Posts Tagged ‘note’

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Coming soon! Here’s the Author’s Note:

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I’m a bit of a tea-todler these days. That is to say, actually, that I am now a tea-todler. There was once a time—way back in the way back—when I was a professional drinker. I was never an alcoholic, I just really liked to drink—and it didn’t matter what it was, so much: beer, whiskey, wine, kahlua…anything alcoholic was my favorite drink. Then, one day in my late thirties, I was done with it, having grown abjectly bored with the whole thing. Since that time, I have learned to appreciate fine drinks in very small quantities, because, like our friend Bill—not the other Bill, not the AA Bill—I prefer to have my wits about me at all times.

I simply wanted to dispense with all that from the get-go—I’m no stranger to strong drink, and in quantity. My friends of very long standing can attest to that fact. That, for “drinking.”

Which brings us now to wine. More books have been written about wines and grapes, about the “wine country” (of various nations), about wine and food, about the history of wine, etc, than perhaps any other subject. I mean, wine has been with us since forever. Ancient Egypt, Chaldea, Europe, Sub-Saharan Africa, Norway, China, and even the Americas all had their wines. All you have do is conduct an online search on the subject and a wealth of information springs forth at your fingertips. But no, I’ve not been interested in any of those things, those elements incidental to the subject of wine and drinking. Instead, I’m fascinated with the culture of wine, or possibly the sub-culture. And no matter your persuasion—pro or con, wine-drinker or not—you have to admit, there is indeed a culture of wine. It’s out there, brothers and sisters. All you have to do is get some books on the subject and litter your coffee table with them, then start appearing at private and semi-public events and bring along a bottle or two (with a cork, as opposed to a twist-off cap) and share it all liberally, and sooner or later you will find yourself in deep in conversation with an adherent. And wine afficionados are adherents, by any definition of the term. I kid you not.

Factually, I was first introduced to wine and wine-drinkers this lifetime at a fairly formative age, when my father took me wild grape-picking with him. My father knew a lot of people in the countryside around our tiny and insular little town, and he would quickly figure out who had wild grapes growing on their place that they couldn’t bother with. Normally he’d strike a deal with them: he would pick a bushel or two of grapes—and I would help him—and give them half or a third of them, whatever the bargain was, or he would take them home and make wine and jelly with them, and give them a portion of the harvest afterwards. What a wonderful trade! Therefore, we had homemade wine at our house, and we had neighbors and “friends” who liked to drink it and get plumb dang sloshed. And that, to these young eyes, was something to behold. Adults, no less, acting like little children. Consequently, I know exactly how to make homemade wine. I don’t have to consult a recipe book. I was rooted to the spot, watching the whole ritual unfold in the deft hands of my father, who while possibly wasn’t a High Priest, he was nonetheless an adherent of a different ilk: he liked to make wine to share with other people. I rarely witnessed him drinking his own vintage.

Thus, my first introduction to the culture. And notice, if you please, the root of that word, culture.

So, wine.

That day, long ago, when I sat down to title out this series, I came up with the title Reveille In Red not having even the vaguest idea that it would be about wine. That’s the confession part of this little author’s note. No sir, it was just the title, the color red (at that time more like an elegant lady’s evening gown red than the color of wine) and a certain amount of tension in my guts.

