I was contacted by the founder of Shepard.com to be featured on his website. It is a great concept and a really fun website to check out. On the site, published authors suggest five books to check out based on a specific theme of their choosing, with the books being “the best books” for their list.

 As you can imagine, the possibilities are huge, and there are some great lists to check out, including: “The best music books that should be made into movies,” “The best underrated humorous fantasy books with mostly happy ending,.” and so on. Seriously, I could go down a rabbit hole finding great reads.

They have just posted my own list: “The best books of a future we probably want to avoid”. For those of who have read The Price of Safety and/or The Price of Rebellion, you know both books fall into this category, though it’s more about similar books that might interest you Check out my listing:
https://shepherd.com/best-books/a-future-we-probably-want-to-avoid

When you have time, check out other great lists as well. I’m partial to science fiction, and this one lists books from other lists (yes a list of lists): https://shepherd.com/bookshelf/future

Thanks Ben. Your website is a blast.

https://www.facebook.com/shepherdlovesbooks/

https://twitter.com/shepherd_books

The Final Frontier

I watched this morning as Blue Horizon shot into space with Jeff Bezos and his band of future trivia answers.

While I could make jokes about his endeavor (nothing says “newly divorced guy” like riding a giant phallic symbol), I will instead choose to celebrate the benefits the research, engineering, and results should provide to the human race. The more that indulgent rich people advance our ability to leave Earth’s boundaries—and expand our collective knowledge—the better. Next thing you know, we’ll have Teslas in space (oh wait).

Joking aside, while today’s event was a reminder of the achievements we’ve lost by decreasing NASA’s funding over the years, it was a reflection of the American spirit—which got me thinking about greatness. No, I’m not saying the book-reaper is great. I mean “greatness” in terms of an individual who walked a path that could elevate society on a grand level as a result of their achievements, words, insight, etc. While there are some who currently struggle and sacrifice every day to improve the lives of others, whether it be religious figures or those fighting various injustices, it seems few have truly reached the level of what collectively becomes known as “greatness”. I get it. It not only takes a level of brilliance and insight few have, it’s also damn hard taking that leap, going somewhere no one else can see—and doing it to such a degree that it elevates all of us.

Some do have the ability, resources, and tenacity right now, and a few have shown the potential of reaching the next level, but even if someone did, would we follow? Would we even know what we’re seeing, or will it take generations to realize the person who currently walks among us belongs in the same category as Einstein, Shakespeare, and others?

While I can’t think of anyone over the past thirty years (other than possibly Stephen Hawking) who future generations will deem “great”, look at how much this world has improved during that time period. We did that together, the result of billions of tiny improvements in thousands of different ways. Which is my point. For every billionaire with a dream, there are billions of us doing our damnest to make every day better.

We still have far to go, not only in terms of fixing the damage we’ve done to the planet but to each other.

Yet we don’t need “great” people to get there.

I do believe there will be great people in humanity’s future. They may already be among us and will improve us all in some meaningful way. But Jeff Bezos is not one of them.

The Better Side

I was given the honor of speaking to a group of kids about my book, The Price of Safety.

But these weren’t ordinary kids.

Dan Crisologo, a friend of mine, is a fan of my debut novel, and his thirteen-year-old son devoured the story. Dan has a friend in Austin, Texas who has established a great organization: the Central Texas Table of Grace (CTTOG), which is an emergency shelter for children ages 6 to 17 in the foster care system. (If you have a minute, check them out: https://centraltexastableofgrace.org/). After seeing how much his son enjoyed my book, Dan thought the kids at CTTOG might enjoy reading it as well. He checked with the owner of the shelter, and after she agreed to his suggestion, he generously bought almost a dozen of my books, shipped them to me to autograph, and then I sent them to the shelter.

A short time after the shelter received the books, I jumped on a Zoom call with the group.

I told the children and adults who attended a little about myself, my writing process, and my inspiration for the book, and then I answered the children’s questions. They had some fantastic questions, everything from how the cover was designed, to my Dedication to my mom, to events that happen in the story. Most of the kids received their copy just before our call, so they hadn’t had a chance to read it, although a couple admitted they’d already started reading the story, and during the call, I saw a couple others opening the book repeatedly as if saying “OK we got it, let us read it already”. Even so, at the adults’ request, I read the first chapter aloud to the group, and we concluded the call with a promise to speak again after the group finishes reading the book.

The conversation we had, and the kids’ enthusiasm for the story, was beyond my expectations. You never know how others will react to something you create, whether it be a novel, a painting, or some other form of art. I was touched that these kids would be interested in the story—which is an adult novel and is dark in spots—and I was honored to be involved in such a selfless gesture as this. I don’t deserve credit for the gesture, though. That was my friend Dan, and those at CCTOG who are helping these kids and making a difference in others’ lives. I applaud them. They are the better side of our humanity.

