Case Files of Cable & Blount ebook on Smashwords

$3.99 at Smashwords

Oh, yay. Sold ONE copy of my new Smashwords ebook anthology, three complete novels for less than four bucks, of which I get to keep two for the privilege of being scraped and private label counterfeited by hackers working from their mom's basement, the only two bucks I'll probably get, after which there will be 50 sites selling it, middle finger salute to the author.

Separately, I wrote to a literary agent, as in singular, one guy whose profile indicated he was fond of heroes, real and fictional -- the only one among 80 agents that I researched in detail. Scripts & Scribes had a long list of websites for literary agencies. I knew some of them, like Curtis Brown and Writers House, but I systematically went through the entire list, took two days to study every bio. Most firms have numerous agents, each one looking for something other than me. Womens, LGBT, childrens, YA, fantasy, science fiction, narrative nonfiction (preferably a prominent public person) or pop psych motivational hooey. Can't blame them, those are the categories that sell. In fiction, it's Clive Cussler and an infinity of chick lit.

-- taps fingers on keyboard --

There is really little else to say about selling books or begging an agent to help. I invested two years in writing 135,000 words, a difficult story to tell. That it will now be ripped off by internet rodents doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is a hardcover edition and film rights. There's enough material in The Case Files of Cable & Blount for a TV series, a colorful supporting cast with Chris and Peachy in foreground, tough, funny, sexy, and smart. Ample room for a guest star each episode. No digital effects, just crime scenes and shootouts.

I need to go to Los Angeles

I'm a lucid dreamer, which means that I'm consciously present and alert when I dream. Sound asleep, I direct what I do (quelle suprise, directors direct their dreams). Last night I found myself in a dream where it was imperative to save life, and I couldn't do it, because I don't have a car. I can't dream the unreal. Being car-less and stranded prompts a larger question.

Did God ordain that I should work in a factory and never write a word? -- perhaps so.

I sold my car to buy a third novel starring Chris and Peachy. Friends sent money to help me finish and publicize it. Now the punishment intensifies, no food, no car, no book sales. God has a strange sense of humor. An encyclopedia of TV tropes quoted a passage I wrote 17 years ago, a story with hot sex scenes, murder and gunplay, private jets and limosines, no different than my recent work. I write about luxury and intrigue because I experienced it, traveled in circles of wealth and power, cruelty and kindness, the electrifying chemistry of hard men and beautiful women. I try to keep my stories realistic. Honest. Plausible.

As far as I know, no one else in my family tree ever wrote fiction. I'm not certain if they read anything other than newspaper headlines, medicine labels, tax tables, and product assembly instructions. Literature was something taught in school and suffered as an irrational duty, like Bible verses and prayers on Sunday accompanied by a pre-printed envelope, a vig for God in weekly installments. I have brothers and cousins who worked in factories, paid God, stuck at it and gained union seniority, better money, generously defined benefits.

They eat well, have nice homes and new cars. I pine for grapefruit juice, casaer salads, fried chicken, haven't had any in many months. I bought electricity, coffee, lunch meat and chili, cigarettes by the carton, so I could sit and write, listen to music on the radio until I saw what happened moment by moment in a story that seems authorless now, completed. My people stumble into situations not of their choosing (nor mine). Life happens. We try to do the best we can, or raise hell, if hell sinks to an unacceptable depth. "We only live once," Chris says in the final crisis, winning a woman's trust with something other than money.

$3.98 at Lulu

I spent my one life accordingly. I worked in factories as a teenager and young adult, decided to join the circus of film and television, became a screenwriter and novelist, careened from failure to failure indifferently because the work mattered, the market didn't. One hopes to improve, but I don't think that's what happens with most authors.

There is an apogee in every creative career. Fred and Ginger, sprightly young things; Ayn Rand's second novel; Gilded Age industrialization after the adolescent tantrum of Civil War and before adult World Wars taxed everything twice, made America a nonprofit global cop. The era in which we are living now is strewn with vacant factories and plump political lies, a post-industrial welfare state that shed manufacturing jobs, became a global "consumer of last resort" on credit, no way to repay it.

I did something similar, walked away from employment, ran up credit cards I couldn't repay. Perhaps it's a national disease. As a unique American snowflake I stamped my foot and wrote what I liked, the way I liked it, first person. Hahahaha. Nothing left to do but laugh at myself, try to forgive, make a cup of coffee and think about dinner, cold chili over baked potato.

