Publishing Part I: That Perfect First Sentence

Hello everyone! You thought you were rid of me, but I'm back. For the last few years I've leaned on the excuse that platform building took too much time away from actual writing as justification for abandoning my blog, twitter account, Facebook page, etc, etc. Well, after four years of working on it, my WIP manuscript is to the point where I either have to focus on publishing or move on with life. So as I attempt CPR on my blog (I know some of you have heard this before) I'm going to ruminate in a few blog posts on the topic of publishing.

There are, essentially, three avenues for publishing: 1) the old-fashioned, "big 5"  route, in which you court an agent who represents you in a sales pitch for the big publishing giants. 2) The small press route, where you pursue smaller companies who take direct submissions from writers but still provide editors and art departments, etc. And 3) The self-publishing route, where you do everything yourself.

For now, let's examine the traditional route, though much of what I'll talk about is relevant regardless of the publishing route you choose, as you need many of the same components to court a would-be reader as you would a prospective agent or publisher.

Most literary agents require some variation of the following: a query letter, a synopsis, and the first ten pages of your manuscript. I will tackle each, further breaking down the "first ten pages" into a perfect first page and even the perfect first sentence. These opening words are often all you get to impress a busy agent who likely has a slush pile of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of queries.

Let's start gentle... The first sentence. 

The first sentence is supposed to be your hook. It introduces the novel and hopefully draws the reader in so that it's impossible not to keep reading. It may be superficial to judge a book solely by its first sentence, but let's face it, this is how the world works. As "they" say, you never get a second chance to make a first impression, and this is your chance to make yours.

To tackle this topic, let's examine the first sentences from five books on my bookshelf. To minimize pre-conceived bias, I won't identify which books they are from, but I will say that they are all heavy hitters, including a Pulitzer Prize winner, a megaclassic in fantasy, a megaclassic in science fiction, and two contemporary NY Times Bestsellers. Also mixed in is my own first sentence, just to see how it stands up. So dig in and let me know in the comments which you think is best. I'll reveal which book each was from and do a short analysis in a future blog post.

So...in random order, let's dive in:

1) First there was nothing. Then there was everything.

    Okay, so that was actually two sentences, but since they were short and intimately connected, I included them both.

2) "Ninety-eight--Ninety-nine--One hundred."

    This one starts with dialogue. Effective? Let me know if the comments...

3) His wife’s scream the day she was taken would haunt him at the moment of his death.

   A bit macabre. Do you want to know more?

4) "Oh dear," Linus Baker said, wiping sweat from his brow. "This is most unusual."

    Again, technically two sentences. But it just didn't have the intended kick without them both.

5) If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are.

    The longest of the opening sentences. Effective? Comment below if you think so (or not).

6) The island of Gont, a single mountain that lifts its peak a mile above the storm-racked Northeast Sea, is a land famous for wizards.

    This one gives a little setting. Is it effective in building intrigue? Comment below.

That's it, ladies and gentlemen. If you have thoughts on which of these works best and why (or any other comments) I hope to hear from you below. Look out for analysis and a reveal of which book each is from to come! 

Read the Next Part of the Series Here:

Part II: The Perfect First Page 

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions 

One-year Blogiversary and Thoughts on the Author's Platform

A year has passed since I penned my first blog post. For nearly a decade prior I wrote in blissful solitude, convinced that the strength of my manuscript alone would be enough to propel my work to a sizeable, lucrative audience. It was just over a year ago, however, when I began querying my last novel manuscript, that numerous authoritative sources informed me this was a dream of fools.

Authors can no longer rely on publishers or agents or anyone else to launch a successful marketing campaign, they said. Authors are responsible for it all themselves. 

Books have been published elucidating strategies for the so-dubbed "author's platform." In fact, a fair number of writers, like Jane Friedman, have built careers largely on marketing and platform advice for aspiring authors.

Generally speaking, platform advice is mostly redundant and basically rather simple: be omnipresent and diffusely visible. Use every available  tool on social media and the internet to build an audience and promote yourself and your work.

The problem now is that this playbook is no longer a secret. Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of writers are all marketing using the same methods: gain heaps of Twitter followers, join writing groups on Facebook, entertain fans with pithy anecdotes on Instagram, Google Plus, Pinterest, LinkedIn, etc etc. Not only must you scribe amazing stories, you must become a world-class marketer. But with all these hordes of wannabes (like me) all shouting for attention, it feels a bit like being in a football stadium, trying for your own voice to stand out among the roaring applause of so many others.

My author platform experiment is now a year old. In honor of this occasion, I will step back and take a quick look at what I have gained and what I have learned. Here are some thoughts about blogging, author platforms, and being a modern aspiring novelist.

THE PROS

Twelve months of delving into the blogosphere and the universe of social media has without question taught me an assortment of valuable lessons and opened my mind to a whole underground world of likeminded scriveners not so different than myself.

The habit of writing

Regular blogging forces me to write and write often. Weekly (or sometimes more) blog posts encouraged me to plumb my creative depths and explore all sorts of topics, many of which I may never have written about otherwise.

Writing Buddies

In real life, I know a handful of writers. Joining into the conversation on Twitter has opened an international community of likeminded, amazing and friendly writers to my disposal. I have learned a great deal from these colleagues and peers by reading their work and interacting with them on a daily basis. It has been great to have a community of international friends to share the unique plights we face as writers in the 21st century.

