Book Signings

For unpublished authors, this is the day you dream about. Hundreds of people all queued up, waiting to catch a glimpse of you, their favourite author. But, unless your book hits The New York Times Bestseller list right out of the gate, book signings are usually more intimate affairs.

I write for a small niche market. I have done events for over fifty people and I have also done events where I was fortunate to speak with three people. Book signings are not what they used to be. Publishers have limited dollars to spend on promotion and will use them wisely. If a publisher has a choice of sending "Bestselling Author" on a book promotion tour or of scheduling an event for "First Time Author," where do you think they will get their best return?

That is not to say the publishers ignore you. They are quite proactive in assisting you in your quest to get your book in front of the most people, in your markets. Since this is my third published work, I know what to do. I contact all my area bookstore in advance of the release, let them know I am available for book signings and events, and supply them with a sample copy. You, as the author, must also take the initiative. As with everything today, a guest spot is not going to fall into your lap. And, with the advent of social media, getting your name out is easier than ever.

So, for the unpublished authors out there dreaming of overnight success, remember: writing a book is a difficult process. You pour your heart and soul into it and if you do not do all you can to make the book a success, your publisher may not either. Follow the guidelines they send you for promotion -- they're the experts in publicity and promotion; you are the writer. Make it your best work and then, promote the hell out of it.

"The Wrath of Amun" -- Installment from the novel

The next installment of "The Wrath of Amun." We will learn a bit about the poor deceased woman and the new Chief of the Medjay.

Having assisted with the morning ritual, Qaa with two Medjay escorts headed across the Nile to the verdant fields on the East bank. They found Semti, with his wife and children, tending an emmer field; he was lowering the shaduf into the water channel while his wife and children weeded. Qaa motioned to the man he wished to speak with him privately. Off to the left of the emmer field, there was a small personal garden; the plants appeared to be barley, radishes, leeks, and onions. As a farmer in service to the temple, he also had a few goats, sheep, and geese, for his family’s consumption, grazing in pens in front of the mud-brick house. He was a small, wiry man dressed only in a loincloth, flint cutting blade with a wooden handle tucked into the waist, bare feet caked with mud; Semti barked orders to his family to keep working. He carried himself like a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.

“You are Semti, father of Iput, the woman who was murdered at the temple?”

“I am. Who are you, hem netjer?” Semti looked up at the imposing figure, sporting a reed switch tucked neatly into the waist of his kilt.

“I am Qaa, the new Chief of the Medjay. I have been called to Waset to look into the death of your daughter. Did you see your daughter on the evening of her death?”

“No, Medjay. I had worked all day in the fields and had another long day ahead of me.” Semti bowed low before Qaa.

“Was your daughter happy in her marriage?”

“Unas was divorcing her. He came to me and asked to send her back. She was barren; what other use is there for a woman except to pleasure her husband and provide him with children. She was trouble all her life; I told him she was his wife, not my responsibility. I had no use for another mouth to feed.” Semti seemed untouched by Iput’s murder.

“You say she was trouble. Did you beat her as a child?” Qaa’s stomach lurched, remembering the abuse he had seen on Iput’s body.

“I had to. She wouldn’t cook, do her chores, work in the fields. How else could I get her to do anything?” Semti looked to Qaa for sympathy, man to man.

Qaa was outraged. He tried to keep his voice measured and his anger in control. “Did you tell Unas how to make her obey?”

“Of course.” Semti smiled broadly. “He needed to know how to handle her. Unas always did like the wild ones. Her mother was like that when I took her the first time. Screamed and kicked, almost bit my ear off. She still has some fight left in her, but I too know how to use a switch.” He chuckled to himself.

In one swift motion, Qaa withdrew the switch from his waist, raised it above his head, and struck the farmer a sound blow across the cheek, drawing blood. Qaa fought hard against lashing out in anger, preferring combat in battle, but intentionally inflicting pain on a woman was something he would not tolerate.

“If you have lied to me, farmer, I shall return and shall not stay my hand at just one blow.”

***

After traveling back across the Nile to the West bank, and still in the company of the two Medjay, Qaa found Unas at one of the temple metalworking tents. Wearing only a loincloth, he was sitting on a stool in front of a brazier, tongs in hand, a glowing piece of metal in the charcoals. Even from this distance, the heat was palpable and breathing was an effort. Qaa motioned to the overseer to bring Unas to him. The overseer spoke to Unas who put down the tongs, stood, and compliantly followed the overseer’s instructions.

