good underneath, but in the sense of having a heart totally devoted to gold. His favorite goldmine is his shop, an entertainment venue where he vends virtual reality and manufactured novels to his latter-day escapist customers. He runs a tidy shop, he keeps his customers happy, and he always knows the right party to hit to find a pliable college girl with more cocaine than sense. Life is good. But life has a way of doing unexpected things, and the world has a way of changing around the most adaptable people.

So, please step into Rick’s parlor. Don’t mind the bell on the door or the old fashioned cash register. Buy a manufactured novel, fresh from the computer, a first edition. Sit in the easy chair or lay out on the sofa. Strap on a helmet and a skinsuit and take a swim on Europa. He can be trusted, really. It says so on the door. He’s completely upfront with his advertising. In ten foot high letters, right above the shop front, he tells you what they do in his place:
“We Create Worlds.”

And he does it on the cheap.

Now, to brighten your e-book reader, I give you one of my favorite bed-time stories, complete with a new afterword that tells the story behind the story.

In 1898, a woman’s body was discovered broken and battered at the bottom of a tall sea bluff in Southern Scotland. and the small town she lived in began locking the doors at night. Only one man saw what happened, but he carried the secret of her death to his death bed. Wounded in the trenches on the Western Front, he gives his last confession…

Get it now, DRM free, from Amazon or Smashwords.

—Story Sample Below the Cut—

Angels Unawares
by J. Daniel Sawyer

This is how it happened. I swear. What you are about to hear is the absolute, unvarnished truth–I don’a give bugger all about whatch’a found in the histories. It wasn’a a suicide, and it wasn’a murder. I was there, and I saw, and no one else did. Their “forensics” don’a mean a bloody thing, because I know. And what I saw is more amazing than what they think happened. But I kept it to myself, just to be sure that no one would ruin it–because I promised her, you see. And I had to keep the promise – no one could have broken it after seeing the look in her eyes.

But first, I suppose you’ll want to know about how it started – what it was like in this town back then. The commotion started back when her body was found beaten against the rocks like so much driftwood. That wasn’a the unusual part – a lot of people fell from that trail on the bluff. That’s why the laird put the fences up when I was a lad. It never stopped anyone from going down there, you understand, just made him feel better when there was a fuss. Great spot for the spring frolic, it was, and of course we were all up there as normal. When they find bodies down in the surf there it’s usually a suicide or an accident – someone gone off their melon on too much whisky. But they’re always normal people. She was unusual, and the lengths they went to trying to explain it made the whole town start locking their doors at night.

They said that she was mutilated–or deformed – that her body wasn’a like a woman’s body, but they weren’a sure if the fall did it or if it was something else. They said that the policemen fought with each other to avoid having to be near her. It was hideous and beaten, and they’d never seen anything so brutally done. In the end it was only her cloak that identified her.

It was always her cloak that announced her.

Dark, it was, and seemed to fall about her like water. She always wore it up there at the frolics. Even when one of the youths would bring a guitar or a penny whistle and she danced for us with those dances that would pull us away from the material world for a moment or three – even then the cloak was her companion. She liked it because it kept her safe in the shadows, blended right in when it was dark, no matter where she was. Glorious, shimmering dull blue, deep but faded, fastened round her neck with a dull golden braid – thinking of it now I realize that she and the cloak seemed to be two expressions of a third, hidden thing. Like she was a tired faerie from an older, forgotten world. But that’s maybe the mists of fond memory speaking.

So they became convinced, eventually, that she had killed herself, though they couldn’a imagine why, and eventually the memory of her faded into the ghost story the young ones all hear from the older ones upon their first visit to the frolics. Everyone was sure that it was suicide, or that she’d been killed by a lover – an older, married man they fancied she’d been seeing. And partly the reason was that no one they questioned had seen her that night after the moon rose.

But I saw her. And I know what happened.

