CHAPTER ONE REVEAL!

     Every Tuesday until The Sun God's Heir goes on promotion January 18th, I will post a new chapter.  The book will officially launch and go on free promotion for five days beginning Wed. January, 18th. If you want to get a jump on reading it, it will, however, be available on Amazon Janurary 4th in eBook format for $.99, and in paperback for $16.99 at The Riverrun Book store in Portsmouth, NH

Elliott

Elliott Baker, Author of The Sun God's Heir: Return

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                          CHAPTER ONE 
                                                            1668, Bordeaux, France

THREE MEN bled out into the dirt.
     René stared at the hand that held the bloody rapier. His hand. Tremors shuddered through his body and down his arm. Droplets of blood sprayed the air and joined the carmine puddles that seeped into the sun-baked earth. He closed his eyes and commanded the muscles that grasped the rapier to release their tension and allow the sword to drop.
     Years of daily practice and pain refused his mind’s order much as they had refused to spare the lives of three men. The heady exultation that filled him during the seconds of the fight drained away and left him empty, a vessel devoid of meaning. He staggered toward an old oak and leaned against its rough bark. Bent over, with one hand braced on the tree, he retched. And again. Still, the sword remained in his hand.
     A cloud shuttered the sun. Distant thunder brushed his awareness and then faded. Rain. The mundane thought coasted through his mind. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and glanced down hoping to see a different tableau. No, death remained death, the only movement, that of flies attracted to a new ocean of sustenance.
     The summer heat lifted the acrid blood-rust smell and forced him to turn his head away. Before him stretched a different world from the one in which he had awakened. No compass points. No maps. No tomorrow.
   The Maestro.
     The mere thought of his fencing master filled him with both reassurance and dread. René slid the rapier into the one place his training permitted, its scabbard. He walked over to where the huge black stallion stamped his impatience, and pulled himself into the saddle.
      Some impulse caused him to turn his head one last time. The sunlight that surrounded the men flickered like a candle in the wind, and the air was filled with a loud buzzing sound. Although still posed in identical postures of death, three different men now stared sightless.
     Their skin was darker than the leather tanned sailors. Each wore a short linen kilt of some kind that left their upper bodies naked. As strange as the men appeared, their weapons were what drew René’s eye. The swords were archaic; sickle shaped and appeared to be forged of bronze. These men wore different faces and yet their eyes—somehow he knew they were the same sailors he had just killed. René blinked and there before him the original three men lay unmoved. Dead.
For an instant his mind balked, darkness encircled the edges of his vision.
    Do not anticipate meaning. The Maestro’s voice echoed in his head. Meaning may be ignored, but it cannot be hurried.
    The darkness receded, and he reined the stallion’s head toward home.
                                                                          ***