Here’s another thing: I am probably the world’s “guiltiest” fellow. That is to say that I feel responsible for not only everything I’ve myself done, but everything that goes on around me. Truth be told, I feel somewhat responsible for what’s going on in Southeast Asia, in Washington D.C., and on some random back street in Brooklyn. I mean, after all, if something’s not right, then somebody should have or should be doing something about it. And if somebody else isn’t, then why didn’t I? So while it’s probably easy for the casual reader to pass off statements such as “a certain amount of tension in my guts,” let me tell you that I’ve never known a complete absence of that tension. I’ve never, this lifetime, felt “free and easy.” Oh yes, I’ve had plenty of moments of intense enjoyment, times of laughter, and I do, factually, sleep. But the tension, the irksome stick-poked sore spot in my belly, always returns. I learned to live with it long ago. I suppose it’s a part of me, so don’t worry none for me or my health on that score. The reason that I bring this up is that Bill’s readers are used to seeing the evidence of this in what he thinks, in how he reacts, in what he says and what he doesn’t say. I just wanted you to get the genus of that, straight from the horse’s mouth. It’s not the writer “being literary” and trying to “create tension.” Good God, no. I’d rather write about a peaceful journey through a mountain valley somewhere. No, this is my method of putting the demons at bay. For expiating some of my essential guilt. You see, I’m starting to see that Bill is the guy I should have been had I lived life the way I’ve always known that I “should,” not the way I have or even am. And this is also my way of turning something “bad” into something a little more healthy. On an even more personal level, I try to do that in most situations.

Yes, like Bill I’ve had my share of fist fights. Like Bill, I’ve had people screaming at me, people threatening me, people betraying me, and people running around trying fiercely to do me in one way or another. No matter how I handled each of those situations, I attempted at every turn to learn from them.

What’s the old saying? You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. Sometimes you have to be the bad guy, or at least act it. Sometimes you have to disappoint people. You have to do the right thing, not the expected thing. I’m by no means a Solomon, to say the least. But there’s that guilty feeling again: why aren’t things going well everywhere around me, not just this minute, but every minute? What did I do that I shouldn’t have? Or worse, what the hell didn’t I do that I should? I think you see what I mean.

Just a little insight into old Bill, there. I hope you didn’t mind.

All right, so we’re coming down to the last of the planned titles, aren’t we? Let’s see, what’s up next? I see only two remaining titles in the original lineup, prior to the prequels. Those of you who follow me on Twitter and Facebook—and hey, if you aren’t, why aren’t you? Huh?—know that I have been slinging new titles around recently. So here’s the tentative lineup going into the future, starting from this one:

#16 Reveille In Red
#17 Bexar County Line
#18 The Long Goodnight
#19 Amarillo Waltz
#20 Double Ought Buck
#21 Murder On the Llano Estacado
#22 Wolf Country (prequel)
#23 Manhunt (prequel)
#24 Borderline (prequel)
#25 Leaving Extreme (short story anthology)

So, for right now, that’s pretty much it. It gives me a little more runway down there for this big, slow, lumbering airfoil to get off the ground. I always told myself that if I could complete this series, why, then I’d know something about writing. Here’s the last confession, then: I’m nowhere close to where I should be. And that, my friends, is all on me. Just like Southeast Asia and D.C. and Brooklyn.

As a final word, I want say something to you, personally. Not anyone else, just you. So you bought my book—either you downloaded it on a kindle or some other device, or you’ve bought a paperback copy somewhere, and now you’ve got it in your hands. That’s a one-way flow. It’s me outflowing to you. My words are going into your universe, like old radio skips coming in a clear night. It’s not a two-way flow (although I’ll never for a minute discount that fact that you’ve spent your hard-earned dough buying my book. No sirree, ma’am!) Apart from your initial downlay to purchase it, there’s little coming back. Now don’t worry, this is not a plea for a review, because frankly, I’ve never asked for those. In fact, I regularly admonish my writer friends when I find them doing so. This is, however, a request that you (you, personally) try, somehow, to balance that flow. My experiences are rich enough to write about for only one reason—I’ve met tens of thousands of people in my lifetime, and I consider almost all of those beneficial experiences. That is to say that what I’m missing in my life is you. So please, email me (email me at texaswier at gmail dot com) or friend me on Facebook (anyone can look at the George Wier–Author page without friending me, but it requires you requesting my friendship directly on my personal FB page. Before you do, message me and say, “Bill sent me.” I’ll understand). At the very least, if you have a membership, follow me on Twitter. And say something. I’m practically begging here. I happen to know for a fact that there are hundreds of you die-hard fans out there, if not thousands. It’s time for you to come in from the rain. The place is warm, the table is set, and there’s a chair, waiting for you.

