Two Women and Some Books
Why is that table square? he said
I saw it round inside my head
Desired no corners nor no edges
No dusty angles, awkward ledges
I wanted clean and modern lines
Not something square from olden times
I ordered glass and shiny legs
This travesty the question begs
Did anybody take the time
To read at all my bright design?
Why is the bloody table square?
It should be round, and over there…
Namaste, my disciples.
It seems that there are still some people out there who appreciate the value of good, old-fashioned, solid advice. I recently heard from Stephen who had just been appraised of my overly generous offer to provide helpful solutions to less worldly-wise and experienced authors, struggling with the minutiae of the literary life.
It’s hard to believe that authors weren’t queuing around the corner for this kind of positive reinforcement. You just can’t please some people. If I may lay a humble question at the feet of the omnipotent IVy:
What should an up and thrusting new author do when they become tired of being ignored by their publisher; when even the hammer blow of e-rhetoric fails to smash its way into their ivory tower? Should they:
I brace myself for the wisdom in true author style (with fingers rammed firmly in ears and accompanying la la las), just in case said wisdom is in danger of hitting the mark.
This is a question many of us face in the early days of our authorial journey. Myself, I foresaw the possibility in advance and took careful steps to circumnavigate the entire issue by simply not having a publisher.
Admittedly, I considered the idea. But the incredible lack of appreciation those who I did approach showed for my – now universally acclaimed – literary masterpiece, rapidly convinced me that they were not worthy of receiving a slice of the riches it would be earning. I shook their dust from my feet and took the high road into the perilous mountains of self-publication.
Perilous but liberating.
The freedom to say what I wish to say in the way I wish to say it. To share of my artistic genius in the most intimate of relationships with my readership, not filtered or separated by layers of PR. Heart to heart. Mano a mano. That is the only way to be.
For me.
But it is not a way for the weak or the ignorant.
So, for you, dear Stephen, I offer you solution (e). E for the essential epitome which proves the perennial panacea for your problem. Nix that publisher and instead of touting your books desperately for approval to another, find one you can pay handsomely to provide the service you require. Then, as their customer, you will be king and they will be bound to answer your emails, phone calls, texts and all other communications. But be aware this extra level of service may also carry an extra charge…
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV
If you have a problem you may avail yourself of one's wisdom by posting your problem to me through my Facebook presence. Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.
The corset made her waist so tiny it could be spanned by a man’s hands.
The Photographer saw her across a crowded comicon – and ended up following her all through the day snapping picture after picture of her hourglass silhouette and the ridiculous top hat she wore with such panache.
It was past time to breathe, she thought, as she leaned against a convenient wall waiting for the lift to where her car waited. He waited too and they stepped into the lift together.
When the lift doors next opened there was nobody inside – only blood and a discarded corset.
from Who Pulled Her Out? by Jane Jago which is available for pre-order.
As if on cue, the Staffies awoke from their nap and decided to indulge in a noisy debate about the ownership of a very battered clown toy. Stan and Ollie watched them in some hauteur for a few moments before taking a hand. Stan bullied Bud to one side of the kitchen while Ollie removed the disputed and disreputable clown from Lew’s grip and brought it over to me. He laid it at my feet, as much as to say ‘your turn’. I picked it up gingerly and put it on the kitchen table,
“Right. Okay. Nobody has the bloody thing.”
Stan and Ollie regarded me solemnly for a moment before ambling off into the garden, where there was a nice patch of shade and some cool grass. The Staffies sensing there was no more fun to be had followed them at a respectful distance. Morgan regarded me with dancing eyes.
“Are they always like that?”
“Mercifully not. I think Bud and Lew are missing the twins. Nobody to play with. So they are a bit bored.”
Ben smiled. “Stan and Ollie can usually be relied on to put a stop when they think the Staffies are out of order. It’s just the reproachful look they give Joss when they have had to intervene.” Then he started to laugh, and we all joined in. Stan put his elegant head in through the door as if to see what all the noise was about. I could have sworn he sighed before going back into the relative quiet of the garden.
Who Pulled Her Out? by Jane Jago is released on Monday 29 October!
Bail set. Two million pounds. He thought he was done for. But his wife asked to see him…
A policeman brought her to an anonymous room, where he sat manacled to a chair.
“They say you stole from me.”
He smiled boyishly. “Never.”
Her soft eyes searched his face. “And now they tell me that bail is two million pounds. That’s a lot of money…”
He played his trump card. “If you really loved me.”
One single tear ran down her cheek. “Perhaps I love you as much as you love me.”
And she walked away without ever looking back…
Who Pulled Her Out? The long anticipated sequel to Who Put Her in? Is finally with us. Yet another gorgeous cover from the hands of that true Renaissance Man Ian Bristow prompted a few more searching questions.
Absolutely there are. In the case of this series, I have had to think of how Joss (the MC on the cover) would look from more than one angle with more than one expression. That’s the difference between truly developing a knowledge of the character and their features and just painting something once and however it came out, it came out. Think of drawing even a basic face in profile, now I want you to draw the same face looking straight on. Have a go. It’s hard. All that said, there are elements that feel really good in creating a sequel cover, like already knowing the font and placements and working with ideas that fit those things on purpose. It’s a different sort of approach and I quite enjoy that aspect of it.
