AaronMahnke

Home Work Episode 05

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 08:08:54 -0400

Episode 5 of the Home Work podcast is here!

If you love knowing what other people use in their office, then this is the episode for you. Dave and Aaron discuss the tools and equipment they use to get their jobs done, and offer great suggestions for anyone looking to work smarter, not harder.

If you love us, be sure to leave a review in iTunes, and if you use an iOS device like an iPhone or iPad, check out Instacast as a great way to subscribe to Home Work and the many other great podcasts in the 70 Decibels network.

Home Work Episode 2: Work Spaces

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 18:39:20 -0400

For those of you who are keeping tabs on Home Work, the podcast I launched with my buddy Dave last friday, Episode 2 landed today and it’s fantastic. Dave and I chat about work spaces for people who work from home, what we personally do for a work setup, and what to do when things get a bit too crazy at home for work.

It’s another great episode of a podcast that thousands of people are finding helpful. Catch up this weekend over at 70 Decibels!

P.S. If you love this show, please head over to iTunes and leave a review or rate it (both would be doubly-awesome!). It would mean a ton.

Home Work Podcast

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 16:33:10 -0400

Today, my friend Dave Caolo and I launched a podcast called Home Work over at my freelance resource site, A Better Freelancer. And watching over the whole show is the 70 Decibels Network, like a slightly-awkward-but-way-cooler-than-Bond mother hen. Or something.

Home Work is a podcast for people who work from home, whether they are a freelancer like myself, or a telecommuter like Dave. And to be honest, the show rocks.

Episode 001 is live and ready today, so head over and give it a listen.

An Odd Idea

Wed, 14 Mar 2012 13:08:32 -0400

I have an idea, one rooted in a passion of mine: I absolutely love writing fantasy tales. As a product of too many hours spent reading writers like J.R.R. Tolkien, Tad Williams, Neil Gaiman and countless others, I have an almost obsessive interest in creating worlds. And it’s not as easy as one might think.

I also love talking about writing – the process, the progress, the pieces and the production. So it got me thinking about a “what if”: what if there was a podcast centered completely around the notion of world-building, fantasy-writing and story-telling?

I have no idea what that would look – or sound – like, but for some reason it gives me goose-bumps. So…what do you think? Would you listen? What would you like to hear about if this were to happen?

Master and Commander

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 10:25:24 -0500

In order to master your life, you must master your week. In order to master your week, you must first master your day.

It sounds a bit like something Yoda would say, I’ll give you that. But these are words to live by, trust me on this. If I was asked to boil down all of the success I encounter in my work and personal life into two or three key rules, this would be one of them: planning your day means planning to succeed.

So what does that look like? If you’ve ever wanted to tweak and adjust your day to squeeze the maximum amount of productivity out of it, then this is your lucky day. Pull up a chair, because I’m about to break down my time management system for you. And it all starts with blocks.

Building Blocks

Everything that happens between waking up and going to sleep is a block. I tend to view my day in 30-minute blocks, but you can cut up the time into whatever works for you. Some tasks take 30 minutes while others need 120 minutes. You just need to keep it consistent.

There are also different kinds of blocks. Some are inflexible or immovable, while others are fluid and pliable. For instance, because I work from home, I have the luxury of eating with my family each day for lunch. This means that my lunch happens every day from 12PM to 1PM, and that’s not negotiable. Lunch is an inflexible block of time. Other examples would be meetings or phone conferences.

Client work, however, is very fluid. Sometimes a project task can take 30 minutes, other times two hours. And most of the time I can place client work anywhere on my schedule as long as it doesn’t overlap with inflexible items.

Know Your Abilities & Limits

Planning ahead, and building a tight, efficient schedule for your day requires having a solid grasp of your skills and ability. If you have a specific type of project that you do often, chances are that you have an accurate understanding of how long that task will take. The true test, though, is learning to guess at how long something will take you when you’ve never done it before.

I build this element into the capture process whenever a new task comes across my desk. When I write down what it is that I need to accomplish, I always add a context to the task that tells me how long I think it will take. Maybe it’s 15 minutes, or 30, or even an hour; whatever the length of time will be, I make sure it is marked down ahead of time. This way, when I sit down to map out my day, I can use those lengths of time to help me build a realistic schedule.

Nothing is worse that ending your day with unfinished items on your list. Rookies think it’s because they didn’t work hard enough, but the reality is that when this happens it’s because you didn’t plan hard enough. Over-booking yourself is the fastest way to frustration and disappointment. Known your limits, and plan accordingly.

Plan for the Non-Project Stuff

Need to make a phone call tomorrow? Plan that into your schedule so that it doesn’t throw off your timeline. Maybe you have a meeting with a client across town at a coffee shop. Make sure you allow for travel time, not just the meeting time; a 30-minute meeting that is 15-minutes across town should take a 60-minute block on your schedule, not 30. It sounds simple, I know. But believe me, it’s a rookie mistake that throws way too many people off their game.

I also plan an hour less than I have to work with each day. My work day is done by 5pm, but I only ever map out my day up to 4pm. Why? Because something will come up. It always does. And if by some rare chance I do finish my work by 4, I will glance at my list for tomorrow and start knocking out small tasks from that list until 5pm arrives. That freedom needs to be built into your schedule.

Putting Pen to Paper

I use OmniFocus to capture and organize my tasks each day, but when it comes to mapping them out and building a schedule, I do that on paper. I use a notebook that offers up the least amount of structure necessary while still providing enough guidance to aid my personal system. And with pen in hand I literally copy my OmniFocus items for that day onto the page, working them into the best order and flow. Having them already in time-based blocks helps this work more smoothly.

I also do this the night before, not the morning of. I don’t know about you, but my mornings are crazy. A bunch of new email arrived over night, my kids want attention and I have coffee to make and drink. I don’t want to start my day off needing to find time to plan. Instead, when I finally get to my desk I simple open my notebook and start on the detailed list.

This helps me find my daily purpose as quickly as possible. Going to bed each night I am fully aware of what needs done, and when, so that I don’t waste time the next day making a decision about where to start. I made that decision the night before. Now I just need to put it to action.

Everyone has a system for getting things done, and each is like a fingerprint, unique and personal. But every good system has a few common elements. Master the art of planning each day, and you will maximize what you can get done, while removing the frustration that comes with not accomplishing everything you set out to achieve. However your own system works, thoughtfully planning ahead on paper can make all the difference in the world.

Frictionless Writing

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 20:47:32 -0500

I’m big on the idea of removing “friction” from my life. Friction, if you haven’t heard me talk about it before, is anything that gets in the way of, or prevents us from reaching, a goal. If your goal is to log forty hours of client work each week, having World of Warcraft installed on your work computer might be a source of friction. If you run a restaurant and want to serve the most customers each day, unlocking your doors five minutes late every morning is a source of friction.

