Dragon Mage Shorts!

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No, not the kind of shorts you wear. The kind you read!

Here are a handful of Short stories full of sci-fantasy fun and adventure! All are focusing on characters from the science fiction/fantasy mashup Dragon Mage Series. If you haven’t read the adventures of Charlie and his pals yet, I’d suggest giving them a read first, because as River Song would say, “SPOILERS!”

For those who following along with the ever growing series, thank you for supporting indie authors, and I’m glad you’ve enjoyed Charlie’s story thus far Trust me, it’s not over yet, and the Charlie/Daisy crossover is totally happening. Oh yes.

In the meantime, I present to you these  freebies. Hope you get a kick out of ’em!


And if you’re a fan of audiobooks, Bad Luck Charlie is now available through Audible.

Space Pirate Blues

A New Job for Marban

A Vampire Named Bob

Hope you enjoy them, and happy reading!

Scott ~

Just Write! – NaNoWriMo and Beyond

200_dYou know the saying. Every year around November it bubbles up to the general consciousness of nascent writers everywhere. “Just write something every day.” If only aspiring storytellers would heed that advice for more than a month.

Look, writing is hard. If it weren’t, everyone would be a successful author. But it’s more than just the practice-makes-perfect element at play. Sometimes, it’s also the fear of producing something less than an absolute masterpiece.

I hate to break it to you, but the vast majority of us will never create such a work. The key is to not let that stop you from writing. Or, to use another oft-cited cliché, “The perfect is the enemy of the good.”

Storytime. A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless––though not like that guy in Manzoni’s novel––has been a writer for years. Decades even. He has ideas squirreled away, half-finished drafts and novel outlines. But the thing is, he never finishes a work. Oh, he’ll revisit them every few years and get excited, making new tweaks and edits, but nary a one has ever been published.a4-office-records-papers-documents-pile-of-documents-stack-of-documents-CPH5C0

Here’s the rub. Self-publishing is easy. Even for utter crap, it’s laughably simple these days. People upload literary garbage and release it into the wild on a daily basis, sloppy, unedited, and with covers a 6-year-old could design. But this friend? His writing is actually quite good. Better than much of the pap floating around Amazon these days, for sure. Yet his output fluctuates wildly and is often nonexistent. And when he does write, the end product invariably winds up in storage, not living up to his overly-ambitious standards.

He will never publish at this rate.

In ten years he has written bits of several books, screenplays, and treatments, stashing them away while lamenting the difficulties of an author’s life all the while. Meanwhile, in just two years I’ve published thirteen (including shorts collections), with my new five book sci-fi series coming out as a binge reader release (yes, shameless plug). TheClockworkChimera_3Dmockup_books1-5Now, my work is fun, but will by no means ever be considered classics of great literature. But guess what? That’s okay. And there are thousands of readers who enjoy it and look forward to the next release. Good is fine and keeps your momentum. Perfect may take a lifetime and result in just one book.

So take this as a cautionary tale of sorts. Use the momentum from NaNoWriMo to KEEP WRITING. Even 500 words over the course of a day will add up to 182,500 words by the end of a year. Most books are around 90k. That’s roughly 2 novels a year at that rate.

So write, finish, rewrite, polish, and have a professional copy editor fine-tooth comb your work. Then stop messing with it, release it, and move on to the next one. Though not perfect for everyone, that’s how the vast majority will grow as an author and build a body of work.


Finding Time to Write (while working 75-hour weeks)


Okay, I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve been lax in my posts of late. I do have a good excuse, however (and don’t we all love excuses?). While I have no dog to eat my posts, nor do I have an adjective-munching brain parasite––that I know of, anyway––or even a case of the ultra-rare five-month amnesia.

Nope, it’s none of those things. Instead, I work in the film industry.


I know what some of you may be thinking. “Ooh, so glamorous! The celebrities! The fun times!”

Yeah. No.

I mean, sure, it’s fun quite often, however when you’re an author trying to meet your self-imposed writing quotas, working on a film set––both the hours and the environment––can be the antithesis of a good work environment for producing material.

My most recent project was a feature, which shall remain nameless, not because it was bad (in fact it was a fantastic crew and looks to be a great film) but because it’s just not cool to discuss those things, especially when you’ve signed and NDA.

fraturday_rectangle_stickerNow, if you recall my much earlier post detailing the film industry occurrence we call Fraturday (when you start work on Friday and get off work on Saturday, thus destroying your weekend), you’ll have an inkling of what the past 10 weeks held.


Fraturdays. Every. Damn. Week.

