On the subject of the argument of "Traditional Publishing with the industry giants" vs. "Indie writers going it on their own":

On the subject of the argument of "Traditional Publishing with the industry giants" vs. "Indie writers going it on their own": I kind of like to imagine it all in a sort of Tolkeinish Mordor scene. In this case though, Sauron and the Orcs (Big 5)are all really rather nice people with families and dreams who are merely misunderstood by those outside the city walls.

The Hobbits (indies) are mostly decent folk with big ideas and grand dreams who've never been outside the shire to the big city and are somewhat resentful that the big guys are so big and have so much seeming wealth for what seems like so little work on the backs of the little guys. Not to mention that the tall people have so little hair on their much smaller feet and no one laughs at them when they try to reach the top shelf at the grocery.

Its sort of an Occupy Middle Earth mentality for some of the Hobbits. And at the same time a hold the citadel, defend the old ways from the he

athen outsiders for the Mordorians. But it needn't be.

With all their trodding underfoot tactics and scuttling about trying to toss rings of power into fiery volcanoes the Hobbit writers are missing the point that traditional publishing has its place, and a very useful place it is.

Likewise with their deafening roars and mockery and the tossing from the city walls of burning balls of pitch and sulfur onto the masses below simply extends the misery of the populace within besieged Mordor, which can only end with Orcs eating Orcs, which is a rather nasty way to go for both the eater and the eatee (Orc flesh tastes rather like rancid over cooked mule meat with vomit sauce...but not as good).

If both sides were to just chill and see the mutual need for one another I think the industry would even out, customers would enjoy the best of both worlds, and everyone would be fairly happy, with the exception of those truly miserable sorts on both sides who are only happy when no one else is happy and therefore are only fighting for the sake of being idiots who like fighting.

Therefore I say: One Ring To Rule Them All, now available in paperback, hardback, eBook, audiobook, podcast, serialized emailbook, and story told 'round the campfire to the huddled masses of quivering due to sugary s'mores overloaded boy scouts on a rainy night in the mountains formats.

So there.

I am Basil Sands, and I approve this message.
www.basilsands.com
We can all live together and tell stories and live happily

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WikiLeaks stole from me...no lie

I recently had a bit of my digital identity stolen. A credit card and other info was taken by the folks who sold their info to WikiLeaks. I know who took it because that particular account was used only for one purpose, to pay my annual subscription to Stratfor.com, an account I use for intelligence research to make my novels sound like I know what I'm talking about. While my credit card company noticed the highly unusual activity instantly and I was safe because they declined more than $1000 of purchases made thousands of miles from my home on a day when I did other bank activity in my home town, I nonetheless have a bad taste in my mouth from this.

No...deep in my soul.

About Wikileaks, Anonymous, YesMen and any other anarchist groups. Ya know, being a Linux guy, an open source kind of soul who has even given my books away free as podcasts and whose been a shareware/collective commons/opensource proponent for about twenty years, I want to believe something good can come of it all. But at the same time, being an IT professional and having to deal with stupid petty DOS attacks constantly, mingled with the real hackers and terrorists trying to steal serious data things occasionally, and being a former military guy in my forties whose come face to face with real, and at times  physically violent, evil at times I don't trust a whole lot of what idealists, especially young inexperienced idealists, say anymore.

One thing I think a lot of these hackers don't understand, is that some of the folks they piss off may be of the kind I've worked with in the military or have otherwise encountered in other times in my life who are involved in enterprises of the less than legal kind...the kind that actually deal with issues by leaving broken and/or dead bodies behind. What are these computer geeks going to do when they run into the ex-Marine whose beloved wife has a heart attack when she learns their entire life savings has been stolen by hackers who got back at government corruption by skimming his retirement account after he spent twenty years protecting his country from terrorists with bombs who prefer to forcefully marry twelve year olds. Even worse what are they going to do when they hit that one in a million corporate head who actually turns out to be a real life mafioso who sends Mr. Sixfeetfullofmuscles with a gun and a prepaid contract to deal with people who hurt him?

I don't think they'll be able to SUDO rm -rf ~/.bash_history themselves to invisibility when that laser dot shows up on their forehead.

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New Book - Sneak Peek - Cold Summer - Due out late summer 2012

This is a quick peek at the first chapter of my new book, Cold Summer, due out end of summer 2012. Enjoy.

