Joseph Nassise

This past weekend I said goodbye to four friends that I’ve known for some time. We’ve gone through a lot together; the deaths of loved ones, work-related problems, outside influences that tried to hurt us, that didn’t have our best interests at heart. Sometimes I loved them like brothers. At other times, I wanted to kill them and I spent many an evening developing the most deliciously cruel and bizarre ways to do so.

The thing is, we’d just grown apart. Distant. Our lives no longer intersected at some many points on the dial. Dare I say that maybe we’d even grown a bit bored with each other? We parted as friends, and will probably visit each other now and again, but I think it was plain for all of us that a phase of our lives had come to an end.

And that was okay.

Really.

I can hear you all now. Leave the Dr. Phil stuff to the co-called professionals and get back to talking about writing, right?

But you see, I am talking about writing. This weekend I finally completed A TEAR IN THE SKY, the third and final book in my Templar Chronicles trilogy.

I came up with the idea of a series about modern Templar knights defending mankind from the supernatural on behalf of the Vatican a few years ago. Book one, HERETIC, was published by Pocket Books in October of 2005. The plan to write four books was scaled back to a trilogy at my foreign publisher’s request in late 2006. Book two, A SCREAM OF ANGELS, was written between September 2006 and January 2007. I dove into book three immediately thereafter (namely because I had been late turning in SCREAM and I needed to meet my deadline for TEAR.)

So for the last nine months straight, and off and on for some time before that, my focus has been almost entirely on the exploits of this group of warriors.

It can be comforting writing about the same characters. You know who they are. You know what they want. You know their motivations and their fears and their idiosyncrasies. But it can also be creatively stifling, for when you sit down to write you realize that you are going to be writing about them again. Your very familiarity with them can become problematic, as it no longer seems to stretch you creatively. It no longer holds the same challenges or the same feeling of discovery that working on a new project with new characters often can.

I’ve greatly enjoyed telling the story of Knight Commander Cade Williams and his rough-and-tumble group of warriors known as the Echo Team. But I’m not going to complain as I put them away on the back shelf of my mind for awhile and move onto to something new.

It’s time to tell the story of Special Agent Mitchell Sloane and the serial killer known as the Inquisitor.

Time to journey alongside Joshua Gideon as he struggles to stop the apocalypse he started by reading the forbidden Book of Coming Sorrows.

Time to walk in the shoes of Jeremiah Hunt, the man who gave up his eyes in order to see more clearly, as he searches for his missing daughter, Elizabeth.

These are the stories that interest me now, the tales that are clamoring to be told. And they deserve my time and attention. (And I sure as heck don’t want to piss off my muse!)

I’m sure I’ll come back and visit Cade at some point. But for now, it’s time to say goodbye.

Whoever it was that said “parting is such sweet sorrow” only got it half right.

Several years ago, when I first got into this business, someone told me that it is better to be published well than to simply be published. I thought I knew what that meant. But I’ve come to understand that sometimes, you think you are being published well, when in reality, you are not.

Case in point.

In 2005, Pocket Books published my second mass market novel, HERETIC. It was the first book in a series known as the Templar Chronicles, a series that was intended to run for at least three books. It had great cover blurbs by Clive Barker and Peter Straub. The cover art itself was pretty good. It quickly sold foreign rights in several countries and was an Alternate Selection for the Mystery Guild, Military, and Doubleday Book Clubs, who did their own hardcover editions. My podcast of the novel over 56 weeks gained 37,000 listeners in 83 different countries. Most recently, the story was adapted into a six issue comic series that completely sold out its first printing.

From my perspective, that’s a fairly successful book.

Before HERETIC ever hit the shelves, however, Pocket had made the decision internally that they wouldn’t be working with me any further on the series. This was because sales of my first novel (unrelated to HERETIC) hadn’t done as well as they had expected.

Pay particular attention to the timing there – Pocket decided BEFORE publishing HERETIC that they wouldn’t be doing a third book with me. Not based on the performance of HERETIC, but based on the performance of the book before that.

I’m sure you can guess what they meant for HERETIC. Sure, they went through the motions. They published the book. They made it available through the normal distribution channels. Their sales team went out and marketed it. Most of the usual chains like B&N and Borders had a copy or two on their shelves. But since Pocket was writing it off, it became very easy for the bookstores to write it off. No one was pushing them to reorder once those first few copies disappeared from the shelves and it soon dropped out of the public’s awareness.

Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, HERETIC was on track to disappear into that great remainder stack in the sky.

Skip forward to April 2007. The first of those foreign editions hits the shelves in Germany. The title is now DER KETZER, but it is the same book – same story, same words, just a different language.

And more importantly, a different publisher.

My German publisher, Droemer Knaur, is a large paperback house. My editor takes great pride in his work and from the very start told me that he intended to make me a household name in Germany. I have to admit that I was skeptical – at the time I was dealing with the recent news from Pocket and I wasn’t quite comfortable believing anything that I was told by a publisher.

But then Droemer’s well-oiled machine went to work. The editor talked up the book at the publishing house, getting everyone else excited about it. The art team produced a dynamic and interesting cover. The sales team went out and did such a bang-up job that the initial print run had to be doubled to handle the demand. The publicity team followed suit.

In short, they decided that, in Germany, the name “Joseph Nassise” would be synonymous with great supernatural thrillers and they set out to make sure it happened.

DER KETZER hit the shelves two weeks ago. It has spent those first two weeks in the number #51 slot on the paperback bestseller list. It’s current Amazon.de sales ranking is #76 and it has stayed in that range for the last couple of weeks. It has done so well that preorders for the next book in the series, DER ENGEL, are flooding in and the decision has been made to promote it as one of Droemer’s lead books at the Frankfurt Book Fair in October.

Remember, this is the exact same book, writing wise, that was released in this country and then seemingly disappeared without a trace a few months later.

Suddenly I understood what that person had been trying to tell me five years before.

Publishing is a joint business. Sure, the writer has to produce a decent book in the first place. But the hard part comes next, when the editor, the art department, the sales team, the publicity team, the local bookstore manager, and the reading public all have to work together to make a book a success. And the team that you have behind your creation makes an INCREDIBLE difference to the success or failure of that work.

It’s true. It’s not enough just to be published. If I had settled for that I wouldn’t have my first bestseller and I wouldn’t currently be negotiating a new three book contract.

Being published well – now that’s something worth striving for.

(A quick note for those wondering what’s happening with books two and three in the series. Overseas, all three books have been acquired and will be released with about four to six months between volumes. Here in the States, my agent and I are actively involved in looking for a new publisher to complete the trilogy. Hopefully, we’ll have some more news soon.)

A few weeks ago I took time out of my busy schedule to disappear for a weekend to a small town just outside of Baltimore, Maryland. No, I wasn’t having a mid-life crisis of any kind (and I certainly wouldn’t pick Maryland as the place to have one if I was!) nor was I trying to escape from a wave of raging fans.

I was one of sixteen participants at this year’s Borderlands Press Writers Bootcamp.