We always called her Aadi. One of the other young men who came to the frolics heard it from his father serving in India – he said it meant “beginning.” She was the first one to clear the grove on the bluff, and as far as anyone could remember she had begun the spring frolics. I suppose the old druids would have called her the May Queen or thought she was a dryad, but we had no use for superstition. The dawning future had enough magic of its own. The twentieth century was coming, nature was being conquered, and, in our little lowland village far away from the noise and dirt of the factories at least, there was nowhere to look but forward and up. Of course, all of us knew her real name – though none of us knew her age – but Aadi suited her better than the name she called herself, and that is always how I’ll remember her. The sound of it was always soothing, and she seemed to me as ageless as the hills she lived in. My father told me, before he passed on, that someone had always been up there – when he was a lad he too had gone to the bluff and met the woman in the trees who lived up in the hills, but that one had been a minstrel. Aadi was no minstrel – when pressed she might have been able to squawk.

It was early may–late enough that the rain had stopped the pretense of snow and had contented itself merely with being wet. Ten or fifteen of us went up to the grove on the bluff as often as we could to catch the scent of the changing seasons, to dance and play, to wrestle with the lassies among the tall grasses, and to watch the moon set on the sea. Someone had brought a book of poetry that night, and we handed it around with the Glenlivt, reading to each other while the wind came up. On that cold night the drink was like hot butter, coating inside with warmth, smooth as a woman’s neck. When mixed with the pine fire and the smell of drizzle, the glow of faces in the firelight, the sound of Shelly being read in the halting voice of a seventeen year old Scots lad, it seemed to thin the veil between the worlds. It was a night that felt more real than any other, perhaps because it was as unreal as any I have yet lived. An evening when, for a moment, time stepped outside of itself and flirted with eternity.

End of sample. ©2003 J. Daniel Sawyer, All Rights Reserved

Read it on your Kindle, Nook, or other reader.

What if somewhere in the universe there was a room, and in that room was a creature, surrounded by screens and dials and controls? In his room, he sees all, knows all, manages all. He directs the thoughts and actions of every being in the cosmos. Would such a creature be God? And what would it be like to be that being, spending your days and nights watching the screens, and managing the affairs of all beings from a control room?

Have you ever seen that well-dressed man at the airport, or the station, who stands patiently by as if he has all the time in the world? Have you wondered who he was waiting for, and how long he’d stay? Have you ever been that man, stuck in the hours between delay and disappointment, with no way to know if the person you’re waiting for will show? Join me in this episode as I take you to the mountains of Northern Italy at the dawn of the 22nd century for the story of a woman and a train–and of a walking stick and the man who owns it, as he waits for Train Time.

Join me for a conversation with a quaint, friendly man about his unusual abilities. He’s a hospitable fellow who invites strangers into his house for coffee. He is alone in the world, and only wants someone to talk to–but he may just get more than he bargained for one morning, when he has a chat with the UPS man.

Content Advisory: This episode contains terrifying elements, and is best suited to audiences over age 10.

Sculpting God opens with a story of an unusual cliff diving episode. In 1898, a woman’s body was discovered broken and battered at the bottom of a tall sea bluff in Southern Scotland. and the small town she lived in began locking the doors at night. Only one man saw what happened, but the secret of her death is one he carried to his death bed. Wounded in World War One, he gives his last confession.

Content advisory: Suitable for all ages, though not necessarily intelligible to prepubescents.

Personal note:
This was my first ever podcast fiction episode, so it holds a bit of a special place in my heart. Hope you enjoy!

Thanks to everyone who alerted me to the problem!

[Correction: MWS chimed in in the comments to correct my misapprehension of his current attitude toward podcasting, which is considerably more complex than the paragraph above makes it seem. My apologies for inadvertently misrepresenting him.]

The two of them are generation one podiobookers who appeared in the space hot on the heels of the three founders, and seeing them throw in the towel has a lot of other creators wondering: “Are we all just being idiots giving stuff away for free?” And it’s got a lot of fans wondering “What’s going to happen now? Are all my favorite writers going to give up?”

The Gospel of Free has been pinging around the internet for a while now, it’s even got its own official book. There are folks in the fiction space – like Doctorow and Sigler – that have made it the cornerstone of their publicity strategy and turn a consistent profit at it. The use of free content in career building is a well-established promotional strategy, but it’s a difficult tool to use, and suffers from the reductio ad absurdum that most people hear when they first encounter the message, no matter how subtly it’s preached: “If you build it, they will come.”