*********

Southwestern Punjab, Pakistan

November 4th

“Ali aga. How long will the meeting be today?” Kharzai fidgeted as he spoke, looking out the window at the dusty landscape that passed them by.

Ali turned in the front passenger seat and glared at Kharzai over the top edge of his mirrored sun glasses.

“Al Gul, your wedding plans will be as scheduled,” Ali used the cover name Kharzai was known by among the Taliban and allied organizations. “The old man made that very clear.”

“How did you know that’s what I was thinking?” Kharzai replied.

“Because that girl is the only thing you have been talking about for a week.”

“I’ve talked about more than Leila this week.”

“No,” Ali shook his head, “no you have not.”

“I did too,” Kharzai looked indignant, “I told you we needed to resupply the ammo cache at Bahawalpur.”

“That was business. I mean other than business you have not brought up any other subject but this girl you want so bad. If you were so horny, you should have just gotten a prostitute. Hell, get a young boy to take around as your pupil…at least you won’t have to worry about making more kids that way.”

“You Arabs are sick."

"Arabs? You Persians have no room to speak. What's his name...” Ali tapped his temple to draw up the memory, “Iraj Mirza, the poet, diddling boys was all he wrote about.”

“Apparently I do not read the same poets as you,” Kharzai said. "That stuff never happened in my family. Our fathers made us iron chastity belts with razor blades around our bung holes."

"What?"

"Yeah they had a hole for us to let waste out of but blades around the rim of the hole protected us from any wrong way traffic. It was hell on the furniture but any man who thought he could enter me or my cousin's back door would've enjoyed a second circumcision."

Ali chuckled, "You are a strange man Seirim Al Gul, very strange indeed."

"Alright, time to get serious," barked the driver. Kharzai's face reflected back at him in the rear view mirror. The driver's eyes were shielded by silvered aviator sunglasses as well. "We are here."

The column of vehicles pulled into a cluster of single story mud brick houses and animal pens that played at being a village. Children scuttled between the houses in some sort of game and a herd of goats looked up at the vehicles with the blank stare of bestial curiosity. Before the vehicles came to a complete stop a cluster of laughing boys surrounded them chattering all at once like a gang of monkeys, wide expressions of innocent joy on their faces, ignorant of the cold violence embodied in these men to whom they clamored for attention. Ali and the others pushed the boys out of the way, projecting a cruel terrorist persona. Some of the boys cowered and shrunk back, others ignored the mean men and homed in directly on Kharzai.

In spite of his reputation as a cold blooded killer, Seirim Al Gul literally means Hairy Demon, Kharzai loved and was loved by children. He trotted into the mob of boys and with the toe of his shoe snatched a soccer ball from one of them starting an instant game of keep away. Boys chased him, tripping over each other, laughing at Kharzai's silly faces as they tried in vain to get the ball back.

Leila came out of a nearby house and stood at the edge of the play area. The loose end of a clean white dupatta draped around her shoulders and head fluttered in the warm breeze. The sunlight set her unblemished face aglow like a goddess. Like a manga artist's dream of beauty large almond eyes peered at him from beneath the fringe of her dupatta, pools of deep brown that drew him in. Her bright orange loose fitting shalwar kameez made him think of sunrise and fresh fruit. The baggy Pakistani clothing was not nearly as formless as the infamous burka, and while being modest by western standards allowed her vivid femininity to remain apparent as she moved. Around her neck hung a thin gold chain with a heart shaped pendant Kharzai had made from a twisted braid of gold wire. His expression opened with a huge smile and he winked at her flashing bright white teeth through his thick black beard. She giggled in response.

“Al Gul,” one of the men from the convoy called from the door of a house.

He kicked the ball over the heads of the boys sending them on a chase as it bounced into a goat pen. A few of them followed behind Kharzai like a gaggle of goslings as he jogged toward the house. The man at the door snarled at the boys stopping them short in fear.

"Go play," Kharzai said with a swoosh of his hand as he entered the house. They ran off. He glanced over to Leila as she walked into one of the other houses. A jolt of nerves wriggled through his belly as the door closed behind him. He mused how funny it was that al Gwahari's daughter could make him feel so giddy, especially in light of the fact that he was going to kill the man within the week. Then a different thought hit him: He was going to kill his fiancées father.

What if she doesn't like me after.