     René approached the linden shaded lane to the château. The stately trees, their clasped hands steepled over the gravel drive, had always welcomed him. Now they were just a faded backdrop that moved past the corners of his eyes. Could it have been only hours ago that the anniversary of his sixteenth year had presented itself like a gaily wrapped gift waiting for his excited appreciation? The day had dawned as grand as any he had yet experienced, and he had awakened early, eager for the morning’s light.
     “Henri,” he yelled, as he charged down the marble staircase and into the dining room. Breakfast was set and steaming on the polished mahogany table. Burnished silver platters and cream colored porcelain bowls held a variety of eggs, sausages, fruits, and breads. How Henri always seemed to anticipate his entry amazed René.
     “Oui, Master René.” Serene as always, the middle-aged major domo entered the dining room. Henri walked over to the table and poured a cup of tea for René. “ S’il vous plaît, be seated, sir.”
     “I cannot. Maybe a roll and a link of sausage. Henri, do you know what today is?”
Henri paused as if deep in thought. “Thursday. Oui, I am quite sure ’tis Thursday.”
René took a still sizzling sausage from a tray and did his best to fold it within a baguette. “Non, ’tis my birth date,” he managed around a mouthful of sausage and roll.
     “Which one is that, sir?”
     “How do you not know? You were there.”
     “Well, I remember ’twas after the end of the war. Let me see. The war was over in…”
     “Very droll, Henri. Your memory works fine, ’tis your humor that leaves room for improvement. Today is... so... I cannot explain, it feels like anything is possible today.”
“Given that there is still plenty of day left, perhaps you might sit down and eat. I expect you will need all your strength for a day so filled with possibility.”
     “I cannot be late.” René gulped his tea and shoved the rest of the roll and sausage into his mouth.
     “Happy anniversary, Master René.”
     “Merci Henri.” René checked his appearance in one of the grand foyer mirrors, and then strode toward the courtyard. The time had come to present himself to the Maestro.
     René vibrated with excitement. He paused just inside the entrance to the training area. This was no way to face the Maestro. He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and reached for that quiet center. The torrent of chaotic thought stilled and that unique calm of intense focus settled around him. His friends Marc and Anatole sported their weapons in public. René had yet to earn that privilege. Disarming the Maestro was the only way, and since that possibility seemed as remote as the ability to fly, it generated a great deal of frustration.
     Today, however, might be the day.
     He approached the master and bowed, already deep within that inner awareness that catalogued and recorded the location of each element that made up the courtyard. He saw this space with every sense. He knew the groundskeeper had removed marigolds that had overgrown their bed, and that a chair had been added to the small table in its customary place against the lichen streaked courtyard wall.
     René focused on the Maestro’s eyes. A slight man with pale hair, his face could have been struck from marble for all the information it conveyed. The Maestro bowed in return.
     “Begin,” said the master.
René walked to the stack of bricks in the northwest corner of the courtyard. The sound of birdsong faded, along with the warmth of the sun on his neck, the crunch of the dirt beneath his feet, and the breeze on his face. Paradoxically, while his attention narrowed to the bricks in front of him, it expanded to every movement within the courtyard.
     The practice area was fifty paces by fifty paces, with one wall a scarred reminder of the Thirty Years War. Slicing the square into two triangular shapes was a well-worn path that measured a little over seventy feet and led from one corner to its opposite. René lifted the first two of two hundred and forty-one bricks, one in each hand, keeping his wrists straight with the palms down and his arms rigid in front of him. He walked across the courtyard and placed the bricks on the ground, then turned and walked back for two more bricks. Two hundred and forty-one bricks, always one left over like the condemned’s reprise that never arrived.
     The number of times he needed to move the bricks from one side of the courtyard to the other was never fixed, however, it rarely stopped at one. Three moves, sometimes four or five would constitute the day’s beginning. At first, the torturous exercise had left five-year-old René in tears and incapable of lifting his arms, let alone a brick. This day, as René replaced the last brick in its original location, the Maestro spoke.
     “Do you wish to spar with me?”
     And René answered with the only answer, “Oui, Maestro.”
     “Choose your weapon.”
     René settled deeper into that trance-like state where he was able to respond to external conditions much faster than he could think. He selected a rapier from a table of various edged weapons, each one’s deadly mirror bright angles reflected blue in the morning light.
     “En garde,” said the Maestro, as he flowed into position.
     The sparring proceeded evenly, thrust and parry, until René exhibited weakness on his left side—just a touch, a whisper of indecision. The Maestro had a preternatural sense of the feint and was rarely fooled. Although René had long since become comfortable and deadly with either hand, this morning’s strategy required the weapon be held in his left.
     A deep breath here, a slight pause there. He must be subtle beyond the movement of a butterfly’s wing, for he faced the Maestro.
     Rasp.
     The blades slid off each other. René moved to the left, opening his defense for a brief second. As the expected thrust came through, he circled his blade toward the hilt of the Maestro’s and pulled down with all his strength.
     Silence.
      They both stared at the impossible, the Maestro’s blade in the dirt. It was as if a deadly snake had sprouted there.
     The Maestro favored René with a rare smile.
     “You may now arm yourself.” And with that, he leaned down, picked up his sword—checked to see that René remained en garde—smiled again, and walked from the courtyard.
René whooped and danced, exhilarated by the victory. To lift into the air like a bird no longer resided within the realm of the impossible.
      He swaggered from the courtyard, rounded the corner, and ran into his father’s study. Perched on the edge of his father’s large mahogany desk, René adjusted his newly attached sword to be sure it was visible. “Bon jour, father.”
     Armand Gilbert looked up from his ledgers and his face came as close to a smile as it ever did.            “Bon jour, to you, as well.”
René shifted a little, banging the sword against the desk.
     “What are your plans for today?” His father’s gaze returned to the ledger.
      Focused on the accounts before him, he failed to comment on his son’s recent change in status. René stood and walked across the front of the desk. “No plans. Probably ride over to Martin’s.”
     “Perhaps you might run an errand for me first. The Belle Poulé has finished her refit and is preparing to depart. Can you carry a payment to the victualer for me? This year’s early grape harvest has left us a bit shorthanded.”
     “Happy to. And you no longer need be concerned for the safety of your money.” René turned again and brandished the lethal addition to his attire.
     “We live in dangerous times, but it adds little to be overly concerned.” Armand glanced up, his expression once again approached a smile.
      Unable to wait any longer, René placed his hand on the sword hilt. “Do I not look a little different today?”
     “Today? Your birth date. I am sorry I have been so busy, what with the Poulé’s departure and all. I am sure Marie will make something festive for tonight’s dinner and we will celebrate then.”
     “Non, not that, this.” René struck a martial pose, his hand on the sword at his hip. “My sword. I am wearing my sword. I disarmed the Maestro.
     “So I see. Well done.”
     For René, those two words spoke volumes from a man who was as spare with praise as the Maestro. “Oui, I am happy to carry the payment into town for you.”
     “Merci.” Armand reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a leather sack heavy with silver.
      “Here. Make sure you get a receipt.”
     “I will.” René grabbed the sack with an outward show of nonchalance, and headed for the door.
     “René.”
      He turned to face his father.
     “Happy anniversary.” A broad smile spread across Armand’s face.
     “Merci, Papa”
                                                                            ***