It's important to be good to myself to the extent possible. Maybe I'll mosey down the road and buy a Kit Kat and a bottle of fake orange juice. I spent the afternoon ripping out partitions in the horse barn, throat parched from decades-old straw dust and barn filth, something to do while I'm not writing. There is nothing further to write. I hit a million words recently, plenty of punishment, thanks, don't care for any extra or additional. I'd rather shovel shit.

"As independent as an insult"

I monitor conservative talk radio, not because I enjoy it, but because it delivers a series of social snapshots. In addition to being professional radio personalities who read advertising copy with perfect enthusiasm, most of them are Jews, a few are Christian, all of them 100% patriotic and pro-Israel. They loved Ted Cruz and disliked Donald Trump, but reluctantly supported Trump in the general election because they loathed and feared Hillary. Conservatives are pragmatic, go along to get along and get richer.

The worst of the pragmatists is super-sweet patriarch Dennis Prager.

Today, Dennis Prager attributed all mass murder to "loners" -- fatherless atheists who gamble, skate on the wrong side of the law, have no conscience or remorse. I took it at face value and saw myself so described.

Before I discuss it further, please keep in mind that killing is not done exclusively by loners with absent earthly or heavenly fathers. Entire nations led by enthusiastic party cheerleaders have killed tens of millions. Groups are more dangerous than isolated lone wolves. That said, it is true that the tragedy of American urban violence and crime consists primarily of angry lone wolves acting in combination with and/or competition with other lone wolves.

I spent time in prison and saw quite a few of these men. As a group they were suspicious and opportunistic, quiet about their history on earth. I'm slightly different in that respect. It has been my habit to talk, reflect, discuss ideas. Perhaps that explains why I sell so few books. No one cares to contemplate what a loner thinks. At best, it's always dark and disturbing.

-- or is it? -- compared to socially accepted product like horror movies? More than a few serial killers were warped by first person shooter video games. Why such stuff exists is pragmatic, big money for the producers and distributors of blood-soaked amusements. I can't watch it. I can't even contemplate the horrible, unless I'm trying to conceive a fictional villain, someone for a fictional hero to defeat. The hero is a far better man than I am, but not so very different, either. A hero is a loner by definition, independent of the approval of others.

It's easy to like policemen and firemen, doctors and lawyers, engineers and heavy equipment operators, auto mechanics who fight with rusted bolts. From time to time I do some of that, show a dab of physical courage, tackle projects involving practical thought and danger, swing heavy tools, balance on ladders and whatnot. If I had to, I could probably shoot to kill if my wife or daughter were threatened, no different than a cop. Years ago, I fought a forest fire, a so-called "first responder" joined by other neighbors armed with hand tools.

I've also done wrong, deliberately and remorselessly. In the past two years I ran up enormous credit card bills that I can't pay. Not the first time in life that I gambled with other people's money, a staple of filmed entertainment and artistic enterprise. I've been a cad with women repeatedly. These are real problems, primarily because I failed to produce much of anything in the world, if the measure of a man is his wallet. My wallet is empty. Women can take a lot of crap from their men, but being broke is unforgivable. Being bad tempered in defeat makes everything worse, so I make an effort to be cheerful. There is quite a lot to be happy about, so it's an authentic emotional response. I like being alive, enjoy the courage and joy of life in others, acknowledge and encourage work by talented friends and family.

However, I completely understand lone wolves -- and I chose the pen name 'Wolf' in specific acknowledgment of social demerit, a deplorable before it became fashionable. I was deeply influenced by Ayn Rand, an articulate exponent of selfishness. I took it seriously, saw life as a personal possession, mine to save or spend to the extent of my mental and physical ability, took no notice of what might be pragmatic or pleasing to others.

Without asking anyone to agree with me, I believe that it is the human condition generally to be alone, fundamentally independent no matter how often or how deeply we congregate at work or play. I know that people derive pleasure from congress. Sporting events, religion and neighborhood gatherings are fun for all concerned, and I've seen pleasure in the workplace lots of times, although there's always a dollop of artificial enthusiasm. Work is called work for a reason. Given a choice, employees and supervisors would rather be somewhere else.

It's a special condition of privilege to be a loner, which is nearly impossible to maintain as an economic activity, unless one is particularly gifted. I know for a fact that I'm not exceptionally talented, except in the matter of selfhood. When I die, I doubt anyone will mourn. That's the price of selfhood as I understand it. Few people want such a fate. I do not recommend it as a goal, unless you're an independent novelist or filmmaker, deaf and blind to pragmatism.

The Hollywood Pitch

Hi.

I've written a series of romantic action adventure novels, a modern Nick and Nora Charles, enough material for four or five features or a cable series, self-published to nail copyright.