Feedback

One of the things I miss about my days in college (other than the vibrant social life) is having workshops and writing groups for gaining that all-important critical feedback from other talented writers. Through the networks of social media, I have been able to get eyes on my work that have proven invaluable for my professional growth as an author.

THE CONS

Overwhelming Competition

I do not think of writers as competition. As individuals I think of them more like colleagues or companions-in-arms. However, as a whole it was overwhelming at first to realize how many great writers are out there penning incredible novels, most of which likely will not achieve commercial success. How do I measure against these hordes? Truly unique ideas, you quickly come to realize, are nearly impossible.

So Many Great, Unsuccessful Writers 

Success comes by many definitions. Commercial sales, movie offers and major awards are not the only measuring sticks for one's "success." However, for a person who has basically committed to making a career out of writing, a certain threshold of sales is necessary to reach that point where I could support myself by writing alone. Though much of the self-published writing I have read or attempted to read is a clear cut below what the titans of the industry are producing, there remains a shocking number of highly skilled, innovative and talented indie/small press writers who have not seen the large-scale success I think they deserve. Why is this?

Time Singularity
Blogging and platform building slurps up time I used to spend just on writing. Perhaps that's why even with a full-time job I was once able to write a 275,000 word novel in the same amount of time it took me to write the 110,000 word project that is my current novel-in-progress. Life is complicated, and full of complexities of so many varieties. All this platform construction has become a black hole, eating precious hours that I can scarcely afford. I have reached a point where I begin to wonder if the benefits outweigh this cost.

MY PLAN TO IMPROVE

Innovator

In order to be successful, writers (or anyone in a capitalistic system) need to stay ahead of the curve. So simply following the formula written out by others is probably no longer going to cut it. My goal for the future is to collapse the mold I have been stuck in and innovate new ways to promote my work, ways that can help me draw an audience and generate interest and great content that is worthy of the world.

Focus

I have enjoyed writing about all sorts of strange topics in my blog. At times I have even been proud of it. The truth is, however, that successful blogs are focused. They take on a single topic in a new and original (or very clever) way. This will focus the appeal. Otherwise, the only appeal I have is my voice as a writer. As an unproven writer, I probably don't have the credibility even to convince people to put their eyes on my work, let alone hand on my every word and tweet. But what could this focused topic could be. Writing? Outdoors? Hiking? Climbing? All of these topics, the things into which I have poured what expertise I possess, have basically reached market saturation.

EXEUNT

I allowed a little time after the turn of the new year for a break from blogging. My little corner of webspace has become quite a drain on hours in my life. I decided to devote this creative time and energy to my work-in-progress, which I am pleased to say will reach the end of its third draft sometimes in the next two weeks. Once I have reached this goal, the new plan is to step away from this manuscript and focus on other projects, which might include this blog. I have found one of the best ways to refresh and improve on a project is to step away from it and return with new eyes.

In the meantime, I appreciate all of my followers and hope to continue to entertain and interact with all of you in the future.
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If you enjoyed this post, consider signing up for my mailing list. When not focused on one of my numerous novel projects, I blog about all sorts of crazy, educational, entertaining, and occasionally funny topics from what makes an effective first paragraph to giant redwoods, medieval sailboats, the ancient Mayans and more. If you do sign up, you will get a once-a-week update on my posts and NOTHING ELSE! No spam, no selling your email to third parties. Okay, if I ever get around to publishing one of these works in progress that are constantly haunting me, I might send out an email letting you know. In the meantime thanks for reading!

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions 

Work in Progress Live on Wattpad

You can now read a serialized portion of one of my novels-in-progress on Wattpad. Wattpad users can also vote and comment. The more views and votes I receive, the more exposure and the more I'm able to build a reader base.

Synopsis:

1,692 years after "The Great Death" nearly forced humanity into extinction, culture and society has returned to North America. A tenuous union of four semi-autonomous kingdoms is celebrating its 300th anniversary but a surprise victory by the least likely (and least desired) candidate for supreme chancellor threatens to break the realm apart into war.

Fans of Game of Thrones or The First Law series will enjoy many familiar elements in this broad, multiple point-of-view epic, but don't expect a copy cat. The distinctly North American setting coupled with several other unique features makes The Razed Ruins a fresh and original twist on a familiar genre.

Click here or on the image below to start reading!

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

Seducing Your Readers With a Perfect Page One

The perfect first page. Everything hinges on it.

Agents and publishers, readers and critics will snap-judge your piece, perhaps not even consciously, by those opening words. Call it unfair. Call it superficial. But as writers we work in the attention industry, and now more than ever there are a innumerable suitors for a person's attention. You have one page to convince them that your voice is worth listening to. One chance to seduce them into the intimate relationship that is the writer/reader.

What makes a seductive first page? There is no fine-cut answer. If there was, everybody would know it and everybody would do it. But like courtship there are a few things people who are good at it instinctively know that the rest of us blunder to emulate.

The Tease

In some allegorical way, seducing readers
is not much different than courtship

The subtle art of the tease. The careful transmission of hints and signals that promise something more. A taste of pretty prose. A gentle brush of the fingertips abruptly retracted. Tease the reader and they will come crawling to you for more.

Draw from the Carnal

The human body is a slave to its desires and emotions. Often it will abandon reason in pursuit of them. Touch on basal human motivations: love, fear, adventure. A writer who taps in to carnal desire draws in the reader implacably.