Bootcamp is a three day intensive workshop where sixteen “grunts’ get their writing worked over not only by their colleagues but also by the four “drill-instructors.” This year, those instructors consisted of three bestselling writers and one editor-in-chief of a major New York publishing house:

–F. Paul Wilson, bestselling author of the Repairman Jack series (as well as a host of medical thrillers and even some early SF novels)

– Doug Winter, bestselling author of Run (as well as two books I consider the definitive biographies of both Clive Barker and Stephen King)

– Tom Monteleone, bestselling author and editor of the Borderlands anthology series (as well as one of the founders of the superb Borderlands Press)

– Ginjer Buchanan, editor in chief at Berkley/Ace and one of the top editors working in genre fiction today

Bootcamp comes in two flavors – Short Story and Novel. I’d been one of the lucky sixteen participants at the very first Short Story bootcamp back in 2005, learned a lot, and was very pleased to be selected for the Novel bootcamp this year.

Now I can already hear you asking – how does the bootcamp work?

Participants are required to send in a writing sample from one of their novels, not to exceed thirty pages. That sample is then sent to the four instructors, as well as each of the other participants. Those writing samples are critiqued by all involved on the basis of several key areas:

– Plot and Setting

– Dialogue and Narrative Voice

– Character and Point of View

– Grammar, Style, Pacing, Transition and Structure

Attendees are broken into groups of four and we rotate through the process, working with each instructor for several hours on their assigned topic (for instance, Tom Monteleone was our Plot and Setting instructor.) By the time the weekend is over, you have discussed, dissected and pulled apart your writing sample on so many levels that it has to be better, it just HAS to be.

And it is.

Because the instructors are world-class in their approach and in their ability to pass on their knowledge to you.

Now some of you are probably wondering what’s a guy like me – sold five novels to date, has had his work translated into four different languages, optioned his first novel off for feature film production, blah blah blah – what’s he expect to learn from a writing workshop?

In this case — a lot. The opportunity to have four professional writers take your writing sample apart WORD BY WORD is invaluable. This goes way beyond the type of writing group John mentioned in his essay here yesterday. This is four professionals doing everything they can to show you how to make your piece a better one. That kind of attention to your work, and that level of feedback, just isn’t available on a regular basis. It’s like those commercials on tv - Flight to Baltimore – $250. Bootcamp fee – $700. Word by word critique of your latest writing project by four people who have forgotten more about writing than you have learned to date – Priceless.

A word should also be said about my fellow grunts. We all had very different levels of accomplishment and skill when it came to writing. But all of us were readers. All of us knew what we liked and what we didn’t. And I think that is part of the value of a program like this. Just because someone hasn’t sold their first (or their twenty-fifth!) novel doesn’t mean they don’t have something worth saying. I learned a lot from all my fellow colleagues, from the guy who currently works for DC Comics all the way to the woman whose writing sample was the first novel she’d ever attempted. As readers we all look at a piece of writing differently and those different perceptions can be used to better shape and form our own level of talent. Every suggestion we receive certainly shouldn’t be taken to heart (note the various examples my colleagues have given in the comments thread to John’s excellent article from yesterday – there is definitely a time to ignore comments and suggestions from others) but we also should not be afraid to listen to suggestions from others with less experience than we have simply because they have less experience. Listen to it, weigh it, and keep or discard it as necessary – that’s my general philosophy. You never know where that crucial piece of advice is going to come from.

So what’s my point?

Simply this. Writing is a craft. And like any good craft it needs to be worked at in order to improve it. From the bestselling author to the person just starting out, we all have something to learn and it’s never too late to do so.

I take every opportunity I can to learn something knew about my writing and my technique. Some of that comes from simply reading sites like this one. And some of it comes from getting down in the mud and muck, sloshing through an obstacle course with my fellow grunts while our drill instructors break us down and build us up again until we are better, stronger, faster than we were when we arrived.

What have you done to improve your craftsmanship this month?

(Note – With respect to full disclosure, our very own Elizabeth Massie was one of the instructors at a previous bootcamp and you can catch the view from her perspective in an essay she did last year right here.)

I’m sitting here at my desk in the study, a well-stoked fire roaring in the fireplace beside me. Outside, the wind is blowing steadily and the sun, while bright, doesn’t seem all that warm. It is 9:15 in the morning and the thermometer on the wall near the sliding glass doors to the deck says its 28 degrees outside.

 

Did I mention I live in Phoenix, Arizona?

 

As our brother Mort might say, “What the Fzck?”

 

But I digress.

 

I’m on deadline. I’ve got 15 more days to finish the third book in the Templar Chronicles series, A TEAR IN THE SKY. Fifteen days and about 35,000 words to go. Which means I’m sorry to say that I don’t have a deep, philosophical essay for you this month. Instead I’ve got some practical writing advice for those of you who are thinking about writing a series.

It’s pretty simple really.

 

Take notes.

 

Take GOOD notes.

 

And put them in your bible.

 

Some of you are nodding your heads, completely in tune with what I’m saying. You’ve been there before. You know how important it is. The rest of you are looking at the NIV or the New King James you’ve got over there on the shelf (if you even have one) and are going huh? So let me explain.

 

I hit a scene yesterday where I needed to know the eye color of a character that had appeared way back in the short story that had first introduced Cade Williams and his notorious Echo Team. It was a minor character, to boot, one that had wandered on stage for a few scenes and then had disappeared back into the woodwork, until the midst of the third book in the trilogy. I hadn’t really intended for him to ever come back, to tell you the truth, but when the plot morphed into its present form, he suddenly became a major player rather than a minor one.

 

So I needed to know his eye color. Trouble was, I’d forgotten it long ago, if I’d ever decided on it at all.

 

I checked my bible, looked up his eye color, and went back to work. Took me all of fifteen seconds, if that.

 

A few hours later I needed to know what model Jeep my main character habitually drives. I thought I knew that one off the top of my head and simply dropped it into place without hesitation. But later, as I was looking over the day’s work, something about that choice just didn’t sit right with me. Once again I took out my bible, looked it up, and discovered that I was wrong. It wasn’t a Cherokee, it was a Wrangler. And it wasn’t even red, it was black.

 

Without that bible, the continuity of my work would be way off. And for readers who’ve been following along with the tale through each successive book, details that are inconsistent can pull them right out of their suspension of disbelief. As a horror and dark fantasy writer, that’s the last thing I want to happen. I spend too much time lulling them into believing that the fantastical things that I write about are perfectly normal inside my fictional world and I don’t want innocuous details to spoil that effect.

 

What I’m talking about is the three ring binder I put together whenever I start writing a book. The binder has multiple sections; one for characters, one for locations, one for specific technological or mystic items that are important to the story (like the mobile command center that makes an appearance in A SCREAM OF ANGELS), one for my ever-evolving outline, and even one for any notes that occur to me throughout the writing process that don’t fit anywhere else, reminders to check some particular fact or to be sure to resolve a certain issue in a later chapter, that sort of thing. This binder is my story bible (or in this case, my series bible, which major sections devoted to each book in the series, with those then subdivided into the minor sections named above.)

 

I make it a regular habit to update the binder on a daily basis, so it keeps pace with the work itself and remains a useful tool. This allows me to check the facts I need quickly and easily while in the midst of a writing session, without having to search back through earlier manuscripts or published works to find the information I need. It’s not perfect, and I still occasionally make mistakes when I’m too lazy to look something up that I’m positive I recollect correctly, but my bible goes a long way to keeping me on track and productive when I need to be.