     René decided to stop for a glass of beer at the Boar’s Head to show off his new status. The tavern’s location along the road from the port into Bordeaux caused it to be a favorite haunt for the young men of the town as well as sailors on leave. A few minutes more would make no difference to the Poulé’s scheduled departure. René strode in to the dimly lit tavern and exhaled the breath that had kept his chest expanded. The room was near empty, with three men seated around a lone table in the corner. No one he knew. He walked up to the counter and ordered a “small beer,” more barley water than alcohol. The weight of his sword thumped against his hip. With this symbol, others would view him as an adult. He was sure that he had grown taller between yesterday and today.
      The tavern keeper nodded in recognition “Where away, lad? You are excited about something.”
     “I am on a business errand for my father.” He patted the money pouch. “As for being excited, ’tis my birth date today and a good day to be alive.”
     “Oui, ’tis. Well then, a happy day to you.” The tavern keeper moved to one of the tables to retrieve empty tankards.
     The three at the corner table rose and sauntered over to René.
     “Here is a likely specimen of a young man,” the tallest of the three spit out through rotted teeth. A scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to the bottom of his jaw flexed an angry red with each word. He stopped, his face inches from René’s. “How about you buy us a drink? A wealthy gentleman like yourself throwing a little charity our way.”
The other two laughed. All three carried cutlasses. René studied the three men. Having spent eight months at sea when he was eleven, and another seven months at fourteen, he recognized sailors by the way they stood. Seaman just into port exercised care when moving about, for it was the land that challenged long accustomed sea legs. Although he was not concerned, the Maestro had taught him to use his head in any threatening situation.
      Always take the line of least resistance. Never let useless emotions cloud your judgment.
      “Twould be my pleasure to buy three fine sailors a drink.” René motioned to the tavern keeper and tossed coins on the counter. “Set these men up with whatever they choose.
      “Gentlemen.” René nodded to the ragged sailors, took a final swallow of his beer, and headed for the door.
     The three men followed René into the street.
     Again, the man with the scar spoke. “We will be taking the money you carry.”
     They drew their cutlasses and held them with the casual ease of long familiarity. Although the weapons were nicked, they were otherwise in reasonable repair. These men were veterans. A dead calm, much like the center of a storm settled over René. He radiated threat. The men took a step back.
     “He is just a damn boy.” The scarred man brandished his sword. “Stop wasting time and give us   the coin, or you will be a head shorter before this day gets any longer.”
      “I cannot give you this money.” René’s voice was quiet, the words spoken without emotion.
      “Then you are a stupid, dead child.” The scarred man attacked, flanked by the other two.
René leaned back and allowed the first blade to sing past his chest. Almost faster than the eye could follow, he had drawn his sword. He stepped into the scar-faced man. With an elbow strike to the chin, he dropped the man to the ground like a rag doll released from a child’s hand. He continued the turn, drew his blade across the second sailor’s throat, and with a swift change of line he parried a thrust from the third. Frantic, the man tried a slashing overhand cut, which René pushed up and to the side.       Then a quick thrust beneath the heart.
    Three inches is all you need.
    The scarred man rose and shook his head, his face a mask of blood-red rage. He lunged forward.         René parried the thrust, and then riposted through his adversary’s neck. The attacker’s face wore a look of incredulity as a fountain of blood sprayed in rhythmic surges from his severed jugular vein.
He dropped to the ground a second time, choking as he expired. The fight had taken only seconds. Released from the eye of the battle’s storm, René’s every sense vibrated with the supreme joy of victory, of survival, of life. He had defeated three grown men. He was invincible. Then he looked down.
     Three men were dead. He had killed three men.
                                                                            ***

