A little late 15th Anniversary wish to Jaclyn Johnson and the series that made me

As my old radio mentor said occasionally, "Better late than never, better never late."

Last month--February 15, to be exact--marked the 15th anniversary of my breakout thriller series, Jaclyn Johnson, codename Snapshot. Fifteen years has passed, and today I look fondly back.

She came to me in a dream, this leggy blonde wearing the stereotypical schoolgirl uniform complete with kilt, walking down the street with purpose. As my dream continued, my mind's eye watched as she entered a building. I didn't see anything else until she walked out... just before the building exploded. And as that happened, she didn't even flinch in reaction.

It made me wonder (as I shot out of bed and vaulted toward the writing room) what did that all mean?

In a word, it meant beaucoup readers, and opportunities to reach more readers than I could have possibly dreamed when I started out writing back in 2003. It was late 2009, and I spent pretty much the second half of 2010 and all of 2011 writing about this partially blind (partially sighted?) counterterrorism agent. 

What you probably don't know is that I wrote the second book in the series, Rogue Agent, before I wrote Model Agent. By Halloween 2011, I had finished the third book, Double Agent, and as was the custom back then, I made Model Agent free on Smashwords--in essence, Apple iBooks and the small outlets that sold/lent eBooks--and had someone report the lower price to Amazon. It was sound practice: use the first book--Model--as a loss leader and see the sell-through through the next two books--and the following books--go high. 

And for the most part, that happened. There were people who loved the books, and there were some who didn't. I wanted to create a series that was fun, escapist fiction that readers could enjoy. I threw in the James Bond-esque gadgets that helped Jaclyn achieve her goals and solve her missions. I made her strong and relentless, and in many respects, I made her vengeful and bloodthirsty. The way Jaclyn inflicts punishment is in no way realistic, but in a book of escapism, blurring the lines of what is real and the fantastical makes, in my opinion, good pulse-pounding reading.

Over the next decade or so, I got away from some parts that made Jaclyn special. I stopped using her "darkness bombs" and "ether bombs," but kept others that made her unstoppable, such as her bodysuit and the multiple holsters. I ensured that she would have a reliable, fancy vehicle that was a rolling cache of weaponry. I carried this through nine full length novels and a novella... and then I stopped.

In 2018, I started on a new path. I had other things I wanted to accomplish... but then the pandemic and buying a house threw a monkey wrench into everything. I managed to start a tenth Jaclyn novel back in 2023, but I haven't come close to finishing it. It's my goal to get another quarter of it finished within the next year; between a long research project, as well as covering games again, it's all about balance. 

I also want to regain my audience and make it grow. I want to find readers who love James Bond and the gadgets. I want to find readers who love a heroine who has a lot going against her (she's disabled, for Christ's sake!), but overcomes and kicks ass. I want to find readers who want to binge read me on the beach, who want excitement in their books and not just the stale storytelling you'd get in New York-published books. This series, now 15 years old, is cinematic spy reading, and is FUN.

Again, I'm writing a new JJ. When will it get done? I don't know.

But the series is waiting for new readers like you.

Take a chance. You won't regret it.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com
Find me on Twitter/X: https://x.com/smsweeneyauthor   

Making a tough business decision in order to survive

Back in 2014, I wrote a blog post at the advent of Kindle Unlimited, the then-new program by Amazon. And I'll be honest: I was skeptical. I was skeptical about it. I didn't think it would work, but then again, it's Amazon. Bezos had struck gold with Kindle, and I must admit that lightning struck pretty hard with KU.

Suffice it to say, I balked. Even though I had trumpeted ebooks and Kindle in particular since 2010, I personally felt that I had no right to tell readers that they needed a Kindle or a Kindle app in order to read my books. Seriously, who was I to tell anyone who read ebooks how they should read them? I felt that if you had a Nook, a Kobo reader, or an iPad with Apple iBooks already downloaded, you had enough to read me.

How wrong I was!

Over the next few years, like Mark Coker had predicted, my sales and the sales of other authors not in KU started to slip, and slip hard. I went from 4,000-plus books sold in 2012 to 336 last year; shit, I only sold 193 in 2019. I really didn't understand it: I had  all these new books, from Travel Agent to Scouring Agent and the Ricky Madison books, books with even better writing than books like Model Agent and Rogue Agent that sold really, really well, and I couldn't get a sniff of a sale, or reach the numbers that I once had before KDP Select and Kindle Unlimited entered the fray. Are readers by-passing my books because they aren't in KU? Quite possible; I've never received a single piece of email telling me to get into KU or else, though. But even though I had plenty of evidence to the contrary, I steadfastly -- read: stubbornly -- refused to go narrow... until as late as December 2020, when I considered putting Incoming Private Show into KU.

That refusal has come to an end.

As of this morning, I have started the process of de-listing all of my books on Nook, Kobo, iBooks, and all the small ebook sites. While I'm sure that Kobo, Nook, and iBooks will be instantaneous, it will take a while for Hoopla and OverDrive, etc, to de-list me and take me off their sites. Once that happens...

Once that happens, I can put all 30-something of my books and short stories into KDP Select and Kindle Unlimited.

As I've said before, I crave the success that my friends have. And when I look at the stats they post in certain Facebook groups, all from KU, and I see the amount of money they are making -- life-changing money -- and the amount of books they are pushing out the door, it makes me wonder why I can't get that.

But alas, I can get that. I can get that by succumbing to KU and finally embracing all it does for authors. My writing skills are superior to what they were. I'm doing everything right, and yet I feel that I'm losing because I'm not selling, because I'm not in KU. As a wide author, I'm not making enough to make fiction writing a full-time profession any longer, I'm not making enough from it to put food on the table, to pay my mortgage, to pay my bills; I've scaled back since 2017, and my hope is that I can make enough through my fiction by going narrow with KU to grow my audience and get back to a full-time status.

Time to do just that. Hopefully lightning will strike for me like it has so many others.

KU, here I come. See you there.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Looking ahead to 2021

Within the next two-plus days, the sands in 2020's hourglass will run out, an imaginary hand will twist its wrist and spin it, and the long year of 2021 will begin. For many, seeing New Year's Eve approach has to be a relief; 2020 has not been kind to them, and in the years to come they will flinch when anyone mentions the numbers associated with this horrid year in their presence.

For me, I count myself fortunate. Outside of brief scares, I have not been exposed to COVID. We thought my mom might have been exposed following a late summer outbreak here in my hometown, but she, luckily, turned up negative. Extended family members contracted it and have recovered. 

And outside of my wife's stroke back in May and my heart condition rearing its ugly head on me over the last month or so, my family has come out unscathed. We are incredibly thankful for that, and our hearts ache for those who have lost loved ones.

In looking back, we were lucky. We listened to the experts and wore a mask from the middle of March on whenever we left the house. We social distanced, we washed our hands, we sanitized. 

In short, we controlled what we could control. 

And as I look ahead to next year, I have to continue that mindset. Control what I can control, don't sweat the small stuff. Insert whichever cliché you need, but those are two that I will utilize when it comes to my writing business in 2021.

What can I control?

My writing output, for instance. I'm not setting a word count goal, per se, like I've done in the past, but when I plan to have two books out in 2021 and one is practically already scheduled to come out in the summer, it means that the book I'm about to start writing needs to take priority during my daily writing time in order to have it ready for a near Christmas 2021 release. When 10 a.m. arrives, I need to be in my office typing away until 2 or 3 p.m. Not doing this will hamper that goal.