Make Promises but Give No Satisfaction

You are about to lie to the reader. Fiction, after all, is a synonym for lies. Force them to suspend their disbelief with promises of your talent: gorgeous writing, world-building so visceral it breathes, story twisted with mystique. Raise questions the reader must have answered. Hold those answers close until that perfect moment of revelation.

Avoid Too Much Makeup

Dressing prose too extravagantly renders it superficial. Understatement and word economy give the reader the pleasure of thinking they unwound the clues for themselves even if you guided them every step of the way. Great writers say more with less. Avoid the accouterments of desperation. Highlight strengths but keep it classy.

Leave Out Discussions of Marriage

Pushing a reader too far too fast is a quick way to frighten them back into the shadows. Prime them for a thrilling ride; don't heave your story and your prose at them with groping abandon. The most important stuff, the grand finale, should come with flawless timing.

MODEL

Enough of the allegory and the double entendre. Let's move to something concrete.

Here is the first paragraph (the maximum amount I'm comfortable posting here without risking copyright violation) of The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin. This novel and its sequel The Obelisk Gate were both winners of the Hugo Award, one of the most prestigious prizes in speculative fiction. I am using this example because it worked seamlessly on me. It exemplifies many of the qualities I've tried to articulate in this post. 

The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin provides
a well-crafted example of an excellent
first page

Let’s start with the end of the world, why don’t we? Get it over with and move on to more interesting things.

First, a personal ending. There is a thing she will think over and over in the days to come, as she imagines how her son died and tries to make sense of something so innately senseless. She will cover Uche’s broken little body with a blanket—except his face, because he is afraid of the dark—and she will sit beside it numb, and she will pay no attention to the world that is ending outside. The world has already ended within her, and neither ending is for the first time. She’s old hat at this by now.

This powerful beginning strikes at profound basal emotions and simultaneously raises questions the reader needs answered.

"Let's start with the end of the world...Get it over with and move on to more interesting things."

We have something provocative, an apocalypse, but also the promise of "things" even more interesting. This sentence oozes with tension, intrigue and the possibility of adventure.

Next comes a strikingly powerful yet understated scene: a mother laying a blanket over the broken body of her deceased son. The little touch that she doesn't cover his face because he is "afraid of the dark" speaks volumes in just a few words. No need for over-explanation, so much is learned about the setting, the character and the plot one simple stroke of the author's pen. The reader gets an immediate sense of the child's age, his vulnerability, and, thereby, the weight of this tragedy. There is no need to explicitly state the main character's heartbreak or her driving motivations.

This short excerpt is a tease that begs for more. How did the child die? How did the world end? And wait, the world has ended before and the main character has experienced the end of both worlds, within and without, previously?

So many questions. Such tantalizing courtship. This is the type of finely crafted first page I strive for. One that strikes powerful emotional chords and seduces the reader with promises of tension, excitement and adventure. The stage for what promises to be a powerful, exciting and emotional novel is set in just seven sentences.

I am compelled to read on.
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If you enjoyed this post, consider signing up for my mailing list. When not making allegorical comparisons between writing and courtship, I blog about all sorts of crazy, educational, entertaining, and occasionally funny topics from what makes an effective first paragraph to giant redwoods, medieval sailboats, the ancient Mayans and more. If you do sign up, you will get a once-a-week update on my posts and NOTHING ELSE! No spam, no selling your email to third parties. Okay, if I ever get around to publishing one of these works in progress that are constantly haunting me, I might send out an email letting you know. In the meantime thanks for reading!

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions 

Fireproof and Over a Foot Thick: Dealing With Negative Criticism

As I shake the dust of sleep from stiff limbs, I fall into my morning routine: Fire up the coffee, let the dog out to put a little yellow water on the backyard fence, flick on the computer to check my status in the world of the interweb (views on my website, Facebook likes, Twitter notifications, yadda, yadda). Alas, I find a DM in my Twitter message feed that looks like something other than the usual automated spam. Two months into my great Twitter experiment and mostly pleased thus far with the result, I am anxious to read on.

But as I start to read, my coffee mug halts forgotten a quarter inch from my lips.

Hate mail! What?

Don't let critics burn you like they burn me

Apparently I've offended someone. A paraphrase of their message:  This is ridiculous. This is awful. How could anyone hold this opinion? You trivialize everything we real writers do.

In short, I am dumb, a bad writer, intellectually worthless, and offensive. Worst of all, it is quite clear that the person did not even read the article in question but made the snap judgement based on the title alone. 

I feel sick. It seems like a lot of hate over a rather bland how-to article. How can so much judgement be channeled my way based on a seven-word title hardly representative of my full thesis? 

How do I react to this torrent of nastiness? I try to collect my cool and form a response coated with a thin, non-patronizing glaze of honey. 

Me: Did you read the article? I think you will see that the opinion you are criticizing is actually only one part in the puzzle. 

Response: You couldn't pay me to read your article. (verbatim)

I must admit, I am highly offended. I want to load up my biggest guns and fire back. Something terrible that will tear as big of hole in the offender as they have torn in me. 

Perhaps overly meek, I settle on: How rude! It's a mark of our shortcomings as a culture that we put so much stock in mere titles without verifying the substance of the article for ourselves. I wish you the best of luck with your writing. 

Then I do something I've never done before on Twitter, block him. I'm too much of a coward to read his response.

My mood is thoroughly soured. My pleasant morning is now stained with gloom. Plans to plow through 3,000 words on my current work-in-progress no longer sound fun. Instead, I opt for a hike in the rain.

