Languish of Forgotten Souls By, Lawrence BoarerPitchford **Summer Blog Writing Challenge**

The Challenge: 

In 3,000 words or less write about a photograph a girl finds in her mother's secret jewelry chest. It is a picture of a man that the girl has never seen before. Who is it?

The Result:

          A hundred and eighty six hours and fifty five minutes from when Shannon’s mother was admitted to the hospital, until she was dead. That’s all the time Shannon had with her, and it wasn’t enough. She stood outside her mother’s hospital room, the wad of tissues balled up in her hand, soaked through. The tears just wouldn’t stop flowing, and she dabbed her cheeks with the wet, white ball.

Around the corner approached Doctor Daniel Flemish, the young physician assigned to her mother. If circumstances were different, she might actually let her heart skip a beat in his presence, but now, she couldn’t feel her heart, though it must have been beating. Walking up to her he looked down with his deep golden-brown eyes. His nose was a little short she thought, but his lips, cheekbones, and physique were all sublime.

“I’m very sorry,” he said with absolute sincerity. Fostering a sympathetic smile, he laid his hand on her shoulder, “Is there anyone I can call to come take you home?”

“Home?” she mumbled, the thought of it stabbing her in that empty place that once contained her heart. “I flew in from California at the beginning of the week. Why didn’t she say anything to me? Why did she keep this to herself?”

Doctor Flemish gave a knowing, but warm smile, “She was a strong woman. In the hours that I knew her, she was stoic, kind, and big hearted. And, she spoke of you much. I don’t know why people do the things they do, but all I can say is, your mother was a very wonderful woman.”

Tears fell from Shannon’s eyes as she sobbed. His words were true and filled with admiration, but it did little to stay the pain. “I want to thank you for all your care. At least she didn’t suffer.”

“If you need anything, let me know,” he handed her his card. “We have lots of resources here at the hospital to help grieving family get through the rough patch.” Again, he looked down into her eyes, then he walked past her and into the room. “Notify the morgue,” he casually said to a nurse.

Shannon took up her purse, and like a zombie, walked to the elevator and pressed for the lobby. The doors closed, and she watched the red numbers flash by; seven, six, five, four. The lift stopped and the doors opened. A couple with two children got on, “Now William, I don’t ever want to see you climb up on the roof again.” the woman said to the oldest child who sported a white cast. Three, two, lobby – Shannon got out and walked slowly toward the exit. Outside the air was cool, and in the sky, at the level of the streetlamps, hung a thick white mist. In roughly eight days she’d gone from just visiting, to mourner. It had been two years since she had seen her mother. Work was relentless, and her schedule was always filled with, meetings, presentations, and hours of technical reviews. She cherished their chats on the phone, which consisted of loving words. Her mother never seemed to lack a maternal curiosity that betrayed a mentor’s genuine interest. But, all that time, she never let on that she was dying. Not once did she say, come home, I haven’t got long to live. Shannon got to her car. She sat there, then she felt her mind ripping in two. She balled her fists and bashed them against the dashboard. She screamed loudly, and put her head down against the steering wheel. Suddenly, there was a rapping, a tap-tap tapping upon some solid surface. She turned and the face of Doctor Flemish was looking in. She rolled down her window, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You forgot these documents,” he kindly stated.

“You didn’t… I mean, you –.”

He smiled again, “I didn’t see anything.” He handed her the documents, then added, “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “After all, I’m my mother’s daughter.”

“Okay,” he stated.

As he walked away, she noted his demeanor; confident, with almost a swagger. He looked back, she looked down. A moment passed and she glanced over, but he was gone. Pressing the start button, she put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking space.

Down the street she drove; left at the stoplight and right on Topeka Road. It was exactly five point eight miles to the left turn onto the dirt road that was the driveway. She stopped, got out and opened the metal gate. Up the gravel ladened road she went. It was dark, true county-dark. At the top of the hill she left her lights on and went up to the three thousand square foot ranch house and turned on the porch lights. Returning to her car, she retrieved her briefcase, the hospital paperwork, and her cell phone and went inside.