Thank you, Dan and CCTOG, for thinking of me and setting up such a special event. It has meant more to me than you know.

A Bland Burden

Many people don’t stop to appreciate the burden others live with. And some burdens are weighty—such as those of us with Bland for a last name.

Ever since that fateful day in 5th grade Vocabulary Class when I saw the word bland listed on the page of our Vocab workbook, my life altered. The reckless teacher casually read aloud the definition (“Boring. Dull. Tasteless”), and every single one of my classmates turned to look at me. It wasn’t just a tilt of the head, either. They full-body-turned to stare at me, even the ones who got picked on almost every day, their eyes hopeful that I might replace them.

While my level of picked-on-ness didn’t noticeably increase after that scarring day, my struggle began in earnest. I knew almost immediately that I could never release a line of food products with my name on them, nor could I ever become a one-name icon like Shakespeare, da Vinci, or Cage. Instead, I had to learn to carry my head high, even as the jokes about my clothes, hair, dance moves, and everything else I did were pre-written for my attackers.

Instead of running from it, I embraced it. As my friends and family can attest, I try to slip the word bland into normal conversation as much as I can. The egg foo young is a little underwhelming? Nope, it’s bland. Is the wall color beige? Looks bland to me. And Leo DiCaprio’s love life? Anything but bland. I admit, I was tempted to use the word “bland” repeatedly in my novel The Price of Safety. I’m talking piles-of-money-lying-on-the-ground-with-no-one-around tempted. But I resisted, because I’ve read that artists are supposed to suffer for their craft. So, I suffered.

It didn’t have to be this way. Last names originally had denoted something about your family: where you were from, your occupation, a distinct body trait like red hair, etc. It’s why there are so many Smiths. During wars in the past, blacksmiths didn’t fight; instead, they worked on the weapons used in those fights, so they had a much higher survival rate than the Kingsmen, the Slaughters, and the Asskickers. When my great great (great?) grandfather came to America, his last name was something like Blaudevesloski. Since this was an age when political correctness and sensitivity weren’t even a twinkle in society’s eye, the officials at Ellis Island instructed my ancestor to write down his name. His handwriting was so atrocious, they thought the “u” was an “n”, drew a line after the “d” and said, “This is your new name. Welcome to America.”

As a result, you could say America made my people bland. In fact, I say that myself. But a name doesn’t define us. Our actions do. So I carry my name with pride, and use it in jokes way more than necessary. But it could’ve been different. I could’ve been Michael Blaudevesloski which doesn’t have the same ring…although I like to believe that Blaudevesloski in some Slavic language means “dashingly handsome”.

Veni, Vidi, Fracti

The door wouldn’t open.

Sitting in the front passenger seat, I couldn’t see out of the windshield. But I saw smoke. The engine could be on fire. I tried the door again but couldn’t escape.

Two minutes earlier, my wife Janelle and I had been traveling to visit her parents in northeastern Iowa. Driving seemed safer than flying. Fewer encounters. Fewer chances to get sick. The journey had been uneventful, though face masks had been scarce across Nebraska. We were on the last half-hour of a thirteen-hour trip, close to midnight, darkened towns drifting past our windows. Janelle was driving, as she was familiar with the route. Our dog Nobu, a Chinese Crested with a personality five times his size, laid in his car seat behind me, paws twitching as he slept.

Vehicles appeared infrequently, mostly semis rumbling like cogs from a large wheel buried in the earth.

As the Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes audiobook played on the sound system, Janelle followed the curve of the highway; our headlights swept slowly to the left—and suddenly revealed a deer in the road. Too near to avoid.

Janelle hit the brakes, angled to the left, but not too far or we’d launch into the median.

The next moment—not even a moment, a second, a startled heartbeat, no time to reach out, to brace—there was a sharp crunch/bang. Light hit me, an object nearly did as well. Had it been the deer? The doe had been in front of me. No, the object was an airbag. I couldn’t see the deer, couldn’t see anything past the windshield.

A horrible smell assaulted me. Then I saw smoke, felt heat. We were still moving, rolling forward; the impact, which had jarred me, hadn’t stopped us. I looked at Janelle. Feared what I’d find. She was OK. Eyes wide, a partly-deflated airbag jutting from the steering wheel, but OK. She pushed down the airbag to see. I did the same. The smell nearly gagged me. Where was the deer? I feared the engine was burning. I had to get out, save Janelle and Nobu. The door only opened a couple of inches, then shut. Tried again. Told Janelle it wouldn’t open. My side of the windshield was cracked. The interior lights had come on, some safety thing, though they blinded us. I thought my door wouldn’t open because the deer laid against it, though when Janelle started cautiously forward, our way was unobstructed.