On the flip side, I have to remind myself not to get completely angry at myself should other things -- like one of my other writing lives, or an emergency -- pop up, and subsequently hampers the writing schedule. That falls under not sweating the small stuff; emergencies happen, and in my other writing job, things happen that take me away from the fiction. I just have to remind myself to get back to the writing as soon as humanly possible. And if that means getting a page done in the overnight, so be it, or promising myself to write more the next day in an effort to make up for it.

What else can I control? Improving my marketing skills. I've said it time and again: my marketing skills are positively dreadful, but I'm working to improve them. I've done quite a bit of reading over the last quarter, and my hope is to continue to tweak my marketing, and not relying on the same tired methods that haven't necessarily worked, or have tailed off in their effectiveness.

And one of those things, unfortunately, is to possibly look into Kindle Unlimited for the release of INCOMING PRIVATE SHOW, at least at the start. I know that those who have bought my books on Nook, Kobo, and iBooks are shouting, "No!" at me, but I have to at least try it out and see if it works for me, with an incredibly well-written book. And honestly, if it doesn't, once the 90-day exclusivity period it up, I can easily take it out of KU and upload to the other markets.

Other things that I can control? My health, the maintenance on my new house and the various tools I need, and whether I'm wearing a mask.

What are the things I won't sweat about in 2021? Book sales -- I have no control over whether or not people buy my books -- the weather, the Revolution or Arsenal winning or losing, and whether or not people get vaccinated. I'm sure there will be other things that come up.

In short, I'm going into 2021 with a great deal of optimism for myself, my business, and the world at large. 

I hope you're doing the same.

Cover Reveal: INCOMING PRIVATE SHOW, coming Summer 2021

The last couple of days, outside of Christmas, I've been hard at work on making INCOMING PRIVATE SHOW a much better book. Earlier in the week, I took many hours editing and polishing the novel up, bringing it up to fourth draft status.

And now, I have a cover for you, as well as what the book is all about:

When 20-year-old Alyssa Young is murdered at work, police in her hometown of Worcester, Massachusetts have little in the way of clues. And when Detective Ricky Madison discovers what she does for a living — she’s a cam girl, an Internet stripper — and that it’s difficult for anyone to know where she is working, it’s a head scratcher that he doesn’t think he can solve without help from her friends. Two are away, and one of her co-workers is useless.

But when one of her best friends, too, is murdered in the same violent fashion, Ricky wants to prevent a third death from hitting his streets.

A public plea for help gains him critical information, and it leads him to look into Alyssa’s past to find the unscrupulous person behind it.

Coming Summer 2021, INCOMING PRIVATE SHOW is the third book in the Ricky Madison series, behind THE LONG CRIMSON LINE and PERSUADED BY THE REFLECTIONS. Unlike the first two books, which are thrillers, IPS is more of an erotic police procedural. You know how much I like to push the envelope with Ricky Madison stories, and I push the sex levels in this one to the fullest. 

I honestly cannot wait to show you the book. I hope you enjoy it.

A New Freebie -- From My Fantasy Series

As most of you know, I consider myself an "Every Genre Author." It's true. I've touched upon pretty much every genre there is, achieving a great deal of success over the last decade as a thriller author.

But when I started writing back in 2003, I was *just* a fantasy author. I had loved reading Lord of the Rings -- my father, who would have turned 77 today, handed me The Hobbit when I was 11 -- and R.A. Salvatore's Forgotten Realms novels, and I decided to start writing about this halfling called Yanos Kingsfoil. A friend of mine called him a halfling with a Conan complex, which tickled me. Over time and with more words on the screen of my old Gateway computer, the story became more about the dwarf king, Radamuck Rosar, and finally about Grumpet T. Paddymeyer. After about a year an a half, I discovered my backstory, which became a set of prequel novels.

Well, today marks a few things: Back in 2013, I had taken the series off the market. I wasn't pleased with the writing. It was amateurish, and I had grown past that stage. In fact, I felt rather embarrassed by it. I didn't want anyone to see it. But with maturity and introspection, I decided in the winter of 2014-15 to go back and re-write/salvage what I could from that six-book series, and even inserted some short stories in that world I had written in 2009 into the prose in order to beef them up. The renewed series came out in a box set on Nov. 2, 2015.

And I had resolved, at some point, to get all the books out as singles, in both ebook and paperback. This past week, I finally did that -- and the first book in the series, The Rise Of The Dark Falcon, is now free on Kindle and iBooks (here's the link from my newsletter; feel free to subscribe to it).

And here they are!

I'm so pleased to have this series back out in the wild as solo books again. It is my genuine hope that readers who like Lord of the Rings, Forgotten Realms, World of Warcraft, etc. dive into these books. Try The Rise Of The Dark Falcon for free, on me. If you like it, move on to The Shadow Looms. In all, it'll be $14.95 for the other five ebooks, which is a rather good price, if I do say so myself. The paperbacks are $9.95 each, all on the Amazon placements.

So that's that. My first series of novels from long ago, re-released, the writing refined and strengthened. I'm so happy that they are finally out -- I still have two more to load up to Nook, with their hacking now resolved -- for single consumption again.

Happy reading.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

A New Hope... with a new cover

After posting my update blog Monday, I decided to go forth and find a new cover image for Scollay Love, my first historical romance set in 1950s/1960s Boston, and the first book that I wrote under the D.L. Boyd pen name. I'll admit, the title is weak... but the old cover, it was weaker.

I had hoped that this cover would show two 1950s era teens -- late teens, early 20s -- in love. And at 99 cents, I had hoped the romance community would flock to it.

They didn't.

And so, with my revamped business plan, getting Scollay Love a new cover and getting it out in paperback was one of my priorities.

This is what I've come up with:

A more fun cover, if I do say so myself! It catches the eye, which is really what covers are supposed to do. And to remind you of what the book is about...

It is tough to lose the place where you met.

For uptown Boston Brahmin gal Charlene Phillips and downtown West End boy Joe Cafario, their starkly different lives come together in Scollay Square, Boston’s famed center, where they fall into a forbidden love amidst the tassels of the Old Howard and the aroma of slow-boiled hot dogs at Joe and Nemo. When their love is ended after Charlene’s final defiance of her parents, the two remain true to each other, despite their forced separation.

When Charlene returns and they reunite in the Square, the city of Boston is about to go through a major change—one that Joe is hell-bent in stopping.

Hopefully the book -- which should be available in paperback in a few days -- will find its readership now.

And for 99 cents, it's an absolute bargain to see how I flex these new muscles.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

A quickie update in the business plan re-evaluation: So far, so good

As you're probably aware, I'm in the middle of re-vamping and re-evaluating my business plan. I outlined my goals earlier this month, and I wanted to use this time with you to give an update on my progress.

So far, so good: I'm through the hard part, a series of deep edits to three books: Turning Back The Clock and A Galaxy At War, which I wrote under my old 00's pen name of John Fitch V, as well as to Royal Switch. When I wrote that initial post, I had already gone through TBTC and chopped some 18,000 words and some change from the original book, removed head-hopping, as well as passive voice. I did the same with Royal Switch and ended up chopping 4,000 words from the original text and massaged some of the prose there. I had intended on re-writing the entire book from scratch, but after review, I think it's better this way. And that opening to the book? Not as big of an info dump as I thought!

Galaxy, though... it was as I suspected. Much like TBTC, there was unpolished writing full of head-hopping, passive voice... just a really unrefined book, if I'm being honest. I've said it before, I'll say it again -- I really wasn't a great writer back then. Great storyteller, sure. I weaved a good tale. Did I execute it properly? Absolutely not.