The smell of apple pie still circulated in the front room. For a moment she could hear her mother calling from the kitchen, “Hot pie and coffee.” A few languid tears seeped out. She tossed the case onto the easy chair and went to the couch, took one of the red and gold throw pillows, and clutched it tightly to her bosom. Staring into the darkness, she wished that she would wake from this nightmare. Exhaustion seized her and before she knew it, sleep overtook her.

            At nine in the morning the raspy jingle of the house phone woke her. She got to her feet and went to the bar and picked it up. “Hello?”

            “Oh, Shannon, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” her sister said. “I was in Spain with my boyfriend and just got your message. Do you need me to come home, or can you handle the probate thing yourself?”

            Kristine was always self-absorbed, and it was no surprise that she would ask such a thing. “No, I’ve got it handled.” Shannon stated. “We can talk when you get back.”

            “Okay, but if you need me, just call. I’ll keep my cell phone on me all the time now.”

            “It was hard last night, but I think I’ve got a handle on it today,” Shannon felt a surge of her mother’s stoic nature pulse through her veins.

            “See you in two weeks,” Kristine said, then the line was dead.

            Shannon looked around the bar, the kitchen, and the dining room. It all spoke of her mother, but was now devoid of her energy. She went into the kitchen and filled the coffee pot with water, four scoops of ground bold coffee, and turned on the switch. Retrieving some clothes from the guest bedroom, she went to the master suite bathroom and turned on the shower. As the steam filled the air, she went into the large walk-in closet and looked around. Amidst the designer labels and pants suits, the shoe trees, and the winter sweaters was a strange reflective plate on a three foot high piece of wood paneling. Approaching, she touched it with the palm of her hand. A click echoed to her ears and she watched as the wood façade extended out toward her. Moving it aside, she looked in. Inside was a set of drawers with polished brass knobs. She pulled out a drawer and was shocked to see gold, silver, and platinum jewelry, some with the Tiffany marking, and others with hallmarks she could not identify. Some of the pieces had two, and three carat diamonds, and others rubies, emeralds, and sapphires the size of a grown man’s thumb.

Pulling on drawer number two, she was surprised to see papers; piles of stocks, bonds, copyrights, and real estate holdings. Below, the pile were her mother’s birth certificate, passport, and a variety of other personal documents. Now, she put her attention to the third pull-knob and pulled. The compartment was stuffed with pictures, some of which were very old. She thought for a moment, then closed up all the drawers and the secret cover, and headed back into the bathroom to shower.

The hot water felt good against her tired muscles. As she closed her eyes, she could almost see her mother. Heavy in the air was the smell of the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash; all things that shouted to her of her mother’s presence. Once finished, she turned off the water and toweled off.

Wrapping a crisp white towel around her, she went back into the closet. Opening the compartment, she went for the third drawer. Taking out the contents, she began to thumb through the many photos. The image of her father dressed in a cardigan sweater and holding a pipe made her long for his loving presence. A picture of her sister was next, when she was two – as it said on the back. Her grandparents were next, followed by a host of high school pictures of her and her sister. One, made her chuckle for it was her at the prom with Tim Halthy, a boy she “liked”, but he didn’t “like” her back. Sifting took a good while, but then she came across a picture of a man she did not recognize. He was not any relative she knew, and on the back of the photo was written, AB-7459856314 Knight’s Guard Elite, Lamb Row Place 1947. The image was of a young man dressed in a red velvet dinner jacket, a pipe in one hand and a highball glass in the other. It was in color, and the man’s bold blond hair and blue eyes were captivating. The picture was clearly candid; for it appeared that the man was unaware of being photographed. In the background were dark wood paneling, a Fourteenth Century chair, a polished wooden end table, and several framed paintings. For a moment her mind wondered. Who was this man? Why was his picture in her mother’s secret compartment? Was he some lover, before her father, or after his death? Surely he couldn’t have been a lover while her father was alive. She shook her head to clear the disturbing thought. No, she reasoned, it’s a relative, or just some friend of the family.

Taking the picture, she retreated back to the guest bedroom. Putting the picture up on the tall dresser, she examined it while dressing. There seemed nothing more she could glean, then she saw the ring on the man’s finger. Taking the picture, she went into her mother’s study, and turned on the light on the high-powered magnifier. Slipping the picture under, she gasped at the image of the ring; a deaths head skull and crossbones. The phone rang and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

She picked up the phone, “Yes?”