Any place I can find friction, and remove it, is an area of my life or business that I can push closer to my goals. So naturally, I am constantly on the lookout for ways to smooth my processes and methods for doing things. And my writing time is no different. Over the years I have gathered a number of helpful tips for making the writing process as smooth and frictionless as possible. And it works – I published two novels in 2011 alone, and have multiple open projects in the works right now. So let me share with you the lessons I have learned over the years.

Capture

The mind is the womb where ideas are conceived, but they need to make an exit at some point in order to reach maturity. And if you are anything like me, you are hit with hundreds of great thoughts and ideas each and every day. Solutions to problems that have been bugging you for weeks. Story ideas. Phrases that say exactly what you need to communicate. Tasks that need to be completed. you name it, our brains spit out all manner of ideas all day long.

The key here is to capture what your mind creates. But you have a few obstacles between the thought and the captured idea:

Time: The more extended the time between conceiving of the idea and capturing it in some form, the higher the probability you will forget or misrepresent the idea.
Tools: The harder it is to get to your “capture tool”, be it a mobile app, a piece of paper or a digital voice recorder, the less likely it will be that you will remember what it was you were going to capture.

These two obstacles make it difficult for me to recommend one true and trued method for capturing your ideas. This means you have to figure it out for yourself. Look at your work environment, or the places you spend the most time each day. What would the easiest solution be to getting your thoughts captured in the shortest amount of time? Many people prefer to have a stack of index cards or scraps of paper on their desk, but maybe you don’t spend a lot of time at a desk. Perhaps you drive a lot, or spend the day chasing children and preventing the destruction of your living room. For you, the solution might be found in a simple app for your mobile phone.

But this brings the second obstacle to mind: tools. If that app is in a folder, and positioned four pages back in your phone’s home screen, it will probably take you a moment to find it and open it. Put the app in the most useful place possible. If you are an iPhone owner, that might be the Dock at the bottom of your phone’s screen.

You also need to pick the right apps though. Some open slowly, while some open up to lists of notes or a splash screen first. Find a capture tool that opens right into the capture function. Removing steps, and seconds, will remove friction.

Manage

You can capture all the ideas, solutions and tasks that you want, and become a pro at it in the process. But until you start to do something with your ideas, you’re just making lists and piles. So, managing these things is a big key to a smooth, frictionless writing process. And my years as a writer (fantasy novels are four parts planning and one part writing, so I’ve really been doing this for about 15 years) have taught me a few tricks:

Organize: Get yourself a binder of some kind, and break your writing into projects. Maybe you write short stories. Sort your binder by story. If you write long narrative novels, you might consider giving sections to items like characters, terminology, timelines, and backstory. Sort your writing into categories, and then put a few blank pages at the start of each section in the binder. At the end of a day, or week, of capturing ideas and inspiration, open up your binder and transcribe all of those items onto the blank pages at the start of the appropriate section.
Save: Some ideas aren’t ready for prime time yet, but you have to capture them when they pop into your mind. Find a system for saving your ideas that is fool-proof and timeless. Storing them digitally in a system such as Dropbox, Evernote or Simplenote will have invisible, seamless backups taking place in the background. No writer wants to lose a decade of inspiring ideas and plans to a hard drive crash or house fire.

Prioritize

I think many writers let ideas die because they don’t care. I know, that’s a bit harsh. But honestly, life can get in the way of even the noblest of passions. Married couples who love each other dearly can look up one day and find that twenty years have flown by while they raised their kids. Life happens.

So after finding the best method for capturing your ideas, and building the right system for managing all of it, the final key is to install a sense of urgency and priority around our ideas. To grow as a writer, it is important to write. And it is easier to sit down to write with a nicely collected tome of ideas and sketches than it is when you can’t remember the great ideas you know you’ve lost.

Make this important. Build it into your DNA. Fight for your creations and pour effort into getting better at it. Capture, manage and prioritize those ideas, or else the friction in life will drag you down and hold you back. That’s the best advice I can give anyone wanting to write more, write better and write frictionless.

2011

Sat, 31 Dec 2011 22:53:00 -0500

I started 2011 with a lot of expectations and projects on my mind. I even talked publicly about a few of them. But in the spirit of the holiday weekend, with the year (and possibly the world) coming to and, I thought it would be nice to review a bit of what I did, and how I feel about that. If this interests you, awesome, but I’m doing this mostly to get it out of my head.

Read & Trust

I launched the Read & Trust Network at the beginning of 2011 and could not be happier with the way things have grown and developed over the last twelve months. I have the pleasure, and honor, of working with some of the brightest, smartest and most talented writers the internet has to offer, and it has been a joyful ride.

The weekly premium email newsletter is still $5 each month, and still delivers the most amazing writing for $1.25 per issue that you can imagine. In the coming year I hope to expand the group even farther and continue to develop the value that the group provides to tens of thousands of readers.

Fiction Writing

I published not one, but two, fantasy novels this past year. The response has been amazing, and I can’t begin to express how fulfilling it is to craft worlds and tell stories, and then have other people get in line to experience them. I have two new novels in the works for the coming year, but since neither has yet to begin as of yet, I can’t promise release dates. Just know that writing fantasy stories will continue to be a deep passion and high priority for me in the coming months.

Helvetindex Cards

A lot of people didn’t get the concept behind these cards, but my simple index cards were a hit with hundreds of people, and that makes me smile. I believe in removing the things that get in the way and gum up our systems (I call this stuff “friction”), and these cards were born out of a personal need to have a super easy, beautiful and lightly structured capture tool on me at all times. I carry a pinch of these in a binder clip in my back pocket each and every day, and can’t imagine going through my day without them.

But all good things must come to an end, and the Helvetindex Cards are being retired once the last of my stock sells out (I currently have around 40 packs left…hint, hint). There is much more I could say about this decision, but I think I’ll leave that for a later post when I can explain the whys and whats of it all. But understand that I’m not closing the door on this project feeling that it was a failure. On the contrary, these cards exceeded my expectations and were a big hit, and that’s a great feeling.

A Better Freelancer

Most don’t know it, but I run another site called A Better Freelancer. It’s simple, really, and I feel horrible even attempting to take credit for it because of how little I have to work at it. Mostly because it’s just a daily link to a great freelancing resource, and since I automate the posts I can sometimes feel very “hands-off”. But I work hard to find the resources, and sometimes even bring in original content from talented, experienced freelancers, just not as often as I’d like. I’m just doing what I can to help freelancers get better at doing what they do, myself included.

This year the site’s readership grew from 800 to 7,500. There’s not much more I can say about that other that WOW. I’m excited to see what 2012 will bring, for sure.

Wet Frog Studios

I spend most of my day doing graphic design, rather than writing or creating index cards, so it was nice to see 2011 as a year of tremendous growth for my design business. I had the opportunity to work with some amazing new clients, deepened my relationships with current ones, and managed to extend my reach into new countries and new project types. I felt more challenged this year than any other year in business, and forced myself to learn so many new skills that I feel like I’m coming out of this year a new designer. Maybe I am.

