Donald Francis

What A Fool Believes...

2009-04-13T18:33:00.002-07:00

I was 19 years old, and I was on the beach at a quarter past six in the morning. Walking next to me with cool sand cloying thick to her bare feet and ankles, her rolled-up jeans and a faded hoodie, was That Girl. The morning breeze was chilly, but she brushed away the arm I tried to put round her shoulders.

We were going to have The Talk. The one that starts with "I really like you a lot. You're smart and you're funny..." and that's when you know that it's not going to end well. Sometimes, like this time, you also know that it's your own fault and that it didn't have to be this way at all.

It was one of those moments when life ought to have not just a rewind button, but a whole remote control, complete with zooms and pause and, especially, a fast forward button. Because you know this is going to leave a mark and it would be awfully nice to just zip on past it.

But, sometimes, you get the chance to at least try to correct the mistakes. Sometimes you get the chance to be the friend you should have been a long time ago, the one that sometimes she really did want you to be in the first place.

It'll never be what you wanted it to be so long ago, but you know what? Sometimes it's a helluva lot better to have a friend than to pass up a friendship just for the sake of being childish.

And sometimes you don't even realize how much you missed somebody until you get the chance to talk again.

Just a quick note...

2009-04-04T23:16:00.002-07:00

Well, it has been a very long time, indeed, and with reason. Not especially GOOD reasons, but reasons nevertheless.

Life throws its curveballs, and eventually you learn at least to get out of the way of them even if you never manage to hit them back like you might hope. New job, new projects, new way of life, and now everything has finally settled back to a dull roar. I've missed you all, my cyber friends, and I will try to be less of a scary old hermit. Well, I'll try to be less of a hermit - can't do much about being scary and old anymore, now, can I?

Here's hoping that the Spring to come brings us all flowers and suchlike. :)

Faces of Our Fathers

2007-06-14T08:50:00.000-07:00

"You have forgotten the face of your father."

For all his excesses and all his self-indulgences, Stephen King certainly knows how to turn a phrase, doesn’t he? The phrase above is a refrain that runs through King’s magnum opus "Dark Tower" series. The main character is a "gunslinger," a sort of fantasy world hybrid of an Arthurian questing knight and Clint Eastwood-style Western gunman, and the most powerful expression of shame in the world of the Tower is exactly that phrase above – "You have forgotten the face of your father." It’s one of the most succinct and profound expressions King has ever produced, and it goes straight to the deepest fear that many of us, myself included, harbor deep inside our chests – that we are unworthy to bear the names of our fathers, that we have failed in our first and most fundamental duty, to carry on the values we were taught while growing up under the roof and protection of the generation before us.

Some people probably have it easier than others, I suppose. I’ve heard horror tales about fathers who never passed on the things that mattered or passed on the wrong lessons. I was more fortunate, and maybe the most fortunate in that regard of anyone I know. My dad, as I’ve mentioned before, is a retired Baltimore City firefighter, decorated in the course of his service, a retired Marine, and one of the hardest working men I’ve ever seen, much less known. He grew up without a father of his own, but with the example of other men in the older generation who stepped up to take that mentoring role for him when possible. He never forgot what it was like to not have a dad, and he always did what he could to make sure my sister and I knew the face of our own.

I could, and have, passed along hundreds of stories about my father, about the things I learned from him over the years, about the values he passed along to me as much through his deeds as his words, but one leaps to mind.

It was the evening following my graduation from high school, and I had gone to a party at a friend’s house in the afternoon. I was scheduled for a three-hour shift that night at a local convenience store. We were celebrating; we had come through four years at a fairly tough Catholic school, and my friends and I were gathered in the back yard of Chris’s house, drinking beer, playing volleyball, throwing each other’s girlfriends into the swimming pool, and generally being rambunctious. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to leave the party to work for three hours, so I called out and told them I was sick.

It never occurred to me that my parents might stop by at the store and find that I wasn’t there. Ooops.

I was standing beside the picnic table when I heard the panicky voice of one of the girls hissing, "Oh, shit! It’s Don’s Dad!"

Twenty to thirty hands made hasty efforts to hide beer bottles and cans, and twenty to thirty faces tried to assume a guiltless nonchalance as the gate to the back yard swung open and my father stepped into the yard. He looked around impassively, nodding in acknowledgement as some of the kids tried a half-hearted wave of innocence in his direction, and walked over to the picnic table, where he stood beside me for a moment before turning to Chris, our host.

"Mind if I have a beer with you?" he asked, and Chris’s mouth dropped open for a long moment before he reached down into the clumsily "hidden" cooler and pulled out a bottle, handing it over silently.

My dad opened his beer, sat down at the picnic table, and calmly told us all stories for a half hour or so. Once everyone relaxed, realizing that he wasn’t there to break up the party or ruin anyone’s good time, he finished his beer and looked at Chris. "Nobody’s driving anywhere, right?" Chris assured him that all the car keys had been locked up. "If you need anything, if anything happens, you call me. Okay?" We all agreed that we would.

He pulled me aside for a moment. "Your mother wanted me to drag your ass home, but I’m not going to do that. I needed to make sure that you were all right, that nobody was getting out of control, that you guys were safe. Have a good time. But be smart, okay?"

And he left.

My mother wasn’t wrong, by the way. She was well within her rights to have me dragged out by the ear. I had screwed up, and I would do so again (and again and…well, you get the drift.) But I’ve never forgotten the way that he handled it, deciding that instead of showing anger or disappointment, he would calmly see to our safety. He showed us all that it was okay to make a choice, even the wrong one, as long as everybody got back home safe and sound.

I haven’t always followed his example as well as I’d like, but I hope he knows that I’ve never forgotten his face.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.

Mother's Day

2007-05-09T09:41:00.000-07:00

She’s sitting on the living room sofa, one hand clutching a book, a finger hooked inside to mark her page. The other hand holds a series of black licorice strands that hang up and over in different directions like a crazy bouquet of limp stems. Lying beside and all around her are dogs, most of them small and all of them eager cuddlers. She is my mother, and this is the picture of her I carry in my mind.

It’s a composite, of course. I know this because I can never quite make out the title of the book, and because the dogs I see with her didn’t all live at the same time, but there they are, all united in their love for her.

I’m lucky. I’ve never had that love/hate relationship with my parents described by so many people I’ve known. There were rough times, yes, especially during difficult teenaged years, but even while I saw other families break upon the rocks of accusation, argument, and antagonism, I never had a moment’s doubt of the love my parents had for me and my sister.
She taught me to read, but more important, she taught me the love of reading, and the love of learning. She taught me that while we have to live in the world, there’s nothing wrong with taking a trip to dreamland every now and then. She taught me to love history, but to never be afraid to replace a legend with the facts. She taught me to look beyond the surface and to think more about the whys and less about the hows.

