As of Saturday, I've adjusted the settings on the Season Two episodes of The Second Realm at Smashwords to allow people to sample the first 20% without 'buying' (you can still pay what you like, with no minimum price).
Sampling was disabled because I guessed that most of the people downloading episodes from Smashwords would be people who'd found the series here and gone there to get it in e-reader-friendly formats - people who know that you can sample the whole series completely free on here.
To put it bluntly, that guess appears to be dead wrong. The four episodes of season 2 (don't forget the newly-released fifth) have generated a grand total of 14 downloads/sales over the last four months. In the same period, the eleven episodes of season 1 produced 500 downloads. Alright, the first season episodes can be downloaded in full without a Smashwords membership, but even averaged out that's ten times as many downloads per episode.
I need to do something to get those 500-downloads-worth of readers reading season 2, and wherever they're coming from, I think some sampling may help. Immortal Remains, released five months ago and barely promoted at all - in particular, lacking the benefit of subsequent releases in a series - has generated almost as many sales as the four Second Realm episodes put together, and, counting samples, more than twice as many downloads.
I'm not expecting this to be a magic bullet, obviously. There are no magic bullets in this business. But it is important to keep tweaking your strategy - this is one of the pieces of advice you'll hear most often from the old pros who've gotten into self-publishing (particularly Joe Konrath). If what you're doing doesn't work, change what you're doing.
BUT, and this is very important, it takes time for anything to work. I put this sampling strategy to the test for four months (because I forgot to change it last month, but still, three months). I'm still not sure I'm not jumping the gun a little bit by not giving it six months. The thing is, time feels a lot longer to live through than to talk about, and it's very easy, when the numbers climb at the average rate of one a week, to feel like you've been 'trying something' for ages with no success when really, it's only been a month.
Remember always - a successful author is one who kept going. The only way to definitely, absolutely and forever fail in this business is to give up. Try new things, but don't panic and abandon them when they take a few weeks to work. They may never work - but give them a chance.
Showing posts with label Sample Sunday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sample Sunday. Show all posts
Monday, 22 April 2013
Sunday, 2 October 2011
Sample Sunday; The Second Realm
You may have seen my recent announcement of the serial I'm launching, hopefully in about a week's time. That's contingent on getting a quick beta read and polishing edit done on the first installment, but I don't think it needs a lot of work (unless my instinct is wildly misfiring again, but the story feels ready). In the meantime, here's a preview:
The Second Realm part 1: Van Raighan’s Last Stand
Episode 1. I Can See Clearly Now
Wind blasted up the hillside and shattered into whispers on the hedge that lined the canal path. It was impossible to forget how near the Second Realm was. Rel shifted the leather strap of his backpack, trying to loosen his already-stiff shoulder. His boots slapped in the puddles and sucked in the mud of the path.
Ahead, the canal turned slowly North around the curve of Fibor Hill towards the brow above Federas. Rel blinked, squinting against the wind. There were three - four? No, five - women coming his way along the path. Four wore stout travelling dresses in brown and green, but the fifth looked to be wearing purple. An odd group, and an odd time to be leaving Federas, with the trap awaiting Van Raighan still unsprung. Unless they’d been lucky and he’d come early. Or something had gone wrong.
Rel ground his teeth. Far more likely something would go wrong, even after he’d been right to the Court to hone his Clearsight. Twice. Both times, the Clearviewing had shown Van Raighan’s entry to the town, right through to his capture. It stopped, though, almost the moment that the guardsmen surrounded the master thief. Rel would be there, would have to do something. Clearsight never showed you your own part in events.
So Rel had perhaps another hour - clouds covered the sun, but he thought it was still well shy of noon - to get back to the town, talk Sheriff Pollack around again, and get settled in before Van Raighan was due at the Warding Hall.
He resisted the temptation of using Clearsight to see who the women were. The Second Realm was close enough still that it would be easy, but this close he might see something more than faces. He would see who they were soon enough.
A plastic bottle bobbed in the brown canal water. One of the small, white ones shaped with a handle, and a green lid. Rel thought about stopping to fish it out - it was filthy, but if it was watertight enough to float it was worth at least a good meal and a drink. But he didn’t have his fishing rod with him, and trying to reach it with a broken-off branch would risk falling in. If he turned up in front of the Sherriff sopping wet, he might well get sent to Dora in case he caught cold, and then there was no way he’d get free in time for Van Raighan.
Maybe the bottle would still be there later. Rel glanced at the sky, counting hours of daylight remaining against how long the excitement in town was likely to last. Out across the valley, darker cloud and grey haze spoke of another shower closing in. Maybe the bottle would still be there tomorrow.
He hissed through the gap in his teeth, then caught himself as he realised how close the women had got. He didn’t know the lady in purple - purple linen, not wool - or the plainer-dressed woman next to her, but the other three were familiar. Dora walked in the middle of the group, tiny and slight, her fair hair straw-like and wild as ever, the Four-Knotted cord cinching her faded green robe almost tight enough to give her hips. The only thing not completely underwhelming about her was her eyes; even as she nodded gently to Rel, cheeks rounding slightly with a smile, her eyes were flint and diamond all at once.
Beris Webberat and Notia Tollan made almost as strange companions for the Four Knot as the two out-of-towners. Both scowled at him as they passed. There was no question of stopping to chat. Maybe on a good day, Dora might have a word for him if they were alone out here, but the Second Realm made more than Clearsight complicated.
If Dora was out here, though, with two women who hated the Second Realm and two strangers, something had probably already gone wrong in town. Rel put his head down and picked up his step -
- and noticed that the canal surface wasn’t rippling with the wind. As he watched, holding himself dead still, it started moving again, but not all at the same time. The still patch was following the women, ripples gently sliding back in its wake. Plenty of Children of the Wild were untouched by the wind. The list of known species that would stalk humans was shorter, but still long.
Rel still didn’t move, trying to breathe without using a single muscle. Whatever it was would be able to sense his Gift of Clearsight, even while he wasn’t using it, but maybe it hadn’t noticed. He turned his head slowly, following the still patch along the canal, and surrendered his eyes to Clearviewing.
Icy cold spread up under his eyelids and round into his eye sockets. Suppressing the urge to blink was second-nature, but he could do nothing about the shiver. There was a slight sensation of tension inside his face as if his eyes were sticking out on stalks, and then he Saw Clearly. The canal looked much as it had, except that he could vaguely make out the shape of its muddy bottom. Sparks glittered from the grass and bushes.
He forced himself not to look up. The clouds were not thick enough to cover the painful, colourless Realmlessness. His gut grumbled just thinking about it. Instead, he kept his eyes on the still patch - not still, of course, to Clearsight. The air danced above the canal and the path, a jumble of tiny motes of a colour that was almost like green. No two ever seemed to move the same way at once.
Nothing special, then. If there had been no motion at all, Rel would have worried, but wherever the Wilder was, it wasn’t powerful enough to manage negation. Instead, it was breaking the wind’s motion up into eddies too small to pick up a hair. It was the trick most Wildren used. On a good day, with a fresh head on his shoulders, Rel might even be able to manage it himself.
Where was the Wilder? The air danced, the grass glittered, but there were no footsteps - the ground still glowed faintly where the women had set their feet - and none of the strain lines that would betray a Wilder concealing itself.
Rel looked at the women, already half-way around the bend in the canal, and his mouth ran dry. There were only four women; the lady in purple was nowhere to be seen. His eyeballs ached with the cold, fought his eyelids, but he forced the blink and Clearsight fled. The lady reappeared. Gifts of the Second Realm were given to protect humans against the Children of the Wild, but the Gift-Givers, Wildren though they were, had always insisted on protecting themselves too. They could walk right through any Warding they hadn’t set themselves; they could not pass through any Gateway a human made; and they were invisible to Clearsight.
---
What do you think? My main concern is that maybe I'm introducing stuff too quickly; could you follow what's going on?