I was trying to bang out a mere one or two thousand words a day during my down time on set (while having a walkie-talkie chattering in my ear), but sometimes that just isn’t possible. Like when you’re on location and it’s 108 degrees. Or when you are so busy loading people into ambulances that there’s no down time to write (my day job is as an on-set medic for film and TV). Or when you’re just so utterly toast from yet another 70+ hour week (yes, in 5 days) that words simply fail you. That, my friends was the last ten weeks.

So, how does one get anything done? By doing the first thing I mentioned in the paragraph above. Namely, banging out a couple of thousand words a day. It sounds like a lot, but if you write just 125 words per hour over a sixteen hour work day, that’s two thousand words. Voila!giphy

Here’s the cool bit. If you work a less-intense schedule and in a more-conducive environment, cranking out a mere 125 words in an hour should be a breeze, especially if you’ve plotted out your story ahead of time. In my case, I typically have the entire book outlined and have chapter notes acting as placeholders in my laptop. As I write each chapter, I delete the notes until that chapter is fleshed out. But you do you, boo, obviously.

One crucial thing to remember, your first draft isn’t you telling the story to a reader, but rather you telling the story to yourself. It’s gonna be rough, it’s gonna suck, it’s gonna need rewrites. So don’t slow your process and edit during the exorcism of those words from your brain––just get it out!

If this seems intuitive to you, fantastic! You’re already taking those little steps toward a bigger goal. If, however, this is news to you, hopefully this tale of writing in difficult circumstances perhaps helped you realize it can be done, even on a crazed schedule. Tiny increments add up, and even 2k words per day (spread out) is 60k in a month. That’s 2/3 of a book––Huzzah!

Happy writing!


Living the Good Death Pre-Release Preview: Chapter One

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My first full-length novel, Living the Good Death (see pre-release reviews on Goodreads) is finally available for pre-order on Amazon, and what better way to help people decide if it’s their kind of story than to put up the first chapter. Cut & paste tweaked the formatting when it loaded to this page, so please pardon the indent and spacing issues. Rest assured, it’s not like that in the actual book.

And now, without further ado…



Traffic flew by in a blur, a speeding deathtrap of rubber and metal buzzing at speeds well above the posted limit. A casual observer might think the deadly machines were almost anxious to turn anyone made of less-sturdy stuff and foolish enough to stumble into their path into grisly roadkill. They may have been inanimate, but they were dangerous as hell nonetheless.

That didn’t concern the pale young woman in black one bit as she stood casually on the median of the busy street. No, her gaze and attention were entirely focused upon a doorway across the road as she ignored the buzzing vehicles.

Donny’s Happy Hour Bar & Pool Hall really wasn’t much to look at. Dingy and run-down, with that ass-end-of-town look that made you wonder just how lighthearted and joyful any happy hour there could really be. Of course, with the sun high in the sky, it wasn’t anywhere near happy hour. In fact, by all but the most serious alcoholic’s standards, at just past noon, it was still quite early.

Only serious day-drinkers would be partaking at this hour.

As if on cue, the disheveled shape of Andy Meade came into view as he was birthed to the sidewalk through the faded red door. He blinked rapidly, wincing as his eyes tried to adjust to the bright afternoon light.

Though a mere fifty-three years of age, Andy, with his thinning hair and ashy complexion, looked closer to a well-worn seventy, the result of a life of hard drinking, chain-smoking, and a diet of questionable nutritional content. He had long ago given up on getting ahead in the world, and that world-weariness bled through into his every movement.

He stood in the doorway a moment longer, squinting until his eyes finally acclimated to the sunlight as the cool breeze lapped uncomfortably at his skin. Andy popped his collar up against the unexpected chill, then turned and staggered slowly toward the parking lot adjacent the bar.

It’s only a couple of drinks, he rationalized as he swerved down the sidewalk on wobbly legs. I’m perfectly fine to drive. Just need to sit down a minute is all.

The young woman in black followed his progress, her piercing gray eyes watching him as a cat watches a mouse, seemingly disinterested, yet paying close attention nonetheless. Then, as if heeding an invisible call, she abruptly stepped off the median and into traffic, striding purposefully across the street, her long black coat swishing behind her in time with her rapid steps.

She didn’t bother to look at the cars hurtling her way. She didn’t even spare them so much as a glance, yet somehow, she avoided them all without mussing a single hair or missing a step. In fact, it was as if the drivers didn’t see her at all.

The young woman in black’s boots crunched to a stop as she reached the curb, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she focused on her quarry. A slight furrow creased her brow as she slowly raised her left hand, stretching it out toward Andy just as he reached his silver sedan.

Her outstretched fingers gently flexed at him from across the parking lot, as if plucking invisible strings in the ether. The action somehow caused his body to shudder, his grip faltering as the keys slipped from his hand.