I’ve never given her enough credit, mostly because of my natural male inclination to talk about the things I learned from my father about how to be a man. I don’t mean to sell her short, however, because if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be the person I’ve become. I certainly wouldn't have been a writer.

I love you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

Legends and Cold Reality

2007-05-08T18:53:00.000-07:00

I've been doing deep research for my current project, intended to be a conspiracy-oriented thriller. When I kicked around some thoughts with a good friend of mine, he forcefully pooh-poohed the very idea of conspiracy, pointing out that plots inevitably fail, participants invariably talk. and the hard truth that our covert operators in reality are nowhere near as their counterparts in fiction.

I countered, pointing out the zealous mindset of determined Cold Warriors and hardened, trained patriots ready to sacrifice all on the altar of national security.

The more research I do, however, the harder reality is attempting to subvert the whole process. The legendary spymasters of the CIA, for example, are beginning to appear as a bunch of pampered, overeducated WASPs who blundered into one failure after another, benefitting largely from a PR machine every bit as effective as that enjoyed by the FBI during the halcyon days of Hoover.

James McCord, once an intelligence operative supposedly thoroughly seasoned by years in the CIA, was called out of early retirement to handle some surveillance for the Nixon administration. This crack operator went out and bought his bugs and transmitters at Radio Shack and corner drugstores. The operation's surreptitious entry was discovered when security doors the team had taped open were discovered. A security guard removed the tape from the door...and returned some time later to find that these stealthy operators had re-taped the door!

William Harvey became a legend in the intelligence community for his famous Berlin Tunnel, a daring enterprise that dug a tunnel straight under the Soviet Embassy in East Germany. It wasn't until years later that it was uncovered that the Soviets had known about it almost immediately, and had been using the tapped phone lines to send false information to the West.

It's hard to write a thriller when you realize how close it is to a comedy.

Grief is sometimes silent...

2007-04-02T20:56:00.000-07:00

One of my heroes slipped the bonds of this earth in November, and I didn't even know it. As far as I know, no one did except for his immediate family, but Donald Hamilton has now moved on, no doubt carried aloft by the Valkyrie to eternal celebration.

For those who don't know the name, Donald Hamilton is best known as the creator of the "spy" Matt Helm (code name "Eric") - the quotation marks are there for a reason; Helm was a counter-assassin, pure and simple, and was only seen as a spy because of the popularity of the James Bond franchise at the peak time of the series. Helm was tough, surly, and vacillated between being as mean as a snake and as soft-hearted as a puppy. In that, I suspect, he was a true reflection of his iconoclastic creator, for Hamilton never skipped over a chance to rail against the superficiality of American culture. An avid outdoorsman, Hamilton had no problem with getting his hands bloody in pursuit of a good cut of meat, and had little patience for those who would eat a steak but recoil at the very idea of taking a rifle out and hunting for supper.

In later years, the Helm novels slipped from popularity, partially because of the decline in the straight-to-paperback market that showcased tough-guy prose and probably just as much because of Hamilton's tendency to lecture his readers, through Helm's voice, on soft American culture. From time to time, he let a troubling streak of the dinosaur show, and would sometimes paradoxically create a strong and vivid female character while propping up a cardboard, weak-stomached caricature within the same book.

What Hamilton did well, however, and in my opinion, better than Spillane or even Chandler, is give a credible and understandable portrait of a man whose stock in trade is violence. Throughout the series, Helm is cursed by the fact that this is really the only thing he's ever been good at, and while he can be downright pedantic when he's on his soapbox, the reader sometimes wonders how much of it is bluster to cover the scars that his way of life is leaving on him.

Hamilton spent the final years of his life in Sweden, where long-time Helmheads know he had special affections. Sailor, hunter, shooter, outdoorsman, and author, Hamilton passed away quietly in his sleep at age 90. Unlike Ed McBain, Mickey Spillane, or others of his ilk, Hamilton's passing was unknown and unheralded. To those who knew the wry humor and the taut plotting he brought to the table when at his best, his loss is a great one indeed.

So, for one last time, Eric out.

Sneak Peek

2007-03-05T09:48:00.000-08:00

A little peek at the first part of Session One...

Why Write?

The first and biggest question that I would pose to any writer, especially any novice writer just getting his or her start in the field, is why do you want to do this? If your answer is anything similar to “I think it sounds like an easy way to make a ton of money,” then you should pick up your notebook, finish your coffee, and save yourself a ton of heartache by going home now, because I hate to be the guy who goes around squashing peoples’ dreams.

Writing is not easy. And, unless you are able to become a cottage industry like a Stephen King, an Anne Rice, or a John Grisham, there’s not a lot of money in it, at least not in relation to the blood, sweat, and tears you’ll end up spending on it.

See, the only real answers to that question are “Because I love writing,” or “Because I need to tell the stories that are inside me.” If you have that love and that need, then I can tell you this, here and now; every one of you can write a novel, and that’s what we’re going to be working through here for the next six weeks.

I’m going to give all of you my email address before you leave today. I urge you all to have or make at least one friend here in the class as well, because one thing that you’re probably going to need is a support system. Writers need to bounce ideas off one another, they need to commune with one another, and they need, on occasion, to drag one another by the scruff of the neck. You’ve all seen those war movies where a soldier gets wounded and one of the other guys in the unit slings the wounded man over his shoulder and carries him to safety? Look around the room here, because these are some of the people who’ll be sitting in the foxhole with you when you start to think that you can’t do this.

OK, enough scaring everybody and let’s talk about the fun stuff, shall we? What’s in it for a writer?

For one thing, writing is the only way that I know that you can play God, at least not without creating really awful progenies that will stalk the night and come back for you when you least expect it. You’re in charge, completely, and you control the characters and the very world they inhabit. The characters will express your feelings and emotions about the world you live in, and your view of that world, and your view of the people around you, and it’s all safely shrouded by the veil of fiction.

There’s a thrill that comes from telling a story, and the ultimate goal is to hold the end result in your hand; whether it’s a notebook filled with your own handwriting, or a printed ream of pages, or an actual book you can pluck from your shelf. You hold it in your hands and you can see that your dreams, your hopes, your hard work have resulted in art.

And, yes, it’s art. I don’t care if you’re writing a genre pot-boiler, a bodice-ripping romance, erotica, horror, it doesn’t matter. When a reader picks up that book, or that notepad, or that stack of pages, you have given him or her an experience – and that, my friends, is art.

