Book Reviews For Shroud Magazine

I am going to be writing book reviews for Shroud Magazine. I will also be posting the reviews here -- allowing for a little extra exposure for the talented authors.

My first post ....

Title: Hiram Grange: The Chosen One
Author: Kevin Lucia
Publisher: Shroud Publishing
Release Date: June 2001
ISBN: 978-0982727508
Price: $7.99
Pages: 165
Format : Trade Paperback

The sad thing about having read the novella, The Scandalous Misadventures of Hiram Grange: The Chosen One, is that I did not read the previous three books in the series. I love that it is a stand-alone story, however, now I am itching to read the rest!

In Kevin Lucia’s debut novella, we find ourselves immediately immersed in a world of black magic, demons and fairies. We learn it’s all about balance. Without it, nothing works. Unfortunately for Hiram, he is the man tasked with the unearthly job of ensuring balance ensues.

When treacherous beasts are summoned, the fate of six women is at stake. Hiram must find the talisman housing the monsters and destroy, or find the one doing the summoning—and destroy him. Worse case, he must kill the one woman destined to replace Queen Mab when the time is right, or – the alternative – she will destroy the world.

With non-stop, page-turning, giddy-up-and-go action, Lucia uses the taut confines of a novella to unfurl, with dead-accuracy, a story that can’t help but pull the reader in, shake him up, spin him around, and toss him here and there until the explosive – and unexpected ending.

Because of Lucia’s story telling skills, I am forced, no-no, compelled to go back and read the others in the series!

And as a side note, while I could not find any mention of an artist responsible for the cover, or the illustrations throughout, I cannot, in good conscience, let such wonderful talent go unrecognized. The book cover, and illustrations are simply spectacular.

I look forward to more Hiram Grange, and will most definitely be looking forward to more work by Kevin Lucia! His novella has allowed for an impressive way to crash onto the scene of horror writers!

--Thomas Phillips, author of The Molech Prophecy

I Don’t Have Time for Patience

This particular blog seems entirely relevant as I impatiently wait to hear from the City of Rochester on a potential new position working as a 911 Dispatch Operator...

“But when the Holy Spirit controls our lives, he will produce this kind of fruit in us: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,” Galatians 5:22 NIV

Having patience is easier said than done. I don’t know how many times I’ve become impatient waiting for a bag of popcorn to pop in the microwave. Or during the times when I’ve pulled up to order at a drive-thru only to become impatient sitting for at least a full minute at the pick-up window waiting to pay for and collect up my food.

Ever feel impatient while driving? I get that way all the time. There’s been a few times (ah-hmm), when I’ve felt almost trapped behind some car traveling at some speed that has to be below the limit. So what do I do? I pass him. Then while stopped at the next red light what do I see in my rear view mirror? It’s the guy I just passed pulling up behind me. He looks calm (and smug), while I have a white knuckle-grip on the steering wheel waiting for the horrendously long lasting red light to turn green.

I love all aspects of the life of David. As a young, lowly shepherd, Samuel told David that he would be the next King. Over the years he became best friend’s with the king’s son, and was welcomed into the king’s home as if he were family. Of course as the Lord blessed David, the young shepherd continually did amazing things. As he earned the respect and love of the people, Saul, the king, became increasingly jealous. Eventually Saul decided that he had to kill David, despite the fact that David had been nothing but loyal to Saul and the people.

When David realized he was a marked man, he and a handful of allied troops fled the land and hid, holed up in a cave. One day, Saul, tracking David with an entire army, came to rest just outside the particular cave where David and his men were hiding.

Needing to use the “facilities” (go to the bathroom), Saul entered the cave alone. David’s troops told him that God had brought Saul, and placed him in a most vulnerable position, and that David should take advantage of the situation and kill Saul.

Obviously killing Saul would solve David’s immediate problem of being hunted down by the king and his army, but instead, David let Saul go. David knew that when God’s time was right, even though years had passed, he would one day be king as God promised. He just needed to be patient. And patient he was. And eventually, David became king.

The Bible says that as Christians we are to be patient (2 Timothy 2:24; 1 Thessalonians 5:14; James 5:7-8; Romans 2:7). Why do you think learning to have patience is so important? I think one reason might be because God works using His own timetable. Not mine. (2 Peter 3:8-9). And if I really think about it, it’s only fair considering how patient God has been with me.

Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy

Is The Payoff Worth The Gamble

“If you try to keep your life for yourself, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake and for the sake of the Good News, you will find true life.” Mark 8:35

If we played the word-association game, what would your first thought be if I said, “Gamble?”

I admit, more than a single-associated thought pops into my mind.

When I see or hear the word gamble, my head fills with a flood of images—very defined images. I see shiny red and white dotted dice bouncing along a decorated green felt table. I hear the clickity-clack of a spinning, checkered black and red roulette wheel. I see a deck of playing cards being expertly cut and shuffled. I can feel the growing sound of thunder as the pounding hoofs of horses round the last leg of a race, as kicked up clouds of dirt linger along the trail. To top it off, all these images I visualize behind flashing Vegas-style neon lights.

Okay, I have a bit of an over-active imagination, but I’d be willing to bet (no pun intended) many of the things I described above are similar to thoughts that pop into your mind when you hear and see the word, “Gamble.”

Believe it or not, whether we realize it or not, we gamble every day. We gamble with our lives when we get into a car; we gamble with our health when deciding what food to eat; and we gamble with our spirituality when we choose a certain way to live our lives.

Many years back I worked as a freelance writer for a local paper. I covered human-interest stories throughout Rochester. I loved meeting and interviewing interesting and intriguing people.

One night I covered an event at a party house where volunteer firefighters were being specially recognized for achievements throughout that year. I listened to one particular captain talk about a fireman under his command. Without using a lot of adjectives to try and make his story more interesting, he spoke in a simple, matter-of-fact way, which I believe had an effect bringing the rendition to life.

Goosebumps scaled my arms as I listened to the details of a dangerous rescue. That winter a child had fallen into a body of icy water and went under. The first volunteer fireman on the scene dove into the water, searching for the child. The temperature outside was frigid, but the temperature of the water was deadly. The fireman was in just as much danger of drowning as the boy he hoped to recover. After a seemingly impossible amount of time had passed, the fireman swam to the surface, the unconscious boy in his arms. After performing CPR and other life-saving techniques, the boy regained consciousness and lived.

When the captain called front-and-center the fireman up for this courageous award, I was a taken aback because I not only knew the man, but worked with him as well. He was an attorney-by-day at Kodak. Never in all of our dealings together did he once mention that he was a volunteer fireman. Never once did he mention that he had saved a child from drowning.

Mark 8:35 talks about the risk of only living for oneself. The rewards from God come when we deny self, pick up our cross and follow Him. Living for others, serving others, helping others is clearly Jesus’ reoccurring theme throughout the Gospels and the New Testament. Don’t misunderstand me, good works will not get you into heaven, if that were the case, then Jesus’ death on the cross was pointless. (Salvation is a free gift to those who accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior and invite Him in to their hearts, to be the center of their life). But as a Christian we should want to live our lives doing for the benefit of others.

I am not a volunteer fireman, but metaphorically speaking, I do know many people who are drowning in some pretty icy water. The question I often ask myself is, will I just stand where it is safe with the rest of the onlookers—hoping help will arrive in time, or like my friend the attorney/fireman, will I dive in and attempt to make a difference . . . one person at a time?

Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy

Inspiration Comes From Living II: Outsider Looking In

Lions and Elephants and Jacka--Donkeys, oh my!

Yesterday evening a friend asked if I wanted to attend a party. The Admiral was running for Rochester City Council, again. Votes would be in around nine. And the campaign people, and supporters were huddled away ... no, not in Rochester, but in a close friend's beautiful condo in Brighton.