 

Like right now.

 

With 14 days, 13 hours and 52 minutes left until my deadline.

 

“In the late 21st century, when something alien is discovered beyond the edge of the solar system, the spaceship Theseus sets out to make contact. Led by an enigmatic AI and a genetically engineered vampire, the crew includes a biologist who’s more machine than human, a linguist with surgically induced multiple personality disorder, a professional soldier who’s a pacifist, and Siri Keeton, a man with only half a brain.”

 

 

My Christmas gift to all of you.

 

I discovered author Peter Watts a few years ago and couldn’t get enough. He writes hard science fiction with an emphasis on the science side of things. Which makes sense, since I understand he is in fact a scientist himself, with advanced degrees in obscure subjects (at least to me) like the ecophysiology of marine mammals.

 

I’ve enjoyed all of Peter’s books to date – STARFISH, MAELSTROM, BEHEMOTH: B-MAX, BEHEMOTH: SEPPUKU – and I’m not alone in my praise. From the New York Times Notable Book of the Year nod for his debut novel to the Publisher’s Weekly and Booklist starred reviews for his latter works, people in the know seem to think Peter’s got the goods.

 

Peter’s had some unusual circumstances impact his career. The conclusion of his Rifters trilogy was deemed too long for publication as a single work by its publisher, Tor, and so it was split in two, becoming the aforementioned BEHEMOTH: B-MAX and BEHEMOTH: SEPPUKU respectively. The strange part was that neither book mentioned that they were two parts of a whole, forcing Peter to find a way to let the reader know that in an author’s note inside the book (which didn’t help me much when I purchased the second one thinking it was the first, but I digress.)

And despite all the good press and general response to his previous works, his latest book seems to have been handed a death sentence before it even hit the streets. The initial print run was rather low, something in the order of 3,700 copies, neither Barnes & Noble or Borders pre-ordered it to be stocked in their brick and mortar stores and, to make matters worse, it isn’t easily available in any of the major independents either.

The first two months after release make or break a book. Any of the above problems could have drastically limited the success of BLINDSIGHT – having to deal with all three at once is the kind of thing that would make me want to curl up in a corner and weep. If people can’t find the book, they can’t buy it and read it. If they don’t buy it, it reflects as a black mark on the writer’s career, as unfortunately, in the eyes of the publisher, you are often only as good as your last book.

 

So in what he calls more an “act of desperation than experimentation” Peter has gone ahead and made the complete text of BLINDSIGHT available online under a Creative Commons license. You can find it here and I urge you to give it a try. If you find you like it, support Peter, and specifically this book, by buying yourself a copy from one of the online vendors like Amazon.

 

Other authors have done this in the past – I’m thinking specifically of Cory Doctorow’s DOWN AND OUT IN THE MAGIC KINGDOM, Kelly Link’s STRANGER THINGS HAPPEN, or more recently, Charlie Stross’ ACCELERANDO. There isn’t any real data to show whether doing something like this boosts sales of the actual book or not, unfortunately. The same can be said of my own experiment in podcasting the entire text of my novel HERETIC. While I’ve had over 35,000 unique individuals download one or more episodes, I don’t know how many of those downloads actually translated to book sales. Which is a bummer, but knowing that ahead of time didn’t stop me from doing it and neither did it stop Peter.

 

I’d like to see this “experiment” have a beneficial impact on Peter’s career. Hence my posting about it today, despite the fact that I had another completely different essay on characterization already written. This seemed timelier and has the added benefit of possibly helping a writer I don’t know but greatly admire. Either way, I thought our readers here at Storytellersunplugged would find it interesting.

I do know one thing is certain – if you like hard science fiction, you’ll like Peter’s work.

 

 

Happy holidays to all!

Joe Nassise

 

(PS – For those interested, Peter’s earlier books, STARFISH and MAELSTROM, are also available under the same CC license at his website – www.rifters.com)

 

 

(PPS -One final note – Peter has put the text of the book online with complete permission of his publisher. I’ve seen some speculation about the issue, so I thought I’d set the record straight right from the start.)

(It is an odd fact of my writing career that it takes me longer to write a short story than it does to write a novel. Possibly even two novels. So in order for me to have written something original for our October story month, I probably would have needed to get started on it before the idea for this blog ever came to me. Sadly, I’m not that prescient. So instead I offer you something appropriately Halloweenish from 2002, a story that first appeared in SPECTRES AND DARKNESS, my joint collection with Drew Williams. Without further ado, here is “The Urge.”)

***************

Detective Simon Jackson awoke that morning with The Urge whispering darkly in his ears. It had been two months since the last time, five since the time before that, but in the last few days the voice had been getting stronger, more insistent, and he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.

It would have to be today, maybe tomorrow, at the latest.

He made a quick breakfast and dressed in his usual jacket and tie. Traffic was light; Jackson made it to the stationhouse a few moments before his tour of duty started and spent the extra time talking with some of the uniforms in the locker room before going upstairs to see what was on the day’s agenda.

The Captain’s briefing was short and sweet, which was a relief to all concerned. Jackson ended up with a stack of paperwork and a two day old mugging to investigate. Gino and Arthur got two grand larcenies and a suicide. Scofield still had the murder of the high school girl from last week. Marcy was out on vacation. Another typical day on the 8-4 shift in the 61^st Precinct.

Jackson quickly grabbed a cup of coffee and returned to his desk. The paperwork was pure drudgery. It wasn’t long before The Urge reared its ugly head.

It’s time, you know.

Time to do another one.

You know you want to.

You’ll like it, I promise.

He did his best to ignore it, knowing he couldn’t escape it, but trying to keep it under control.

When he couldn’t stand listening to it anymore, he went out on the street and started hustling his contacts; doing what he could to track down anyone who might have seen the mugging. The trail was over 48 hours cold and in his business that meant it was as good as dead, but at least it gave him something to do and kept the voice in his head quiet for a couple of hours.

By lunch, however, The Urge was back, doing its best to force its way into his thoughts. He was sitting at a table in Mike’s Diner, chewing resolutely on one of his famous rock-hard hamburgers, when he found himself staring at a couple of high school girls sitting a few tables away, the Urge whispering feverishly in the back of his mind.

The blonde one.

Yeah.

Her.

She’s the one.

Remember how much fun we had last time?

You know you want to.

It’s time, after all.

He must have been staring at them for a while, because he was getting funny looks not just from the girls but also from some of the other patrons. Even Mike was giving him a quizzical look from behind the bar.

He shook his head to clear it, paid hastily, and got the hell out of there before The Urge forced him to do something he didn’t want to do.

He hadn’t learned anything of any use while on the street and decided to head back over to the stationhouse to try and tackle the paperwork again. For the next few hours it became a battle of wills. The Urge would whisper in his ears, so he would slam it back down into the pit at the base of his skull. It would screech at him in a voice like nails on a chalkboard, so he would hum to himself to drown out its voice. But as the day wore on, he found himself listening to it for longer and longer each time it would make an attempt, until at last he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Okay, okay…” he said to it in a tired whisper. “You win. Tonight. We’ll do another one tonight.”

The yammering in the back of his skull quieted down as he gave in. That dark side of his subconscious, the one he called his Shadow, knew that he would keep his word; he always had. Once he’d given in, his Shadow settled back down into the dark corner of his psyche and let him get on with the details.

