What do you like best about being a writer? What do you like the least? Being an author is absolutely amaze-balls—even more so since I get to do it full-time. Like for a living, which is a whole new level of cool. I get to make my own schedule, drink (and justify drinking) huge, nearly obscene, amounts of coffee. And, when I go to work in the morning, I don’t even have to put on real pants. It’s fuzzy Iron-Man pants and my plaid bathrobe all the way. Plus, it’s incredible that people read my books and actually dig them … Well at least some people, which leads me to the things I like least.
First, negative reviews. It’s a part of the business and intellectually I understand that not every book is right for every person—art is a funky, subjective thing like that. Even knowing all that, though, one-star reviews still murder my soul a little bit each time. Also, I hate editing. Hate it. Editing is like Chinese water-drip torture for my brain. That first draft is all magic and explosions and dragons and laser-gun battles—i.e. awesome. The second, third, and fourth draft? Like doing taxes. For several months.
How do you think your life experiences have prepared you for writing? Each book, to a certain extent, has elements of my own life and experiences woven throughout. There’s an old writer’s axiom, write what you know, and I think that shines through in my work. My main protagonist, Yancy Lazarus, is a travelling bluesman, a trait he happens to share with my father. Like me, Yancy is also a former Marine, and though he served in Vietnam (well before my time), my time in service—especially my deployments in Iraq and Africa—shaped much of his service history. And since my other passion is theology and world religion/mythology, that bleeds through in all my books as well.
Have you ever felt as if you were being dictated to while you wrote a book--as if the words came of their own accord? If yes, which book did that happen with? On a rare occasion. But mostly, I don’t wait for that kind of inspiration to strike. I sit down at my computer, five-days a week and put words on the paper no matter what.
You’ve written four novels, two novellas, and are working on a fifth full length book. What’s your favorite time management tip? Time management is key if you want to make it as a full-time writer. I show up every morning, treat my writing time like work, and set realistic daily and weekly goals for myself. And, more often than not, I meet those goals. I also try to block out distraction—like Facebook, Twitter, etc.—by utilizing a program called “Cold Turkey” which won’t allow me to visit time-sink sites during work hours.
Are you a plotter or a pantser, i.e., do you outline your books ahead of time or are you an “organic” writer? My first book, Strange Magic, was penned without a firm outline in hand—so organic, I suppose. But every book since then (all of which are better) have been outlined thoroughly before I ever started writing. For years I thought outlining “killed” the creative process, but now I find it’s just the opposite. Having a structured frame work still allows me lots of creative leeway, while also allowing me to spend more time doing what I actually like (writing) and a lot less of what I don’t like (editing).
If you had one take away piece of advice for authors, what would it be? The most important lesson I have to pass on is this: FINISH what you start. Now, I’ll admit, sometimes you do need to abandon a piece, but it should only be as a last resort. Word-monkeys are a fickle lot, I’ve found. They’ll write something, but as soon as a newer, shinier idea comes along they jump ship in favor for the greener grass in the next story-pasture. But don’t do it, folks. A story needs to have a beginning, middle, and end—and each section has its own difficulties, challenges, and joys. If you only ever write beginnings, however, you’ll never fail enough at middles and ends to get good at those parts. So stick with it, even if it hurts a little.
Did music help you find your muse with this book? Oh absolutely. Yancy Lazarus is a blues hound by nature, so I often listen to the music I think he would listen to or play, which really helps me get into his head.
PRAISE FOR COLD HEARTED:Yancy Lazarus is back and facing off against his most dangerous foe yet—without the benefit of his magic. A breakneck thriller that'll keep you turning the pages!
—Sam Witt, Author of Half-Made Girls (Pitchfork County Novels)
Yancy Lazarus just wants to be left alone. He wants to play his blues music, smoke a few cigarettes, and otherwise leave the supernatural world to fend for itself.
He especially wants to be left alone by the Guild of the Staff—the mage ruling body—where he used to work as a Fix-It man. But when a little kid gets nabbed by an ancient Fae creature from the nether regions of Winter and the Guild refuses to set things right, he just can’t seem to heed good sense and leave things be.
Nothing’s ever easy though. Turns out, the kidnapping is just the tip of one big ol’ iceberg of pain and trouble. It seems some nefarious force is working behind the scenes to try and unhinge the tenuous balance between the supernatural nations and usher in a new world order. So now, if Yancy ever hopes to see the bottom of another beer bottle, he’s gonna have to partner up with an FBI agent—an agent who’s been hunting him for years—in order to bring down a nigh-immortal, douchebag mage from a different era. And to top it off, Yancy’s gonna have to pull it off without his magical powers … Boy, some days just aren’t worth getting out of bed for.
CHAPTER ONE:
Spelunking
The tunnel stretched out before me like the throat of some monstrous serpent, icy blue walls radiating pale witchlight to guide my feet. I shuffled along the winding pathway, trying for speed and failing miserably. There was snow underfoot, but the powder was often interspersed with patches of slick ice, which made the going treacherous as hell. It didn’t help a lick that my feet were so numb I couldn’t feel my toes, even though I had on heavy boots and thermal socks. Every friggin’ step felt like a crapshoot and I wasn’t quite sure how the dice would land.
I heard a howl from somewhere back in the darkness, a warbling noise that echoed and bounced around the narrow tunnel. I glanced back for a moment, which is precisely when my feet skidded out from under me and I went down hard, my ass connecting on the slippery ground below. My hip ached from the tumble, but at least my head landed in a pile of snow instead of on hard ground. I lay there for a moment, staring up at the curved ceiling, simmering in indignation.
