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The Journey

So, Trickster is out. Huzzah!

I started writing this book in 2010. It’s amazing sometimes how you start with a germ of an idea and then end up somewhere far away from that. Here’s the first ~850 words I wrote for this book. I trashed this (and several versions afterwards) before settling on the final approach in October 2010; much of this is still in the final version, though in a different form, and spread over many sections.

Trickster Draft Zero, August 2010

WHEN I was nine years old, my father picked me up after one of my Cub Scout meetings at the old church, which was strange because my father had left us the year before and I hadn’t seen him since. He drove an old boat of a car, cracked seats and broken radio. I remember climbing around the front and back seats, so much room it was like a little portable house on wheels. He let me; he just sat behind the wheel with a pint bottle of brandy between his legs, humming old songs as he drove.

We merged onto an empty highway, amber lights driving away the darkness but creating a weird Marscape of road, like we’d left the real world behind and were driving in the Ghost World. I didn’t know where we were going. Dad took regular sips from his bottle and answered all my questions with grunts and monosyllables. I had a lot of questions. I remember being really excited, after all this time Dad had come to take me on a trip, and after I got tired of not getting answers to my questions I settled into the back seat with my Webelos handbook and tried to figure out where we were going—amusement parks, zoos, the beach all seemed likely candidates. Eventually I remember falling asleep, liking the sensation of rocking back and forth in the big back seat, the smell of cigarettes and the sound of the wind.

Dad shook me awake and we were out in the middle of nowhere in the parking lot of a small square tavern with a huge red neon sign that said, simply, BEER. I followed him sleepily inside, where a handful of people who all seemed to be wearing flannel shirts and baseball caps were scattered around the tiny, gloomy room. Dad lifted me onto a stool and I remember slouching there, still asleep, looking owlishly around.

“Bourbon,” Dad said. It was the first time he’d spoken since he’d picked me up. “Neat. A coke for the kid.”

This was magic. The man behind the bar, who was fat and red in the face, his gray-white hair greasy and pasted flat against his round head, put a glass in front of me with a grin and used a gun on the end of a rubber hose to fill the glass with soda. Soda from a hose! It was magic, and I immediately schemed to have one installed at Mom’s house, because she always forgot to do the shopping and there was never anything to eat or drink.

Dad didn’t pay any attention to me, just sat there staring at the silent TV mounted up on the wall and sipped from his glass. Any time I finished a soda the man behind the bar waddled over, smiling, and refilled my glass. Free soda from a hose. After a while I eased off my stool and wandered over to where a trio of ancient electronic games sat blinking dully. Dad watched me for a moment, then shrugged and called the bartender over, fishing out a five dollar bill and holding it up.

“Give the kid some quarters,” he said.

I drank soda until I had to pee so badly my legs ached, and played fifteen games of bowling before finally giving in to the realities of the situation and heading for the bathroom. It was a scary bathroom. It had a door that didn’t close right and was dark, everything in it cold and slimy. To get there I had to pass by an old man of at least my Dad’s age sitting at the end of the bar. He wore a white suit with no tie or socks, just white pants and jacket that seemed too light for the weather and a white shirt. He was a mass of wrinkles. His hair was long and slightly curly, and his nose dominated his face, making him resemble a squirrel. I didn’t want to push past him to get to the bathroom, and hesitated for a second or two while my kidneys swam up behind my eyes, bulging them out. Finally I screwed up my courage and hustled past. He just grinned at me.

###

I got bored after a while. The games were old and creaky and not fun and after my seventh or eighth soda the impossible happened and I didn’t want any more of them. Dad just sat and drank and stared. I was afraid to make much noise or bother him, remembering how terrifying he was when angered, and tried to find other ways to amuse myself. I looked around and found the man in the white suit staring at me. He smiled and waved, and I looked away. When I stole a glance back at him, he waved again, and I realized with a start that his fingertips were on fire. As he moved them back and forth through the air they flickered and smoked.

The flames were blue-green. As I stared the man winked at me.