(Pst. There's an additional teaser for The Second Realm here.)
The Second Realm part 1: Van Raighan’s Last Stand
Episode 1. I Can See Clearly Now
Wind blasted up the hillside and shattered into whispers on the hedge that lined the canal path. It was impossible to forget how near the Second Realm was. Rel shifted the leather strap of his backpack, trying to loosen his already-stiff shoulder. His boots slapped in the puddles and sucked in the mud of the path.
Ahead, the canal turned slowly North around the curve of Fibor Hill towards the brow above Federas. Rel blinked, squinting against the wind. There were three - four? No, five - women coming his way along the path. Four wore stout travelling dresses in brown and green, but the fifth looked to be wearing purple. An odd group, and an odd time to be leaving Federas, with the trap awaiting Van Raighan still unsprung. Unless they’d been lucky and he’d come early. Or something had gone wrong.
Rel ground his teeth. Far more likely something would go wrong, even after he’d been right to the Court to hone his Clearsight. Twice. Both times, the Clearviewing had shown Van Raighan’s entry to the town, right through to his capture. It stopped, though, almost the moment that the guardsmen surrounded the master thief. Rel would be there, would have to do something. Clearsight never showed you your own part in events.
So Rel had perhaps another hour - clouds covered the sun, but he thought it was still well shy of noon - to get back to the town, talk Sheriff Pollack around again, and get settled in before Van Raighan was due at the Warding Hall.
He resisted the temptation of using Clearsight to see who the women were. The Second Realm was close enough still that it would be easy, but this close he might see something more than faces. He would see who they were soon enough.
A plastic bottle bobbed in the brown canal water. One of the small, white ones shaped with a handle, and a green lid. Rel thought about stopping to fish it out - it was filthy, but if it was watertight enough to float it was worth at least a good meal and a drink. But he didn’t have his fishing rod with him, and trying to reach it with a broken-off branch would risk falling in. If he turned up in front of the Sherriff sopping wet, he might well get sent to Dora in case he caught cold, and then there was no way he’d get free in time for Van Raighan.
Maybe the bottle would still be there later. Rel glanced at the sky, counting hours of daylight remaining against how long the excitement in town was likely to last. Out across the valley, darker cloud and grey haze spoke of another shower closing in. Maybe the bottle would still be there tomorrow.
He hissed through the gap in his teeth, then caught himself as he realised how close the women had got. He didn’t know the lady in purple - purple linen, not wool - or the plainer-dressed woman next to her, but the other three were familiar. Dora walked in the middle of the group, tiny and slight, her fair hair straw-like and wild as ever, the Four-Knotted cord cinching her faded green robe almost tight enough to give her hips. The only thing not completely underwhelming about her was her eyes; even as she nodded gently to Rel, cheeks rounding slightly with a smile, her eyes were flint and diamond all at once.
Beris Webberat and Notia Tollan made almost as strange companions for the Four Knot as the two out-of-towners. Both scowled at him as they passed. There was no question of stopping to chat. Maybe on a good day, Dora might have a word for him if they were alone out here, but the Second Realm made more than Clearsight complicated.
If Dora was out here, though, with two women who hated the Second Realm and two strangers, something had probably already gone wrong in town. Rel put his head down and picked up his step -
- and noticed that the canal surface wasn’t rippling with the wind. As he watched, holding himself dead still, it started moving again, but not all at the same time. The still patch was following the women, ripples gently sliding back in its wake. Plenty of Children of the Wild were untouched by the wind. The list of known species that would stalk humans was shorter, but still long.
Rel still didn’t move, trying to breathe without using a single muscle. Whatever it was would be able to sense his Gift of Clearsight, even while he wasn’t using it, but maybe it hadn’t noticed. He turned his head slowly, following the still patch along the canal, and surrendered his eyes to Clearviewing.
Icy cold spread up under his eyelids and round into his eye sockets. Suppressing the urge to blink was second-nature, but he could do nothing about the shiver. There was a slight sensation of tension inside his face as if his eyes were sticking out on stalks, and then he Saw Clearly. The canal looked much as it had, except that he could vaguely make out the shape of its muddy bottom. Sparks glittered from the grass and bushes.
He forced himself not to look up. The clouds were not thick enough to cover the painful, colourless Realmlessness. His gut grumbled just thinking about it. Instead, he kept his eyes on the still patch - not still, of course, to Clearsight. The air danced above the canal and the path, a jumble of tiny motes of a colour that was almost like green. No two ever seemed to move the same way at once.
Nothing special, then. If there had been no motion at all, Rel would have worried, but wherever the Wilder was, it wasn’t powerful enough to manage negation. Instead, it was breaking the wind’s motion up into eddies too small to pick up a hair. It was the trick most Wildren used. On a good day, with a fresh head on his shoulders, Rel might even be able to manage it himself.
Where was the Wilder? The air danced, the grass glittered, but there were no footsteps - the ground still glowed faintly where the women had set their feet - and none of the strain lines that would betray a Wilder concealing itself.
Rel looked at the women, already half-way around the bend in the canal, and his mouth ran dry. There were only four women; the lady in purple was nowhere to be seen. His eyeballs ached with the cold, fought his eyelids, but he forced the blink and Clearsight fled. The lady reappeared. Gifts of the Second Realm were given to protect humans against the Children of the Wild, but the Gift-Givers, Wildren though they were, had always insisted on protecting themselves too. They could walk right through any Warding they hadn’t set themselves; they could not pass through any Gateway a human made; and they were invisible to Clearsight.
---
What do you think? My main concern is that maybe I'm introducing stuff too quickly; could you follow what's going on?
(Pst. There's an additional teaser for The Second Realm here.)
Sunday, 4 September 2011
A New Sample Sunday Sample
I may have mentioned, but Heaven Can Wait is now on sale at Smashwords (UPDATE: now also available at Amazon). Here's the blurb:
When the Non-Agency tells Tom he's dead, he doesn't see much reason to believe them. But he is, and it's their job to convince him. When he falls for Mary, the still-living daughter of his murderer, Tom knows the Non-Agency will try to keep him from her. They'll stop at nothing to send him towards the light, and he's about to learn there are worse things than dying..
There's a sample of roughly the first three chapters available through Smashwords, but here's another:
---
When the Non-Agency tells Tom he's dead, he doesn't see much reason to believe them. But he is, and it's their job to convince him. When he falls for Mary, the still-living daughter of his murderer, Tom knows the Non-Agency will try to keep him from her. They'll stop at nothing to send him towards the light, and he's about to learn there are worse things than dying..
There's a sample of roughly the first three chapters available through Smashwords, but here's another:
---
“What are you?” asked a female voice.
I examined my surroundings. Mr. Everay’s house, it seemed, had a loft bedroom. It was furnished with the same wealth as his own chamber – not a servant’s room. In the middle of the room, facing me over the arm of an enormous armchair, was a girl.
She had copper hair and a round face with wide, interested eyes. She was wrapped in a quilt in the chair except for her right arm, bare to the shoulder, which was lying across her body. I found the curve of her shoulder irresistibly fascinating.
“What-?” I managed.
“You just came through the door,” she said, glaring at me.
“Through?” I looked back at the door.
“Without opening it. What are you?”
I pulled myself into a proper sitting position and stared at my hands, not wanting to admit what I was going to have to admit. I stood up and placed a hand on the door; it seemed solid enough.
“I’m a ghost,” I said, feeling a sudden chill in my fingers and toes.
“A ghost? A dead person?”
“I... guess so. I came through the door, didn’t I?”
“Could be a rogue magician.”
“Do I look like a magician?” I turned to face her, arms spread wide.
“I don’t know. I’ve never met one. You don’t look like a ghost.”
“You’ve seen ghosts?”
“Well, no. But I’d expect to be able to see through a ghost.” She pouted slightly. I suppose I was being a bit snippy, but death will do that to a man.