We looked at the car seat behind us. Miraculously, Nobu was alive. If he’d been standing, if Janelle had been going faster, if we’d hit something bigger, he would’ve gone flying. He wouldn’t have survived.

Janelle pulled onto the lefthand shoulder. I tried the door again, stupid as I would’ve stepped onto the highway. Reason returned. There wasn’t fire. The smoke and smell came from the airbags, which had deployed. Jesus they stank. I called 911 while Janelle checked on Nobu. Rolled down the window. In minutes, Officer Honda arrived. I climbed out of the car via the open window and inspected the damage. The front end had accordioned, the right front quarterpanel shoved back—which was why the door wouldn’t open.

Even after the tow truck came, the experience felt unreal. Clichés pummeled my mind: out-of-nowhere, happened-so-fast. They didn’t capture the confusion or the jarring of my world.

I knew life was precious, the odds of us being on this planet, of my existing in the first place let alone standing on the shoulder of a highway in the middle of the night as red and blue lights flashed, were astronomical. Yet I felt snatched out of my daily routine, my rotating thoughts of work and writing and my loved ones wiped away to reveal the frailty of existence. Each day was a construct of gossamer wings and hope. We couldn’t always remember this truth, or we wouldn’t forage forward. Yet with each step, we moved more bravely than we acknowledged. And moving forward was our calling, the need propelled by instinct, desire, and want that lived inside us.

Janelle, Nobu and I were lucky. We’d walked away unscathed, though the event harshly reminded me of the precarious bridge we stood on, our path in the fog obscured—but still stretching forward.

Save the Stars

Scientists think our incomprehensibly massive universe is just a bubble in an even larger universe that is infinite in size.

It boggles the mind—yet in a way is relatable to me. I’m in a damn bubble of work right now, processing PPP loans with what feels like galaxies of responsibilities and worlds’ worth of people depending on me. (Literary license. Roll with it.) I know there’s more out there, creatures and creation, light and lightness, that I’m unaware of and can’t touch. At least that’s what I’m going through at the moment, working fifty-one days in a row (and counting) yet still unable to break from what feels like the black hole that is the relief program.

If our universe—everything we can see that’s been created over billions of years—is just a bubble, there may not be extraterrestrial life that we will find. God or Buddha or the gods of Olympus may have created all of this just for us. Yet we’re blowing it.

Me, I’m trying to help small businesses but am unsure of the rules, the regs, made up on the fly by government agencies or not at all—yet my judgement will be scrutinized years from now. I’ll make the same argument the government is currently making: this is all new, unplanned and unprecedented. Yet they hold the keys in the end. I’m just trying to do my best.

I can’t say the same for mankind.

We saw the clues about the coronavirus, wrote manuals and protocols and even fictional stories like Contagion about possible pandemics—and had the tools to stop it. For those who think this is a judgment by God/Buddha/Whoever, that higher power gave us the ability to report, gauge, track, and respond. We could’ve done better, responded faster. Many may claim we didn’t know it would be this bad. I think we just forgot that the best fiction is based in fact.

It’s not the end of us. Far from it. But we will be remembered during this time like the Spanish Flu era.

Yet who cares how history will look at this time period? We’ll be old or dead by then. The big thing is how we move forward. When this is over and we emerge from our homes, we’ll have the opportunity to appreciate each other, marvel in our differences instead of rankle against them. The virus doesn’t give a damn about your gender, color, pocketbook—and neither should any of us.

We are mighty. We shake the earth. Yet we can be decimated not by a microscopic bug but by our willful ignorance and denial. I fear for my parents and parents’ in law, as well as my aunts and uncle. Friends and coworkers. My bubble reverberates with the sounds and demands of my day job—but my loved ones are the stars that light my universe.

Let’s be smart. See this through to the end, the right way, the smart way, so the stars in our skies don’t go out before their time.

Countdown to Launch

My book release is tomorrow, and the range of emotions is beyond my expectation. Words I typed on my Surface—in my home office, on airplanes, and in hotel rooms, ideas snatched while walking to work, sitting in a car, lying in bed—were edited, scrutinized, deleted, re-written, moved, and debated. Over time, they created the story I wanted to tell, creating an elusive, intangible thing: a work of art. A cohesive whole that takes readers on a journey, that hopefully evokes excitement and emotions and wonder. After more edits and packaging and strategizing, it is now going out into the world.

I’m scared it will do horribly. I don’t know if people will enjoy it, if the positive trend its been experiencing will continue. Of course, the coronavirus crisis has interfered with marketing and book signing plans, which makes it even more challenging. While I think The Price of Safety will do well, there are so many factors that can make or break its success. (Quick side note: do you know how Tom Clancy made it big? Back in the 1980s, President Reagan was asked at a random press conference what book he was reading. He responded that he was reading a “clever” novel no one had heard of called The Hunt for Red October. Boom, Clancy was on his way. A different week could’ve produced a different answer, launching someone else’s career instead.)

