On Talent and Failure

We watch a lot of Food Network shows in our house. Many of them are cooking competition shows, where the contestants are eliminated one-by-one.

One of the comments I often hear on the shows is something like: "I was born to to this. I can't fail."

Of course there can only be one winner on these shows, and being eliminated doesn't necessarily equate with a lack of talent. Many of the contestants are already successful chefs before they appear on the shows.

How does this relate to writing?

There are tons of talented writers, but being talented (or feeling that writing is your calling) doesn't guarantee success. At least not immediate success. It's easy to get discouraged when other writers are selling thousands of books and you aren't. Talent abounds. Some talented writers will sell scores of books. Other talented writers will languish in obscurity.

Why are those with "good" sales numbers successful? I don't think anyone knows the answer for sure. But I'm willing to bet there are some traits common to successful writers.

1. Talent counts (but it's not everything). Being able to write clear, clean prose and having a mastery of grammar and spelling are important. Being able to tell a story well is crucial. You must be able to write at a professional level.

2. Persistence. Sitting down multiple days a week (if not everyday) and writing. Repeating this over a number of years. Not just talking about writing or reading about writing, but actually writing.

3. Having multiple titles for sale. Off the top of my head, among some of the writers in the horror genre I would consider successful (e.g. Brian Keene, Jonathan Maberry, Scott Nicholson) all of them have 10 or more titles available for sale. The more you write and have on the market, the greater your chances of selling more copies. This takes time and patience.

Talent doesn't guarantee success, but if you learn your craft and show up at the keyboard on a regular basis, you can increase the odds in your favor. You can't control the market or how many books you sell, but you can make sure you plant yourself behind the keyboard and work to become a better writer.

Horror Writing and the Worst Case Scenario

"Horror Writers are specialists in the worst case scenario." - Richard Laymon

I love this quote from the late Richard Laymon. I've blogged in the past about using "what if" as a question for generating plot ideas.

If you write horror, perhaps an even better question is: "What's the worst that could happen?"

Off the top of my head, I"ll use a doctor's visit as an example.

You're sitting in a doctor's waiting room. You're seeing a new doctor for the first time. You start to notice the office looks a little run down. There are no other patients in the waiting room. The rug is dirty. You notice cobwebs in the corner. Uneasy, you get up to leave when the nurse calls you into the treatment area.

You consider leaving, but you really need to see someone for the medical problem you're having. Maybe it's a suspicious growth. That part can be worked into the story. It's just your imagination making things worse.

As you walk down the hall, you feel a pinch in your arm. Something is injected and your limbs grow heavy. You try and fight it, but next thing you know, you're on the ground. A ghoulish doctor bends down and smiles a yellow-toothed grin at you.

When you awake, you have been stripped to your underwear and strapped to a table. The doctor, clad in surgical garb, approaches with a bone saw.

Your job as a writer is to make things worse from here and have your character fight his way out of the predicament you've put him in.

Keep asking, how can it get worse? And how can my character fight his or her way out of this?

Work on the Novel Continues and Some Thoughts on Promotion

I continue to work on the third Dead Land Book. I'm shooting for a release by the end of the year.

Next up after the Dead Land will be either a zombie novella or an idea I had for something with urban explorers who meet up with something nasty in an abandoned building.

I'm thinking of putting the whole Dead Land Trilogy on sale for 99 cents per book once the third book is done.

Also thinking I need to do a better job of launching the next book. Self-promotion has never been my strong point, and that's something I'd like to improve on in the coming months. The team at DuoLit has a good article on launching your book:

http://selfpublishingteam.com/4-steps-to-take-charge-of-your-book-launch/

The World Around You and Using it in Fiction

One of the comments I frequently get is how people enjoy seeing local landmarks in my fiction. I live in a small village about twenty miles south of Buffalo, New York. Both the City of Buffalo and my town have been used to great extent in my books.

I wrote a scene last week in the upcoming Dead Land book where my protagonists flee the zombies and end up at the Buffalo Naval Park. It's a pretty cool place. They have a submarine, a cruiser, and a destroyer docked in the yard. You can take tours of the ships and learn about their history.

One of the ships, the U.S.S. Sullivans, is reported to be haunted. I never went on the Sullivans, but remember taking a field trip to visit the cruiser Little Rock.