“I’ll get like that eventually. This is, uh, a new thing for me.”
“How new?”
“Last night.”
“You were the boy who broke in, then.” She nodded to herself with a smile.
“Wha? How did you-?”
“You’re a new ghost, and you’re running around my house where last night there was a break-in and Mortimer threw a boy in the river. I assumed you were younger, though.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but stopped at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The girl put a finger to her lips, then cocked her head in a listening pose.
“Mary, dear?” The voice was Mr. Everay’s, but with a slight, squeaky overtone which was probably his attempt at politeness, “May I come in?”
“Not now, daddy, I’m not decent!” Mary clearly had a flair for performance; her voice shrilled in a perfect imitation of alarm as she spoke.
“Did the boy who was here go into your room?” Everay’s voice dropped sharply in pitch and I felt my pulse pick up as I watched Mary’s response.
She narrowed her eyes at me and treated me to a long, slow, malicious grin, before saying, “Boy, daddy? Whatever are you talking about?”
“There was a boy here causing trouble again,” Everay growled, “Mortimer said he came up this way and vanished into your room.”
“Vanished, daddy? Mort must have been seeing things. My door’s been locked since supper.” She was acting the part well, and gave a shrug. Unfortunately for me – or fortunately, depending on how you look at it – the gesture revealed another half-inch of her shoulder, and still no clothing.
“And you haven’t seen anyone? Or heard anything?”
“I heard you running around, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with me. Are you angry, daddy?”
“Not with you, my sweet, don’t worry,” Everay’s voice went squeaky again, “I’ll give you a minute to get dressed.”
Mary and I stared at each other as Everay’s footsteps went back down the stairs.
I whispered, “Why help me?”
“You’re interesting. And I’m bored.”
I looked around the room again. There was plenty of comfort – the armchair, another extravagant four-poster bed, a leather divan – but there didn’t seem to be very much to do. Not that I had any idea how rich folk spent their time.
“He keeps you locked away like this?”
“Oh, I have a key. I’m not supposed to leave the house, but sometimes Mort will let me out while daddy’s not around.”
“I see how you would be bored.” It sounded like luxury to me.
Mary ignored my sarcasm with a smug, girlish grin. “It isn’t really too bad. Daddy does it because he loves me and he doesn’t want to lose me.”
I looked back at the door.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “Unless he’s really angry, we have a few minutes.”
“And if he is very angry?”
“He’ll get his spare key and come straight back. But I doubt you could have done anything to make him that angry.”
“I... uh, I tried to kill him.”
“That might do it, yes,” she frowned, then looked away.
“It was revenge,” I protested.
“I didn’t think it would be anything else.”
“I didn’t actually kill him.”
“Well, obviously. Do you have to kill him before you can leave this world? I read a book like that once.” She nodded to herself again.
“No. Well, sort of. It wasn’t my idea, but they said it would help.”
“’They’ told you. I assume ‘they’ have some authority in the matter?”
I shrugged. “They call themselves the Non-Agency, and apparently it’s their job to get ghosts to move along.”
“You only have their word for this.”
“True, but they did... well... they helped me talk to God.”
“You don’t sound very sure of that.”
“I don’t know what it was, but it scared the life out of me.”
“What life?”
“I think that was the idea. But it was certainly strange.”
“But you still only have their word it was God.”
“True. But what else do I have to go on? Something strange is clearly going on.”
“That I can agree with.” She tugged at the quilt, turning slightly in her chair to look at me straight-on. I managed to get my gaze back from her ever-barer shoulder to her face before it became too rude.
“Whatever’s going on, they know something about it. I’m trapped with them until I learn it.”
“You can’t be that trapped if they’re letting you run around killing people.”
“I don’t mean like a rat. Uh, more like... I just feel like I have to work with them for now. Don’t you feel trapped too?”
“It isn’t too bad.” She grinned, “besides, now I have you to keep me company.”
“You have me?”
“You’d better keep coming back. You owe me your life.”
“I have no life to owe.” Two could play that game.
She frowned and stuck out her lower lip for a moment. “So why were you running from daddy?”
I stared at her, speechless. What had I been so afraid of?
“You’re acting like you’re still alive,” she said with another of those little smarter-than-thou nods.
“I still feel alive.”
“You still look alive. If I hadn’t watched you come through the door, I wouldn’t believe you were a ghost.”
“I think it only happened because I wasn’t expecting the door to be there. The Non-Agency pulled a couple of tricks like that on me.”
“Must have been funny,” she smirked.
“Not really. I didn’t fall down some stairs that weren’t there.”
She laughed, her smirk slithering around into a neat little smile. Her lips, I noticed, were very full; it gave her smile a cute pout.
“It could be fun to see what happens if I kiss you,” she said. I blinked at her, worrying I might have spoken out loud. She carried on, “If you can walk through doors when you’re not thinking about them, I bet I could get you to fall through the floor.”
“Pretty cocky, aren’t you? I’ve kissed a lot of girls.”
“I’ve kissed a lot of boys.”
“Your father lets you-?”
“I don’t sneak out to go shoe-shopping, boy. Not usually, anyway.”
She shifted in her seat, and a little more shoulder emerged from the quilt she was cocooned in. Whatever she was wearing within there, it had a narrow, lacy shoulder-strap that I couldn’t take my eyes off. She laughed again.
“Can you do it on command? Walk through things, I mean?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.”
“You’d better start trying, then.”
“Why?”
“Daddy will be back any moment, and if you’re here when he comes in, we’ll both be in trouble. You wouldn’t want to cause me any trouble, would you?” She gave what she probably thought was a simper; the result was a mix of exaggerated pout and wince.
I raised an eyebrow, “What if I can’t?”
“Then we’ll find out whether daddy really can hurt you. You can’t stay here.”
“Really?” I treated her bare shoulder to another lingering glance, waiting to make sure she noticed, “How disappointing.”
Her eyes went wide for a moment before she smirked again, “Behave. That’s no way to speak to a lady!”
“Ladies don’t sneak away from their fathers to kiss boys. Or lounge around half-naked.”
“I wasn’t exactly expecting a street brat to walk through the door. Staying indecent always buys me a little time from Daddy.”
A muffled thud from downstairs fell through the gap in the conversation. I said, “Which way’s the best for me to get out?”
“I have no idea.”
“We’re on the second floor! I can’t just walk through a wall.”
“If you can walk through walls, falling shouldn’t hurt.”
“Easy for you to say.”
I looked around, “Is there a window in here?”
“Not that you could climb out of.”
“I just want to see if I can see a way to climb down.”
“This isn’t a stunning display of bravery you’re putting on. Logically, you should be invulnerable.” She wasn’t being playful any more. Her tone was a little too close to her father’s when I had a knife to his throat, and I wondered if his eyes had been half as steely at the time.
“And if I’m not?”
“Then I’m sure daddy will be happy all the same. Besides, you couldn’t die falling from this room. It might hurt, but you’d be able to get away, even if you are alive.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I walked over to the wall by the door and put a hand on it, trying to focus on being dead.
“Hey, boy,” Mary said from behind me. I turned. She said, “What’s your name?”
“I... I’m not supposed to say. The Non-Agency said it’s a bad idea.”
“They won’t know.”
“They might, actually. They have some very clever tricks.” There was another bump from downstairs, followed by what might have been footsteps approaching.
“Oh,” she looked down, then back at me, “You will come back and see me again, right?”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to. It depends on the Non-Agency.”
She frowned, then stood, leaving her quilt on the chair. She was wearing a lacy slip which might have been real silk. She filled it well, but with a few extra curves here and there which told me how she spent her life of luxury. Still, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
The sounds from below were definitely footsteps. Mary walked up to me where I stood by the wall. I started to lean forward towards her. She planted a hand in the middle of my chest and looked me in the eyes with another playful smirk, then shoved.
I was surprised – and disappointed – enough to forget about the wall. The ground outside was a different matter.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Multi-sample Sunday; Test and Beta readers requested!