The Thing About Redwoods

There are many lessons that can be learned from a redwood tree. They are the tallest trees on Earth. They are near the oldest as well. The stand silent, modest, un-boastful in their grandeur. They let their beautiful work, the millennia (yes, that's right) of growth stand for itself. They look down on the rest of us, unconcerned as we dither about hyper-focused on our useless problems. And their bark, which can grow more than a foot thick, is nearly fireproof.

The bark of a redwood is nearly fireproof

I admit that I have thin skin. Criticism eats at me like acid on a glass etching. More than once I've woken in the middle of the night, rolling and tossing as I agonized about some stupid thing somebody has said to me. As much as I work on it, as much as I try to convince myself it doesn't matter, it does.

As a writer, I'm told this could be a problem.

The social media age has ushered in a new time where anonymous "haters" have been given the ultimate platform to vomit their nastiness un-filtered for all the world to see. Even the most brilliant artists, writers, athletes, politicians, and people among us are subjected to the most hyper-critical, mean-spirited criticism in history. It's terrible. It demeans us all as a world culture. Things that would never be said to a person's face are said to their digital avatars with reckless abandon. Uncaring, un-empathetic hate. 

How do we handle this volume of criticism? Bury our heads in the sand and wait for it to pass? Respond with sugar? Saccharin? Even more vigorous hate? Writers are a group often prone to withdrawing from social confrontation. That's partly why we hide our words in paper and on the computer screen. As a result, however, we are thrust into a world where we are viewed as faceless names on a page and judged harshly for works that we poured our blood, sweat and souls into. A single missed typo, a careless bit of punctuation, a bad paragraph, can be enough for people to launch into a vicious tirade against us on social media, talking about how bad our writing is, how dumb we are, how worthless our hard work is. Imagine if you took an entire year's worth of work for a carpenter and took to social media bashing them for the one nail they didn't quite pound flat.

I suppose I have to learn from the redwood. Grow bark so thick as to render me nearly fireproof. To poke skyward until the opinions of others are so far beneath me that I no longer hear them. Why should I care anyway? Those critics will come and go in such a blink and I'll stand for centuries after they've moved on. 

Until then, I am but a tiny sapling, unable to dodge the harsh, steel-toed boots of my enemies.

If you enjoyed this post, consider signing up for my mailing list. I blog about all sorts of crazy, educational, entertaining, and occasionally funny topics from what makes an effective first paragraph in a novel to giant redwoods, medieval sailboats, the ancient Mayans and more. If you do sign up, you will get a once-a-week update on my posts and NOTHING ELSE! No spam, no selling your email to third parties. Okay, if I ever get around to publishing one of these numerous books I've been working on for years, I might send out an email letting you know. In the meantime thanks for reading.

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

What Writing Fantasy Taught Me About Horses

I come from a family rich in ranching history but I'm terrified of getting bucked off a horse.

Or kicked. I've seen the roped muscles of a horse's legs flexing and bulging as it marched along a mountain trail. There's more power in just one of those thighs than in three of me. I can imagine, with the full verisimilitude that is every writer's curse, how it would feel if that steel-shoed hoof directed its full angst into the fragile architecture of my knee. With an audible split of bone and sinew, my day, week and probably month would be thoroughly ruined.

Needless to say, I don't know squat about horses.

Of course, horses play a key role in almost every high fantasy ever written simply because, since some form of pseudo-medieval setting is essentially a requirement of the genre, they are the only non-mechanical, non-magical means of relatively quick transportation. Working on a project with the goal of a realistic portrayal of fine details requires a painstaking degree of research. Obviously, some whetting of my non-existent horse knowledge was required. Most of this research was centered around horse gait.

A horse in a four-beat walk gait (PD US)

What follows is a basic understanding of the specific types of horse gait. Perhaps it can augment the realism of your writing project as it did for mine:

Walk
A walk is a horse's slowest pace. It is a four-beat gait that averages around 4 mph (about 6.5 km/h). There is even a specific sequence to a horse's walk: left hind, left forward, right hind, right forward. A horse's head will also bob up and down to help it maintain balance. See the gif to right for an illustration.

Trot
Forget your scouts and messengers hauling ass across the kingdom at breakneck speeds, this is as fast as your riders are going to travel (unless of course you have one of the Mearas, like Shadowfax, with wizard-like wit and stamina). A trot is known as a horse's "working gait" as they can sustain it for very long periods of time. It averages around 8 mph (13 km/h). It is a two-beat gait, as the horse moves its legs together in diagonal pairs.

Canter
The canter is like a slow gallop, except it is a three-beat gait that averages 10-17 mph (16-27 km/h). Like a gallop it cannot be sustained. The term canter is thought to be short for "Canterbury gallop." It would behoove you not to make the mistake I once made and interchange this word for its homonym "cantor," which has a very different meaning....

A horse's 4-beat gallop (PD US)

Gallop
It is a common trope (and complete falsity) of Hollywood that a horse can sustain a gallop for long periods of time. In fact, like a human sprinter, a horse can only gallop in short intense bursts. This is exactly why the track for the Kentucky Derby is only 1.25 miles long. The gallop is a four-beat gait that averages around 25-30 mph (40-48 km/h) with the fastest ever recorded clocking in around 55 mph (88 km/h). The gif to the right illustrates the gallop clearly, showing the four-beat pattern and the moment of "suspension" when all four hooves are off the ground.

