Why Expectations Are The Writer's Worst Enemy (And What To Do Instead)

Expectations: The Writer’s Worst Enemy

Next to not writing, expectations can be a writer’s worst enemy. If for no other reason than a writer has no control over expectations. What do I mean?

You’ve written a book, put it through its paces with revisions and editing, and now it’s ready for public consumption. Here’s how expectations can trip us up:


If you’re indie publishing it, expecting to sell hundreds (or more) copies in a day, week, or month.

Expecting a publisher to give you a large advance and tons of promotion.

If you’re submitting to an agent, expecting them to take you on and get a huge book deal.

Expecting all of your family and friends to be supportive of your writing dream.


After I sold my first novel to Pinnacle, a well-known agent took me on. I was excited. This was it. He negotiated my next two books with Pinnacle. After that, I was sure a deal with one of the big five (at the time) publishers awaited. I decided to switch genres and write a crime novel. The book just didn’t work, even after I cut the thing in half and revised the hell out of it. I was expecting the book to sell. Eventually, I parted ways with the agent and went indie.

Instead of focusing on what you expect in a writing career, look at what you can control. Set some measurable goals for yourself, such as:

• Reading one book on writing craft a week
• Reading two books per month in your genre and studying the author’s techniques
• Writing X amount of words per day
• Blogging a certain number of times per week
• Sending out two short stories per month to different markets

There are tons of other goals you can set for yourself as a writer. Make these your focus, do the work, and results will come.

Read an Excerpt From Die Trying, My Latest Thriller

I thought I'd share a snipped of my work-in-progress, Die Trying.

John Regal is a man with the unique ability to spot dangerous people. They carry a dark aura around them. In this scene, a government agency seeking to study John sends an agent out to capture him.

Uncorrected copy from Die Trying
Copyright 2017 Anthony Izzo

He drove home and approached the house. The house was dark. He watched it for a moment, weary. Did someone move behind the front window? He had the gun.
He pulled into the driveway and got out. Went to the front door and opened it with his key. Darkness greeted him. He could’ve sworn he’d left a light on.
John flipped the switch. He smelled someone. Cigarettes. John didn’t smoke. He pulled out the Beretta, crept through the living room.
He passed through the dining room. As he entered the kitchen, he felt someone bearing down him. He turned and swung, fist smacking someone’s jaw. He stumbled across the kitchen.
When he turned, he saw a guy in shades and a leather jacket staring him down. John raised the gun. The guy was quick, did this thing where he turned the gun towards John and then it was in the guy’s hand.
Before they guy could level the gun, John threw a right, popped the man in the nose. The guy countered, swept John’s legs from under him and he hit the floor, head smacking the tile.
Looking up at the guy now, whose nose bled. The gun in his face.
“Don’t move or I’ll hurt you,” the man said.
“Nice shades. You know it’s nighttime.”
The guy kicked him in the ribs. John curled into a ball.
“Anything else to say?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Get up. Slowly,” the man said.
John got to his feet, a hot blade in his ribs.
“Outside. My truck’s on the street.”
John went first and the guy followed, the gun on John.
“Now we don’t want any neighbors seeing the gun. Just know I can pull it in a hurry.”
“Are you with the woman? The Indian one?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
That was a yes in John’s mind. “What do you want with me?”
“Shut up and stop talking.”
“You’re the bad people I was warned about,” John said.
“I’m the person that’s going to shoot you in the leg if you don’t move.”
“You won’t though.”
“Move. I can think of other ways to dish out pain. See.”
The chop caught him in the Adam’s apple. His windpipe seemed to seal off. He gasped, clutched his throat.
“That was just a tap,” the man said. “Now move.”
John moved along, wheezing and gagging. After a moment, his windpipe opened back up. He coughed again. Spat.
He saw the car roll past. Got a glimpse of the woman in the vehicle.
Allie.
She spun the car around, gave it gas, and jumped the curb, coming right at them. John hit the deck, watched the car bear down on the man like a shark on a swimmer. The car launched him backwards, the gun catapulting through the air. His head smacked the ground.
John looked over at the car. The passenger’s side window rolled down.
“Don’t sit there looking pretty. Get in.”
John scooped up his Beretta. Lights came on in the houses across the street. Neighbors were going to be peeking out soon.
He flung open the door and threw himself in the car.
Allie spun it around and sped off.