I'm not political, don't follow politics. I vote on school budgets, and for presidents. I'm Conservative. But this blog, it's not really about politics. Sides. It's not about Democrats and Republicans. It's about Observing and Reporting, as if I were a security guard.

I'd never been to one of these...parties. Seen them in movies. Most memorable was Primary Colors, where John Travolta portrayed Governor Jack Stanton -- who bore a considerable resemblance to the legendary Bill Clinton. So, going in, I had some idea what to expect.

I thought.

Walking up to the condo, I was introduced to a handful of people who stood outside on the stoop. It's a condo. Wouldn't call it a stoop. I am, though. It works. My friend told people who I was and that I was a professional writer. Not to be confused with just any old writer. But a professional. Hard not to stand a little straighter after an intro like that.

"Are you with the D&C?" I was asked.

Shook my head. Felt my shoulders lower some.

"What paper?" Someone else asked.

"I, um, write thrillers. Fiction."

The glow and gleam in their eyes glazed over to dull, lifeless marbles. Deflated, I shrugged. "But, I was brought here tonight to blog about the experience." Clearly unimpressed with the credentials of a fiction writer, I made a last ditch effort to maintain some of that "professional writer" status. "But I'm here to blog about the experience!" The second time I said it was as impressive as the first, apparently.

One lady clutched her wine glass with two hands, and smiled. "Oh, how nice."

Felt like I'd just handed her a torn page from a coloring book, and she now felt obligated to stick it on her 'fridge with a watermelon magnet.

I pressed on. Ignoring myself. Blog? Did I really tell these people I was going to blog about the experience? The word alone sounds so, so, so uncouth. Go ahead. Say it out loud. Blog...It's like an onomatopoeia for puking. Great.

Inside the condo, thankfully, I was shown around. Faced more introductions, but missed names, while I concentrated more on not using the word blog, possibly ever again. At first I'd wished I'd brought a pen and pad to capture everything fresh, as it happened. Good thing I hadn't. I would have had to explain what I was doing over and over, no doubt. Of course, knowing me, I'd of stayed away from telling people I was blogging, and would have simply lied. Made up some paper I was covering the story for. Like Fletch. Would have been easier. And funnier.

"Who are you?"

"I.M. Fletch Fletcher. Never Irwin. I write a column under Jane Doe. Maybe you've heard of it?"

"Who are you, again?"

"Dr. Rosenpenis."

"Who?"

"Dr. Rosenrosen."

"Dr. who?"

"Dr. Rosen. Where's the records room?"

Ah, but I digress . . .

Okay. So, then I met The Admiral. I put it in italics for effect. Want you to feel the intimidation I felt. I'm only 5'8". The Admiral, was a towering 4'something", but power didn't come from her stature. No. I learned that right away as I shook her hand and wished her luck. The power shot from her eyes. She wore glasses low on her nose, I assumed, on purpose. This allowed her to look up over the frames and at you. Into you. Through you.

In the living room and dining area were two groups of people. Each group hoovered over a person whose sole job was to man a laptop. The city website provided up-to-the-second results from polling booths. The laptop operator thumbed the Refresh Page button with casual vigor, like that kid at the skating rinks who never skated, but dropped an endless supply of quarters into a Galaga arcade game and thumbed through level after level, and, of course, slapped in initials for all the high scores at the end of each game.

Turns out, the guy in the dining area was the Admiral's son, Mitch Rowe. He had more responsibility than I'd first realized. He was the Admiral's campaign manager. And an apparent Blazing Saddles fanatic. I caught at least two regurgitation's of movie lines (his thumb never stopped hitting Refresh, as he offered them up, either. Talk about multi-tasking). The lady in the living room was the Admiral's daughter, Vickey Wehbring. Poised. Elegantly dressed. But very, very serious about hitting the Refresh button ahead of her brother, and shouting updates from room to room. That split second lead, I could tell, gave her an edge she was not easily willing to relinquish.

Thankfully, Abby, my friend--although still introducing me as a writer (which at some point, the professional aspect was dropped from her vocabulary)--refrained from mentioning I'm Republican, but, however, insisted on calling me a newbie.

The Admiral promised she'd be gentle with me because of this newbie status. And for a brief moment, I felt calm and at ease. (No military pun intended ... or was it).

Unfortunately, the race was not that intense. Carolee Conklin (a.k.a. The Admiral), was in second from the moment we walked in. With a nice, cushy lead, to boot. (To boot? Who says that? Aside from me. Just now.)

However, this lead allowed for a good-natured, light and free atmosphere. Jokes flew. I caught a few. Can't repeat them. Not without blushing, or washing my mouth out with soap. (Or, since I'm typing, without washing my hands. But that's not a bad thing, hand-washing. Not with swine flu running amok, now is it?)

Turns out, aside from his elected position as City Clerk, Dan Karin moonlights as a stand-up comedian. You can catch him on weekends at Daisy Dukes in Webster. He wears a disguise and uses a different name. Protect the innocent and all that. From me, he gets props.

When the General of the Army from the board game Stratego walked in, I had to do a double take. I didn't realize the board game was based on actual characters. Turns out I was wrong. It wasn't the General of the Army, but Chief of Staff for Council--Bill Sullivan. Whew. I was somewhat relieved. If the actual General of the Army was really out on the streets, that meant so were the no-rank spies. And that would just be creepy!

In the kitchen, I met Dan Greene. He was running for Sheriff, something or other. Luckily, he didn't come alone. He had a bodyguard. Tough looking guy, dressed in black. I felt safe, despite being Republican in a condo surrounded by Democrats. They were also with a woman. Don't know who she was. No introductions were made. I did tell her, however, that the finger foods she'd been munching on, were made by me. She lit up. Told me they were wonderful. Of course, feeling guilty for having lied, I explained that I did not make them, and that in fact, I could not cook at all. She told me she absolutely believed I had made the food, and that I had a career in politics. It's something to think about.

No real surprise, Carolee Conklin won. Again.

A real reporter called, already asking for a real interview. Which made me feel like a real fraud.

Regardless, a convoy was assembled outside. Matthew's on East Avenue was the party-to-be destination.

It is both important and relevant at this point in the story to point out that Abby recently (like last week) underwent major back surgery. She wore a steel-plated brace, like a chastity belt that didn't quite cover what needed covering. Made me think of that scene in Space Balls. But that's neither here nor there.

Why is this important? Because I went from...professional Blogger, er, um, writer, to personal body guard. Had no idea all the Democrats in the city, all 55 of them, were going to be at this downtown bar. (Was that a dig I just made? Um-yepper. It was. Sorry. Couldn't resist). The hugs, and handshakes, the hoots and hollering every time someone new walked in the door made anyone, everyone feel special. Even me. And you can't beat being made to feel special. Can you? Maybe. I'll think about it.

I did my best to stand behind Abby as politicians and friends banged their way through the crowd to race toward the back room at Marshall's where news stations (more professional journalists) had photo journalists covering the results-in, and interviewed the candidates. I may have stumbled in the line of fire on accident, or purpose a few times. Would have mouthed the words "Hi, Mom" but that would have been plain silly. And this was a serious occasion. Silly would have been uncalled for.

Regardless of my attempts to have my friend's back--literally--it was Mitch, Abby's brother who got past my defensive position. I saw him get down in a three-point stand. See, Mitch played football. Once a football player, always one, I suppose. Someone said, "On two." I heard, "Hut, Hut." And Mitch sprang up. Arms shot out. Wrapped his sister tight. Maybe he was celebrating their mother's victory. I'm not sure. I thought I saw Mayor Duffy drop back and throw something across the length of the bar. It was late. I might just have been seeing things. Who knows for sure? Not this blogger.

