Shell Shock Cover Reveal

I haven't even finished the first draft for Shell Shock yet, but I've already got the cover, which I thought I'd share with you:

 As you can see from the covers, Shell Shock is a sequel to my book Seven Stones. It's unmistakable by the design, though there is no overt reference to it.

There is one more yet to come, though I have yet to come up with a name. I'll have to try real hard to have it as two words, both starting with an "S", as I have with my first two. Also, I'll try to have an "O" in the second word somewhere in the middle so my cover creator can place something inside it as she has on Seven Stones and Shell Shock.

My cover designer is the wonderful Elizabeth Mackey, by the way. You can see more of her work here:

Chapter 1 Of Seven Stones

Chapter 1

September 24, 1913 Chicago

     The table rocked slightly in the darkness. Each of those sitting around it held the hands of those next to them.

     “Do not break the circle,” intoned the medium. “Do not let go of the hand you hold.”

     They were all dependent upon each other to ensure not only their safety but to create the necessary link to the other world. They were all at the mercy of the medium, who alone had some experience in such matters. He alone had power to communicate with the spirit world. He spoke as one who was already halfway between this world and the next.

     “If you notice movement above you, if you feel anything touch your cheek, say nothing, do nothing. Do not call attention to yourself and they will not pay undue attention to you.”

     “A moment please,” spoke another member of the gathering, timidly. “I wish to remove my spectacles. I won’t be needing them in the dark and I fear they may be broken.”

     “Do it if you must,” came the voice of the medium, obviously perturbed, “but do not delay or disturb the forces around us again.”

     There was a fumbling in the dark for a moment as the man could be heard removing his glasses and then hands reached out again to re-form the circle.

     The medium intoned the spirits to make themselves known. Over and over he chanted, until his utterances were nothing more than low moans. Soon, even the low moans drifted away into a silence. And then the table began to move, slowly at first, and then more violently, lifting and dropping to the floor. Each of them could feel it through their elbows and hands that rested on the table. A slight audible bump as it fell back to the floor sent shivers up spines.

     Before long there seemed to be motion above the heads of those who sat at the table, the stagnant air of the attic being stirred by unknown forces.

     “I feel contact,” the medium shouted suddenly, almost as though he had been stabbed.

     The table dropped and the medium could be heard gasping unevenly as though he was breathing for two.

     When the medium spoke again, it was no longer with the same voice.

     “Greetings from the world beyond the world,” the voice uttered in a sarcastic tone. “To those of you who are open to the truth, I wish you well,” the voice came a step towards pleasantness, for a moment, then changed to a hiss, “but you are unwise to allow those who dare disbelief to be among you. The circle is your one protection from forces even I cannot control. Do not allow that circle to be compromised by doubters.”

     There was silence. Then the table began to rock violently. In the darkness, it sounded as if the medium was convulsing. The madness grew. Soon a bell was ringing, a horn blew frantically.

     Without sight, neither imagination nor the senses could make sense of what was going on around and above and below them. It was an invitation to panic, to abandon any attempt to impose reason on the situation. Just when hearing began to place the source of the disturbance somewhere above their heads, there came again the rocking of the table that was felt beneath their clasped hands.

     As the rocking of the table reached new heights of intensity and the ringing of the bell became more frantic, a beam of light flickered on. For a moment, it only served to increase the chaos. But soon reason began to reclaim a foothold among the people gathered around the table. It was a flashlight held by a member of the circle and it was pointed directly at where the medium sat. Or, rather, it was pointed at where the medium should have been. In the circle of light that bathed his high-backed chair, no sign could be seen of the man responsible for all the noises in the dark.

     “You can come out, now,” came the voice of the man holding the flashlight. The head of the medium slowly rose above the table. On his chest an amulet with a large green stone reflected dimly the beam of light from the flashlight.

     “Using your head to move the table. I’ve seen such methods used many times before. And undoubtedly using a false-back shoe so that you could use your foot to ring a bell. Aided by a compatriot or two, no doubt.”