Ten Writing Prompts to Ignite Your Stories

First lines in fiction are crucial for grabbing the reader. It helps to create a disturbance, or change in the character's situation. You want to start the story where nothing will be the same after the opening. I find it helps to keep a list of first lines, either in a notebook or a computer file.

Here are a few prompts/first lines to use as story starters:


Something moved in the woods.

The object, unidentifiable at first, floated to the surface of the water.

Your characters are exploring a long-abandoned building. The power suddenly comes on.

Your character awakens to find their spouse standing over them, a knife in hand.

"What's the craziest thing you'd do on a dare?"

A homeowner doing renovations finds a mysterious box when she busts open some drywall.

The storm was like nothing anyone had seen.

"He left last night. I haven't seen him since."

A motorist is pulled over by a policeman on a dark road. The driver realizes soon enough that the "cop" is not legitimate.

I swear I saw my father today. He's been dead for six years.

Keep the Police From Spoiling Your Plot

"Why didn't they just call the police?"

This question can sink your story. If you have characters in trouble and those story people could solve the problem with a quick call to the cops, you have a problem. 

Most of us, if put in mortal danger, will dial 9-1-1. Say you see a shady man in a hoodie and a mask coming up your front walkway. You'll probably lock the doors. Maybe grab a weapon. Certainly, you'll call the police. 

Characters are no different. The most logical step for an average character would be to call for help when danger comes knocking. We like our characters to struggle, fight, narrowly escape danger. If the police show up in your story and haul off the bad guys, where's the excitement in that?

Here are a few ways to force your characters to fend for themselves:

1. Isolate the characters. Set your story somewhere remote, such as the mountains or wilderness.

2. Delay the police. There could be a bad storm that washed out roads, or a massive blizzard. Make it hard for help to arrive. 

3. If you're writing crime or thrillers, maybe all your characters are criminals. Or perhaps your main character has gotten into some legal trouble.  Criminals are not going to go to the police. Give a logical reason that makes calling the police a bad idea.

4. Have the bad guys thwart the authorities. Maybe the police show up and the bad guys ambush them. 

5. Maybe the bad guys will harm a loved one if the police are involved (as in many kidnapping stories).

These are just a few possibilities. As writers, it's our job to keep tension high and squeeze excitement out of stories. Don't let the police show up and spoil the party.

The Day's Writing 3/7/17

I got through Chapter Two of the next novel, tentatively titled "Die Trying."  Here's a snippet:

John Regal left the house with a sense of dread that afternoon. As he drove from his home in a quiet suburb of Buffalo and passed through downtown, he couldn’t shake the feeling. Twice he considered pulling his truck off the 190 expressway and turning around, but he chalked his feelings up to paranoia. 

My 19-year-old son and I are trying to complete Watchdogs 2. We're on the final mission. He and I play on the PS4 just about every night for an hour before bed. I really enjoy the time spent with him, and it gives me an excuse to sneak in some video game time, as well.

Currently reading Don Winslow's "The Life and Death of Bobby Z."

Also reading "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck" by Mark Manson. I'd read a few of his blog posts a while back and liked them. I borrowed the book from a co-worker. Normally I'm not big on motivational or self-help books, but I like what this one has to say so far. 

The Damage Factory Excerpt

Here's an excerpt from my upcoming novel, The Damage Factory.

What would you do if a secret criminal organization was hired to destroy your life? Three unsuspecting people tied together by a tragic event are about to find out.