Qaa appraised Unas, having seen the brutality on Iput’s body. The man was about his own age, but at least a cubit shorter. He had powerful hands and shoulders from working the various metals, and bore numerous burns and scars, both fresh and healed. His hands had the familiar appearance of crocodile skin, brown, scaly, and toughened from the heat of the crucibles and hearths. He sported a dagger at his waist, bronze with a bone handle. He moved with the swagger of a man too self-confident; he exuded an air of importance though he was only an apprentice.

“I am Qaa, the new Chief of the Medjay. I am looking into the death of your wife. Did you know she had left your home to go to the temple the night she died?”

“I was asleep. She must have slipped out; she did that often. I suspected she had taken up with another man. I had no use for her, she was barren and I was going to divorce her.”

Qaa’s temper simmered just below the surface of his calm exterior. Semti had put him in a foul mood. This man’s wife is brutally murdered and he speaks disrespectfully of her. He withdrew the switch and slapped his own palm with it. “Did you beat her often?” Qaa’s voice had taken on the tenor of a confidante, one man to another.

“She would not submit to me. I would have to bind her hands and feet in order to mount her.” Unas laughed.

Qaa could feel his anger dangerously close to exploding. Even a reed switch, in his hands, could inflict serious injury. “She may have been more receptive if you had been patient or kind with her.”

Unas leaned in to speak low, so only Qaa would hear. “Chief Medjay, do you have a woman? Trust me when I say they need to be beaten regularly. How else can you make them submit?” He stepped back and continued to speak. “I now have a woman who knows her place and will do whatever I demand. Is that not the duty of a woman?” He smiled broadly.

Qaa wanted to retch. Brought up in an abusive home, married to an abusive husband, what chance did she have? Were all the men in Waset this brutal toward their women? He could not contain his anger any longer. “In the future, apprentice, when you see me, I expect you to bow before me, showing your respect. Medjay, hold this man while I interrogate him further.”

Each Medjay grabbed an arm of Unas and held him tightly. Qaa began beating Unas on the back, just as Unas had beaten his wife to submit to his needs. “How does it feel, Unas, to be powerless? Do you think she enjoyed her beatings? If you have lied to me, I shall be back. And if I hear of you beating any more women, you shall wish I had killed you.” Qaa’s chest heaved and sweat trickled down his back, having taken out his anger on the man who had inflicted much of the torment on Iput. He again raised the switch above his head.

“My Chief that was twenty lashes.” The Medjay saw the wrath in Qaa’s eyes and fell silent. His rage spent for now, he lowered the switch. Qaa straightened up, wiped the bloody switch on Unas’s loincloth, and slid it into the waist of his kilt.

After taking a deep breath to bring his emotions under control, Qaa spoke smoothly and authoritatively. “Medjay, you may release him.” When the Medjay released Unas’s arms, he fell, in a crumpled heap at Qaa’s feet. He looked down, spat on him, and turned back to the temple, followed by the Medjay.

***

Launching a Book

New authors often wonder why it takes so long for their manuscript to become the lovely, published book they always imagined. Having freelanced in the publishing industry, let me give you a little insight.

After acquisitions and editorial have their go at the manuscript, it is assigned an editor. After he polishes the work, it next goes to a copyeditor. It is her job to check the work of the editor, ask questions on style and formatting, and produce a style sheet and/or word list. From there, the fun begins. The next stop is the proof reader, who uses the style sheet and word list to polish even further.

After that, the author gets involved. This is usually the time for the page proofs. It is often the last chance an author has to make any corrections, or to address any issues which may have come up in the editing and formatting. Of course, once the author makes his changes, it is back to the editor and may end up in the hands of yet another proof reader for a final check.

And, while all this is going on there are other processes going on -- cover and back cover art, interior drawings or photographs are inserted, back material and indicies are created, marketing starts their work, and the list goes on and on.

The tasks involved are important, to make your manuscript the best it can be. And, believe me, I know all too well. I have done both copyediting and proof reading. Both require attention to detail, a different set of skills for each task, guidelines must be adhered to (think, The Chicago Manual of Style), and the ability to work quickly, efficiently, and always with a deadline looming.