That said, I still find myself pushing hard to find new logo design projects. I love helping people and companies build fresh visual brands around their business and products. Honestly. This stuff makes me giddy. Here’s to a new year of crafting solid brands.

Friends

This year brought me closer to old friends, like Patrick Rhone, Dave Caolo, and Randy Murray. But I also had the pleasure to get to know folks like Stephen Hackett and CJ Chilvers. These are top-notch people, and if you don’t follow them, remedy that now.

I also spent a good portion of this past year assembling my very own personal Board of Advisers, something that I highly recommend for everyone. It is a huge key to keeping yourself accountable to goals and commitments, as well as providing a safety net of wisdom and sanity. Find the people you trust the most, and ask them to be occasional advisers for your projects, plans and idea. Your year will be better for it.

Failures

That was all fluff. Really. But my daily thoughts revolve around my failures. That’s probably not healthy, or productive, but it keeps me honest. And while I seem to be gathering more and more followers and “fans”, I think it’s important to keep it real.

I’m an impatient person, mostly with myself. I deal with anger on a daily basis. I’ve muddled my way through enough failures and tragedies over the past decade to fill up a few lifetimes. I have some of the worst self-esteem I’ve ever witnessed in a person, and I’m not proud of that (get it?). And I have a tendency to doubt everything and everybody.

I’m human. I’m flawed. I wish I was better at being Aaron Mahnke. Trust me, I want to be normal about as much as James Blunt wants another hit single. But all I can say is that I tried my best in 2011 to grow and heal and improve, and that I plan to keep moving in that direction as 2012 begins.

As John Mayer sings, “I’m in repair. I’m not together, but I’m getting there.” Here’s to a new year, and a fresh chance to do just that.

Destiny - For Free

Mon, 28 Nov 2011 21:27:55 -0500

I remember riding my bike to the comic book store once a week to grab the latest issue of X-Men or The Amazing Spiderman. I was hooked, and those regular installments made the story seem bigger and more epic than ever. Those are good memories.

As a Christmas gift to anyone interested, I have decided to share my latest novel, Destiny: A Fairy Tale, with you for free in the form of a weekly email. When you sign up you will get you a chapter delivered to your computer or device each Friday, just in time to enjoy over the weekend.

The series will start this week on 12/2/11, and you can sign up here. I hope Destiny brings you as much joy over the next 20 weeks as it did for me to write!

Respecting the Content

Wed, 19 Oct 2011 10:49:37 -0400

I was reading the other day – on real paper in a real book – when I felt the urge to get up and refill my water bottle. So I did that – headed over to the kitchen, filled it up and came back. And as I picked up the book again, it occurred to me that I had forgotten where I’d left off. Yes, I use a bookmark, but I didn’t know where on the page I had stopped. So, after searching the words on the page and testing my familiarity with them, I came to the conclusion that I had left off in the middle of a paragraph.

Thinking about that, I realized that this was commonplace for me as of late. I remember as a high schooler, reading through massive fantasy novels, or tightly-worded classics by Wells or Verne, and how I would set my stopping point as the end of a chapter, or sometimes the end of a section. Certainly never in the middle of a page of dialogue. And never in the middle of a paragraph. That would have been sacrilegious.

Yet here I am, a busy adult working far too many hours to fit quality reading time in, and I have somehow learned the nasty habit of “quitting” in the middle of a paragraph. I think it’s stemmed from my computer use. If I see a link to an article in the middle of my work day, I click on it, read it for a moment, and make a decision as to whether or not I feel it will be worth my time to read it later. If I don’t think it will be, I simply stop reading it and close the window.

Perhaps this is appropriate for random articles that might be of interest. But it’s certainly not appropriate for Reading (capital “R” intentional). I’ve trained myself to be less than fully present when I read, much to my detriment. And so moving forward I’ve made the commitment to finish paragraphs, and then chapters, before setting down a book to fill my water bottle or check my phone or use the bathroom.

It makes me ponder the question: has an internet full of character limits, page views and retweets caused us to lose focus on the true heart of Reading? If the goal is to enter into the writer’s mind, follow the trail they blaze and earn the conclusion as they had intended it, perhaps our new way of reading has caused us to abandon that. And I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

Another Excerpt from Destiny (Chapter Two)

Mon, 10 Oct 2011 10:45:08 -0400

The response to Destiny has been amazing, and so many readers enjoyed the sample first chapter that I’ve decided to post chapter two today. I hope you enjoy!

By most standards you or I would be used to, Simon had a difficult childhood. Being one of nine children brings with it its own set of challenges. It was hard enough for Mr. Eustace Kendrick to enjoy the thought of feeding and raising the eight children he fathered, but Simon was not even his own son. This simple fact made Mr. Kendrick bitter. And more than a little spiteful.

Mr. Kendrick was a cobbler, known throughout the village of Bywood as an exceedingly frugal man. He dressed all of his children the very same way he and his wife dressed themselves; plain garments cut from rough fabric of muted colors. All of the children were silent in his presence, and as well-mannered as frightened foals. Their well-behaved persona, however, only existed when their father was near. Left on their own they were prone to excitement and unsettled liveliness. All of them, except of course for Simon.

Even though he was only one of many children in the Kendrick home, Simon often found himself completing his sibling’s chores as well as his own. It was not that he volunteered to take them upon himself, but that the rest of his siblings often came to a group decision that left him with more than his share to accomplish for the day. Washing filthy pots and scrubbing dirty floors were tasks in which Simon became very proficient. Never proficient enough, however, to please his mother, Mrs. Elisbeth Kendrick, who held her standards at such a height than no one but herself ever hoped to attain them.

Once, for his ninth birthday, Simon received a single present; a used straw broom, the ends still broken and crusted with stale porridge. He used it that very same day, right after he had made all of the beds and cleaned all of the pots from the morning meal. But most of his birthdays arrived without presents. His parents told him they did not have enough coins for a gift, but it did not take many years before Simon realized the true meaning behind those words.

His parents denied him much during his childhood, usually out of spite or bitterness at the offense of having an orphan imposed upon them, though sometimes because the family was honestly very poor. Of all the things that Mr. and Mrs. Kendrick withheld from Simon, the most tragic neglect was in not telling him of his origin, the tale of his birth and induction into the Kendrick family. In their opinion it was better for the boy to believe he was theirs and unwanted, rather than the child of other parents who, though evidently loving, were lost to him.

The aspect of Simon’s home life that brought him the most harassment, though, was his appearance. While the other eight children seemed to be miniature versions of their father, with plain brown hair and tanned skin, Simon was pale as cream, and his head was crowned with a mess of black hair. While all his siblings looked on the world with muted brown eyes, his were a chill blue, like bits of ice from a winter snowstorm. That he stood nearly a head taller than other children his age only seemed to draw more unwanted attention to his shockingly divergent appearance.