From The Damage Factory. Copyright 2017 Anthony Izzo

Jason Matthews suspected he was being followed.
The black Range Rover had matched his lane shifts, hanging back just enough to seem inconspicuous. Jason hadn’t noticed it until he’d neared the grocery store. Was he being followed?
Fuck it. You’re being paranoid.
While he was on his way to Wegman’s, his phone had buzzed several times. He’d taken it out and saw a missed call from Erin.
He’d checked in with her a while ago, thinking he’d be home soon, but a two-car accident had slowed traffic and put him behind.
He’d have to call Erin when he got inside. Paige was likely getting an itchy remote finger and wanted to start the movie.
He turned into the Wegman’s parking lot and found a spot. Parked the car and got out. He scanned the lot but saw no sign of the Range Rover. He chalked it up to being paranoid.
It had been a few hours since he’d last gone to the bathroom, and his bladder felt heavy, the large Starbuck’s coffee he had earlier doing its job.
He headed inside, passing a display of tomatoes and ducking into the alcove that housed the restrooms.
He entered the men’s room, the scent of a flowery air freshener filling the air. The men’s room was empty. He stood at the urinal, unzipped, and sighed at the relief as his bladder emptied.
He’d call Erin when he was finished.
The door squealed open behind him. Someone said, “Get lost. Closing for maintenance.”
He finished urinating and zipped up. Thought about the potential client he’d met with earlier; they wanted him to write for their website and social media outlets. It would be a nice job. And steady. His freelance business was taking off, and between that and Erin’s pension, they were doing okay financially.
When he turned around, a man was standing and grinning at him. He was big in the chest and shoulders, stood slightly stooped over. He wore a gray sport coat, black slacks, and a crisp, white shirt.
Jason started forward. The guy stepped in front of him.
“Do you mind?” Jason said.
The guy grabbed a handful of Jason’s shirt and pulled him close. “Listen to me. There’s a razor-sharp knife pointed at your thigh. One slip and it will likely sever some sensitive parts.”
Jason’s heart kicked hard in his chest. Couldn’t believe this was happening. “Wallet’s in my back pocket.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your wallet. Now we only have a minute before someone comes strolling in. I already had to scare one asshole out of coming in here. I’m going to take a step back. If you yell, I’ll pull down your pants and start cutting. Got it?”
He didn’t doubt the man. He spoke with the true calm only a true psychopath would possess. Or so Jason imagined.
“We’re going to walk out together, just like the best of friends. And in case you’re getting ideas, think about what could happen to Erin and Paige, huh?”
“Son of a bitch,” Jason said. “How do you know about my family?”
“Easy. Let’s walk before someone else comes in,” the man said.
Like a magician doing slight-of-hand, he swapped the knife for a small, semiautomatic pistol. He slipped it in his front pocket and kept his hand on it. “Just so you know it’s here. Think about that family. Matter of fact, don’t stop thinking about them.”


As they left the alcove and passed the displays of tomatoes in the produce department, no one gave them a second glance. A bored teenager mopped the floor nearby.
A pretty, young woman was trying to corral a toddler, who was attempting to climb from the shopping cart.
When they exited, Jason looked up at the security monitor, hoping they would get his face on camera. Out in the parking lot, they climbed into the Range Rover, the guy instructing Jason to sit tight in the passenger’s seat.
The man climbed into the driver’s seat and pointed the semiautomatic at Jason across the console. He started up the Range Rover and pulled out of the spot, putting the gun back on Jason.
He thought of Erin and Paige, how he might not see them again. He did a mental checklist, trying to figure out if he knew his abductor. Came up blank. There was no reason anyone would want to kidnap him; they certainly weren’t rich.
“Don’t try anything. If you try and jump out, I’ll shoot you. The bullet will likely sever your spine.”
“You make it sound so tempting.”
The guy actually laughed at that, and Jason thought for a second about making a move, but instead he stayed rooted to the spot.



He did nothing, watching in the rearview mirror as the store diminished.

The Damage Factory - Coming Soon

This is with my proofreader right now. Should be on sale within the next week or so. More to come.

The Day's Writing 1/11/16

Got 1,120 words done this morning on the latest novel. I just crossed the 40K mark. I'm thinking it will clock in between 50-60K when I'm done. Looking to have it for sale in February.  There's a snippet of the first chapter below (not edited).

Going to head to the basement for a workout. I added a chin-up bar and some suspension straps to the workout gear. Got them for Christmas.

Currently reading Stephen White's Soft Target and Chuck Wendig's Invasive.