Continuing this thought, and by way of illustration, in The Lone Star Express there’s this point where a funeral director is called out to open a casket and examine a body. Anybody remember his name? Maybe not, but I do. His name is Bob Thomas. Bob is, in fact, a real person. He’s the Funeral Director at Hammon’s Funeral Home in Littlefield, Texas. He’s a huge Bill Travis fan, and now he’s one of my best friends. He was thrilled that I name him in the book. Point of fact, I do know that most of you won’t want your name in one of my books. But a few of you? Ha ha! I can’t wait to put you here.

All this by way of saying that I do read your emails, I do respond. And I do want to hear from you. Some folks have trouble articulating what they want to say to someone like me, but let me assure you, once you get to know me you’ll find that I’m easy to be around. I’m, in fact, safe. You and I have something in common, and it’s not just Bill. It’s a way of looking at things. And that’s what’s important; important enough for me to remind you.

Okay, that’s pretty much it.

Y’all take care, now.

And all the best to you and yours.

George Wier
August 1, 2017

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It’s coming. Here’s is the author’s note for it:

AUTHOR’S NOTE

As a writer, I have been on the track of this story for most of my life. It has been hanging fire back there in the dimmest recesses of my awareness, never quite leaving me alone. I have, in fact, wanted to write this tale ever since I can remember.

Having become intrigued with the notion of the possibility of alternative dimensions for some time, and desiring to pen a “dark fantasy,” Isherwood was born. The title, however, was not born until I read George R. Stewart’s Earth Abides, the 1945 science fiction classic. The protagonist of that book, Isherwood Williams, is witness to the apocalypse of man. His viewpoint—that of an aloof and discerning man of science and student of human nature—carries that particular masterwork of fiction to its chilling conclusion. The book, as my friend Christine Bell of the Bookworks Bookstore (alternately called The Bookstore of Mystery and the Imagination, in downtown Glendale, California) stated, is “the most haunting book I have ever read.” And it was that for me. The images that Stewart painted for this reader will linger for decades.

While Earth Abides may not have been the inspiration for the current work (it’s hard for me to say what the inspiration actually was—probably a combination of several masterworks, including Stephen King’s The Dark Tower series, and his and Peter Straub’s The Talisman, Clifford D. Simak’s City and Waystation, and perhaps a tad of Roger Zelazny’s famous Amber series) and it is not written from a singular viewpoint a la Isherwood Williams, it is, instead, itself—perhaps twenty or more differing points of view. That is to say that this author has no idea where it came from, except for possibly a synthesis of many works and my own imagination. There are indeed other tales similar to this, both from fact and from fiction—tales of a person being transported into the future and meeting their future selves, stories of being taken backwards or forwards in time, of being uprooted wholly from this world and taken to another; and last but certainly not least, the near-death and other macabre experiences of those who have suffered great illness or privation. According to their authors, these stories are not fictional. Not by a long shot. While most such are traditionally ignored in the mainstream, to say that “there is nothing new under the sun” is the same, in my book, as saying, “let me die now.” What a boring world it must be for some.

Isherwood is the world I wanted to create, to revel in and embellish. I believe that if there are other worlds, then they must have some of the same unbreakable edifices as this one: there must be peoples with their own distinctive culture, they must have rituals, they must have legends, and they must have heard of this—our—world. Another world would have pieces of our technologies (and conversely, ours of theirs). For another world not to exist is far too close to saying that there is no afterlife, that there are no spirits, that we are alone in the vastness of the universe, and that modern science IS, in fact, God. No, I’m afraid it isn’t, although some worship it as such. I have always felt somewhat of pity for those who do. They do not even know that they are not their bodies; that thing that animates their fragile form is itself both immortal and indestructible.

I set out to write the history of a world that “is not.” In that I believe I have failed. I failed to write a history. I’m rather happy about that. Instead, something else has occurred. The work itself has written a history of me.