     The voice that came from behind the light was commanding, the face that stared into the light now timid in its unexpected exposure.

     “You expect these parlor games to fool me, Slatterini The Astounding? A magician trained in the art of deception?”

     Behind the beam of the flashlight, the figure holding it could be observed ripping off a false beard and glasses. The old gray-haired man who had slowly made his way up the stairs earlier that evening now revealed himself to be a clean-shaven man in his early twenties. The frailty had vanished and was replaced with a glare of certainty and vitality. He was young and of no more than average height, but had attitude and confidence enough to assert his authority.

     “By sleight of hand you fool people into believing the preposterous. You play upon people’s fears and longings, conning wealthy widows into giving you not only their wealth but their very ability to reason. You separate your followers from family and society by filling their heads with such nonsense they can no longer maintain normal relationships.”

     The people seated around the table were too surprised for the most part to say a word. The medium, a middle aged man with hair and mustache precisely oiled and styled, stared as much as possible his hatred past the glare of the flashlight. The woman seated next to him, obviously an accomplice, rose in her anger.

     “You don’t understand,” she screamed. “Of course a medium cannot be expected to achieve success with such skeptics to siphon off the proper psychic energy. It is your doubt that has caused the failure here tonight.”

     “And it is my doubt that caused Professor Munchin to make such a show of things, too, I suppose?”

     The accomplice would admit to nothing. With the hair piled atop her head, she seemed a good deal taller than she was. “Faith is of the utmost importance. Sometimes the faith must be encouraged. When there is doubt present, the spirits will not make the connection. Sometimes those in attendance must be given something to stir their faith before the spirits deem the circle worthy of an appearance. Sometimes—“

     “Bosh!” exclaimed the man with the flashlight. “Utter and complete claptrap, coming from the crudest of cons. Not only shall I write an explanation of all that I have witnessed here tonight and send it to the newspaper, I shall incorporate your practices into my stage act along with an explanation of how your tricks are done. The practices of those in your profession blacken the reputation of those in mine.”

     “Here is my card, sir,” he said to Munchin, producing it seemingly from mid-air. He walked towards the medium and placed it boldly into the other’s breast pocket. “You are formally invited to see my performance at the Aragon Ball Room, this weekend. It promises to prove quite instructive.”

     No longer walking like an old man in mourning, he walked towards the stairs that led from the attic with the practiced movements of an experienced showman. With no further words, he strode out of the house and into the gloom of twilight. As he walked, he whistled to himself as he twirled a chain that had on it a rather curious pendant with a green stone in its center.

     Back in the attic of the brownstone house, a lamp was lit. What had appeared a moment earlier to be a group of strangers now talked quite familiarly with one another.

     “He’s gone,” said a voice coming from the stairs.

     “Are you sure?”

     “Yes. He hopped a street car headed north.”

     “Damn magicians,” said the one who was called Professor Munchin, “they should stick to amusing children with card tricks.”

     “It’s Houdini who got them started,” said a heavyset man who was dressed in a suit of such finery that it left little doubt as to his wealth and position in society.

     “Houdini’s going to get his before long,” said Munchin. “But this Slatterini fellow has proven to be a rather useful idiot. Whatever publicity he provides should keep our real work from being discovered. No better cover than to have the world believe we’re scam artists, eh?” Munchin chuckled, as did the heavyset man, pleased with themselves.

     “Well, now that that’s taken care of, suppose we proceed with the real order of business for the evening,” said the woman who moments earlier was feigning outrage.

     “Are you sure you’re still up for it?”

     “The longer we delay, the more I fear to do it. Let us put it off no more.”

     “Very well, then. Let us gather around the table.”

     Removing one chair from the gathering, the six individuals resumed their seats at the table. Hands were once again clasped, heads bowed in the dim light of the gas lamp. Led by Munchin, the group began a low humming while swaying slightly to an unheard rhythm.

     Where the presence came from they did not know. Whether it made its appearance in the center through an opening they had created, or whether it wormed its way through their individual life forces to become a single entity in their midst was impossible to say. They only knew they felt a seventh spirit among them, separate from the group and yet oddly connected.