That is why it pains me to relay to you that I cut over 32,000 words -- more than a third of the book -- from Galaxy's original word count, turning it more into a story the size of Zombie Showdown or Scollay Love more than anything resembling the AGENT series; it's like the old dime novels, with some beef to them. Still, my hope is that the book is better from this exercise, and I will re-read the story around Christmas to make sure it is just that. I will do the same with TBTC and Royal Switch, then re-brand with new covers. My hope is that all three books will be out for public consumption in March.

And speaking of new covers...

So far, Terry has come through with four of the six new covers for Obloeron. I've gotten peeks of what he has done, and it's amazing. At some point this week, I will make the refreshed cover for Scollay Love -- which should just be the old cover, resized for paperback -- and I will get back to my website and make sure I don't have the wrong links for Apple iBooks; some of them go to the Euro pricing, not the American. I've gone through the links in the bookstore to make sure I have no broken links.

Phew.

What's next? In looking at my list, I see there are many things I can do. Copy and paste the AGENT novels into specific three-book files for segmented box sets. I can do that. The same for Obloeron. I can sign up for BookFunnel to distribute my not-yet-written freebie; I still haven't decided if it should be a Jaclyn freebie, or something else. 

I can start doing additional research for Glorious Rise. I can look into more advertising. I can do this. I can do that.

Really, so much still to do!

But the fact that I've gotten most of the really hard stuff out of the way... yeah, I'm happy with that, and my progress.

We'll take the victories, however small, as they come.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Re-focusing, Re-writing, and Reviewing My Outdated Business Plan

Over the last two weeks or so, I have taken some time to do something I've intended for the last three years: re-work my business plan in order to reclaim my audience. The last three years, it has been rather difficult to do that, whether it be taking on jobs that break up the writing week or ones that prevent me from writing, period, or not having enough money to adequately strengthen my reach via advertising on Facebook or Amazon.

That ends now. But I also end it with a mea culpa.

For most of my writing career, I've made many mistakes -- but I can safely say that I've learned from them and now want to put what I've learned into action. I've learned that some of my books, mainly my earlier ones, suffered from poor writing. I feel that I've grown as a writer, with my more recent books showing that my writing now is crisp, clear, concise. It's my intention to strengthen those books by any means possible and re-release them in 2021.

I've already done that with one book, Turning Back The Clock, one of my John Fitch V novels. When I started a deep edit on that book last week, the original novel was over 101,000 words. When I finished earlier this week, I had removed over 18,000 words, or the equivalent of 33 pages. I fixed the voice, I eliminated the head-hopping, and I just removed prose that simply didn't work for me not as the author, but as a reader. It's an 11-year-old book, but it reads so much better now with what I've done to it, and I hope the readers feel the same way. In all honesty, I fell in love with the story all over again!

The next book to strengthen is TBTC's follow-up -- but under my name -- Royal Switch. Again, something I messed up on, even though I've said that I did it for momentum reasons: I published Royal two months or so after I published Model Agent, and I wanted to take advantage of that momentum. Suffice it to say, that didn't happen.

I've known there were problems with Royal for some time -- in fairness, I thought way back then that I needed an info dump right at the beginning of the story; I've since changed my mind and earlier this year made the decision to re-tool that section. But not only that... in starting to re-read the book this morning, I've found amateurish, crap writing that is, to be sure, thoroughly embarrassing to me as a writer. No wonder the book foundered and has barely sold (11 copies since January 2015!).

What to do about that? Well, I'm going to completely re-write the book, all 75,000-plus words, almost from scratch. The story is sound, but the way I executed the book... I failed at that. My intention is to make the book better with stronger writing than I showed in 2011.

I also want to do something similar with another JFV novel, A Galaxy At War -- a book just as old as Turning Back The Clock. I have yet to print out and read the story, but I'm sure I will encounter the same problems that I have with TBTC, Royal Switch, and the Obloeron novels. It's another book that barely sells (5 copies since January 2014), and that could also be due to the mistake I made with the cover: it's relatively bland and doesn't scream sci-fi. I want to invest in this book not only with the writing, but with the cover art. I'll be talking to fellow author Daniel Arenson about his cover artist for his Earthrise sci-fi novels and Matt Verish for his stuff, as I'd like to improve that incredibly important facet. It will cost me a pretty penny, but as I've said, I can't be afraid of the cost.

What else do I need to do to regain the audience? A new cover for Scollay Love, new Obloeron covers -- Terry C. Simpson is working on those for me -- plus paperbacks for all of the above. I also want to pen a new 30,000-word novella that I'll give away as an enticement to join my mailing list, something I've failed at doing over the last five years; my hope is to get that taken care of by Christmas. My whole focus was on writing stuff that will inevitably sell, when I should have taken a longer look at the bigger picture. If I'm going to continue doing this, I need to do this correctly, and I need to grasp the bigger picture. I need to give something away to my fans. I need to spend money to gain my audience back. I need to do this. I need to do that.

In time, I will get that done. It won't be overnight. This is a marathon, not a sprint -- but I can't let years pass without doing anything, like I have since I first recognized the problem. If you want a problem to go away, you have to do something about it. You can't just ignore it.

The time is, as they say, now.

Thanks for not giving up on me.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Finally, I'm published again! Happy Book Day, Glorious Slip!

After nearly two and a half years -- an absolute lifetime in the publishing world -- I've published my 29th novel and second under the D.L. Boyd pen name today, that being the first of a time travel historical adventure and romance series, Glorious Slip.

No, I'm not crying... well, sort of. I am definitely crying.

The reason? I never thought I'd get this book out. It was a long time writing the first draft, more than a year, given that I had new jobs -- trying to get money into a house when you don't have a college degree is tough, and when you are partially handicapped with a heart ailment, there is only so much I can do -- and Kim had a computer issue (not her fault at all!). Then trying to find the right cover... and sure, this doesn't exactly scream Revolutionary War:

But it's what I had, and I'm happy with it.

Honestly, I'm so happy with the way the book came out. The story was several months in the making, after I had read Outlander and was aghast that Diana Galbadon took upward of 47 pages to get Claire Randall back to 1745. I thought to myself, "If I took 47 pages to get my protagonist to her destination, my readers would put my book down and find something else." Determined, I did months of research outside of what I already knew about the Revolutionary War, and I sketched out the entirety of this three-book series. I wrote then I could, given the new jobs that I had. Sometimes I went weeks without writing, until the offseason of the Major League Soccer season between 2018 and 2019. While the Revolution were in Spain, and with no streams of the matches to watch, I buckled down after SuperDraft and belted out the last few chapters. I did some revision and added some Doc Brown-esque writings -- you'll see when you read the book -- and then edited it over the summer of 2019, in between Revolution matches.

Kim did a wonderful job in editing, I got it back in February, and then waited. But now the book is live, to my joy. The first book that I've published in over two years... you have to forgive me, I'm emotional about it.

I hope you enjoy it, when you get to it. It's a solid read that introduces you to the character of Nick Smith, who must keep silent about what he knows... and in the second book, which I'll start writing this fall sometime, is when things start to really pick up. It's a suitable first book in a series, and at 99 cents for the ebook, it's a good value. I know a few people who have picked up the paperback and have raved about it.

I'm sure you will, too.

Happy Book Day, Glorious Slip. You're out in the world, and I couldn't be happier.

Pick up your copy at the links below:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Nook

Kobo

iBooks

Smashwords

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Inside the characters of GLORIOUS SLIP

Over the last few weeks, I've let you know about the pre-order for Glorious Slip as well as gave you a chapter snippet that you can peruse at your leisure.

Today, I'm going to tell you about the characters.

Characters are so important to any story; we see through their eyes, we feel what they are experiencing. And in Glorious Slip, the characters are on the verge of the American Revolutionary War, so there's plenty to see and feel as they go about their lives.