And, hey, if you write a story that people want to read, and you catch a break or two, you might make a whole pile of money and get invited to speak on talk shows and have Ron Howard calling you up to offer you a wheelbarrow full of money for the movie rights, so there’s something to be said for art after all!

Workshop, Part the Second

2007-03-05T09:38:00.000-08:00

This week begins the Creative Writing Workshop to be held at the Village Coffee House in Dundalk, MD. I have exciting news on this – the Dundalk Eagle has expressed an interest in printing a 1,500 word story or, if necessary, an excerpt from one of our participants, so you’ll have a shot at that most elusive of writing prizes – near instant gratification!

For those interested, the classes begin on March 11th, and the six sessions will cover such topics as:

Session One: Getting Started (4/11/07)
Ø Why Write?
Ø Tools of the Trade: Eyes, Ears, and Heart
Ø The Blank Page Terror
Ø Finding a Voice
Ø The Cold Open

Session Two: Character (4/18/07)
Ø Have We Met?
Ø Making Small Talk
Ø What’s In a Name?
Ø The All-Important Arc
Ø The Journey
Ø What’s My Motivation?
Ø Dialogue, he said.

Session Three: Readings and Critiques (4/25/07)
Ø Taming the Beasts
Ø Help! My Kid Is Ugly!
Ø Trimming the Fat
Ø Foot Cavalry
Ø Learn by Doing
Ø Having a Moment

Session Four: Plot (5/1/07)
Ø Outlines
Ø Mapping
Ø Upping the Ante
Ø Breaking the Story
Ø Drawing the Curtain

5/8/07 – Easter Sunday- no session

Session Five: Verisimilitude (5/15/07)
Ø Readings
Ø Research
Ø Experience
Ø Credibility

Session Six: Life and Art (5/22/07)
Ø Style Points
Ø The Second Draft
Ø The Goal
Ø The Need
Ø Now What?
Ø Alive! It’s Alive!

Workshop!

2007-01-29T09:00:00.000-08:00

Hello to all!

Just wanted to put out the word that I've been invited to lead a Creative Writing Workshop at the Village Coffee House in Dundalk, MD.

More details will follow, but we're looking at six weeks, every Sunday afternoon, and beginning in March. I'll post more on this as information becomes available. For now, I have to work on the materials...

New Year, New Challenges

2007-01-02T09:33:00.000-08:00

Goodbye to 2006 and hello to a brand new year. Here’s hoping that everyone’s resolutions are met or exceeded, and that the upcoming annum proves to be far, far better than the one that has come before.

It promises to be a very challenging year personally. I am now working under a very direct challenge to finish at least two of my current slate of works-in-progress before I start on anything else. “Hostile” is currently the first priority, since that particular nasty little Western has been burning holes in my authorial pocket for quite some time. Then…and this is the real purpose of the post…a sequel for Frank and Shannon. I’ve been fielding a good number of questions and requests from fans of “Advent,” so I wanted to drop a quick line and acknowledge that it’s coming soon…and I promise not to go all Thomas Harris with it (you know – all of what you wanted, in the WORST POSSIBLE WAY.)

I hope that the new year finds everyone well.

I'm a Ho-Ho-Hoing Away...

2006-12-08T10:53:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays to all! I'm working on my annual Christmas story, and wanted to take a quick moment to say hello to all of my friends out in cyberland. I hope that this season finds you well and enjoying good times with family and friends.

And speaking of Ho-Ho-Hos, I now have a little store full of useless nonsense.

Frankly, My Dear...

2006-11-16T10:57:00.000-08:00

Well, this entry is designed to serve a few purposes all at once, because I’m an all-at-once kinda guy, except when I’m not.

The first purpose is to establish that I am, in fact, alive and have not fallen off the edge of the world. I haven’t blogged in forever, mainly because things in my personal life have been chaotic and in flux, and it’s not very entertaining reading about somebody in that kind of mindset. Let’s just say it’s been a very rough year, with deaths, personal and professional turmoil, and at least two persons of my acquaintance suffering from very serious illness.

Now on to other matters. Selah has posted an appreciation – a tract, if you will – on the inspiration she derived from Margaret Mitchell’s characterization of Scarlett O’Hara. For Selah – and she puts it far more eloquently than I – Scarlett was a symbol of feminine strength in a world dominated by men.

Now, I won’t argue that the figure of Scarlett succeeds in the minds of many for exactly those reasons. God knows there has to be SOME reason that the character became, and remains popular, because it certainly has nothing whatsoever to do with her inherent charms or her stature as a person, because she’s quite an awful person most of the time. She’s vain, spoiled, manipulative, pushy, greedy, and more than a little cruel, and that’s not even taking into account the portions of her character that were shaped predominantly by the times, so I’m not talking about the racial elements, etc.

But, even worse from my perspective, Scarlett’s strength is established by placing her around and against the most cardboard of stereotypes. Her Deep South seems to be populated almost exclusively by nitwits, from the idiotic and weak men she manipulates into marriage (at least once screwing over her own SISTER in the process – I don’t get how that’s a feminist icon in action, but okay…) to the foolish and insipid Ladies Who Tea in the big cities and finally to the original androgyny she pines for, the Man with the Girl’s Name, Ashley Wilkes.

Scarlett appears, to this admittedly hard-headed male at least, to embrace the very worst of traits from both men and women, and her perseverance and frequent successes cloak her actions along the way. For Scarlett, the ends – that she’ll never go hungry again, that the taxes on Tara are paid, that she never has to cut up curtains to make a dress again – justify the means, any means. For me, I think this is the very worst thing for a feminine icon to be. Scarlett’s actions make the argument that the only way to succeed is to outdo men (and anyone else around) at grasping and scrabbling for more. She violates all the unspoken taboos of the society around her, and is roundly praised by readers for her independence; but aren’t at least some of the taboos there for a purpose?

I will now brace for the inevitable assault…

Funeral For A Friend

2006-10-02T10:41:00.000-07:00

A true officer and gentleman has been lost to the world, and it is with heavy heart that I sit here at the keyboard to note his passing.

Page G. Fried III was not a famous man. Most of the people reading this will never have heard of him, and he remains unmourned by the vast majority of people, but not by anyone who had the privilege of meeting him.

A Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Army, honorably retired and working in the private sector, Page was one of the best bosses I ever had, and an example of how to be a man, an officer, a friend, and a father. The world does not know what it has lost, and it falls to those few of us in the know to reflect on the gifts he left us – his unique perspective on life and labor, his professionalism, his artful means of employing profanity, his simple faith in the sacred, and his towering sense of honor and personal integrity.

Page had a copy of one of my books in his office, still marked where he had left off reading before he was tragically taken from us by a sudden heart attack. It seems only fitting that “Hostile,” with its military overtones, should be dedicated solely to the Colonel. I will miss you, sir. Enter the gates of heaven, you soldier. You’ve spent your time in Hell.