Somewhere around his thirteenth year, Simon began to notice the girls of his village, and one girl in particular: Margaret Chilton. Golden haired and fair skinned, she was revered among boys who knew about such things as the most beautiful girl in Bywood. She was certainly not plain by the standards one would judge plainness, and the attention she garnered only secured her reputation. As a boy who spent his life standing out from his peers, Simon was drawn to her singularity. There could be no one else for him but Margaret Chilton.

Margaret Chilton, however, had other ideas about her destiny. She, it seemed, was in love with Alfred Horsham, the son of the village magistrate. He was handsome and genteel, a younger version of his respected father, and dressed in colors that would cause Mrs. Kendrick to blush if they crossed her sewing table. The remarkable Margaret Chilton had been specially chosen by fate to walk home from school with Alfred Horsham.

Fate, it appeared to Simon Kendrick, had no such glorious plans for him.

Most folk who lived in Bywood had done so for a very long time; some were able to recount nearly twenty generations of their family in some cases. And for as long as anyone who was old enough to remember could remember, each spring was ushered in with a festival. It was a small celebration compared to those of today, and visitors from beyond the boundaries of Bywood were rare, but it was a joyous occasion, and cause for much excitement normally absent from the quiet village.

At the start of May, as the cool remnants of winter drifted further away, daylight and warmth returned to the land. The farmers of the village no longer woke to a white, crisp layer of frost on the budding leaves of the trees outside their homes. Their breath no longer hung in the air like mist from a lowland stream. As May arrived, so did life, and an annual festival was held to celebrate its return.

The festival itself was a burst of energy, noise, laughter and music. Residents of the village would gather at noon on the day of the celebration and share a large, generous meal together in the square across from the Foxglove Inn. The large grassy expanse was well suited for holding gatherings. The few trees that grew in the square were along the edges, hedging in the tables and booths that the townsfolk had erected. Ribbons of colored fabric had been strung from the branches, connecting one tree to the next. And in the center of it all was the Maidenstone.

The Maidenstone was a massive egg-shaped piece of granite that stood upright from the center of the green expanse. Nearly as tall as a well-fed child, and twice as wide at the base, the stone had no markings on its surface save for a fist-sized hole directly on top, cutting deep into the center of the rock. It was in this hole that the townspeople placed a tall pole of supple yew, and tied more than a dozen strips of white cloth to its top end. The other ends of the fabric were, for the moment, anchored to the grassy ground around the stone, and the slack flowed and rippled in the breeze.

The morning of the festival was full of bustle and busyness. Mr. Blackstone, the owner of the general store, was nearly overwhelmed by all of the orders the people of the village had placed for goods for the celebration. Women moved in and out of his shop like insects upon a piece of half-eaten fruit, approaching the store with empty hands and leaving with heavy burdens. Children ran playfully across the grassy field while mothers chastised them for shirking their chores.

The sound of hammers echoed from the square as many of the town’s men gathered to construct the various platforms and benches that would serve the people through the rest of the day. The late morning air was cool on the skin, and standing on the front porch of one of the buildings set across from the square was Simon Kendrick. The building was oddly shaped, having the structure of a house on one side, and the less attractive form of a shack attached to the other side. Mr. Eustace Kendrick preferred to work where he lived, and so he had long ago built his shoe repair shop directly onto his home. The result was the perfect excuse for a father of nine children to put all of them to work.

So as any seventeen year old son of a spiteful cobbler would be asked to do, Simon had been tasked with delivering a freshly repaired pair of women’s riding boots to one of the matrons at the inn. Mrs. Hartford managed the handful of rooms that made up the inn’s network of lodging, and had done so for as long as Simon could remember. But as much as she was a domineering inn keeper who demanded perfection from the young women who cleaned the rooms and the old men who tended the stables and baggage, she was also known for her passion for gaudy, overly expressive clothing. Simon was sure that the boots he was now delivering to her would leave no doubt she was still a connoisseur unparalleled.

On his way to the inn he was passed by another small group of young women, some the same age as himself, speaking softly among themselves. A few of them giggled nervously as Simon passed by, but though Margaret Chilton was among them, she was not one of those who laughed. Simon attempted to make eye contact with her, but her attention was firmly leveled across the square where the tall form of Alfred Horsham could be seen among the workers. Disappointment washed over Simon’s heart and he bent his head slightly lower and pressed on to the inn. He had been certain that he and Margaret were destined to be together, but every day left him with less hope than before. Perhaps the mood of celebration and revelry brought in by the Spring Festival would nudge Ms. Chilton gently in his direction.

The door of the inn held back the smell of fresh stew and spilled ale, and it quickly presented itself as Simon entered. It was darker inside than he expected, and little light broke through the few small windows that dotted the wall to the left. The handful of small round tables that filled the dining area each held a small candle that emitted weak, yellow balls of light. All of the tables were empty except one, far off in the corner, where a man with broad shoulders sat while Mrs. Hartford stood beside him, talking loudly and laughing dramatically.

Mrs. Hartford was a large woman with a round face and a flat, upturned nose. Her husband had died six summers before, leaving her the Foxglove to care for on her own, which she threw herself into without inhibition. Some assumed it was because she felt great passion for hosting travelers in her establishment, or that she held the position of proprietress in high regard, but most knew that it was at the very least a means of escape from her loss.

Mrs. Hartford stopped speaking with the visitor when she noticed the slight form of Simon slip in through the doorway. The cheerful expression she had worn so convincingly only a moment before was tossed aside like a useless tool.

“It’s about time, boy,” she barked at him discourteously. “Bring it here.”

Simon handed her the package, the brown paper making a soft hissing noise as she pulled it out of his hands. Her fat fingers tore at the wrapping and pried the lid off the large box and and then gasped in wonder at the contents within.

“What fine work your father does,” she cooed softly as she brushed her hand over the stained leather and fine detail of the boots, as fresh and clean as if they were newly bought. “A shame, really, that all he can rely on you for is to transport them.”

Simon lowered his gaze. He was used to such treatment, as most of the townsfolk who liked and respected his father had a natural disdain for him. He passed the awkward moment searching the floor for signs of the previous evening’s events, noticing the large crumbs from a dry loaf, and one stray glass bead stuck between two of the planks.

“I must put these on at once,” she exclaimed as she gathered the box up in her arms. “You may go.”

With a speed that seemed unnatural for a woman her size, Mrs. Hartford walked briskly toward the back room doorway. Simon glanced around and found the visitor still at his table, only now he was twisted around and looking carefully at the young man.

“Come here, lad,” he requested with a voice that was both gentle and commanding.

Simon shuffled over to the stranger. The man was older than his father by a good few years, but not yet too aged to call old. His dark brown hair was greying, and covered his head in a tangled mess of thick locks, and his broad shoulders were supported by an even broader torso, a memorial to many vanquished meals, it appeared. But it was his long, curled mustache that caught Simon’s attention.

“Sit,” the man said. His mustache bounced slightly as he spoke, like the springs that Simon had seen at the shop of Mr. Tanner, the local blacksmith. “She wasn’t very friendly to you, was she?”

“No sir,” he replied mannerly.