Chapter One



Don’t write anything down. Don’t tell anyone you talked to me. And for God’s sake, make sure no one follows you.
That’s what the rough-sounding voice on the phone had told him.
John George pulled up to the hulking warehouse, wondering if he should turn back, the man’s words echoing in his mind. He didn’t. Instead, he got out of the car and immediately smelled the dead fish odor coming off the lake.
He went to the passenger’s side, opened the door, and took out a bulky manila envelope.
As he approached a steel man door, he noticed a security camera mounted overhead. There was a doorbell mounted on the wall. He pressed it and heard a loud bell echo from somewhere in the warehouse. It reminded him of an old fire bell.
He waited, used to being patient. Used to being alone these days. In the evening he would heat himself up a frozen entrée, the French bread pizzas being his favorite. His expanding belly was proof of his love of frozen foods.
There was no need for large meals or extensive grocery lists.
Occasionally, he would eat Italian at Marcos, sticking with Chicken Parm and a glass of house red. It always felt to John that the waitresses were taking pity on him, calling him sweetie. He must’ve seemed like a sad case.
After dinner, he would return home and sift through photos on the computer, looking at their trips to Bar Harbor and The Outer Banks. More often than not, the night ended with him in tears.
The door swung open and a guy in a flannel, workboots, and paint-spattered jeans answered. He was half a head shorter than John but his neck was like a tree trunk. “You John?”
“That’s me.”
“Follow me,” the guy said.
John followed the man to small room at the rear of the warehouse. Inside was a table surrounded by wooden folding chairs.
“Take a seat,” the man said.
John pulled out a chair and sat down. The guy took a seat on the other side. “Are you sure about this?”
“Did I talk you on the phone?”
“Don’t worry who you talked to. Once we start things in motion, there’s no going back.”
“I’m sure.”
“Where’s the money?”
John slid the envelope across the table. As the man reached for it, his shirt hiked up and John saw a chrome .45 tucked in his belt.
“You can call me Rex,” the guy said, and dumped the bundles of cash on the table. He’d emptied out his 401K for the cash.
Rex did a quick count of the money. “All here. Good boy.”
“I’m not a dog,” John said.
“We’ll go over this again. Like on the phone. No cops. No news. We’ll contact you with updates. You turn on us? We turn on you. Here’s the last guy that tried it.”
He took two photos from his breast pocket and slid them across the table. John took a look, saw a headshot of a man lying on some sort of table. Most of the skin was removed from his face, leaving raw, red muscle exposed.
“That was done while he was alive,” Rex said.
“I won’t cross you. I want these people to suffer,” John said.
“They will. Believe me. It’s what we do.”
“How will I know when it starts?”
“We’ll contact you.”
John said, “I’ll need proof.”
“Let us worry about that. Someone will be in touch, like I said. However, if you have an emergency. If someone’s on to you, take this,” Rex said, and pulled a crème-colored business card from his pocket. He slid it across the table.
The Damage Factory was printed on it in small, black letters. Below that was a phone number, most likely a burner phone.
John put it in his wallet as if it were a sensitive explosive.



“Don’t fucking lose it. We’ll be in touch. And don’t worry, you came to the right place.”

The Day 11/29/16

Got up at 4:30 and after joining the living, got about 350 words typed out on the new novel. I'm getting in a second session and hopefully pushing the word count for the day to 1,000.

Also got in a workout when I came home from the day job. Kettlebells, chin-ups, push-ups. Kept it basic with little rest between exercises.

Just about to finish reading Stephen Hunter's Dirty White boys. I'm at around 20 books out of the 25 I pledged to read this year. Not sure if I'll make it, but this is the most books I've read in a year in some time.

The Day's Writing - October 30, 2016

The current novel is getting off the ground. I'm about five thousand words in and it's taking shape nicely. I don't have an outline, just some notes and a good idea of where I want to go with it.

This one will be a straight thriller. No zombies or monsters this time. It'll still be plenty gruesome in spots.

Watched the Bills get owned by the Patriots today. At least the Sabres got a win, so it wasn't a total loss for Buffalo sports today.

We rented The Infiltrator with Brian Cranston. Very good, solid movie. Also finally caught Dog Soldiers on Friday with my son. We had a father/son horror movie night, which we do from time to time.

Also, Kingdom of the Dead is now available in paperback and all electronic venues (Kindle, Kobo, B&N, etc.).