So Where Have I Been?

2006-09-06T11:15:00.000-07:00

Well, I've reached that point in the new work where I just kind of disappear for a while and let it all ferment, as you can no doubt tell. I hope that this finds all of you well. Those of you who are readers, take heart - I've passed the 48K mark and am nearly halfway through the first draft.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you all know that I am among the living, if not among the quick.

Progress, Progress

2006-08-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

Writing a novel is a marathon, not a sprint. At least that's what we say when the words are a fight and it's been days since we've produced a couple of pages.

However, distractions have been many and varied, and I'm doing my best to get things back on track. Passed the 44K mark on "Hostile" and expect to continue at a somewhat faster piece for the next week or two. Wish me luck!

Updates

2006-08-22T06:58:00.000-07:00

Greetings to all and sundry out there in cyber-land. I hope the last few days have gone well for everyone.

I had my first reading on Friday night, and I think it went very well. Certainly the coffee house was great - that's The Village Coffee House in Dundalk, MD, and I can highly recommend both the regular joe and the mochaccinos.

The crowd was small, but very friendly, and they asked some very good questions following a short reading from "Advent." In case any of them should drop by here, I'd like to extend my thanks to each of them for making my very first reading something enjoyable and tell them how much I appreciated their attendance and the chance to share a taste of my work with them.

I will be returning to the Village in about a week and a half, with a small supply of books in tow, so if you're interested in joining us, I expect to be there again on Friday, September 1st at about 7:00 PM.

Appearance/Signing

2006-08-15T08:20:00.000-07:00

I’ve been invited to do a reading from “Advent” at The Village Coffee House in Dundalk, MD on Friday night. Unfortunately, my latest shipment of books has not arrived, so I won’t be able to sell them at the event, but I will have flyers on hand to promote the book and will happily sign any copies that are brought in.

You’ll recognize me. I’ll be the one hopped up from too many mochas.

Recommendations

2006-07-25T17:55:00.000-07:00

So a very good friend of mine recommended John Connally.

I hate him for it, mostly because Connally is better than me, but I haven't been able to put down "Every Dead Thing" since I picked it up, and that's a good thing since I've had car trouble and wound up stuck in a hotel room for extended periods of time all by my lonesome.

Highly recommended, both for the creep factor and the police procedural undertones. Well done.

It LIVES!

2006-07-20T16:24:00.000-07:00

I'm very pleased to announce that my website, while still in its infancy, is now a going concern. At Donald Francis Online, you can see information on "Advent," check out my alter ego and his "Lancelot" series, and even see a sneak preview from the new book, "Hostile."

I'm sure there will be more to come, just as soon as I come up more ideas. If you have any suggestions, drop me a line at don@donaldfrancisonline.com!

Warriors in Police Actions

2006-07-19T06:21:00.000-07:00

Americans have an instinctual mistrust of their armed forces. Yes, we tie yellow ribbons around every available tree and car antenna, and we break into spontaneous applause when a squad of uniformed troops walk past us in the airport, freshly home from Iraq, and yes, we buy the fellows a round when they walk into the bar. But that’s different; that’s the guys and gals who are serving, and we love them. It’s the establishment that makes us a little leery.

"Oh, Don, you’re being absurd," I hear you saying. Especially now, with over half the population in a flag-waving frenzy and current policy apparently taking the form of a Pax Americana Plan.

But that’s exactly the crux of the problem. Americans are willing to have a standing army only for the purposes of maintaining peace. It’s hardwired into the very system of the American military. We used to have a War Department – now we have a Department of Defense. We used to fight wars, real wars, against belligerent nations directly opposed to us, with formal resolutions and severance of diplomatic ties, and a Congressional Declaration of War. Now we fight “police actions” – limited engagements designed to pacify (there’s that “peace” intent again) certain groups, nations, or areas.

So some of you are rolling your eyes and muttering that it’s not our policy or our intention, but our burden. That, as the only superpower standing, we have an obligation to use our strength to preserve the peace, and that we certainly never intended it that way. I respectfully direct you to our military history.

Many of the founding fathers and succeeding political leaders have been openly opposed to the maintenance of a full-time, professional army, feeling that it is both a drain on the treasury and a potential threat, should the leaders of the military decide to take on political power backed by the threat or reality of attack. (Rome, anyone? Anyone? Bueller?)

As a result, the armed forces have lived on a perpetual seesaw – favored when a national emergency requires that troops be mustered and put into the field, but viewed with distrust and even contempt during times of peace. Their existence is a reminder of the possibility of war, and Americans, for as warlike a people as they can be, dislike being reminded of such a possibility.

In an effort to make use of this trained force that was ready to hand, the government early on used the troops not as “soldiers” in the sense of fighting wars, but as “peace-keepers.” Initially, during the early years of the nation and throughout the Westward expansion, this meant posting regular Army troops along the frontier to defend settlements from Indian attacks, and to protect reservation Indians from white depredations. Not soldiers, in the accepted manner of conquering columns on the attack, but policemen. Their mission was not, generally speaking, one of making war on the Indians, but of “pacifying” the situation. Sometimes this called for war and sometimes it called for protecting, feeding, and settling displaced tribes. Troops were used for purposes of putting down railroad strikes, intervening in local shootouts, monitoring elections in the Reconstructed South.

For many years the role of the armed forces walked this schizophrenic line, attacking villages filled with people to whom they had given tons of rations and supplies a few months before. It has continued all through our present.

So why do these police actions fail? Because police work can only be done properly when the police force is recognized as a legitimate authority, and American troops are generally not regarded as legitimate authorities when they are sent in to “pacify” an area or a people. Police work depends upon the mutual consent of the people to be governed and policed. Naturally, the individual malefactor or gang of cutthroats do not recognize the authority of the police, but the general population does, and that’s what makes for effective policing.

Jack the Ripper was never caught. Several of the police officers involved expressed the strong opinion that the killer must have been a Polish Jew immigrant. Why? Not only because of the prevalent opinion that no Englishman could have committed such awful crimes, but also because the police were convinced that the man was “hidden by and among his own people.” The Polish Jews were outsiders, outside the mainstream order which accepted the police as a legitimate authority. If the police were considered antagonistic or illegitimate, then persons who had committed crimes could find allies to aid, feed, and hide them.

The US Cavalry was not regarded as a legitimate authority by the Indian tribes, and that is what led to the shooting wars. Most of the wars wound up taking place because a limited handful of Indians, usually in response to white aggression of one kind or another, struck and committed a crime against whites. When the Army sent troops or agents to apprehend the suspects, the Indians refused to turn them over to what they considered not only a hostile, but an illegitimate authority. The shooting began as an effort to impose legitimacy through force.