All in all, a good experience. I ended the night hitting the drive-thru at Taco Bell. Add a little indigestion in for good measure.

And, oh, by the way? I charged it all to Mr. Underhill's credit card ...

Thomas Phillips
Author of the suspense novel, The Molech Prophecy

Little Girl Lost: A Ghost Named Jenny

I remember after spending a year at SUNY Brockport, that I'd taken an English essay writing class at Monroe Community College. The professor gave an assignment: Write about something that effected your life in some way.

I thrived in English and writing classes. While students asked for bare minimum guidelines, I asked if there was a page maximum. I knew what I'd write about, didn't have to think about it, and didn't want to be held back by any limits.

Although we had a week to complete the assignment, I completed mine that night.

I wrote about Jenny.

I got the paper back the following week with a D. Under the grade it said: "Too much like King/Poe. This was not a fiction assignment."

Jenny effected my life forever. So, you tell me, whether I imagined the below tale or not, I believe it happened ...

When my parents bought their second home in Gates (Rochester, NY), I was nearly two-years old. It is where they still live today. Three bedrooms were upstairs. There was a living room and kitchen on the first level, and below, a family room, and below that a basement.

If you stood in the living room and looked up the stairs, you'd see my sister's bedroom door. Hung on the wall was a painting. A young girl, in white dress stood in a field of yellow flowers.

I always disliked the painting. We all know that when you walk by a painting the eyes of the person depicted follow you. The girl in this particular painting was no different. Her eyes followed me. Really followed me. I swore they moved.

When I was fourteen years old, I could stand it no longer. I took the painting down and out into the garage. I used a grilling fork--the ones with two long, sharp tines, forked the eyes out of the painting. and dropped the framed artwork into the Dumpster.

Two days later, when I went into the garage, I stopped short. Leaning against the far wall stood the painting. Eyeless, but still staring at me.

I took a hatchet and hacked the thing to pieces. I gathered the destruction in my arms and once again dropped it all into the Dumpster. My parents claimed, and still claim, that they took the painting out of the garbage. Said they wanted to hang it back up. But without eyes? I don't think so.

This was when it all started.

Had my actions caused a stir in the spirit world? Perhaps.

In no particular order, I want to inform you that since that day I never slept in my bedroom again. I spent the next four years sleeping on the sofa in the living room until I moved away to college. And when I returned from school, I still slept on the sofa.

Why?

That first evening I fell asleep on my bed. I was on my back. My hands on my chest. I woke up. My right hand was numb. Under it, I felt another hand, a third hand. I lifted both my arms in the air. The other hand was still on my chest. I could not see it, but felt it. Cold. And now my chest, too, was numb.

I screamed. I called for my mom, and for my dad.

When my bedroom door banged open, the hand flew off my chest, and a cool wisp of wind blew by my face.

I fell out of bed and scrambled for my father, who told me I'd just had a nightmare.

I was prone to nightmares. Walking and talking in my sleep. My waking up screaming was nothing new. But this was different. I knew the difference.

Something of a slob, each morning I took my blankets off the sofa and rolled them up in my arms. I'd go up to the hall closet. Open the door, throw the blankets in and slam the door before the ball of fabric rolled back out. One day when I did this, a corner of blanket got caught in the door jamb. My sister was right beside me. Laughed at the fact I'd have to open the door, and try again. When I opened the door, we both gasped. Literally, gasped.

Every blanket in the hall closet was folded and neatly stacked. Including the ones I'd just tossed in. There was no corner of a blanket by the door jamb.

One night when my parents were out, some friends were over. It was winter. I was sixteen. They were headed to Blockbuster to rent a movie. I stayed home. In the living room I watched TV. Alone. I heard floorboards creak. (The house was carpeted. No hardwoods). Someone was behind me on the stairs. I was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. No socks. No shoes. I needed to get out of the house. My legs didn't seem to work. I couldn't turn around. Wouldn't.

Instead, when I could finally stand, I stood. I kept my back to the stairs. I moved along the back of the couch slowly, and when I reached the door I booked out it. Into the snow. Feet cold, and ran for the street. Once in the street I turned back to the house. The front door slammed shut.

I waited outside for nearly twenty minutes, shivering, waiting for my friends to get back home. They all had a good laugh at my expense. I laughed along with them. Inside, my heart beat wildly against my ribcage.

It was on one night in particular that I learned Jenny's name.

I was asleep on the sofa. This may have been a dream. Felt like one. I'd opened my eyes, and seated on the chair across from me was a girl in a red robe. Her hair was wet, long, worn down over her face. (I wondered later if her hair covered her face because she had no eyes...)

She told me her name was Jenny. That she was not here to hurt me, but that she wanted a friend.

A friend.

One weekend when I was home for the weekend from Brockport, I'd brought a friend. She and I were in my room. We sat on my bed. She opened up to me, told me that she "saw" things no one else could see. I just politely nodded and listened as she counted off strange things she'd encountered. Know what? I didn't believe her. But I listened.

And then she looked at me with wide eyes. She told me, we're not alone. I almost laughed. She wasn't joking. She asked me, "Who's Jenny."

My breath caught in my lungs. "What?" I asked.

"Jenny," she said. "Who's Jenny ... because she's not happy I'm here."

I grabbed the girl's hand. I got to my feet and ran for the bedroom door, pull/dragging her with me. As we stepped out of the bedroom, the bedroom door slammed shut. We practically flew down the stairs. Up in my room, things banged, and thumped and fell.

We ran out of the house ... breathless ...

Jenny might have wanted a friend, but she was jealous, it seemed.

Unfortunately, I never looked into Jenny, to try to figure out who she was, why she was haunting my parents' house, the way people do in movies, and in books ...

After getting married, and moving out of the house, I never saw signs of Jenny again. I've been back to my parents' house, have spent nights there, and nothing. Nothing.

I wonder if Jenny left; if she actually was a figment of my imagination, or real.

To be honest, at this point -- I just don't know.

What I do know is, from the time I was 14, until I was 21, something kept me from sleeping in my room, kept me from ever getting a solid night's sleep. And, from the time I was 14 until I was 21, Jenny was as real as any ghost ... real.

That professor giving me a D was uncalled for. And I fought for a better grade, explaining all of this to the professor who decidedly changed my grade to a B.

Sincerely,

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Unidentified Flying Object Spotted in Rochester, NY

Wednesday, August 26, 2009.

It was my day with the kids. At 9:45 PM, I took them back to where their mother lives in Greece, NY.

My oldest son was telling me a story. He'd seen something in the sky. Since we were fifteen minutes early, their mother wasn't home. I parked in the drive-way. We climbed out of the car. We stood on the lawn. Phil, the oldest, pointed toward south in the sky, toward the moon. He said he'd seen something big, bright, flying across the sky.

I believe in aliens. Hard not too. Outerspace is too open, too vast for me to believe that life only thrives on our one, insignificant planet.

Had I ever seen a UFO before?

Nope. Not until that night, that is.

Standing on the grass, Phil and Grant in front of me, Raeleigh on my right, we tried to follow Phil's finger as he pointed up at the night sky.

For some reason--no reason I can explain, or care to try to explain--we all ... yes, we all ... turned right. We turned right, and we looked up toward the north-west sky.

At that moment, that exact moment, something large and round, and flat -- not saucer shaped, but like the moon, or a plate, fell from the sky. It dropped fast, between the V-scope of two Maple tree tops.

I saw it. All four of us did. And all four of us gasped.

Phil swore the object was only hundreds of feet away.

Grant, Raeleigh and I believed the object was much further away--maybe not as far up as an airplane might fly, but farther than a few hundred feet up and away.

It didn't glow. It didn't have lights. Like I'd said, it was flat. Round. Off-white, kind of nicotine stained looking.

The thing didn't float.

What it did, if I can believe my eyes, is drop.