“Sir Montgomery Lovelace, at your service,” he said, extending a firm hand to the young man. “Knight, adventurer and seeker of all that is fair and just.”

Simon shook the man’s hand. It was strong, but soft.

“Do you let everyone treat you as such, lad? If anyone spoke to me that way, let alone a woman, I would give them more than a piece of my mind, believe me. What’s your name?”

“Simon, sir.” He rarely met strangers. More uncommon still was a stranger who had interest in speaking with him. This man was oddly comforting with his dignified strength and tempered respect.

The older man looked Simon over, inspecting him like Mrs. Hartford would a new dress. It made him a bit uncomfortable, and he fiddled with the chain around his neck out of nervousness.

“I take it you’re the son of a cobbler, judging from what Mrs. Hartford said as well as what you are wearing.” The knight smiled warmly at him. “My father was a cordwainer in Varelia long ago. He made fine items that were sought after by the nobles and well-off citizens of the city. But it was a difficult, taxing occupation that rewarded him with ill health and an early death.”

Simon’s face darkened slightly, and took on a worried expression, and he tugged anxiously on his necklace. Sir Lovelace caught himself before continuing, and apologized. “Forgive me, that was rude. I’m sure your father will live a long life and find great success through his impeccable cobbling.”

“Thank you, Sir Lovelace,” Simon responded, letting go of the chain and glancing around the room.

“What is that under your shirt that you are toying with, lad?” the man asked.

“A necklace, sir. One I’ve had for a very long time.”

“Ah,” the knight replied as if understanding. “Can I see it?”

Simon thought to himself for a moment, wondering if he could trust the stranger, or if he was somehow about to be taken for a fool and robbed of the one possession he cherished more than any other. On the other hand, this man was a knight, well-travelled and seemingly honorable. So he took the risk and tugged the chain up from his collar, and held it up for the man to see.

Hanging from the end of the old iron chain was a key. It was not ornate, or even overly large, but it was thick and appeared strong for something so insignificant. It was the color of coal, though under the tarnish Simon was sure the key must be brighter, like an old steel blade. And etched into the surface of one side of the key in rough but ornate script was a single word: destiny.

“It is lovely,” the knight declared. His eyes and face belied any emotion, but he did not reach for it or ask to hold it, and that made Simon feel safe. “You say you’ve had it long, eh?”

Simon nodded. “Yes sir.”

Sir Lovelace smiled kindly. “Well, thank you for the honest company, lad. However grateful I am for the hospitality of Mrs. Hartford, she can give the impression of being more than a little counterfeit in her attempts to make conversation.”

Simon nodded again, this time allowing himself to smile slightly. It was nice to hear others say the things he never felt free to say so himself.

“Tell me,” the knight said, standing up from his seat, “I am acquainted with no one else in the village, but have been invited to participate in the events of this afternoon’s festival. Might I ask to sit near you, so I may have some friendly company with whom to pass the time?”

Simon found the idea to be wonderful, and nodded in agreement. Perhaps seeing him share a table and conversation with a knight would be just what he needed to catch Margaret Chilton’s attention. “Of course, Sir.” Then, hoping to respond in a manner the knight must be accustomed to, he added, “it would be an honor.”

“Wonderful!” the old knight exclaimed with a loud guffaw. “I shall find you in the square later today, then. Good day!” And with that, he turned and left through the front door. Simon, already late in returning to his father’s shop, made haste as well, with hopeful thoughts of the Spring Festival taking root in his mind.

Thank You Steve

Wed, 05 Oct 2011 20:55:00 -0400

This is my favorite photo of Steve Jobs. Leaning forward to connect with his wife after his keynote presentation at the 2011 WWDC. You can almost feel the relief and accomplishment radiating from him.

When I see this photo, I see a man who bent every fiber of his will toward a goal so lofty, so seemingly unattainable that no one thought it was possible, and at the end of that race, with the task completed, he closed his eyes and rested.

Thank you Steve. I’ll miss you.

An Excerpt from Destiny (Chapter One)

Thu, 22 Sep 2011 22:31:33 -0400

I love reading. A glance at my home library would tell you as much. And I had a lot of fun buying each one, too.

That’s one of the things that our children are going to miss out on, though – the blessing we’ve had to be able to walk through the aisles of a bookstore and pull books off the shelf and thumb through them. One of my favorite things to do in a Borders or Barnes and Noble is to take my top two or three choices over to the café and read the first chapter of each. It gives the author a chance to present his/her case, demonstrate their style and tease the story a bit.

In an effort to provide you with that opportunity for my latest fantasy novel, Destiny: A Fairy Tale, I thought I would offer up an excerpt from the book. The entire first chapter, in fact. So grab a cup of coffee or tea and give me, and my story, a chance.

Chapter One:

Every tale must have a beginning, a birth, a point of departure. Some tales begin long, long ago, while others in a land far away. Some begin with both, and for some, that is where they end as well.

It is said that stories give life to people long dead and forgotten. That the mysterious path to immortality is a life worthy of remembrance. Tales can last thousands of years, or vanish with the coming spring. They can be heirlooms, passed from father to son with love and reverence, or trinkets tossed aside like unwanted toys. Some tales birth gods, and some conceal the truth. This tale does not lay claim to the former, but it certainly deals strongly in the latter. For truth is better digested when taken with honey.

Long ago in a time when the world was younger and full of mystery and wonder, our story took place. Men and women understood that life held more than their eyes were witness to, and powers and allegiances were not always as clear as they first appeared. And that which the people did not understand was what frightened them the most. Life, of course, was difficult enough without mystery and wonder added in.

On the narrow expanse of pastureland between the bright, airy Suttonwood to the south, and the ancient forest of the Aldwode to the north, the tiny village of Bywood reclines in the gentle hills. It was in that place, in Bywood, where our story began.

This tale began in the dead of night, as many tales do, a night of rain and wind and thunderous sounds. It was the sort of storm that filled the air with wetness and wind, lightning and crashing, and an obvious sense that one was better off staying indoors until it was over. So it was with shutters closed and lanterns doused that the citizens of Bywood waited through the night for the full fury of the tempest to pass.

But if anyone had ventured a peak outside of their sheltered abodes, they might have seen, through the shadows and flashes of blue and white lightning, that shapes approached the edge of their humble settlement. Two shapes, to be precise, which seemed to stumble along a small trail that led through the forest to the north edge of the village. The shapes moved slowly, deliberately, but with a sense of haste that was only intensified by the rumbling thunder and flashing light.

The taller of the two shapes was a man, while the smaller was a woman. She moved as one who is oddly burdened, and he seemed to walk carefully, as if the steps pained him. They appeared wet, and tired, and carried very little with them.

The pair entered the village of Bywood from the north, and passed by a handful of shuttered, darkened houses. As they passed through the center of the village, they paused to rest for a moment against a large stone, glistening with each flash of the lightning. The man placed his hand on the stone to steady himself as the woman leaned into him. Her arms were hung low, wrapped around her swollen belly. Her face looked pained.