So if I just put my stuff on the web I’ll find an audience? Well, no. You might find an audience, if you get yourself seen by the right people (and by “right people” I mean people who are prone to telling everybody they know about their latest new and great thing). You might even find a good audience – but you have to bear in mind, “Free” doesn’t mean what you think it does.

Let’s take what I do for free (well, free to my audience): I use a segment of my professional time as a writer and as a sound engineer to produce full-cast audiodbooks. I pay for this – billing my professional time out at normal rates, and factoring in what I pay my actors in trade (whether they’ve collected on it or not), my cost (not including what I should be paying the author) is in the neighborhood of $10-15k. Now, am I out of pocket that much? No. I do go out of pocket a little bit, but not a lot – however, that’s all time stripped out of my life that I could be billing at that kind of rate. If you’ve wondered why I do less in the way of publicity than some other podiobooks authors, now you know – the time is my main expense, and I have a life and a business. I intend, eventually, to have my writing income make up a greater-than-fifty-percent share of my household budget, but I’m not there yet. I’m nowhere near. This is what is called a loss-leader.

In business terms, a loss-leader is the bait on the hook – the hook is what gets the audience to spend money. Matching the right bait to the right hook and fishing in the right water is a learned skill set, and it relies somewhat on how fast one learns from experience, how lucky one is, and (in the writing game) how good a lawyer one is and/or has. There’s a reason more than 75% of authors wash out of the game after their first book contract runs out, and why only a minuscule percentage of people with authorial ambitions ever get even that far – being a good writer is not the same as being a successful author. It’s even possible to be a successful author without being a good writer (for example, Dan Brown), but I wouldn’t bank on it and I know damn few successful authors who would, particularly over the term of a career. Craft does matter – it’s just not all that matters.

If podcasting is your loss leader, what’s your endgame? If all you’re trying to do is get your voice heard, podcasting or blogging your novel is a perfectly fine idea. If you’re looking to get published, it might help, or it might be a distraction or a detriment, depending on your approach and a host of other variables. If you’re looking to build a sustainable long term career as a professional author, it’s time for you to stop and think about a few things before you go into podcasting:

1) What will podcasting give me?
2) What is my professional time worth – and if I were to bill myself for this, how much of a loss will I be taking?
3) What kind of author do I want to be?
4) Why do I think “getting published” is a worthwhile goal?

Why should you stop to think about these things? Because I guarantee you that your answers to at least one of those questions is wrong enough to set you up for some serious disappointment.

What will podcasting give me?
Podcasting will, if you stick with it and actually produce a decent product with broad enough appeal, give you an audience ranging anywhere from a few hundred to maybe twenty thousand regular listeners. If you’re very innovative in evangelizing your product beyond the established fiction podosphere, your chances for good numbers go up. If you host in a high visibility place like Podiobooks and leave your content there for a few years, your numbers will climb over time due to the long tail effect.

Podcasting may also help you learn the market in terms of audience. This is the primary reason I started fiction podcasting: Market research. I was looking to find out what kind of people would enjoy the stories that I’m interested in writing, so that I could figure out how to find and deliver to that market that, in the long term (and I’m talking about a time scale of decades) I will be able to consistently turn a profit on. Notice I said “stories”, not “books” – that will become important later.

Podcasting may give you a creative community – this isn’t something I was looking for, but I have made some friends through the process as well as more than a few good business contacts that have been helpful along the way.

Podcasting (if you’re good at it) will win you respect and accolades as well as the adoration of at least a few fans along the way, and this feels really good. Just remember that, as encouraging as it can be, it’s a limited kind of street cred. Audience tastes change, and what they love about you today they may hate about you tomorrow. Glory feels wonderful, even in small doses, and can put an extra bit of shine on a life well lived, but it will never make up for insecurity or the need for the kind of relationships you can only have with people who really know you.

Podcasting may give you pleasure – if you enjoy the process and enjoy interacting with people, it’s something that you might like even as a hobby.

But unless you are supremely lucky and very canny, there is something podcasting will not deliver: a paycheck of any substance. If you’re expecting to be have your audio audience put you on the bestseller list once you get that book deal, good luck to you. A few people have pulled it off. Those people are, without exception, people that – by chance or by cleverness – wrote exactly to market. They were selling stories that resonated perfectly (or at least well enough) with the public that a larger-than-average segment of their fan base wanted to own a physical copy, and the same larger-than-average segment went out of their way to pimp the shit out of the books to their friends, family, and strangers who might not even own iPods. A few others have pulled it off by their books being noticed on a site like Podiobooks, and subsequently selling film options.