     It was hard to know where one of them stopped and the other started. Clenched hands reached deeper than the surface, seemed to merge into the other until it almost felt as if each was clutching the beating hearts of those next to him. And in the middle of all was this strange new entity, as though it were the solution that enabled them to dissolve one into the other. And as their hands seemed to reach deeper than the surface, so now this apparition seemed to reach into the hearts of each of them, like spokes in a wheel.

     “What’s happening?” said the woman to the left of Munchin, a concerned quiver in her voice.

     “Stay calm,” Munchin said, exhibiting none of what he preached.

     The members who sat about the table no longer swayed but began to shake as if in convulsions.

     “There’s something wrong!” screamed a member of the circle. “We can’t control it.”

     “Don’t worry,” said Munchin, “I have the amulet. Whatever I summon must respect it.”

     “Where is it?” screamed the woman.

     Munchin looked down, panic welling up on his features. But panic soon changed to pain as something seemed to grab a hold of him, as if a hand reached up inside his chest and around his heart. Soon, all of those around the table shared the same look of agony on their faces. A vague shape above the table was noticeable, its features indistinct except for a malevolent grin. It was only a few seconds before they all slumped forward dead onto the table.

     Seated on a wooden seat aboard a streetcar, a young man snuck a glimpse of a pendant that he half-pulled from his pocket. His expression was one of intense curiousity.

     “I hope they don’t notice this missing.”

If you like what you read, the book is available on Amazon. Simply click here to see more. And please sign up for my mailing list for future sales and giveaways.

The Case For Libraries

     The world has changed and I seem to hear a lot of talk about what the future of libraries should be or if we even need them at all, seeing as how Google and Siri can answer all our questions. Of course, those who care—those who fondly remember libraries from their youth—are quick to defend their continued existence. After all, there is nothing quite like the feel of a real book in your hands. Plus there is the availability of high-speed internet for all of those who might not have a connection at home. And just to show we’re keeping with the times, let’s use these conveniently located public buildings as places where events can be held such as movies and family game night.

     I have my own suggestion for the future of libraries: it involves disco balls and techno music.

     If you mistook my sarcasm for seriousness, even for the briefest of moments, I understand. It seems as though there is a mad rush to convert libraries into anything and everything other than what a library should be. A library is a quiet place with books.

     Sure, many of us have memories of getting the glare from a librarian with her finger to her lips, demanding quiet. It seems like such an incredibly unhip thing to do in this day and age. But please remember there were times you were reprimanded for running around screaming in church, too.

     Librarians maintained a sacred temple for the holy silence. Children were expected to learn to control themselves, to observe a common tradition, to demonstrate that they were capable of respect in a world that has precious little of that. Adults too needed to show that the library was something different from a saloon. It was the place where the knowledge of humanity was stored and learned. Such a thing demands observance of the customs, a place like this is one where we should show reverence.

     The librarian shushed us because a library is not a place to voice our thoughts but to learn and contemplate the thoughts of the greatest minds of this and other eras.

     What good is book without a quiet place to read it? And in today’s world the quiet places are vanishing. There is little wilderness left, places where one can go and be alone without the sounds of others. Churches too no longer play the prominent role in society the way they once did. And even in our places of worship giant televisions have crept into these places of prayer and tranquility.

     The world needs a sanctuary for silence, a place where people can go and exercise their minds on concentrated thought rather than multitasking. The average person needs such a place when one cannot get your oil changed or a bite to eat without being inundated with television.

     It is only in a book, a real tangible book, where one can have solitude and total immersion. It is only with pages made of paper that a reader and a writer can truly come together and be of one mind. An e-reader might have its advantages, but it also has its distractions. An electronic reader is always tempting a reader with ideas of playing a game, checking the time, or connecting with social media.

     It is not easy to completely lose oneself in a book, but it is worth it. Like any other sacred practice, it requires certain rites be observed. And the primary rite for communion with the written word is solitude, the kind that silence best provides.