Both seemed to notice the house ahead of them, the only house with a lamp still burning inside, and they nodded to each other before stepping toward it, slowly and painfully. A crimson handprint where the man had rested against the stone was visible for a brief moment, but the torrential rain soon washed the blood away.

The man did not hesitate to knock on the door of the house, but the beating of his fist seemed to melt perfectly into the rumble of the ominous thunder. The only sound that managed to break through the cacophony was the brief cry of pain from the woman at his side. Her face twisted in agony as she gripped the doorpost with her free hand to hold herself steady.

The man knocked again, harder than before, and suddenly the dim lamplight inside the house began to move, bobbing and swaying, vanishing for a moment and then reappearing once more. And then the door opened, cautiously, slowly.

“What do you want?” questioned a firm, young voice from the darkness of the house. A soft yellow glow cast light on the bare arm and tunic of a man slightly shorter than both the strangers. “The hour is late, and my young family is long abed.”

“We seek shelter, good sir,” replied the damp and hunched man, his voice strong but gentle. “Please, may we pass the stormy night under your roof?”

“We have no room,” the villager offered curtly, and made to shut the door. The strange man reached out with a trembling hand and stopped the door before it fully closed.

“Please,” he pleaded, loud enough for his voice to carry over another long rumble of thunder. “My wife is with child. The birth pains have already begun. We need only a dry shelter and perhaps a midwife if you know of one.”

The door slowly reopened, and the yellow light of the lamp moved up as the villager raised it to his face. A young but stern face, with set jaw and taut skin, stared out from the house. When he spoke, his eyes flashed with displeasure.

“Very well,” he said through clenched teeth. “But I cannot feed you. We are a poor family with too many hungry bellies as it is. And any payment for your lodgings will be appreciated.”

The strange pair stepped through the threshold of the house as the man pulled the door open wide. As the mysterious visitors left the howling wind and biting rain, the man reached out with his bloody hand and gripped the bare arm of his new host.

“I will leave you with the greatest treasure I can offer, you can be sure,” he replied, locking eyes with the shorter man. “Now, fetch us aid if you would. My wife has little time left.”

With a cold nod, the villager vanished into the darkness of the house, taking the yellow glow of the lamp with him. Within moments, the house seemed to come alive, the sounds of other feet thumping on the floorboards, and the light of more lamps pouring around hidden corners and doorways. Hushed voices, full of urgency and distress, began to fill the air between claps of thunder.

A woman rushed by the pair of strangers, her face too young to look so old, and a small bed was made in the front room of the house. Little was said as the pregnant woman was ushered to the cot and gently laid on her back. Thunder crashed outside again, and the walls seemed to shake as the lightning flickered through the windows.

The man of the house returned with a pail of water and a bundle of clean rags tucked under his arm. His silent wife took one of the rags and dipped it into the water before pressing it to the forehead of the woman on the cot. Water trickled slowly down her brow, mingling with tears and sweat.

“She is nearly ready,” said the stern woman, no emotion visible on her tired face. “There is something wrong with the child, I fear. It pains her too much for my liking.”

The tall stranger stepped toward his wife, concern and anxiety painted across his face like a festival mask. He stumbled as he neared the cot, and the younger man caught him by the arm. When he let go, the villager’s hands were covered in blood, thick and dark in the dim light.

“You are injured!” he exclaimed, though it was unclear whether he was concerned for his visitor, or for the mess that was being made of his front room. “Let me tend to your wounds, sir.”

“I am of no consequence,” the stranger said, dismissing the offer with a wave of his hand. “She is my only concern, the center of my world, the heart of my heart.”

He sat down beside her and pressed the damp cloth to her brow as she moaned in pain and took sharp, quick breaths. She reached out and took his hand in hers. He smiled at her gently, fiercely, deeply.

At that moment the thunder crashed again, deeper and longer than before, and lightning filled the mottled glass panes of the windows with a white glow. The woman on the cot cried out in extreme pain, and the housewife at her feet tended her with palpable apprehension.

And then came the pushing, the guttural moans and the cries. The stranger’s wife seemed to focus all of her will and strength into her task, and the housewife spoke calming words and guided her. The wounded stranger leaned against the wall, one hand holding his bloody side and the other his wife’s tightly curled fingers. The austere villager stood back in the shadows, his jaw set like stone. And then, all was quiet.

There was no more thunder, no more howling wind, no more incessant pounding of rain upon roof. For a brief moment, there was no more moaning or crying. Then, like an intense light in a darkened room, a shrill cry rang out. A piercing cry. An infant’s cry.

A moment later, the housewife held up a small bundle in the dim lamplight, swaddled in rags and slick with blood. The wounded man grimaced as he leaned toward her, letting go of his wife’s limp hand to reach for his newborn child. He took the infant in his trembling hands, and tried to hush it with soothing sounds. Then he turned to his wife, the joy beyond apparent on his beaming face.

“A son,” he sighed with exhausted triumph. “We have a son.”

But his wife did not stir. She lay as still as stone on the cot in the corner of the darkened room. Tears still glistened in the corners of her eyes, but those eyes were now lifeless and empty. As the new father grasped the meaning of her silence, his eyes too filled with tears. He stood quietly and deliberately, and strode across the room to the young villager in the shadows.

“She was his only hope,” he whispered hoarsely, glancing over his shoulder at his wife’s form amongst the jumbled bedding. Then he looked back at the young man, and his eyes came alive with resolve and fire.

“Hold him please,” he commanded more than he asked, and the stern, dispassionate man reluctantly took the bundled infant from the stranger. “I as well am not long of this world, and shall join my love beyond the veil shortly. But there is still much to accomplish before I pass.”

Reaching into his tunic, the wounded man produced a large key, dull gray and cold, and removed the chain that held it from around his neck. He then placed the chain over the newborn’s head, and bent low to kiss him on the brow.

“His name shall be Simon,” he stated firmly, as he reached out a bloody hand and gripped the shorter man on the shoulder. “The key is his inheritance and his birthright. Keep it safe, as safe as you will keep him. For I am leaving you, as I said I would, with my greatest treasure. Care for this child as you do your own.”

The dour villager made to argue, but the stranger stepped quickly away, back toward his wife’s lifeless body, and bent low to lift her up. He carried her cradled in his arms, moving without words toward the door. He was in great pain, as was clearly written on his face – the pain of his wounds, the pain of his loss, and the pain of his task. But despite the pain, he opened the door to the cool damp night air.

“But what of the child?” called out the man of the house, the infant held in his outstretched hands, as one would hold an unwanted gift. “You cannot leave him here, with us, for good! We are but a poor family with too many mouths to feed. Please, good sir. Let us tend your wounds and nurse you back to health. For your son!”

“My son needs a father. A family.” The wounded man shook his head slowly. “No, I am beyond your help, however noble it is of you to offer. I must see that my wife is buried properly before it is too late.”

