Blockbuster Book Proposal

After years of struggling (and failing) to break through into the upper ranks of writing success, I have diligently studied the markets, library purchasing habits, and critical book reviews. Together with my new co-author, Ms. Collabone, I present the following book proposal, guaranteed to be a record setting bestseller. Coming soon from the first publisher wise enough to offer a five digit advance, we present this preview of:



Bitten Bonnet
A Tale of Forbidden Love
By M. Keaton and D. Collabone

Angst-ridden Sarah Plain is a sexually repressed Amish librarian who longs to meet that one special man to sweep her into his arms and carry her to a fulfilling life as a feminist author. When Mardi Gras erupts into a full-fledged zombie apocalypse, a lifetime of reading paranormal romance leaves the plucky red-head ill prepared when she meets the man who really does want to carry her away.
An epic romantic saga set in the quirky environs of Louisiana, Bitten Bonnet is both a compelling story and a scathing criticism of the evils of modern traditional society and the struggles of interracial relationships. Sarah's tale surpasses the previous standards of literary excellence and the digestive system. Filled with eccentric and complex characters, Keaton and Collabone have constructed an achingly tragic story of a love that burns beyond life itself.



Internal sample text:

Hamish leaned against the split rail fence, watching the trail of smoke curling up from the distant city. "It is zombies, then?"
"Verily," Enoch replied, absent-mindedly pulling at his beard. "They have come for her. There is little we can do, I fear."
The centenarian shook his head sadly. "If only we could have known. If but once she had removed her bookish glasses and pulled the pins from her bun to let her burning tresses fall about her shoulders with passionate abandon--surely by such an act she would have betrayed her true nature as the hidden seductress, which the writings warn us is a veritable magnet for the undead."
"Or if we had seen the serpentine tattoo climbing sensuously up her back. But she did not. I tell thee, Hamish, it is too late and it vexes me. Is there naught we can do?"
"Nay, friend Enoch. As well ye know, we Amish have spent generations preparing for war with the vampires. Of zombies, we know little."
"Who then? Surely the Elders did not leave our world so vulnerable. Are zombies the province of the Mennonite then?"
"The Mennonite stand against the werewolves."
"The Hutterite?"
"Demons."
"The Planters?"
"Chupacabra."
"Who then, Hamish? Tell me."
The old man sighed, removing his black hat and staring into it as if he could pull hope from within. "The Shaker," he said at last.
Enoch flinched as if struck and leaned against the fence with a pained groan. "Did they train any others?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
"The Unitarians. But…" Hamish allowed his voice to drain away. The two men stood in silence, the wind smelling of smoke. "We can wait no longer. The zombies are now a matter for the bayou-dwelling heathens," he announced, suddenly resolute. "We must flee. Tell the other men to prepare the buggies. And take off those thrice-damned orange triangles; 'tis no time for frippery!"

#

His eyes burned as if worms of fire crawled within them. Swollen and unable to close, the sand-dry orbs tormented him, tempting him to claw them from their sockets, ringing his vision with a crimson mist as he writhed in the dirt. The hound dogs growled and fled from his frantic reach as he twisted between the cinderblocks that held up the trailer. His stomach burned worse than his eyes, consuming itself in a craving hunger.
He shouldn't have eaten that rabid 'coon, especially after he saw that it was wearing Mardi Gras beads but, dammit, he'd been hungry and he'd eaten worse--much worse. But now…
His stomach cramped, twisting in his gut like one of those TV aliens trying to get out. He howled in pain and the hounds howled back. He pulled a hand to his mouth and, without thinking, licked the dirt and dried blood away. Suddenly he found himself stuffing fists full of dirt into his mouth, desperate to eat anything, like a horse cribbing at its stall. So hungry. He howled again.
Above, through the paper-thin plywood of the trailer's floor, the sound sent cold chills up young Damien's spine. "Pop? What's wrong with Uncle Emmet?"
"Probably sobered up," his father replied around a cigarette. "Shut up and eat your paint chips. We got us a long night of scratchin' off lotto tickets if we're ever gonna make enough money to get outta this gov'mit-issued formaldehyde-smellin' trailer."
Another howl echoed through the floorboards, this time sounding suspiciously like a word. "Brains?"