Nick Smith

Nick is our protagonist. He is a 21st Century boy who loves American history, and little does he know as our story opens that he's about to live it. Nick is a tall young man from Fitchburg, Mass., and he looks to keep the Wood Family safe when he arrives in 1765. He meets a young lady whose mother dies soon after his arrival, and he must navigate through early family squabbles while debating with himself about telling the young lady the truth. He bears witness to several key points in history during this series.

Constance Wood

Constance is the aforementioned young lady. She helps manage the Wood Farm after her mother Wilma's passing, and falls for the handsome stranger that her mother has hired. She accepts Nick's word pretty much as gospel, and after marriage, does her level best to support him in every decision he makes... like witnessing a pivotal moment in American history that could, if the shots go errant, kill him.

Samuel Adams

One of the heroes of the American Revolution, Adams lives near the Wood Farm and meets Nick in the intervening minutes following Wilma Wood's passing. He invites Nick to join the Sons of Liberty, as well as doing a number of tasks for him. The two men are close, as if Samuel knows the truth about Nick.

Henry Knox

At 15 years old, a young supporting character that rises to do great things for his country in due time. Henry is a bookseller in Colonial Boston during this time, and he meets up with Nick every so often to converse. Nick, even though he's older, holds young Henry in high esteem -- and for good reason.

John Wood

Our main antagonist in the story. John is the oldest surviving male at the Wood Farm, and he is an arrogant bastard. He is kicked out of the family, and he eventually gets his revenge. Is a Crown Loyalist among Colonists upset at the continued taxation.

Colton Wood

At first Colton is on Nick's side, but after one particular event, he turns on his siblings and Nick to join John's side. Both become Customs Commissioners and welcome the embargo of Boston.

And there are more where this comes from.

Reserve your copy at the links below in time for its July 1 release:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Nook

Kobo

iBooks (coming soon) 
Smashwords

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

A First Glimpse: A chapter of GLORIOUS SLIP

With just under two weeks to go until Glorious Slip is live (July 1!) for only 99 cents, I'd like to give you a glimpse into the book with one chapter of the story.

I hope you enjoy, and after reading, I hope you pre-order your copy at the links provided. And just so you know, you can order the paperback and read it before the ebook goes live. I'm just saying.

#####

Nick flailed his arms as his head broke the surface some eight-to-ten seconds after colliding with it. A lacy cloud poured from his mouth as he gasped, taking in the cool air through wet lips. He bobbed slightly, his chin and mouth ducking underneath the surface. He choked as he noticed water had flowed in with that initial bob, his gag reflex kicking in as the panic instantly swept through him.
 
The water inside him didn’t get out fast enough: Nick managed to spit it out in a torrent.

Yuck, Charles River water! he cried internally. Charles River water in my mouth! The worst! Fuck, god-damn it, stay out of my belly!
 
The coughs racked his clenched chest as he tried treading water, swinging his arms back and forth and letting his shod feet kick out beneath the surface. He felt the chill nibbling against his face even as the water lapped against him, and he did quick math.

If I climb out of wherever the hell I am, he thought, then I’m going to catch a pneumonia. But if I stay in here, wherever here is, then I’ll turn into an icicle and die. He exhaled; another cloud spilled and twisted away to nothingness. The thoughts stemmed from a long lost memory: he was in his single digits back then, and the stubborn little boy wouldn’t get out of the local YMCA pool following a swimming lesson — the air outside the pool was too cold that day, he recalled, leading to his continual bobbing and subsequent demerit as soon as someone yanked him from the water. The latter, though, emerged from his ceaseless watching of Titanic around the same time. The decisions I have to make.

Nick tried to calm himself even as he remained buoyant. He tried to breathe normally, even as the cold water surrounded him and made his heart thump quicker than usual. He shook his head and blinked his eyelids, if only to make sure no stubborn droplets clung.

Up ahead, Nick noticed the moonlight dancing on the water, as well as what looked like a rather curved land mass just beyond it. He made out a few rocks on what he felt was a jetty, much like the one in Provincetown, since he couldn’t see over it. He guessed the jetty was only about one hundred feet away, which he figured would only take a few strokes of his water-logged jacket to reach.

Nick nodded, all as he shivered. He used both hands to displace the water in front of him, the motion countering the knife-like pains shooting through him. The cold seeped into his brain, which forced him to concentrate on getting to shore.

God, if you get me through this, he thought, I’ll go to church on Sunday. I don’t know where, but I’ll get there. Jesus Christ, this is cold.

The distance between Nick and the jetty dwindled over the next few chill-induced minutes until he felt safe enough to set his feet on the sloping scree. He closed his eyes as he hit the shallower waters and hefted himself up onto his quivering legs. Nick took three sloshing steps before he hit his knees on a somewhat un-rocky area, pulling his soaked body ashore. He kept his head bowed as he breathed, his eyes closed. His breath tingled as it escaped, caressing his cheeks like a lover.

Even as the water behind him stilled from his motions after a few moments, he heard the collision of beads against the rock, as if his harrowing ordeal gave him extra-sensory perception. He knew that wasn’t true, but with every drip from his hair to the rock, it resembled the slow pop of bacon frying on medium-low heat.

Nick blew out another long breath between pursed lips, all while the blood rampaged in his ears; he wanted to groan as he felt the sides of his head develop their own heartbeat, but he stifled himself.
The shivering — much like he had feared in that pool at the Y — started soon after.

“Warm,” he managed to spit. “Need to get warm.” Another breath vomited from deep within. “Need to get warm now.”

His teeth started their repeated chattering as the cold slowly moved deeper into him. He tried to think of warmth, if only to trigger a psychosomatic response within him. He thought of the Florida Keys where his wizened second cousin once removed had lived before he died a year ago, and how the old man had showed him where all the twenty-something co-eds skinny-dipped in a private cove off the Caribbean. Nick tried to get his lips to respond to that memory, to no avail.

He thought of sitting in a sauna, the steam canvassing its depths as he waited for a lovely co-ed or a twenty-something like himself to enter, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a teacher-like bun, and subsequently drop her towel, exposing herself to his gaze, all while a mischievous smile played all over her face. He felt a bit of heat radiate from his groin.

Still, it wasn’t enough. He grimaced as he stood, his body trembling from the cold, and tried looking out in a 360-degree pattern, all as his clothes clung to him like a second skin.

“Where the hell am I?” he asked.

It was a good question, he had to admit. He saw nothing resembling lights in any direction, only the darkness of distant hills reflecting the moonlight. One looked impossibly high for Boston.

If I’m still in Boston, he thought. There are no lights anywhere, no sign of lights atop the skyscrapers. Maybe I got carried all the way over to Nahant? Nick shook his head, thinking it impossible. Even if I did, I would see something resembling life here, or some streetlights. He raised his hand. This isn’t life. The stars ain’t streetlights.

Nick turned and sat down, taking the opportunity to look out at the moon and where he had emerged from the water — or where he had dropped into it.

That vortex, or whatever the fuck it was, carried me a long way from Boston, that’s for sure, Nick thought with a few bobs of his head. The chills returned, even though there was no wind to be had. He instinctively wrapped his arms tight around himself, if only to try to withhold as much warmth as he had within his body for as long as possible. His jacket felt heavy, even in a sitting position. Then it dropped me, right here, into whatever this is. He stared out at the moon’s reflection before letting a tenuous swallow slip into his gullet.

Nick soon felt numb, as if he’d never feel warm again.

God, don’t let me freeze here, he thought, all as the darkness closed in on him.