There was a pause, then a voice on the other side said, “Is this Shannon Sopur?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“I was informed of your mother’s passing…”

“Who are you, and who told you? She passed last night, and I haven’t told anyone but my sister,” Shannon stated.

“Ah, yes, your sister Kristine. Is there someplace we can meet? I knew your mother and father, and I have something for you. Something she wanted you to have, but couldn’t trust to any else.”

“What cloak and dagger bullshit is this? What do you mean, couldn’t trust to anyone else?”

“I know you are in some shock. As the saying goes, I’m just the messenger. Is there someplace you’d like me to meet you?”

She thought for a moment, “The Deluth Grind House, two o’clock,” Shannon said.

“Very well, two at the grind house.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’ll know you,” and the phone clicked off.

Shannon left the house and drove back to the hospital. There she filled out papers, and arranged to have her mother’s body picked up by a mortuary. As she was leaving she saw Doctor Flemish walking out to his car. “Doctor!” she called.

The doctor turned, “Ms. Sopur, I’m glad to see you’re okay.”

“I just wanted to say thank you again for your kindness,” she smiled.

“My pleasure, and please call me Daniel. Say, I was just heading out to get some coffee. Would you like to come along? A little mocha or cappuccino might do you well. Plus, it’s on me.”

His gaze leveled on her and she felt a rush of emotion. “Uh… I’d love to.”

She got in his Mercedes and he pulled out into traffic. They drove down the street, and took a left onto Main Street. Half a block down, he pulled up and parked. “One of my favorite places. They roast their own coffee here.”

She looked up and was surprised that she was in front of the Deluth Grind House. “I was actually coming here at two.”

“Really?”

“I a strange phone call this morning,” she said.

“Why was it strange,” his curiosity was plain to see.

“A man said he had something for me from my mother that couldn’t be trusted to anyone else,” she shrugged her shoulders, “someone who knows my parents.”

They got out of the car and went inside. Her eyes widened as the rich, coffee smell filled her nose. The coffee house was crowded with customers, but it seemed most were getting their beverage and dashing out. He walked up to the counter, looked down at her and said, “If I were to guess, I’d say you’re a mocha gal.”

She felt herself blushing, then tried to focus in her mind on any other situation that could undo the feeling. “Actually, I like the mocha Frappuccino quite a lot.”

“Excellent, I do too. See if you can find us a seat and I’ll take care of this.”

She walked over and found a round table in an intimate corner and sat with her back to the wall. She watched him, his tweed sport coat neatly hugging his lean frame. He glanced back and saw her, smiled, then the service person distracted him. She never took her eyes off him. There was something about him; the confidence in which he carried himself was most attractive. He waited patiently for their beverages and then came over to the table.

“What do you do?” His voice carried an air of authority.

“I work in advertising. I’m the creative director for Hubert, Rothschild, and Associates in California.” She sipped the steaming liquid.

They talked for quite a long time, then Daniel’s cell phone made a sound. He looked at it and declared, “Yikes, its one fifty already! I have an appointment back at the hospital. I’ll drop you off at your car.”

“I can’t. I have to meet that man here in ten minutes. I’ll take a cab back. Thanks for the coffee and the conversation. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

Daniel nodded, “Me too. How’s Thursday?”

“I’d like that very much,” she said.

Daniel left and passed an elderly man in a gray wool coat coming in. The man looked around the room, then came toward Shannon. “You have your father’s nose and eyes,” he said.

“Who are you and how do you know my parents?”

“Your father and I worked closely together for many years. We served in the war together.” He sat down and smiled. The image in the picture came through; he was the man in the picture. “Your father and I were very close, and served der Fuhrer.” He set down a manila envelope and passed it to her. “Your mother forbade me to give you this, until she’d passed.”

She opened the envelope and looked at a host of pictures. One was her father in a SS uniform standing at the base of the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor. Another was him commanding troops and securing the remains of the American Whitehouse. And, another showed him receiving a medal from Adolf Hitler, the Chancellor.

“So, my father was a war hero? He helped take the Americas?” She was dumfounded. “How… when was this?”