There it is, the basics of horse gait. The things we learn in the labor of our books! If you are a thorough researcher, you probably knew all of this already. Or perhaps you didn't care. It's fantasy, after all, why would it have to be accurate? For me, however, a bit of realism in certain aspects of a novel helps suspend my disbelief for others.

I have other rambling, barely coherent blog posts on things like pre-writing for your novel, surviving your rough draft and more. Sign up for my weekly email updates and I will love you forever (or least reciprocate by checking out and signing up for your blog!)

BONUS: Here is a video of a cat who spent too much time around a barn watching dressage horses:

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

Angels & Demons: The Two Faces of Holy Cross

It is Colorado’s most mythical mountain.

At the head of a gray basin whose old-growth conifers give way to gumdrop glacial boulders, where a winding crystalline stream dumps over gray ledges through deep pools and over tall cascades, Mount of the Holy Cross stands guard with its stern, weather-worn face.

Holy Cross, a 14er in Colorado

We stood at a kink in Half Moon Trail, lost in wonderment by our first look at one of Colorado’s most impressive sights. “That mountain is dangerous,” we were warned by concerned family members. “No one should ever climb that peak.” It seemed like a lot of fuss for a mountain that garnered a paltry class 2 rating. But of the many climbs my wife, Ella, and I have attempted over the years, perhaps only Capitol Peak generated a more negative reaction from our family and non-climbing friends. For me, however, encountering the stark beauty of that great mountain for the first time is one of the most powerful and emotional memories from my mountaineering life.

In my opinion, Mount of the Holy Cross is the crown jewel of the Sawatch Range, a spine of peaks in the center of the state that includes many famous summits such as Mt. Elbert, Mt. Massive, Mt. Princeton and La Plata. Holy Cross’s rugged north and east faces seem out of character in a range dominated by sleepy giants with long, relatively gentle slopes. The craggy, boulder-strewn basin into which the famous cross drains feels out-of-place, almost as if it was plucked out of more rugged neighboring ranges and dropped randomly here, 13 miles southwest of Vail.  

The postcard image of Colorado’s rood in the sky has inspired believers and non-believers alike ever since an 1873 photo by William H. Jackson first proved true the rumors of a mountain bearing the holy crucifix. It was featured in an oil painting by famed landscape artist Thomas Moran, as well as a poem entitled “The Cross of Snow” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. For decades the ostensible sign from God drew zealots and fanatics to make pilgrimages to the mountain to witness it. And the great cross of snow did not disappoint.

In contemporary times, the fervor surrounding the religious iconography of this diminutive 14er (the 3^rd lowest of Colorado’s 14,000-foot peaks) has waned dramatically. The peak, however, continues to draw alpine and mountaineering enthusiasts from all over the world. Its popularity, combined with some unique and challenging terrain and a series of tragic and semi-mysterious accidents, has lent the mountain a new reputation. One of mystery, menace and danger.

Holy Cross has been called the “Bermuda Triangle” of the Colorado high country. So numerous have been the rescues, accidents and near-misses that people have come to view the area as cursed. The Holy Cross Wilderness is a rugged and convoluted landscape notorious for misleading trails and terrain that can quickly lead inexperienced and ill-prepared hikers astray. From the primary access point, the Half Moon Trail, hikers and mountaineers on most routes must climb up and over Half Moon Pass before reaching the base of the peak, an undertaking that requires at least 1,000-feet of “wasted” elevation gain in both directions. All of these factors combine to make Holy Cross more difficult and dangerous than your average class 2 Sawatch 14er.

Of all the accidents and rescues documented in the wilderness surrounding Holy Cross, two incidents in particular provided the most potent fuel for the emerging mythos of Colorado’s most mysterious mountain.

In June of 2010, a 31 year-old man from Chicago named James Nelson went missing while on a 5-day backpack trip in the Holy Cross Wilderness. Despite an exhaustive search that included over 100 volunteers, the days turned to weeks and the weeks into years and still no sign of the missing man was found. It wasn’t until more than two years later that his tattered campsite was spotted near an abandoned mining camp, and his remains were found at last. An investigation of the years-old scene, revealed no evidence of foul play. However, a journal may have indicated he was afflicted by altitude sickness. Still today, however, it is difficult to draw firm conclusions about what happened to Nelson, and the events surrounding his death are somewhat shrouded in mystery.

An even more disturbing and prominent incident was the 2005 disappearance of Michelle Vanek, a 35-year-old mother of four. Vanek along with her climbing partner had attempted Halo Ridge, a long and circuitous route that traverses several sub peaks including Holy Cross Ridge (Colorado’s 91^st highest mountain), en route to the summit of Mount of the Holy Cross. Halo Ridge is known for its up-and-down terrain and long exposure to the above-treeline elements. Just five-hundred vertical feet shy of the summit but out of food and water, Vanek decided she was too exhausted to continue and gave her partner permission to go ahead to the summit. When he returned, however, there was no sign of Vanek. Despite the largest search in Colorado history, with over 700 people committed to the cause, no trace of Vanek was ever seen again.

*          *          *

The morning of our climb for was cool and calm, ideal for an attempt at the mythological Holy Cross. As we packed our climbing bags and departed our camp along the bubbling banks of East Cross Creek, first light cast camellia hues over the basin. Far to the north in the distance, the blade-like summits of the Gore Range cleaved the morning sky. In the ethereal light, the mountains could have been heavenly.

The Gore Range as seen from the trail to Holy Cross

By 9:00 am after a strenuous but non-exposed climb, we stood on the summit in ecstasy. “We made it!” Ella shouted with a hug. A brilliant panorama spread as far as we could see in every direction.