Drunk as he was, Andy was startled. Alarmed even. Even through the high-proof haze that clouded his mind, he sensed something was distinctly not-right.

A faint glow became visible from his chest, tugging his very core as his life force seeped from his body, slowly pulling through the very fabric of him, inch by inch. Wide-eyed, he glanced around in shock and disbelief, but no one passing by took notice.

Andy quickly slid into a panic as he clutched at his chest. He sensed that he wasn’t just suffering from having too much to drink. No, viscerally, somewhere in the depths of his primitive mind, he knew that wasn’t the case.

This was something different.

Something horribly wrong.

In a moment of unusual clarity he realized, much to his surprise, and with absolutely no warning, that he was dying.

The young woman in black lowered her hand, casually watching as her victim’s life force slowly ebbed out of its meat case.

She just stood there. Calm. Expressionless.

One might say she looked almost bored even, because, hello? For Death, Reaper of Souls, this was just another day at the office.

A beam of light flashed across her eyes, and for just a second her attention faltered. On the sidewalk, a man had stopped and opened his unusually ornate blue enamel antique pocket watch, the sun’s reflective blaze playing across its face in a dance of light. Such an out-of-place object caught her attention.

Who still carries a pocket watch nowadays? she found herself wondering.

The man turned to continue his walk, shutting the watch case with a quick flip of his wrist. With the distraction gone, the young woman refocused her attention fully back onto her quarry, but as she did, her expression turned to one of shock.

She had only lost focus for a moment, but despite the immense power at her command, Andy’s life force inexplicably, and quite suddenly, snapped back into his body.

“That’s not supposed to—” she almost managed let out an utterance of surprise, but she didn’t have a chance. Her vision swirled and faded to black as she tumbled to the ground, unconscious.


Waking up on the floor of a grimy, low-end hotel room, dazed and disoriented with a mouthful of sick, really isn’t the ideal way to start your day. Most would prefer a simple cup of coffee, but some aren’t so lucky.

The young woman in black lay there, facedown on the floor, carpet fibers tickling her lips as she slowly breathed. A thick mental fog weighed her down like a damp blanket, dulling her senses as she tried to free herself from its embrace. That annoying pulsing in her head and chest only made things worse.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

What the hell is that sound? Why can’t I see anything? Wait, am I on the floor?

Try as she might, she found it surprisingly difficult to tune out the noise filling her head so she could focus.

Okay, there is something seriously wrong here. She struggled to clear her head. Slow down, focus. Get your bearings. First things first, see where you are.

Unfortunately, her eyes weren’t giving her any information.

Open your eyes and look around. This isn’t rocket science.

Her body had other ideas, at least for the moment, and her vision stubbornly remained at zero as she gingerly tried to open her lids. Try as she might, they remained glued shut in a most uncomfortable manner. It took a moment, but finally, she realized what the problem was.

Eye crud? How can I have eye crud?

Several frustrating seconds passed as she gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain of her lashes pulling out one by one as she strained to open her eyes. Finally, the sticky layer of crud and grime began to loosen, releasing her eyelids with a wet pop and a sting.

What is this place? She looked around with somewhat blurred vision.

Something is really not right, she realized. And what’s that taste?

Propping herself up on one elbow, she pondered the lingering foulness in her mouth. Spitting out the remnants of Lord knows what and wiping the straggling bits of carpet lint from her lips, she surveyed the scene as best she could from her less-than-ideal vantage point on the floor.

Okay, that’s a little better. She could feel her senses slowly sharpening as she shook the cobwebs from her brain.

As her vision cleared, she discovered the room was actually worse than she had thought at first glance, if that was even possible.

The carpet may have been lush and beautiful once, but that was many, many years ago, and all that remained now was a distant memory of its former regality, encrusted with countless years of filth and grime rubbed deep into its fibers.

My face was on that, she thought with a shudder.

The walls were no better. Peeling paint and ancient smoke-stained wallpaper from the 1970s graced them, the sounds of a slow drip echoing from what she imagined must be an equally horrible bathroom. A musty smell permeated the tiny space with a pervasive dampness. The television was the most modern thing in the room by far, and even that marvel of technology was outdated by decades.

I don’t understand. I’m in a seedy flophouse hotel, and a low-end one at that, but why? For that matter, how?

The unexpected groan coming from the bed took her by surprise. A sudden, heavy pounding filled her chest as a flush rose quickly to her cheeks. A tingle rushed through her body as a wave of adrenaline surged into her veins. She froze, straining her senses, and listened. The person the noise had originated from didn’t seem to be aware of her presence.

At least not yet.

She quietly pushed herself up to her knees and peered over the edge of the bed, shocked that she had failed to even notice there was someone else in the room with her.