“In nineteen forty-four when we dropped the hydrogen bomb on the capital of the former United States, Washington. We were poised to do the same to New York, and then on the West Coast, but the American president surrendered before we had to. Your father was a very important man, who tried to put the ravages of war behind him. Your mother wanted to forget also, but they both understood that when it was time for you to get married, and have children, that the heroic exploits of your father would need to be known. A sad day indeed, but also a glorious day for the Reich in that you will bear the children of the future.”

Reeling from the information, she stood and gathered up the papers. “I saw a picture of you.” she said.

“From the old day’s maybe?”

“It had written on it letters and numbers and something about a knight’s guard?”

“Ah, yes, AB-7459856314 Knight’s Guard Elite maybe? That was my blood group and SS group division identification.” He unrolled his sleeve and showed her a faded, tattoo on his wrinkled arm. “We were all very close after the war, then drifted apart. But… that is academic now. I am the only one left.” 

She opened the manila envelope and took out the papers. It was medical information. She scanned down the document, then her eyes went wide. It said that she and her sister were the product of a genetic experiment. The gene donor was named; Adolf Hitler.

“There are no guarantees in life, my dear,” the man said, “but I know that you will make a wonderful mother,” the old man stood, clicked his heels together, bowed slightly, turned and left the Deluth Grind House.

Could there be another Fuhrer? she wondered.   

Interview With Author Lawrence BoarerPitchford!!

Interview:

Where are you from?

There are those who say that I originated from a fracture in the space time continuum, but I actually started life in a sleepy little town called Santa Clara. I’ve lived most of my life in California, a state in the boisterous nation of the United States. Having said that, I traveled extensively in my youth; picking up a little accent in France, and a lot of rain in Britain.  Now that I’ve shrunk a little with age, and grown more wary of loud music and young adults, I have come to realize that it’s not where you come from that is important, but where one is going. 

What inspired you to write your first book?

My first book is titled Tales of Mad Cows and Brothels, an epic story about a Welsh nobleman, an Irish pirate, and a French rogue priest on a collision course with an assassination attempt on Queen Elizabeth I. What inspired me to write it was a complex mixture of liquor fueled writing sessions with my co-author, bawdy adventures, and a grotesque sense of humor. It all started in nineteen ninety two, when my college roommate and I were preparing to go to the Renaissance Faire at the Black Points Forest in Novato, California. My roommate produced a ten page story about he, and I, and another friend, during the Renaissance wreaking havoc across the green lands of England, all the while being irreverent, despicable, drunk, and ruthless. This story preyed on our warped sense of humor, and by the time it had been read, I knew I needed to add to the body of work. Soon it was a competition between my roommate and me to write the most insane, warped, funny story using the same characters, in the same setting. Once I wrote those first semi-cohesive stories, I was passionately invested as a writer. Though my partnership with my college roommate didn’t last, I’ve been writing ever since.

Do you write full-time or part-time? How do you balance your writing life with your family/work life?

This is an excellent question, and one that I’m going to answer based on my philosophy about one’s passion. I spend ten hours a day working as a high-tech professional. So, it is safe to say that my career is not writing. I think if one was to survey most Indie authors the ratio of those who work a day job and write when they can to those who have the opportunity to have writing as their career, would be fairly lopsided. Having said that, it is a dream of mine, and I’m sure many others, to write books that entertain, and make a living of it.

Now, about the balancing act. I am a man suspended over a chasm, walking a tightrope, while carrion birds dive for my eyes, and hungry demons below call for me to jump. Being a creative person, or rather an artist who must work a job that is anything but creative, it is painful and taxing both physically and mentally. In regards to my family, I’m an empty nester. So, there is only my wife and I and our pets. My wife is very understanding when it comes to my writing, even though she may not agree with everything I write. So, what is the balance? I typically write when I get home. I work on my various projects into the night, then stagger to bed, to try and get enough rest to make it through another day at the “salt mines”. I try and write on the weekends between the domestic duties of maintaining a household and walking/biking on the many trails near my home. There’s never enough time to relax and just fade into the worlds that exist in my mind. I’m always aware my time is limited.  

What jobs have you held that influence your stories?