     The next morning dawned with no hint of change. The quality of light that shone through the mullioned glass windows was no different. The sounds and smells of the awakening château were familiar, but carried no comfort. The courtyard looked the same, but each sound, each smell, each stone’s meaning had changed.
      Although the incident was quietly taken care of, it could never be undone. Even if it had been grist for Bordeaux’s gossip mill, no one would have blamed René for defending himself. No one but him. He could have disabled the three men and yet he had not. Within the fight’s brief duration he had experienced an exhilaration facing real danger and a strange kind of joy in his power to defeat it. The Maestro never hesitated to wound him and had done so many times over the years, but in his heart, René was convinced he would never die at the hand of the master.
     There was no pretending the three men’s deaths were accidental, that perhaps he had reacted before the arrival of awareness.
     To deny truth is to uninvite it. The more unwelcome, the less it appears, until you are left in perpetual darkness.
     Some part of him had known the inevitable outcome of his actions. Against his level of skill, the fight was not self-defense, it was murder. He had murdered three men and that fact made him sick.
René had avoided the Maestro when he returned to the château. He needed time to gather the courage to face the master. His father had told him what he wanted to hear; that his actions were necessary. But the untruth only served to solidify his guilt.
     He moved into that level of calm attention, which was the essence of the fencer’s art, and walked into the courtyard. He approached the Maestro and, as usual, bowed before him never releasing his focus on the man’s eyes.
     “I think we will have a cup of tea this morning.” The master gestured toward the small table set against the stone wall.
     René stopped, confused. He had never been invited to join the Maestro for tea before and had never expected to be.
     The unorthodox is the application of creative strategy and is usually necessary for victory.
There was irony in hearing the echo of one of the Maestro’s previous lessons while facing him. René settled deeper into that level of trance that comprised battle calm and focus. If this was to be a chess match of will, so be it. He sat and then accepted the cup of tea from his teacher. He waited. The Maestro would move the first piece.
     The Maestro smiled, an expression he rarely wore. “I am aware that you experienced some difficulties yesterday.”
      “I murdered three men.”
      “Oui, you did.”
      René had not expected the Maestro to coat the truth, but the three word confirmation shook him. The silence between them lengthened. René drew his sword from its scabbard and placed it on the table, hilt toward the Maestro. “I am grateful to you for teaching me, but I will never kill another man.” René scraped his chair back.
     “S’il vous plaît, keep me company a bit longer.” The Maestro gestured at René’s chair.
The Maestro had never used the word ‘please,’ and the command was of such proportions that René could not have stood had wild horses pulled him from the chair.
     “Your skill is a weapon that should never be used with casual intent,” said the Maestro. “Did you employ it with contempt?”
     “Non, master.”
     “Did you employ it for personal gain?”
     “Non, master.”
     “What emotions are you experiencing?
     “Disgust, sadness, anger.”
     “As I have taught you, all are cousins of fear and fear is useful only as the perception of danger, useful in the moment only. Useless in the past or the future. Is perception by its nature limited?”
    “Oui.”
    “Then you do not, cannot, have the entire picture. Destiny and free will are the paradox that confronts our every step. I have taught you to forgo judgment on yourself, for it is often inaccurate.”
    “I cannot change the way I feel. My desire is to bind wounds, not create them. With a sword in my hand, the outcome can only be death and more death. I will never pick up a sword again.”

     “René, the universe smiles when it hears the word never. Like all of us, you have a destiny for this lifetime. Although, with our limited awareness, it is difficult to understand, destiny is never involuntary. You have chosen this path, and it will bring to you what you need. There are many roads to awareness. Some are rougher and more painful than others, but all lead to our chosen destinations. I wish you well.” The Maestro stood, bowed, and walked from the courtyard.





Stay tuned! Chapter 2 will be released next week!

REBLOG: In the kitchen with Sloane Taylor

Here’s a quick dinner that looks and tastes like you’ve spent hours in the kitchen. Add a salad and your meal is complete.