Get up. You’re not doing yourself any good on the floor.

Unsteady, she cautiously found her way to her feet, wobbling ever so slightly, clutching a rickety chair as she slowly regained her balance. Peering through much less blurry eyes, she discerned that the sound had come from an old man lying on his side on the threadbare comforter, breathing deeply.

He appeared to be sound asleep and totally unaware of her presence.

Propped up against the wall, she noticed an unusual and ornate walking stick, the bird’s head pommel well worn, from years of use. The twisting length of the wood rippled with curved lines. For a moment she thought perhaps it might be necessary to use it until her balance evened out, but as she released her white-knuckled grip on the chair, she was pleased to find her equilibrium had returned.

Okay, starting to feel better.

Scoping out the dimly lit room, she noted an old picture of the man and a woman she assumed was his wife on the chipped and faded wooden nightstand next to the bed. It was obviously taken at least a decade ago if not more, the pair of them smiling like a postcard-perfect happy couple.

The room lacked a feminine touch.

She’s gone, she thought. Many animals mate for life. Occasionally humans follow suit, though not so much in this era.

She glanced at the other items on the table, and noticed that next to the picture sat a small bottle of pills and a bottle of vodka, both quite empty. The man shifted slightly in his bed, and the smell of something acidic and foul wafted to her nostrils.

What is that stench? she wondered. Then she saw it.

The thick stream of the man’s sour vomit, consisting mostly of vodka and undigested pills, along with what she guessed to be the remnants of his dinner, had trickled down the side of the comforter. It must have been drying for a while since the pool on the floor had slowly begun caking into yet one more mystery stain in the ancient carpet.

As for the smell, let’s just say calling it unpleasant would be an understatement.

The old man’s chest continued to rise and fall in a slow but regular rhythm. Apparently, the pills and vodka didn’t quite do the trick.

I see, she thought, studying the lines of his face. A failed suicide.

She rolled her shoulders and neck, loosening her limbs as she stood upright. Her body stretched and cracked as she rose to her full height, vertebrae swinging into alignment as her back returned to a more familiar and comfortable posture.

Having finally gotten her bearings, though still rather confused by them, she happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the filthy, chipped mirror above the dresser. Her raven hair may have been a bit askew, and her eyes seemed a bit puffy, but she still looked like the same twenty-something girl she’d always been. Pale and lean, clad entirely in black, wearing her ever-present long black coat. Her wardrobe fit just right, and seemed to almost be a part of her.

It’s okay. I’m okay, she thought, pleased that at least she still looked like herself. Mostly anyway. Something still seemed off, for lack of a better word, and that worried her. Of course, what constitutes off when you happen to be the girl who thinks she is Death is a whole other question.


Walking slowly on unsteady legs, she made her way down the smoke-stained halls. The ancient lobby was empty. Speckles of dust hung suspended in the stale air, making bright points of reflected light as they lazily floated through the lone ray of sun that somehow discovered a gap in the ancient blinds.

She stumbled out the front door of the seedy hotel, a blast of riotous sound hammering her ears as she found herself overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the street noise.

“What the hell’s going on?” she gasped aloud in shock as she was buffeted by the cacophony of the city.

So noisy today, she marveled. Unusually so.

And to her ears, it was indeed louder, but why the change? Perhaps she’d find the answer if she explored the area further.

The neighborhood itself, though one of the older and more run-down in the city, really wasn’t all that bad. At least not anymore. Apparently, the dive hotel in which she’d awoken was one of the last raggedy holdouts in what appeared to be an otherwise rapidly gentrifying neighborhood.

There was the smell of ART™ in the air, as creative types pursued their dreams of installation-piece recognition and stencil-graffiti glory. Meanwhile the junkies and drunks who had populated the area for decades were being quickly displaced from their weekly rentals and hobo squats as the buildings were snatched up by out-of-town investors and developed into ridiculously high-priced lofts.

With nowhere cheap to go but the few remaining flophouses, which were full to capacity, a good many of the men and women now slept in boxes in alleys and doorways. Every day, girls in yoga pants, artists with trust funds, and professionals who wished they were artists with trust funds, milled about the street, ignoring the down-and-out camped in their own doorways.

Meanwhile, they failed to notice the world around them, stepping over them like so much trash as they texted on their phones, obliviously engrossed in their own world.

Taking it all in as she slowly walked, the girl in black finally began to feel like herself again, sharpening her focus and forcing the myriad noises to the background. An unexpected gust of cold wind hit her like an icy slap from a scorned lover. It cut through her clothes, chilling her to the bone and making her shudder as goose bumps sprang to life beneath her insufficient garb.