***

He didn’t freeze.

Nick awoke just as a strengthening sun rose over his right shoulder. Pushing himself up, he detected a weight against his right cheek; he brushed the gravel and dirt aside, then rubbed the excess off with his fingertips until he felt sure he had a somewhat clear face. The shivering didn’t exactly return at once, though; seeing the sun so bright and unencumbered by practically anything made his heart swell double its size. He smiled, even though it hurt his flesh to do so.

The smiling, though…

Nick groaned reflexively, all as the sides of his head continued their incessant thrum. He swallowed, even though his saliva dragged down a parched throat with the effectiveness of rubbing sandpaper against a sheet of damp particleboard.

“I shouldn’t have drunk that much on an empty stomach,” he mused. “One would think I would have learned that lesson by now. Oy.”

He managed to get to his feet, the air pockets snapping inside his knees — he groaned — and looked toward the rising sun, holding his hands out in welcome, trying to draw in all the heat. He kept his eyes closed, the exhilaration at the warm touches seeping into his flesh. Nick shoved his shoulders back, the stiffness in his lower back giving way; he let another groan fly. A renewed vigor seeped into his joints with every deep, salt-infused breath; he wanted to stay there until he deemed himself adequately warm and dry from the mid-evening plunge, but he knew he had to find a way home, back to his off-campus apartment. He had class in only a few hours, and he needed to put the finishing touches on his discussion paper before handing it in. If there was anything he felt especially proud about, it was his penchant to stick to deadlines.

His thoughts about meeting it dissolved as soon as his eyes widened.

He had turned ninety degrees to his right. In that simple gesture, that simple movement, he finally got a good look at his surroundings.

The gasp rippled from Nick’s mouth as he took it all in, all while shuddering in quiet disbelief. In the full light of day, unencumbered by the veil of night, he looked out and just from the sight alone, he knew right away that he was not in Boston any longer — but he couldn’t place where on Earth he now stood, either. For a moment, he thought the vortex, or whatever it was, had flung him halfway across the state, yet he wiped the thought clear even as it came to him: even in the rural towns beyond Sturbridge, the roads were paved and well maintained.

Here, wherever the hell here was, they weren’t. The roads looked incredibly narrow, far narrower than anything he had experienced in his life, and puddles dotted the ways, darkening the dirt and softening it.

He saw sturdy constructions here and there, some nearly on top of their neighbors. He saw red brick forming the façade of each, yet the roofing, from his rather distant vantage point, looked rather primitive. Large pastures full of green and blooming flowers flanked the rearsides of these buildings — he felt sure they were dwellings, for a light gray smoke trickled from well-used chimneys — with livestock munching away at a fence abutting the nearby road.

Yet his eyes grew even larger as he set his gaze on the recognizable dark mountain from last night. Unmistakable, there were paths carved into it, and even from this distance, about a mile or so away, maybe even less, he saw several different things scurrying about its side.

He swallowed. He hoped they were friendly, and that they’d have an idea of how to get back to Boston from here.

Am I in Amish country? he added as an afterthought. That’s the only explanation as to where I am. I’m hanging with the fucking Amish.

Nick walked away from the shoreline and wandered down a house-less lane, taking great care not to sink into the mud. A light pile of snow caressed the side of it, caked in the same stuff on which he now stood. It was no more than five inches high at the base of the long fence, which he noticed was built almost in an X pattern between the fat posts set ten feet apart. He had seen fences constructed like that during field trips to Old Sturbridge Village during his high school years.

And on days warmer than this, too, he thought as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled it closer to his belly. Thankfully, I didn’t catch pneumonia, unless I did, I’m dead now, and this is whatever paradise is supposed to be. Although I have to say I didn’t think paradise would be this muddy, or have the remnants of a winter storm on the side of the road, but hey, who am I, really?

Nick turned right onto a wider boulevard, this one just as muddy as the last. He noticed several piles of horse droppings smack dab in the middle, and he immediately side-stepped the first batch. In doing so, he almost stepped in the second, missing it by mere centimeters.

He let go of a throaty grunt and refrained from pulling the back of his wrist against his brow.

“So much for looking at the scenery,” he muttered, “of which there is none. Have to watch out for landmines instead.” Nick twisted his lips in disgust. “Crap.”

He continued his impromptu morning stroll, the sun clearly behind him. His shadow remained tight to him, he saw, while he tried to find the source of chickens cooing nearby. His sneakers only sank by a couple of millimeters in the loose mud; the corners of his mouth sank that amount, too.

Definitely Amish, Nick thought as he firmed his jaw and nodded his head.

“Are you lost?” a voice called from behind.

Nick whipped around and found a matronly woman standing several feet away. She had the look of Mary Poppins, but with light wrinkles near the corners of her eyes. The woman’s dress was well worn and not a bright navy, and she carried a rather large bag on her arm that was just as well-worn as her clothes. Her gaze pierced him, as if doing so with a great deal of scrutiny.

Surely she’s looking at my damp clothing and wondering if she should call the police, he thought. Yet now that I think about it, maybe I should be the one calling police. She certainly doesn’t look like she belongs in, well, my time — unless she’s Amish, of course.

“Yeah,” he replied softly. “I don’t know where I am.”

The woman approached cautiously. Her head tilted to the left as she halted practically in front of him.

“Are you looking for work, by any chance?”

Nick blinked. He didn’t understand the question, nor did he understand why she continued to shower him with that intrusive look. He wanted to say, “No, I’m looking for a way home because I’m going to miss class,” but he wasn’t sure if she would understand that — especially if she were Amish; ending one’s schooling in the eighth grade sounded too foreign to him, and he didn’t have much time left to get his degree.

What he did after that was purely up to the job market. He had thought about teaching history at a high school — his alma mater was in the process of phasing his old history teacher out, given that he neared 70 and really didn’t want to slow down, despite the superintendent’s misgivings about the man’s age and drinking problems — but wondered if teaching at a middle school was a safer bet.

“I don’t really know?” He didn’t try to hide his anxiety, at least not in his voice. Did she want him to work as her private dancer, a take-it-off kind of boy? As a masseur? “Don’t really think I’m looking for a job, but I think I’m open to anything?”

“I have a farm that needs a hand,” the woman said. “My husband passed away a few weeks ago; murdered, actually —”

Nick blinked again at her forwardness. Who is so open about such things? Christ, if my pseudo-wife was murdered — okay, let’s not go that far. I don’t even have a girlfriend, the woman in the bar with the skin-tight dress notwithstanding. It’s been a while since I’ve had a true blue lady in my life, one that actually wants to Netflix and Chill with me. But I don’t believe I’d be telling total strangers that my spouse was recently murdered and that my farm is looking for a hand, but what do I know?

“I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am, but I’m not a farmer. Really,” he said as soon as the woman’s sadness and her own anxiety rippled, “I’m just a student of history.”

“Oh,” the woman replied. “It would be nice to have someone to give my son a hand. Lord knows my eldest remaining son doesn’t know which end of a hoe goes in the ground. Too busy playing politics.”

“I’m sorry, eldest remaining son?”

He knew he shouldn’t have asked, but it came out too fast, even before his brain had the opportunity to put his tongue on lockdown. But since she was being so open and honest, he might as well pry even more information from her.

“Yes, my eldest first-born son died in the war. Left us in a right pickle, not his fault of course, and now with my husband gone and our youngest ones doing what they can, we could use a man of strength around our farm, especially with John, the eldest remaining son, that is, being such a useless Crown sympathizer.”