Kingdom of the Dead Now Available

Kingdom of the Dead, my latest novel, is now available. It's live on Amazon and Kobo. Other e-reader sites will follow. The paperback is also available at this time.


The world has died. The dead walk the earth.

Fifteen-year-old David is taking shelter in abandoned building when he hears the dead outside. After a close call, he's rescued by men on horseback carrying homemade spears and knives. David discovers his part of the world has been divided into  Five Territories. 

The very existence of the Territories is at stake, as a massive horde of the dead draws near. David discovers the Territories are a treacherous place. The dead aren't the only things that are dangerous. Deception and a hunger for power rule the Territories.

David and the remaining survivors in the Territories must find a way to battle the dead and the living alike.

Excerpt of the Week - Forgotten

Here's this week's excerpt from my novel, Forgotten. Description below:

For as long as anyone can remember, The Dwellers have lived on the mountain near Forgotten. After remaining dormant for years, they've returned. Hungry. Demanding sacrifice. 

The locals have their eye on unsuspecting travelers, intent on sacrificing them to the Dwellers. As visitors to the town discover, Forgotten is not kind to strangers. 

Three groups of travelers are in for a hellish visit to Forgotten. A father's teenage son disappears on the mountain. A pair of vacationers are ambushed on the road outside town. A private investigator delves into the disappearance of a college student, only to become trapped in a nightmare scenario. 

Forgotten. Plenty come to visit. Not everyone leaves.

Copyright Anthony Izzo

Prologue


Griggs had gotten the call from dispatch: report of a possible intruder on Pine Top Road, please investigate. Apparently someone's dog had started going crazy and the owner had seen someone out by their shed.
He'd been Sheriff in the town of Forgotten for fifteen years and calls like this were far and few between. It was mostly peaceful. They got a lot of tourists who came to get a taste of Big Sky Country and the mountain air, but there was little crime.
He pulled the Crown Vic up to the house, a brick ranch with white trim around the windows. It was the beginning of October, and the owner had placed a trio of pumpkins and a dried cornstalk on their porch.
Griggs radioed that he was on the scene and got out of the cruiser.  Once at the front door, he rang the bell and a middle-aged couple in matching white robes opened the door. The man was balding and his belly strained the belt on the robe. The woman was pretty, even though she had some crow's feet around her eyes.
“Officer, we're glad you're here,” the man said.
“It's Sheriff. We got the complaint about an intruder?”
“Yes, come in.”
Griggs stepped into the living room, where a girl of about nine slept on the couch.
“You're Mr. Hardin?” Griggs asked.
“Eric. This is my wife Theresa.”
Theresa said, “Shadow, our German Shepherd, started going nuts. I had just let him out. When I went to see what he was barking about, I saw a large man in the woods.”
“What happened after you saw him?”
“He slipped back into the woods.”
“Okay. Stay here and I'll go investigate.”
Shadow came bounding into the room, gave a hearty bark, and sat at Theresa's feet. His ears went back and he began to whine. The Shepherd attempted to bury it's head in Theresa's leg. Some watch dog. Something must have spooked him.
“Is he normally timid?” Griggs asked.
Eric said, “Usually he's fearless. Something got him scared.”
“All right. Where did you see the intruder exactly?”
“Out by the shed. Back of the property,” Eric said.
“Stay here. I'll go around and have a look,” Griggs said, taking a flashlight from his belt.
He rounded the house and started down the driveway. The rotten-sweet smell of garbage came from trash cans left by the side of the house. A girl's bike with tassels on the handlebar grips had been left on its side.
The yard contained a patio near a sliding glass door. Nearby, a table and chairs had been wrapped in a blue tarp, stored for the winter. He saw the shed, its white siding illuminated in the moonlight.
He shined his light on the shed and then the woods beyond. The breeze picked up, causing the pines to sway. Something tipped over and made a banging noise. He shined the light and saw that a spade had fallen over.
Moving forward, he swept the light back and forth. He kept his other hand on the Glock. The old-timers in town, the men that hung around the diner and drank endless cups of coffee, spoke of strange things happening up in the mountains. Some of them he believed. Some he didn't.  No doubt these stories fed the imagination of Forgotten's residents.
He drew closer to the shed and was beginning to think the dog had been barking at shadows.
A pile of pressure-treated lumber lay on the ground behind the shed. He checked the ground and saw no footprints.  The shed had two front windows and he peered in the nearest one. After determining there was no intruder in the shed, Griggs was ready to head back to the house.
A branch snapped, sounding like a whip-crack. It had come from the woods.
He crept to the edge of the woods and shined the light. The beam only went so far before it was devoured by the shadows.
“Police. Come out,” he said, drawing his Glock. He'd only fired it on the range. Firing on a person was completely different.
Another branch snapped, this one sounding like a gunshot.
Something walked between two trees. Its head brushed a branch that had to be seven feet off the ground.  His heartbeat began to pick up and he took a deep breath to steady himself.  A huge rock or club hung from one hand. The head was malformed, as if someone had squished a piece of clay into a nightmarish form.
“Police,” he said, but the giant paid him no attention and bounded into the woods, branches crackling as it went. The legends spun in diners just might be true.
He backed away from the woods, sweeping the Glock back and forth in case the intruder returned. It wasn't until he got within ten yards of the house that he turned his back on the woods.
He leaned against the side of the house and let out a huge breath. If he told the family what he'd seen, they'd never believe it; something less-than-human lurking in the woods.
Once his hands stopped shaking, he holstered the Glock. Then he went to the front door and rang the bell.
Eric came to the door, his face hopeful. The bathrobe had come open, revealing coarse black chest hair.
“Find anything?” Eric asked.
“Just some broken branches. I think your culprit was probably a deer.”
Eric let out a huge sigh. “Thank you. We were so startled we brought our daughter to sleep downstairs. Shadow never gets upset and when he did, it spooked us. I'm sorry we wasted your time.”
“All part of my job,” Griggs said. “Call if there's any other trouble.”