If you want your book to perform well enough to get to your next contract, you need a publishing house that will throw its weight behind you, a print run that is realistically scaled to your book’s performance, and a property that is going to sell in the current market. If you don’t have at least the latter two of these three things, then (again) good luck to you. You’re going to need it.

How Much Is My Time Worth?

I hate to sound like a schoolmarm (or worse), but time that you’re podcasting is time that you’re not doing four other things, all of which are arguably more important. It’s time you’re not making money at whatever your profession is, it’s time you’re not spending with friends and family building the memories that make life with living, it’s time that you’re not learning, and it’s time that you’re not writing.

If you intend to write fiction for any significant fraction of your life, you need to be doing all of those things. You have to write to grow as a writer, and you have to make money to be able to live while you’re writing. But if you have a life that isn’t worth living – say, a life without significant relationships or learning and enrichment – then it’s highly unlikely that you’re going to have anything interesting to write about (and you may be too depressed to write about anything at all, except stories about depression).

Every hour you spend podcasting is billable time – somebody’s paying for it, and it isn’t always just you. Don’t cheat on your mental accounting sheet – There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. Even in a down economy, your time has a dollar value attached to it – figure
out what that value is, and then keep track of what you’re spending. If nothing else, being aware of the cost will help you keep from feeling cheated at the far end if you wind up not getting a good return on your investment, because you’ll be spending on purpose.

What Kind of Author Do I Want To Be?

If you’ve been in and around the writing business for any length of time, you’ve heard the old saw “you can’t make a living as a writer unless you’re in the top 1%.” This bit of conventional wisdom is what lies behind the blockbuster mentality on the part of authors: you want to have a brand name, you want to be the biggest thing ever, and you must relentlessly self-promote (the blockbuster mentality of some publishing houses is another animal entirely, and Charles Stross and Dean Wesley Smith have both covered it very well on their blogs recently).

If you’ve heard that and are still intent on trying, then you are either mind-numbingly stupid, a heroically-minded risk junkie, a hobbyist, or someone who actually has a clue about business and doesn’t listen to the conventional wisdom of creative people (in which case, good for you).

So you want to be the next Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer? You’d be better off going to Vegas – that kind of trend really is a game of chance, and depends largely (though not entirely) on unforeseeable market forces. That said, there is a whole swath of writers who make a living on their names, which they worked very hard to establish, and who aren’t blockbusters (and yes, Scott Sigler is one of them. He might be a blockbuster by our standards, and his ambition is to be the next Stephen King, but by broader market standards he’s a respectable front-lister, and there’s nothing at all wrong with that).

But blockbusting is not the only way to win this game, and here’s why:

Most authors who make a living at it don’t make a living on their book advances. Oh, the advances help, but they’re not even close to the whole pie. Subsidiary rights sales, foreign rights, royalties from the long tail, article sales, and commissioned work for other commercial ventures (such as being tapped to do a Star Trek or a Dragonlance novel) make up a large part of the income flow, with investments helping keep the rent paid during lean years. These authors generally (though not always) sit solidly on the mid-list, and some of them write under a variety of names for different markets. I know and have known (personally) at least a score of authors who make their living with their words, and the two qualities that distinguish them from the authors I know who haven’t been able to pull it off are: 1) insufferable, bloody-minded perseverance, and 2) continual growth in craft and breadth. In other words, these authors actually treat it like a career, rather than a brass ring.

The truth is that most people who get counted as “authors” in surveys of author incomes are people who publish a single book, or who have a book they haven’t sold. They’re not career writers. They don’t count screenwriters, ad copy writers, stage play writers, or other such folks. In other words, this bit of conventional wisdom is horse shit because it counts every dilettante, aspiring amateur, and washout as an “author.” Authors such people may be, but professionals they ain’t. Some of them will become professionals (I must hasten to add, I’m on this tier — I’m not prolific enough or churning enough cash enough yet to be called a professional, but I’m heading deliberately in that direction) – others are hobbyists. I daresay that if such a survey were taken of all the auto mechanics in the world, with hobbyists and people that change their own oil counted with the same weight as ASE certificate holders, the numbers for auto mechanics wouldn’t be dissimilar to what we hear about with writing.