Our troops cannot be expected to function as police officers in Iraq, separating guilty persons from innocent, and that is the problem. Police officers have to be recognized as representatives of legitimate authority, and occupying troops are never accepted as such. If a military occupation is in place, it means that, by definition, the occupying force is being resisted by the local inhabitants. That means that while you may have collaborators, the majority or a very powerful minority will not accept the authority of the occupiers, and resisters will always have someplace to run.

Soldiers are warriors, not peace-keepers, and we do well to remember that always.

Mailbag Two

2006-07-14T08:32:00.000-07:00

I forgot to include one:

Several readers, no doubt surprised at my current project being set in the Old West, have basically asked:

“So why a WESTERN now?”

There are several different ways that I could answer this one. I could say that setting is arbitrary when a timeless and relevant tale is told (witness the very interesting updates of “Richard III” or “Romeo and Juliet” in recent years.) I could say that the choice was influenced by my love for and familiarity with the period in question, or that the Old West has a romantic and legendary flavor not entirely unlike that of Camelot. And those things are all true, and all part of the reasoning behind the decision, but there’s more to it than that.

The quick, honest, and off-the-cuff answer is that the idea came to me full-blown and fully formed – “Aliens” (the movie, not little green men) on a Cavalry fort! How cool would THAT be?

Of course, nothing ever stays so simple, and somehow I went from a “quickie” novella that would take place over a two day span and put a small number of cavalrymen into an Alamo type standoff against monsters to a…well…a John Ford horror film of sorts.

John Ford, while most likely a belligerent and mean-spirited little Irish bully on a personal level, made some of the most densely layered and thoughtful Westerns of all time. They are studies of legend and its relationship to truth, of heroism versus barbarism, of the American ideal in comparison to the American closet of skeletons. Ford’s Westerns manage to put the American Indian in a sympathetic light while simultaneously making heroes of the US Army and its “dog-faced soldiers in dirty shirt blue.” On watching a Ford film the first time, one is struck by the fairly obvious flag-waving, right-wing patriotism of it all. Guidons snapping in the breeze, colorful and lovable character actors in cavalry uniforms drawling banter back and forth while they face mortal danger from painted hostile savages.

Watch them again and you notice some of the undercurrents. The bigoted nature of John Wayne’s character Ethan Edwards in “The Searchers.” The fact that the Indians are almost always somehow provoked to the warpath. The haughty treatment that Henry Fonda’s martinet colonel dishes out to Cochise, thus leading to the inevitable massacre. The way that, knowing the truth about Fonda’s character, John Wayne ultimately sacrifices the truth to embrace the legend that grows, because it’s good for the Army and good for his unit. Things are not as they seem in Ford’s vision of the West, and that’s the feel I wanted to reproduce with “Hostile.”

As I went on, however, the tale has become more relevant and more thoughtful. It started out as a simple, slam-bang action piece, but now it’s become more metaphorical and much deeper.

You see, in 1876, the United States had men out in the field, at risk. They were in a wilderness, surrounded by indigenous people that could be friendly or hostile, and actually could change with the wind from one to the other. They were put on duty to occupy the territory while it was in the process of settling. They did not understand the culture, the language, or the customs of the people with whom they were dealing, and they were motivated by everything from patriotism to lust for spoils to plain needing a job.

Does any of this sound familiar?

Their story is tinged with ambivalence. Soldiers gave the last of their water to a wounded Indian scout and then attacked the village, firing indiscriminately on women and children. Soldiers were filled with indignation at the sight of the hardships that Indians were forced to endure on reservations or as prisoners – but then came across the savagely mutilated bodies of settlers or other soldiers that had fallen, alive, into Indian hands.

So “Hostile” is a horror story about a small outpost on the American frontier being overrun by monsters. But it’s also a story about racism, about honor, about greed, about courage, and, I hope, about people, and about how the more things change, the more they ultimately remain the same.

Mailbag!

2006-07-13T08:51:00.000-07:00

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, since the books are now openly available, but I am always pleasantly thrilled when a reader takes the time to go ahead and send me a message with questions or comments, and I thought this might be a good spot to answer some of them publicly (in addition to the individual responses I’ve given.)

So here goes:

JG said, “I liked the Lancelot book; you didn’t have to KNOW everything about the King Arthur legend to follow it and know what was going on. But I really thought Advent was excellent! Are you going to do another Frank Brennan book? I really liked his character and I think you should do more with him.”

Well, the answer is yes, and perhaps a little bit of no as well. I will be working again with Frank – he is an interesting blend and an unlikely hero, so there are more stories to tell from his viewpoint. However, I probably won’t be doing the same kind of story with Frank again. He’s not an FBI agent or a policeman, after all, so I can’t realistically use him to go hunting killers all the time. Frank’s next adventure will be taking him along a completely different path, perhaps even to an occult realm (hint hint!) and promises to be a departure from the (unfortunately) very credible and real threat in the first book.

JEK asked, “Where did you get the cover art for ‘Advent?’”

For “Advent,” and for the initial release of “Lancelot: Knight of the Heart,” I used premade covers offered by Lulu (www.lulu.com) to their authors. I have since altered the design of the Lancelot cover (more on that later) and have already begun designing the cover for my new work, assuming that I don’t pursue more traditional avenues of publication when that one is completed.

MEM asked, “What is the painting that’s on the new cover of the Lancelot? I think I’ve seen it somewhere before…”

If you’ve been to my house, you’ve seen it, as I have a large framed print of it hanging just outside the door to my office/library. The painting is called “The Accolade,” and it is by Sir Edmund Blair Leighton, who flourished in the late nineteenth and VERY early twentieth centuries. Leighton was, obviously, one of the great Romantic artists, and he did a few different paintings that were worthy of consideration for the cover, but “The Accolade” was a natural choice since it actually helped to influence the novel itself.

MEM also asked about the rights to the painting.

I got lucky, actually, and the work was painted in the late nineteenth century. This means that it is in the Public Domain, and I can use it as long as I give credit where credit is due to Sir Edmund. So…yay!

RDB asks, “When is the second ‘Lancelot’ book coming out?”

When I finish writing it, of course. Actually, I’ve run into a few plot traps on the second volume, since it’s very episodic by nature, and is refusing to give me some solidifying themes. But I’m working on it, and I hope it will be available by the end of the year.

More to come, so keep those questions flowing on in!

What About Frank?

2006-07-07T07:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve been getting feedback lately from readers of “Advent,” and a common question is beginning to emerge: Will there be another Frank Brennan story?