Jobs that have influenced my art? I’d have to say every one that I’ve ever had. When I was fifteen, I got a job in a hardware store in the tiny town of Cool California - it really was called Cool. Anyway, when I wasn’t lugging sacks of dog food, or stacking bales of hay, I’d wander the aisles envisioning the things I could make with the pipes, and fittings, and the threaded rod, and the brass items. I would imagine I was a secret agent, or army soldier, or trapped by a robber. This pattern of imagination was with me in many of my previous jobs. While working those jobs, I interacted often with various personalities and, dare I say it, characters.

I think that most authors gather resources from their personal experiences, and work is one of those experiences. Drawing from those past jobs, or even from my current work, helps feed my inner monologue and build believable characters, dialogue, and action that go into my books.  

Do you have a specific writing style?

My works are mostly action adventure stories. They are the types of stories that I like to read, and are the types of stories that my friends like to read. I try not to make melodramas, or put too much protracted action in. I try to have my characters and their situations make sense and be true to the story. I like archetypes and humor, though my humor may not be everyone’s cup of tea. I like anti-heroes and characters who are victims of circumstance, driven by destiny, or fate.  

How did you come up with the title?

I have five books. Each title was a labor of love. Tales of Made Cows and Brothels was derived because the first story my roommate wrote was titled “This Is Not About Mad Cow Disease”. We thought it was clever if we titled the final work Tales of Mad Cows, then thought we should add some sex, and added word brothels to the end. In hindsight we probably should have titled the book something else.

The titles that I have created myself, such as The Lantern of Dern Blackhammer, is a descriptor of the contents. The story is literally about the lantern that the dwarf Dern Blackhammer forged during a war between the gods, and mortals. In the story titled In the World of Hyboria, the adventures of the barbarians and their wizard friend take place on the continent of Hyboria; a place created by the late Robert E. Howard. Thadius was derived from the main character’s name, Moras Tiberius Thadius, who is a widowed, retired, Roman general that harbors a terrible secret – though he doesn’t quite know it to start. And, finally the American Civil War novella titled Sawbones; a story about a British surgeon who uncovers a devious plan to alter the outcome for the South. With the exception of my first book, all the others were titled based on what they are truly about.  

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

All my books have a hidden message. In Thadius, the message is that one is never too old to live life; In Sawbones, the message is that it doesn’t matter who one is, or what one does, because a person is judged based on their character, their honesty, their kindness, and willingness to do the right thing. I’ll let your audience read my fantasy novels to determine what the message(s) are in those.

How much of the book is realistic?

I like to think that my readers will find my stories very believable. I strive to get the reader to buy into the setting, characters, and the plot. Those who have read my work say the story (any one of them) pulls the reader in and makes them inhabit the world that I created. In the case of my historical works such as Thadius, and Sawbones, I did extensive research to paint a picture of the period in which they are set in. I really wanted the reader to taste the dust on the road, and feel the cold of the rain when it fell. I wanted the audience to feel the heartache of the age, and the longing, as well as the elation, and passion.

Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?

I’m not sure that any author can separate their personal experiences from their characters. Though the subjects may be fiction, and the protagonist/antagonist constructs of my imagination, they are formed from my interactions with life and love, and sadness, and anger. They carry the components of those that I’ve met on my journey through life, as well as other books, movies, and stories I’ve been told. None of my characters are based on any individual. I form them from the raw clay of my imagination, then I season that avatar with what I think makes sense. Often times, those things I thought fit that character, doesn’t, and the character begins the evolution process toward what they end up being in the final product.

What books have most influenced your life most?

I’m glad you asked. The biggies have been Dante Alighieri’s Devine Comedy, Robert E. Howards’ Conan books, Alexander Dumas’ the Three Musketeers, Dan Simons’ Hyperion, Larry Niven’s The Ring World, J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, and of course Tales of Mad Cows and Brothels (classic!).  

If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

I’d have to say Larry Niven. He is an amazing author and one of my favorites. He’s written both science fiction and fantasy, and his works are based in wonderful science. 

What book are you reading now?

Currently I’m reading the Wolf’s Moon by Patrick Jones, the Chronicles of Koa by K.N. Lee, and A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burges.

Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest?