So, when you submit your manuscript for publication, remember all the unsung hands that make your work the best it can be. The people behind the scenes share in your success, but their names do not appear in the credits. They do it for the love of the work. I know, because that's why I do it.

"The Wrath of Amun" - Fifth Installment

Another installment of "The Wrath of Amun." Hope you are enjoying the posts.

After the preparation of the unguents and the noon ritual, Thanuny and Qaa retired to their private quarters. Qaa took out a new scroll and wrote notes about his observations of the poisoned wine and what the priests had told him. When he had finished, he secured the reeds in the palette, took the scroll and palette with him, and crossed the corridor to Thanuny’s room.

“Thanuny, may I speak plainly? The king has appointed me First hem netjer; I need to know if you had hoped to gain the position.”

“I am quite content with my duties here at the temple. I often have to act on behalf of the First hem netjer, but without all the political intrigue that comes with the position. I do not envy you your task. I shall serve you well, just as I did Raneb. Harkhuf, Weni, and I are the only permanent full time priests here, as was Raneb. I shall notify them of your appointment. Whatever you need, hem netjer, I am at your service.” Thanuny bowed to Qaa.

“I would prefer informality from you and hope to count you as a friend, Thanuny. I have spent much of my life in military service, never settling in one place very long. My previous appointment, Viceroy of Kush, required my dedication to protecting our southern border. I hope to settle in Waset and would enjoy the company of my fellow priests.”

“You may depend on me, Qaa, if I may address you as such.”

Qaa smiled for the first time in the presence of the priest. “Yes, Thanuny, you may. There is much I need to know, and you are my eyes and ears. Please sit and we may begin.”

Thanuny sat on his bed and Qaa sat on the stool at the writing table. He spread the scroll on the table, set the palette next to it, prepared the inks, and consulted his notes.

“Thanuny, do you have the bowls and vessel? I think I would like to examine them first.”

The priest motioned to a side table. Qaa was able to reach them from his position at the writing table. The bowls contained some sediment, but it was difficult to determine if it was from an herbal mixture or just from the wine itself. The vessel, however, was much more informative. Just looking down the neck, Qaa could see a great deal of “mush” in the bottom. He gently tapped the clay vessel on the edge of the table to crack it. With his large hand, he grasped the neck and broke it off, to expose the inside. The first item of note was the unmistakable odour of lotus flower. It was often used for pain or to quiet those suffering from demons, but in large doses it could lead to unconsciousness and death. The plant material looked like it had been filtered through cloth; there was little that was recognizable. From the smell, however, he suspected one of the ingredients could be monkshood or henbane. He placed the broken vessel on the table, scribbled some notes on the papyrus scroll, and then turned his attention to Thanuny.

 “You and Raneb carried Iput into the preparation tent, after the hemet netjer had been settled in her quarters. Tell me what he said of his observations, as well as what you observed. No detail is unimportant.”

“You should know the weapon was recovered. It was found next to the body. Raneb directed me not to wash it until he examined it. I placed the dagger on a piece of linen cloth and brought it into the preparation tent for him.”

“Tell me about the dagger and, if it is still in the preparation tent, I would like to examine it as well.” Qaa picked up the reed, dipped it in the ink, and took notes as he listened to Thanuny.

“It is an unusual dagger, foreign; I have seen daggers like that being traded in the marketplace. Many of them come from the Near East. Rather than describe the dagger, I shall show it to you when you have finished your questions.”

“Thank you, Thanuny. Tell me what Raneb saw when he examined the body.”

The older priest shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He had been troubled greatly by what he had seen.

“Take your time. I know this has been a very unsettling event. I have seen men killed in battle, but I have never seen anything as brutal as this.” Qaa looked sympathetically at Thanuny. “I would not ask for such information if it were not necessary.”

“I have been greatly affected by this murder; even sleep offers me no solace.”

“Then tell me, Thanuny, and allow me to carry the burden of this crime.”

The older priest took a deep breath and commenced his narrative, as Qaa made notes.

“Raneb examined her body thoroughly, just as you did. He also spread her legs and examined her genitals and rectum. Aside from the wounds you see, her attacker used an object on her, tearing her open in both areas.”

Both men sat for some time in silence, Qaa trying to understand how a person could do such a thing, Thanuny struggling with the horrors he had seen inflicted on Iput.