Why me? Why couldn’t I ever just keep my head down and mind my own friggin’ business? I felt like kicking my own ass for being such a gullible, softhearted mook. Shit, the least I could do was be a little more selective. Tell people I’d only do them favors if the location was somewhere nice and beautiful … like say, sunny, sandy, not-cold-as-balls Honolulu.
I guess, technically, Thurak-Tir—home to the High Fae of the Winterlands—was a beautiful-ish place, so long as you’re the kind of person who doesn’t mind the arctic tundra of Siberia. The buildings are impressive at least: slick spires of frost, carved and sculpted into a thousand wonders; a house fashioned to resemble a frozen waterfall; a palace made of snow and crystalline-rime in the image of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life; a tower in the shape of a serpentine neck, complete with scales, topped by a massive dragon’s head. Under the light of day, the whole city sparkles like a diamond, and at night beautiful slashes of green and gold drift through the air, a semi-permanent Aurora Borealis.
But it’s also piss-freezing cold and only beautiful in the way a statue is—lifeless, still, too perfect. And the residents are all the same. Bunch of too-good-for-you, cold-hearted pricks. I absolutely hate Thurak-Tir. Give me a warm New Orleans night in a dirty bar with a crowd of shit-faced hobos any day of the week.
Down in the subterranean caverns below the city, where I happened to be trudging around, was even worse. Monsters, spirits, and a whole lot of frigid air. The light of day never penetrated these depths, so the cold … well, the cold seemed both malevolent and alive, like some frostbite-belching yeti.
More yowls and howls, followed by cackling laughter: Ice gnomes—not nearly as cute or cuddly as they sound—closing in, and fast. Time to move.
I scrambled onto my hands and knees, gaining my feet like a clumsy toddler taking his first steps, and shambled away from the chorus of mocking laughter. Creepy little twerps.
If I was going to make it out of this place in one piece, I needed better lighting. Thankfully, I’ve got something a little handier than a flashlight. I can do magic, and not the cheap stuff you see in Vegas with flowers or floating cards or disappearing stagehands. People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although magic isn’t the right word—magic is a Rube word for those not in-the-know. Users just call it the Vis, an old Latin word meaning force or energy. Simply put, there are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. It just so happens that I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.
I paused for a moment, and opened myself to the Vis. Power rolled into me like magma from an active volcano, heat and life and energy filling me up, sending renewed strength into my limbs. I was careful only to draw a little and push the rest away—unchecked, the Vis can be as seductive and dangerous as a beautiful woman with a grudge.
Weaves of fire and air flowed out around me as I shaped that raw force; a soft nimbus of orange light encircled me, granting both better visibility and a small pocket of comforting warmth. Sure, it would make me stand out like a dirty redneck at a posh country club, but there was nothing I could do about that.
I got moving again, huffing and puffing my way along. More frenzied cries floated toward me from the tunnel twisting away behind. I needed to move faster, but the gloom still hampered my progress, forcing me to slow down and take my time. Even with the combined illumination from my construct and the ghostly witchlight bleeding from the walls, I could only see a few feet out. This was a night place, a dark place that fought the intrusion of light and heat with tooth and nail.
Even going sloth-speed, I almost didn’t see the cliff until my feet were over the edge. I hollered and threw on the brakes in a panic—digging in with my heels and pinwheeling my arms as I fell once more onto my back. I landed with a whuff of expelled air and immediately sprawled out my arms and legs. The greater surface area seemed to slow me down a little, but not enough. My legs skittered over the side, drawing me onward and downward. I clawed at the unyielding ice with numb fingers, my thin winter gloves making it all the more difficult.
I pulled more power, more Vis, into my body, and pushed thin strands of fire out through my fingertips. Small divots blossomed into the ice-covered surface of the floor, little grooves where my digits could find purchase.
Unfortunately my gloves began to smolder from the flame, the leather sending up curls of gray smoke. I ignored the heat—survival was my first priority. I dug in, giving it everything I had, arms and hands straining with the effort.
At last I skidded to a halt, my slide coming to a premature stop though it was a damn close thing. The tension in my arms and hands eased up as I slowly, carefully, pulled my hips and legs back from the drop-off, though my feet still dangled out in the air. Past the drop-off was blackness all the way down with no bottom in sight. Admittedly, the soft glow surrounding my body didn’t do much to diminish the gloom. Hell, the bottom could’ve been ten feet down or ten thousand. Better not to find out by taking a leap.
My heart thudded hard against my ribs. I’m not exactly afraid of heights, mind you, but anyone would be apprehensive about the prospect of careening off a cliff into potentially unending blackness. I took one more glance over the edge and uttered a sigh of relief. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.
I heard a hoot of mirth just a second before something hard and heavy collided into my back—a wallop right between my aching shoulder blades.
My fingers tore free of their meager holds and over the drop-off I went, manic gnome laughter filling my ears as I fell. I tumbled down and down, flipping through the air like a fumbled football. I caught just a brief glimpse of a short, knobby form peering over the edge, his whole stumpy body shaking as he cackled. Asshole gnomes.
I lashed out with air—great columns of the stuff—directed down to slow my descent. That was a start, but the construct wouldn’t keep me from getting impaled on a giant icicle or busting my guts open on a rocky outcropping.
So next, I pulled in strands of artic cold, weaves of spirit and reinforced bands of fae power, floating through the air like so much dust. A shimmering bubble of green—shifting from emerald to pine to jade and back again—snapped into place with an effort of will, encompassing me in a tight globe of power, exerting a slight pressure on my body. A small safeguard against pointy things and an air pocket to cushion my body from the inevitable impact.
Splash-thud.
Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.
Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.
You can visit me to find out more at www.JamesAHunter.wordpress.com
www.twitter.com/@jamesahunter13
www.facebook.com/WriterJamesAHunter
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