This is a great question. Posture, vagueness, masks—those three are the main focuses. You see a bit of intent in their posture, as if they mean to move toward you. You also see the vague hint of some kind of weapon in the hand of the man on the right, and that tells your brain they all have weapons. Then the masks top it off. We all associate armed, masked people with threat. At the end of the day, artists take what they know about the physical world, cultural norms and the human condition and exploit them as best they can to ‘sell’ an image to the viewer. The better those elements are exploited, the better sold the image.
The first step was admitting that it was okay to add a non-visible light source to the image for the sole purpose of making sure the viewer could see Joss’ face. Once I accepted that it was needed, it was just a matter of choosing warm light to play off the cool blue in the background and painting it in with enough subtlety to keep from distracting from the overall effect of her being back lit. Mind, getting that subtlety was not an easy task, with the face so dark, even middle tones of colour felt BOLD! It took some time to make sure it was pushed back but still doing its job.
If you would like to find out more about Ian Bristow's cover designing services, go to Bristow Design or look for Ian on his Website, check out his awesome timelapse art videos with his own original music on YouTube or follow him on Twitter.
She had too many lucky escapes.
First a barrel of beer rolled off the brewers’ cart missing her by inches, followed by grease on the kitchen floor that had her sliding with a saucepan in her hand, while a broken step on the cellar stairs saw her all but fall through.
The he brought home a basket of mushrooms for her favourite omelette.
But she was out of eggs so she made soup instead.
Soup he ate greedily.
She didn’t see him die. He did that in the bed of his fat slatternly mistress.
But she could imagine his pain…
From Haruspex I:Trust A Few a Fortune's Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.
The man who entered would have stood out even in a crowd. Here in the Hope, where the main colour was drab and the mood most often dour to sullen, he did not so much attract attention as cause it. One thing Jaz had learned in his time under the domes on Hell’s Breath, was how to judge people by their dress and manner. He could spot at a glance now, the kind of tourist who you could double charge on the viewing run and the kind you would refuse to allow a tab in the bar.
Jaz’s first thought was this must be one of the weirder ones. One of those who came here and talked about the mystical power of the flares or liked to make artworks in the micro-g viewing pod on Vel’s cousin’s ship. Too much money to spend, looking for something different, some new experience, to spend it on. But even as his thoughts were going over what he needed to say to Vel’s cousin over dinner – what he wanted to say to her – something kept him watching and not dismissing the new arrival as he would under normal circumstances.
There was nothing too outlandish about this man’s style of dress, although it hinted at the kind of wealth level you didn’t often see around Hell’s Breath. The fabric and cut looked sophisticated and expensive and the visible jewellery suggested he was trying for taste rather than bling. But if elegance was the effect he wanted to achieve, he failed. His hair – an untidy tangle of tawny-gold curls – ruined it, that and the addition of a very cheap looking opaque remote-link visor over his eyes.
“Ma says that funny man just came in on the hopper that took the oldies out.” Vel’s cousin’s daughter wriggled into the seat beside Jaz and started helping herself to the fruit on his plate without asking. “She said Auntie Vel said to tell you to check his luggage. She thinks he’s carrying something. Uncle Dom said the sensors were going ‘whip-woah’ when he went through them.” She licked her fingers and reached back to the plate. He gently grabbed the small hand before it could remove the last slice of fruit and then pushed the child firmly away.
“Tell your ma thanks – and stay out of here the pair of you.” The little girl treated him to one of her more scary pulled faces, then slipped out the back of the bar and through the door Jaz knew led passed the kitchens and out to the tiny demountable cabin beyond that she, her mother and Jaz called home. He watched her go in his peripheral vision, feeling a marked relief when the door slid closed behind her. But his focus remained fixed on the new arrival as it had throughout as he finished the last piece of fruit.
The newcomer seemed polite enough and Vel’s nephew’s boyfriend managed to check him in to one of the two remaining suites which were still habitable. The blond man made as if to move away from the counter to go to his suite. But then he turned back, his movement sudden, as if just remembering something.
“Oh yes, whilst I think of it, you don’t happen to know if there is a man by the name of Jazatar Baldrik staying here?”
Jaz felt a cold stillness within and flexed the muscles of one arm to feel the reassuring presence of an energy snub, linked thanks to his time in the Specials, on his inner arm. He pushed back from the table and stood up, the movement drew the attention of the new arrival who turned to look, eyes invisible beneath the visor but a wide smile now growing below it. Jaz did not watch the distracting smile, he watched the hands and the stance, but they were relaxed, nothing signalled intent to attack.
Jaz crossed the room towards the blond man, closing down the distance between them in a few quick steps, to get to hand-to-hand range, so he could be surer of control and, if needed, a kill. The blond man let him do it, still smiling and relaxed. “Jazatar Baldrik I assume?” The voice was light and sounded much too happy.