He glanced around and found the squad room empty. It wasn’t something that happened very often, so if he were going to do it, it would have to be now or never.

The filing cabinets were on the other side of the room, less than fifteen feet away from his desk. They were never kept locked, despite the Captain’s repeat orders, which made things easier.

Five minutes later Jackson was on his way out the door, the files he’d stolen tucked securely in his briefcase.

The rest of the afternoon seemed to limp past, now that he had made up his mind to make another retrieval. The last four had taught him how to go about doing things, so he didn’t have many preparations to make. A simple check of his materials let him know that everything was ready. The stun gun was fully charged. The gag and the plastic restraints were in their usual places in the glove box. The hammer and butcher’s knife were in the paper sack in the trunk. Jackson just needed to remember to add the fake ID and the badge. Now all that was left was to choose a target.

He moved into the living room and took a seat at his desk. Opening his briefcase, Jackson pulled out the files and began to leaf through them. The subjects of all of them were girls, between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one. Mostly brunettes, but there were a few blondes too.

Equal opportunity and all that, he thought to himself idly, remembering the girls in the restaurant earlier in the day.

A handful caught his eye right off the bat and he set the rest aside to choose from these frontrunners.

It took over an hour, but he finally had a target. Megan Jones. Blonde, as it turned out. Blue eyes. Small and petite, so there shouldn’t be too much of a problem. She was from Riverside, about fifteen minutes outside the city, which was good because it could be reached easily yet was still reasonably secluded. Regular patrols would be at a minimum and he should be able to get in and out again without too much of a fuss.

Cleaning up the dinner dishes took another fifteen minutes, but after that he couldn’t put things off any longer. The Urge was back now, raring to go, like a tiger suddenly faced with an open cage door and a big fat goat staked down before it. The Urge was getting out tonight, and it was gonna have some fun before the sun came up, that was for sure. He was just going along for the ride, like he always did.

Jackson went into the bedroom and dressed in the dark suit he had laid out for the occasion. His shoulder holster went on under the suit coat, and the badge went into the outside pocket for easy accessibility. A pair of well-shined shoes completed the disguise.

He grabbed the pilfered file off the table and headed out to the garage. Jackson had brought the Caprice home from work earlier and would be using it tonight just in case he was stopped. He might be able to talk his way out of trouble by pretending to be on official business and the car simply helped add to the disguise.

Picking up the skell was the part that he always worried about. If he was going to get caught, it would most likely be then. It was a question of choosing the right location, copping the right attitude, and getting out quickly enough before people started asking too many detailed questions.

For tonight’s job he decided to head south, toward Lewiston. Jackson had been north for the last two and didn’t want to show his face around there too soon. It was unlikely that anyone would remember him, but there was no sense in taking the chance. There was a county lockup halfway to Lewiston and he chose that as his destination.

The ride was quiet and uneventful. He used the time to try to plan his speech to the girl. Not that what he said mattered all the much; the shock of what they were going through was usually enough to keep anything he said from sinking in, but he always made the effort. He guessed it was just his way of trying to feel like he was doing the right thing.

Maybe it was just to steady his nerves.

In any event, it helped to pass the time.

He reached his destination about an hour after he set out. He drove around back and parked by the rear security doors. He knew there were no windows back there and this would keep the chance of someone seeing something they shouldn’t down to as bare a minimum as possible. Unless one of the officers inside decided to follow him out, Jackson knew he should be free and clear. He checked his credentials to be certain he had the right set, placed the stun gun in the right-hand pocket of his suit, picked up his clipboard, and got out of the car. Knowing the back door would be locked he walked around to the front and went inside.

This facility was just like the hundred others he’d been in, which was something Jackson was counting on. A reception desk and a waiting room greeted him as he entered and behind the desk was the duty sergeant. As Jackson approached, the sergeant put down the magazine he’d been reading and cleared his throat, doing his best to look official. Jackson walked up and laid the federal badge he was carrying on the desktop in front of the sergeant.

“Michael Williams, FBI,” he said. “I’m here to pick up,” a quick glance at the clipboard and the official-looking paperwork it carried…“Reggie Saunders.” Before the other could say anything, Jackson passed him the clipboard.

Jackson knew that most government employees were cut from the same cloth. When faced with someone higher in authority, they’ll do what is asked of them with little or no resistance. Jackson was betting that because he looked official, carried official-looking paperwork, and acted like he belonged, then the duty sergeant wouldn’t be inclined to dig too deeply into the situation. As long as Jackson signed all the right papers, the sergeant wouldn’t bother calling his own superiors to verify Jackson’s credentials or wonder why he hadn’t heard of the transfer earlier in the day at the briefing. It had worked the last two times Jackson had made retrieval and he was hoping it would work for him again tonight.

He wasn’t disappointed. The duty sergeant looked over the paperwork, pulled some of his own out of a drawer, asked Jackson to sign here, here, and here, and then called down to lock-up to get the prisoner ready for transfer. Not a question asked. It couldn’t have gone more perfectly if Jackson had scripted it.

He stood in front of the desk talking sports with the sergeant until another officer came out with the prisoner in tow. Saunders was a typical low-life; all attitude and little intelligence. His rap sheet was as long as his arm and full of violence. He’d done time for armed robbery, rape, and was currently in for the murder of an elderly woman. He was at the county lockdown awaiting transportation in the morning to the new maximum-security facility in Sholton.

Unfortunately for him, he would never see the inside of another cell.

Saunders was dressed in the standard prison jumpsuit and the guard had him in cuffs but no shackles. That was fine with Jackson. Saunders was a skinny little runt and Jackson outweighed him by a good 75 pounds so he didn’t think the leg shackles would be necessary. Saunders made a number of rude comments as they turned him over, but Jackson just ignored them. Taking him by the arm, Jackson led Saunders out the front door and around the back to the car.

“Where we goin’?” Saunders asked, as Jackson opened the rear door and bent Saunders’ head to help him inside. Jackson didn’t answer him, just shut the door and opened his own. As he climbed behind the wheel Saunders started in again. “I said, Where we goin’? You deaf or somethin’, cop?”

Again, the detective didn’t answer.

At least not with words.

Instead, he calmly turned around and punched Saunders straight in the mouth with a short, sharp backfist. Saunders’ head snapped back and his nose gushed blood.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” he yelled, shaking his head to try and keep the blood out of his mouth. “You stupid f’in’ son of a…”

He never got any further. Jackson gave him his nicest, biggest smile, drew his stun gun, and shocked the scumbag into unconsciousness. Nothing like sending 75,000 volts through a skell to make your evening a nicer one, he thought with a grin.

All it took was that little bit of violence to cause The Urge to wake up and start jabbering again. This time Jackson didn’t mind. From here on out The Urge would be riding shotgun, if not wholly in the driver’s seat. And what it was saying sounded like a whole lot of fun.

He giggled.

He couldn’t help it.

Saunders twitched spasmodically for a moment or two even after Jackson removed the stun gun. He waited until Saunders had stopped, pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, and then smacked him a few more times at The Urge’s insistence. By the time Jackson turned back around and started the car, the rest of Saunders’ face was a bloody mess to match his nose.