I looked around, but no one else seemed to have noticed. Everyone else might as well have been asleep. Not me. My heart was pounding

Trickster Extracts & Giveaways!

I get it: You want to read my novels, but don’t want to buy them like some sort of sucker. I feel you, kid. I feel you. You’re in luck: Not only are there extracts from the book out there, but there are free books to be had as well!

Extracts:

Both the rockin’ Pat’s Fantasy Hotlist and All Things Urban Fantasy are offering up a peek at the book, so surf on over and have a gander.

Giveaways:

Both Pat’s Fantasy Hotlist and All Things Urban Fantasy are giving away copies, so check them out above. Or, if Goodreads feels better to you, check it:

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Trickster by Jeff Somers

Trickster

by Jeff Somers

Giveaway ends February 26, 2013.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

 

The Beauty of Being Slow

When I was really young, I lagged behind some of the other kids in school when it came to pop culture. All of a sudden these kids were listening to rock on the radio and going out to horror movies, while I remained a little more sheltered. Naturally, I took some shit for it. I remember once, desperate to seem at least marginally cool, I claimed to be a fan of Led Zeppelin. I was challenged to name on song, and couldn’t, and my shame was complete.

Luckily, I have a very short memory for shame, as anyone who has gone out for a drink with me can attest.

The lesson stuck with me, though, and in High School and College I became one of those people who worked really hard to be on the cutting edge of everything. The first to hear about a band, the first to see a movie, the first to refuse to read a book for English Class because he could write a paper on it and get an “A” without actually reading it, a skill I carried with me through my entire education. I did that for a long time. I refused to listen to spoilers, too, because I wanted to rush out and see that movie or TV show right away.

Now? Not so much.

These days, I am in far less of a hurry. I wait. I wait for reviews to come in. I wait for TV shows to hit their stride. I wait for songs to filter up through the chaff. And you know what? It’s SO MUCH BETTER. Because I know longer watch things and realize I’ve wasted another two hours of my life. I no longer waste my time worrying about being on the cutting edge, because there is, actually, zero value in being the first person to know about something. And spoilers? Fuck spoilers. If something isn’t able to stand up to spoilers, it wasn’t very good in the first place.

Part of this, of course, is due to technology. In the ancient days, otherwise known as my youth, if you missed a TV show or movie, good fucking luck ever seeing it again. Certain classics got re-run all the time, but generally speaking if you missed it on its first run, you were SOL. Today with DVDs and on-demand and the Pirate Bay, seriously, you can watch just about anything any time. The better question is, should you? Because most of the stuff out there isn’t worth all that much effort, and we all know it. The vast majority of the entertainment you consume — including, probably, my own books — will be completely forgotten in due time, and you might be forgiven for wondering why you’re wasting your time on it. So why bother breaking a sweat to experience it in the first place?

That’s where the Slow Method pays dividends: By the time I make an effort to actually see/read/listen to something, there’s at least some reason to expect it all to be worth my time. The question is, is my time really all that valuable? Nope. Carry on.

Givin’ Away Books

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Trickster by Jeff Somers

Trickster

by Jeff Somers

Giveaway ends February 26, 2013.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

 

The Long, Dark Teatime of the Soul

Hell is Other People

Hell is Other People

I’ve never been a huge Facebook fan. I see the point and all , and I know a lot of folks get a lot out of it, but for a misanthrope like me Facebook is just another way to feel smug while ignoring people. Now, for some folks, Facebook serves a real useful purpose in their lives and that’s great. For me, Facebook has become a glimpse into the Horror That Is Other People. As a result, Facebook has also become the least reliable way to communicate with me – though to be fair, the only truly reliable way to communicate with me is to stand directly in front of me and shout at me while at the same time slapping me in the face. You then have a 66% chance of gaining my attention. Or being vomited on. Depends on how drunk I am at the time.