If you’re looking to do this for a living, writing is a professional business (i.e. a business that relies on being an expert in a particular domain), with all the problems that implies: It relies on individual expertise, a broad skillset, at least a vague awareness of market dynamics, a certain legal acumen, the ability to adapt to contingency, a high tolerance for risk and uncertainty, and a little bit of luck. You know, just like any other non-franchise business.

Why Do I think Getting Published is a Worthwhile Goal?

More than any other question, the answer to this gets to the heart of the matter for an author who is thinking of podcasting their work, because in answering this you’re probably going to answer a significant portion of all the other questions.

My answer to this one is simple: It’s a step on the road. I got a huge thrill with my first short story sale – now, after only a couple more, it’s an exercise in contract negotiations and another tick on the scorecard. It’s fun and exciting, but it’s not the life-affirming experience that the first sale was. Why? Because my sights are on the next set of goalposts, and I need to get to those so I can see the next set, and so on.

But my self-worth is not wrapped up in this. This is business. If I can’t make it work one way I’ll make it work another, and if, in the end, I turn out not to have the chops, I’ll shift my focus and continue writing as a hobby to whatever extent I can justify it. Yes, I am one of those rare people who will write no matter what – it’s the reason I’m making a go of turning it into a profession. But that doesn’t mean that everything I do will be available for free. Some things will, some things won’t – just like, right now, some things are and some things aren’t. My time is billable hourly, and my free stuff is there so that I can 1) build my audience, and 2) learn how to navigate in my marketplace(s). It’s an investment I’m making because it seems sound to me – I know what it costs, and for me the price is right.

Is the price right for you? Think hard about it. I daresay there will always be hobbyists in the podcast fiction space, but if you’re a pro or an aspiring pro, look at it as a business investment. It’s not a magic bullet, and it’s not a shortcut. Even podcasting’s biggest success, Scott Sigler, doesn’t see it as either of those things. Scott needed a platform to prove that there was a market for cross-genre horror, so he essentially invented one. His focus now is on figuring out where the next place to grow his audience is, and what books will be best to write next. There’s a reason he’s made this work, and it goes a lot deeper than “he writes in a popular genre” (although that also is very important).

Wrapping It Up

The Gospel of Free is a pernicious little meme that’s burned out some talented people and seriously burned others, but it’s not a new one. Every get rich quick scheme, every investment bubble, every motivational speaker that comes along has the same basic blend of bullshit and wisdom: “Look at this new thing – it’s no-lose! Look at its merits! Imagine how much you could do with this!” Network marketing, real estate flipping, dot com stocks – there’s always something, and it nearly always takes a pretty clever idea and isolates it from all good business sense.

Don’t fall for it. Free has always been with us, and it’s always been good business when done right. New tools, new media, and new toys are great, but excitement about the opportunities they present can easily obscure the most basic thing about business: supply and demand must meet, and they must trade. If they don’t, then at best what you’ve got is a rewarding hobby, and at worst you’re in a financial disaster. There is no such things as a fast buck except at the craps table, and there is never any such thing as a free lunch.

Me? I’m in this for the long haul. I’m building a business, with all the risk that implies. Right now, my business model includes podcasting. Will it in three years? It depends on what happens between now and then.

So, in sum, my advice to other writers and podcasters, for what it’s worth: Podcast what you will. Keep track of what it’s costing you. Cut your losses if it’s not returning what you need for it to be worthwhile. Above all, don’t buy the bullshit that motivational speakers and other sharks shovel. Celebrity status might be useful, but it’s like Monopoly money: not negotiable currency outside of the small circles that generate it.

For fans of mine and other’s podcast fiction: remember that while this is free to you, it’s not free for us. Your feedback, your cash in the tip jar, and your evangelism are much appreciated. We podcast authors know that we’re being wasteful and reckless – and not all of us will stay in this space forever. For now, I at least am getting what I want out of the bargain, and I do enjoy entertaining you all.

For everyone reading, remember: Life is precious. Don’t forget to enjoy whatever it is you’re doing, and treasure the memories it gives you. Treat your time like an investment, and savor what you buy with it. In the end, the moments are the only thing we have to make a life out of.