Well, the answer is yes. I’ve been working for some time on a sequel, of sorts, to “Advent” and will most likely make that my next major project following “Hostile.” The new working title is “Agrippa,” and it should pit Frank against dark and magical forces.

Those of you interested in another ride through the horrific domain of the serial killer will be interested, I hope, in “Mind Games,” last year’s winning effort in the National Novel Writing Month contest. It is my hope to finish editing “Mind Games” and have it available before Halloween.

On Second Thought...

2006-07-03T07:18:00.000-07:00

I like this one much better.

The Fourth

2006-06-30T11:32:00.000-07:00

I suppose it is only fitting that, given the historical nature of the last several posts, I should note the coming Independence Day holiday.

What a mass of contradictions those Founding Fathers faced. Thirteen colonies, established by transplanted Englishmen, home now to various groups of immigrants and slaves, but still predominantly English in character, divided by sectional rifts and the economic and climatic differences from one colony to the next, all facing an invasion from the Mother Country. Loyalties were divided first between Loyalists and Rebels, then divided further among the Patriots themselves, as each colony claimed the supreme loyalty of its individual partisans. Men from Virginia were not happy about leaving their homes to fight the British on the soil of Connecticut and vice versa.

Were they perfect, these planters and politicians and power-brokers of the late eighteenth century? No, of course they weren’t. They were marred by hypocrises that have become legendary, from declaring the unalienable rights of all men while holding slaves themselves to the implied and actual sexism of the very guarantee of rights to “all MEN” while excluding women from the rights to vote or hold property. They were, as a rule, pugnacious and ambitious, they were often violent of temper and always violent of opinion. They were sometimes uncouth and sometimes downright dishonest.

But together they created what is still among the most judicious systems of government in operation. Together they laid the foundation for a country that, despite its faults and failings, despite its sometimes skewed sense of values, despite its often soiled past, really is seen as a benchmark for liberty in other areas of the world.

It’s not a perfect country, and sometimes it’s not even a good government, and I may rail against its policies on certain matters and contemplate all kinds of devious underpinnings to some of its actions, but it’s still my country, and I’m glad I live in a place where I can express that kind of an opinion without the police knocking on my front door about it.

Last Stand

2006-06-26T13:11:00.000-07:00

So what happened a hundred and thirty years ago? Why have I made such a big deal out of this, dedicating an entire week to spouting off about the events leading up to a Sunday afternoon that will never be completely understood?

The Battle of the Little Big Horn was the biggest military catastrophe that had befallen a United States military unit in nearly a century. Soldiers had, of course, been killed in battle by Indians before, and vastly larger numbers of men had been lost in comparable spans of time during the Civil War. As an example, the Union Army lost about 4,000 men in a matter of seven or eight minutes at a lonely crossroads called Cold Harbor, VA in 1864. Captain Fetterman’s entire command had been wiped out by Indians a few years before the Custer debacle – but Fetterman was virtually an unknown and exceptionally unimaginative commander, and he had taken only 50 or 60 men into the trap carefully orchestrated by a young Crazy Horse and his companions.

Custer took over 210 men into the Valley of the Little Bighorn, and he was well known as a charismatic and extremely effective officer. Much has been made of the supposed “mistake” or “typographical errors” that led to his promotion to Brigadier General at the age of 22. But it would be far-fetched indeed for the same man to receive the benefit of another such error, and Custer was destined to report as a Major General by the following year. Such award and promotions did not generally go to the unpromising, all protests from troops of the Army of the Potomac notwithstanding.

It never should have happened; nobody ever believed that the primitive Indian warriors could even form a line to resist the blue coated troops, especially the ones commanded by Old Long Hair. No one expected the Sioux to stand still for an attack. In fact, the overriding obsession from virtually ever ranking officer asked, is that the Indians could escape the cordon of troopers pressing in on them from three directions.

Custer divided his regiment into four battalions. Captain McDougall took charge of a single company guarding the pack train and its mules. Captain Benteen, with three companies and somewhere near a hundred men. Benteen’s mission, as given verbally by Custer, was to ride out in reconnaissance to the left and ensure that the hostiles could not leave by that route, unprotected by the approach of the other two converging columns.

Custer’s second-in-command, Major Marcus A. Reno, was given command of three companies (including the strongest group in the outfit) and ordered to charge the village ahead. Custer also promised support – “Pitch into the hostile camp and press your attack and we will support you.” The words themselves are unimportant –in some versions, Custer is said to have pledged that “you will be supported by the entire outfit.”

Custer himself took the remaining five companies and marched farther down the river to find a place to safely ford. He may have been met at the river and repulsed, then retreated under fire to the hill that now bears his name.

“Custer Hill” became the final resting place for the Boy General, his body found in a small cluster with several of his relatives and close officers. So many officers, in fact, were found immediately around the General that many theorists suppose that he may have been holding an “Officer’s Call” to give instructions for defense when a volley resounded and tore through Custer and several of his key subordinates, perhaps all in a single moment.

The truth of what happened in so far as Custer’s fate is known. He and about 212 men died along the banks of the Little Big Horn river in the greatest victory of Sioux and Cheyenne arms over the US Army in history. It was, however, to be their last. Nothing could have more effectively roused the ire and rage of the American public than to kill one of its dearest heroes on the very eve of Independence Day. The revenge was swift and horrific, and it was the “victory” at the Little Big Horn that truly sealed the fate of the Plains Indian.

No Prisoners

2006-06-20T10:40:00.000-07:00

The media, whether in print or on film, have alternated depictions of the great Indian Wars over the years, largely in response to the prevailing mindset of society regarding the plight of the Native Americans themselves. For example, in the first half of the twentieth century, when American pride was booming and the great patriotic fervor seized the country during and following the Second World War, the battles were depicted as grim, hardfought contests, with thin lines of blue-coated troopers forming doomed stands against hordes of well-armed, murderous warriors. In the late Sixties and Seventies, when the Vietnam War had many Americans questioning the effectiveness of the military and the very nature of warfare itself, the battles began to be examined differently. Now the well-armed, well-fed, disciplined regulars marched in and brazenly destroyed ragtag bands of peaceable Indians, putting women and children as well as men to the sword and the torch.

So where was the truth?

General John Gibbon, a corps commander in the Union Army during the Civil War and later a Colonel with field command against the Sioux and Cheyenne, described the “glory” to be gained in Indian fighting as “being shot from behind a rock by an Indian and having your name misspelled in the newspapers.”