CHICKEN MARSALA

4 medium chicken breasts, boneless, skinless

¼ tsp. thyme

8 ozs. baby Porto Bella mushrooms, halved if large

2 garlic cloves, pressed

2 tbsp. olive oil

4 tbsp. butter

½ cup chicken stock

½ cup Marsala wine

½ cup heavy cream at room temperature

Rice or pasta

Parsley

Rinse chicken and pat dry. Sprinkle thyme evenly over breasts.

Melt half the oil and butter in a 12-inch skillet set on medium heat. When the foam subsides add mushrooms and garlic. Sauté for 3-4 minutes. Spoon vegetables into a bowl and set aside.

Use the same skillet and melt remaining oil and butter over medium-high heat. Add chicken. Sauté 10-15 minutes, until no pink remains. The time depends on meat thickness. Remove chicken to a plate. Tent with foil to keep warm or place in a 200° oven

Add Marsala and stock to the same skillet. Bring to a boil while scraping in any bits that cling to the bottom and sides of the pan. Boil for 3-4 minutes or until the sauce is reduced by almost half.

Reduce heat to medium. Slowly stir in cream. Heat through but do not bring to a boil.

Return chicken and mushrooms to the pan. Heat through for 2-3 minutes.

Move chicken to the center of a serving dish. Surround with rice or pasta. Spoon mushrooms and broth over the platter. Sprinkle parsley across the top to decorate. Serve immediately.

May you enjoy all the days of your life around a well laden table!

Sloane Taylor

Agent Induced Terror

    Terror is a part of any new creative endeavor. Creation is about exploration which always begins with incomplete information. So, you kind of know the destination you’d like to reach. You’ve read and heard rumors of others who have beached there, but the map is blurry and there are definitely dragons drawn along its edges.

     I completed The Sun God’s Heir in 2007 and attended my first conference, The Algonkian Workshop,  in New York City. I was afraid and anxious, but not yet terrified. You see, real terror requires some basic awareness, and at that time, I was dumb and happy. So I was nervous, but really didn’t have anything to lose, since this novel thing was still on the pipe dream end of the spectrum.

The conference went well, I learned a few things, and Tom Colgan, an executive editor at Penguin USA, requested a full. That’s the complete manuscript, an all too rare occurrence. Since not that many people had their books requested, I was floating. “Hey, this isn’t so hard.” At that time, the manuscript was an unedited one hundred and forty thousand word beast. Although he did not propel me to fame and fortune, I am still grateful to Mr. Colgan for the gracious way he treated my inexperience. He even read the book again, a year or so later, when I was sure I had it. I didn’t.

    The next year, still hopeful, but anxious, I revisited New York City, attending the Backspace Writers Conference at the Radisson Martinique. The hotel was a little too expensive, so I think I stayed at the Comfort Inn down the street. Now, I knew just enough to be terrified. I put my name tag on and claimed a seat in a large conference room. I had done some research, and knew that the agents I would meet were the real deal. They still are.

    The concept was excellent. There would be two workshops on each of the two days. One in the morning and one in the afternoon, each hosted by two different agents, eight total for the two days. The morning workshop dealt with the novel’s first two pages, and the afternoon one with the all important query letter.

    On that first day I joined nine other aspiring authors at four conference tables set in a rectangular shape with the two agents seated on one side and the ten of us around the other three. In front of the agents was a stack of paper twenty pages high. The first two pages from each of our novels, the lure laboriously tied to catch the interest of an agent, a publisher, and an unending stream of readers, looked unimpressive as a short stack of paper. Given the overwhelming attention demands of the twenty-first century, even two pages worth of someone’s time was a lot to ask.

Jeff Kleinman of the Folio Literary Agency was paired with another gentleman. Jeff Kleinman was the first agent I submitted my work to after pouring through the 2008 Writers Market, a weight lifting tome if ever there was. I knew enough to be actually shaking. Of the other agent, try as I might, I can’t call more than a blur to mind. I remember a whispered comment mentioning Stephen King’s agent, but I think it may have been A.S. King.

Jeff Kleinman picked up the first two pages. To this day, I am still grateful that they didn’t belong to me. They represented the hopes and creative effort of the pale young man seated opposite from me. The rules of this particular workshop stated that the agents would read the pages as if pulling them from the slush pile (unrequested submissions) at their office, and react as they would on a busy workday.

