Pitches and Synopses Workshop: Some Highlights

As you may or may not know, I’ve got a short story collection coming out this fall, Near+Far. It’s all SF, and we’re using the Ace Double format for it: one side features all near-future stories; flip it over to find the far future ones.

I’ve been plugging away at a g’normous spreadsheet: compiling reviewers and book bloggers and interviewers and all that sort of stuff. Whew. So what am I doing to ramp up to publicize the book?

• Finding reviewers interested in speculative fiction, particularly short stories.
• Organizing a six week blog tour leading up to the book launch.
• Organizing interviews and guest posts.
• Writing a “How you can help” sheet to send to people who might help publicize the book.
• Making give-away items using some of the interior art. They will be supercool!
• Setting up podcasts for some of the stories.
• Planning book-related events for September and October, including readings in Indiana and Maryland.
• Working on some electronic stuff that is still Top Sekrit. 🙂

And then there’s getting the book together, too…It’s like a little circus, all contained on a single spreadsheet.

If you’re a blogger or reviewer interested in participating in any of that, please let me know!

He’s become Dr. Fantomas, for Dr. Fantastik seemed too superhero-ish for a Tabat story. Final story came to 6650 words, and I’m pleased with it. Recent reading that may have influenced it include Anthony Trollope’s Can You Forgive Her?, John Hawkes’ The Blood Oranges, and Mary Roberts Rinehart’s Dangerous Days (free on the Kindle!).

The title of the story has become “The Ghost-Eater” as well.

Before retiring for the night, he unshuttered the window, exposing a view of the restaurant’s rear courtyard, an expanse of wrought iron tables, chained to the fence as though someone were worried that they might go walking about.

He sat upright. The moon hit the window almost as bright as witchlight when first summoned. What had called him out of sleep? Some noise in the dining room, rhythmic as hammer blows but more muted. Footsteps? Perhaps.

He put on his breeches, head tilted as he tried to listen. The noises continued, stopped, restarted.

The door opened of its own accord. Charlotte. Beckoning him to follow.

She preceded him down the hallway. There was little light in its confines, but when she opened the door to the kitchen, everything was moonlight and steel, the rims of the great soup pots shining like rounded scimitars, the rack of cleavers and knives varying from the length of his forearm to the smallest paring blade possible, the tiles of the floor like moonstones underfoot, sending up a muted dazzle that mirrored the steel’s.

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