First off, a sample (more here):
“How old were you at death, boy?”
“Fifteen, Revered Justicar,” the boy who stood before the Justicar’s bench certainly looked fifteen. His face still had a little babyish roundness; his shoulders were still narrow. There were hints, though, of an age beyond his years. His nose was bent as if it had once been badly broken. He stood without fidgeting, seeming completely comfortable in his smart, formal suit. He looked at the Justicar and the priests who flanked him without cringing.
“And you have been dead how long?”
“Fourteen years, Revered One.”
“You are aware that in this court, you may appeal for special clemency as a child? Our Lord is merciful, and willing to forgive much done in the ignorance of youth which would otherwise be held as mortal sin.”
The boy nodded, “Thank you, Revered One, but as my guilt, such as it is, is a matter of public record, I would rather defend myself as an adult. Whether my actions were evil or not depends on my reasons for them. I would rather not have the court treat me as childish.”
“Very well. State your name, please, for the record.”
“Tom.”
The Justicar raised an eyebrow, “Your full name?”
“Revered One, I was born without a second name. If you must have a family name for the record, please put down Everay.”
One of the priests had been halfway through taking a drink, and coughed sharply. There was a rustle from the benches behind Tom.
The priest at the Justicar’s right hand said, “A morbid choice, perhaps?”
“If I was ever close to having a family, that family’s name was Everay.”
The Justicar said, “Very well. Tom Everay, you stand accused of mortal sins, including murder, blasphemy, adultery and heresy. As you say, your guilt is an established fact. This Court is convened at your request to determine whether special exceptions should be made for any or all of your crimes on the grounds of correct and Holy motives. The Court will hear all testimony you wish to make. Venerable Father Gostin will take your oath.”
Gostin stood from the right-hand end of the Justicar’s bench and walked around to stand beside Tom, carrying an ornate icon of the Sun On High, the emblem of the Church. The third-highest-ranked member of the clergy in the city, he was the lowliest priest able to touch the Justicar’s icon without burning. He carried it before his face, clasped in both hands. Tom frowned at it, and for a moment it looked like he might take a step back.
Gostin intoned, “Do you swear before Almighty Justice to speak only truth and hide no evil?”
Tom looked at the Justicar, “Forgive me, Revered One, but my experiences in recent years have led me to more than a little doubt about justice. I swear by my own honour, by my life, by my death and on pain of total damnation that I will be truthful, but were I to swear by Almighty Justice I fear it would be meaningless.”
Some of the priests went white; others bright red. Every eye in the room turned to the Justicar. His eyelids flickered for a moment, and he nodded, smiling. “The point is taken, and your oath is judged acceptable. You may begin your testimony.”
A couple of the priests jumped to their feet, but the Justicar held up a hand and, heads bowed, they sat back down.
Tom took a deep breath, “Thank you, Revered Justicar. Since the petty crimes of my life pale into insignificance compared to my deeds since dying, I ask the court’s forbearance to avoid listing them. My death is the beginning, not the end, of my story.”
In the small hours of the morning after my death, I woke up on a sandbar out in the Cohl delta with a Man Who Wasn’t There waiting for me. It’s hard to describe Men Who Aren’t There. After all, they’re not there. He wore a smart pin-striped suit, his silver smiley-face cuff-links glowing in the moonlight. Everything about him was polished to a shine, from his shoes to his briefcase. I couldn’t tell you whether he himself was smiling, but looking at his face gave me a sense of comfort. It’s not so much that Men Who Aren’t There don’t have faces, but the light never seems to fall on them right, you never get a clear look – and so you never remember what they look like.
Of course, while I was taking all this in, another part of my mind, in a voice of rising, uncomfortable urgency, was telling me that I was face-down on a sandbar, soaking wet, cold and very confused. Still another part of my mind was wondering why the shiny shoes in front of me weren’t sinking – as my face was – into the sticky silt of the sandbar.
I spat sand and started to push myself up. The Man Who Wasn’t There leaned down and offered me a hand up. I took it, gratefully, and was surprised by the strength in the wiry fingers. Standing, I did my best to brush the mud off, which mostly ended up spreading it onto my hands.
“Well, aren’t we a live one?” said the Man Who Wasn’t There.
“Huh? What do you mean?” I asked, then remembered my priorities, “Where am I?”
“That’s an interesting question. If you’re asking about this place, we’re about half a mile down-stream from the Seaward Gate, in the delta. Where you are? Well, that’s more complicated.”
“What do you mean? Who are you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m Not Here. But you’ve got more important things to worry about. I’m sorry to be so blunt about this, but you’re dead.”
------
Intrigued? I'm looking for beta readers. I'd also like to get a few people to just read the book in its current form - it's had one very quick edit/proofread - and give me a response as readers to the story, characters, and ideas. I'm aiming for the part of the YA fantasy market where you find things like Jonathan Stroud's 'Amulet of Samarkand' and Garth Nix's 'Sabriel', so I'm particularly interested in your response if those books are up your street. If you're interested and have the time to either test or beta for me in the next month, please email me at rdavnall AT googlemail DOT com. A few people have already offered - I'll be in touch with you shortly to see if you're still interested.
If you're really interested, or if you like my writing but YA fantasy isn't for you, keep reading. I've got two other novels which I need test readers for. To clarify; I'm NOT looking for betas yet for either of these books as I'm not really sure where either of them fits, genre- and market-position-wise. I'm looking to get reader responses to the stories to help me place them. I've sampled my sci-fi 'The Death of John Collins' before, but not 'Bad Romance'. With 'John Collins', I'm trying to work out whether to keep the hard sci-fi and character-focussed elements or strip it down into more of an action thriller. 'Bad Romance' sits somewhere between a contemporary romance and literary fiction, and I'd be interested in the opinions of fans of both.
Brief samples of both:
"Can't you believe I'm lying to you?"
"I believe you're lying to me now."
She stretches sexily, then runs her hand down his bare chest. There's hope in his eyes, but a momentary close-up shows only mischief in hers.
"You're wrong. I was lying all along."
"How can I believe that?"
"Try."
The drumbeat starts up, and a pounding bass line with a weird bend at the end of the phrase. A synthesiser drops into place in the groove with a perfection that makes my toe tap. The tableau vanishes in special-effect smoke and she strides out of it, her gown sliding off her shoulders and down her lithe, narrow body. Underneath, she wears only underwear and a body-painting of a tragedy mask across her abdomen.
The dancing that accompanies the first verse is hypnotic. There’s something about Mielle’s perfect control that makes her much more than her choreography. Her nameless co-star and three identically-dressed others writhe around her with perfect timing, but something in the cat-like way her entire body moves with every sway holds my attention totally captive.
Behind them, the white background flickers into life. They dance in a theatre decorated entirely in Apple-Mac white. Lights flash across it with every pulse of the last line of the verse; Mielle’s face strobes with the drum-roll as the chorus bursts through.
Can’t you believe, can’t you believe I’m lying to you,
Can’t you take my word, take my word, my word I have betrayed,
This statement is a lie but I will tell it if you try,
To please believe, please believe nothing I ever say,
I catch myself with a smirk on my face. Who does she think she’s kidding? Of course she’s lying to us. There are flashes of her face in close-up, impish smile mixed with ridiculously long false eyelashes that glitter as she bats them at the camera. She pushes her dancers aside and walks to a throne; the theatre becomes an arena filled with cheering millions.
There’s no denying the production values on the video. There’s also no denying the energy of the hooks in the chorus; she smiles with perfect Hollywood glamour as she starts to explain why she lied to him in the first place. The underwear and tragedy mask are gone in favour of a black PVC cat-suit with dayglo squares dotted across it. Her hair has gone from a dark brown bob to black dreadlocks streaked with gold. She twists in the throne, one moment sitting normally, the next with a leg hooked over the back and her head dangling towards the floor while her hips pump in perfect time.