“But…” the frowning man offered, and then he stopped. The stranger was already gone, leaving only the open door and an eerie silence.

As that silence filled the dimly lit room, the newborn’s shrill, piercing cry began anew, followed by the storm, renewed and refreshed in strength. Rain fell hard and thunder clapped loudly, shaking the room, while lightning illuminated the town center beyond the door with a flash of white light. And for a brief moment, in the square at the north side of the village, one dark stranger could be seen stumbling away where two had traveled before.

If you enjoyed that, there is a whole world to explore in Destiny: A Fairy Tale. Grab a copy today in your format of choice.

Following and Friendship

Tue, 13 Sep 2011 10:27:45 -0400

Chris Brogan did some field research the other day and gathered opinions about what it means to follow or not follow someone on twitter. It’s a well thought-out post that you should read. And I think a lot of what he says rings true. But something in his main thrust just doesn’t sit well with me:

If someone is not following you on Twitter, it doesn’t mean they don’t like you. Not following means that the person has made other choices with what they want to focus on with that social network. You can be friends with someone and not follow them. (italics mine)

Chris suggests that even if you aren’t following someone, “you can be friends” with them. And see, that’s where I am going to disagree. Partly. See, a distinction needs to be made between friends we knew prior to, or from outside of, Twitter, and those we meet through the social service itself. If my initial contact with someone is through email, or in-person interactions, then their connection on Twitter is only secondary and an “add-on”. So of course I can maintain a meaningful friendship with them outside of the world of Twitter.

If, however, my sole connection with someone has only ever been on Twitter, and we consider ourselves friends as a result of that interaction, then the “unfollow” – disconnecting from that social setting – now becomes the “unfriending”. You’ve decided to remove the only method of interaction that the relationship was built on. Without it, there is no relationship – just memories.

This isn’t about emotions or deep issues that need counseling – this is about the fundamental weight and importance we place on the word “friend”. And I think social networks have distorted and perverted that word. Today I can “friend” someone on Facebook or follow them on Twitter after reading something they said online. Even if it wasn’t said to me personally.

Following and friendship are two very different things. But when that friendship came about on Twitter, and exists solely within it, then unfollowing is the rejection of the friendship.

I realize this isn’t the popular view. And I honestly don’t care. I value friendships as real, meaningful relationships. When someone I have connected with through Twitter – by sharing interaction, thoughts, business opportunities or encouragement and advice – decides to unfollow me, it deserves a conversation at the very least, and ideally a plan to find new methods for maintaining that friendship outside of Twitter.

As Inigo said to Vicini in The Princess Bride, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” You can follow or unfollow whomever you wish – that’s fine. But I think we need to be careful when we use the word “friend” in this debate.

The Helvetindex Card

Tue, 30 Aug 2011 21:38:15 -0400

I recently passed around some mock-ups on twitter of an index card design I had been working on as a tool for my own personal GTD system. I needed a 3” x 5” card that was both flexible in its layout but also provided plenty of guidance for those moments when I needed to organize my thoughts more clearly.

What I created was an index card that was, as far as I could tell from the comments I received on twitter, both beautiful and useful. Everyone wanted some. And thus the Helvetindex Cards were born (named for the incredibly beautiful, utilitarian Helvetica font, of course). Double-sided index cards, with a faint grid to help those who need more structure in their life, and just a dash of color.

I’m happy to announce that the Helvetindex Cards are ready for pre-order right now, and should start shipping in about a week. A limited first batch of 100-card packs has been cranked out, and they are available on a first-come, first-serve basis, so be sure to get your order in now before they are all gone. And trust me, they’ll be gone faster than a $99 TouchPad.

If you’re like me and you need to have a small stack of index cards in your pocket every waking moment, then give Helvetindex Cards a try. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Hole Cards

Sun, 28 Aug 2011 15:09:03 -0400

I recently began work on my next novel, and I have continued to refine my methodology. If you need to know anything about me at all, it is that I am a highly organized person. Obsessively so. And that means that I firmly believe that I can take the messy, flighty experience of writing long works of fiction and pull some semblance of order and process out of it.

My goal is to help myself write faster, from the nexus of the plot to the finished book. I break the entire process of writing a book down into just a few simple steps: create the plot, outline the chapters, write the book. The more time and organization you pour into the first two steps, the less friction you experience in the final step. No writer likes to be in the middle of a massive hitting streak, with session after session of incredibly productive writing, only to be stopped dead in their tracks by a missing piece of the plot, or by encountering an unforeseen element that might very well break the rest of the story completely.

So right now I am in the middle of the plot-planning stage. For me, this begins as a list if unrelated, unordered ideas. I scribble down things I want to happen in the book, or ideas for possible plot threads. I go through many sheets of paper in my notebook jotting down anything and everything that comes to mind. Partly, because I need to capture these things. And partly because the very act of recording my ideas helps give birth to new ideas that are further developed.

After my list is as complete as I’m willing to admit, I start to try and weave those elements into a chronological, cohesive plot. Imagine a two or three page summary of a novel and that is roughly what we are looking for. My process of building this summary using the ideas and notes I had listed before helps me toss aside bits and pieces that won’t work. It’s like panning for gold, and fleshing out the plot is about as close to swishing that plate of dirty water around as I can get. After I’m done, the dross is gone and the valuable stuff remains.

What I have noticed, though, is that occasionally in my summary of the book I will find myself leaving blanks in places where I have yet to find the perfect idea or the right location or character for a specific scene. These are the “holes” in my plot, and I cannot – will not – move forward without filling them. I know some writers “wing it”, but that’s not my style. I need all my ducks in a row before settling into the writing of the manuscript.

And the best tool for patching holes that I have found is a small stack of index cards (you could try my new “pet project”, the Helvetindex card, if you want) in my back left pocket. Together with a Fisher Space Pen, I have a traveling notebook that is infinitely flexible. And so when I am done with the book summary, I write each plot “hole” on a separate index card, and keep all of those in my pocket from sun-up to sun-down.

Now, while going about my day, I can use moments of pause, like waiting for a client or a long drive, to pull out one of the “hole” cards and read it. Then I can spend those precious moments of quiet uninterrupted peace to ponder, process and patch that hole.

If you write at all, whether for pleasure or pay or something in between, give this a try sometime. You just might wish you had been doing it all along.

How to Join the Read & Trust Network

Thu, 25 Aug 2011 14:18:18 -0400

“How does someone become a member of the Read & Trust network?” I get asked this question frequently. And frequently these questions come from people that want to join or who want to suggest someone else for membership. The answer is simple: you can’t join. You can only be invited.

How do you get invited? By earning the trust and regular readership of a large number of the current members. If you want those current members to read your site, then write amazing stuff. Contact one or two of them to mention a new post. Then write more great stuff. Rinse and repeat. If enough of the members begin to read your site on a regular basis, and even recommend some of your work to their readers, then you’re moving in the right direction.