I’ve already benefited from my efforts. I’ve received some great reviews so far, and I have over 1,000 people who have requested The Price of Safety in the Goodreads giveaway (with well over 900 of them adding my book to their “To Read” list).

It’s more than that, though. The encouragement and excitement of my friends and family have been worth more than anything. And I’ve received the same reaction from associates, strangers, people who have no reason to say anything encouraging or positive.

I don’t say this to toot my horn. I’m sharing what I’m going through so you can experience it as well. It isn’t all positive. My PR firm was turned down by four different L.A. stores for readings before the coronavirus was on anyone’s radar.  I’m sure I will get negative book reviews. That’s the risk and frustration of art: no two people look at it the same, and while someone will love the story, someone else will loathe it. I’m sure you could pick any classic piece of literature, from Shakespeare to Hemingway to Fitzgerald, and someone has trashed it.

At times, I’m amazed I created this story. Maybe it’s like childbirth, where the details fade over time, and while yeah you know the logistics, the actual emotions and physical feelings are hazy. (And yes, I compared writing to childbirth. At times it can be painful, scary, and you shit yourself a little.) But while I’m amazed at what I’ve created, at the same time I see flaws in the novel. Areas I could’ve done better.

That’s the challenge. Something I really care about, that I created with love and hope and effort, may never be good enough, even when it becomes magical. And yes, in a way it is magical because holy crap, I made this thing. And like a child, I am now sending it out for others to experience for better or worse.

Whatever happens, I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. I’ve been writing a long time. I can’t count the number of days, weeks, years I’ve spent creating, honing, struggling to improve my skills. To make something good enough. Maybe this novel will fall short…though I don’t think so. The Price of Safety is the accumulation of not only three years of work—creating, writing, editing—but twenty years of effort.

I hope my child succeeds in the world, that its voice sings. I know I’m biased, but I think it’s beautiful.

Freak-out in Aisle 3

The coronavirus outbreak has turned me introspective. Maybe it’s because I think along dystopian and global-threat-possibility lines. Or maybe I’ve been consuming too many Pop-Tarts, frozen pizza, and Diet Mountain Dew to think normally.

Is there some higher power or master plan to all of this? If so, is He/She/They doing this to test each generation? To harden them? Or instead, is this just life and all of the threats, varieties, and unexpected events that can occur at any moment? From asteroids to war and every other danger to our existence, we must always be aware of what can scar or end our lives.

Yet we can’t live in constant fear.

I’m saying this to myself as much as to you. I have both extrovert and introvert elements. At times I love being with friends and meeting new people, while other times I’m happy being alone. So I can handle staying at home for weeks better than many—but I almost lost it at CostCo.

My first time out after being home for a week, my wife was comfortable to explore the aisles, checking the ground beef and picking a pork roast. I quickly scanned the aisles—I’m always a fast shopper, pick what I want, maybe with a little regret later but for the most part solid with my choices—and wanted to keep moving. But Janelle was still looking. She had come to grips with the threat and adjusted to the new world, so she didn’t have a problem. Yet I did. I started to distrust everyone. They could be infected. They could be ignoring their symptoms or didn’t even know they were carriers. One came close. I changed places but another walked too near as they passed. A third reached across my cart to grab something off of a shelf. I needed to move. Struggling against my urge to run the hell out of there, I went to Janelle who instantly noticed something was wrong and told me to go to the car. I did and used the next twenty minutes to find myself again, the rational, level-headed man I depended on to navigate this ever-shifting world (one that had now taken “shifting” to a whole new level).

I need to be strong. We need to be strong—and resilient and smart. We will get back to normal, though that normal will be different. Like after the Great Recession, 9/11, and other milestones, that normal will be tainted, more uncertain, dangerous in a way. Our myth of protection and safety is just that: a myth. Hell, we’re all on a tiny marble of a planet in a vast, cold universe. Safety is fleeting, as are our lives   But we’ve shown we’re more resilient than anyone would’ve ever given us credit for. The fact that we can outrun any other creatures over long distances isn’t the reason we’ve risen to the top of the food chain. It’s because we’re hardier and too damn stubborn to fail as a species.

To Dystope or Not to Dystope

The global sweep of the coronavirus has been a siren call for dystopian writers. We’ve thought about dozens of ways the world would end, how we would react, and whether society would stand or fall. I’m not saying the spread of the coronavirus will cause any of that to happen. I’m saying that the virus, and our reaction to it, is a reminder that the beautiful, flawed, complex society we’ve built is resilient and powerful—but not invincible.