Drop, like it had been watching us search the sky for signs of UFO's, and when we turned, turned and saw it, it hid.

Sounds crazy. I feel crazy even writing it.

But it happened. Something had been in the sky. And when we discovered it, it dropped into hiding.

Whether hundreds of feet away, or thousands, it was there. I cannot deny this. Won't deny this.

We did not see aliens.

Nothing flashed. My car didn't turn on. Headlights didn't flicker.

What had we seen?

It may not have been some alien ship, but clearly, undeniably, it was something I would classify as a UFO, an unidentified flying object.

We've told friends. Family. No one believes us. Had my kids of come to me, I might not have believed them either. I'd have nodded, and would have believed that they believed in what they'd seen ... but that might have been all. The extent of my belief.

But I was there. I saw it. I have no idea what I saw. Just that it was something. Not a plane, not a shooting star. Not a kite. Not a weather balloon.

I know. I know. I write mystery novels. Horror stories. I use the supernatural to plot my tales. This, though it may seem, may sound like a gimmick, a writer stunt--I assure, it is not.

What I'd like to know is--how many of my readers have had similar, or for that matter, even unique encounters. What I'd like to know, to prove, is that my kids and I are not alone in our sighting.

Thomas Phillips,
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Write About What You Know.

I have been writing since I was fourteen. Grew up with a reading disability. Hated books. Did all I could to never read. In seventh grade when our teacher assigned S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders, everything changed.

I not only became an avid reader from that point on, but since have worked hard at writing. Born a storyteller, it only made sense that I work to get my ideas down on paper. My first writing instrument was a Sears electric typewriter. Uh-huh. I remember saving money up to buy it, and cringing everytime the ribbon (with corrective white tape) ran out.

I spent hours in my room pounding out stories.

My first real short story, I Made It, was published when I was a freshman in the Cardinal Mooney annual literary magazine. (I have copies stored away). You write about what you know. My parents never had much money. They worked hard. Just never seemed to catch up. I really wanted to go to Cardinal Mooney High School. I got a job at the end of eighth grade, and worked all summer to pay the tuition. My job was as a busboy at a party house. The Diplomat.

Well. I was hired as a busboy. But what happened was, new hires had to "earn" the right to bus tables. I worked weekend mornings. Cleaned up after parties the nights before. Vacuuming, setting tables, cleaning bathrooms, sweeping and mopping floors. Soon, I worked nights, too. Washing dishes, scrubbing pots and pans. And eventually, I worked parties.

My first day of work was a Saturday. Like any business, communication was terrible. When hired I was told I needed to wear black dress pants, black shoes, a black vest and a black bow-tie, as well as a white dress shirt. Standard busboy attire, right?

So, Saturday morning I showed up to work all decked out in new duds. The "head" busboy, Gary, looked at me, shook his head, and said, "Lose the tie." I spent the next seven hours breaking my back cleaning party rooms--wondering how everyone else there knew to wear jeans and T-shirts.

And this ... this true-story became my first published piece. It told the tale of how I went from showing up to work ill-dressed, to getting the call one night to come in (on a day off) and to bring my bus-clothes.

I'd made it.

Key point of the blog, write about what you know. Remember, fiction still needs to be factual!

Ta-ta!

Thomas Phillips,
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Writing is Just Like Going to the Gym

I like to tell people I used to jog ten miles a day. But I found, if I take the car I can be done much quicker.

Lame joke. I know.

But writing is a lot like exercising. It's about developing a routine, following a schedule.

It's been said many times that if you want to write, then write every day.

This is sound, solid advice.

If you belong to a gym, my guess is you have some kind of a work-out schedule. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, let's say. And I'll also bet, when many of those days roll around you do not feel like going to exercise. However, I'd continue to wager, that once at the gym, you are fine and the work-out begins.

That's how it can be for writers as well.

Or, more specifically, that's how it should be for writers.

I have a small key-group of people, writers, that I write with.

For me, writing at home does not always allow me the ability to write for as long, or to produce the best writing I can. Too many distractions. The TV. The refrigerator. The sofa. The phone.

On Mondays/Wednesdays/Fridays, me and these other writers make a plan to meet at a local Barnes & Noble's to write. It's a way for us to hold each other accountable. It's a way to ensure quality writing time. We tend to power up laptops, sharpen pencils, and plug headphones into Ipods, and write without disrupting each other.

At the same time, when one of us hits a stumbling block, a speed bump, seated around that person are potential resources to help overcome the hurdle.

I may say, "Steve, how does this paragraph sound? Does it sound like writing, because if it does, I need to re-write it."

Or Steve may say, "I need my develop more sympathy for my character. I tried this, does it work?"

It's not always possible to make it to B&N on every day scheduled for us to write. When this happens, there is guilt associated with telling the others that you can't make it.

Guilt is an awesome tool that keeps our group from canceling more often than we may want to cancel. See what I'm saying?

If you want to write, to improve your talent, to hone your skills as a writer, then it will be more than important, it will be essential, that, as a writer, you develope a writing schedule that fits your needs. Whether it is every day, first thing in the morning, or at night after everyone else in the house has gone to bed, or heading to a coffee shop after work. Whatever the case may be, you need to know that you have a schedule to follow, and devaiting from it will cause your writing to suffer.

Teaming up with other writers is helpful, not necessary. Two or more with the same goals, same dreams, will help you hold yourself, and them, more accountable for the work that needs doing.

Writing should be satisfying, just like when you leave the gym -- feeling pumped and energetic, and excited about the work-out you'd completed for that day. With writing, whether you completed a chapter, a few pages, or some complex portions of your tale, when you finish writing for the day you should feel pumped, energetic, and excited about the words you'd strung together.

Like with exercise, writing is theraputic, inspiring in and of itself, and a wonderful stress reliever. I'd go as far to say that writing is healthy. Maybe not for physical results, but certainly for emotional and spiritual purposes.

Now, enough with reading the blog. Get out there and write!

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Brush With The Law

Ever hear the saying that bad things happen in threes? My luck tends to disprove that theory.

Yesterday, I was on line at a website called 911tabs. Here you can get chords and tabs to thousands of songs. I was looking up how to play some Jefferson Starship on guitar when I clicked on a tab link.I was immediately informed that I'd caught a Trojan virus.

Nice.

What I thought was my spyware software warning me, was actually something called Personal Antivirus. Looks just like Microsoft alerts. I began to click buttons to prevent my laptop from getting sick.What I ended up doing was downloading the spyware directly to my computer. All these warning popups appeared, demanding my attention, telling me my computer was infected. That my personal data and passwords were being sent to an offshore IP address.Personal Antivirus wanted me to purchase their spyware.Did some research. Turns out, Personal Antivirus does this. Infects your system with their "fake" viruses. Had it worked out so that popups continually interrupt whatever you are doing to make you panic, thinking your computer is infected and needs their software to heal it.

So, that was how my day started.

Got in my car later. It made a rattle sound. Like something was loose. Being not at all mechanically inclined, I fixed the problem by turning the up the volume on the car stereo.

Deep inside, however, my mind was going over new bills I'd be incurring in the near future. Fix my laptop, and taking the car to a garage.

Anyway, I was on my way to pick up Mindy. We'd made plans to go to the drive-in. Vintage, in Avon. Demons & Angles and Star Trek was showing on screen 3.

I told her about my day. I explained that something else would go wrong. Had to. In writing, we call this foreshadowing.We got a good spot in the third row--and per the Vintage employee's direction, parked close to one of the white poles. The poles indicate parking spots. At one time I am sure they housed speakers for viewers to listen to the movies. (All done by car radio now, in case you were not aware).

It was after two AM when Star Trek ended. I went to pull out of the parking spot. Forgot about the white pole, and ran the driver's side along it. Screamed. Backed up, raking the pole, again across my door.