Heading back the way he had come, Jackson made it onto the highway and a few exits closer to Riverside before the scumbag woke up. He wasn’t awake for more than a few minutes before he opened his mouth to speak.

Jackson caught his gaze in the rear view mirror before the man could say anything, raised a finger, and shook it slowly back and forth.

“Uhhn uhhn uhn,” he said.

The sight of his blood still drying on Jackson’s gloves made Saunders’ eyes widen in fear.

He stayed quiet for the rest of the ride.

It took a little over an hour to reach the Riverside city limits. Jackson cut west on Highway 202 and skirted the edge of town until he entered the warehouse district over by the train yards. This was a rough and tumble neighborhood, with more crack houses and street dealers per square city block than you’d care to count. Life was cheap down here and it was often measured in hours instead of years.

His car was noticed within seconds of entering the area. The Caprice screamed cop, an effect he had counted on, and the street vermin disappeared into the darkness like quicksilver flowing downhill. Even the toughest street hood knows better than to call attention to himself by hanging around when the cops are on the prowl, which meant the chances of someone witnessing what Jackson was about to do next were slim to none.

It wasn’t long before he reached his destination, a squat two-story warehouse set back from the road and surrounded by a chain-length fence. On either side similar buildings stretched, each abandoned and allowed to fall into a state of neglect years before. Jackson didn’t need to check the address in the file on the seat beside him; a faded and torn yellow ribbon with the words “Police Line – Do Not Cross” emblazoned on it in thick black letters hung from either side of the open gate.

He pulled up against the gate and used the front of the car to nose it open far enough to drive on through, leaving it open behind him. Crossing the empty lot, he parked the car so it sat facing the gate, ready for a quick getaway should things go badly.

In the back seat, the skell’s head was whipping back and forth as he frantically peered about at the surroundings. Jackson could guess what Saunders was thinking just from the expression on the man’s face: psycho cop beats me up and drags me out to some deserted location. This is NOT good.

Unluckily for Saunders, it was going to be a lot worse than he was currently imagining.

Jackson unlocked and opened the trunk. He opened the duffle bag and removed the cattle prod, making certain to keep it hidden below the level of the trunk and behind one leg so his passenger wouldn’t see it. He left the trunk open, walked around to the back door, and unlocked it with his free hand.

Inside the car, Saunders squirmed in the seat, moving as far away from the door as he could get.

Jackson smiled at him.

Opening the door, he stuck the cattle prod against Saunders’ body and set it off.

About ten times.

One after another.

Jackson was pretty sure his prisoner was unconscious by the third shock, but it never hurt to be certain.

The smell of burnt flesh wafted out of the car.

It was time to get to work.

It’s all about balance, Jackson thought to himself. Call it what you want: Ying and Yang, good and evil, the dark and the light. It’s Nature’s way to try to find a balance in all things. Usually there’s not much we can do about it. People are born, people die, and that’s all there is to life. But sometimes, when the conditions are right, we can change that balance. With a little nudge, we can tip it slightly to one side or the other. The opportunity only lasts for a few moments, and only a select few can make it work at all, but it can happen.

When the conditions are right.

He left the skell lying unconscious in the back seat while he grabbed his equipment and carried it to the second floor.

The large open room was all but empty. When the body had been found three years ago, the police had followed standard procedure and removed everything that hadn’t been bolted to the floor. In some cases, even things that had been bolted to the floor were removed, like the old boiler that had contained the corpse.

The near emptiness didn’t bother Jackson. He had brought along everything he needed.

The first thing he did was to set up the small battery powered lantern he’d brought along. It cast a circle of light some ten feet in diameter, leaving most of the room shrouded in darkness. He slowly began to make an inspection of the floor, concentrating on the areas that were close to the vertical supports that honeycombed the warehouse floor.

It took some searching, but eventually he found the right location. No matter how hard they had tried the building’s cleaning crew had been unable to completely eradicate the dark stains on the floor next to one of the vertical columns.

Jackson placed the lantern on the floor beside the column. Next, he took the chains out of the bag and slung them over the rafter high overhead, then adjusted their height so that the meat hook on one end swung above the floor at chin level. He wrapped the other end around the column and secured the chain in place with a large padlock. He took out the electric drill, the hammer, and the combat knife. He put them in plain view close to the chain.

Trooping back down the stairs, he dragged the skell out of the back seat and dumped him on the ground beside the Caprice. Taking the leather straps out of the trunk, he used them to tightly secure Saunders’ hands, feet, and knees before removing the handcuffs. Since Saunders was still unconscious, Jackson hauled him up and over one shoulder, then carried him up the stairs, where he slipped the meat hook through the straps securing Saunders’ hands and left him dangling there with his feet scraping the floor. He took an extra moment to remove the man’s shoes and socks.

Returning to the car, Jackson took the file off the front seat and locked everything up. Then he climbed back up the stairs.

The detective spent the time while waiting for Saunders to wake up going through the file. He paid particular attention to the crime scene photos and the autopsy report. He knew the suffering and pain had to be just right, the fear escalated to precisely the same level, or it would not work. He had learned things the hard way with the second retrieval he’d done and he still regretted the waste of a good subject with nothing in return. He was determined to do it right this time.

The Urge began whispering in the semi-darkness.

Use the hammer.

You know you want to.

Come on, it’ll be fun.

“Not just yet,” Jackson answered back firmly, knowing that the hammer was out of sequence. Using it when it wasn’t called for would prevent any possibility of retrieval.

Which was, of course, just what the Urge wanted.

Jackson knew that he had reached the most critical juncture of the entire operation and he would have to be careful moving forward. He needed to guard against the Urge’s excesses while at the same time use its power to generate the pain and suffering required for what he needed to do.

He just hoped the coroner had been correct in his findings.

Memories of the time the coroner had been wrong stirred sluggishly in the depths of his mind, but the Urge’s eager voice quickly dismissed them.

The knife.

Start with the knife.

Okay, Jackson thought.

Turning back to his captive, he found Saunders watching him. The sweat was already pouring off his face and the stink of urine in the air told the detective all he needed to know about the man’s mental state.

“Hi,” Jackson said, brightly.

Saunders watched him warily, but still didn’t say anything.

“Any idea why you’re here?” Jackson asked.

Ignoring Jackson’s question, Saunders said, “You can’t do this. I got rights. This is police brutality.” He jerked his arms and legs, sending his body bouncing about on the chains as he struggled to get free.

While Saunders struggled Jackson picked up the knife, stepped closer, and then very casually slashed him across the chest through his prison uniform. It was a shallow cut, designed simply to get the man’s attention.

It did.

“Jesus Christ!” Saunders swore. “You can’t do this!”

Jackson laughed. “Yes I can. And I will,” he said. “We’re not even close to being done yet. Now you have five seconds to answer my question or I’ll cut you again.”

“What question?”

Cut.

“Oww! Stop that!”

“I’m going to repeat myself, just this once. Do you know why you are here?”

“No,” Saunders replied, warily.

“Then let me explain. Three years ago, a young girl was murdered in this room.” Jackson kept his voice pitched low, forcing his prisoner to listen closely to what was being said. “She was raped, tortured, and killed. And, as far as the coroner could make out, not necessarily in that order.”

Saunders had stopped watching Jackson’s face; his entire being seemed focused on the blade of the knife.

