Sunday, April 29, 2012

Never Judge a Book By its Cover...But...

Just a bit of advice about book covers gathered along my literary journey.

Like it or not, readers do judge a book by its cover. That's why authors go into a book store and turn their covers face front.

A cover must capture the attention. That's elementary, but doing it is a bit more tricky. A lot more.

1) First of all, a cover needs to be simple. Cluttered covers confuse the eye and leaves a reader wondering what the heck the focus of the book is. Remember that the cover is not meant to be a visual summary of all the important elements of the book. Pick one or two. Or a single eye-catching scene perhaps. Make it dynamic, or give it meaning, or both. Leave a question in the readers' minds that they will want to answer by reading your blurb or flipping the pages, and ultimately buying it.

2)  Choose colors that will pop out visually. Don't use dull colors except as background. Up the contrast. Make the color wheel your friend. Using colors that are opposite on the color wheel will make your visuals  stand out.

3)  Mind the 30 foot rule. Does your book stand out even from 30 feet away (i.e. from the front of the store). This applies even in today's online age. When your cover is reduced to a thumbnail, can you tell what is on the book cover? Can you read the title and the author's name?

That last one is important. Make your fonts large enough that it can be read, even at a glance, at a distance, or as a small icon. Be careful not to bleed it into the visual elements. Don't be too 'cute' with your fonts. It just comes across as amateurish.

Don't just use simple black or white for your title. Make it more interesting. Use colors from your visual in order to tie it all together, or use the color wheel.

Try using all caps, all no-caps, enlarging the first letter, etc. The author name doesn't have to be the same font as the title, but try not using more than two.

4) Give the eyes a direction in order to give a cover more impact. Have the visual elements naturally flow in one, or at most two directions (that make sense). You can 'point' it to your title.

5) Make it unique, exciting, sexy. Guns, gals and explosions. They work for a reason. The cover is your first hook. Grab them by the...well, you know what I mean.

6) Try adding a tag line, but make it an interesting one. Look at movie posters for some great examples. My favorite is the one from Alien ("In space, no one can hear you scream...")

Hope that helps.




Wednesday, April 25, 2012



Vampire High School

Book 3: The Rage Wars.

By Ian Hall and Lachelle Miller



I could see uniforms all around me, all ready to attack the compound; it was so bizarre.

A whole Helsing army, clad in desert camouflage, surrounding Alan McCartney and his vampire horde. The tension in the air was palpable, and I was literally shaking in my desert-colored, company issue boots.

As I listened in my headset for the order to advance, I had time to consider the depth of the crap I had gotten us into. We were drafted members of the Helsing coalition; weapons, uniforms, a command structure, organization, for goodness sake. All far from the individualism I’d joined less than a few months ago.

It was all too much, and I knew it. Lives were on the line here, and that meant mine too. I wasn’t sure I wanted my life on the line in the first place, but to be at the call of someone else’s command seemed wrong. I’d risked my life in the past, sure. But it had always been at my discretion.

Through the glass of my gas mask, I could see the farmhouse, only two hundred yards away. I could see the big generator, and even the movement of some heads in the farmhouse windows.

“Forty-seven.”

The pressure was incredible.

Frank turned to us. “Oxygen on. Whatever happens, breathe normally.”

I flipped my valve.

I can’t exactly remember when I first heard the noise, but it grew from distant humming to a dull roar. Then it almost burst my eardrums. As the first aircraft burst over my head, I knew I was suddenly at war.



My personal vendetta against Alan McCartney had turned into all-out chemical freaking warfare. As exhaust trails crisscrossed overhead, the ground became saturated with the Helsing version of WMD.

Reynolds gave the command we’d been waiting for, “Oxygen on. Whatever happens, breathe normally.”

A rush of forced air pressurized the mask and it suctioned up to my face with a “sllllurp”. It didn’t keep the toxic odor from getting through as acid rain sprayed down on us from above.

Lyman was shouting, “What is it?”

I kept my head down and listened only for Reynolds’ voice. “Coagulator! I can smell it. It’s strong.”

Finally the moment came: “We advance. We watch for trip wires, we carry both side arms. We shoot everything that doesn’t wear camouflage.”

It was a slow, deliberate decline and the stuff the Helsings were lacing my blood packs with wasn’t helping my coordination any. Out of the brush surrounding the bowl-shaped valley, more camouflaged figures emerged, converging on the compound in the center. The effect was nothing less than surreal; slow-walking trees with plastic faces and space-aged-looking weapons. And I was one of them.

Fifty yards downhill, the valley slithered with vampires, already dropped to their bellies and lungs fighting against the coagulant stiffening their muscles. They were fish in a barrel (as Dad would have said), easy pickings for the Helsing militia. Too easy.

Thanks for reading so far. This is the first segment from out third Vampire High School novel. We hope that it sparked interest. It's been a blast to write, and we hope that the ideas are fresh, and not relying on so much recent so-called "vampire-lore". Our vampires don't glisten.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Unlikely Hero

Unlikely Hero
By Geri Fitzsimmons
All rights to the author

“Sure,” the Old Fellow said, “revenge is best savored when it’s no longer expected.”


Chapter One

The land around had been bulldozed so dark soil encircled a massive structure. Barbed wire topped stone walls that stretched for miles. Slimy green mold discolored the gray stones of those walls. An oppressive silence polluted the air outside the walls.