“After Weni helped Raneb pack the body cavity, Raneb dismissed the other priests and asked me to remain. He told me he was troubled by something he had seen and asked me to assist him. We removed some of the natron packets from the body and Raneb examined other organs.” Thanuny’s face was ashen, his voice quavered, and he looked quite ill.

“Let me get you some wine. We can speak of this later, when you are feeling up to it.”

Qaa exited the room and crossed the corridor to his room. He had a vessel of Kushite wine in one of his traveling chest. He extracted it from the chest and found the two new drinking bowls on a shelf in his room. He brought the bowls and vessel to Thanuny’s room, poured him a generous amount, and held the wine out to the older priest. With hands shaking, he took the bowl and drained it straight away.

“Qaa, you must not reveal what I am about to tell you. Only Raneb and I knew what he had found when he again examined that poor woman.”

Qaa poured more wine into Thanuny’s bowl, poured himself a bowl, and sat down again. When they had both drunk, Qaa spoke to the priest.

“Raneb was the Chief Medjay in charge of the investigation. It now falls upon my shoulders to complete his work. I need to know what he knew.”

“Iput was with child when she was killed.” Thanuny buried his face in his hands, trying to erase the scene from his memory.

***

Submission Jitters

I was reminded this week, by a writer friend, of how nerve-wracking it can be to begin submitting your work. Checking submission guidelines, crafting the perfect query, boiling a novel down to a three-page synopsis. As writers, our profession is crafting words, so why are submissions so difficult?

Part of it is that this "novel" is not just a novel to us -- it is a living thing, like a child, that we have created. It must be nurtured, cared for, until it is ready to make its way in the world. For us, we want to know it can stand on its own merit and, as a reflection of ourselves, shine as we so hope it will.

To further complicate the process, if you can write a 200-300 page novel, words are your business. Trying to distill that much information into three pages seems unrealistic. And, to capture the true essence in just a query, is plain torture.

But, we do it. For if we don't, our creation will languish: in a box, a filing cabinet, or on our computer desktop. We write for ourselves, but we also write for the approval of others. We write what entertains us, but we know that someone else will be entertained by our words as well. So, we take that giant leap of faith, after editing and rewriting and editing some more, and send our creation out into the world.

Letting go is difficult for many of us, but in order to publish, we must accept that we have made it the best it can possibly be. There is a sadness, a let-down, while we wait for the acceptance or rejection that follows, but we keep on doing it. For us, there is no other life but through our words.

"The Wrath of Amun" - Fourth Installment

Here is yet another clip from The Wrath of Amun. Other clips will follow, but I certainly do not want to give away too much of the story.

“My lord, I have examined the house of Raneb. Aside from the disarray, I saw no outward signs of injury. I directed Thanuny to remove his body to the temple for preparations. I shall observe the removal of the organs this evening. The gods may provide me with some answers at that time. I also examined the body of Iput. I now understand why your daughter was shaken by what she saw.”

Ramesses, seated on his throne, said nothing. He had lost a close friend and advisor, and this unpleasant business which had so unsettled his favourite daughter still had not been solved.

“I left a soldier guarding Raneb’s home. Is there a soldier or Medjay who may relieve him? The sun is high in the sky and he has been keeping watch since early morning.” Qaa looked to Ramesses for some direction, but still none was forthcoming.

“I also inquired with the Harbour Master before I returned to the palace. This may not be related to the crime, but one ship departed for Phoenicia at sunrise. Could the ship be intercepted at the next port? I await your orders, my king.” Again, Ramesses sat mute, struggling with his inadequacy at the current state of affairs.

“Did you not say your daughter has information about the murder?” Qaa asked, hoping to prod some response from Ramesses.

Ramesses finally looked up and considered the young man in front of him. Even though Qaa’s mother was not Egyptian, he was like a son to him, more trusted than some of his own sons. He was a strapping man, towering a full head and shoulders above most people, quite capable in battle, strong as a bull, most likely able to overpower the most dangerous individuals in Waset.

“Qaa, I am appointing you Chief of the Medjay in Waset, as well as First hem netjer in the Temple of Amun. The soldiers and Medjay are yours to command; they shall obey you as they obey me. You may make your quarters here in the palace, or at the temple. Raneb kept quarters in the temple, which can be made available to you as well. As for a guard, I shall dispatch one to Raneb’s home to keep watch until you are satisfied you need nothing further.”