For Predestination, I’ve been nominated for:
Best Speculative Fiction Story (Novel Form)
Best Audio Drama (Long Form including Independents)
Best New Speculative Fiction Podcaster/Team

And for Sculpting God, I’ve been nominated for:
Best Speculative Fiction Story (Short Form)
Best Audio Drama (Short Form including Independents)
Best Speculative Fiction Magazine or Anthology Podcast

There’s obviously a lot of genre bending that I’m doing between fiction/drama, so that may work against me. Who knows? The only down side of this is that I have to send in samples, which is one more thing on my overlong to-do list. Even so…

Being nominated for the Parsecs f*cking rocks! Thanks guys, you are all fabulous!
-Dan

To kick off the Antithesis series, I’m bringing you a story that’s just at the edge of what Sculpting God normally deals with. Still a bedtime story for adults, this one tells the story of Mondu, a pawnbroker on a nature preserve in the Amazon rainforest, and a customer who walks into his store and turns his life upside down. When you’re looking for excitement, or an escape from boredom, be careful what you wish for. You might get The Man In The Rain.

Well, look no further. You can find my collection of fantasy, science fiction, and erotica stories here. It’s called Sculpting God and it’s chock full of adult-oriented bedtime stories, with a new two-parter coming next week.

The first volume of my podcast novel Antithesis – costarring the lovely Chasing The Bard author Phillipa Ballantine – will be posting shortly. There is a feed up right now, containing the promo, and episodes will start dropping before the end of the month. We’ve already got a couple of them produced – a couple more and we’ll have a comfortable buffer lined up so there won’t be any story interruptions once we get it started. In the meantime, you can read the back-of-the-book summary here, and watch the Sculpting God feed for more details.

Those of you who are of a vaguely intellectual bent might also enjoy my nonfiction podcasts, The Reprobates Hour (soon to enter its third season), and Apologia, a philosohpical roudtable discussion about matters of ethics, secularism, religion, and epistemology.

Feel free to poke around, read my older posts, and check out my photography work if you’re looking for some good desktop wallpapers.

Thanks for stopping by!

Sit down, stay a while, leave feedback, grab a drink and a cigar. Mi casa, tsu casa!

You’ve heard the story of Adam and Eve? Don’t be so sure. The Bible doesn’t tell the whole story, but if you look closely you see where something has been removed. First, God creates “man” male and female, and then, a few verses later, he creates woman again, this time from Adam’s rib. Where did the first woman go?

If you’ve ever read the Babylonian Talmud, you know. She was kicked out of the Garden of Eden for not being properly defferential, and she went on to become quite notorious in her own right. A sexual predator, a dark goddess, a spurned woman, and the first feminist, this is her story in her own words.

Lilith.

Guest voices this week:
Stephanie Sawyer
Kitty Nic’Iaian

Promos this week:
Hutchins and Harwood explain why you have only three days left to buy Scott Sigler’s excellent novel Infected

First off, the new episode of Sculpting God is up on the feed. For this episode, I take you way, way, way back to the very beginning of the world, to tell you the REAL story of what happened with a certain apple in a certain garden. From the lips of the woman who was there to witness it all, you’ll hear the story of Lilith, the world’s first woman and first feminist. Listen to this one without your kids in the room; it’s sexually explicit.

Secondly, and in the long run perhaps more important, there’s only a few days left to pick up Scott Sigler’s Infected

If you haven’t heard the podcast, you’ve been missing out. I’ll be posting a proper review in a couple days when I have time, but for now suffice it to say that even if you don’t like horror, you’re probably going to enjoy this book. Check out the Amazon reviews and get your copy – and try to get it before the 14th of April so that your purchase will count towards the New York Times Bestseller list. If Scott can make the list, it’s going to mean good things for ALL podcast authors – Sigler, Harwood, Lafferty, Hutchins, Wallace, myself, and all the others who are creating excellent free content for all of you guys out there in podcastland.