The chorus rises again, and she’s back in the theatre. He’s in the audience, nodding along – he’s everyone in the audience, row on row of him smiling while she gloats. This time at the end of the chorus, she goes up instead of down on ‘nothing I ever say’, and while she holds the note the music cuts back to just bass. The stage goes dark and she sparkles in a single spotlight. In close-up, she stares straight into the camera, winks, and whispers
Cohen, you’re a stranger but you’re still my oldest friend,
I actually look round, wondering who said my name, while she continues,
Stipe, it’s been a bad day but it’s coming to an end,
The music starts picking up intensity again. He’s alone in the front row; she’s somehow made her way down from the stage in front of him, and her whisper turns to singing as she climbs into his lap,
If you justify my actions, there’ll be nothing to defend,
I could show my face but there’s still so much to pretend.
His seat becomes the throne; she grinds in his lap. His eyes close in pleasure and his mouth opens in a silent gasp. She stands up and the throne explodes behind her as the chorus returns; a horde of red-clad dancers emerge from the flames and she joins them for the most vigorous routine yet.
The chorus peaks and repeats itself. She sings ‘believe me, I’m lying’ as a descant. In close-up, she mock-boxes the camera and covers her face with her hands before vanishing.
The video ends with her lying in bed wearing the same blue silk gown she wore at the start. He lies next to her, playing dead. She runs a finger down his nose, across his lips and down his Adam’s apple, and whispers ‘Do you believe me now?’
I sit back from the screen and push my chair up on its hind legs, my mind thoroughly blown. Mielle’s first video had been bland, the song energetic but forgettable. ‘Can’t You Believe I’m Lying To You?’ is a completely different package. I’m humming the chorus already, and I can’t get the image of her swaying across the stage out of my mind.
--------
“Sir, was John Collins evil?” The question came from a student in the front row of the lecture theatre’s seating. Two rows further back, Blanchett leaned forward, studying Professor Lambert’s reaction intently.
The Professor frowned for a moment, then said, “John was a loyal comrade and a war hero. Whatever you may have been told about him, I knew him, and he was not evil.” His voice was mild, but his face wore an owlish glare directed at the front row. In the dimness of the lecture theatre, the lines in his face became craggy and fierce. On the screen behind him, Collins’ face stared placidly down at them, one of the famous photos from him the early days of the Delta War.
From near the back of the room, a voice called out, “But he destroyed time, didn’t he?”
An audible rustling ran round the room as the students looked nervously at the Professor or tried to catch a glimpse of the questioner. On screen, Collins’ face was replaced by a screen-saver animation. It was a stylised drawing of the Clocktower being built, a tree of tangled black steel and ceramic against the dull grey background of the endless Causal Sea. The top widened sharply and spread into the white mushroom-cap of the City. The animation looped round to restart.
“You’re a new class,” Lambert said coldly, “so I’ll let that pass this once. In my classes, you must always be wary of careless statements like that. Precision is the essence of history. To answer the question as charitably as I can, no one person destroyed time, either by causing the collapse of the origin timeline or any of the other collapses in our history. Nor,” he held up a finger for emphasis, “did any one person cause any of the Temporal Wars. We will be covering the causes of each of these wars in due course. The assumption that John is to blame is a gross simplification.”
He paused and looked around the room, “Some of you are probably about to bring up the subject of Collins’ book, ‘A Radical Subjectivism of Time’. You may have been told that the book is banned because it is dangerous, because it describes the technologies which caused the Alpha Collapse. Well, I’ve read it, and it doesn’t. Yes, ideas it contained guided the engineers and technicians who did cause the collapse, but John wasn’t one of them and opposed their work. And if any of you are considering reporting me to the Truthers for reading a banned book, I read it during the Delta War, long before it was banned.” Lambert finished with a look that was almost a sneer. Blanchett thought she could read pride in his face. She wondered if her Council superiors could actually be right; was Lambert really Collins in disguise?
Another student asked, “So you don’t believe Collins was a Nihilist?”
Lambert barked a sharp, mocking laugh, “The Nihilists destroyed everything they touched. It’s because of them we live in this overgrown tin can,” – he gestured vaguely at the animation on-screen – “instead of on a proper world. If John had been a Nihilist, there wouldn’t even be that much. He’d have destroyed the Oracle and everyone on board after the Battle of Tibulon.”
“So you don’t agree with the Truthers?” the questioner pressed. Blanchett winced. She knew there were no Council agents other than herself assigned to monitor this class, but the other student seemed intent on making trouble.
Lambert, for his part, shot a wary glance at the doors at the back of the room. When he spoke, his voice was milder, his scowl less deep, “Well, of course, all historical perspectives must be considered. This would be a very deficient history class if I shied away from the Truther opinion out of personal sentiment, but you must surely admit – and I intend to show – that Controller Vilsteir’s evidence is unsatisfactory.”
Still staring at the Professor, Blanchett frowned. Other members of the Council militia said that Lambert’s controversial rhetoric on this point proved that he was Collins. She didn’t believe it, but she had to admit that it would make sense for Collins to talk in this way. Corrupting the youth, they called it.
Uncomfortable to let his statement stand, Blanchett spoke up, suppressing a nervous shiver, “What’s wrong with the Council’s evidence?” She tried to sound as nonaggressive as possible, affecting genuine curiosity.
In spite of her efforts, Lambert picked her out with a laser glare. Suddenly, she felt glad of the combat bodysuit she wore under her student ‘disguise’. It would provide little protection, but the knowledge that she was in some small way prepared for violence was reassuring. Lambert’s face softened a little as he said, “Well, personally, I have two problems with Vilsteir’s claims. Firstly, they go directly against my personal experience. I knew Collins. John was a close friend, and he just wasn’t like the character Vilsteir writes about. Secondly, he refuses to release his sources into the public domain. I call that bad practice.”
“But he’s still preparing his commentary!” Blanchett protested.
"As he has been doing, without aid or any apparent training in historiography, for twenty years. In the mean time, he has spearheaded a campaign to suppress alternative accounts. Banning books, for heaven’s sake! ‘A Radical Subjectivism’ is a harmless work of abstract metaphysics and deserves to be read and understood, not expunged.”
“It was the government that banned ‘A Radical Subjectivism of Time’, not the Council,” said Blanchett, feeling more confident.
“At the Controller’s very public urging. I doubt you are old enough to remember that unpleasantness, but-“ Lambert was cut off by the noise of the door opening. His eyes went to the back of the room and widened sharply.
Blanchett half-turned to follow the Professor’s gaze, and froze in her seat. Collins himself stood in the doorway.
--------
Again, it's test readers I'm after, not really betas (though feedback is always welcome). What I need to know is what kind of books I've written and whether they need to change into something else. Thanks for reading, get in touch!
Heaven Can Wait
Prologue
“How old were you at death, boy?”
“Fifteen, Revered Justicar,” the boy who stood before the Justicar’s bench certainly looked fifteen. His face still had a little babyish roundness; his shoulders were still narrow. There were hints, though, of an age beyond his years. His nose was bent as if it had once been badly broken. He stood without fidgeting, seeming completely comfortable in his smart, formal suit. He looked at the Justicar and the priests who flanked him without cringing.
“And you have been dead how long?”
“Fourteen years, Revered One.”
“You are aware that in this court, you may appeal for special clemency as a child? Our Lord is merciful, and willing to forgive much done in the ignorance of youth which would otherwise be held as mortal sin.”
The boy nodded, “Thank you, Revered One, but as my guilt, such as it is, is a matter of public record, I would rather defend myself as an adult. Whether my actions were evil or not depends on my reasons for them. I would rather not have the court treat me as childish.”
“Very well. State your name, please, for the record.”
“Tom.”
The Justicar raised an eyebrow, “Your full name?”
“Revered One, I was born without a second name. If you must have a family name for the record, please put down Everay.”