Chris Cable is a black sheep, former USMC war hero, resigned his commission as an officer because he hated killing. Recruited as an LAPD homicide detective, couldn't take orders or follow rules, tried working as an investigator for the D.A. and quit, on his own as a licensed P.I. in Hollywood. Rugged, cynical, broken nose, covered in scars, not fun to be with.

Mary Blount, CPA, Stanford Ph.D., is a Silicon Valley polymath who does forensic audits for private equity and insurance companies, temporarily in L.A. to investigate a U.S.-Chinese aerospace joint venture. Confident elder daughter of a billionaire physicist, walked away from an arranged marriage, made her own way in the world.

Hot water seeks its own level. These two are made for each other.

They meet in A Portrait of Valor, cheat death again in The Tar Pit mystery, throw the world's financial system for a loop in Charity. Hard to summarize in a query. Like Nick and Nora, she inherits vast wealth when her father dies. Chris comes from a prominent military clan with NSC and CIA clout. They get forced into high society black ops in London and Hollywood.

Nice office on Sunset Strip, a beach house in Laguna, plenty of sex with multiple partners, passionate and devoted married couple who travel the world, armed and dangerous.

All rights all media in perpetuity, cash upfront, shared 'story by' credit.

Thanks,

Wolf DeVoon

not exactly famous, somewhat notorious as a public person
had contact with retired CIA and KGB

'Portrait of Valor' and 'The Tar Pit' in paperback, with a 'Charity' tease
https://www.amazon.com/Chris-Peachy-Files-Cable-Blount/dp/197392630X

'Charity' (complete novel)
Rogue traders, pallets of cash, beautiful babes, CIA black ops, and a desperate chase through Warsaw's Chopin airport in a cryptocurrency adventure wild enough to make central bankers and Swiss cops pee their pants.
 $0.99 on Kindle  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075KDPRJ6/

Wolf DeVoon on Wolf DeVoon

Gentleman. Renegade. Traitor. Polygamist. Hero.
I find it difficult to conceive a readership profile for 'Charity' or Chris Cable's two previous adventures. Older men, I suppose, guys who still read. My pal Jeff is early-60s, watches TV half-heartedly, reads detective fiction (Hammett, Chandler, Kerr). How many of these old farts are there? -- maybe 20 million younger Boomers who still like to read books, of whom maybe 10% are libertarian and straight. That's a target group of 2 million. If I had CNBC and Bloomberg publicity, I'd catch 2%, sell 40,000 books. That is not a meaningful upside for book publishers. Not a big audience for movie adaptation, either. Old men? Are you kidding?

Well, think about it. It was written by an old man. The main character is a man, adult stories where he wins spectacular babes and never shuns a gunfight. If Chris was black or latino, it would sell like hotcakes -- except he's not an underclass urban antihero, he's Ivy League prep school and USMC straight white war hero. Slime from the hood doesn't stand a chance against Chris Cable's situational awareness and combat experience. That's the purpose of conceiving and/or contemplating a hero. I have to do both when I write novels, show the man in action. He has to be better than I am -- a hell of a lot better, yet human, vulnerable at times. Almost beaten, frequently confused and uncertain. "I don't know," is Cable's recurrent confession. That's why he operates mostly on intuition and a sort of relentlessness, maximum effort, as long as its takes to find an answer that makes sense, usually involving gunfire.

World travel, beautiful women, unlimited cash, multiple identities. Yup. Male fantasy. Only fifty years too late, like Fleming's Bond, although I like modern Chris Cable a lot better, the last handsome, dashing hero in an era of politically correct pussies. He emphatically does not give a damn about being nice, get the fuck out of his way, quickly please. It's a geniunely new story to tell, what it means to be armed and dangerous,  completely independent, in today's lame brain gutter chatter about white privilege. There's no time to discuss it. Move or die.

I suppose a lot of fictional people, sometimes big crowds see Chris and his women in action, guns drawn, running, shooting when necessary. I never think of civilians or bystanders, never hear them unless they're making too much noise to hear anything. Frightened people run in circles and scream, scare each other, cause all sorts of chaos. Combat operators take no notice of civilians, try to avoid collateral damage but can't guarantee anyone's safety in combat.

Because that's finally what my stories are about, the courage to face evil and fight it. Not a bad thing to impart to future generations. I'd like to do that, if I can keep myself in print that long. Most likely I will not get a vote. Depends entirely on the merit of what I wrote.

'Charity' $0.99 on Kindle https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075KDPRJ6/