“I am honoured by your confidence in me, your majesty, and I shall serve you well,” Qaa bowed to Ramesses. “I would prefer to stay at the temple for the present, to oversee the burial preparations, and meet with the temple administrators.”

“Please, Qaa, you may still call me ‘Father’ when we are alone. You grew up in my home, with my sons and daughters. Your father served both my father and me well; I treated him like a member of my family and shall treat you just as well,” Ramesses replied, smiling faintly. The king stood and crossed the room. “Medjay, dispatch a soldier to Raneb’s home. Have a guard there at all times until dismissed by Qaa. Summon my daughter at the temple. Tell her I wish to see her in the palace gardens. And dispatch a Medjay to the ship Qaa arrived on and have his belongings brought to the temple,” Ramesses commanded. The guard at the door scurried away as the king turned back to Qaa.

The two men walked out into the gardens and talked at length about past battles, the state of affairs in Kush, and the foreigners who seemed to be prevalent in Waset. Qaa inquired about the health of the royal family, and Ramesses spoke passionately about his children. Although three of his sons had joined with Auser, and his youngest daughter was plagued with evil demons, he had many children. Aside from his son, Pentaweret, they brought him a great deal of joy; his daughter, Tentopet, was due to deliver her fifth child soon. When Qaa asked about the king’s daughter, Nebettawy, he flushed deeply, unable to hide his feelings for her. Ramesses laughed heartily; his daughter still captivated Qaa, even after an absence of twelve years.

***

Nebettawy was escorted to the palace gardens. Her father was laughing, and quite animated with the stranger seated next to him. She had not seen her father this happy in some time; she had broken his heart when she made her choice to serve the temple, and even now when she came to the palace, she could see the sadness in his eyes.

“My beloved father, I have come at your request. How may I serve you?” Nebettawy bowed deeply in front of Ramesses.

“Our new Chief of the Medjay has arrived and is anxious to hear what you know of Iput’s death.”

For the first time, Nebettawy really looked at the stranger who had made her father laugh.

“Qaa?!” Her voice was barely audible. She stared intently into the blue eyes she had never forgotten, they threatened to overpower her, drown her like the Great Sea. The blood drained from her face and her knees buckled.

Instinctively, Qaa rushed forward to steady her, grabbing her by the arms. They were so warm to the touch, soft and supple, like a dancer’s. Being this close to her, he could feel the heat of her body and smell her musky scent. She smelled of myrrh and cinnamon, blue lotus and rose, and it was intoxicating. He felt his desire for her rise up inside of him, uncontrollable like a wild jackal. The heat in his loins burned like a torch, the throbbing between his legs unbearable. He wanted to pounce upon her and carry her off, possess her, devour her. His head ached, his chest pounded, and his ears buzzed. He forced himself to breathe but the air, heavy with scent, clogged his lungs, like the Nile at inundation. His thoughts swam in all directions until . . .

“Qaa! Release my daughter!” Ramesses’s words struck him like a thunderbolt.

***

Book Release

Friday marked the release of my third book on Egyptian magic. To celebrate, I took a copy of Egyptian Prosperity Magic to my main library. They maintain a section for local authors and have my previous two books in their collection.

Holding a copy of your own book never ceases to amaze and thrill me. I hope, as an author, to never lose that feeling of accomplishment, of excitement, of wonder. I read somewhere that less than five percent of manuscripts submitted for publication are accepted. If that is the case, then I am certainly blessed to have found publishers who have seen merit in my work.

Now, I begin my journey as a novelist. I shall continue to write non-fiction -- I have several books in process -- but fiction will give me the opportunity to spread my wings and create new worlds, new people, new ways of looking at the lives of others.

So, for those of you struggling to get published, I know I sound like a broken record (that would be vinyl), but never give up your dream. It is sometimes easier to break into publishing in certain genres, but never compromise your ideals just to get published. Stay true to what you do and what you write. Trust me, I write for a small niche market and I would not trade that for anything. And, my fiction may also only appeal to a small market, but again, this is what I love -- so, write what you love. Who knows? You might be visiting your local library soon, with your own book under your arm.

Freedom

Rather than post about writing, I wish to thank our men and women serving all over the world, who embody what has made this country great. A member of my family is currently deployed in Afghanistan and his dedication makes me proud.

May you all have a safe and enjoyable holiday. But, take the time to remember those who have sacrificed so much for us to live in a land of freedom.