Available for Kindle, Kobo and Nook.

World on Fire. The Gray Men, Book Three.

I uploaded World on Fire (The Gray Men, Book Three) for Kindle this morning. It's $4.99. Should be on sale later today. After having some fits with formatting the chapters, I got it to work.

Storm Rising, the first book in the trilogy, is just $2.99.

SNAFU-Future Warfare- Get Your Military Sci-Fi Fix

My short story "Outpost" is in the "SNAFU: Future Warfare" anthology. If you like movies like Aliens and Starship Troopers, the stories in "Future Warfare" are written in that tradition. This is a great series if you like military, action-oriented horror. There are other volumes available, as well. All of them contain some cool stories by some excellent writers. Check it out if you please.

Writing on the Go: What Can You Do With Ten Minutes?

I've been typing in pages from my writing notebook to the computer for the past week or so. Often, I'll start a scene while on break at work in my notebook and type it later that night, finishing it up. Much of my writing is done in short bursts, and as I've said before on this blog, it adds up. So if you only have ten minutes, what writing/publishing activities can you do?


1. Make notes for your next few scenes.

2. Write the first quarter/half of a scene or chapter.

3. Jot down some ideas for your next book/story.

4. Research potential markets for your fiction. Study a successful author whose work is similar to yours (What things are they doing right?).

5. Make some rough notes for a future blog post.

6. Share some content on social media (interesting articles, helpful advice, etc.)

7. Share something on social media channels about your work in progress. Give people a glimpse of your writing process.

8. Read an article on the writing craft.

9. Read/comment on a blog you enjoy.

10. Write a quick review of a book you enjoyed. Give the author a shout out on Twitter, FB, etc.

11. Read a chapter in a book (reading is part of being a writer).


I sometimes catch myself in those spare minutes mindlessly searching FB, Instagram, etc. when I could be writing or doing something to increase visibility and connect with people. These are just a few ideas on how to maximize your time.

The Fifteen Minute Fix - Finding Time to Write

I get asked often how I find time to write. I've written thirteen novels, some novellas, and the occasional short story over the past twelve years. Like most of us, I work a day job and have family and other commitments.

So between work, family, running errands, and all the other things life throws at you, how can you find time to write?

Take advantage of short writing sessions. Writing sessions don't have to be marathons. Sprints are just fine. Lunch and work breaks are great. Waiting for the doctor is another prime opportunity to write. You can stay up fifteen minutes later or get up fifteen minutes earlier. Skip that half hour television show.