Laptop. Funny car noises. Scratched the car on a stupid pole.

One. Two. Three.

Once on I-390 North, we saw two police cars had pulled someone over. I slowed to 55 mph. Road between the two lanes, and both Mindy and I developed rubber neck as we peered at the guy in his car being questioned by two police officers.

We commented. "Some one's in trouble."

Next thing I know a cop is behind me. Lights on. No sirens. I pulled over to the shoulder.

I looked at Mindy. "I know I wasn't speeding," I said.

The officer came to my door, flashlight shinning into the car. "You just drive by where we had someone pulled over?"

"Yes."

"You brushed the other officer," he said. "Sent him onto the hood of his cruiser."

My stomach dropped. "There's no way," I said.

"Were you driving in this lane?" He shown his light on the right-hand lane.

"I was."

"Yeah," he said. "You hit the officer."

"Sir," I said. "There's no way. We slowed down to like fifty-five. I even moved over into the left lane some."

"You were in this lane," he said, again showing me the right lane with his flashlight.

"I was," I said.

"Yeah. You hit him." He walked around my car. Looked at the front passenger side. Came back. "How about your license and registration."

I gave it to him.

"Sit tight," he said and walked back to his cruiser.

I looked at Mindy. "There's no way we hit him and didn't know it."

She agreed. We laughed. The situation was not funny.We could hear the officer talking.

"It was a Cobalt? A red Cobalt?"

I drove an Aveo. Looked similar.

He came to my window. Handed me back my license. He was on his cell. To me he said, "You seem like you're telling the truth," he said. "A lot of red cars drove past us. Have a nice night."

I tucked my license back into my wallet. The officer pulled back onto the expressway, and gunned the engine.I sucked in some air, realizing I might have been holding my breath.

All I could think was, Laptop, funny noise, scraped the paint, and accused of hit-and-run.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Nice.

I guess if I didn't have bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all, huh?

And people always ask, "Where do you get ideas for the stories you write?"

My pat response: "They just come to me."

Uh-yeah.Have a wonderful Memorial Day!

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy

A Saturday Morning Rant

It's been nearly two months since my last post. Sorry. Been busy.

Last time I blogged, I wrote about some not-so-great news. A large publisher had been been considering my vampire novel for a series, but then did not offer a contract due to the ongoing suffering of the economy.

Since, I have been working hard to re-work some of my manuscripts. With three completed works stored in my computer, I have recently begun doing two things:

1. Soliciting agents for some of my works, and for others
2. Sending queries to publishers

People may not be spending hard earned dollars on book buying right now, but that hasn't stopped me from writing. In fact, I am writing more now than I have in a long while.

The goal is to land a contract with another large press, like Whitaker House, who published The Molech Prophecy in July 2008. However, I am not opposed to signing a contract with a smaller press. Not at all.

My first short story was published in 1995. It was a western, sold to a magazine out of Calgary. I'll never forget the feeling of seeing my work in print for the first time. It had been amazing. Over the years I've sold more than 100 short stories, six novels and two books for children. I've done hundreds of book signings, been interviewed on TV, radio, magazines and on-line. If I never sold another piece, I have nothing to complain about. Nothing.

But I can't stop now.

Won't.

I still have stories in me that need telling. Stories worth telling.

And I believe as long as I can find an outlet -- large publisher, small press -- I will keep plugging away!

So why stop?

Why quit?

Makes no sense. Not to me.

I accepted long, long ago that I may never achieve my dream of bestseller.

I'm good with that. Not a problem.

Midlist writer is just fine with me.

The Molech Prophecy has sold more books than any of my other novels combined. And for that small miracle, I am both thrilled and thankful. The book is carried in stores across the country. That fact alone humbles me.

So I may not have a new book coming out in 2009. As long as I keep at the hunt for an agent and/or publisher, I am confident that by next summer a new Thomas Phillips novel will be available on bookshelves once again.

Don't give up on me as a writer. Keep following my blog.

There is more to come.

I promise.

Have a great Saturday!

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Back To Square One

In my earlier blog posted, February 27, 2009 blog, Suffering Economy Hurts Book Sales, I talked about the overall decline in book sales, and more specifically how a publisher considering my vampire novel was putting new acquisitions on hold until summer. Unfortunately, I -- and other authors currently with this particular publisher have received word that, basically, new books will not be placed under contract at this time.

What does this mean? I need to either begin a search for a new literary agent, or attempt to place the manuscript with another publisher on my own.

This is not news I take personally. The manuscript, I was told, is what they were looking for. They liked it. Publishing it at this time, however, is too risky for them -- financially.

It's a set-back. No doubt.

I have been knocked back down to square-one, but not down and out.

When I think about my writing career, I know I have nothing to complain about. It's never been about money. Never have I expected to hit bestseller lists, or to make it rich writing.

Since 1995, I have sold more than 100 short stories and articles. I have had six novels published, and two books for middle grade readers.

I have been interviewed on TV a few times, numerous radio interviews, and endless print and online interviews. My books have received glowing reviews, and I have had countless best selling authors endorse my work.

With all of that success, how could I ever complain?

Couldn't.

Won't.

Rejection, for whatever reason, comes with the territory.

What I would like to do is bring all of you along on the journey ... from query letter, proposal, and submission ... as I hunt for a home for my vampire novel, Pulse of Evil.

Sound like fun?

Uh-huh. We'll see.

So. Stop back regularly to check in on the progress as I compile a list of agents and publishers and work toward receiving a contract for publication ...

Have a great day!

Thomas Phillips

James Patterson v. James Patterson

A long time ago I was roaming through a store while my wife shopped. Like always, I made my way over to the book section. I saw a paperback called, Along Came A Spider. I'd never heard of James Patterson at that point, but having an unnatural fear of spiders, decided to give the author a try.

The book had absolutely nothing to do with spiders. It didn't matter. I was hooked. I was introduced to the now legendary fictional character, Alex Cross. I then read Kiss The Girls, which had just been released in hardcover. Anxiously, I awaited for more Alex Cross novels.

Over the years, I have read just about every Patterson novel out there, with a special interest in the Cross books.

What I soon realized was, Patterson could put out two, sometimes three books a year. Especially lately.

Many of his older, less popular titles, were re-worked and re-released, oftentimes under new titled names.

For quite a while, only his name appeared on the book covers.

What began to bother me was the number of co-authors soon appearing on Patterson's books.

I believe the first time I noticed this happening was when I bought The Jester. It was written by Patterson, and co-written by Andrew Gross -- who has since launched a very successful solo career. The Jester was different than any book I'd ever read by Patterson. It took place in medieval times. I assumed Gross was a historian expert, which was why Patterson enlisted help in writing the book.

Slowly, I noted that Patterson worked with more and more frequency with co-authors: Peter de Jonge, Howard Roughan, Michael Ledwidge, Gabrielle Charbonnet, Hal Friedman, and Maxine Paetro.

Reading the books with co-authors left a bitter taste in my mouth. Were the books good? Absolutely. Did they seem similar to books written just by Patterson? For the most part, yes. The characteristics were the same: short two page chapters, switching POV, page-turning suspense from start to finish.

So why the bitter taste?

I couldn't help but wonder if Patterson was writing all of these new novels with the co-authors, or whether the publisher was using Patterson's name and unique style to launch the careers of lesser known, but still talented writers.

This past Christmas, I was given Cross Country, the latest Alex Cross novel. It sat on my To Be Read pile for some time. I was not as excited to read the book. I was worried my interest in Patterson's stories had been weakened by my personal suspicion that he was no longer the actual author of the books written.

Two days ago, I set that feeling aside and started Cross Country.