     That is the function of a library, its justification for existence. It is a place where the centuries may be bridged, hidden knowledge come to light, where we can come to know both our world and ourselves. There is no need to worry about what a library should be in the future; the world needs that place of intersection between silence and books more now than perhaps ever before.

First Sentences of Some of My Favorite Novels.

I recently read an article about the importance of the first sentence. All right, I didn’t actually read it, I skimmed over it. There was a picture of some author gazing thoughtfully off into the distance with earth sky and water in the background, and he threw out some ideas about how the first sentence of a novel can determine whether the book is worthy of a prize. Oddly enough, for someone stressing the importance of a first sentence, his initial thought seemed to me to clock in at somewhere over a thousand words.Perhaps it was just me. I tried re-reading a few times and then just gave up altogether. You can read it here, although I don’t recommend it: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2014/aug/29/how-pick-man-booker-prizewinner I really don’t see how you can judge an entire novel by the very first sentence, any more than you can judge it by the fourth sentence on the 87^th page. Granted, there are some good opening lines, but many great books begin with a simple statement. In fact, I would much rather judge a book by its cover than by a single sentence.

But it did have me go back and check the first sentences of some of my favorite books, just to see if there was anything to it. What follows is a short list of first sentences from books I regard highly. I’ve left off the name of the book and the author’s name in order to play a little game. Can you name any of the books? Just to make it interesting, I’ll offer the first copy of my newest book, The Association, to whomever can name the most books based on the sentences provided below. The book will be released sometime in September. You can e-mail me your answers at jamesrozoff@sbcglobal.net

1)      The one opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap.

2)      She came out of the store just in time to see her young son playing on the sidewalk directly in the path of the gray, gaunt man who strode down the center of the walk like a mechanical derilect.

3)      A squat grey building of only thirty-four stories.

4)      First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys.

5)      On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. Bridge

6)      When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.

7)      In 1815, M. Charles Francois-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D---.

8)      The urge to embark on a work of creation after a period of sterility is like the desire to make love, very violent, but it can be appeased by failure.

9)      Just after passing Caraher’s saloon, on the County Road that ran south from Bonneville, and that divided the Broderson ranch from that of Los Muertos, Presley was suddenly aware of the faint and prolonged blowing of a steam whistle that he knew must come from the railroad shops near the depot at Bonneville.

10)   “I am inclined to think—“ said I.

11)   There lived in Westphalia, in the castle of my Lord the Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh, a young man, on whom nature had bestowed the most agreeable manners.

12)   Around quitting time, Tod Hackett heard a great din on the road outside his office.

13)   We are at rest five miles behind the front.

14)   The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

15)   On the 6^th of January 1482, the Parisians were awakened by the noise of all the bells within the triple circuit of the City, the University, and the Town ringing in full peal.

16)   It was a pleasure to burn.

17)   “What’s it going to be then, eh?”

18)   Buck did not read the news, or he would have known there was trouble brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego.

It's a rather tough list, so don't feel bad if you didn't get more than a couple. As I said, not even most great novels begin with a memorable first line.

Underground at the JFK Prep School

A brief excerpt from my upcoming novel, The Sleep Of Reason

From what the flashlight’s beam was able to tell them, someone had good reason to be weary of trespassers. There was graffiti on many of the walls and hardly a window that hadn’t been smashed. In the thirty plus years the dorms had been in disuse, generations of young partiers and adventurers had visited, some in search of scares, others with a desire for destruction. Shattered glass was everywhere on the floors, but Johnny trod over it in search of some kind of hope. He seemed to know where he was going, worked his way past rooms until he came to a door and stepped inside. Dave followed him as he walked down a set of metal stairs. Wandering around a vast basement, Johnny pointed the flashlight at an open door that led to a tunnel that appeared to be longer than the building itself.

“There’s a series of tunnels that run from building to building,” said Johnny. “Steam tunnels. The central boiler’s somewhere below the prep school, and all outbuildings were heated by that.”