Native American warriors were regarded by several of the commanders who fought them as “the finest light cavalry in the world.” Man for man, the Indian who lived by his fighting and hunting skills, was faster, stealthier, and better skilled in combat than the mostly city-bred white cavalry troopers ranged against him. The Indians were better marksmen, better at unarmed combat, and better at knowing and using the intricacies of terrain against an opponent. In fact, there were really only two areas in which the troopers held any real advantages – the discipline of a regimented Army unit was completely unknown to Indians, who never gave more than a tacit nod toward granting true authority to their chiefs, and the effective range of the carbines carried by the cavalry was superior in stopping power and accuracy to the bulk of the weapons carried by the Indians.

The “peacetime” Army, stripped of its massive numbers of volunteers gathered during the Civil War, moved from having 13,000-15,000 man corps to fielding entire expeditions with portions of a single regiment. The bulk of the fighting was done at the company level, and a cavalry company numbered about 40 to 45 men. As an example, the Custer fight resulted in the loss of Custer and every man under his command, which sounds to the student of the Civil War like an inconceivable bloodbath, since Custer’s brigade probably numbered some 5,000 men during the War. When he entered the valley of the Little Big Horn, however, he had somewhere in the area of 225 men, and this was the combined strength of five companies – nearly half the regiment.

The Seventh, despite its reputation as an “elite” regiment, was made up of the same stuff as the rest of the frontier Army – career men, skulkers, ne’er-do-wells, and a newer breed of mine-seekers. Many men in the early 1870’s joined the Army specifically to get a posting out West with the full intention of deserting at the first travel opportunity and making their way to the gold and silver mines in the Black Hills or farther West in California. Many were immigrants with very little English, looking for an opportunity to hold a job and get room and board for a couple of years while they learned the language and customs of their adopted land. For all their reputation as crack Indian fighters, Custer’s Seventh had seen comparatively little action besides the attack on Black Kettle’s band on the Washita River, and even that expedition had not been without loss.

Government committees found that it cost the taxpayers approximately a million dollars to kill a single Indian in battle. Problems of supply and logistics were exponential when dealing with the long expanses of open prairie, mountain ranges, precipices, and deserts of the West. Indian camps were highly mobile affairs, ready to fold up and move in a matter of minutes in case of attack, and the predominant problem, the thorny dilemma that obsessed not only Custer, but virtually every other field commander in the Army, was how to bring the Indians to battle in a stand-up fight. Much has been made of the Army’s policy of attacking villages with non-combatant populations of women and children, but it was the only countermeasure available to a ponderous Army that simply did not have the speed and mobility of the columns of Indian warriors.

Native American warriors also had vastly different ideas of warfare than their white counterparts. White soldiers saw victory as being something tangible and gained by the force as a whole – your forces hold the field at the end of the engagement, the enemy is forced to retreat or surrender, etc. For the Indians, victory was something that was measured only in terms of individual achievements – this warrior captured ten ponies, this one scalped two enemies, this one counted the first coup and so on. Because of the highly individualized concepts of the Native Americans, the idea of surrendering in battle was completely incomprehensible. Prisoners taken by Indian warriors would be seen as cowards, as unworthy of any treatment other than slow torture and death.

Therefore the watchword for frontier troops was “Save the last bullet for yourself.”

A Name Guaranteed To Start an Argument

2006-06-19T11:54:00.000-07:00

My latest novel, “Hostile” is set in the Dakota territory of the Old West in the year 1876, and has necessitated no small amount of research. The time period is, of course, controversial by its very nature, but the inclusion of those three terms – Dakota, West, and 1876 – bring immediately to mind one of the most controversial figures in American history: George Armstrong Custer.

In six days, it will be Sunday, June 25, 2006 – one hundred and thirty years, to the day, even to the day of the week, since Custer led a detachment of five companies of his Seventh Cavalry to their deaths at the Battle of the Little Big Horn. Thirteen decades and a host of excuses, rationalizations, theories, recriminations, and investigations later, we still do not know exactly what happened on that dusty Montana hillside that Sunday afternoon, but one thing that we do know is that Custer’s name is often enough to either begin an argument or, at the least, unleash a torrent of venomous opinion.

Since my research has meant so much study of the famously coiffed commander and the battlefield which until recently bore his name, I thought it would be interesting to spend the next six days leading up to the one hundred thirtieth anniversary in discussing this final, greatest victory of the Plains Indians over the United States Army.

It must be clearly understood that none of the “facts” which I will discuss are necessarily to be taken as gospel truth. No man in Custer’s immediate command survived, and the survivors of the battle told their stories under circumstances even less convivial to true memory than eyewitnesses to other notable events. Indian survivors, for example, had a very real (and sometimes justified) fear of retaliation when asked for their stories of the battle. White officers may have colored their tales in order to cover their own actions or to grind a personal grievance against Custer or some of the other commanders in his regiment. Later writers, swayed by their partisanship for Custer, Reno, Benteen, or any of the other figures in this dramatic story, have placed importance and emphasis on different and even conflicting stories, each to buttress his own theory.

But before touching on the movements, the actions, the mistakes made by the officers involved, it is important to remember that the truth is that Custer lost the battle and his life because his enemies won. Custer didn’t “lose” the Battle of the Little Big Horn – the Sioux and Cheyenne “won” it.

It is, therefore, with these Sioux and Cheyenne warriors that we should begin. Who were these Indians? Were they the “demonic red devils” of frontier lore? The “bloodthirsty savages” of early Westerns? The noble, Nature-embracing conservationists so beloved through the 1960s and 70s? Speaking personally, the most enduring image that I carried of the Native American from my childhood days was that of the noble warrior, one tear slowly trickling down his cheek, who looked down at the garbage-strewn mess that we had made of his beautiful land. The image, of course, came from a ubiquitous television commercial in the 1970’s, but was emblematic of a fundamental change in the way that the Indian Wars were viewed from the vantage point of a century.

At the height of the conflict, however, the nation was almost as deeply divided on the “Indian question” as it had been on the “slavery question” over the first half of the nineteenth century. Many of the same activists who had so tirelessly championed the cause of removing the institution of slavery turned, in the years following the Civil War, to advocating the cause of the American Indian. Their portrait of the “noble savage,” at one with Nature, nomadic and peaceable, ever mindful of the connection between man and the Earth, and victimized by the ever-increasing reach of white “civilization,” was matched by equally vociferous demands for pacification, protection, and even extermination coming from the settlements in the West. More than one commentator has noted wryly that the farther East one traveled – and thus, the farther away from the Indian territories – the more this depiction of the “noble savage” held sway. Out West, the victims of depredations were too fresh to be painted over by a few speeches or petitions, and vengeance was the call of the day.