I’m much more a writer than I am a reader. Don’t get me wrong, I love to read, but reading takes up my time, and that’s time I could be using to write. So, I typically opt to write rather than read most of the time. In truth, I really haven’t been gripped by any contemporary authors, yet. Now, that’s not to say that there aren’t very talented Indie authors out there who do fantastic work. It’s just I haven’t been smitten with any I’ve read yet.

What are your current projects?

I’m working on one fresh storyline that is science fiction. It’s a story about a group of young adults whose world is turned upside down by war. The setting is on a continent called Augerland that has human habitation on the west coast. The technology that the humans have is steam power, and some electrical power– sort of a nineteenth Century setting, but that is not the only technology left on the continent. The working title is Harrow’s Gate. I’m also working on the second book in the The Lantern of Dern Blackhammer universe. This story is centered on the ancient city of Moore that is buried beneath the current city. Ford, the main character is sent to retrieve the codpiece of the White King of Moore. The problem is that there is little that is known about the old city, how to get into it, or what is really there. Next, I’m working on editing/rewriting the second story in the Mad Cows series. The working title is Doom of Rogues, and centers on the three anti-heroes seeking revenge for being cursed by a witch from the first book, whom they tried to kill. Lastly, I’ve finished and am waiting to edit/rewrite the third and final story in the In the World of Hyboria stories. This is the final and gripping tale of Grimface the wizard and his two barbarian companions who meet their destiny in a final epic battle against the last Atlantian.     

Name one entity that you feel supported you outside of family members.

I have two friends who have been my writing cheer team. My friend Dave has been reading my work since the first Mad Cows short stories back when I was in college. He shares my somewhat twisted sense of humor and even today plays an instrumental role in acting as a sounding board for my project ideas. Then there’s Gary, a friend from work who I let read Tales of Mad Cows and Brothels when I was editing it. He also plays a role as a sounding board, and creative catalyst. I have received lots of moral support from other friends, but the most consistent has come from Dave and Gary.

Do you see writing as a career?

I have a career as an information technology professional now, and dabble in writing as a hobby career, having said that, I dream, and long to make my sole career the creation and promotion of my novels/novellas. I am not so much a technical writer, or a journalist; I don’t really enjoy those aspects of writing. Creative writing I love and have a passion for. So, if it were to happen, that I was to be solicited by a publisher and/or literary agent today, I’d pick writing as a career over what I do as my day job.

If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?

There are always elements of the plot that could be changed. At this point I think that I have things pretty tight, but my process consists of much iteration, many drafts, and much rework. I’ll create a rough draft and work on it, only to find a year later that it really needs half of the chapters torn out and rewritten, or the plot needs to be completely changed. My latest published book, In the World of Hyboria Book 1 and Book 2 is actually two five chapter short stories based on the world created by Robert E. Howard (who created Conan the Barbarian). The nice thing about being an Indie author and publishing in only electronic format is that one can take a work out of circulation, fix issues, and put it back quickly.

Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?

My interest in writing came about while I was in college. My college roommate, I, and another friend of ours liked to attend the Northern California Renaissance Faire at Black Point Forest in Novato. To wet our appetites (so to speak) for the debauchery that was to take place, my roommate and I began to write short stories detailing the exploits of our faire characters. They were tales of drunken, loutish, roguish behavior that mocked authority, and deflowered any aspect of innocence. They were written tongue in cheek, and meant to be a parody of fantasy books we’d read. We’d laugh heartily about the mad stories, then climb in the car and drive to the faire. It truly set the mood, and taught me that writing a story meant that an author had the power to convey emotions and imagery through their work. It was a revelation to me and made me wonder if I had that kind of talent, or if I was only doing something funny that was just for that one moment. The jury is still out.      

Can you share a little of your current work with us?