What the? she thought as she brushed her wind-blown hair from her face. She paused, realizing her hands actually felt cold, the tips of her fingers fading to an even paler hue than normal.

How can I feel the cold?

Puzzled, she stared at her hands for a moment, then flexed them into fists a few times, fighting the cold as they began to stiffen from the chill.

Most disconcerting indeed.

With a shudder, she continued down the street, icy hands jammed deep in her pockets against the frigid air. It was only a few blocks until the buildings parted, leaving a gap to the brightening sky, and the girl who thought she was Death felt a sudden flush of glorious warmth flow over her as she stumbled into a sunny patch near the corner of the street.

The welcome heat startled her, bringing her to a full stop as she took her hands out of her pockets and held them up to savor the delicious warmth of the sun.

Stopping suddenly on a busy sidewalk isn’t typically a good idea.

“Hey! Watch where you’re walking!” a man grumbled as he brusquely shouldered his way past her.

The impact startled her, but surprise quickly gave way to anger.

He touched me? He actually touched me? She fixed her gaze on the man as he walked away, a furrow forming on her brow as she raised her hand to channel her energy to suck his life and soul from his body.

Her fingers splayed, and a look of calm passed onto her face.

This is what she does. She is Death, and this man’s life is now forfeit. Slowly, she moved her fingers, willing his life from his body.

Nothing happened.

Utterly confused, she watched him fade in the distance.

Why didn’t it work?

Scanning the crowd, she picked out a man berating his girlfriend. The woman was in tears, while he just yelled louder at her reaction. Yes, that one would do just fine.

Once again she raised her hand, focusing all her energy on the man.

This time it would work. It had to work.

It didn’t.

Oh shit! Oh shitoh shit!

A full-fledged panic was about to set in, and she was the girl who never panicked. Her cheeks flushed from another unfamiliar burst of adrenaline, as the girl who thought she was Death tried once more to take a life, this time selecting a woman sitting on a bus bench.

Again, nothing.

A bike messenger.


A man in an expensive, tailored suit walking past.


She ran over the situation in her head.

Something has happened to me. Has my power left me entirely? And I can feel… people can see me. An unpleasant possibility formed in her mind. It can’t be am I mortal? She shuddered at the thought, but all signs pointed to that being a very distinct possibility.

She could feel heat and cold. Then there was the issue of people seeing and even touching her. And the icing on the cake, she was apparently unable to take a life. Something was very wrong indeed.

Standing on the sidewalk, dazed and utterly confused, the girl reluctantly accepted the horrifying realization.

No. This cannot be. I am Death. I am not merely a bag of mortal flesh, but what has changed? A look of concern flashed across her face. If I am unable to do my job, what happens when people are supposed to die?

As if the universe heard her query, the piercing sound of skidding tires cut through the air, followed by the screams of bystanders.

They were playing her song.

She turned toward the commotion. Not a random stranger on the street, but an actual traffic collision.

If I can’t cross this one over, then… She shuddered at the thought. Come on, pull yourself together. This is what you do, it’s what you are. Go do this.

The accident had taken place a mere half-block away. A thirty-something man, his full attention focused on the Facebook drama with his possibly soon-to-be ex-girlfriend that was unfolding on his cell phone, had quite obliviously stepped off a curb without seeing or hearing the blue sedan rapidly approaching him.

Who liked what post and unfriended which person apparently took priority over situational awareness, which, in this case, proved a bad idea, especially when a two-ton hunk of metal on wheels was barreling down the road right toward him.

No matter how good your anti-lock brakes may be, no one can force their car to stop on a dime when someone steps in front of it at short range.

Unless, of course, that dime is in that someone’s pocket.

The girl who thought she was Death pushed her way through the gathering crowd, making a deliberate line toward the epicenter of the accident, her hand raised, her face showing the strain as she tried to focus her powers and reap the victim’s soul.

This is someone who should be dead. This time it will work.

Her confidence was building with every step. She was Death, and she was going to take this person’s life.

She finally edged her way through the throng of bystanders, who she noted could still touch her—how annoying—and spotted the injured man on the ground, locking him in her sights.

To her dismay, as she attempted to pull his essence free, the would-be corpse simply stood up, dusting himself off, a bit scraped up and dirty, but otherwise unharmed.

Not what she had planned.

Not at all.

No, it has to work! She strained her hand outward toward the man, but he just stood there, brushing the gravel and dirt off of his clothes.

A concerned woman ran up to him, shocked by the accident but equally amazed that he appeared unharmed after such an impact.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” she asked, her breath catching as she looked at his torn clothes, expecting the worst.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just a scrape.”

“You shouldn’t stand up,” the woman said. “You might have internal injuries. You should lay back down until an ambulance gets here.”