One of the priests had been halfway through taking a drink, and coughed sharply. There was a rustle from the benches behind Tom.
The priest at the Justicar’s right hand said, “A morbid choice, perhaps?”
“If I was ever close to having a family, that family’s name was Everay.”
The Justicar said, “Very well. Tom Everay, you stand accused of mortal sins, including murder, blasphemy, adultery and heresy. As you say, your guilt is an established fact. This Court is convened at your request to determine whether special exceptions should be made for any or all of your crimes on the grounds of correct and Holy motives. The Court will hear all testimony you wish to make. Venerable Father Gostin will take your oath.”
Gostin stood from the right-hand end of the Justicar’s bench and walked around to stand beside Tom, carrying an ornate icon of the Sun On High, the emblem of the Church. The third-highest-ranked member of the clergy in the city, he was the lowliest priest able to touch the Justicar’s icon without burning. He carried it before his face, clasped in both hands. Tom frowned at it, and for a moment it looked like he might take a step back.
Gostin intoned, “Do you swear before Almighty Justice to speak only truth and hide no evil?”
Tom looked at the Justicar, “Forgive me, Revered One, but my experiences in recent years have led me to more than a little doubt about justice. I swear by my own honour, by my life, by my death and on pain of total damnation that I will be truthful, but were I to swear by Almighty Justice I fear it would be meaningless.”
Some of the priests went white; others bright red. Every eye in the room turned to the Justicar. His eyelids flickered for a moment, and he nodded, smiling. “The point is taken, and your oath is judged acceptable. You may begin your testimony.”
A couple of the priests jumped to their feet, but the Justicar held up a hand and, heads bowed, they sat back down.
Tom took a deep breath, “Thank you, Revered Justicar. Since the petty crimes of my life pale into insignificance compared to my deeds since dying, I ask the court’s forbearance to avoid listing them. My death is the beginning, not the end, of my story.”
Chapter 1 – Dead on Arrival
In the small hours of the morning after my death, I woke up on a sandbar out in the Cohl delta with a Man Who Wasn’t There waiting for me. It’s hard to describe Men Who Aren’t There. After all, they’re not there. He wore a smart pin-striped suit, his silver smiley-face cuff-links glowing in the moonlight. Everything about him was polished to a shine, from his shoes to his briefcase. I couldn’t tell you whether he himself was smiling, but looking at his face gave me a sense of comfort. It’s not so much that Men Who Aren’t There don’t have faces, but the light never seems to fall on them right, you never get a clear look – and so you never remember what they look like.
Of course, while I was taking all this in, another part of my mind, in a voice of rising, uncomfortable urgency, was telling me that I was face-down on a sandbar, soaking wet, cold and very confused. Still another part of my mind was wondering why the shiny shoes in front of me weren’t sinking – as my face was – into the sticky silt of the sandbar.
I spat sand and started to push myself up. The Man Who Wasn’t There leaned down and offered me a hand up. I took it, gratefully, and was surprised by the strength in the wiry fingers. Standing, I did my best to brush the mud off, which mostly ended up spreading it onto my hands.
“Well, aren’t we a live one?” said the Man Who Wasn’t There.
“Huh? What do you mean?” I asked, then remembered my priorities, “Where am I?”
“That’s an interesting question. If you’re asking about this place, we’re about half a mile down-stream from the Seaward Gate, in the delta. Where you are? Well, that’s more complicated.”
“What do you mean? Who are you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m Not Here. But you’ve got more important things to worry about. I’m sorry to be so blunt about this, but you’re dead.”
------
Intrigued? I'm looking for beta readers. I'd also like to get a few people to just read the book in its current form - it's had one very quick edit/proofread - and give me a response as readers to the story, characters, and ideas. I'm aiming for the part of the YA fantasy market where you find things like Jonathan Stroud's 'Amulet of Samarkand' and Garth Nix's 'Sabriel', so I'm particularly interested in your response if those books are up your street. If you're interested and have the time to either test or beta for me in the next month, please email me at rdavnall AT googlemail DOT com. A few people have already offered - I'll be in touch with you shortly to see if you're still interested.
If you're really interested, or if you like my writing but YA fantasy isn't for you, keep reading. I've got two other novels which I need test readers for. To clarify; I'm NOT looking for betas yet for either of these books as I'm not really sure where either of them fits, genre- and market-position-wise. I'm looking to get reader responses to the stories to help me place them. I've sampled my sci-fi 'The Death of John Collins' before, but not 'Bad Romance'. With 'John Collins', I'm trying to work out whether to keep the hard sci-fi and character-focussed elements or strip it down into more of an action thriller. 'Bad Romance' sits somewhere between a contemporary romance and literary fiction, and I'd be interested in the opinions of fans of both.
Brief samples of both:
Bad Romance
Stranger Song "Can't you believe I'm lying to you?"
"I believe you're lying to me now."
She stretches sexily, then runs her hand down his bare chest. There's hope in his eyes, but a momentary close-up shows only mischief in hers.
"You're wrong. I was lying all along."
"How can I believe that?"
"Try."
The drumbeat starts up, and a pounding bass line with a weird bend at the end of the phrase. A synthesiser drops into place in the groove with a perfection that makes my toe tap. The tableau vanishes in special-effect smoke and she strides out of it, her gown sliding off her shoulders and down her lithe, narrow body. Underneath, she wears only underwear and a body-painting of a tragedy mask across her abdomen.
The dancing that accompanies the first verse is hypnotic. There’s something about Mielle’s perfect control that makes her much more than her choreography. Her nameless co-star and three identically-dressed others writhe around her with perfect timing, but something in the cat-like way her entire body moves with every sway holds my attention totally captive.
Behind them, the white background flickers into life. They dance in a theatre decorated entirely in Apple-Mac white. Lights flash across it with every pulse of the last line of the verse; Mielle’s face strobes with the drum-roll as the chorus bursts through.
Can’t you believe, can’t you believe I’m lying to you,
Can’t you take my word, take my word, my word I have betrayed,
This statement is a lie but I will tell it if you try,
To please believe, please believe nothing I ever say,
I catch myself with a smirk on my face. Who does she think she’s kidding? Of course she’s lying to us. There are flashes of her face in close-up, impish smile mixed with ridiculously long false eyelashes that glitter as she bats them at the camera. She pushes her dancers aside and walks to a throne; the theatre becomes an arena filled with cheering millions.
There’s no denying the production values on the video. There’s also no denying the energy of the hooks in the chorus; she smiles with perfect Hollywood glamour as she starts to explain why she lied to him in the first place. The underwear and tragedy mask are gone in favour of a black PVC cat-suit with dayglo squares dotted across it. Her hair has gone from a dark brown bob to black dreadlocks streaked with gold. She twists in the throne, one moment sitting normally, the next with a leg hooked over the back and her head dangling towards the floor while her hips pump in perfect time.
The chorus rises again, and she’s back in the theatre. He’s in the audience, nodding along – he’s everyone in the audience, row on row of him smiling while she gloats. This time at the end of the chorus, she goes up instead of down on ‘nothing I ever say’, and while she holds the note the music cuts back to just bass. The stage goes dark and she sparkles in a single spotlight. In close-up, she stares straight into the camera, winks, and whispers
Cohen, you’re a stranger but you’re still my oldest friend,
I actually look round, wondering who said my name, while she continues,
Stipe, it’s been a bad day but it’s coming to an end,
The music starts picking up intensity again. He’s alone in the front row; she’s somehow made her way down from the stage in front of him, and her whisper turns to singing as she climbs into his lap,
If you justify my actions, there’ll be nothing to defend,
I could show my face but there’s still so much to pretend.
His seat becomes the throne; she grinds in his lap. His eyes close in pleasure and his mouth opens in a silent gasp. She stands up and the throne explodes behind her as the chorus returns; a horde of red-clad dancers emerge from the flames and she joins them for the most vigorous routine yet.