Other ways of communicating with me and their reliability:

  • Email: 5%
  • Text Message: 0%
  • Telephone: 1%
  • In-person but At Normal Volume and No Slapping: 10% (50% chance I will later remember this meeting as dancing the waltz with a bear)
  • Note wrapped around rock thrown through window: %50 (51% if it hits me)

The Five FaceBook People You Will Meet in Hell

I do, of course, check Facebook from time to time, because I’ve been informed that completely ignoring people on Facebook is a Dick Move. So I have become painfully aware of the distinct personality types you meet on Facebook. Let’s stipulate that one of those personality types is what we’ll call the Normal. The Normal enjoys a bit of social media notoriety, likes to post the occasional picture and chat with people. It’s a broad category which we’ll ignore because it’s essentially boring.

Instead, we’re going to explore the Five People on Facebook You’ll Meet in Hell.

1. The Bragger. You guys! I can’t believe I am so lucky and successful! Whether it’s how many books they sold, the big promotion, their amazing relationship, these folks like to brag. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Oh, they get hidden so fast.

2. The Sad Sack. You know what’s great about the folks who post mysterious sadness all the time? The fact that they never tell you what the fuck they are complaining about:

SadSack436: OMFG my life is so awful I can’t believe what just happened

Concerned Fool99: What happened?

SaSack436: It’s personal. But so awful it would turn your hair white.

Note to everyone in the universe: If it’s personal, DO NOT REFER TO IT ON FACEBOOK.

3. The Parent. We get it. You performed the most basic biological function of any organism and procreated. Your child is not special. Shut up. Look, I have nothing against people being proud of their kids and expressing their affection on Facebook. What I don’t need is your torturous twisty logic that somehow equates the fact that your kid remembers to breathe means they represent the next stage in human evolution.

4. The Politico. I don’t care what your political leanings are, your endless posting of borrowed wisdom and half-assed rants are hidden so fast I give myself whiplash. I don’t know for certain what Facebook is supposed to be used for, but it sure isn’t so you can lecture me on politics like some drunk old man in a bar.

5. The Mystery. The Mystery favors one-word posts. Stuff like Gherkins, or, possibly, Bad day. Certainly nothing that makes any sense unless you just spent the last thirty-six hours or so hanging out with them. I’m not sure if this is supposed to underscore that you’re not one of the cool people who understand their codes, or if they’re just incapable of having thoughts longer than one word. And, I find, I do not care.

So, am I a Normal? Of course not. I’m a Lurker. I scroll through your Facebook posts but barely interact, because I am far too cool and mean-spirited to engage on Facebook. And, possibly, lonely. So terribly lonely.

 

Trickster Review in RT Book Review

The list of things I never thought I’d ever say gets longer and longer every day, mis amigos. Among them is “no more whiskey for me I have to get up early tomorrow,” “holy shit there’s three feet of water in my living room,” and anything involving my name and the Romantic Times, but it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, and I’m feeling good. So we got a four-star review in the RT Book Review march 2013 issue for Trickster:

Trickster review in Romantic Times

Trickster review in Romantic Times

I’ve always known I had it in me to be romantic. Even when The Duchess tells me otherwise, I’ve always known I just needed a challenge to rise to. Who knew a book about blood sacrifice, magic, and con artists would be my gateway to romance?

My Funeral

My Funeral

By Jeff Somers

I died young. Like a sucker. I bought the ticket and never got to finish the ride. I was twenty-eight and I stepped into the street looking at my watch and got hit by a Mister Softee Ice cream Truck. It took me a few minutes to realize I was dead, that I wasn’t just paralyzed or stunned or hallucinating, that I wasn’t going to stand up and make a joke and buy everyone ice cream. The driver sat on the bumper and cried over me, which touched me in an odd place I wasn’t familiar with, until I remembered that she was the bitch who’d smacked into me going forty-five in a twenty-five zone, doing her makeup or tuning the radio or searching the horizon for children in desperate need of a chocolate shake. Whatever. She killed me, I killed myself, please keep your head and arms inside the safety cage at all times or we’re not responsible for the mess you’re mangled body will make.

There I was, lying on the hot New York City pavement with the ticket stub still in one hand.

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