To make your writing sessions more efficient, I recommend using a timer. I like fast, fifteen minute sessions. You can do a bunch of these in a row, or spread them throughout the day. The one rule is you write while the timer is going. No web surfing, no distractions. Do nothing else but write while the clock is ticking.

I think you'll surprise yourself with how much you can get done. I know I did. Here are some word counts from two timed sessions (15 minutes each):

Session one: 488 words
Session two: 600 words

That's four pages of manuscript (averaging 250 words per page) in a half hour's time. And the writing will add up. Before you know it, that first draft will be complete.

There's always a way to get writing done.

Happy Fourth of July

I got in my two weekend writing sessions. I try and do two sessions between Saturday and Sunday morning. I get up between 6-6:30 a.m. to write, which is sleeping in for me. I get up at 4:30 for work during the week.

Getting up early on the weekend allows me to get writing done while my family sleeps. I've always been more of a morning person. My wife will agree that I'm probably too damned cheerful in the morning.

I'm at around 45,000 words on Kingdom of the Dead. This is between what I have on the computer an what's still in my writing notebook. Hoping to have it done by the end of summer.

Also been trying to whip my old ass into shape. My wife and I have been walking a lot. Getting in 2-3 weight workouts per week, in addition.

I've been checking out this guy's website lately(found him through YouTube), and there's a ton of great, no-BS fitness information on there. His name is Radu Antoniu. Here's the link.

Excerpt from Kingdom of the Dead

Thought I'd share an excerpt from my zombie WIP. It's rough copy, unedited.

Copyright 2016 Anthony Izzo

Frank Harding snapped awake.

He had been dreaming of Ashley, of the last time they had made love before things changed. The warm summer breeze had blown through the open window. She had smelled of fresh sweat and vanilla, her breasts soft in his hands as she rode him to climax. After, they had curled up, her head on his chest. He liked to nuzzle her curly chestnut hair.

How he missed her. It had been the last summer before the world died.

Currently, he was curled up behind the counter of an abandoned drug store, a wool blanket wrapped around him. He had caught a few hours sleep and managed to keep himself out of sight.

It had been quiet.

He was somewhere in what remained of Chicago. The Windy City. All the wind brought now was the smell of rotting bodies, spoiled food, garbage, and burning metal.

He got to his feet. The pharmacy counter stood on a platform. It gave him a good vantage point.

The store was empty, save for a few cans of Ensure rolling around on the floor.

He patted the .357 that rested in a holster on his hip. Then he picked up the scoped M-4 rifle that had become his main traveling companion. In addition to the guns, he carried a machete tucked in a side pocket on his pack. It came in handy for chopping branches and busting rotter’s skulls. Their bones got soft after a while. Not enough Vitamin D in the diet.

His stomach growled. It seemed safe to take some time to eat. He went to the end of the counter, where he’d fastened a trip wire tied to some empty soup cans. It was an alarm meant to give him a few seconds’ warning.

He picked up the cans, wound the string around them, and placed them in his pack.

While he had the pack open, he dug out some dried apricots and popped them in his mouth. What he would give for a strip steak from Russell’s Steaks and Chops. That had been the last place he’d taken Ashley for dinner. She’d eaten her entrée and half of his steak. He didn’t mind.

He chewed the apricots while sitting on his haunches and listening for approaching intruders. A breeze whistled outside. An empty milk jug rolled down the street.

Frank had volunteered to come out here. There were reports of hordes of the dead growing and moving east. His people wanted to be prepared, so Frank volunteered to take one of the scouting missions.

It wasn’t too bad out here, minus the zombies trying to chew your face off. The Territories grew boring after a while. He’d frequented brothels, as it hadn’t taken long for them to crop up, even during the end of the world. The women there made him feel good, did things that would make some people blush. But he always returned to an empty house. He’d moved into the abandoned dwelling, the owners gone or dead.

The people in charge liked that he was a soldier. Or had been. Fought in the Syrian conflict and the Second Great War. He was a good shot and liked to think he could manage not to get killed out here.

When his snack was gone, he rolled up his sleeping bag, tethered it to his pack, and shouldered the whole thing. At the front window, he watched the street.