If you don’t want to go to Amazon, hit B&N.com or go to a local brick-and-mortar store and look for the book with this disturbing cover:

Here, at long last, is the conclusion to We Create Worlds. I had intended to release this over a month ago. Unfortunately for all of you (but fortunately for me), I was asked to write a screenplay. The resulting effort, Down From Ten, is a science fiction/mystery miniseries which my producing partners and I are now seeking funding for. It may even make an appearance as a miniseries at a future point in this podcast. You can read more about what the writing entailed at www.jdsawyer.net

Thank you all for your patience in hanging around the feed. Please spread the word – more episodes are coming.

Enjoy!

At this speed, I’ll finish at least two novels this year.

Total composition time on the rough draft of Down From Ten: 27 days

Total page count: 315

Down From Ten
This is a mystery/suspense/science fiction/comedy/drama film I’m writing for production, hopefully later this year if the financing comes through. More news on this as the deal progresses. I got tapped for it two weeks ago and had to drop everything to get it banged out. I’m a little over halfway through it and it’s going splendidly. If the production deal goes through, this will be unlike anything that’s been filmed in a long, long time, if ever.

The Haunting of Emeritus Greenbough
Originally the Nanowrimo project that got derailed in favor of writing lectures for the Blender Boot Camp. Currently on hold until Predestination is finished.

Predestination and Other Games of Chance
Currently on page 360 of the revision. It’s coming along nicely, but is on temporary hold for another week to ten days while I finish this month’s articles and the Down From Ten screenplay.

“Cover Artist” and “Pressure Gauges”
A pair of mystery novellas introducing a new “hero” who finds himself in the midst of murder investigations at a night club and a new year’s eve party. Don’t want to say more at the moment, but hopefully I’ll be able to finish these up and sell them before too long, so you can all read them

And, of course, Sculpting God continues along swimmingly. This week, We Create Worlds part 2 will be up. Then, for Valentine’s Day, you’ll get the story of Lilith – the first woman who had far more particular and provocative ideas about what it meant to be a woman than did her successor in Eden.

Meet Rick. He’s a scurrilous, irascible scoundrel, with a heart of gold. Not in the sense of being warm and fuzzy and good underneath, but in the sense of having a heart totally devoted to gold. His favorite goldmine is his shop, an entertainment venue where he vends virtual reality and manufactured novels to his latter-day escapist customers. He runs a tidy shop, he keeps his customers happy, and he always knows the right party to hit to find a pliable college girl with more cocaine than sense. Life is good. But life has a way of doing unexpected things, and the world has a way of changing around the most adaptable people.

Take a step into Rick’s parlor. Don’t mind the bell on the door or the old fashioned cash register. Buy a manufactured novel, fresh from the computer, a first edition. Sit in the easy chair or lay out on the sofa. Strap on a helmet and a skinsuit and take a swim on Europa. He can be trusted, really. It says so on the door. He’s completely upfront with his advertising. In ten foot high letters, right above the shop front, he tells you what they do in his place:
“We Create Worlds.”

And he does it on the cheap.

Warning: This episode of Sculpting God is intended for adult audiences, and has content that is probably unsuitable for children and the easily offended. Strong language, dirty euphamisms, sexual themes, and disturbing subject matter.
Direct Download Link
Podcast Link

“I love deadlines. I love the wooshing noise they make as they go by.” -Douglas Adams

This time, it’s very much a case of blown deadlines for the sake of a god product. It’s also, I’m sure you’re thinking, better late than never. This story turned out to be a difficult one to produce, simply becasue I hadn’t looked at it in a number of years. When I did, I realized that it wasn’t up to snuff for Sculpting God. “No problem,” I thought, “A quick rewrite will fix that.” Well, the quick rewrite wound up stretching to six weeks, and this little bugger of a story turned out to be a very difficult nut to crack.

However, crack it did, and here you are – the meat of the walnut, as it were.

This is the story of Rick. He’s a scurrilous, irascible scoundrel, with a heart of gold. Not in the sense of being warm and fuzzy and good underneath, but in the sense of having a heart totally devoted to gold. His favorite goldmine is his shop, an entertainment venue where he vends virtual reality and manufactured novels to his latter-day escapist customers. He runs a tidy shop, he keeps his customers happy, and he always knows the right party to hit to find a pliable college girl with more cocaine than sense. Life is good. But life has a way of doing unexpected things, and the world has a way of changing around the most adaptable people.