“I feel fine, thanks.”

“But… the speed he hit you—how are you not hurt! It’s a miracle!”

The driver of the car, who was naturally quite freaked out at the prospect of running a man down on his way to work, hovered close, wringing his hands nervously.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you sure you’re all right? Should I call an ambulance?”

“No, really, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

And the girl in black knew he spoke the truth. He really was okay.

Murmurs of, “He should be dead,” and, “How can he be all right?” and even, “It’s a miracle!” filtered to the ears of the girl who thought she was Death.

Yes, he should be dead, she thought, grimly. But for some reason my powers have vanished. This does not bode well.

Distraught, she turned and started off through the bustling crowd, finding herself quickly overwhelmed by the steady flow of people streaming against her as she struggled forward.

Surging humanity was buffeting her like a salmon swimming upstream, and much to her distress and distraction, there was nothing she could do to stop it.


The girl had been walking down the busy sidewalk for a long while with no sense of time. Her distraction continued to grow as the sheer number of people pressing in around her had become downright overwhelming. She felt drained, swaying on her feet from the sensory overload. She managed to push clear of the throng, pressing her back against a store’s façade as she took a moment and regained her equilibrium.

This has got to be a mistake. Someone has to know what’s going on. There has to be a way back.

She looked up, a boiling frustration building within her, when a neon sign just down the street caught her eye. It was gaudy thing, flashing pictures of stars, a pyramid, and the all-seeing eye. Her eyes locked on the words “Madame Bavmorda, Psychic” calling to her in bright red.

The bell jingled as the girl entered the dimly lit occult shop. Crystals and tapestries adorned the walls and counters, and new-age music quietly filtered through the incense-tinged air. Watching from a plush chair, decked out in flowing, mystical attire of rich fabric, with what appeared to be very old tarot cards spread in front of her, sat Madame Bavmorda. She gazed casually at her new guest, a hint of a bemused smile on her lips.

To the girl, the psychic appeared to be in her fifties, though with her elaborate outfit and makeup, it was hard to tell for sure in the dim light. For all she knew, the woman could have just as easily been one hundred.

The woman’s intense eyes looked at the cards spread on the table then focused again on the girl, studying her.

“You come seeking answers, yes?” The psychic’s accent was notably Eastern European.

“You see me?” asked the girl who thought she was Death. “You can actually see me?”

“I see all,” the mystic replied. “Come, sit.”

She gestured to a cushioned divan across the table from where she reclined. The young woman hesitated for a moment.

If she can see me… could she help get me home?

She lowered herself onto the cushion.

“You must know, I am not meant to be here. I must cross back.”

Madame Bavmorda furrowed her brow as she sized up the girl now seated across from her. With a flourish, she scooped up her deck and shuffled the cards with well-practiced hands, slowly fanning them out in front of her, pausing as the tarot cards’ images revealed themselves.

“Ah… yes, yes… You are so very far from home.” She watched the girl’s reaction closely.


The psychic turned over a card.

“But there is a way. A way back!”

“Tell me!” The girl slid to the edge of her seat as she anxiously watched the old psychic.

Another card turned, and Madame Bavmorda paused dramatically, then raised an eyebrow as she fixed her piercing gaze on the young customer seated across from her.

“Hmm, interesting,” she mused. “Very interesting.”

The girl stared at her intently, waiting. “What is it? How do I get back?”

“Madame Bavmorda can help you—for a nominal fee.”

“I am Death, Reaper of Souls, and I must return to my rightful place! People must die! It is my purpose!” the young woman blurted.

The cards that had been slowly turning one by one stopped suddenly as Madame Bavmorda gave her an exasperated look.

“You what, now?” she groaned. “Oh God, not another one. Okay, you know what, you need to get out of here, all right? I don’t do crazy.”

Madame Bavmorda’s accent had disappeared, the girl noted, as she started scooping up her cards.

“But you—”

“I said OUT!”

The woman lurched from her seat with surprising spryness for someone who had just moments before appeared so old and wise, and grabbed the young woman by the arm, hustling her to the exit in a rush.

With a yank, she opened the front door and pushed her strange would-be customer out onto the cold sidewalk, slamming the door behind her, the bell chiming an unhappy ding as the door shook in its frame from the impact.

The girl thought to go back inside, but heard the lock slide shut as the Open sign flickered out.

Despondent, she slowly turned from the door and started moving, one foot after the other, distraught and alone. Direction wasn’t important, she simply felt compelled to walk and think. Two things she’d be doing for many, many hours.

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I hope you enjoyed Chapter One, and if this tiny morsel left you wanting to read more, come pre-order Living the Good Death on Amazon today! It will automatically load to your device on the official release date.