And where was the Army in all of this? Square in the middle between the two camps. Officers such as Major Wynkoop went so far as to turn in his blue uniform and become an Indian agent to attempt to better the lot of his Native charges. Other officers, Custer notably among them, admired the Indian way of life, going so far as to privately admit that he himself would be labeled a “hostile” if he were compelled to live on a government reservation, especially under the often deplorable conditions set by a penurious Congress and a number of dishonest Indian Bureau agents.

Conversely, much of the army held the view attributed (mistakenly) to General Philip Sheridan, who was said to have commented “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” In point of fact, Sheridan never said this at all. Upon being introduced to a chief who greeted him by saying, “Me good Indian!” Sheridan brusquely replied, “The only good Indians I ever saw were dead.” So there is a misquoting, but the sense of the position is still clear.

Most of the officers held a pragmatic, duty-oriented view not unlike that of Custer himself. If the Indians were on the reservations, where they belonged according to the treaties they had signed, they should be well cared for, and the Army constantly recommended the cession of these administrative posts to Army officers who could handle the logistics involved to make sure that all were housed, clothed, and fed. If the Indians left the reservations and became “hostile,” then the Army accepted its duty to attack, round up, and “chastise” the recalcitrant tribesmen.

But what was it all about? Was the Indian the bloodthirsty murderer or the noble lover of Mother Earth? Like his white enemy, the Indian was all of the above, and none of it. To the eyes of white civilization, there is really only one term that truly describes the Native Americans, and it is a term ill-used today, its true meaning having been lost along the way of the years. The word is ALIEN. Nowadays, the word conjures up images of extraterrestrial beings, or immigrants from a foreign land. The original definition, however, was strange; different; unlike anything known to the speaker.

The culture and experiences of the Native Americans were alien to the “civilized” whites. Whites looked upon the Indians as foolish children, poor backward tots who only needed to be taught the “proper” way to live in order to become functioning members of society – white society, that is. Many tribes used vast tracts of land because they were hunters and gatherers by nature. Their culture was built around the chase, the hunt, winning honor through single exploits of courage, and living as nomads. Whites, seeing the Indians wander to and fro across the land, decided that they must be backward. Didn’t they know they should wear pants? Plow their fields? Put a fence up to determine their own land from their neighbor’s?

To the Indians, it was the white man who was backward and crazy. “One does not sell the earth upon which the people walk,” said Sitting Bull. The concept of having a plot of land or even a haunch of beef that was not for the use of others as well as yourself was completely inconceivable to the Native American culture. When an Indian was hungry and far from home, he walked into the nearest camp, sat down at a fire, and helped himself to some meat, even if he did not speak the same dialect. When an Indian fought, he fought alone, on his own terms. Every man was free to choose whether he would ride with a war party or stay home, and there was no stigma attached to refusing to battle. Contrast this with the discipline, regimented style of fighting embraced by the Army.

It was a clash of cultures that was bound to produce conflict, and just as firmly bound to end with only one culture surviving.

Back Home to Horror

2006-06-14T08:40:00.000-07:00

There were delusions, under which I labored for some time, that I was or could be a mainstream writer, with an ever-growing repertoire of genres to consider. Who knows? It may yet happen before long, especially if the Lancelot trilogy catches on and I’m besieged by demands for more in that particular Arthurian vein.

However, the long and the short of it is that I am, at heart, a horror writer. Like the illustrious Mr. King, who has become such an institution that no matter what he writes, it’s labeled as horror when it reaches the shelves, I think that my work will always be reaching into the darkness, and sometimes will not have the benefit of even a flickering match to guide it.

Since finishing “Advent,” “Mind Games,” and “Lancelot,” I’ve experimented with three different styles of storytelling – straight fantasy, science fiction, and even a comedy – and all three efforts have petered out, unfinished. It is to horror that I always return, like the criminal to the scene of the crime, perhaps, but more like the child rushing home to the familiar comforts of his own room.

The latest, coming soon with any luck:

Hostile

It’s April, 1876, and the United States is nearing the celebration to mark its first hundred years as an independent nation. On the frontier, however, the fireworks expected over the summer have more to do with the war against hostile Sioux and Cheyenne Indians than with the upcoming Centennial.

Lieutenant Bart Alders is about to reach the lonely post of Fort Kearny in the Dakota territory, just in time to bid farewell to its garrison as they march off to join General Alfred Terry’s offensive column as they take on Sitting Bull and his warriors. Alders is chagrined to be left behind with a handful of men to watch the women and wait for reinforcements to arrive, and prepares to fight the war against boredom.

Alders, however, is about to find out that there is more than one kind of a hostile out here in the untamed Great Plains, and that there are some evils that have lived in the land for longer than any peoples, whether they are white or red. Something has come out of the timber and found his little post. Something hungry.

Something Hostile.

Reviews Are In...

2006-06-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

The first two reviews of "Advent" have been posted, and thus far, reaction is positive.

JEKeefe writes: "Advent held my interest from the first page of Chapter One. Mr. Francis is obviously well-acquainted with the inner workings of an urban detective bureau, and he has drawn on that familiarity to produce an easy, satisfying, and yet compelling read. He has created a believable, albeit unwilling, hero in Frank Brennan, a police chaplain who begins to question his faith in God after becoming involved in Detective Shannon Meadows' search for a maniacal serial killer. Advent is a great start for Mr. Francis, and I can’t wait to read his next book."

JK O'Neill says: "Compelling. A page-turner. The author has a talent for the use of humor, horror and pacing that makes the book hard to put down."

Advent by Donald Francis

Frank Brennan may be a minister…but he’s no saint. Watching a young friend die a lingering, terrible death has left a hole in Frank’s guts – a hole that no God was going to be able to fill. Angry, heartsick, and tired of having to invent answers to the age-old question “Why do bad things happen to good people?”, Frank has slipped into despair, going through the motions and offering spiritual lip service both to his parishioners and to the police officers for whom he serves as a chaplain.

But Frank is about to come face-to-face with a true believer. While counseling the troubled Detective Shannon Meadows, Frank is literally along for the ride when a young woman is found dead along a bike path. Frank knows that this is no ordinary murder. This woman was stoned to death, and the significance of this modus operandi is not lost on Frank.

When the killer strikes repeatedly, echoing the martyrdoms of the saints, Frank is unable to suppress his desire to be involved, to help catch this man who espouses everything Frank finds repellent in God. Turning away from his family and his ministry, Frank is drawn closer to Meadows as she struggles to put the pieces together and catch the killer the press is dubbing “The Angel of Death.” And this Angel is trying to bring about his own Advent...one desecrated body at a time.

With the lives of Meadows and his family in the balance, Frank must find within himself the seeds of the faith he has rejected in order to face down the Angel and prove whether a God of mercy can conquer a God of vengeance.