“The girl, Megan Jones, was only fifteen. A young, innocent victim. Judging from the police file, the pain and fear she felt before dying must have been tremendous.”

Saunders’ gaze never left the blade as it turned over and over again in the palm of Jackson’s hand, the light glinting off it in rhythmic cadences.

“The perpetrator, whomever it was, started with the girl’s feet.”

Here it comesssssssssssss, whispered the Urge in anticipation.

Without another word, Jackson stepped forward, trapped the other man’s bound legs securely under one arm, and used the knife to savagely slash the underside of Saunders’ right foot.

Just as quickly, he did the left.

It took a moment for the pain to hit, but when it did, Saunders began screaming.

The cuts were not deep, intended more to illicit a reaction than to cause any real damage. Jackson waited until the shock of the initial pain had passed and for Saunders to calm down.

Again, cut him again.

Jackson held off. There would be time enough for cutting very soon. Right now, he had to make Saunders understand just what was happening to him. And more importantly, why it was happening.

Jackson moved behind his prisoner and grabbed the man’s left hand in his own. Saunders tried to squeeze his hand up into a fist, intent on protecting his fingers, but Jackson used the tip of the knife to keep the pinkie finger extended.

“You see Saunders, the world works in its own balanced way. Entire ecosystems are built around the concept of balance. Remove the wolf and the rabbit and deer overpopulate. Remove the rabbit and deer and you end up killing the wolf. Everything has a duty to fulfill. Everything has its own place in the chain.”

Saunders whimpered beneath the tape as Jackson place the sharp edge of the knife at the base of Saunders’ pinkie so that its long edge rose between that finger and the next.

“Only Man breaks this chain. Men like you, Saunders, who decide that it is okay to prey upon the young and the weak without giving anything in return. In your pride and your self-centered search for pleasure you use pain and death like servants instead of the masters of entropy that they truly are. When an innocent victim dies at the hands of a monster like you, that balance is disrupted, the cycle thrown off.

“Sometimes though, things can be set to right. Errors can be corrected. The cycle can be restored. Things can be put back into balance.”

He tightened his grip on his knife.

“But there is a price. There’s always a price. In order to balance the scales, you have to offer up something of equal value in return. Right now, you’re all I’ve got to trade.”

That said, Jackson began to saw off Saunders’ left pinkie.

Saunders began screaming and didn’t stop for a long time.

For the next three hours, Jackson worked his prisoner over. Slowly and carefully, he tortured the man in the same fashion that Megan Jones had been tortured in this exact same spot three years before.

First he used the knife.

Then he used the hammer.

Then he switched to the electric drill.

He used his hands intermittently throughout the process, until his knuckles were raw from the blows. His blood and his prisoner’s mingled freely across their damaged surface.

Throughout it all, The Urge whispered fervently in the back of his mind.

Finally, as Saunders hung limp and bloody in the harness; his fear pushed to a fever pitch, Jackson stopped and rested.

As he worked to catch his breath, Jackson realized they were no longer alone.

The room around them was filled with a greasy black mist. Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson could see things moving in that mist; a cheekbone gleamed wetly here, a clawed hand covered in a gray, decomposing flesh reached out toward them there, white eyes with no pupil flashed into view and were gone just as quickly on the far side of the room. Like will-o-wisps in the night, each vision was there and gone before Jackson could focus on them, a situation he did not object to.

He knew that Saunders had also seen them when he heard a high-pitched keening noise floating across the room.

The mist seemed to twist and curl with greater frequency as the man’s fear spread like a wildfire through the room.

Jackson sighed in relief.

He had done his job.

They had arrived.

The first time Jackson had encountered them had been entirely by accident. He’d lost control after catching a fleeing suspect, beating the man to within an inch of his life in anger over the senseless killing of an elderly man in a mini-mart. When he regained his senses, he’d found the alley in which he stood filled with the same greasy black smoke. Voices had spoken from the depths of the mist, asking him what he’d wanted.

Unthinkingly, he’d answered the first thing that had come to mind.

To his amazement they’d given it to him.

It wasn’t until the Urge had started whispering to him that he’d figured out how to summon them on his own.

This time, he did not wait for their question.

“I’ve come to trade again.”

A sibilant whispering filled the room, causing the hairs on the back of Jackson’s arms and neck to stand at attention.

“I want the girl. Megan Jones, in return for this one,” Jackson told the mist, indicating Saunders with one bloody hand.

The mist stood still for a moment, as if in indecision. Then with a banshee’s shriek it swept forward, crashing around the two men like a wave breaking at its crest.

Jackson stood stock still, his eyes closed and his arms wrapped tightly about himself to guard against the chill he knew was about to envelope him. He felt phantom hands caress him and heard voices whisper in his ears. The hot fetid breath of something foul splashed across his face, inviting a reaction, but Jackson refused to give them one. He kept himself rigidly in control, somehow knowing instinctively that to do anything else would give them free reign to do what they would with him as well.

Saunders’ terrified cries mixed with those coming from inside the mist, rising in volume until Jackson ached to cover his ears to drown them both out, but he held still and did not move.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it was over.

Silence descended.

Jackson remained where he was for a long moment, being certain, then cautiously opened his eyes.

The mist, and Saunders with it, was gone.

At his feet lay the sleeping form of a young, blonde teenager dressed in a private school uniform.

Her name, Jackson knew, was Megan Jones.

Only a fading purple bruise remained, marring the left side of her face, testimony to what she had once endured at the hands of another animal much like Saunders. Even that would fade with time.

They were just getting off the highway when the girl regained consciousness in the front seat of the Caprice. She awoke confused, lacking memory of anything that she had experienced since the morning of the day she’d disappeared.

In his gentlest tone, Jackson informed her that he was a police officer and that he was taking her home. She’d been struck by a car, he told her, and had suffered a mild concussion but was otherwise okay.

She was still dazed by her experience and accepted the explanation, never even bothering to ask his name. When he pulled up in front of her house, she thanked him and got out of the car. He watched as she walked up to the front door and rang the bell. A face appeared at the window and a light went on over Megan’s head, illuminating her where she stood on the front steps.

Jackson sped off just as the front door opened, disappearing into the darkness before he or the car he drove could be recognized. From past experience he knew Megan would have no memory of the brutality to which she been subjected, but he knew that her parents would remember every heartbreaking moment from the second she had disappeared until now. They would want to know what had happened to her. They would want to know how she had come back.

Those were not questions Jackson wanted to answer.

Not now.

Perhaps not ever.

With the rising sun Jackson headed for home, content with the night’s events.

As he drove, a small voice began whispering in the back of his mind.

It’s time, you know.

Time to do another one.

You’ll like it.

I promise.

Last month I started telling you about my recent leap of faith off of a very large cliff. I was searching for my passion, trying to rekindle that desire to write that had launched my career four years earlier. I had discovered that my typical day was extremely lopsided, that the very thing I had been so passionate about was the thing that got the least of my time and attention during the day.

And that let me know why my passion had disappeared. Instead of coming to my writing refreshed and ready to go, I was coming to it exhausted, worn out from a long day of working a 50 hour or more a week job and then spending necessary time with my family. Because of that schedule, my writing went from being a joy to being a chore – something that had to be done only because I was determined to do it.