The clear skies had filled with high, horsetail clouds and the wind was beginning to whip at our shirtsleeves. We basked in the commanding beauty of the mountain for half an hour as the morning gradually matured. Knowing what a long day we had ahead, we grudgingly departed the summit and made the long descent back to camp. By the time we broke down our tent, re-packed our bags, and slogged partway up Half Moon Pass to the final overlook where Holy Cross would disappear from view for good, the skies had changed dramatically.

A terrible storm, black and menacing, hovered directly over the serrated mountain. The tempest appeared to be a product of the peak itself, boiling out of its summit and casting doom on the basin below. The mountain looked more evil now than angelic.

A sharp crack of thunder shook us back to reality.

“Come on,” Ella implored anxiously. “We need to get going.” We still had to climb over the open exposure of Half Moon Pass. Warily, I turned my back on Holy Cross, feeling moved by that potent place. Is there something mythical that gives power to Holy Cross? A spiritual vortex or religious portal? Or is it just something innate in the mountain’s rugged beauty and naturally complex terrain?

As we hiked out with forks of lightning stabbing the earth all around us, I couldn’t decide what difference there was between the two anyway.

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Prologue of The Razed Ruins

A tunnel of black, leafless trees closed around the rider. This is no night to die, he thought. But some malice was drawing near, he felt it. Like cold eyes leering through crooked gorse. He glanced over his shoulder. The road was empty. The only sound was the cadenced clop of his horse's hooves on the rime-dusted highway. The only sight the crescent moon darting through the naked branches like some phantom bird. He fixed his gaze ahead where the Great Highway tapered to an inky void.

His horse was exhausted, close to collapse. He'd coaxed the poor beast between trot and canter ever since the letter had landed in his care. His fingers slipped into his lapel pocket and closed around the folded parchment. His mind turned to it more and more.

As a rider in the Order of the Post, ferrying messages all across the realm was his life. But this mission had been unprecedented: he'd been tasked to carry a single letter.

Post riders, "featherfoots" as they were called, never made such a long journey for a solitary parcel. It was simple economics. This detail of the commission alone had raised his guard. Even more unnerving, however, was the seal melted over the folded corner: the double eagles of the Supreme Chancellor.

It was reprehensible for a letter's seal to break, especially if the seal in question was of the royal palace. Even worse, though, it had been under his care when the parchment worked free. 

The letter arrived at his station in the hand of a featherfoot he'd never before seen. A sum of three gold pikes was offered for the effort, more than double the usual rate. He'd been thrilled by his lucky chance. But now, this deep into the hated North, he'd give the coins back and more to return and refuse.

He'd pulled out the letter subconsciously. Again. He knew the addressee by heart:

Commander-in-Charge, The Shield

The Shield. He shivered. He didn't envy the featherfoot on the next leg of the journey who'd have to traverse through there.

Yes, reading the letter was forbidden. And yes, he eventually failed the test. It inscribed by a hasty hand:

Lock down the dragon. 83-32-7279. Nobody in or out. Await further instructions.

-SG

He knew it all now by heart. Lock down the dragon. For the thousandth time he guessed what it meant. Probably it was code to shield the true meaning from prying eyes. Like his. But the initials, S.G., combined with the seal of the Chancellor, made it hard not to assume that the hurried-but-still-tidy handwriting could belong to none other than the Supreme Chancellor herself.

And there was the Shield. Every man, woman and child in all four kingdoms knew the tales about it. The rider's bowels stirred with excitement and dread. Maybe it's not code at all. Maybe the old legends are true.

As night lengthened, so did its merciless teeth. The rider snugged his wool cloak. I hate the North. He was a man of Rocklands and felt like an intruder when ordered to make deliveries in Dehn. It was a strange land, with evil, barren landscapes and grim, dark-haired people who spoke in coarse tongues. At times, he rode through Pent or even Seldor for weeks, and though the culture there was quite different than back home, he never felt nearly as out-of-place as he did in Dehn for even the briefest visit.

 At times, he rode through Pent or even Seldor for weeks, and though the culture there was quite different than back home, he never felt nearly as out-of-place as he did in Dehn for even the briefest visit.

The glowing stationhouse windows blinked through a break in the trees, blazing like beacons in the colorless wilderness. It should have been comforting—something familiar in an alien sea—but instead, it only re-kindled his dread.

A letter from the Supreme Chancellor delivered to me by an unknown featherfoot. Destination: the Shield. Seal broken. Me responsible. The whole thing was ludicrous. How could he have been so foolish?

He eased his horse to a stop and dismounted gracefully. With a deep breath, he flattened his gray tunic, which bore only the winged foot that was the emblem of the Order. He didn't bother lashing his horse to the tethering pole. As soon as the letter was delivered he planned to commence the return south immediately, even if that meant riding through the night.

With the closed door in front of him, he straightened his back and sucked down a slow inhale. Forging his face into a look of confidence, the rider rapped the wood three times.

"Enter!" 

Inside, a ribald man lounged with his feet propped on a low table. His oily, shoulder-length hair formed a messy curtain over his eyes. Deeply stained fingers clutched a smoldering pipe, smoke billowing like flowing runes . He wore the same insignia on his brown tunic: the winged foot.

"You're late." His voice was throaty and baritone. A pale keloid clove his right eyebrow.

"Where's the stationmaster?"