Read & Trust isn’t meant to be a fitness club that anyone able to pay the membership fee can join. It’s not the Chamber of Commerce. It is more like that person in your life who you always say, “she’s just like family”. Those people become part of your family over time as trust and friendship grow into something deeper. You can’t force it. It happens.

The entire premise of Read & Trust is to be a collection of writers who all read each other regularly. They trust the other members of the group to provide them with quality content. And they can even recommend posts from the other members to their own audience from time to time. That kind of relationship takes time. You can’t just join the group as a stranger and expect them to recommend your writing right away. Trust takes time.

Most people have a favorite writer, so for many of them, learning about who their favorite writer loves to read can open a door to new content of similar caliber. Content that connects with us faster. Content that somehow feels familiar right from the start.

Will there will be haters? Sure, there always will be. And believe me, that part guts me, because I’m inherently a people-pleaser. But we have to say no more often than yes. The goal isn’t to be elitist. There’s no limit regarding how big the group can get, but there’s also no requirement to grow at all. We have no gender requirements, no race or age or topical limitations. The only key is trust.

So go. Write great stuff over and over again. Connect. Network. Grow. You’ll be amazed by what happens when you do.

Floaters

Wed, 24 Aug 2011 14:26:30 -0400

I can’t focus.

Maybe you’ve been in this place before: I can function through my day adequately enough. As a full-time designer I’m able to plan my day out the night before, wake up, eat breakfast and get to work. I’ll admit that I’m lacking in the same level of motivation that I had a couple weeks ago, but I am performing my job perfectly well. It’s after work that I hit the wall, however. I feel like my brain is swimming in a fog; my head is full of thoughts but my organizational skills aren’t grabbing the pieces and making sense of them.

I go through this occasionally. It’s similar to how a computer can feel sluggish after it’s been on and running for a month straight. Sometimes just turning it off and restarting it can shake off the molasses and move things along. So once a month or so I do a mindsweep to clear my head. I grab my notebook and pen and then just start writing. And what I find is that there’s a ton of items that I guess I must have decided just weren’t big enough to write down at the time, and yet they weren’t small enough for me to do immediately either. And so they stuck around, floating like leaves and dead bugs in a swimming pool. Floaters, I call them.

This time it’s different, though. I’ve done a mindsweep already. Two, actually. And still my brain is foggy, and I’ve been stumped as to why. But I have a few things on my mind that need action, and they are way too big to forget or ignore, so I can safely blame this muddled state I’m in on them. The biggest, I know, is that I’ve had my next novel weighing heavily on me. While my last book was a stand-alone story, this next project is the sequel to my fantasy novel, The Hand of Andulain, and looks to be a huge undertaking.

I’ve also been brewing a new side project that I hope to launch in two or three weeks, but can’t say more than that at the moment. And to top it off, Read & Trust has kept me busy these last few weeks as we nail down and schedule the next six months of premium newsletters and some other bigger ideas. All in all, there’s lots to do for this busy guy.

But hey – my baggage is my baggage, so I’m not going to bore you with it all. But I have a point: get cleaning. All of us have floaters in our heads that need out. Getting those items, tasks, ideas and solutions written down somehow, somewhere is the fastest way to finding yourself at peace and in control. You’ll know when you need to do it, trust me. And it won’t take long to make that list and turn it into something actionable. But the longer you let the floaters stick around, the more confused and addled you’ll feel.

Now, if you din’t mind, I have some floaters to take care of.

Wherein I Explain Why Destiny is a "Fairy Tale"

Wed, 27 Jul 2011 12:26:00 -0400

After launching my newest novel, Destiny: A Fairy Tal e, I have gotten a few comments about the connotations that come with the phrase “fairy tale”. So I thought I’d take a moment to address the misconceptions around that language.

A fairy tale is, historically, a shorter narrative (less epic and more compact in prose) that deals with mythological and folklore-based characters. Common assumption is that a “fairy tale” is something like a Disney film, with a dumbed-down plot and flat characters. But fairy tales are the core inspiration for works by such well-known writers as J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, George MacDonald, L. Frank Baum, and even George Orwell.

The fairy tale as our culture knows it today is a neutered, hobbled, shadow of its former self. People think that Miller Light is a beer, too, but they’re wrong. Beer has evolved and changed over the years, and the desire to mass-produce it and sell billions of gallons of it has led to a reduction in the product’s quality. Fairy tales are a victim of the same forces.

A fairy tale of old was full of darkness, mystery, violence and uncertainty. Today we would be hard-pressed to find death and “messiness” in what is passed off as a “fairy tale”, but we are simply being served a watered-down “light beer”. A real fairy tale satisfies deeply, and grips the heart and exercises the mind. Fairy tales are the core of fantasy, not the cheap knock-off for kids.

While I will not make the claim that Destiny is everything a fairy tale should be, I can proudly say that this was my goal. Anyone with a rough understanding of mythology and historical legends will recognize that the world of Southmarch is filled with characters and creatures that have roots stretch back centuries. The Hunter, Hekate the witch, legendary characters like Velentar, and even a couple of the horses all draw names and characteristics from a well that is deeper than Disney.

Destiny is, in the truest sense, a fairy tale. But not the kind you would expect. Give it a chance. I know you will be glad you did.

The Coming Darkness - FREE

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 21:24:37 -0400

I have two novels in publication at the moment. Destiny: A Fairy Tale is the newest title, and it’s set in the world of Southmarch. It has the feel of a classic fairy tale, or one of the Narnia books if you are familiar with those great titles.

The Hand of Andulain is the other novel, the first in a series (though the only book in that series written to date) of epic fantasy books called the Tapestry Saga. A few months back I published a short story prelude to The Hand of Andulain called The Coming Darkness. It sets the stage for the events of the first book, though it can be read after Andulain as well. It gives readers a great perspective into one of the key characters of the novel, and series, in a way that the novel cannot do.

Today I want to make The Coming Darkness free for anyone to download through this website. This link will contain both the .epub version of the story as well as the .mobi version for Kindle devices.

Spread the word, share the link, and help lovers of fantasy all over discover the world of the Tapestry Saga with this fantastic freebie!

Destiny: A Fairy Tale

Thu, 21 Jul 2011 08:29:42 -0400

Destiny: A Fairy Tale is my newest book, and I’m super proud to share it with you all. It’s not a sequel to The Hand of Andulain (that’s a larger, later project), but a stand-alone tale in the grand tradition of fairy tales and children’s fantasy adventures. Think Chronicles of Narnia or The Hobbit in terms of audience and genre.

From the press release:

Destiny: A Fairy Tale is a story about a young man, orphaned at birth with a mysterious key and raised in the quiet village of Bywood, who is unaware of his true story. But when a traveling knight presents him with the opportunity to search for answers outside his comfortable home, Simon jumps at the chance.

Now, Simon must undertake an unforgettable journey if he is to discover who he truly is.

So grab a copy of Destiny today in your format of choice:

• Kindle - $4.99
• Nook - $4.99
• ePub - $4.99
• Paperback - $9.99