A sleek, gray rat skittered past. It stopped and sniffed the air.

From behind a burned-out Pontiac across the street stepped a zombie. It burst into the street, lunged, and snatched up the rat. The Z bit down on the rat and tore away a hunk, the rat screeching.

They were getting desperate for flesh. The Z took a few more bites before tossing the rat’s carcass aside.

The zombie looked up and saw Frank in the window.

Shit.

He’d have to be quick. He shouldered the rifle, then reached back and grabbed the machete from the pack. He stepped outside and the zombie came at him.

Frank swung the machete and buried the blade in the zombie’s skull. Momentum carried the dead thing forward, shoving Frank back into the window.

The Z’s jaws worked up and down, teeth clacking. Blackish fluid dripped down its forehead.

Frank had heavy gloves and forearm pads on to protect against a bite. He grabbed the Z’s chin with one hand. With the other he grabbed the top of its head. He twisted, bone cracking as the head turned and nearly separated. The zombie twitched and he managed to knock it to the ground.

When the zombie was on the ground, he stomped the skull into jelly and took back his machete.

“Damned messy, that one,” he said.

He wiped the machete on the zombie’s tattered pants. Then he returned it to the sheath on the pack.

There could be more of them around, and his kill might have attracted unwanted attention.  Frank hurried down the street, scoping out buildings, hoping to find a tall one where he could get the lay of the land.

He spotted a ten-story building that housed a deli and a shoe repair shop at street level. Like many of the buildings, the windows at ground level were smashed out.

After removing the rifle from his shoulder, Frank went to the door. He opened it and peered into the dim interior.

When nothing jumped at him, he slipped into a lobby, the deli to the right and the shoe shop to the left.

A sign on the wall advertised various businesses on the upper floors: attorneys, insurance agencies, financial planners.

He spotted a door marked stairs, visible in the low light coming from the street windows. He took a flashlight from his pack, wary of using up batteries. But he was going up a dark stairwell, and a fall out here could be fatal, even if the initial impact didn’t kill you.

Frank eased the stairwell door open and it gave a terrific squeal. Hopefully that didn’t alert every Z for blocks around. A musty, old smell wafted out.

After shining the light end and finding the stairs unoccupied, he climbed, making it to the fifth floor. A heap of desks, office chairs, and filing cabinets blocked his progress. It appeared someone on the upper floors had made a barricade as part of a desperate last stand.

He entered the fifth floor, where the stink of rotting flesh hit him. He shined the light and found the source: a dead woman in a gray skirt and matching blazer sat in an office chair. A .38 revolver lay on the ground at her feet. She had a blackish exit wound on her temple. Nearby was a dead Z. Dead as they could get, anyway. The back of its skull was blown out.

He’d have to live with the stench. At the window, he set down his pack and took out a set of binoculars. He had a good view down the boulevard. In the distance, he saw the hot glow of a fire. Thick smoke rose into the air.

He wanted to find out what was burning.

The Day's Writing - June 8, 2016

Skipped the 4:30 writing session this morning. I was up until 11:00 last night so I opted to sleep until five.

Did around 488 words in 15 minutes right after dinner. Just finished another 600 in a second session.

Kingdom of the Dead is coming along at 29,000 or so words.

I'm doing a final read through of Darkness Coming (Gray Men, Book Two) on the Kindle previewer. It should be up for sale this weekend.

Planning on watching Deadpool this weekend with my son. He saw it at a buddy's house and wants to watch it again. I'm looking forward to seeing it. Also think it's cool my teenage son wants to hang and watch a movie with me.

4:30 and Getting Shit Done

I've started getting up earlier (4:30 a.m.) to work on creative pursuits. And sometimes to get in my workouts.

I like working at that hour. The family is sleeping. The house is quiet. I can usually get some pages written, start a sketch, or both.

This morning I wrote a few pages in the Moleskine notebook that I'm using for Kingdom of the Dead. Then I headed to the basement for a circuit workout (push-ups, bodyweight squats, etc.)

Also working on a sketch of a Templar Knight and dragon. Trying to make some art every day. Good for the soul and all that.

I'm currently reading Chuck Wending's Mockingbird.