"Off duty." Tobacco haze blurred his face. The rider frowned. It wasn't just unusual, it was counter to codified featherfoot principles. "You're here for the delivery?"

The rider mined the letter from his pocket. The scarred man rolled his broad figure upright and extended a long arm corded with muscle, hand open expectantly. The rider hesitated then deposited his charge. It should have felt good to be rid of it.

"You broke the seal." An accusation, not a question. The rider retreated a step.

"It came open on its own!" He tapped the hilt of his rapier.

The scarred man stepped forward again, brushing his cloak to the side to reveal a black scabbard and the hilt of his own glistening sword. 

"But the seal is broken. And from your watch. You know the oaths. And this bears the royal seal!"

"I read nothing!"

He laughed. "You're lying. I can see it in your eyes."

The rider gauged his odds against the much larger man. He'd been selected to the prestigious featherfoot order for being light and fast in the saddle. But after crossing the wide realm too many times to recount he'd learned a thing or two about defense. Still... 

"I would swear to it. Hand on the Holy Book!"

"What man, alone on the Great Highway, could resist such temptation?"

"I did not read the letter!" He tried to sound confident, certain he failed.

The scarred man took another stride forward and the rider, a step back. The dance continued until his back met the door's iron handle. The scarred man stopped, flaring nostrils only feet away.

The scarred man smiled. "I believe you." 

He wheeled away with a laugh. The rider exhaled. 

"I take my vows seriously." The sooner I start back for home the better. He aimed to be as far from this place as possible by daybreak. "Tell you the truth, I'm glad to be rid of it. I want to get back south into Rocklands. It's so—"

He didn't see the knife coming. Only a fleeting glimmer as the cold steel reflected the room's only lamp. His world flipped over in blinding, searing pain. Shocked and speechless, he grasped at the hilt of the blade protruding from his chest. A scarlet rose of blood blossomed down his tunic.

The rider made a feeble attempt to draw his sword, but his strength failed too fast. The scarred man puffed his pipe casually.

As the rider dropped to his knees, then to his side, the world eddied slowly away to black. The last thing he saw was the scarred man neatly placing a hat atop his head and stepping over his body for the door.

READ Next Part: Chapter 1: To The White City

----------------------------------------------------------------------

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THE SILENT STONES

It has been 3,394 days since Paxton Raleigh has seen anyone alive.

After a terrible plague nearly decimates humanity from the face of the world, Paxton has been left alone to deal with the vast emptiness, not too mention the crushing survivor's guilt, alone. But when a strange visitation shatters everything he thought he knew about the post-plague world, Paxton is drawn from the safety of his ranch on an increasingly complicated adventure where his own mind, and even his dreams, might prove to be the biggest threat of all.

Part 1- An Unexpected Visitor
Paxton has a surprise visitation while working on his family's remote ranch that makes him re-think everything he thought he knew about the post-apocalyptic world.

Part 2- Gathering His Life
Paxton gathers everything he needs for a journey to the empty town of Glenwood Springs, a place he hasn't visited in years. But is it as empty as he thought?

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DENOUEMENT

Crossing the Rhine River in Germany 1945

The story of Albert Aldrich: writer, stoner, caretaker of his broken family, and part-time peeping tom. When Albert discovers a long-forgotten cache of his grandfather's journals, he embarks on a quest to tell his grandfather's story. He might create a better ending for them both.

In this sprawling epic novel, readers get both the story of Albert Aldrich, a broken and troubled young writer, and of Micky McKeever, his war-ravaged grandfather. While Albert attempts to bring meaning to his disappointing and downwardly spiraling existence, he encounters an outspoken city-girl who might strike the perfect balance to his rural Alaskan life. Mick, on the other hand, is a wildly popular musician and a GI in the 89th Infantry. Mick meets a gorgeous and independent nurse named Cassie and the two strike a thrilling romance with the worst possible timing.

The two narratives of Albert and Mick come together with fantastic complexity as Albert struggles to fashion a better denouement for them both.

Novel excerpts:

Prologue- The Storm
A crabbing boat is in trouble in a Bering Sea storm and the Captain grapples with life and the state of his soul.

Part 1- Albert in Alaska
Albert Aldrich struggles to balance his life as a writer, caretaker of his family and full-time enthusiast of marijuana.

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The Silent Stones: Gathering His Life

Map of the post apocalyptic Glenwood Springs, Colorado

Back at the house that night, Paxton was trying to play the guitar. Just four days earlier, while working in the south garden, he’d felt the unexpected inspiration to pick up the instrument back up, something he hadn’t done in over a year. He’d stopped working that afternoon, instead spending the next eight hours playing almost continuously, running his fingers through every song he could remember, and even some he couldn’t.

But now his stomach felt heavy. He tried to sing a song he’d sung a thousand times before, but his mouth was too dry. After fifteen minutes of half-cocked effort, he placed the guitar back in its case and snapped the latches closed.

He threw down the last gulp of a whiskey bottle from the back of the dusty cabinet.

Paxton resumed his earlier pacing. Darkness had fallen. Culligan stood outside, his silhouette just visible through the window in the faint light of a waxing gibbous. He was staring in, watching Paxton. A pewter kettle swayed lazily above a low-burning fire on the western side of the room. On the wall above it hung various tools for carpentry, horse-shooing, and leather work. Some were antiques, not that that mattered.