My current work centers around four projects, Harrow’s Gate (SciFi), The White King of Moore (SW Fantasy), In the World of Hyboria Book 3 (SW Fantasy), and Doom of Rogues (SW Fantasy). Each of these books are built on the foundation of what I’ve learned as an author over these past years. The following is a rough draft snippet from Book 3 In the World of Hyboria Return of the God-King (to be published 2014):

Blood oozed from his wounds. The deep scratches and minor punctures all over his body were inflamed and burning from the saturation of sweat that covered him. His escape from the briar walled stockade bore witness to his desperation by keeping bits of his flesh as souvenir. The crunch of leaves, branches, and detritus echoed with each footfall. He willed his stride wider by the moment as his pursuers gained on him. It was no use. If they were to capture him again, Grimface knew they would do to him what they did to the other captured souls; sandwich them between wicker webs and burn them with rolls of red hot reeds one spot at a time until all the skin is gone. He shuddered at the thought. His ankle twisted and he tumbled, rolled and came up running still. Behind him, the whoops of the Pics cascaded from his left, right, and directly at the back. If only he could speak, if only he could sing to summon a protective demon, or raise a mist to hide within, but the Pic shaman had made him mute with a spell to deaden his tongue and throat. Grimface’s power was useless now.

Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

Time management. In recent days, I find that as I sit to compose, my cursor finds its way to Facebook, Google+, Twitter, or Goodreads. I am then immersed in the world of my peers and contemporaries. I read their posts, add posts of my own, promote my work, and then realize that I have thirty minutes to write before going to bed. But, this visibility must be kept up, or an author can fall into the abyss of obscurity, and be lost. Or, at least that’s how I feel about it.

Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?

Wow, my favorite author? I love Dante Alighieri, J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert E. Howard, Larry Niven, Dan Simmons, H.P. Lovecraft… Okay, just one…I would pick Tolkien. Tolkien’s two defining books The Hobbit, and The Lord of the Rings were written very differently, but yet contain the same masterful style of authorship. The Hobbit, a simple adventure story set in Middle Earth was a delight to read as a child and adult, yet contained a intricacy that allowed me to be immersed in the lands of Middle Earth. The Lord of the Rings was a captivating epic, whose complexity and detail dwarfs most other books that I’ve read in the genre. That’s not to say other more contemporary writers don’t have complex stories, but I am saying that when I first read Tolkien, it hit a note with me that has resonated to this day.   

Do you have to travel much concerning your book(s)?

As an Indie author who is e-book centric, I do very little traveling in regards to my writing sudo-career. I would love to go to conferences, conventions, do book signings, appear on talk shows, and do radio spots, but that doesn’t seem to be what is open to me now. So, I stay in my cottage, in my office, and write when I can most of the time.

Who designed the covers?

I designed the covers of my books (thus far). It is actually one of the parts of the book production process that I really like. I guess it appeals to my creative intellect, and I would go as far as to say it is nearly equal to my love of writing the book.

What was the hardest part of writing your book?

The hardest part of writing for me is the editing. I am a terrible editor, and when I type I make many typo errors (though I’m getting better). The creative part is not so hard – but the work of  editing and rewriting kills me. Yet, it has to be done, and I see the benefit from all that work in the end product.

Did you learn anything from writing your book and what was it?

I don’t think there is enough time to tell about all the lessons learned. Number one – lose any arrogance one may have. Even the most perfect, well educated, and skilled writer makes mistakes. Two, never consider a rough draft a finished product – NEVER! Three, accept critique as the betterment process – and not an attack on your creativity, or personal abilities. Four, take frequent breaks from working. Five, be kind and honest with other writers – but also be tactful. Six, be open to change. Seven, become visible in the authors/readers community. Eight, be generous with your success – in other words, give to charities such as animal shelters, cancer research, food groups, etc. I could go on, but I’ think I might bore your audience.  

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Writing is much more than putting down words on a blank page. Writing is a means to convey emotional content to those who read. It is a way to shape thoughts and feelings from the abstract to the physical. Don’t rush to judgment about other writers. Know what you like to write, i.e. know your genre. Have a really good editor. Don’t rush to publish or show your work to literary agents or publishers. Take your time, make sure you’ve caught all the mistakes and filed down all the rough edges. Keep writing no matter what.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

Be kind to people, animals, and yourself. Cruelty should always be shunned. After having said that, I’ll say, if you like action and adventure stories get a copy of Thadius, Sawbones, In the World of Hyboria, and The Lantern of Dern Blackhammer. Also, if one is curious, one can download a free copy of my original book Tales of Mad Cows and Brothels at my website. Also, keep abreast of my writing activities, when my projects will be available, and generally what I’m doing by checking me out on Facebook, Google+, and Twitter.  