“Who are you and what do you want?” To his own ears, Jaz’s question sounded more like a snarl. The smile beneath the visor grew even wider and the blond man reached up to remove the obscuring remote-link, revealing a pair of disturbing, intent, orange eyes.
“My name is Durban Chola and I need you to help me save the soul of Avilon Revid.”
Artwork from a portrait of Durban Chola, by Bristow Designs
It wasn’t Amos Smith’s fault he had a mother who ruled his household, vowing to step aside for no-one.
But Amos remained a bachelor, until he returned from a business trip with a wife riding behind him.
The town sat back to watch an entertaining power struggle.
It never materialised. The old lady huffed and puffed, and swore, and spread vile rumours. The younger simply shouldered her aside, and ran the house as she saw fit.
The Michaelmas hiring fair came.
Amos’ mother decided to gain her son’s sympathy by putting herself up for hire.
Amos let her go…
The 942 Series by J.I. Rogers is a collection of short stories set in the dystopian/sci-fi world of Tamyrh.
A taster from ‘Protocol 9’
Kael yawned and walked over to the windows. It wasn’t light yet, but you didn’t have to see the Seep to know it was there; its presence permeated the entire station.
The Northern wall in the reception room was taken up with a massive map. It showed the foothills in Korlune, through the mountains, and across the massive drainage that flowed from the Eastern shore of Lake Evora to the Hotari Sea.
The Seep in glorious, yet fraudulent detail. Kael wandered over to admire it yet again. It’s doubled in size since this was completed. His gaze drifted to the corner where the team credits and date was listed. Not many Korlo names in those crews, they must have been slaves. He crouched and leaned in closer to read the date. Hard to believe they did this two hundred years ago. He shuddered involuntarily. They had no digi-link technology, no air transports, and no reliable communication, topside. He stood up and pictured the bulky enviro-suits they would have used. We’re soft by comparison.
Kael knew the Seep for what it was; he’d walked in the verdant expanse of acidic vegetation, corrosive mists, and ever-changing sand bogs. He leaned in closer to pick out some of the red lines that denoted paths over stone. I wonder how many of those are still there? He ran his finger up to the area they’d just returned from. No sign of the researchers. There had been no signs of life inside the deserted station; none of the common insects, no birds, just a thick layer of reddish moss growing out over the black sludge of the bog.
His digipad beeped. Kael answered it, opened the attached file, and skimmed the health reports of his team. He stopped when he got to Hallie’s results. Damn it; Arcosium. Kael signed off that he’d seen the report and tucked the device away. I’ll assign her to hangar duty after this run. I wonder who’s next?
“General Galen will see you now, sir.” Cali interrupted his train of thought. “Please go in.” She indicated the door.
The General looked up from his paperwork; the dark shadows under his eyes intensified his stare. “Sunde? Why aren’t you getting your team ready?”
“Sir, I respectfully request that you reassign this mission to another team. Hallie is sick. Vallen and Laros are both on leave, Sean is down with caustic burns, and—
“Would if I could, but I can’t. This could be another Protocol Nine mission, Kael, and your team is the only crew I have left that can handle it.”
“Could be?”
“That will be your call on arrival.”
Kael’s headache began to build. “Which camp and how long since there’s been no contact?”
“Vorta Botanical. I’ll send you all the particulars once you’re airborne.”
A Bite of... J.I. Rogers
That depends on what you’re writing; a physics textbook that included graphic entanglement sequences might prove to be a bestseller, but you can also hit a point where it appears forced. Our world includes all those shades, so for my own writing, I let the circumstances of the story and the characters dictate what other elements come into view. As a result, my series includes topics such as racism, bigotry, sexual orientation, drug use… you get the idea. I choose what I think works for the story and allow it to appear organically and flow – then the characters approve or veto it accordingly
Yes. One in high school, but it only had a written form (a friend and I would leave notes for each other). The second one I devised for my current series. There are several languages spoken, but the Diasporan (refugees) speak a patois based on the languages the groups that were settled in the region spoke. The running joke is that the only thing they have in common with other groups are the same swear-words. I based that off my own experience going to an international school when I lived in Kenya; what are the first words kids share with each other? I can swear in 8 languages.
Hmmmm. Rich, amoral, sociopath who enjoys what he does vs. rich, moral, sociopath who’s filled with angst – Chaotic Evil vs. Lawful Evil… Both have gadgets. Bond probably has every form of VD known to man (and some unknown), but Batman’s angst prevents him from enjoying sex. Bond has Q. Batman has Alfred… bonus points; Alfred rocks. I don’t like martinis. I don’t like angst. Tough choice. Batman.
J.I. Rogers in her own words:
I am an award-winning, green-eyed, ginger-haired, caffeine addict who writes dystopian/sci-fi novels. My current project is “The 942 Series”.
When not acting as a conduit for the voices in my head or working on something artistic, I’m a poster child for Gen X and the Queen of most boondoggles that lead to eye-strain and tinnitus.
You can find J.I. Rogers on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Twitter or her own website.