I thought it would be a cool setting for the story and something out of the ordinary. You can check out the ships here

What local settings have you used in your fiction?

As a reader, what cool settings have you seen in your favorite books?

Dead Land Book Three - Zombie Trilogy Excerpt

I'm continuing to work on the third book in the Dead Land Trilogy. I don't have a title as of yet, but I thought I'd put up an excerpt. It's uncorrected proof, so it might be a little rough.


The Dead Land Trilogy, Book Three
Copyright 2013 Anthony Izzo

The soldier on Jonas' radio had called it a hot zone. The dead walking everywhere, the area near the old HSBC tower crawling with them. There were some units pinned down and had radioed Jonas to request assistance. Jonas had agreed to come immediately. 

Chadwick heard yelling and gunfire on Jonas' mic.

Jonas ordered their convoy to turn around and head for the tower.

“You're not going in, are you? It's suicide.”

“They need our help. That's what we're here for, Chadwick.”

Jonas slowed the Humvee, brought it to a halt, and gave the order through his shirt mic for the column to turn around and head for the HSBC tower.  He swung the Humvee around.

“At least get more men,” Chadwick said. “We don't have many here.”

“These men are highly trained. We'll be just fine. Besides, I want to see how bad it is.”

They got the column of vehicles turned around and headed for the heart of Downtown Buffalo, driving along the 190 Expressway and exiting at Elm Street. They drove down Court Street, passing law firms and banks, all of them closed. Some papers blew down the street but there were only a few people on the sidewalks.  It looked like a ghost town to Chadwick.  Businesses and schools had closed once the bug had started to spread. He wondered how many people were sick or dying in their homes right now. How many were going to rise from the dead and haunt the streets like ghouls. 

“We can't seal off the whole city,” Chadwick said.

“Let's see what we can see,” Jonas said.

They crossed the Metro Rail Tracks, passed under the 190 overpass, and when they got into view of the tower, Chadwick gasped.

Several hundred pale-skinned, rotting things pounded on the doors of the HSBC building, apparently trying to get at the soldiers pinned inside. A chorus of hisses and growls erupted from them, nothing that sounded remotely human. The dead hadn't spotted the convoy.

Nearby, a Humvee burned, and the scorched body of a soldier hung out of the driver's side window.

“We're jeopardizing the Anderson survivors by bringing them here,” Chadwick said.

“They'll be fine. This is something, isn't it, Chadwick?”

“Something?”

“Kind of impressive, how fast they went from being human to being this.”

Chadwick eyed Jonas, who watched the throng of zombies as if it were a riveting television show. 

A voice crackled on Jonas' radio. “Sir, we can't hold much longer. Advise on reinforcements.”

Jonas hit the talk button. “We're right on the doorstep.”
“How are we going to break through that?”
One of the dead turned and noticed the Humvee, Chadwick feeling as if the lifeless white eyes were boring into him. The others, seeing their companion staring at the Humvees, also took notice, and a small crowd of them began walking towards the convoy. The one in the lead was a woman in a tattered red skirt. Her white blouse was stained with blood and she ambled forward, mouth opening and closing in anticipation of tasting flesh.
“You've got their attention. Now what?”
Jonas radioed one of the men in the rear trucks and told him to haul ass up here with the rest of the men. Chadwick stepped from the Humvee as the men double-timed it to the front of the convoy. Chadwick ordered them to take cover and open fire on his command.
More of the dead charged towards them. Chadwick took out his sidearm. “Let 'em have it.”
He took aim and popped the female zombie in the head, dropping her. Gunfire from M-4 rifles clattered around him, shredding zombies. More of the main group noticed the soldiers, breaking off and coming at Chadwick's men. He didn't give a shit if Jonas were appointed high holy commander. These were his men. Hell with Jonas.
As they continued to cut down zombies, Jonas stepped from the Humvee.
Chadwick watched as the front doors of the tower buckled and the dead flooded inward.
“Advise we are retreating to the upper floors,” the voice on Jonas' mic said.
“That's a wise choice,” Jonas said. “We will enter the building and provide support as soon as we can.”
“Thank you sir. We'll hold them off as long as we can.”
“Good man,” Jonas said.
Chadwick and the soldiers gunned down the remaining zombies. The rest of the crowd had pushed their way into the building and he heard glass smashing. Broken glass wouldn't stop things that didn't feel pain. 
“Jonas, how many men inside?”
“Two, three dozen.”
“We can't leave them.”
“I have no intention of leaving them. We're going in.”