My first attempt at this tale was an epic I was working on in the early 1990s entitled The Footprinters. That story was set in the primordial past (a hundred and fifty million years, to be exact) with a segue into today by way of the prologue. The Footprinters didn’t work out so well, and despite stretching out to forty thousand words in length, it was from a time when I was learning how to write. Ah well. The story itself may have been going nowhere in no particular hurry, but there were too many elements that, like Earth Abides, haunted me. Entrellis and his lairdsmen on horseback, Trey (who was at that time named Kern) the boy who was yet a man, Sherrin the witch and healer (in The Footprinters her name was Francin), and half a dozen other characters have lived on here in Isherwood. In 1992, when this world was first born via the printed word, I was married to another woman, I was living a hundred miles away from where I live now. I was, in fact, living another life. But, I was me. I was a writer, even then. When I would set myself down to write near the ending of each day, I was transported to another world. I was transported to the world where Merrick and his harriers once walked, where the land was in turmoil from civil war, and where a stranger with a higher knowledge walked among the simple folk.
Remembering those times and those images of the world I was trying to create, I recently embarked upon rewriting it all from scratch, and thus Isherwood was born.

Here we have good and evil in conflict as it always has been, we have a struggle for freedom from oppression, we have the bereft surging forward to assail those who would kill or enslave them, and we have personal journeys, love, and finally salvation. This is invariably the case when a writer sets out to do one thing and surpasses that thing—I am not saying that this work has surpassed any of those I have here named. Quite simply, I am saying that I have merely surpassed my own expectations for the work. And that, in the final analysis, is as it should be.

It is my sincere hope that you have enjoyed Isherwood, and that you will want to visit it once again. I am intent on at least two more in this series, thus forming a trilogy. But, I have no idea at this juncture, how long the final story will be. We are, after all, spanning whole dimensions, complete universes. There’s no telling where we may end up. And the final battle could very well end up being fought upon the surface of a star in another cosmos entirely. All by way of saying, let’s preclude no single thing.

All right, I suppose that’s it.

Take care, my friends.

See you on the other side.

George Wier
Austin, Texas

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Here’s the Author’s Note for The Lone Star Express, which is well underway. For some reason, I have to write these things the minute they start talking, with only minor changes prior to publication. Anyway, here it is:

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Following on the heels of Mexico Fever—and having been conceived during the writing of it—The Lone Star Express, like all the books, was titled a very long time ago. That doesn’t mean that it hasn’t remained fresh in my mind. From a point very early on, I could clearly see—as is depicted on the cover—Bill Travis walking along a stretch of railroad track and into the desert hardpan, his coat tucked under his arm, the wind tousling his hair, and nothing but miles stretching before him. My own question (and in my mind, there’s always at least one question, and typically more than one) was this: is the train ahead of him or behind? If it’s ahead of him, he’ll never catch up to it. If it’s behind, then maybe all he’ll have to do its get to the next required water stop or switch-track, and wait. Thus, the story as you find it here. With nothing more in mind than this mental image and the title, I began in earnest, and it all unfolded rather quickly.

This book is sort of an end in itself. No, it’s decidedly not the end of the Bill Travis Mysteries by any stretch of the imagination. It is, however, a commencement of sorts. As with any ending, there are new beginnings. Time doesn’t stop because we stop, even though one might argue that all things are relative. They may be, but there is far more to life than one’s own universe—there’s everybody else’s universe as well, and then there’s the one where we all meet and interact, and there, decidedly, if in fact not all things are relative, they’re at least related.

In this book several things speak to my little commencement theory. Penny finally comes into her own, and Nat, while not exactly exiting the stage, withdraws somewhat from the floodlights. Dick Sawyer is finally laid to rest—and we can only assume that he has actually found that rest he was looking for—and another Governor has come to the fore. Jessica has married and moved out, but I hope you do know that we will see her again—she’s simply too good not to write. Also, here, the last Travis kid is introduced, if in no other way than by foreshadowing what’s to come. (By way of a hint, from the beginning of this series, I wanted Bill’s family somewhat reflective of that of Charlie Chan.)