Also, as a limited time bonus only offered to the people supporting my book during the pre-order period, I am giving readers who pre-order Living the Good Death all six (6) of my earlier books for free. The best part is you can download them immediately.

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May your days be like your books: Long, pleasant, and fulfilling!

Happy Reading!

The Queen of the Nutters


Fellow writers and lovers of quirk, I’d like to introduce you to my latest brain-baby, birthed in the midst of the holiday season. She’s a funny little thing, full of humor and whimsy, along with a healthy dose of “Where the hell did he get that idea?”

I’ve found the process of self publishing to be an interesting combination of daunting and invigorating. If you’ve tried it, you know what I mean, and if you’re reluctant yet considering it, I highly recommend it. Sure, the act of putting your work forth for public consumption and review is a little terrifying at first (and I highly recommend trying reddit’s DestructiveReaders for brutally honest critiques from your peers), but it gradually becomes less nerve-wracking. Some people will love your work, some will hate it, but very few will ever take the time to write about it to either extent.

When my first (and to date, only, knock on wood) terrible review of my previous book, Worst. Superhero. Ever. worstsuperheroever_cover1came in, I was, by that point, ready for the inevitable. It had to happen eventually, a bad review is a rite of passage of sorts (and getting one from a reader who admittedly didn’t even go past the first short really didn’t sting too much). What I’m saying is don’t let fear of negativity hold you back. I’ve found the support and positive feedback from readers and other writers has overwhelmingly outweighed any negatives.

As for the publishing process itself, well let’s just say the writing is the easy part. With this, my third e-book, I’m finally getting the hang of the self publishing game, but it still takes hours to properly format the book, get the table of contents and back matter in order in a way that ensures Amazon’s acceptance, and do the final re-re-re-reads even after the editor has picked it apart.

Editing an English language document

Shortly I’ll be putting up a separate post with links to some online resources I found helpful that should be of use to other indie authors. We are all in this together, and, at least in my case, I’ve found my peers to be wonderful and supportive. In the meantime, please give The Queen of the Nutters a read, and maybe even leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads if you’re so inclined. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out and would love to hear your feedback.

Happy Holidays!


Talking Underpants Make the Semi-Finals!


A little while back a short script collaboration with my dear Scottish friend Gillian Hay was a quarter finalist in the Shore Scripts Shorts Competition. Adding to that happy event, we just learned we were semi-finalists in the Nashville Film Festival Screenwriting Competition.

To the wonderfully quirky Ms. Hay I must give hearty thanks for springing such an unusual and fun story from her bonny noggin. ‘Twas a pleasure to write and I’m thrilled the judges enjoyed the read.

After all, who wouldn’t want talking knickers?


If you’d care to give our little tale of talking underpants a read, here’s a link.Audrey’s Knickers

Don’t Be A Boring Shirt

I was at the laundromat and noticed something that I thought was an interesting parallel to screenplays these days.

The preponderance of boring shirts.

Oh there were blue striped ones, blue plaid ones, and of course various shades of good old blue, but as I scanned the racks it really struck me just how many variations of the same plain shirt people were having cleaned. Of course there were also beige and white shirts, gray and black coats, but near everyone, it seems, has “safe” blue shirts. What also stood out was that as the electric conveyer rack spun by, once in a while a shirt with color would pass, catching the eye and standing out. With so many trying to play safe & by the rules, the different one was easy to pick out. With thousands of screenplays written every year, the parallel is clear. Make yours the one that catches the eye.

Screenwriters often follow templates and guidelines when crafting their works, which is fine, but in a world where seemingly 99% are following the Save the Cat or similar formula (a bit too strictly for many), those who can work with structure yet offer something different, something that makes a reader pause and say, “wait, that’s unique” are the ones who stand out from the pack. Sometimes it’s a bright red shirt, but sometimes it’s just a thread of color that turns an otherwise plain piece of cloth into a fascinating design. Strive for fascinating, keep readers entertained.

Now obviously this doesn’t mean go write a script with charcoal and crayon on the hides of animals you killed with nothing but a fountain pen. That’s different alright (and pretty awesome if you actually used only a pen), but not what we’re talking about. The thing is to create a story that fits in the basic rules yet doesn’t plod along predictably from a-z. Everyone will have a different way to do this, but when reviewing your draft, look at it as though you were a reader tasked with slogging through 200 scripts a year. Are you more or less writing what everyone else is (within your own story naturally) or are you writing outside the box? What makes yours stand out? Ask yourself that question on a regular basis and you may just find yourself rising above the cookie-cutter mire of uninspiring scripts.

Screenwriting: When Less is More

Brevity.  Clarity.  Subtext.