Though Paxton had been home over an hour, his boots were still on. Each step dropped with a double-tap on the hardwood floor. He did not pace simply back and forth but in an erratic swirl, visiting nearly every corner of the one-floor, four-bedroom house. Several other lanterns were lit, the house alive with light. This, too, disturbed Culligan, who’d grown accustomed to Paxton’s self-imposed darkness.

A plate of boiled beans was growing cold on a table near the fire. Paxton stumbled upon them occasionally as he pace, pausing each time for a small bite with a wooden fork.

He was talking out loud. Or perhaps to Culligan, who he believed could understand him whether he heard the words or not.

“We shouldn’t go, Culligan. I hate that place. I swore we’d never go back.” He stopped pacing, his eyes blank in thought. “But maybe we need this. It has been four years….” He resumed walking. “I know, Cull! You don’t have to tell me about last time! Why do you think I haven’t gone back?” He returned to the hearth, ladling water into a ceramic mug for tea. “No, it won’t do any good. There is nothing for me there. We can manage, Cull. We got everything we need.”

Paxton sat at his dining room table, looking directly out the window at Culligan who stared back through the glass. He didn’t speak while he ate. He kept picturing the helicopter, combing his mind through the details. His hand trembled as he hoisted his spoon for a bite.

“Yeah,” he said out loud in a tone of reluctant concession. “We have to go.”

Finding some resolution, his hand steadied and he finished his meal.

*

It started raining half an hour later. Culligan swooshed his tail happily when Paxton stepped outside to organize their gear for the following morning. He slid a rocking chair against the wall, dropped his saddle onto a wooden chest, and straightened a rusting horseshoe upright against the porch column. Running his hand on Culligan’s side, he circled to the horse’s front.

“Summer solstice tomorrow.” He walked to the north side of the house to his toolbox where he snatched several items and stuffed them into a canvas satchel. Though town was only 15 miles, he hadn’t made the journey in almost a half-decade. His father had ingrained it into him over and over: it’s always best to be over-prepared. He added a hammer, wrench, multi-tool, three types of knives, measuring tape and several boxes of nails.

He loaded a smattering of tools into the saddle bags: saw, hatchet, matches, knives, can opener, nails, screws, shaving razor, screwdrivers, wrenches, ammo. The plan was to be back that same night, but things did not always go according to plan. “Always be over-prepared, Paxton,” he said out loud, mimicking the sound of his father’s drawl.

Once the usual accoutrements had been assembled, Paxton stepped out from under the eaves to glimpse the stars emerging behind the curtain of rain. The clouds split lengthwise across the sky, undraping a brilliant moon. The rain fell so lightly it was dry as soon as it touched his bare skin. He removed his hat—something he rarely did—and let the fine mist fall on his balding head.

There is one more place I have to go. He stepped out into the night.

*

It wasn’t far, just far enough to be safe had anyone come looking. And there was a time when they had. Of course, Paxton wasn’t in the mood to think about that now.

A half mile up the creek, the entrance was concealed in an insignificant copse of trees away from the trail and prying eyes. Paxton had to crawl to get in. There was an iron gate fitted precisely into a concrete bunker, locked tightly with a bolt-cutter resistant system. People had called his dad crazy for building it.

Eight steps led into the bunker, whose walls, Paxton knew, were two-foot-thick rebar-reinforced concrete. This was where his father kept his finest treasures. Paxton walked underneath row after row of canned gods, some five years beyond their expiration, to the middle segment of the 800 square foot structure. Paxton did not need to search; he went immediately for two ammo cans high on the top-right shelf. The sound of the rusty latches echoed like a firecracker when he flipped them open. Paxton gathered a dozen sets of primary-lithium batteries, testing each on a sleek silver flashlight before dropping them into his satchel.

“Just like new. It pays to buy the best of the best. Now more than ever, eh Cull?” He remembered the horse was back at the house. The rain was intensifying; he could hear it roar down above him. He grabbed a full 1-gallon gas can. Just in case. In the next room, he filled an army-green satchel with rice, jerky, dried fruit and beans and searched through the canned goods, selecting any less than three years past its expiration.

Paxton opened a gun safe in the very back. It was important, even on a short journey, to always have options. “Survival is largely who has the most efficient tool,” his father used to say. “And the better brain to use it.” Paxton grabbed a .50 caliber sniper rifle and his father’s sawed-off shotgun. Those paired with his grandfather’s Colt—which he kept always in hands reach—and a knife or two for the dirty, in-close work and he figured he had the edge in almost any scenario.

Back at the house, Paxton calmed an agitated Culligan and began organizing everything into taxonomized piles on the living room floor. His bedroom closet was lined with rows of nearly indistinguishable white, black or light-blue button-up shirts paired with a handful of vests. He grabbed one of each.

Paxton halted in front of the oval mirror on his mother’s antique apothecary table. Increasingly in recent years his own reflection had become hard to see, like his face had been smudged by a clumsy eraser. There was no logic to it. No reason his eyes—which saw everything else in near-perfect clarity—weren’t up for the task. But the longer he stared the more the details of his face dissolved away into nothing. But tonight every square inch was visible in full verisimilitude. His beard was coarse and uneven. He spotted a gray hair on the left side of his chin. Leaning in closer, he was alarmed to discover it wasn’t alone.

The rain continued and Culligan wandered to a grove of willows away from the house as he sometimes did when he was agitated. Inside, Paxton finally laid down for a few hours’ sleep in the comfort of his own bed. First light we’ll hit the road.

Almost immediately, he was fast asleep.

(Read previous section: An Unexpected Visitor)

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