But then he remembered that although she could never say it aloud to anyone but Kharzai, whom she like the others only knew as Seirim Al Gul, she hated her father and everything he stood for. He was a companion of men like Osama bin Ladin and Iman al Zawahiri, mass murderers who controlled the population with terror. On the day he proposed to her Leila confided in Kharzai that she hated the jihad. She hated the war and the fighting and the killing and wanted to run away from everything. She wanted to move to Australia or the United States and make a new life where she could be free from the fear that always surrounded her home. When he asked how she could trust him with such words when he was a fighter like her father's men, she told him that he was different. He was not just another crazy jihadist. Something set him apart, but she could not put her finger on it. They would marry, then disappear and live happily ever after.

Kharzai entered the house and was lead to the room where al Gwahari sat on a carpet, his war chiefs in a circle around a small table.

"Al Gul," his voice came in a gravelly rumble. "My son in law, please sit. Join us for tea."

Kharzai sat on the floor across from the older man. Al Gwahari did not look the part of a terrorist warlord. He lacked the evil sneer of bin Ladin or the dull eyed mask of al Zawahiri. His grandfatherly appearance had worked in his favor to acquire alliances, but those who crossed him soon learned that it was a ruse. The kind looking old man had no qualms in ordering, and overseeing, the wholesale massacre of villages that refused his demands. He had personally executed two ISI agents and Kharzai’s CIA contact, luckily the latter died without revealing Kharzai's duplicity. Al Gwahari still trusted him, as far as he knew.

"Thank you sir, I am flattered you would invite me in," Kharzai said bowing his head, his gaze staying focused on the floor in a gesture of humility.

"No, it is I who am flattered that a famous warrior of Allah like you would marry my daughter."

"I look forward to being your son in law."

"The ceremony begins tomorrow, the rest of the guests will be here by morning," al Gwahari said. "The next four days and nights will be for celebration, but now there is work to be done."

"Then I will not waste your time sir."

Ali motioned to Kharzai, "Al Gul, bring in the case of surveillance information we left in the car. After that you may go to the mosque and begin your purification while we discuss the mission schedule."

"Thank you Ali aga."

Kharzai stepped out the door and back into the bright sunlight. The boys, had given up on their soccer game and sat on the shaded side of the house playing with marbles in the dirt. Leila approached the house holding a tray of cups and a pot of steaming tea. Her head bowed in modesty, she turned her eyes up to meet his face and smiled when he looked back at her, adding an exaggerated swish to her hips as she drew near.

"Three more days my love, only three days and we will be one," he said.

She twisted her face into pout, "I don't know. I think I might change my mind."

Kharzai raised an eyebrow and forced his face into a serious expression, "If you change your mind now, I’ll strap on a shaheed vest and throw myself into a train."

"Then I will have to marry you. You're too cute to blow yourself up!"

They laughed. He held the door open and she walked into the house. Their eyes locked, like magnets unable to resist each other as she passed. The door closed behind her, breaking the bond. He walked to the car, practically floating above the ground, opened the trunk and retrieved a suitcase of files and photos. Most of the images were already in the hands of the CIA and ISI, and counter-ops were already working on defensive measures. As he lifted the heavy case his cell phone bleeped the tone for a text message. Kharzai set the case on the lip of the open trunk and pulled the cell phone from his pants pocket. He thumbed the text message button and read the words on the screen.

Impact imminent...DUCK!

A bright hiss screeched in the distance growing louder fast. His heart leaped into his throat and he started for the house. He opened his mouth shouting for the boys to run but the words were torn from his breath as the house erupted with an earth shattering roar. The force of the explosion threw him back and over the car landing in the dirt with a brain shaking impact. He willed his stalled lungs to expand and suck in air, then pushed himself up onto his feet and stumbled forward.

Where the house had stood was a heap to shattered bricks and splintered wood. Clouds of dust slowly settled over the rubble. Terrified villagers peaked from inside their homes, looking first at the destruction then up to the sky praying more bombs were not on the way. Dazed, Kharzai stumbled into the ruins searching, praying that she had stepped out the back door, or by some miracle had been protected. He froze, his eyes locked on a piece of bright orange linen that glowed in sharp contrast to the shattered brick and charred wood. He moved toward it and saw her stockinged foot, twisted beneath a large mass of crumbled stone. He started to reach down, to dig her out. A glimmer of gold sparkled two meters away, her necklace. He stepped toward it and reached down to pick it up, hands trembling, tears welling up in his eyes. As he pulled on it, a stone rolled aside, revealing strands of long brown hair that wavered in a breeze that kicked up low to the ground. He glanced back at her foot and instantly realized that Leila's hair and necklace was entirely too far from her feet. His stomach lurched and forced himself to a place of detached calm. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and cut it as close to the source as he could, refusing the urge to dig her body out, not wanting to see her face, only moments before full of life and beauty, now mangled in death. He would only hold on to the memory of the living woman he loved, he tied the lock of hair into a knot around the gold chain and pushed it into his pocket.