Everyone acts in a manner they believe is smart, effective, and (for the most part) helps more than harms. If they operate on flawed information, though, their efforts won’t help. I read an email that said gargling warm water would fight the virus. Anyone who believes that, though, is fooling themselves.

The virus threatens not only lives but livelihoods, relationships, and trust in what we’ve built. This is a time where leaders should step up in a way that best helps everyone without fear of politics or perception. If responded to quickly, this threat will recede quickly.

It may already be too late, though. Thousands may die, with many more hurt both physically and/or financially.

Speaking of being hurt, I’m concerned this virus may permanently scar us. Future events where we gather—concerts and football games, churches and rallies and Broadway shows—may become tainted with memories of this time, making people become withdrawn and suspicious. I was watching a taped recording of The Voice and flinched when I saw the stands filled with people clapping and cheering. Humans are social creatures. Taking away shared experiences could give rise to more xenophobia, to hatred and paranoia—and depression. There is already concern of the toll our battle against the coronavirus will take on those who already struggle with depression.

Just as those with physical disabilities need help, so do those with mental and psychological challenges. We’re supposed to limit our proximity to each other, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be there. Reach out not only to those who are struggling but to the people who occupy your life. Not only will you help them, you’ll give yourself strength.

Dystopian writers try to depict the end of the world, but one of the biggest challenges is to do this without losing sight of those living in that world. Many times, the story seems too big to focus on the flawed, petty, well-meaning creatures who experience the end. But characters are how we as readers relate to that world—and people are what make life worth living. Don’t lose sight of those who occupy your life. Help out when you can. Support our leaders. Listen to medical and scientific experts—and do what they say. Most importantly, remember that we are in this together. If we are smart, diligent, and determined, we will get through this. And who knows? We might get some really good dystopian stories out of this….but hopefully none about deadly viruses. I think we’ve had our fill.

You Must Choose Wisely

I faced a challenge this weekend.

I was granted two days to work on whatever I needed. Other than sleep, bathing (a necessity), taking the dog out periodically (also a necessity), and eating, I had the weekend to focus on anything I wanted.

The possibilities were…well not endless. We’re talking about twenty-six total hours, and I’m a guy with no superpowers. So the possibilities were limited, though compared to weekends when we’re flying to other cities, or I’m doing work around the house, it was a luxury of time.

I could’ve used the time to bing-watch the new season of Altered Carbon, enjoyed a Star Wars marathon (which it wouldn’t be my first time), read one of the dozen books that sit waiting for my attention, explore Denver, find a new favorite bourbon (dangerous), or I could work on my writing.

For those who know me, you know what I chose: writing. Even a beautiful, 60-plus-degree day couldn’t lure me away from the keyboard.

I faced a more unique challenge that I have had in the past, however: what, exactly to focus on.

My debut novel, The Price of Safety, is obviously done, set, cast in stone and at the printers. Yet…there is more to contribute. Like a needy child that keeps needing to be fed or changed or whatever, there are always things to do for my novel: twitter things to tweet, pictures to Insta, comments to post, etc. I have a couple of interviews already lined up—Citywide Blackout/Boston Radio and Golden State Media Concepts Book Review—so I need to prepare for those as well.

Or…

I’ve been mapping out the sequel to The Price of Safety for over a year. I started writing the rough draft a week ago of what looks like will be a longer book than the first, as I have a ton of twists, turns, developments, new characters, greater stakes, and action scenes.

Market my debut novel. Or work on the sequel.

It is now about 9:00 Sunday night. My fingers are tired and the dog is exhausted. But I’m happy to report that I’ve written about 14,000 words of the sequel over the past couple of days.

This is a challenge of being a writer. Few of us can solely support ourselves with our writing. Our hopes are that one day, we’ll be able to, but until then, we have to steal time to write whenever we can: on our commutes to work, late at night, and in boring meetings where we jot down thoughts about our characters’ primary motivation instead of notes about our employer’s quarterly earnings. (Or so I hear.)

So for me, when I get a chunk of time to focus on an aspect of my craft, I’ll take writing over marketing anytime. I get into a groove, a rhythm, the words stronger, the prose sharper. I’ll fall back to promoting The Price of Safety tomorrow or the next day. But for now, I’ll enjoy the work I’ve done advancing the story of Dray, Raven, Jex, and our other freedom fighters in their epic quest to save our future.

Liquid Hazy Dreams

I never expected my bachelor party would be a learning experience, but it was. I don’t mean the kind that an attorney could’ve conveyed without you being behind bars. I mean learning about that nectar of the gods: bourbon.

The eight of us traveled in a stretch limo through the beautiful state of Kentucky on a pre-planned route to various distilleries. I was glad it was pre-planned, because we quickly lost the ability to make decisions. But over those two booze-filled, uproarious days, I garnered an even greater appreciation of the alcohol that is so good, angels are known to take their share.