The chorus peaks and repeats itself. She sings ‘believe me, I’m lying’ as a descant. In close-up, she mock-boxes the camera and covers her face with her hands before vanishing.
The video ends with her lying in bed wearing the same blue silk gown she wore at the start. He lies next to her, playing dead. She runs a finger down his nose, across his lips and down his Adam’s apple, and whispers ‘Do you believe me now?’
I sit back from the screen and push my chair up on its hind legs, my mind thoroughly blown. Mielle’s first video had been bland, the song energetic but forgettable. ‘Can’t You Believe I’m Lying To You?’ is a completely different package. I’m humming the chorus already, and I can’t get the image of her swaying across the stage out of my mind.
--------
The Death of John Collins
1
“Sir, was John Collins evil?” The question came from a student in the front row of the lecture theatre’s seating. Two rows further back, Blanchett leaned forward, studying Professor Lambert’s reaction intently.
The Professor frowned for a moment, then said, “John was a loyal comrade and a war hero. Whatever you may have been told about him, I knew him, and he was not evil.” His voice was mild, but his face wore an owlish glare directed at the front row. In the dimness of the lecture theatre, the lines in his face became craggy and fierce. On the screen behind him, Collins’ face stared placidly down at them, one of the famous photos from him the early days of the Delta War.
From near the back of the room, a voice called out, “But he destroyed time, didn’t he?”
An audible rustling ran round the room as the students looked nervously at the Professor or tried to catch a glimpse of the questioner. On screen, Collins’ face was replaced by a screen-saver animation. It was a stylised drawing of the Clocktower being built, a tree of tangled black steel and ceramic against the dull grey background of the endless Causal Sea. The top widened sharply and spread into the white mushroom-cap of the City. The animation looped round to restart.
“You’re a new class,” Lambert said coldly, “so I’ll let that pass this once. In my classes, you must always be wary of careless statements like that. Precision is the essence of history. To answer the question as charitably as I can, no one person destroyed time, either by causing the collapse of the origin timeline or any of the other collapses in our history. Nor,” he held up a finger for emphasis, “did any one person cause any of the Temporal Wars. We will be covering the causes of each of these wars in due course. The assumption that John is to blame is a gross simplification.”
He paused and looked around the room, “Some of you are probably about to bring up the subject of Collins’ book, ‘A Radical Subjectivism of Time’. You may have been told that the book is banned because it is dangerous, because it describes the technologies which caused the Alpha Collapse. Well, I’ve read it, and it doesn’t. Yes, ideas it contained guided the engineers and technicians who did cause the collapse, but John wasn’t one of them and opposed their work. And if any of you are considering reporting me to the Truthers for reading a banned book, I read it during the Delta War, long before it was banned.” Lambert finished with a look that was almost a sneer. Blanchett thought she could read pride in his face. She wondered if her Council superiors could actually be right; was Lambert really Collins in disguise?
Another student asked, “So you don’t believe Collins was a Nihilist?”
Lambert barked a sharp, mocking laugh, “The Nihilists destroyed everything they touched. It’s because of them we live in this overgrown tin can,” – he gestured vaguely at the animation on-screen – “instead of on a proper world. If John had been a Nihilist, there wouldn’t even be that much. He’d have destroyed the Oracle and everyone on board after the Battle of Tibulon.”
“So you don’t agree with the Truthers?” the questioner pressed. Blanchett winced. She knew there were no Council agents other than herself assigned to monitor this class, but the other student seemed intent on making trouble.
Lambert, for his part, shot a wary glance at the doors at the back of the room. When he spoke, his voice was milder, his scowl less deep, “Well, of course, all historical perspectives must be considered. This would be a very deficient history class if I shied away from the Truther opinion out of personal sentiment, but you must surely admit – and I intend to show – that Controller Vilsteir’s evidence is unsatisfactory.”
Still staring at the Professor, Blanchett frowned. Other members of the Council militia said that Lambert’s controversial rhetoric on this point proved that he was Collins. She didn’t believe it, but she had to admit that it would make sense for Collins to talk in this way. Corrupting the youth, they called it.
Uncomfortable to let his statement stand, Blanchett spoke up, suppressing a nervous shiver, “What’s wrong with the Council’s evidence?” She tried to sound as nonaggressive as possible, affecting genuine curiosity.
In spite of her efforts, Lambert picked her out with a laser glare. Suddenly, she felt glad of the combat bodysuit she wore under her student ‘disguise’. It would provide little protection, but the knowledge that she was in some small way prepared for violence was reassuring. Lambert’s face softened a little as he said, “Well, personally, I have two problems with Vilsteir’s claims. Firstly, they go directly against my personal experience. I knew Collins. John was a close friend, and he just wasn’t like the character Vilsteir writes about. Secondly, he refuses to release his sources into the public domain. I call that bad practice.”
“But he’s still preparing his commentary!” Blanchett protested.
"As he has been doing, without aid or any apparent training in historiography, for twenty years. In the mean time, he has spearheaded a campaign to suppress alternative accounts. Banning books, for heaven’s sake! ‘A Radical Subjectivism’ is a harmless work of abstract metaphysics and deserves to be read and understood, not expunged.”
“It was the government that banned ‘A Radical Subjectivism of Time’, not the Council,” said Blanchett, feeling more confident.
“At the Controller’s very public urging. I doubt you are old enough to remember that unpleasantness, but-“ Lambert was cut off by the noise of the door opening. His eyes went to the back of the room and widened sharply.
Blanchett half-turned to follow the Professor’s gaze, and froze in her seat. Collins himself stood in the doorway.
--------
Again, it's test readers I'm after, not really betas (though feedback is always welcome). What I need to know is what kind of books I've written and whether they need to change into something else. Thanks for reading, get in touch!
Sunday, 24 April 2011
The Death of John Collins: Sample Sunday edition
Hello, folks. Here, as a #SampleSunday treat (I hope), are the first two pages of 'The Death of John Collins', the first book of my John Collins trilogy, due out on November 1st.
“Sir, was John Collins evil?” The question came from a student in the front row of the lecture theatre’s seating. Two rows further back, Blanchett leaned forward, studying Professor Lambert’s reaction intently.
The Professor frowned for a moment, then said, “John was a loyal comrade and a war hero. Whatever you may have been told about him, I knew him, and he was not evil.” His voice was mild, but his face wore an owlish glare directed at the front row. In the dimness of the lecture theatre, the lines in his face became craggy and fierce. On the screen behind him, Collins’ face stared placidly down at them, one of the famous photos from him the early days of the Delta War.
From near the back of the room, a voice called out, “But he destroyed time, didn’t he?”
An audible rustling ran round the room as the students looked nervously at the Professor or tried to catch a glimpse of the questioner. On screen, Collins’ face was replaced by a screen-saver animation. It was a stylised drawing of the Clocktower being built, a tree of tangled black steel and ceramic against the dull grey background of the endless Causal Sea. The top widened sharply and spread into the white mushroom-cap of the City. The animation looped round to restart.
“You’re a new class,” Lambert said coldly, “so I’ll let that pass this once. In my classes, you must always be wary of careless statements like that. Precision is the essence of history. To answer the question as charitably as I can, no one person destroyed time, either by causing the collapse of the origin timeline or any of the other collapses in our history. Nor,” he held up a finger for emphasis, “did any one person cause any of the Temporal Wars. We will be covering the causes of each of these wars in due course. The assumption that John is to blame is a gross simplification.”
He paused and looked around the room, “Some of you are probably about to bring up the subject of Collins’ book, ‘A Radical Subjectivism of Time’. You may have been told that the book is banned because it is dangerous, because it describes the technologies which caused the Alpha Collapse. Well, I’ve read it, and it doesn’t. Yes, ideas it contained guided the engineers and technicians who did cause the collapse, but John wasn’t one of them and opposed their work. And if any of you are considering reporting me to the Truthers for reading a banned book, I read it during the Delta War, long before it was banned.” Lambert finished with a look that was almost a sneer. Blanchett thought she could read pride in his face. She wondered if her Council superiors could actually be right; was Lambert really Collins in disguise?