Like every Cross novel, I've devoured the book, reading the 406 pages in just under a few hours -- was almost mad at myself for waiting months to read it, and mad that it was over and I'd now have to wait for the next Alex Cross installment,

On Amazon.com I saw that Patterson's next Cross novel, Alex Cross' Trial, is due to hit stores in August 2009.

But there was something else I noticed on Amazon. Something that made my heart miss a beat, and my stomach drop.

This latest Cross novel bears the names of two authors.

James Patterson and Richard Dilallo.

To say I merely tolerated the "other" Patterson novels, or the non-Alex Cross novels, might be extreme ... but it is close to true. While they were all excellent reads -- the nagging feeling that Patterson wasn't the actual author continues to bother me . The saving grace had always been that -- At Least The Alex Cross Novels Only Have One Author Listed.

But not now. Not anymore.

So rather than just worry about what Patterson may or may not be up to, I decided to do some digging. What I found, however, has shocked me to the point of disappointment.

What I discovered is that, while most successful authors have personal assistants, James Patterson has started his own firm. It is called, James Patterson Entertainment. In 2007, Patterson had six novels released. Six.

When asked by USA Today (2007), why he uses so many co-authors, Patterson stated: "They can't keep up with me." In fact, he says, "I'm not a fast writer. I struggle through the writing. I'm not a craftsman. I'm OK. I can get it done. But I know it's not my strength."
What is, he says, is his "amazing imagination."

Reading more into this article I learned that, Patterson has a huge folder of ideas. He then pumps out a detailed outline. And the co-author's get to work fleshing out the ideas and writing chapters. They then submit the chapters to Patterson, who sends back marked up revisions.

At least, this was the revealed formula for Step On A Crack, written with co-author Michael Ledwidge. The co-author is even quoted, saying that Patterson served less as an editor and more as a writing coach, or teacher.

As suspected, some publisher's admit to attempting to produce, or reproduce Patterson-like authors.

Andrew Gross is a prime example. His first solo novel, The Blue Zone, had an impressive 200,000 first printing. (And was a fantastic book, so you know).

Apparently on a talk show, the interviewer read excerpts from two of Patterson's novels and asked Patterson if he could name the books he'd read the excerpts from, and Patterson couldn't. The interviewer said, "You wrote this stuff." And Patterson simply replied, "Yeah, so what."

Although sales for Patterson's novels have not been negatively impacted since all the co-authoring business, this reader is largely disappointed, and as a suspense author, perhaps a bit jealous as well.

Part of me wished I never asked questions, never looked for answers. I will not be able to look at Patterson novels the same.

Will I still read them?

Good question. At this point, I'm just not sure.

Have a great day.

Thomas

Source: 2-5-07
Publishing juggernaut Patterson keeps rolling along, Co-authors help shoulder the load
By Bob Minzesheimer, USA TODAY
http://www.usatoday.com/educate/college/arts/articles/20070211.htm

People Watching

I've held off on writing this particular blog for one main reason. I co-lead a creative writing group that meets once a month. This month, I'll be giving a "presentation" on creating memorable characters in fiction. A lot of that presentation is pulled from, or is derived from the information contained in this blog. (I know for a fact that one particular member of that group follows my blog. More may. But he, I know, reads it for sure, and I'd hate to kill any surprise ... so Steve ... spoiler below :-)

Writing a novel takes more that drive, discipline and dedication. Creating memorable characters is essential. Readers need to care about what happens to those characters. They need to care about what happens next, too.

Developing characters for me is somewhat simple.

I people watch.

I do it all the time. But doing it at the mall is sometimes my favorite place for such ... research.

Many of you may have seen me in the mall, seated on a bench, a notebook and pen and hand and apparently just thoughtfully jotting down stuff on the paper.

Truth is, I'm watching you.

Kinda creepy. I know. What can I say? It's what I do. And if I do say so myself, I do it well.

Real people inspire me.

I like to watch the way you walk. Do you have a bounce in your step, a limp, a shuffle?

I like to listen to you talk. Am I eavesdropping? Yepper! How do you say things, what are you saying? Do you repeat words, or have slang that I haven't heard?

I like to see what clothing you're wearing. How you're wearing them.

I like to look at your hair, makeup, jewelery. Got spiked hair? Too much eye shadow? A grill?

My job is to capture these characteristics so, when I'm home, writing, I can call on my notes to help draft characters that are three dimensional and real, as opposed to flat cardboard "people" no one will care about.

The work doesn't stop there.

I use the Internet and surf for photos of people that resemble the characters I'm creating. I Copy/Paste those photos onto a Word document. I then set to work creating a list of information about each and every character. I call these, Profiles.

1. I need to name them. (An unwritten rule is one unusual name per story. Unless you write fantasy, and then the odder the better, apparently).

I used to use the first names of family and friends when writing. I realized, being Italian and having a huge family, that there was just no way to write books fast enough to make everyone happy.

One great uncle kept asking when I'd use his name in a book. I explained to him that I had, but that the book wouldn't be out for a few years. (Unfortunately, the book never made it to print). Excited, he asked what the name of the book was. I told him, Pigeon Drop. He said, What's that? That's crap. (You can please some people some of the time, but not all people all of the time, and all of that, eh?)

2. I need to give them history. (How old are they? Married? Single? Divorced? Do they work? Where? Doing what? Where did they go to school? Any family? Favorite color, food, music, movie? What do they love, hate?)

3. For main characters I need to list strengths ... and at least one fear/flaw.

Number 3 is especially important for the protagonist, or main character. The fear/flaw needs to be introduced at the beginning of the story, and by the end ... that character needs to face, overcome and somehow change as a person based on the accomplishment.

Referring back to my "Profiles" regularly, I hope to build consistent and realistic characters.

Hopefully, I am successful.

Thanks for stopping by. Hope this blog was informational to aspiring writers, and people generally curious about how writers put stories together.

Have a great day!

Thomas Phillips

Can Nightmares About the "Ex" Inspire Writing?

Can nightmares about the "ex" inspire storylines, and plots and tension, fear and anger?

Hmmmm. Absolutely!

Although my ex-wife and I have been apart for years, I often dream about her. They are always odd dreams, like ... we're together in the dream, but I know that just can't be right. Or, sometimes, we're together again and it's weird like -- were the last two years really the dream, and us still being together is real? Very peculiar, let me tell you.

But once in a while, like last night, I had a nightmare where my "ex" was involved. (It's not unusual for me to have nightmares. It's rare if I don't. The unusual-ness is when my "ex" is part of the nightmare).

Let me run down the nightmare. (I'll keep it short. I know when people tell me what they dreamt the night before, it bores me to death, lol).

It was Christmas Eve. My "ex" and I were at my parents' house. My whole family was there. My kids. The "ex" and I were talking in the kitchen. I have no idea what the conversation was about. I was at the sink. When I turned around, she was gone. Vanished.

The phone rang. I answered it. It was one of her closest friends, wanting to know if she should come over and help round up a search party.

"No," I said. "It's Christmas Eve. I don't want to spoil this for the kids."

"Have you called the police?" the friend asked.

"Not yet. She's been gone minutes. Police aren't going to race out here to look for her. Not this soon."

The "ex" had been gone minutes, but like her friend, I knew something was wrong.

People at the party began noticing she wasn't there. I kept coming up with excuses. "She must be in the garage getting more chairs," or, "she's downstairs getting soda from the fridge."

Inside, I was beginning to panic. Where was she? What happened?

One thought kept coming to mind. What do I tell the kids?

I realized, in the dream, that I needed to call my "ex's" boyfriend to either tell him what was going on, or to see if he knew what might have happened.

The thought of calling this man made my stomach sick.

Part of me thought it was the right thing to do.

Another part -- well, we'll leave that alone now, won't we ...

Even now, while awake and blogging, I am aware of the emotions that ran through me last night.