This is, by far, the longest of the Bill Travis books. It had to be, just as Mexico Fever had to be the shortest. It’s the story that determines that, not the author, and any writer worth his or her salt will confirm that fact. As I’ve held all along, I’m simply the reporter—Bill’s hanger-on journalist, his biographer. And one of these days I suspect he’s going to turn around, fix me with a cold stare, and let me know in no uncertain terms that I’m no longer welcome to hang around. When that happens, I’ll light out for the territories and make a whole new batch of friends. And maybe even an enemy or two.

As I stated a long time ago—along about Capitol Offense, of which this book is the decided sequel—you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. All this by way of saying that nothing is truly sacred. Before this series is done, we’re liable to see some folks we thought were stable, fall by the wayside. While Austin seems to be Bill’s home, there is, indeed, a rather large state out there beyond the Travis County line. Bill and company might move. It’s entirely possible. Anything can happen.

You see, this is life we’re dealing with here. It’s at least my life. And those of you who have participated, either by reading or through direct contact with me—I’m totally approachable, folks, so email me anytime, and you’re liable to get a phone call if you supply your number—know full well that things have a way of happening. Life is a river, and you can’t dip your foot into the same river twice. And old English prof of mine was fond of using that analogy, but with the English language in place of “life.” By the time you have removed your foot from the waters and immersed them again, it’s a different river. The water has changed and moved on downstream, fish have eaten other fish, thus cutting off whole bloodlines in the unending protoplasmic contest for imminence. It’s simply not the same. Life is like that. It isn’t static because it can’t be and still be considered life. Thus, those edifices we thought were fixed are invariably toppled, and new buildings and statues erected. Yesterday’s hero is tomorrow’s villain. What was all the rage is quickly forgotten in the windstorm of change. The seasons can be unkind.

Sorry, was waxing poetic there.

So, Bill Travis.

Bill and I are older now, that much is obvious. He doesn’t say nearly as much as he used to, but I feel like his waters have more depth, and sometimes those depths are dark indeed. (For instance, Bill actually shoots someone in Mexico Fever, as you well know. Let me tell you, that surprised the hell out of me, for sure! And gosh! What happens here gives me chills.) I can’t tell you much about my own waters, other than that things seem simpler to me now. But, when you strip away all the arbitraries and all the complexities (and you can easily read into that, all the things that aren’t important, especially the lies) a whole new world can open up, and it’s just as bright as it was when we were young and it was summer, and a day lasted a mere shadow shy of forever.

By way of final word, let’s talk about trains.

One of my earliest memories was of a train ride either on or to the Alabama-Coushatta Indian Reservation in deep East Texas. I couldn’t have been more than about three or four years old. There I met my first cousins (my father’s brother’s kids. And as an aside, one of those two brothers later became the Chief of the tribe!) and spent a day immersed in their culture. I loved it, but mostly I loved the train ride. Since that time I have had a fascination with trains, but no real outlet for that interest. I simply haven’t had the time to delve into it. Oh, I wanted to, but, you see, there’s this thing called “life,” and man, it can get in the way of quite a lot! So, here I am, nearly fifty years after the fact, and I find myself having come full circle back to that long, wonderfully slow train ride through the Big Thicket. If there is a heaven, then there is a passenger train running through it, and on to undiscovered lands. Either there must be, or there is no such thing as heaven.

So, trains. As in all things, I never knew one nth the amount I wanted to. And consequently, some of my favorite books and movies have been about trains: The Great Train Robbery, Runaway Train, Throw Momma From the Train, Von Ryan’s Express, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and the ubiquitous Murder on the Orient Express, to name a few.

With the publication of The Lone Star Express, I feel as though I may have painted myself into a rather lovely corner. While I hope it’s my absolute best, it makes the next book an even greater challenge. But then again, what would life be if there weren’t a few prominent obstacles along the path, huh?

In any case, be looking for Trinity Trio, the next Bill Travis installment, in the coming months, followed quickly by Buffalo Bayou Blues. How’s that for titles?

I suppose that’s it, for now. I hope to see you soon. In the meantime…

All my best to you and yours.

George Wier
Austin, Texas
June 9, 2016