Another student asked, “So you don’t believe Collins was a Nihilist?”
Lambert barked a sharp, mocking laugh, “The Nihilists destroyed everything they touched. It’s because of them we live in this overgrown tin can,” – he gestured vaguely at the animation on-screen – “instead of on a proper world. If John had been a Nihilist, there wouldn’t even be that much. He’d have destroyed the Oracle and everyone on board after the Battle of Tibulon.”
“So you don’t agree with the Truthers?” the questioner pressed. Blanchett winced. She knew there were no Council agents other than herself assigned to monitor this class, but the other student seemed intent on making trouble.
Lambert, for his part, shot a wary glance at the doors at the back of the room. When he spoke, his voice was milder, his scowl less deep, “Well, of course, all historical perspectives must be considered. This would be a very deficient history class if I shied away from the Truther opinion out of personal sentiment, but you must surely admit – and I intend to show – that Controller Vilsteir’s evidence is unsatisfactory.”
Still staring at the Professor, Blanchett frowned. Other members of the Council militia said that Lambert’s controversial rhetoric on this point proved that he was Collins. She didn’t believe it, but she had to admit that it would make sense for Collins to talk in this way. Corrupting the youth, they called it.
Uncomfortable to let his statement stand, Blanchett spoke up, suppressing a nervous shiver, “What’s wrong with the Council’s evidence?” She tried to sound as nonaggressive as possible, affecting genuine curiosity.
In spite of her efforts, Lambert picked her out with a laser glare. Suddenly, she felt glad of the combat bodysuit she wore under her student ‘disguise’. It would provide little protection, but the knowledge that she was in some small way prepared for violence was reassuring. Lambert’s face softened a little as he said, “Well, personally, I have two problems with Vilsteir’s claims. Firstly, they go directly against my personal experience. I knew Collins. John was a close friend, and he just wasn’t like the character Vilsteir writes about. Secondly, he refuses to release his sources into the public domain. I call that bad practice.”
“But he’s still preparing his commentary!” Blanchett protested.
"As he has been doing, without aid or any apparent training in historiography, for twenty years. In the mean time, he has spearheaded a campaign to suppress alternative accounts. Banning books, for heaven’s sake! ‘A Radical Subjectivism’ is a harmless work of abstract metaphysics and deserves to be read and understood, not expunged.”
“It was the government that banned ‘A Radical Subjectivism of Time’, not the Council,” said Blanchett, feeling more confident.
“At the Controller’s very public urging. I doubt you are old enough to remember that unpleasantness, but-“ Lambert was cut off by the noise of the door opening. His eyes went to the back of the room and widened sharply.
Blanchett half-turned to follow the Professor’s gaze, and froze in her seat. Collins himself stood in the doorway.
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* * *
1
“Sir, was John Collins evil?” The question came from a student in the front row of the lecture theatre’s seating. Two rows further back, Blanchett leaned forward, studying Professor Lambert’s reaction intently.
The Professor frowned for a moment, then said, “John was a loyal comrade and a war hero. Whatever you may have been told about him, I knew him, and he was not evil.” His voice was mild, but his face wore an owlish glare directed at the front row. In the dimness of the lecture theatre, the lines in his face became craggy and fierce. On the screen behind him, Collins’ face stared placidly down at them, one of the famous photos from him the early days of the Delta War.
From near the back of the room, a voice called out, “But he destroyed time, didn’t he?”
An audible rustling ran round the room as the students looked nervously at the Professor or tried to catch a glimpse of the questioner. On screen, Collins’ face was replaced by a screen-saver animation. It was a stylised drawing of the Clocktower being built, a tree of tangled black steel and ceramic against the dull grey background of the endless Causal Sea. The top widened sharply and spread into the white mushroom-cap of the City. The animation looped round to restart.
“You’re a new class,” Lambert said coldly, “so I’ll let that pass this once. In my classes, you must always be wary of careless statements like that. Precision is the essence of history. To answer the question as charitably as I can, no one person destroyed time, either by causing the collapse of the origin timeline or any of the other collapses in our history. Nor,” he held up a finger for emphasis, “did any one person cause any of the Temporal Wars. We will be covering the causes of each of these wars in due course. The assumption that John is to blame is a gross simplification.”
He paused and looked around the room, “Some of you are probably about to bring up the subject of Collins’ book, ‘A Radical Subjectivism of Time’. You may have been told that the book is banned because it is dangerous, because it describes the technologies which caused the Alpha Collapse. Well, I’ve read it, and it doesn’t. Yes, ideas it contained guided the engineers and technicians who did cause the collapse, but John wasn’t one of them and opposed their work. And if any of you are considering reporting me to the Truthers for reading a banned book, I read it during the Delta War, long before it was banned.” Lambert finished with a look that was almost a sneer. Blanchett thought she could read pride in his face. She wondered if her Council superiors could actually be right; was Lambert really Collins in disguise?
Another student asked, “So you don’t believe Collins was a Nihilist?”
Lambert barked a sharp, mocking laugh, “The Nihilists destroyed everything they touched. It’s because of them we live in this overgrown tin can,” – he gestured vaguely at the animation on-screen – “instead of on a proper world. If John had been a Nihilist, there wouldn’t even be that much. He’d have destroyed the Oracle and everyone on board after the Battle of Tibulon.”
“So you don’t agree with the Truthers?” the questioner pressed. Blanchett winced. She knew there were no Council agents other than herself assigned to monitor this class, but the other student seemed intent on making trouble.
Lambert, for his part, shot a wary glance at the doors at the back of the room. When he spoke, his voice was milder, his scowl less deep, “Well, of course, all historical perspectives must be considered. This would be a very deficient history class if I shied away from the Truther opinion out of personal sentiment, but you must surely admit – and I intend to show – that Controller Vilsteir’s evidence is unsatisfactory.”
Still staring at the Professor, Blanchett frowned. Other members of the Council militia said that Lambert’s controversial rhetoric on this point proved that he was Collins. She didn’t believe it, but she had to admit that it would make sense for Collins to talk in this way. Corrupting the youth, they called it.
Uncomfortable to let his statement stand, Blanchett spoke up, suppressing a nervous shiver, “What’s wrong with the Council’s evidence?” She tried to sound as nonaggressive as possible, affecting genuine curiosity.
In spite of her efforts, Lambert picked her out with a laser glare. Suddenly, she felt glad of the combat bodysuit she wore under her student ‘disguise’. It would provide little protection, but the knowledge that she was in some small way prepared for violence was reassuring. Lambert’s face softened a little as he said, “Well, personally, I have two problems with Vilsteir’s claims. Firstly, they go directly against my personal experience. I knew Collins. John was a close friend, and he just wasn’t like the character Vilsteir writes about. Secondly, he refuses to release his sources into the public domain. I call that bad practice.”
“But he’s still preparing his commentary!” Blanchett protested.
"As he has been doing, without aid or any apparent training in historiography, for twenty years. In the mean time, he has spearheaded a campaign to suppress alternative accounts. Banning books, for heaven’s sake! ‘A Radical Subjectivism’ is a harmless work of abstract metaphysics and deserves to be read and understood, not expunged.”
“It was the government that banned ‘A Radical Subjectivism of Time’, not the Council,” said Blanchett, feeling more confident.
“At the Controller’s very public urging. I doubt you are old enough to remember that unpleasantness, but-“ Lambert was cut off by the noise of the door opening. His eyes went to the back of the room and widened sharply.
Blanchett half-turned to follow the Professor’s gaze, and froze in her seat. Collins himself stood in the doorway.
* * *
Intrigued? I'm currently looking for beta readers for the remainder of the novel. Leave me a message in the comments or on Twitter (@eatthepen) if you're interested.
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