Nick tilted his head by a fraction of an inch at hearing those last words and tried to process what it meant. He had never heard the words “Crown sympathizer” outside of his classes — not even in the small work groups the professor wanted did he heard those words flung about in such haphazard fashion — and hadn’t considered using them in any every day conversation.

“I’m sorry — did you just say Crown sympathizer?” he asked, growing aware that he felt a numbness near his shoulders, his flesh tingling.

“I did. My son thinks George, king for all of nearly four and a half years now, is the bee’s knees, if that’s the proper saying. Glory in the name of Britain indeed. Boy wishes he could live in London. If we could afford it, I would have put his powdered wig-loving self on an outgoing ship and made sure he stays in that dirty little town long before now. But no, the Sugar Act hurt us, even though he says it was necessary.”

Nick tried to move his lips, but he heard nothing emerge from his throat, other than a light gurgle. He thought he was in the midst of choking, or worse, having a stroke, but he didn’t feel his left arm going completely numb, or that the side of his face sloped, as if his skin and flesh wanted to fall off his skull. None of that was happening, but he realized that he didn’t feel so good.

He tried to process everything the widow woman had said, and it made his mind spin: from her eldest son being killed in the war to Crown sympathizing eldest-remaining son, to George — certainly she can’t mean Prince William’s son, right? he wondered — but what really threw him for a loop was her casual mention of the Sugar Act. That meant —

Nick never got the words out. He felt his eyelids shoot back into his skull, all while his legs lost all connectivity with his brain.

He toppled hard as they gave way, and saw nothing else.

#####

Thanks for reading! You can reserve your copy at the links below.

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iBooks (coming soon)

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Introducing GLORIOUS SLIP, now available for pre-order

After a year or so of waiting for the right moment, Glorious Slip under my D.L. Boyd pen name is now available to pre-order, and available for print copies. I'll share a snippet of the book in the coming days, just as a taste, but first I want to tell you what the book -- and eventually the series -- is about.

First, the blurb:

Science fiction meets adventure meets romance in this first of a planned historical trilogy by D.L. Boyd!

Nick Smith is a student of history, especially that of his state’s capital, Boston.

Little does he know that he is about to live it.

Jettisoned some two and a half centuries into the past, Nick discovers that he has landed in Colonial Boston. He marvels at finding the Shawmut Peninsula in the years before the Revolutionary War, and witnesses Bostonians’ palpable anger.

Working a farm and falling in love with a young lady three years his junior, Nick must avoid conflicts with his new brother-in-law, a Crown loyalist.

Ride along with Nick as he rubs elbows with early America’s greatest minds, all while concealing America’s destiny.

Not a bad pull, huh?

I conceived the story, an Outlander-esque tale but not as long-winded, back in the fall of 2017, and it took until February 2019 to get the first draft done. Lots stood in my way in 2018, mainly in the form of a new job, and there was the whole two radio shows that I did, which inevitably de-railed any momentum. I managed to finish it when the New England Revolution were in Spain for preseason training in February 2019.

The story, set in the years leading up to the Revolutionary War, was intended to be a historical romance, but as it happens, I focused more on the adventure side of things... there is romance, just enough for a taste, but the story is more adventure than anything. You will feel Nick's feelings pulling you in several directions, you will feel for him when he makes an important realization of what he must do.

And not only that, you will feel his pulse quicken as he watches an important event in American history play out before his eyes.





Glorious Slip is the first of three books in this series (I will start writing book two starting this fall, after I finish the first draft to Incoming Private Show, which I hope to resume writing sometime next week), and is available for pre-order at the rather low introductory price of 99 cents for ebook, and $9.95 for trade paperback.

For those picking up the ebook, it will go live on Wednesday, July 1 -- right in time for the Independence Day holiday.

Reserve your copy here:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Nook

Kobo

iBooks (coming soon)

Smashwords

Print copies are available through Amazon.

Getting another project off the ground

Over the last couple of years, many readers have inquired as to which book I'm writing, and which books -- if my WIP happens to be part of a series -- they should re-read or catch up on in time for that WIP's release in ebook or print form.

As you already know, my book production has slowed to a crawl over most of the last two years, since the Fall of 2017. I lost a lot of time due to a pair of radio shows, and those shows really slowed my roll. You can't really get into a groove when you write for three days, take a day to drive half an hour, do an hour radio show, and then drive home and collapse, then write for two days and take another day for a show. You just can't.

At least I can't. Your mileage may vary.

And with the exception of The Jaclyn Johnson Experience's long-awaited release back in May... I can't tell you how much of a relief it was to get something out in 2019, especially not having released anything in some 15-16 months before that.

But there is more coming on the horizon. It may be in the distant horizon, but it's coming. The first book in the Glorious series is currently at my editing crew. I think there will be some work to do on it when I get it back at the end of the American soccer season, but I'm not really worrying about it until then.

The erotic thriller I penned? I truncated the thriller aspects and just made it an erotic novella. It's at a group of editors now, and I suspect that will be out in due time.

Yet... there's more.

Over the last couple of days, I've spent some time brainstorming out a new book that'll be part of my Ricky Madison series -- you know, The Long Crimson Line and Persuaded By The Reflections. I don't have a title just yet, but I have five pages, printed, of plot, character sketches, and thoughts for Ricky to encounter during this tale. Generally, Ricky novels are 90,000-100,000-word behemoths, and I think it's fair to say this one will be, too.

In reading over my outline -- which right now is jumbled and really in no particular order -- I have to say that I'm actually impressed. I really like how this story came together, all done in a few days. Moving my fingers across the keyboard like lightning as I let my thoughts flow across the screen. It was almost too easy to let things come to my mind.

I found there will be a couple of redundancies, such as characters' mothers who have no idea what's going on with their sons -- which is, when one thinks about it, realistic. It's something that Ricky might expound on in thought. We'll see. I don't think that it's a bad thing to have a redundancy such as these. You don't necessarily run into two people who are exactly alike... but sometimes you encounter similar traits and things in different people. It happens, and I think -- at least what I have written now -- that's how this novel will play out.

My hope is that I'll get started on it either this week or next, and we'll see how far I get. I'll still have soccer to cover, so the thought of plowing through this story is out -- and I doubt that I get to do something like that again. The days of 3,000 words per day are long gone. I'm not going to rush this book, and my hope is that it'll be just as gritty as Persuaded is.

Even so, the fact that I've managed to get another project off the ground -- one which I think will be so much easier to write than Glorious -- is pretty remarkable.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Jaclyn Johnson box set now available, on sale at a low introductory price... for now

Early in May, I released THE JACLYN JOHNSON EXPERIENCE, a box set on ebook only to all online retailers. Right now, it's priced at the low, introductory price of $4.99. Five bucks for nine books, plus a novella and a few never-before-seen short stories tied into the world? Really, it's an unbeatable bargain.

How long will I keep the price at $4.99? Right now, I haven't decided. I had originally said that price would remain in effect until Mother's Day. That was last month, and it's still priced at $4.99. I could keep it there until the Fourth of July, but again... I want as many eyes on the box set as possible, and who knows how many shares, retweets, etc. that I'll get. I want many people to purchase this set at $4.99 before I raise the price. After all... it's a bargain. Legal thievery. And all that. People should easily one-click a nine-book box set at that price.

And that cover is absolute fire.

Seriously, there are flames in the cover. That's just how fire it is.

I'll take a few questions now.

Q: Why just ebook? Why not an ink-and-paper version?