Evidently, Dave couldn’t help thinking, Johnny knew quite a bit about this site. It had been no spur of the moment idea to visit here.

They walked along the tunnel, two large pipes to the right of them. Dave couldn’t help thinking they must have been plenty hot in the day, but now the air in the tunnel was as cold as the outdoor air, though stagnant. He could see his breath when the light allowed. Reaching the main boiler room, they took a turn down another tunnel, Johnny walking as though something was leading him on. Dave too seemed to feel or hear, or sense something, but he did not share Johnny’s compulsion to seek it out. He wasn’t sure which of his senses was being played upon, but there was something subtly unsettling.

They moved on down the tunnel, following pipes leading to some other building, he wasn’t sure which. His sense of direction was thrown off here beneath the ground. And like the impression he got that the graves were rising and lowering, the tunnels seemed to shift in front of him. He knew it was in his head, was certain, but that didn’t make him feel any better. If whatever supernatural forces around here were able to get inside his mind, it could be as deadly as if they were able to touch him physically. He now knew what Johnny was hoping to find, but that didn’t mean that’s what they would find. And this didn’t seem the place to find anything good. Dave stayed close by Johnny, not wanting to be far from the light. He was starting to regret trusting Johnny, regret trusting Doug and Izzy and everyone else involved. Johnny might be working for Doug, but he clearly had his own agenda. They all had their own agenda, everyone but Dave and Mindy, it seemed. They seemed to be the only two who had no vested interest in any of this.

“Slow down,” Dave yelled, too loudly. The narrow hall echoed his words, and he had no desire to call attention to himself.

“Look,” said Johnny, from somewhere up ahead. He raised his flashlight towards the ceiling, revealing pipes heading upwards. “That must be the church above us.”

“So? Now what?”

“The tunnel still goes on. To where, I don’t know. Let’s follow it.”

“Let’s not,” said Dave, attempting to hide his growing worry in sarcasm. He was concerned that Johnny’s desires might lead him to act unwisely. He wished Doug were here now, or Izzy or Mindy. He had no desire to explore any further but his only choices were to abandon Johnny or stay with him. He couldn’t imagine trying to drag him away. Perhaps Dave would have chosen to leave Johnny behind if he had any faith in his ability to find his way out again, but the tunnel system was far larger than he could have anticipated and it felt like something was actively attempting to confuse his senses. Not wanting to leave a comrade to face the consequences even of his own bad decisions, he resolved to follow but continue his complaints in the hop of changing Johnny’s mind.

“This place looks dangerous,” said Dave, trying to plant seeds of doubt, “ ghosts or no ghosts.”

The smoothness of the walls gave way to a harsher surface, as though they were now entering an older underground chamber. He suddenly realized that there were no longer any pipes in the tunnel they were following. The floor was less even, and Dave suspected that they were now walking on a cobbled floor rather than cement. Dread arose in him—along with a degree of anger—although he was not sure if there was any rational reason for it. Wherever they were, it was larger than any underground chamber should have been, especially if it was not part of the twentieth century additions. The ceiling was visible in the beam of the flashlight, but its features were unclear. It appeared rough-hewn, almost as if it had been carved out a handful at a time.

“We must be somewhere close to the graveyard,” said Johnny. “Maybe even under it.”

“We should go,” said Dave. When Johnny did not answer, Dave looked at him, found that Johnny was not paying attention to him. His gaze was towards the ceiling. Dave followed his gaze but saw nothing. Johnny, forgetting Dave’s presence, turned off his flashlight.

“Johnny?” yelled Dave, allowing the anger that he had been keeping in check to find expression. “Turn the damn light on. I’ve had enough of this shit.” Dave was losing his cool, permitting himself to lose his cool, and was ready to say or do anything he could to get back into the daylight and the outside world again. But Johnny continued to stare towards the ceiling, saying nothing.

How could he notice Johnny in the dark, Dave asked himself, and then became aware of a soft bluish glow that emanated from above. He looked up to see lights swirling slowly, at length beginning to take individual shapes. They were human, or at least in the shapes of humans.