Although I will not use this specific scenario in an actual story, the thoughts, and feelings I felt while dreaming can be stored for later use. Will be stored and called upon in the future.

Like most writers, I keep a journal. In this journal, I record information to refer to when writing. In the journal I jot down:

1. Possible book titles
2. Great names for characters
3. Memories, or events that invoked emotion
4. Story outlines, and plot ideas

The journal comes in handy when faced with writer's block. (If you are a writer and don't keep some kind of journal ... I'd strongly suggest you reconsider!)

Even though my dream provided no resolution, no climax, I woke this morning itching to get everything down in my journal (and to blog about this as a writing tip, as well).

The point? Ideas come from all over. Inspiration, for me, is derived from daily interactions with people, dreams, nightmares and plain old imagination. Without my journal, good ideas would be lost, or forgotten, or compromised.

I think for my next blog, I'll talk about heading to the mall with the journal and doing some serious people watching. A little creepy, I know. But fun. Good times. Good times.

So, until next time!

Thomas Phillips

Booksigning in Binghamton

I was contacted months ago by a friend, author Kevin Lucia , about doing the third annual Broome County Catholic Schools Barnes & Noble Book Fair.

It is an honor.

Aside from me, I will be sharing a table with critically acclaimed YA novelist, Claudia Gabel.

This will take place on Saturday, February 13th, at the Barnes & Noble in Vestal, NY ( 2443 Vestal Parkway East, Vestal, NY 13850. 607-770-9505).

The event raises money for Catholic schools in the area.

There will be events and activities all day long, from open mike for poetry written and read by students, as well as some contests, and -- of course -- book signings by Claudia and myself, which begins at 5:00 PM.

If you know anyone who lives in the Binghamton (Vestal) area, feel free to share the information. The more people that come out and buy books, the more money the schools will raise. It's a good, worthy cause. Support is essential!

It's a long drive. 172 miles one way. I'll take prayers for wonderful, sunny weather. Those who know me -- know what I drive -- know that my roller-skate of a car needs dry pavement to keep all four wheels on the road at all times :-)

Again, feel free to share this information with friends and family in the area!

Take care!

Thomas Phillips,
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Who Doesn't Love A Good Vampire Story

I am not one to count chickens before they hatch. Eggs, maybe. Chickens, never.

Recently, after networking with a fellow author friend (at this point, I will not name names), I was asked to submit a proposal to a very prestigious publisher.

See. I am a huge fan of horror. And before ever realizing there was a Twilight epidemic, I'd begun writing the vampire novel I call, The Pulse of Evil. Unfortunately, vampires and Christian fiction are not seen as a great mix. However, the vampire's natural enemy has always been God. So I felt confident I might be on to something. My current publisher passed on the proposal. Thought it was too edgy. This is unfortunate. Whitaker House is an exceptional publisher with a long list of phenomenal authors, many best sellers, and a staff that is so friendly and helpful and responsive ... (But I hope to continue my relationship with them -- just not with the vampire books!!)

After looking at the proposal, the editor asked to see the entire manuscript. Which I sent. Breath held.

Staying current on books being released in my "field" or genre, I saw that Eric Wilson (I am a huge fan of his work), announced the release of a vampire series. Field of Blood. Wilson is one of the best Christian suspense writers I've ever read. (He is also the best selling author of the novel versions of the movies Facing the Giants, and Fireproof).

Anyway, timing is everything in publishing.

With the new found thirst for vampire novels (Stephanie Meyers, Eric Wilson, Charlie Huston, etc.), the publisher reviewing my submission scheduled a phone conference with me in early January. This, a good sign.

Although, to date, no contract has been offered, the editor and I have continued to discuss the idea of getting The Pulse of Evil into print.

Just today, just moments ago, we emailed. It looks promising, is all I can say. And the sales/marketing team at the publisher are interested in a three book series, where the book covers will be pre-designed to keep each in sync with the other ...

If they are talking cover designs at this point, and still talking to me, I can't help but feel hopeful. (I am praying about it, too. Night and day).

One thing I proposed was that Pulse of Evil be the series name, and that each book have its own subtitle. For example:

Pulse of Evil: Book One: Confession
Pulse of Evil: Book Two: Surrender
Pulse of Evil: Book Three: Redemption

At least, that's what I pitched.

Again, still praying.

I promise once a contract is signed, I will give you so much more information. For right now, know that I am hard at work trying to bring my next book to print. And know that the publisher considering my vampire tale is a quality press, with some extremely talented authors under them -- authors that I would love to be counted among, and some day be worthy to be alongside of!

Hey--thanks for listening. Enjoy the day! (In Rochester it is a sweltering 32 degrees and sunny!)

God bless,

Thomas Phillips

One Day At A Time

I meet a lot of people who, once they find out I write books ask, how in the world do you write a book? It baffles them.

If I am absolutely honest, most days, it baffles me.

I didn't start out writing novels. Not really. At fourteen, I wrote a horror novel about zombies trapping people inside a party house. I wrote that on an electric typewriter. Imagine.

But, at fourteen, I also wrote my first short story. It was about a busboy (working at a party house). It was published in the Cardinal Mooney High School magazine. I have a couple copies stored away, and right now the name of the publication escapes me.

From there I went on to write and sell short stories. Honed my skill as a writer, and slowly built a publishing portfolio.

I grew up with a reading disability. Hated reading. In 7th grade we read The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton. That turned me around. After that I became an avid reader. I gobbled up books. I finished reading the other novels by Hinton (That Was Then This Is Now, Rumble Fish, Tex, Running Star), and then moved on to Stephen King, and Dean R. Koontz. Robin Cook and John Saul. Robert Parker and James Patterson. David Morrell and Joseph Wambaugh.

I had set a goal at fourteen, that by the time I turned 30 I would be a published novelist.

I worked on several book length stories. Most came in at around 50,000 words.

It was difficult making the transition from short-story writer to novelist. Whereas with a short story, you have between 1,000 and 5,000 words to tell your tale, a novel needs to be over 65,000 words.

When I was 29, I'd completed and submitted the manuscript of Mind Play, to more than 100 publishers and agents. And I'd received back as many rejections. Or so I'd thought.

Feeling a bit discouraged and like a failure, I accepted that I might not be cut out as a writer. I decided to quit. Step back. Re-assess my goals.

In the fall of 1999, I received a call from the publisher at Dry Bones Press. Jim Rankin. He said he'd been in a recent move and just came across my manuscript. Rankin explained that, over Sunday breakfast, he sat down and started reading Mind Play. He did not get up from the table until he'd finished the entire story. If it was still available, he'd like to publish it.

When I finished crying, I told him, yes. He could publish it.

Mind Play was released February 2000. That June, I turned 30.

While I still wrote and sold some short stories, my focus as a writer altered. I concentrated my efforts on novel-length works. In 2001, Tenth House was released by Dry Bones as well. Also in 2001, Third Ring was published by Barclay Books. And in 2002, Johnny Blade. In 2003, I got my first contract for a hardcover novel from Quiet Storm Publishing, and a deal for a Middle Grade reader series. Adverse Impact was a legal thriller. Hardcover. And Jay Walker: The Case of the Missing Action Figure, were both released that year.

(I wrote the Jay Walker book using the pen name, Grant R. Philips).

When I think about it, it has been a long, slow, but exciting career.

My first short story was published in 1984. My first novel in 2000. And here we are in 2009, and I'm still plugging away.

But the funny thing is, since 2003, I have not been able to write a short story.

So when I meet someone who writes short stories, I am baffled, and tend to ask them, how in the world do you write a short story?

It's all relative, isn't it?

Hey--have an awesome day and a wonderful and safe weekend!