A: The answer is simple: I've always been about producing low-cost books for consumers. I know it's their money and they can spend it how they want, but I don't want people to drop a ton of cash on me. Back when I originally published The Obloeron Trilogy, back when it was just a trilogy, it cost readers upward of $30 for a trade paperback book, with the fonts uber-tiny to make sure the costs were kept to an absolute minimum... and it was still $30. That's just how it is in the indie world. This is a nine-book endeavor, plus a novella, plus some short stories. This would be upward of $100 for three separate thrillogies -- if that's a word -- editions, because there's no way to get all nine in one. No way at all.

Q: If I have all nine books separate, why would I get the box set?

A: Do you have the novella? I know you don't have the shorts. This edition gives you everything. And it's only $4.99 that you weren't using, right?

Q: What will happen if you decide to write another Jaclyn novel? It wouldn't be the complete collection then, would it?

A: At some point, I will write another Jaclyn... just not right now. I have an outline/plot treatment that's been stewing for some time. Maybe I will get to it in a couple of years, after the Glorious series is done and dusted, or after I get fired from the soccer job. And then again, I could start a whole new JJ series, just not under the AGENT moniker... which is how I had planned to do things seven or eight years ago, but I was talked out of it. We'll see. My mind might change by then.

Q: Can I have it for free?

A: Sure! I'm sure it's up on a pirate site by now; download to your heart's content. But please be sure to tell 10 people about it, because that would be so nice.

Q: And where can I get it should I want to get it by legal means?

A: Very simple. It's available on Kindle (US/UK), Nook, Kobo, and Apple iBooks. If you're in another country outside of the US/UK, you can always click the link and easily pop in your Amazon extension (.de, .ca, .au, etc) in place of .com or .co.uk.

Q: What are you working on now?

A: Right now I'm a few days away from giving Glorious Slip -- current working title, may revise it -- its third-draft read-through. The hope is that I have nothing to do to it and that I can ship it off to Kim by the Fourth of July for her eyes, as well as to Bruce for re-title suggestions. Once that's done and dusted, I can get started on the cover -- I have to give Kent a call -- as well as the second book in the series. I'm hoping to get that started in August, but if not, October is a more reasonable time frame to get it underway. I'm also halfway through an erotic thriller that I will release under a pen name. Just need to work on the transition from the erotica part to the thriller part.

Thanks for your support!

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

A little flash fiction for you

A few months ago, before I started the stretch run in GLORIOUS SLIP, I needed to get my fingers back into fiction mode after X amount of time away from it. This flash fiction piece was the result; I had seen a cartoon on Facebook depicting this scene, and I figured it was a good exercise to get the writing muscles re-attuned.

Hope you enjoy.

Copyright 2019, Sean Sweeney

***

Death Meets An Alien

Passing the TV, Bob flicked the porn off as he returned to his bed, feeling plenty lighter in his groin. He had just left the bathroom, content with his clean-up abilities for the present, the tissues wadded and sent to his septic tank. Traces of his seminal fluid remained on his skin, matting the thin hairs between his groin and navel to his body. He didn’t care about that; the cleaning job was to make sure that his baby-making goo didn’t coat the inside of his underwear and turn it into a crusty mess; the rest, he figured, would come off in the shower tomorrow morning.

“Ah, lesbians are like plumbers,” he said as he slid under the covers again. “They never cease to help clear my pipe.”

Bob’s head hit the pillow a heartbeat later. As soon as he closed his eyes, the scenes from the porno replayed over and over again as he drifted off, a dreamy smile tracing along his lips. He saw their bodies collide together, their legs scissoring as they mashed their groins against the other. He didn’t remember anything else after the duo separated and approached him; two pairs of breasts, full and fake and coming to rest alongside each other, came crashing down across his conscious self before sleep claimed him.

The heavy clunk of metal against the wall jolted Bob from his heavy slumber hours later, the breath catching in his throat as he jerked from the mattress. He didn’t make a move for the slick goop lingering in the corner of his eye, focused he was on the open door and the darkness beyond it.

“Hello?! Who’s there?!”

No answer came. Bob ground his teeth together.

“I’m calling the police!” he shouted.

“The police won’t help you.”

Bob felt the blood draining from his face, replaced by cold clamminess. The voice came through high-pitched and Arctic, and with such force that it felt all the air in the room had departed. He couldn’t help but notice just how his body shivered from hearing it; he clenched his buttocks almost on instinct, as if preventing his bowels from voiding its contents into his jammies.

The creature slipped into the bedroom a moment later, and Bob didn’t hear his floorboards shifting under the being’s weight. He heard nothing over the sound of his blood thundering in his inner ears.

But the being’s voice sliced through the din with utter sharpness, with the force of a razor grating against Bob’s nerves.

“I have come for you, Robert Wellington,” it said half a moment before the door closed of its own volition. “Your time has reached its end.”

Bob tried to speak. He did his best to pry open his jaws and let sounds flow, but the fright at the being’s presence — a long black cowl shielding its face from anyone’s gaze, along with the scythe it held in one bony hand — reverted him to mere babble. His throat felt as if a python had slithered across and held him within its mighty grasps, for his breath felt choked. His chest ached from the fierce beating his heart gave the inside of his sternum. He continued his lengthy shiver, even as he did his best to shrink underneath the heft of his comforter.

“Why?” Bob squeaked. He thought he had shouted the word, but it came through his lips like a whisper.

“Do not ask why,” the specter of death hissed. “Accept.” It moved forward, easing itself toward Bob’s left foot. It lowered the scythe, almost bringing it parallel to the bed. “Accept. Your soul is mi—”

Crack. The door flung itself open again, the knob driving into the wall. This time, the angel of death spun to see who dared intrude; Bob glanced that way and saw rays of bright light streaming into his room — along with fog rolling and rising.

Bob blinked.

What the f—? he thought, his mind spinning.

The fog cloud grew in size and density until it filled the threshold to Bob’s bedroom. Bob blinked again, then glanced at the specter; it kept whatever served as its gaze fixed on the doorway.

Can I get away? he wondered. Its concentrations are now elsewhere; surely I can slide out of bed, open a window, crawl out, and shimmy down the drainpipe. And without making a single noise.

The thought disappeared as eerie tones resembling a long, throaty whistle purred from the hall. The resonance made Bob recall the times he watched War of the Worlds, right before —

He sought out the bedclothes and grasped them, hard, until the cartilage in his knuckles popped.

Then, Bob stared deep into the fog as it shifted, and through the vapor stepped an extra terrestrial, an alien, its ovoid head and beady black eyes seeking one thing — him, its own gaze landing right on him, almost immediately upon entry.

“Robert,” it said, its voice almost sounding computerized, “we have come to take you away from Earth. The information you have garnered for us resides in the probe we inserted into your rectum the last time—”

Bob wanted to scream.

“Which Robert are you looking for?” the specter of death interrupted, gliding toward the alien.

The alien, to its credit, blinked its eyes and turned to face the specter.

“Gilbride. He lives here, right?”

Bob blinked as the alien pulled what looked like a map from hammerspace; the being wore no pants. All extraneous sounds save Bob’s racing heart and that of the paper unfolding disappeared.

“See, our information led us here. Robert Gilbride lives here.”

“No, no,” the specter rebutted. “He doesn’t live here any longer. I took his soul ages ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite positive. Once you’re mine, you’re mine. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

The alien threw up its hands, almost in defeat.

“Rats. You didn’t happen to retrieve a probe, did you?”

“That,” the specter replied, “is not in my purview.”

“Damn it. That information is critical to our intended invasion. But onto other matters: Since you are so in-the-know, do you happen to know where Evelyn Bulfinch lives?”

“Why yes, she’s in the next town. Double chimney, satellite dish. Colonial home. Scheduled for reclaiming in October 2025.”

Bob noticed the alien almost grinned when the angel of death gave the month and year.