Dreams of Steam II; Brass and Bolts

After the success of Dreams of Steam, the good editor Ms. Richardson told me there would be a sequel and asked if I would contribute. I agreed and the result is in this second DOS anthology. My story (novella really) is a continuation of the "Brass Africa" saga and worth taking a look at even if you don't normally care for steampunk. (Ironically, one of the early reviews of the anthology gives it 5 out of 5 stars and notes that there is only one story they did not like. I suspect it is mine.) The Brass Africa tales are not run-of-the-mill standard Victorian or American West steampunk. Rather than go where people like Cherie Priest have already gone, I have my own view of the genre and a unique approach. Yes, the story is set in Africa, earlier in time and tech than most steampunk stories, and with more than a touch of African history and myth. If you don't like that in your steampunk, I respect that and humbly say, the Brass Africa stories are not for you. I do, however, think that if you are a fan of the more conventional steampunk, you will absolutely love the rest of the anthology and still encourage you to pick it up.

Let me conclude by saying that, after you've read it, feel free to nominate "Grass Elephant" for every award and "Best of the Year" anthology collection you can think of. I normally don't hype my own stuff that strongly so, to answer the implied question: Yes, I think it's that good.


UPDATE: I forgot to mention, the book is not just available in trade paperback. It is also available as a hardback or ebook. If you local or internet book provider are not listing these two additional formats, you can order them directly from the publisher at http://www.kerlak.com/dosteam2.html

Booksigning Moved

The bookstore has asked to delay the signing by a week to give them more time to advertise it locally. Sorry for the confusion if you were planning to attend and hope to see you all on the 11th.

Book Signing in Siloam Springs AR

For those interested and in the area, I'll be signing books at "Books on Broadway" in Siloam Springs AR Saturday morning (not my idea) 10am-noon on Saturday June 1.

Speaking the Abyss

[I originally was asked to write this for a book of essays by the "survivors of mental illness". It was rejected because it was "too depressing" and I refused to lighten it up. The truth, after all, is not chicken soup. I have debated about posting it for over a year now but, because of discussions and encounters with other authors, I finally decided it needed to be out there. In some ways, it may be considered a companion piece to the "Purple Crayon" essay.]



Depression is too kind a word, like you’ve had a bad day and things will get better with a hot meal and some sleep. The truth is a much darker thing--a crushing despair that saps your will and whispers in your ear that the world would be a better place without you, a sorrow so deep and pervasive that it literally makes your body ache, nights spent staring at the ceiling obsessing about the smallest of problems and drowning in a sea of fear, panic and anxiety pushing you under for the third time…no, depression seems too kind a word.

I tried to ignore it, to work through the fear and formless sense of loss. It’s just a character flaw, I would mutter through gritted teeth. Real men suck it up and deal. When my mind refused to acknowledge the growing truth, my body made the call. One morning shortly after Christmas, I rolled out of bed, headed for work, and found myself curled up on the floor, convulsing, crying, completely out of control, unable to even muster a coherent thought, afraid and overwhelmed by everything. I hit bottom full throttle, and years of ignoring the warning signs triggered a cascade of secondary problems that left me a proverbial basket case. Mental illnesses aren’t isolated conditions; they hunt in a pack. When I finally succumbed, my entire world, with my mind, came apart like a crushed eggshell.
I don’t remember the two years following my collapse, when a life-long struggle with depression and anxiety finally overwhelmed me. Somehow, my wife got me to a doctor and that doctor, in turn, realized I was beyond his ability to treat and found me a specialist able to begin chipping away at the problem. Body first, mind second. Months drugged into a near-zombie state while a devastated immune system and a glandular system, driven haywire by exhaustion and years of running in overdrive, healed.