Recognizing that fact was important. It told me that I had to make some long term decisions about my writing career. Was it really something I wanted to do for the rest of my life? Why did I want to do it? What did I hope to gain out of it? How far was I wiling to go? The scene from Untouchables popped into my head over and over again, the one where Malone (played by Sean Connery) is lying there dying and he grabs Elliot Ness (played by Kevin Costner) by the vest and pulls him in close and asks the fateful question that send Ness on his rampage – “what are you prepared to do?”

What was I prepared to do indeed?

That required some thought. A lot of thought. I wasn’t just making decisions for myself, but was making decisions that would also effect my family. And I had to answer more questions. Did I really think I could do this? Could I achieve the goals I wanted writing what I was currently writing? How long did I think it would take to reach some of those goals? The answers to these questions would radically impact my decision making process.

One thing was clear – if I wanted to make a career at writing, I needed to come to it with my best foot forward, not at the end of the day when I was worn out and exhausted. (And just so no one thinks I didn’t consider this option, the pre-dawn hours had been previously tried as well. Tired is tired, simple as that for me.)

In the end, I had to take a leap of faith. I had to devote serious time to my pursuit of a writing career if I wanted it to succeed. I had to set specific goals with specific deadlines and realistically pursue those goals with everything I had in me. Sounds a bit cold and scientific, doesn’t it? But the truth was that if I wanted my dream I had to pursue it with a bulldog’s determination rather than simply wishing for it to happen one day.

With the full support of my wife and family (and thank God for all of them) I made my choice.

We’d been working toward certain family goals for a while – paying off the credit cards, paying off the car loans, paying for the kids’ private school a year ahead, putting a year’s salary in the bank – and those provided the background for what I intended to do.

Against all conventional wisdom, I took a leap of faith – in myself, in my talent, in my dreams. Sixty days ago I gave my notice – I would be leaving my well-paying day-job and concentrating on my writing career full time for one year. I had 365 days to make my goals become a reality. After all, you can’t walk on water unless you get out of the boat, right?

I had a sixty day notice clause in my contract, so that my sales and management efforts could be handed off without disruption, so I couldn’t leave right away. But the day after making my decision, my writing took off like a rocket. I came to the computer ready to write, dammnit! And I did. In the last sixty days, I’ve written an entire novel. And it’s good – far better than anything I’ve done in the last year or two. Having the time, energy and focus I needed made an incredible difference in my work, just as I had hoped.

Today, Sept 15^th, is my last day on the job.

Tonight the clock starts ticking.

I’ve got 365 days.

And I intend to make the most of them.

After that we’ll see where the road takes me…

A few months ago, I awoke one morning and realized that my passion for writing had all but disappeared. Instead of sitting down at my desk full of enthusiasm for the work before me, I was dreading the time at the keyboard. I wanted to do anything but write. Mow the lawn. Repaint the house. Clean the carpet, individual strand by individual strand. Anything really, so long as I didn’t have to sit down at the computer and write.

 

I didn’t have writer’s block. I knew exactly where I needed to go with each of the projects I was involved with at the time. I had the words brimming in the back of my mind, ready to be released onto the page (or rather, the screen) in front of me. I had projects that needed to be completed. I just didn’t have any desire to do them.

 

For a guy who loves stories, who cherishes the art of creating them, this was a very troubling discovery. What had happened? Where had my passion gone?

 

At first I was devastated. I moped around the house for days, letting my keyboard get covered in dust and annoying the hell out of my wife. The deadline clock was ticking for three different projects, but I knew that unless I found my passion the material that I would produce would be next to useless anyway. A reader can tell when a writer’s heart isn’t in his work. I didn’t want to run the risk of losing my hard earned fans by producing less than acceptable work. I’d fought too hard and too long to get to where I was. Second rate work just wasn’t going to cut it. After I got over my initial reaction, I got angry. I was determined not to let my dream die so easily. In fact, I vowed that I would find my passion again or never write another word.

 

And so I set out in search of it.

 

I knew the first step had to be defining what it was I was looking for. What, exactly, was passion? Where does it come from? How does one sustain it?

 

Webster’s Dictionary defines it as “a strong liking or desire for or devotion to some activity, object, or concept.” The Compact Oxford Dictionary claims it’s “a very strong emotion.” The Cambridge Dictionary of American English listed it as “a strong interest.”

 

Those definitions were okay. They clearly identified the object in question and gave meaning to why it was important in reference to what I do, but it just didn’t quite fit the bill for me. There was no heart to it, if you know what I mean. So I continued looking for another way of describing it and it wasn’t long before I hit on just the right one. I found it on the website of fellow life coach, Curt Rosengren, at PassionCatalyst.com.

 

Curt calls himself a passion catalyst. He helps people identify their passions and find careers that ignite them. (A rather gratifying line of work, I would think.) According to Curt, passion is “the energy that comes from bringing more of YOU into what you do.”

 

That was it! The definition I was looking for. And it gave me a big clue as to why my passion for writing had taken the 8:15 bus to Oakland when I wasn’t looking.

 

I decided to take a look at how much of my personal time and energy was devoted to my writing. After all, if my passion was based upon bringing more of me into my work, thereby generating the energy needed to sustain the endeavor over the long haul, it was probably a good idea to know where all of ME was going.

 

Sitting down that evening, I wrote out what I did during a typical weekday. At the time, it looked something like this:

 

6:30 am – Get up with the kids. Give them breakfast and get them dressed.

7:00 am – Get ready for work.

7:30 am – Drop the kids off at school and commute to the office.

8:15 am – Start the workday.

5:30 pm – End the workday.

6:00 pm – Come home, eat dinner, help the kids with their homework, and help put them to bed.

9:00 pm – Spend some time with my wife.

9:30 pm – Sit down to get some writing done.

11:30 pm – Go to bed.

 

That’s a highly abbreviated version of my typical day, but the activity served its purpose and I’m sure you can see why. Despite having carried out this same schedule day in and day out ever since my writing career had started four years ago, it wasn’t until I actually sat down and set it out in black and white that I realized how lopsided it was. The thing (after my family) that I was most passionate about, the thing that consumed my thoughts and drove me to better and greater achievements – that was the very last thing that got my attention and energy during the day.

 

But what could I do about it? I couldn’t ignore my family, even if I’d wanted to. The house is only so big, after all, and four kids can be quite the distraction. I couldn’t quit the day job – little things like the mortgage, school payments, car payments, food bills, and the like weren’t just going to go away on their own. I couldn’t sacrifice any more sleep; there just weren’t that many hours left in the day.

 

How could I focus more of me (meaning my time, energy, and enthusiasm) into my writing, given the current demands on my schedule?

 

The answer, which I’ll tell you about next time, required more than just a small step of faith. It needed a giant leap into the unknown.

 

A leap I willingly took.

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by Joe Nassise

Last month I began telling you about how my novel HERETIC went from mass market paperback original to soon-to-be released comic book mini-series. When we left off, I had just created a pitch book containing a sample script and several pages of full color comic art and had flown to San Diego for a whirlwind day of meeting with several editors from different comic companies at the San Diego Comic Con.

So what did my initiative get me?

Well, that depends on how you look at things.