Bourbon doesn’t have to be made in Kentucky. The golden-brown liquor can be made elsewhere and still be considered bourbon (and there are solid choices made outside of the bluegrass state). However, the original distillers chose Kentucky because of the sweet water found in that state, along with its abundance of American Oak. For a liquor to be classified as bourbon, it must be made of at least 51% corn (the other ingredients are malted barley and either rye or wheat), and must be aged in charred oak barrels. You must use American white oak, and the barrel can only be used once.

Quick side note: during our tour—we visited nine distilleries in two days—I heard different stories about how distillers first discovered to char their barrels. At Heaven Hills Distilleries, we were told that Elijah Craig, one of the original makers of bourbon, suffered a fire at his facility. As he didn’t have the money to replace his barrels, he used the ones that survived the fire, which were charred. This led to his discovery of how to make bourbon.

That could be a lie. No one really knows how distillers first learned they needed to char their barrels, but however they did it, they created something amazing.

I’ve listed some of my favorites below. This isn’t a comprehensive list; rather, these are the bourbons I keep in stock at all times:

Angel’s Envy. Created by Lincoln Henderson, the initial inductee into the Bourbon Hall of Fame, Angel’s Envy is aged at least four years. For the last six months, the bourbon is placed in barrels that had been used to age port wine. It adds a level of taste that is out of this world. To me, it also smooths out the bourbon and adds a hint of sweetness. My all-time favorite. (It also helps that I knew the president of the company of Angel’s Envy before they sold the business to Bacardi, and I met Mr. Henderson before he passed away.)

Angel’s Envy Rye. Also created by Mr. Henderson. This is a rye whiskey that, for the last six months, is aged in Jamaican rum barrels. This is a bold liquor with amazing complexity. This is my celebration drink, the one I just sip, never mix. It’s a show stopper. (Yes, technically rye whiskey isn’t bourbon. I’m a rebel.)

Woodford Reserve. Also created by Mr. Henderson, this is one of the most popular, most solid bourbons out there. Smooth, robust, it stands on its own or in a Manhattan. It’s a must-have on everyone’s list.

Rowan’s Creek. A product of Willett Distillery, this is a lesser-known brand but is a delicious, complex bourbon. Another one of my favorites. (It helps that we hung out with the master distiller. That guy can drink.)

Basil Hayden. This bourbon is growing in popularity. I’ve seen it at more and more bars over the past 3-4 years. They’ve also released a Basil Hayden Dark, which is a more complex, higher-alcohol-content choice. Both are really good, although not as smooth as the ones above.

Very Old Barton. This is my secret brand. We discovered it during our tour, and it is a solid, tasty bourbon. The crazy thing is it generally runs for $20 or less per bottle, yet it stands up with the others on this list. The only challenge is finding it. They have a limited distributorship, which may explain the lower price point. If you can find it, get it…and let me know where you bought it.

Templeton Rye. Also not technically a bourbon, Templeton is one of the biggest names in rye. Based in Iowa, the company makes a solid, well-made rye that all others (except Angels Envy Rye) strives to conquer.

Bulleit. A great, solid bourbon, it is a close second in popularity after Woodford Reserve. They are similar, although to me Woodford is just slightly smoother and tastier. That isn’t a knock against Bulleit, it’s simply a personal preference. Either is great.

There are hundreds of other bourbons I haven’t mentioned, but this list wasn’t meant to be comprehensive. I haven’t even mentioned the additional options within each brand: the Woodford Reserve Double Oak, the Bulleit 10-year, etc. I’ll leave that to you to find, compare, and decide. Regardless of what you choose, I doubt you will go wrong. That doesn’t mean there aren’t bad bourbons out there, although it’s kind of like sex. Even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. So raise a glass and enjoy that sweet, sweet nectar. You won’t regret it.

Let me know your favorites below—and your secret bourbons.

I see ... a PR firm

I hired a public relations firm.

While my publisher will provide some PR for The Price of Safety, they have many authors and, to be honest, unless my name is Stephen King, or JK Rowling, I’m mainly on my own. That’s the state of publishing nowadays. (A seven-time-published author informed me that his publisher, Random House, doesn’t do any marketing or PR for him.)

After I decided to hire a PR firm, I asked an author friend for a recommendation. To protect me from lawsuits, I will call the firm he recommended “David Smith Agency”. I looked them up and found them with only a little difficulty. Per their website, David had been a publicist for eons, having been the head of PR for a three-letter media company before starting his firm. They provide marketing/PR for books, movies, and TV, have quotes from various clients, a long list of media companies they work with, etc. It looked great. So, I emailed David, told him my friend (let’s call him Jack) recommended me, and a few days later we talked.