There was noise aplenty within those walls, howling, cursing, and even the sobs of men mixed with the incessant barks and yells of warders. At nine years and a few days old, Garth Ahern knew all this though he had never actually heard it.  Hadn't his mum spit it at him for as long as he could remember, accompanied by her usual cuffs and slaps. "Sure'n that's where you'll die Gareee, squawking in a prison, just like your pa."

Now he rocked his buttocks back and forth lifting one then the other to keep the dampness from seeping through his short gray pants. It was wasted effort but he did it out of habit. As if the movements could somehow prevent his dirtying his pants. Tears dribbled from his eyes to streak his cheeks. He rubbed at a nose, more like a pop up button, in the center of his small face. A chubby hand reached up to shove the dusty blond hair from his forehead. Managing to soil his face sufficiently, he then slipped his hands beneath his cold buttocks. Back and forth he continued to rock.

No adult could see what his innocent eyes viewed through the fog of his tears. Parading the dead land around those prison walls were big men, broad of chest, heads held high. Strong voiced they sang to him. He had only a smattering of an idea of what their words meant. Battle, glory and death all connected as one concept within his immature mind.  Most of the phantoms he didn't recognize. The few he did were from faded pictures in books that didn't look all that much like these heroes.

Garth never sat here with his friends. He never let on to them what he knew and saw when he came here alone to visit. Among his pals, Garth was a comic who teased and made other boys laugh. He sang nonsensical rhymes of things that could never occur. Dreaming up goblins and ghouls, he could entertain his restless young chums for hours. Some of the older lads dubbed him The Rainmaker and swore, “Surely his lies cause the angels themselves to weep endlessly.”

No one ever saw Garth cry. Even when his ma whipped him in her meanness or a Holy Sister blistered his palms for, “Taking the Good Lord's name in vain.” Garth never shed a tear. The heroes cried for him. He knew that was what caused the rain, not some silly angels who didn't give a hoot. The heroes cried because they knew he would soon join them and die in the prison like his pa.

Garth didn't know his pa. Daniel Ahern was dead eight months before Garth was born. His ma had burned even his pictures that might have given the boy some vague remembrance. “Nay, Gareee, I'll not have ya grow inta a boozing, fighting, wasted lump the likes of Dan'el Ahern.” She told him daily but Garth knew different.

His eyes burned as he watched the ghostly heroes marching around those prison walls in time to their battle hymns. A sly smile formed on his lips and he licked at them. He knew that in the middle of that parade, Daniel Ahern was marching, waiting for his only son to join him.

Garth shivered from the chill inside as well as outside, his chest hurt as a patch of ice replaced his heart. He trembled and jumped to his feet, dancing about trying to restore the flow of warm blood. He didn't concern himself with hours or minutes but he realized he had been here a long time. Time enough to get in big trouble. Since he was always in trouble, he didn't waste effort on worry. The emptiness of his stomach caused noisy grumbles and a bit of a gas pain. Abruptly the heroes began weeping and the rain splashed on his head. His school uniform would be dirty and wet and his ma would whip him good. Her slaps didn't bother him much anymore, but that yowling. How he hated the sound of Leona’s voice. How he longed to smash a burning brick of peat into her wide yap. He snickered. Sure’n, but weren’t he the Devil's child like the Good Father Reagan said.

The rain came harder. He ran. Faster and faster his legs pumped, his feet keeping time to the rhythm of the rain. If he could move fast enough, the speed of his legs might carry his body above the heroes' tears; he might run all the way to Hell. The sound of his childish laughter rang loudly. Sure'n he'd never be cold again.

He couldn't see much through the haze of the downpour but he knew the way by heart. He'd entered the road to increase his speed but when the auto came around a bend he didn't hear it. When his small body suddenly took flight, it was as if he'd gotten his wish and left the Earth behind.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Origins of The Sixth Precept - Part 7

My writers’  group members had questioned my resolve to combine the short stories into the overall novel I was writing more than once. They suggested I take all references to the short stories (except for “Shadow Hunt,” which had become Chapter 9) out of the book.
I declined to do that and set about polishing the novel as it was. I really thought I had meshed all the disparate parts of the short stories seamlessly into the grand whole. As a result, I decided to pitch my novel to a respected and well-known genre editor.
I belong to a Pennsylvania state-wide writers’ group called Pennwriters. Every year at their annual conference, members can set up appointments with guest editors and/or agents to try to sell their novels. A few years ago, I got a 10 minute spot with Ginger Buchannan of Ace/Penguin/Roc – a very big deal indeed! I was pretty nervous but had practiced my pitch and went into the interview with all guns blazing. She actually kept me over 5 minutes, saying my novel had a “reverse terminator” plot and sounded interesting. She gave me her card and told me to query her when I had cut out 30,000 words!
I was pretty much in a daze about that – how could I cut out so much? And then I remembered the comments my writers’ group had made. I was able to cut out all those words pretty easily. As a result, The Sixth Precept, became a much leaner, tighter and better book. I know you all think that I never listen to my group but, honestly, this was the only time I had rebelled against their infinite wisdom! Of course, I had rebelled about 3 times but I’m much better now.  J
I queried Ms. Buchannan and then, per her request, sent the entire manuscript to her. Nine months later it was rejected by another editor – there had been a reorg at Ace and Ginger was promoted. I’d like to think that she would have given The Sixth Precept a shot had she not been booted upstairs but this left the door open for IFWG!