The majority of the editors that I spoke with were pleasant and encouraging. None of them jumped out of their seats at the concept, but many of them applauded my professional approach and the samples that I had with me. Several asked me to touch base again after the show, to continue discussions in a less hectic atmosphere. Ultimately, all of them passed on acquiring the rights to adapt the series.

But I did get the opportunity to meet editors from several major comic book houses and introduce my work to them. I presented my materials in a professional manner and received several invitations to stay in touch and submit other concepts at a later date. They had passed on the chance to adapt the Templar Chronicles, but the process had opened the door for me.

As the months went by, that open door began to pay off.

About four months after the show, one of the editors I had met called me about a different project. He needed someone to handle the scripting for a four issue mini-series with a horror background and wondered if I’d be interested. Would a work for hire gig scripting the four issues from the creator’s outline and notes be something I could handle? I said yes without having to think about it too much and a few weeks later had completed three out of the four issues needed. The editor was thrilled with the scripts, as was the art team. Everyone was confident the series would be a hit. Unfortunately, the creator went flaky on us and the series never saw publication.

Despite the fact that the project had ultimately crashed and burned, I’d proven myself to be a reliable writer who could take direction and deliver a better-than-average script and deliver it on time. Good things were being said about me in certain corners as a result.

About a month later I answered a call for a writer on a graphic novel project. I needed to submit several samples of my work, both in script and prose format. Thanks to the previously failed project, I had some sample scripts on hand, something I might not have had otherwise. I combined them with a few chapters of my latest novel and sent the package off to the editor. It took several weeks, and a few more hoops to jump through, but eventually I won the gig. While I’m not at liberty to discuss the project in any kind of detail, I can say that it has been a terrific undertaking. I’m very excited about the end product and can’t wait until I can let the cat out of the bag and talk about it in public.

And so it went.

I stayed in touch with people and people stayed in touch with me. At one point I touched base with one of the artists I had met at the show, to congratulate him on a project he’d recently announced. We got to talking about his publisher, Markosia Comics. One thing led to another and I ended up asking for his editor’s email address, figuring that sending out another proposal packet for the Chronicles couldn’t hurt. I was glad I did, for the editor, Harry Markos, the man behind Markosia, very quickly got back to me, asking to see the novel. Before I knew it, Harry was offering to acquire the rights to the book and turn it into a six issue mini-series. I accepted. Chuck Satterlee was hired to adapt it into comic format and Loren Meyer was hired to do the artwork. The rest, as they say, is history.

Heretic: The Templar Chronicles will see publication as a six issue comic mini-series this winter. I couldn’t be happier about the additional exposure the novel series will get as a result and the contract has already resulted in my taking on additional work on other comic related projects.

All because of my interest in comics.

What are you interested in? What additional media opportunities are available for the work you are producing now or have produced in the past? Where can you make one of your existing works step up and work harder for you and your career?

You might be surprised at where your work will take you. I know I was.

by Joe Nassise

Last night the formal announcement was made via press release that Markosia Comics in the UK had acquired the rights to adapt my novel HERETIC into a six issue comic mini-series. As I’ve always been a big comic book lover, this was very exciting news for me (and something that I’ve just been dying to tell people about for the last few months as we worked through the contract details) and I’m psyched that it’s come to fruition. As I was looking over the column I had already prepared for this month, I decided to put that on the back burner and talk about something else.

Specifically, how (and why) I chose to pursue getting HERETIC adapted into comic format.

I’ve been reading comics since I was a kid. I’m not attached to any particular style or character or company – I just peruse the shelves every couple of weeks and grab whatever catches my eye. If I like something, I’ll chase down back issues if necessary or continuing buying the series as it goes along. I’m not much attracted to the big marketing events like Marvel’s Civil War that’s going on right now. I prefer shorter story arcs, along the lines of four to six issue mini series. The last two mainline series I’ve spent time reading have been Wraithborn by Joe Benitez and Marcia Chen and Hunter Killer by Marc Silvestri and Mark Waid. In the last month I’ve also enjoyed series by independent comic producers, like Midnight Kiss by Ryan Stegman and Tony Lee, The Black Coat by Ben Lichius, Adam Cogan, and Francesco Francavilla, and Elsinore by Ken Lillie-Paetz and Brian Denham. My tastes are varied and wide ranging, but I am always looking for strongly told stories with artwork to match.

When it comes to my writing, I work off of the scenes I see unfolding in my head. I “see” them as I write, which gives my writing a certain cinematic quality, according to some of my critics – long on action and excitement and short on character development. While I’m not 100% in agreement with them, I do admit to certain shortcomings in this area and I gave some thought as to how I might use turn those shortcomings into an advantage. Almost immediately the idea of bringing the Templar Chronicles to comic format came to mind – it would allow the cinematic nature of my writing to shine while at the same time mate my text with art that graphically displays the action sequences. The art itself would also help portray some of the character development that is sometimes overshadowed in my writing by the action.

Of course, I knew nothing about comics from the business standpoint. At that point, the sum total of my knowledge was:

– I knew I liked them.

– I knew there were a few major giants in the industry with a lot of independent companies trying to get a date to the dance running at their heels.

– I knew that I’d need an artist.

But that was it. (Oddly enough, I knew even less about writing when I sat down to work on my first novel, so I wasn’t overwhelmed or stressed out at my lack of knowledge, I just knew I needed to expand it significantly. Understanding the market is always an important part of publishing, regardless of the medium you are operating within.)

So I set out to learn as much as I could about the players in the game. I learned very quickly that the majority of the market share is made up of comics produced by the two to four companies, with the biggest being Marvel and DC (oaky, so I knew that already too, but it was interesting to see what the numbers really were saying.) I learned that breaking into these two companies with little to no direct comic experience was going to be tough. It also came to my attention that for most of the companies that were inclined to accept submissions from outsiders, I would need to put together a complete package, including a sample cover, several pages of sequential art, and a full script to go with it.

I figured that my best bet was getting in with some of the up and comers among the independent firms. They were more prone to look at creator owned properties and while the pay wouldn’t be as good I was confident that I could broker a better deal with respect to things like merchandising rights.

I still needed an artist, however. And not just an artist, but more than likely a team consisting of a penciler (who draws the original art), an inker (who adds highlights, emphasis, shadows, etc by inking the art), and a colorist (who adds color to the inked drawing.) I would more than likely also need a letterer (who would add the text to the pages). Not knowing anyone with these skills, I began to build my network. I hang out on comic bulletin boards, looking at samples and listening to the folks in the industry. I began to get an idea of what style of art I wanted to the Chronicles and what kind of deal I could offer those who might be interested. Eventually, after several months, I had put together an excellent team of guys who were good at their individual skills and hungry enough to work with me in putting together a submission package. Not too long after that, we had some excellent character concepts and several pages of penciled, inked, and colored sequential art.

I was really happy with what we put together and so I got to work – presenting it would be my job. I got on the phone and reached out to talk with editors at several comic companies, requesting permission to show them the project while at the San Diego Comic Con in July of 2005. I flew in for two whirlwind days and met with eight to ten editors, from companies ranging from Top Cow to Image to Platinum Studios.

Then I sat back to wait.

(Next month I’ll tell you just how valuable those face to face meetings turned out to be. Like the new Ford commercials say, bold moves sometimes pay off.)