I had a list of questions and a bundle of excitement.

David was…tepid. Distracted. Borderline disinterested. I wondered if I’d woken him from a nap. Whatever was going on, it surprised me. I know I was an unknown—but I was a potential client. And he knew Jack! (On that note, when David and I first got on the phone, he asked, “Who did you say recommended you?” When I said Jack’s name, there was a confused grunt of an answer. I later learned why.)

After the call, my bundle had wilted. But the guy was connected, said he was going to send me his “new author packet”, and we would talk again.

PR firms can run from $3,000 to over $20,000 for 3-6 month contracts. His packet, a 3-month service, was on the very low end. We talked again, and while he sounded slightly less sleepy, it still wasn’t to a level anyone would describe as “enthusiastic”. He did say he really liked my story idea and asked for a copy, but after that phone call, my concern grew.

It was almost a month before I heard from him again. When I did, it was in the form of a contract he emailed me. As I replayed our conversations, I became uneasy. This guy seemed to have the skills and connections I needed, and he came recommended. But something wasn’t right.

I searched for top PR firms for authors. After some research and a few emails, I had a call with Marissa, the president of JKS Communications (now Books Forward). Holy positive experience, Batman. Marissa was engaged, upbeat, and interested in me and my novel. She’d researched my website, read the blurb about The Price of Safety, asked me questions about my motivations, influences, interests, suggested ways to publicize the novel—and then later in the conversation added suggestions based on what she’d asked at the beginning of the call.

I’m not oblivious. She was trying to convince me to use her firm. But she sold me. David didn’t. If he couldn’t try hard enough to act interested to someone who might pay him, how would he act when he represented me and my novel? JKS was more professional, more comprehensive, and seemed a better fit. They were more expensive than David, so it was a bigger commitment. I would be relying almost solely on them to get The Price of Safety into people’s minds.

Giving him one more chance, I searched David’s firm online, digging deeper…and noticed how hard it was to find anything about his firm. There was one article from 2012 or 2013. That was it. Seriously? A PR firm that doesn’t promote itself? I then found a second article, but it was about the passing of one of his people. I pulled up his website and googled the individuals listed in the “Meet the Team” section. After David, his number two guy was the one who passed away. Over five years ago. The #3 person in his company passed away last year.

David had dead people on his webpage.

After I discovered this, I signed the contract with Books Forward.

I emailed David to thank him for his offer but I was going with another firm. His response was terse: “Thanks for wasting our time.”

I let Jack know what happened. He was stunned—and before I finished my story, he told me to use someone else. He hadn’t actually worked with David, but he’d been approached by him regarding Jack’s own book. He had no prior experience with David—and wasn’t going to now.

As far as Books Forward? While we’re just four weeks in, I couldn’t be happier. Not only do they have a great plan cued up, Jackie (my publicist) has been enthusiastic, professional, and fun to work with. I cannot wait for the results.

Best of all? No dead people on their website.

A man and his toolbox

Mr. Handyman I am not. I can’t build a structure, don’t know how to wire a house, and I am not a plumber (nor do I want to—plumbing is the dentistry of construction). But I can fix minor things, and I can also paint and change light switches and install ceiling fans.

About that last one…

I have a rental unit. It’s not super fancy, but it’s relatively new, and our renters like it. They asked me recently if they “could get ceiling fans installed in the two bedrooms”, which after I agreed to, I realized meant I would need to install them.

I wasn’t thrilled but not worried. Years ago, I owned a house where I installed six ceiling fans. OK yes, as I type that sentence, I realize it sounds excessive. Maybe it was. But the point is I’ve done it before, with few difficulties.

After buying two ceiling fans, I drove to the rental Saturday morning, figuring it would take a couple of hours. Maybe a little over an hour for the first fan, but the second would go quicker because I’d get a feel for how the manufacturer planned out their screws, wires, brace, etc.

Standing on my renter’s bed, I removed the ceiling light. It took a little effort to remove the screw that held the light fixture in place…the one screw. Not two. Which was a problem, as I couldn’t just rely on one screw to hold the weight of the ceiling fan. Grumbling that the builder had been too cheap to splurge for a second damn screw, I drove home, grabbed my entire tool box, made sure I had the right screws, and returned to the rental.

I climbed on the bed, screwed one of my new screws into the mounting bracket—and the screw stopped turning. It was too long. The junction box (or ceiling junction or light-fixture-thingamabob, whatever the hell the thing’s called) was too short. It was only an inch or so in depth (height?). So now I had to go to the hardware store.

Forty minutes later, I was back with screws of three different lengths as well as washers to give the mounting bracket additional support. The first screw I selected worked: not only was it the perfect length, it went right in. I was in business! I then screwed in the second one and proceeded to assemble the various fan components—fan motor, light-fixture, fan blades. After that, I hooked up the completed fan to the wires in the ceiling, carefully following the instructions.