“We’ll have her back well before that,” it said. “You have my guarantee.”

The alien then crossed its thin arms against its chest and raised its head toward the ceiling. It shimmered into nothingness, almost as if it defragmented itself. The fog cloud fizzled away, and the supernatural light retreated, leaving everything dark — almost too dark for Bob’s liking.

Then, the specter spun again, facing the bed, and Bob knew this was it. The end of the road.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Second draft was -- surprisingly -- enjoyable to write

By a general rule, I do not like to do massive changes to a story once the first draft is written. I just don't. Pulling at a plot thread leads to unraveling, and soon I have a mess on my hands. I prefer to make cosmetic changes -- i.e. grammar, word choice, punctuation, expounding on certain thoughts -- and let the book go from there.

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule: I obviously made massive changes to THE OBLOERON SAGA a few years ago; I re-wrote the opening to MODEL AGENT, but didn't do a massive re-tooling of the book. I believe that I'm going to do something similar to TURNING BACK THE CLOCK this summer, and get it out in time for the book's 10th anniversary -- not to mention the 100th anniversary of the Black Sox Scandal and the Sale of Babe Ruth -- in October.

But I couldn't do that with GLORIOUS SLIP. There were some egregious errors -- stuff that just wasn't realistic -- in the first five chapters (well, from Ch. 2 to Ch. 5, and into Ch. 6) that just needed changing. I couldn't let them stay.

And to my surprise, the second draft as a whole was actually pleasurable to write. I believe that it was more pleasurable than writing the first draft. I actually felt more alive during the second draft than I did pulling teeth for the first.

Now don't get me wrong; the first draft read well despite the problems, but now I believe that the book is absolutely solid and I don't believe I'll have much to change when I re-read the book in June. Of course, I could be wrong and that there will be loads to do, putting the kibosh on me working on TBTC's 10th Anniversary edition.

If all goes well and we get a cover that is fire for this book, it is entirely possible that this book will be available for September 2019.

Again, and I keep saying this... I can't wait to show you the book.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

First draft to GLORIOUS SLIP finally done, on to the second draft

Phew. That took a while, didn't it?

This past Wednesday afternoon, I put the capper on the first draft to GLORIOUS SLIP, the first book in my planned men's adventure time travel series. The draft checked in at 189 pages, and at 81,850 words, it is my shortest full-length novel. And with the exception of THE QUEST FOR THE CHALICE, my first novel (part of THE OBLOERON SAGA), the 15 months it took me to complete the first draft was the longest I've ever needed to do so.

Take a bow? Not quite yet.

On Friday, I dove into the start of the second draft, added about 101 words to the prose, tweaking the first chapter and a half. I stopped after coming to a part which will need all my attention in the next few days: a massive re-write of a 1,900-word scene that just doesn't make sense to anything resembling a realistic happening -- or realism, period. I suspect it shouldn't take me more than a few days to straighten out, but there are some other threads attached to this scene in the next chapter or so which also need re-writing; you pull at one thread, and the entirety of the project falls apart, right?

That can happen, but I don't think that will necessarily happen here: this activity should oh-most-definitely turn the start of the narrative to titanium.

So why did it take me so long to write? You have to remember something: when I started this novel back in November 2017, I ran into some issues that I didn't foresee whatsoever.

There was The Great Root Canal post Thanksgiving, which took me out of service for a couple of days (seriously, so many dental issues that took up a lot of time between then and this past Christmas... 13 months of driving back and forth to my dentist in Holden, about 45 minutes or so each way).

There was the fact I really couldn't get a handle on this project; I wanted to tell a complete story, like I always do, and I wanted to do so in a completely different voice, so it made the writing feel like I was pulling teeth.

I also had two trips to my hometown every week to do a pair of local sports radio shows, which also demanded on my time, especially when it came to teams that I didn't cover personally; I couldn't write afterward, because those trips and shows took a lot out of me emotionally.

And in April of last year, I took on a wonderful dream job: on top of covering the local high schools, I started covering the New England Revolution soccer team, and even though it's considered part time, I threw myself into it like I always do. All of those things wrapped into one, unfortunately, and it meant GLORIOUS had to go on the shelf. I did get a little written during the tail end of the World Cup in July, but that was it for the first draft until the offseason began -- and even then I was still busy with high school sports until December. And even then, with me taking some time off from the high school sportswriting because the newspaper owed me so much money from November alone, it was still a challenge to open the file and get some words in.

With the Revs spending the preseason in Spain and now in Florida, and with what appears like no streams of the matches in sight, I resolved at the end of January to get the first draft, at the very least, completed by the start of the regular season on March 2. That's accomplished, yes, but I'm not giving the story time to breathe like I usually do; I feel that with the time I have afforded to me, I should at the very least try to get most of the book's issues sorted -- which, like I always say, are in the first half of the book.

Will I get the full second draft completed by the start of the regular season? Probably not. Maybe; I'm not counting on it, though. I should be able to crank the re-writes out this week, and then there's some additions to the story that I came up with a couple of weeks ago: some Doc Brown-esque letters by the protagonist to his parents that wouldn't be delivered until after he had disappeared, so I have those to write. If I get the second draft finished by then, fantastic. If not, it won't bother me until June, when the Revs have a few weeks off due to the Gold Cup. I don't suspect that there will be too much to re-write in the second half of the novel, but you never know.

In all seriousness, I don't want to rush such an important book. It's the first in a planned trilogy, with a lot of the action happening in books two and three. This is a set-up book, to hook the readers and get them to buy books two and three, whenever I get to write them (and if something else gets in my way, it may be a few years before I get the opportunity to sit down and churn out the pages). I'm going to take my time with these re-writes and revisions (read: small tweaks, such as grammar or expounding on other things), and make sure the book is pure fire before I send it to Kim for her edits. I may send it to Bruce, too. He's a history buff, and I'm sure that he'll have things to contribute, advice-wise.

I really can't wait to show you the first book. It's going to be some time, though, so please be patient with me.

Thanks for your time, as always.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Getting into my new hobby

Just a couple of paintings that I've done over the last week or so. I bought the Bob Ross "Liquid White," and that has helped with my mountains. I've wanted to do the wet-on-wet technique, but I don't think my paints--$6 paints at Michael's--have the firmness he requires. So I'll do what I can with what I have.

One of the things I've also wanted to do: self-painted book covers for the Obloeron Saga. So that's a possibility.

We'll see.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Scouring Agent: A Thriller, now available for pre-order!

It's getting to be about that time! 

And what time is it? You guessed right: it's time for a new Jaclyn Johnson novel!

Scouring Agent: A Thriller, the ninth Jaclyn Johnson adventure, is ready for pre-order at all ebook platforms. A trade paperback edition is coming, too.

Here's what it's all about:

A well-timed string of attacks and events in Washington, D.C. has President Eric B. Forrister and the CIA scrambling for answers in the ninth Jaclyn Johnson thriller novel.

How well-timed are they? It just so happens the attacks occur as Jaclyn is out of the country, on her honeymoon in Wales.

With Tasha Verkler, Jaclyn’s ward and confidante, at the head of the investigation alongside Desmond Daly, a.k.a. Salt, the duo look to discover who’s behind these brazen attacks—the new Supreme Court Museum has been bombed, two Justices dead; the Senate Majority Leader killed by a sniper—until the unthinkable occurs: Jaclyn and Tom’s ride home from Heathrow is also bombed.

Do Jaclyn and Tom make it back to the United States, or does Tasha manage to solve it herself?

Intense!

Get it at the following links!

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Nook

Kobo

Apple iBooks

www.seansweeneyauthor.com