What were the challenges (research, literary, psychological, and logistical) in bringing it [your work] to life?

For my historical fiction books, the research was daunting. To put a set of characters into a historical setting requires making the settings believable. In order to make them believable, the context of the setting has to be spot on. As an example, one would not see firearms in the Roman Republic, nor would one find American Civil War soldiers battling with hoplite shields and spears. Another aspect of struggle in creating wonderful stories is the hard work it takes to make characters believable. Each character has their own personality, characteristics, and foibles that make them unique. Also, it is important to give one’s characters flaws, even some serious flaws that pose challenges within the plot. I often use my knowledge in psychology, science, engineering, philosophy, biology, and many other disciplines to shape, polish, and make believable characters for my works. 

What do you think about e-publishing versus technical publishing?

Fantastic question! Each has their benefits. We’re in the early years of the e-book revolution. Things are a bit chaotic at the moment in the industry. Currently e-publishing has opened the doors to would-be authors whose works would otherwise be left in a box in the attic. In that sense we as consumers get to see ideas, themes, and plots that we would not be exposed to otherwise. On the other hand, the quality is all over the map.

In the past, the paper publishing industry has held a strangle hold on the book industry ever since Gutenberg first printed the Bible. Now, that hold has slipped a bit, and those well-known publishers are now competing with new business models like Amazon, Smashwords, and many small press publishers, but it hasn’t made access to the paper publishers any easier.  

With paper publishing one gets the advantage of the industries strong network of distributers, stores, and publicity/advertising, not to mention their internal services such as editing, cover art, and many others (all things the author does not pay out of pocket for). But, that traditional path is a hard road, filled with query and rejection letters a plenty. It is a difficult business to break into.

The new model of e-publishing is far more open; sort of the Wild West. There are many options such as finding a small press e-publisher who deals in one’s genre, or publishing with Save Space, Lulu, Amazon, or Smashwords. This is a harder path in the sense of editing, cover art, promotion, publicity, advertising, and general visibility, and we authors pay out of pocket with little chance of financial return.

For me, I chose to do self-publishing with e-publishing because I wanted to get my product out to readers. I felt that I’d gone the traditional path with paper publishing, and found that it’s a more satisfying process to do it myself. Looking back, I see that the e-publishing process posed many challenges that I didn’t realize, but were overcome by dogged perseverance and networking. There is no panacea out there. It is nice to see that now there are traditionally published authors that have come to try their hand in self-publishing through the e-publishing.      

Do you have an agent or publisher? How did you go about finding one?

In 2000 I was signed to Pulsar Publishing, a subsidiary of Romance Foretold Publishing. Both companies went out of business in 2003. At that time I began to work on my manuscript Thadius, and then went on to work on Sawbones, and The Lantern of Dern Blackhammer. Those works took a long time to write and edit. When I came out form my man-cave to see the light of day, I realized it was 2008. I got a copy of the Novel and Short Story Writer’s Market 28^th Edition, and began submitting query letters to agents and publishers. It seemed that the following was the standard reply of the day: “We like the concept, but don’t think your project is a good fit for us right now.” This was code for, “We don’t think we can make a profit publishing your book.” So, I resigned myself to keep writing and keep trying. I eventually realized that if I wanted to get my art in front of readers, I’d have to do it myself. Currently I am unaffiliated with any agent, and sell my works as self-published through companies like Amazon, and Smashwords.

If you could live anywhere, where would it be?

Are you familiar with the castle in the Disney movie Beauty and the Beast? That’s where I’d like to live; a secluded manor house on a palatial estate, hidden behind a forest, and beautiful. This place could be in the United Stated, Unite Kingdom, or New Zealand… some place amazingly lovely.

If you could have any super power, what would it be?

I think I’d like the ability to teleport. With this ability, I could leave work, pop in at home, write, pop back to work – work there – then pop home again to write more. Also, it would make visiting relatives who live in the United Kingdom and other places a bit easier. 

For More on Lawrence BoarerPitchford:

Lawrence BoarerPitchford, Author

Thadius

Sawbones

The Lantern of Dern Blackhammer

In the World of Hyboria

Tales of Mad Cows and Brothels

www.boarerpitchford.com