God bless,

Thomas Phillips

The Harvest Show (Pt. I)

It was ... maybe a month ago when my publicist contacted me asking if I wanted to appear as a guest author on South Bend, Indiana's The Harvest Show. Apparently, the international show is available to (TV, Radio) over 43 million viewers/listeners across the globe. Without hesitating, I agreed.

On Monday, January 25, 2009, I took an early flight (United Express) out of Rochester, NY to, first, Chicago, and a second flight to South Bend. I love to fly. Not a big fan of flying in winter. Luckily blue, clear skies made up the forecast.

Once in South Bend, I contacted the hotel, The Inn at St. Mary's, where I'd spend the night, for a shuttle from the airport. The driver, a friendly man, shared information about the city as we passed through. He pointed out the Studebaker auto plant and explained that while it used to take up most of the city, recent efforts to tear down old, abandoned buildings was under way in an effort to clean up the overall appearance.

We passed through the small downtown quickly, as I was told that the St. Mary's was across the street from the University of Notre Dame. Unfortunately, it was five degrees outside. And as much as I'd of loved to stroll the campus, the cold was something I'd disliked just a bit more.

The room I stayed in was fantastic. King size bed, sofa, coffee table, desk with internet hookup, large TV with cable ...

But I was hungry. A lot of the places I called had been closed down. The failing economy evident everywhere. I bought Chinese, had it delivered. It was expensive, but I hoped worth it. Again, unfortunately, it was not worth it. The food did not taste good. When I opened the fortune cookie at the end of the meal, the fortune was all right, but -- you know how now they put words in Chinese and then in english on the slips of paper, and then phonetically, so you can learn Chinese words, as well as how to pronounce them? Well, my Chinese word was Beijing. Guess what Beijing is in English? Uh-huh. Beijing. And, you'll love this, it is pronounced the same. Go figure.

Anyway. I made some phone calls home. Let everyone know I was all right, and settled in to watch some TV before falling asleep. Luckily, a new episode of HOUSE and 24 were on. Both were gripping and entertaining episodes.

They kept my mind off the morning, when I had to be up at six, and over to Lesea Studios before 8:20 AM.

Eventually, around midnight, I fell asleep.

(to be continued ... Look for The Harvest Show (Pt. II )

Wiccans vs. Christians

I held two book signing events in Buffalo this past weekend.

At the first, two Wiccans approached the table where I sat and signed copies of my novel, The Molech Prophecy. They read the back cover of the book (provided below), and then proceeded to tell me how upset and offended they were about the story I’d written.

At the second signing, oddly enough, two different Wiccan’s came over to the signing table. They read the book’s back cover, and –seemingly excited—bought a copy.

To be clear, when writing fiction, everything still needs to remain primarily factual.

In The Molech Prophecy, the principal story revolves around Christians and a rogue Wiccan.

In my extensive research on Wicca, their beliefs and practices, I often came across their principal rule: Harm None.

The story I tell centers around a Wiccan coven leader who, in order to fulfill a prophecy, breaks the cardinal rule of his faith.

Is it “Hollywood” story-telling. Sure. Was it meant to be offensive? Of course not. Are the facts about Wicca that I incorporated into the story factual? You bet they are.

Unfortunately, when you write fiction or non-fiction, you will stumble across critics. Generally, I do not mind criticism—from someone who actually read my book. However, I do get offended as an author when my book receives negative criticism from someone who only spends forty seconds reading the back cover summary of the entire novel and from that, passes judgment.

What’s the best way to decide if The Molech Prophecy is offensive, or entertaining, is for you to read the book yourself – and then decide. And if you do—I would love to hear your thoughts, good, bad, or indifferent!

Here is a definition of Wicca, as described in an article found on Suite 101:

Wicca is a Pagan revival of European pre-Christian religions. Often called the religion of witches, the Wicca practice a religion of secrecy. They do not actively seek new members and they do not convert people to their religion.

Wicca is a loosely woven religion. Each Wiccan is allowed to choose what he or she believes. For example, some believe in reincarnation of the soul. Others believe that the soul travels to Summerland after the body dies. Still, others believe that we travel to Summerland after death and, when we are ready, reincarnate as birds, animals, and plants.

The origin of Wicca is hotly debated. Some believe that author Gerald Gardner invented Wicca. This is a half-truth. Wicca evolved from ancient Shamanism. It traveled through the ages, shaping and changing into classical Paganism. When Christianity gained power, Paganism was perverted into a fairytale of evil witches, imps, and satanic goats. Gerald Gardner, and others, took what was left of the Old Ways and rebuilt a new Pagan religion: Wicca. Wiccans practice a religion of duality. They believe in the God and Goddess or the Lord and Lady. Both God and Goddess are equal, and each presides over different aspects of nature and life. There is the Lord of the Hunt, Lady of the Woods, Sky Father, and Earth Mother.

The Wicca internalize their God and Goddess. They believe that their deities are within them and within all things in nature.

Wiccans are often accused of not having morals because they do not have a book that lists rules for behavior. Instead, Wiccans have one golden rule: do what you will, harm none. This simple rule governs all that Wiccans do.
Suite 101, Wicca Defined
http://paganismwicca.suite101.com/article.cfm/wicca_defined

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy
In Stores Everywhere

Upcoming Signings

Kind of a boring blog -- but wanted to post my upcoming signings and radio interviews:

Saturday, August 16, 2008, Starting at 2:00 PM, Borders, 2015 Walden Ave, Cheektowaga, NY 14225, 716-685-2844

Saturday, August 16, 2008 Starting at 6:00 PM, Barnes & Noble, McKinley Mall, 3701 McKinley Parkway, Buffalo, NY 14219, 716-822-0832

Saturday, August 30, 2008, Starting at Noon, Borders Express, Boulevard Mall, 702 Alberta Drive, Buffalo, NY 14226, 716-833-8820

Saturday, August 30, 2008, Starting at 4:00 PM, Borders Express, 4545 Transit Road, Williamsville, NY 14221, 716-634-0335

Saturday, September 13, 2008, Starting at 1:00 PM, Barnes & Noble, 3956 Route 31, Liverpool, NY 13090, 315-622-0370

Saturday, September 20, 2008, Starting at 8:00 AM, Bagels And Blessings, WRCI 990 AM
With hostess, Ethel Chadwick

Friday, September 26, 2008 Starting at 7:00 PM, Borders Books, 30 Square Drive, Victor, NY 14564, Phone: 585.421.9230

Saturday, September 27, 2008, Starting at Noon, Barnes & Noble, 4401 Transit Road, Suite 800, Clarence, NY 14421, 716-634-1011

Friday, October 10, 2008, Starting at 7:00 PM, Talking Leaves, 3158 Main Street, Buffalo, NY, 14214, (716) 837-8554

Saturday, October 11, 2008, Starting at 11:00 AM, Alpha & Omega, 1601 Penfield Road, Rochester, NY 14625, (585) 381-1250

Saturday, October 11, 2008, Starting at 2:00 PM, Alpha & Omega, 125 White Spruce Blvd., Rochester, NY 14623, (585) 272-8080

Saturday, October 11, 2008, Starting at 6:00 PM, Alpha & Omega, 1540 Ridge Rd West, Rochester, NY 14615, (585) 697-7693

Saturday, October 25, 2008, Starting at 11:00 AM, The Book Shoppe, 519 Main Sreet, Medina, NY 14103, 585-798-3642

Friday, November 7, 2008, Starting at 7:00 PM, Barnes & Noble, Webster Towne Center, 1070 Ridge Road, Webster, NY 14580, 585-872-9710

Saturday, November 8, 2008, Starting at 1:00 PM, Creekside Books & Coffee, 35 Fennell Street, Skaneateles, NY 1352, 315-685-0379

Hope to see you at some of these!

Take care, and God Bless,

Thomas