So, please step into Rick’s parlor. Don’t mind the bell on the door or the old fashioned cash register. Buy a manufactured novel, fresh from the computer, a first edition. Sit in the easy chair or lay out on the sofa. Strap on a helmet and a skinsuit and take a swim on Europa. He can be trusted, really. It says so on the door. He’s completely upfront with his advertising. In ten foot high letters, right above the shop front, he tells you what they do in his place:
“We Create Worlds.”

And he does it on the cheap.

Special thanks to the Reason Driven Podcast and to the Going Linux podcast for running our promo. Enjoy!

Check out “Train Time”

For the rest of you, you’re all very well appreciated and there are some cool surprises coming in the weeks ahead, methinks. More articles coming, as well as some exciting new stories on the cast. For the moment, to hold you over, here’s the new audio promo for Sculpting God, which is going to run on J. C. Hutchins’ 7th Son podcast in the allegedly near future.

So, please spread the promo far and wide, and tell your friends and lovers and enemies.

More soon…

And, if you DO follow me, get your arse on over to the Sculpting God homepage and subscribe to the feed, or do it the lazy way and grab the mirror in the first column to the right.

Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Tell people you hardly know and would never want to! There is a new weirdo on the block – - I have a gothic anthology here and I’m not afraid to use it!!

In other news, the first episode of Sculpting God is all recorded. I have a bit of post production to do on it, and then it’ll be ready to go up. Another episode will be ready about the same time. One more beyond that, and I will start the podcast – at this point, it’s looking like Sept 21 or thereabouts will be the beginning. More updates on that soon.

Predestination update:

73,860 / 125,000 (59.1%)

Despite what the word meter tells you, I should actually be done by November. This draft is a polish draft, and most of what needed polishing and fixing were the first three sections, and that’s about done. The rest is bringing the balance of the novel into stylistic conformity with the rewritten first half. It’s going along gangbusters, and we’ll start the podcast for it in December – consider it a Christmas/Solstice/hey-we-get-this-time-of-year-off-for-some-reason-let’s-get-drunk present.

In other news, I’m teaming up with my friend Zoe Winters to do a competitive NANOWRIMO this year. I have a SF/Fantasy/horror/romance story that I’ve been thinking about writing for a while now, and it seems like the right time to do it – it’ll give me a good break from the Predestination universe before I dive back in in January to write the sequel: “Free Will and Other Compulsions,” which I’ll need to have done by July so I can start podcasting it next fall.

Watch this space for more news – there is a LOT upcoming guaranteed to warp your brain and make you think about all those things your mother used to smack you for.

Umm…oh, excuse me, sometimes I get carried away.

The first podcast is going to be a collection of stories called Sculpting God, which is currently nearing completion on its rewrite. Deciding which should go first, that’s the fun part – rather like plotting the perfect murder. Do I hit you with something pastoral, or something horriffic, or something simply bizzarre? Do I lull you into a false sense of security or do I blast you with both barrels right out of the gate? Decisions, decisions!

The crime is in the works, though. I’m heading into the studio next week to record the first couple of stories, and then I’ll post one forty minute episode per week until the cycle is done. When it’s finished up, butchering the corpse and serving it up a’la Rocky Horror is the easy part. You see, I’ve seen the book, and I know all about Predestination…

Most of you stumbling upon this blog probably have only found it through the rabbit trail of links from LinuxJournal or Blenderwars or ArtisticWhispers Productions.

I’m a writer, and I promise: that’s not as redundant as it sounds. I’ve been writing since I first learned to read, and was telling stories as long before that as I could speak. In recent years, I’ve been moving out of the world of day-to-day employment and into storytelling in a serious fashion: first with radio dramas and films and the formation of ArtisticWhispers Productions (now my day job), and then by ramping up a writing career.

Now, after a couple years of tech publishing and many more years of privately honing my fiction craft, I’m taking the big leap. Following in the blood-soaked foosteps of Scott Sigler and the stem cell soup of J.C. Hutchins, I’ve decided to bootstrap my writing career by podcasting some of my work.

So now you, dear reader, will have yet another shot at free fiction. In the coming weeks, I’ll begin with short stories from my “Sculpting God” collection, and then, later this year, the first novel, “Predestination,” will make its debut.

It’s gonna be fun!