     No pressure in that. He read for about ten seconds and then put the pages down. White silence around the table. The first paragraph or something in it had caused him to put the pages, and the author’s hopes down. At least there wasn’t a real trash can. He passed them to the other agent who read a little longer, and then put the pages down. They then explained why this effort had no chance of surviving the slush pile. All this work only to drown in ten seconds. Ah, terror.

   He finally picked up my pages. I don’t think Jeff Kleinman is a sadist. I really don’t. Looked on with some  years cushion, I think he was trying to give us a taste of reality. Fantasy is a wonder within the pages of a story, but not truly useful in the market. Does one no good to pretend a piece of fruit is ripe. That he seemed to take a certain glee in our terror is up for others to decide. He said my name to ascertain my location. I raised my hand. He looked over the sheet.

“Ah, The Sun God’s Hair.”

“No,” I squeaked. I have a fairly deep voice, and am accustomed to talking, so what came out was a surprise. I cleared my throat and said, “The Sun God’s Heir.”

“The Sun God’s Hair,” he said again, with just the hint of a smile.

http://www.bluntmoms.com/open-letter-to-strangers-who-are-horrified-by-my-herd-of-daughters/

    Smile went right by me. “No, The Sun God’s Heir.”  By this time in my novel writing career, I had devoted a couple of  years and a good amount of time, energy and money. I hadn’t really thought in terms of plan B, so I had front loaded all the elements of fear of failure. I don’t think I even responded to his second mispronunciation of my gorgeous title. I just sat there, waiting.  I think he then said, “Whatever.”, but I can’t be sure of anything from that point. I do remember his reading through both pages, which was momentarily encouraging. He then verbally cut them to pieces and placed the pages along with my hopes in the trash. Of the ten of us, I think maybe one survived the trash.

     I write about terror, because the emotion is useful and temporary. On January 18th, I am releasing The Sun God’s Heir: Return, book one in the trilogy and looking forward to being called an instant success. The book will be published by The Piscataqua Press Riverrun Select imprint. Truth is, no matter what, I’m proud of what I’ve created, and in a funny way, I’m grateful to Mr. Kleinman for the reality check. We live in terrifying times. Terror is temporary, while heart and persistence are ongoing. Creating something is harder than its opposite, but infinitely more rewarding.

But I Don't Have a Story!

Like any writer, I was asked, “How did you find your story. I don’t have any stories.” I think the last statement is false. Some years ago, I became a registered hypnotherapist and from a small office in a doctor’s building I saw clients for seven years. Visualization is helpful and powerful. I would often hear, “I can’t visualize.” “Really,” I would answer. “Ok, try this. Visualize an umbrella.” Go ahead.

Is it open or closed?

We all have stories. We are stories. Are the stories always exciting? Nope, but then, neither are all novels, no matter how hard the author tries to keep the tension alive. There is a flow to a life same as to a good novel. Lives are informed by choices. So are novels. What keeps folks from starting a story is just that, the beginning. Consider your life as a story. Your parents gave you the story prompt, you were born. Did you know the path the story would take then? Do you now know the end? Nope.

Sometimes the story prompt brings with it the whole cloth, beginning, middle, and end. I think that’s probably rare. More often, we get just the beginning. So how do I get the rest of the story? By writing it down. The act of writing is a command. If patient and persistent, it will open a creative door, a magical door, behind which are an infinity of choices and characters. In truth, one of my greatest pleasures as a writer is reading the story as it comes through me.


Years ago as a songwriter, I learned to appreciate the flow of creative ideation.  A melody would show up, making its presence known through my fingers onto the keys of the piano. Was I thinking, I’ll just push down on that note along with that one and that one and see what happens? No way. I couldn’t think that fast. I just played and let my subconscious do the walking. When a melody that pleased me showed up, I was grateful. I think gratitude is part of the formula. Expectation comes first, then patience, and then discrimination. Ah, there’s the rub.


How do I discriminate between a good idea, a fascinating character, and ones that fall into the mediocre club? You didn’t think this was going to be a free lunch did you? Read. Then read some more. People your unconscious with characters, with heroes, and heroines who echo your deepest desires. Once you’ve done that, and maybe you already have in a past life, then begin to write. Start with “What if…?.”

Patience. Might not get a story beginning on the first day. Maybe not on the fourth. But there is no way your subconscious will not bequeath to you an idea filled with enough energy to begin writing, if you don’t take no for an answer.