Side note: yes I switched off the breakers. As I mentioned, I’ve done this many times before. It’s a hassle, but I had this.

I thought I did.

With the ceiling fan assembled, I jumped off the bed, went down to the garage, switched the breaker, returned to the bedroom, flipped the switch, and the light went on. Success! I pulled the chain to turn on the fan…

And nothing.

Keep in mind that my rental is a townhome, which means traversing two flights of stairs every time I have to flip the circuit breaker—but that’s better than being electrocuted.

I checked the fan’s installation manual, went down, turned off the breaker, climbed back up, undid the cover, checked the wiring and made sure everything was wired correctly, then went back down two flights to turn on the breaker, climbed back up, and hit the switch.

All I got was a low hum that lasted for about a second and a half, then nothing. No refreshing breeze, no elation of a job well done.

I spent the next god-knows how long going back and forth to the garage and back to the second-story bedroom, fiddling with wires, reconnecting the connections, yanking on the fan’s chain, and cursing out the manufacturer. Nothing changed,

For my afternoon’s efforts, apparently all I did was replace the original light fixture for a larger one accented with decorative, non-moving fan blades.

My renter came home from running errands to find me frustrated and dejected. I had three choices: I could keep fiddling with the fan; I could take down the entire thing, disassemble it, return it to Home Depot for another one (as I suspected the fan might be defective) and install the new one; or I could punt.

I would like to say I spent the rest of the day fixing this vexing problem, possibly toiling well into the night so my renter could enjoy a soft, cooling breeze as she slept. Instead, I looked up the name of a handyman, gave her the number, and told her I’d pay his bill.

I’m not proud. I like to think I’m the type of person who finishes any job he starts. I mean, I did in a way. The fan is installed, the light works, and I cleaned up my mess. And it would’ve been a job well done if my renter never wanted to use the actual, you know, fan.

But yeah, I failed.

So now I’m crossing off “installing a ceiling fan” from my mental list of jobs I can perform. Maybe the fan is defective, and I didn’t do anything wrong. But I am going to pretend this day didn’t happen and drown my sorrows with some Angels Envy.

I hope your day was much better, and more productive, than mine.

As always, please comment below. (Go ahead with the derision and snide comments. I deserve them.) Until next time!

Drones freak me out now

Hello all! Some of you know me from Bookpod, some from the restraining orders you’ve filed against me, and some from your wildest dreams.

(Sorry for ruining those dreams, by the way. I don’t know how I got in there.)

Jokes aside, I wanted to share something with you.

A friend of mine forwarded a video showing how drones can be used to assassinate people, take out villages, even a city if so desired, all with a few clicks of the button. It was all hypothetical, but it was no less real. The technology is there. They just have to be built.

https://youtu.be/9CO6M2HsoIA

The world is a fantastic, wonderful place—but it’s also scary as all hell.

I shared the video because it connects to the book I wrote, The Price of Safety. I wasn’t planning to bring up the book in just my second post, but again, why else should you care about my blog, right? Besides, the video is timely, fascinating, and really shows what our future could be like.

I didn’t share it to scare you. I think being forewarned is huge. It’s a way for people to know what to expect, what to try to stop, and what to embrace. I leave the choice up to you.

In the meantime, OK yes, let me give a quick pitch of my novel:

By 2047, no crime in America goes unsolved. No wrongdoing goes unseen.

When Dray Quintero learns his nineteen-year-old daughter Raven committed a heinous act, he covers it up to save her life. This pits him against the police he’s respected since he was a child and places him in the crosshairs of Kieran, a ruthless federal Agent. To survive, Dray must overcome the surveillance system he helped build and the technology implanted in people’s heads, for everyone has a microcomputer in their brains and computer-screen lenses in their eyes.

Forced to turn to a domestic terrorist group to protect his family—as they’re the only ones willing to fight the government—Dray tries to resist joining their cause but can’t avoid it, for his adversaries have a level of control he’s unable to escape. That no one can escape.

Hunted and betrayed, with time running out, Dray must choose between saving Raven and dismantling the near-perfect society he helped create.

The novel will be the first in a trilogy. I’m working on the sequel now (well not right now. I’m writing to you instead. I’ll get back to Book 2 soon.). I wrote The Price of Safety over the course of three years. What almost mystifies me is it seems more timely than ever, not only in the technology but the tone of the country, the distrust and angst and feelings that have dominated our country. However, the book focuses on universal themes. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, American or German or Nigerian, old or young, etc. I truly believe everyone will be able to relate to the story. And maybe be touched by it.

Let me know what you think! Until next time, my friend.