Of Beer And Books

As a writer who knows a lot of other writers, I have seen and heard a lot of reviews on books. As a writerit may be damaging to me personally to say this—but I have seen a lot of stupid reviews. I’ve seen the book named The Three Little Kitties That Saved My Life get a 1-star review because the reader didn’t care for cats. I have seen other books get panned because the reviewer’s e-reader broke halfway through it. I have seen many a review that did not like the book they read because they were not fond of the genre it belonged to. Think up any stupid reason for giving a bad review and chances are you will find it mentioned by some reviewer.

I have been told that it will do no good to complain because those are the rules of the game; reviewers can say whatever they want to say. But that is only true because nobody is holding up a higher standard. As well as books, I also like beer. I will often go to Beer Advocate, a site for people who appreciate beer. They have a beer rating section at their website where anybody can give their rating to any beer they have tried. You would think that of the two, beer reviews would be less well done than book reviews, but you would be wrong. Almost to a one, the beer reviews are thoughtfully done, expressing the reviewer’s knowledge of their subject rather than their biases. The reason that beer is rated more fairly and intelligently on Beer Advocate than books are on Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes and Noble, etc. is that Beer Advocate has a system for rating beer and both the site and the community hold reviewers to certain standards. It’s really that simple. With that in mind, let’s try to set some standards for book reviews based upon Beer Advocate’s system for reviewing beer.

 

Respect brewers
Behind each beer is a person with feelings and pride. Beer might be their passion, livelihood or entire life. Even if you don't like a beer, at the very least have some respect and be constructive with your criticism.

The same should hold true for authors. The vast majority of them are working really hard to create something they are proud of. Respect that.

 

Keep style in mind
Say you don't like light beers. We suggest that you do one of two things: 1) don't review them if you know you already don't like them - your opinion will be tainted. 2) Review with an open mind and for what the beer is trying to be, not what you think the beer should be or pit it against the kick-ass India Pale Ale that you had earlier.

Same for books. If you like Sci Fi, it’s probably best that you do not review romance novels. If you do review a romance novel, don’t compare it to Asimov or complain about the lack of aliens. I know it seems simple, but apparently it needs saying.

 

What to look for

Beer reviews are broken down into 5 categories to be evaluated: Appearance, Smell, Taste, Mouthfeel, Overall. Each of these catagories are rated from 1 to 5, with the “Overall” category being an opportunity to award points to those qualities that don’t fall neatly into the other categories.

 

Books should be rated by the main components of what constitutes a quality read. To simplify matters, let’s deal with novels for now. Let’s come up with some basic categories, borrowing only loosely from Aristotle’s Poetics.

Grammar and Spelling –One or two mistakes are acceptable, much more than that and one has to start thinking about deducting a point. A book would merit a one star if it is demonstrably proven to contain errors on almost every page.

Plot –One can refer to Aristotle on this category, but let me give you my thoughts. Is it of interest? Is it plausible? Does the action flow logically from what we know of the characters and the setting rather than involving a deus ex machina? Is it without any obvious flaws? If all of these are strong, there is no reason not to give it a rating of 5.

Characters –Do you care for them? Not every character has to be likeable, but the reader needs someone to connect with. Are they believable? Are their motivations clear? Are they interesting?

Themes and Ideas –Does the author involve you in ideas that relate to your real life and are you better off as a person for having read his work?

Style and Use of Language –Does the use of language and art make you further appreciate the craftsmanship that is writing? Sometimes reading a master of wordsmithing is joy enough.

Overall—Here is your opportunity to rate the intangibles.

 

Here you have a brief outline that could be used as a standard for everyone who reviews a book. It would be easily enforceable and would lead to a higher overall degree of reviews. There’s nothing wrong with demanding a little bit more from reviewers: if it is good enough for beer, it is good enough for books.

 

One last bit of advice from Beer Advocate that also applies to book reviewers: DON’T REVIEW WHILE INTOXICATED!