Nanowrimo, the acronym for national novel writing month, will begin in a week or so. My first novel, Return, The Sun God’s Heir trilogy, Book 1 will come out January 18th, 2017. Next week, I’ll tell how Nanowrimo jump started my writing and how it can do the same for you.

RE: Six Things Writers Can Learn From Harley-Davidson...

REPOST FROM : Sharon Ledwith 

Six Things Writers Can Learn from Harley-Davidson…

Harley-Davidson logo

Brand building. It’s the backbone of any company or person. It’s how consumers identify with you. Know you. Want you. Need you. What does this have to do with Harley-Davidson? Plenty.

Recently, hubby and I watched a three-part movie about how the Harley-Davidson company was born on the Discovery channel. Boy did I learn a lot about running a business and branding just by watching that movie! The story focused on three partners: William (Bill) Harley (the engineer/creator), Arthur Davidson (the salesman/marketer), and Walter Davidson (the risk-taker, promoter). Together, these entrepreneurs gave the world of motorcycling an experience that felt like ‘an explosion between your legs’. Bill Harley’s words, not mine! LOL!

Here are six things I learned from Harley-Davidson…

Create buzz. To build excitement and promote their product (think about this in terms of your book/books) Harley-Davidson sponsored a racing team named ‘The Wrecking Crew’ whose seat-in-their-pants racing style got the press the company needed to get on the map and stimulate sales. Okay, writers don’t need a Wrecking Crew. But what about a Street Team, or a legion of super fans waiting in the wings for your next book? Use your website, blog or email list to create the buzz your book(s) need to get them flying off the shelves.

1907 Harley-Davidson

Find your tribe. Arthur Davidson worked hard to generate sales. He started bike clubs, opened free beer tents at events to loyal customers, and had special offers/incentives to returning buyers. He was a trail-blazer of social media one hundred years before social media was even born. He engaged first, then sold. That’s what writers should be doing on social media—connect and engage with their target market first. If they trust you enough, they’ll ask about your book.

Look outside of the box. Always looking for ways to market his motorcycles, Arthur Davidson approached the U.S. Postal Service and convinced them to trade their bicycles for Harley-Davidsons. He followed through with the Fire and Police Departments and eventually won them over. When the three partners met with the military during WW1, Arthur suggested that they send mechanics (for FREE) to teach the soldiers how to fix their motorbikes in case they broke down while they were overseas. This strategy worked, and they shared the contract 50/50 with Indian Motorcycle, the number one motorcycle company at the time. BTW—Indian went bankrupt in 1953. Writers need to look outside the box too. There’s plenty of opportunity around, even if you have to offer your first book (or a short story) for free.

Focus on those little extras. Walter Davidson recognize the allure of the motorcycle look and culture, so he launched a campaign to sell Harley-Davidson accessories and clothing which remains a major part of the company’s success to this day. Writers can open a ‘store page’ on their website (you have a website, right?) and sell items that are connected to their books, like T-shirts, coffee mugs or water bottles imprinted with their book cover, or even jewelry.

Re-brand or face-lift when the unexpected happens. The stock market crash of 1929 hit Harley-Davidson hard. There was no disposable income, and barely any sales. Bill Harley decided to give his motorcycles a much needed face-lift during the Depression. He redesigned their block-letter logo, and added a stylized eagle. The company also started offering their motorbikes in an array of different color schemes too. So when book sales are down, this gives writers an opportunity to redesign their book covers, or pull books off the virtual shelves and re-edit them. After all, Harley-Davidson built their company on a quality product, so shouldn’t you?

Continue to develop. By the late 1930s, Bill Harley developed a new model that ended up being a breakthrough for the company. Sales soared with this bigger, badder, and more powerful machine. By the time WW2 began, Harley-Davidson had gained the respect of the military, and were asked to ship over 90,000 military-style motorbikes overseas to be used by the Allies. When the war ended, people returned to motorcycle riding with a deep respect and trust for the Harley-Davidson brand. So, while you may have one or more books out there for sale, it’s best to work on the next one, and continue to develop your brand and author platform. You never know. Your next book may be your ‘breakthrough’ book!

Is there a company out there that you’ve learned some tricks and techniques from to help build your writing career? How are you building your brand? Please leave a comment and share what you’ve learned. Cheers for reading my blog, I truly appreciate it! 

http://sharonledwith.blogspot.ca/