Kharzai walked into a Lahore coffee house, the acrid smell of tobacco smoke and strong coffee stinging his nostrils as he crossed the mostly empty room to a table in the far corner. A deeply tanned caucasian man looked up from the table and acknowledged Kharzai's approach. He started to rise but Kharzai's expression advised him to stay seated.

"You were supposed to wait for my signal," Kharzai growled.

"We had it on satellite,” the man said, “and knew we would only have one chance."

Kharzai grabbed the man by the collar and wrenched him up from the chair.

“We gave you a warning message,” the man pleaded impotently.

“You killed a bunch of kids!”

Barely controlled violence punctuated Kharzai's voice.

The man's face twisted in expectation of getting hit. Kharzai dropped him back into the chair.

“Blame the Taliban, not me!” the man straightened his collar looking nervously around, “They’re the ones who hide among civilians!”

“You could have waited until my signal.”

The man rose to his feet, “Al Gwahari would have slipped away again, it was worth...”

Kharzai rammed his fist straight into the man's nose. Blood sprayed across the man's white shirt and he stumbled backwards, knocking the table over and falling to the floor.

"You killed my wife you bastard!"

The man rose to his knees and touched his face. He winced and looked down in horror as blood continued to pulse from his nose and spread over his hands.

"Jesus, you broke my nose!"

"You’re lucky you still have testicles you son of a bitch,” Kharzai picked up a napkin from the table and wiped the blood from his knuckles. “Tell your boss that I am out."

"You can’t quit," the man's voice was liquid and nasal. "You’re in too deep, they won’t let you go."

Kharzai stared down at him in a barely controlled rage.

"Tell them I am dead, and if anyone comes to find me, they will be too."

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The Muses - revisiting a post from 2010

The ancient Greeks believed that artists were guided by a group of beautiful spirits called the Muses. They led the poet and the singer down the path of creativity toward their creations. I think there’s something to that. After all where do these ideas come from that end up giving us stories and songs and poetry?

I believe I have two muses.

One has silky long black hair and a smile that sparkles brighter than the morning star. She whispers in my ear. Her breath sends shivers of pleasure through my entire body. She holds my hand and sings quietly, sometimes murmuring sounds of love and tenderness that words cannot easily express. We walk together, smiling and she points to things of beauty that I otherwise may not have noticed. But she has inner strength that encourages her to dive through the clouds, opening her parachute at only the last minute. She is able to run with wolves as if they were her family, to swim with sharks without showing fear. I don't know how she does it, I think she has them all hypnotised.

Her rival is quite the opposite. A rather gabby individual and seldom soft or quiet. Her hair is also black and shiny but is tied back tight and ends in a pony tail that bounces and snaps like a whip when she moves her head. She doesn't sparkle, she pops. Sitting still for a photo might catch her in what seems like a moment of motionlessness, but only if the shutter speed is set to very fast. She vibrates with energy, constantly talking and jabbering and tossing ideas into my brain pot at such a rate that I can barely digest one before the next comes barreling in. Perky is a word that might describe her…. or caffeinated. If you want a wild night...or an exhausting weekend ... of creating, touching, travelling through and tasting the forest, seeing the music, grasping the stars, exploding with sensory overload, all the pain, all the pleasure of an orgasm of fully lived life...she's the one to go with. But don't expect to be many steps beyond the grave at the end of the weekend. Only the strong and brave need apply.

Those two are my muses. Equal in beauty, power, and strength but mostly not compatible.

Mercifully the two seldom appear at the same time.

They are, as it happens, rather abrasive toward one another when they are together.

The poetess starts making vulgar rhymes and the perky one ends up slapping her.

But they are both very hot.

They are sultry and sexy and drive me crazy.

And I quite enjoy both of their company.

So here I am. Living dangerously in psychological polygamy.

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