In the gray mist, there are snatches of memory. My wife caring for me, running the household, and waiting for the return of the man she married with saint-like patience. Relatives bringing bags of groceries into the house. Friends visiting to sit in awkward silence. Finally, a change of medication, easing me back into reality, and the long, slow, painful task of rebuilding my mind and spirit, up from the bottom brick by brick.

No man is an island, and I benefited from the kindness of others more than I deserved. Twice I went back to my old job on reduced hours, the company owners firmly on my side, fighting to keep me on the insurance rolls. Twice, I spiraled into depression again, unable to stand up to the stress. Friends pulled strings to find me temporary weekend work that managed to make enough to pay for my medications. In the end, even that was not enough; and my doctor, a noble, caring man more dedicated to his Hippocratic Oath than his income, ignored his fee, supplied me with medication from his own stock of samples, and worked with the pharmaceutical companies to insure that I was never without the help I needed.
Years. It took years of pride and stubbornness to dig the hole; it took years to climb back out. Unable to work on a fixed schedule, often unable to even work with other people for an extended period of time, I returned to my first profession I had set aside to pursue a ‘career.’ I wrote--not great works, just simple escapist fiction for people who needed a break from the working world. I still wrestled with depression and fear every day, but I could function. The cost had been high but the next phase of my life had begun.

As part of my work as an author, I was encouraged to attend writing conventions, gatherings where authors, editors, and publishers mix freely with the readers who support them. I was hesitant. My emotional balance was still precarious; I was unsure how I would be able to handle myself in a public forum and afraid of being overwhelmed by the sheer press of humanity. In an odd kind of way, I found, among other authors and our readers, an extended family and support group. The number of authors and artists dealing with mental illness, and depression specifically, is disproportionately high compared to the average population.

I resolved from the first that I would not shy away from discussing my condition. I was not going to preach about it or even bring it up unless it was relevant, but neither was I going to sugar-coat the issue or apologize for being who I was and having, what I had finally been made to realize, was a legitimate medical problem. And the topic did come up, repeatedly; I was not alone in this. What made me a rarity was my willingness to speak. The social stigma against mental illness is still strong, and many of its sufferers live with the added burden of shame.
I had struggled for the better part of a decade with the question of why: Why me? Why this? I was about to receive my answer when I found myself in the hallway with an elderly lady, tears in her eyes, tapping me on the chest and sobbing. “You speak for us. Make them understand. You can make them see; we can’t. Don’t stop. You speak for us.” It was a humbling experience, to realize that for all my problems, I was so much better off than others, that I had found a way to stand with a foot in both worlds--healthy enough to function and speak publicly, but still fighting and unable to lose sight of the pain and intensity of the illness.

I am no activist. I don’t seek out soapboxes to talk about depression and mental illness and, in the grand scheme of things, I really don’t say that much. But I’m not backing down and I’ll not stay silent when the subject comes up. Why me? Because it’s not about me. It’s about us, the great sprawling “us” of depressive and bipolar and autistic and every other human being who labors under the public misunderstandings and shame of mental illness. If I can in my small way ease that pain, that’s a burden I’ll gladly shoulder.

My story is not completely one of hope or triumph, but neither is it finished. The depression is still there, an abyss always looming at the edge of my mind, held at bay by medication and the help of friends, family, and most especially a loving, attentive wife. Every day is a new struggle and every day is its own journey--some good, some closer to an emotional “Mister Toad’s Wild Ride.” I’m okay with that. I’ve made peace with who and what I am, the costs and the rewards. In the end, what more can anyone ask?

Post MidSouth

Quick notes: home, not dead, sleeping this week. As always, a good convention run well. Thank you all.

"Who Shot Okk" now available in print

Yes, I also do hard-boiled noir horror--because a multiple genre author is so much easier for an agent to represent. (Heavy sarcasm there.)


Unrelated, I'll be at Midsouth Con in Memphis this month where I'll probably be accidentally giving away spoiler information on the next book.