In reading the work of some of the more influential screenwriters of the last few decades, one thing (with a few exceptions) holds true across the board. These top-tier writers are both thrifty with their use of words, yet also able to convey so much more than most with the words they commit to the page. Sure, every writer knows about subtext, yet some are true experts at crafting dialogue and descriptives that can fill a reader’s mind with a full-frame of information from just a few brief lines.

The Script Lab

Be Clear. Be Concise. Be Creative.

The Script Lab recommends “The Three C’s” as a simple guideline to keep in mind. Now if you’ve read my previous posts, you know I’m not a believer in following cut & dry methods (and don’t get me started on Save the Cat), but I do believe “The Three C’s” is actually a useful and easy to remember tool when you find yourself questioning if something is perhaps too wordy, too vague, or too bland.

For an example, let’s turn to arguably the most well known script from the legendary William Goldman. I’ll link the shooting script (there’s a bit more included in shooting scripts, such as direction for camera and whatnot, but you’ll get the idea). Look at the economy of words, the quality of words chosen, and the mental picture painted with them.

Goldman’s writing is a classic example of The Three C’s well before that was even a thing. His writing is Clear and Concise with not a wasted sentence as he crafts the world, the scene, and the dialogue, yet even his shortest of lines has that Goldman Creativity. The man had a way with words, on that we can all agree. If anyone says otherwise, I have but one word for them…


For further insight into screenwriting, as well as occasional amusing nuggets, The Bitter Script Reader Twitter feed can provide an enjoyable barrage of quips and commentary that are often surprisingly on-point.

He’s been an industry script reader for a decade and his exchanges with fellow readers can be downright hilarious. You’ll likely notice that followers of the “more is more” and “fill the page, let the reader figure it out” school of writing tend to be pet peeves of the pro-reader crowd. In other words, the pros tend to agree, Less is More more often than not.

Amazing Script Reads for Aspiring Screenwriters

Internet advice is flung at you just about everywhere you turn, but how about just providing a few really good examples of excellent, tight, and well-structured screenwriting? That’s what I’m putting up today, a pair of really well-written scripts. I hope you enjoy them.

First is a recent 2014 Blacklist feature screenplay titled Bird Box. While the genre may not be everyone’s cup of tea, and people certainly argue over the story itself, no one I’ve spoken with disputes the quality of the writing. I highly suggest giving it a read.

Next is from TV-Land, Jon Bokenkamp’s pilot of the TV series “The Blacklist” (not to be confused with Franklin Leonard’s Blacklist). It’s a show that is impressive in both scope and pacing, with writing that is really top-notch. If you want to see why this was the best testing-rated pilot in the past 10 years at NBC then I suggest you take a gander.

I hope these inspire you. I know personally after the rush of reading these faded, I was quite motivated to get back to the keyboard and start cranking out more pages.

Really Good Writers Sometimes Write Not-So-Good Material

Working on some fairly big features and television shows over the years, I’ve noticed an interesting but often overlooked occurrence. That of otherwise good writers putting out some truly wretched material.

Sometimes it’s too many chefs in the kitchen. We’ve all seen laundry list credits with scores of writers and story editors, all chipping in their two cents worth, but once in a while there’s the opportunity to observe a single writer’s “shooting script” of remarkable crappiness evolve into a dozen or so revision scripts, also of remarkable crappiness. Let me tell you, it can be pretty impressive, and I don’t mean that in a good way.

Recently I had the opportunity to take a gander at some of the clunkiest dialogue I’ve read in years. I’m talking burn the script after 10 pages bad. Instant PASS bad. How does this person have a job writing bad. The twist is, this writer has previously penned a bunch of things I really enjoyed in the past. Apparently this particular assignment just wasn’t in their wheelhouse. I was torn, I wanted to like their work, but holy crap I just couldn’t.

And that’s the thing I began thinking about. Even seasoned pros sometimes blow it big time but keep getting a free pass. This fact really doesn’t do much for us aspiring screenwriters, once you’re established you can fail pretty spectacularly and still get work, but the takeaway for me at least is that a good many of us have quite likely written things objectively better than some seasoned pros. Will that knowledge get any of us work? Of course not. Can we keep that tidbit tucked away for those rainy days when we feel like our work just isn’t up to snuff and want to give up in a fit of frustration and foot stomping while howling at the moon in an angry tirade like a frustrated child with a bad case of colic? You bet your run-on sentences we can. (and that was a painful one to write).

I’m really just posting this as a little pep talk, an incentive to fellow writers, an objective bit of info that sometimes it’s not about the material as much as the connections and name you’ve built up.

Frustration happens and we all have self-doubt sometimes, just don’t let it stop you from writing.