Emma heard the gunfire, as did Kayla, and the girl pressed against her. The truck had stopped and the soldiers in the rear of the truck eyed each other with unease. After a few moments, one of their radios had crackled and they left the truck as if they were on fire. 
The familiar moans of the dead echoed throughout downtown's deserted streets. The moans were drowned out by gunfire and the death wails of the zombies. She wanted to see what was going on, but they were under the canvas back of the truck. Had to rely on sound.
“Seems foolish to bring us into the city,” Sam said. “More people equals more of those creepers around.”
“We're exposed here,” Emma said. “That's for sure.”
Even though they were exposed, this would be a perfect opportunity to escape. They were unguarded for the moment. Escaping right now would mean dragging Kayla across the city and running into God-knows-what.
Her thoughts of escape were put on hold when one of the soldiers returned to the truck. He was a fresh-faced kid with the beginnings of a mustache. 
“What happened?”
“They started to move in on us, but we got them,” the soldier said.
A moment later a heavy diesel engine rumbled and the truck lurched forward. They rolled forward for a bit before stopping. 
“What's going on?” Emma said.
“Bunch of Zs have our men cornered in the HSBC building. We're going in.”
This could be her chance. The kid seemed distracted. 
She heard a voice crackle on the kid's radio giving the order to move into the building. The kid started to hop down and Emma pulled the Glock from her waistband. Seeing the gun, the kid stopped. She had it leveled right at his face, and his eyes grew big. 
“The gun. Hand it over.”
He paused for a moment. “I mean it. I'll shoot you dead. Don't do it, kid.”
After thinking it over for a few seconds, he handed over the file and she took it.
“Get to the back of the truck.”
The kid complied. As he went past her, Emma thought she saw tears glistening in his yes. She almost felt bad for him. She didn't want to have to shoot someone again, but if it meant Kayla's safety, she'd pull the trigger.
“We're going, honey,” Emma said to Kayla.
“Out there?”
“We have to go. Give me Your ammo, soldier,” Emma said.
The kid unstrapped a harness with extra clips and handed it to Emma. 
“Please, don't shoot.”
“If you don't give me a reason to, I won't.”
Trudy looked back and forth between Emma and the soldier. “Maybe you're safer here.”
“I have to find my husband.”
“Look, Emma, I understand that,” Sam said. “But the soldiers are armed.”
“Mom, I don't want to go out there.”

Maria watched the heavy rescue truck pull up, sirens winding down. The police from the forward vehicles in the convoy surrounded the ambulance, guns drawn. Jake came up and stood next to Maria. She put her arm around the boy and they watched as the cops closed in on the ambulance. 
She wanted to shout a warning to be careful, but could only watch. They were trained law officers, after all.
As they cops got close, the back doors of the ambulance flew open. The doors banged hard and the infected man from the plane bounded out. He looked around, perhaps searching for a victim. One of the cops stepped up, put a semiautomatic to its head, and pulled the trigger, emptying its brains on to the pavement. The infected man fell sideways and was still on the pavement.
As firefighters climbed out of the rescue truck, a pumper truck arrived on the scene. The police officers ushered Maria and Jake into the back of a patrol car and sped away. 
The cop, a middle-aged guy with a thick mustache and a mole on his cheek, drove in silence.
“Where are you taking us?” Maria asked.
“We have orders to deliver you to headquarters. It's anyone's guess from there. I hear the military is interested in you and your son.”
They had survived Anderson and were so far not infected. They might be of interest to army doctors and scientists. “So we're under arrest?”
“Not necessarily. But look on the bright side, you'll be safe. Not sure if you've seen the news, but things are going south. People are panicking.”
“That's not very comforting,” Maria said.
“Trust me. Nothing's getting into police headquarters.”
“I thought we were being taken to Vanderbilt Medical Center,” Maria said.
“Change of plans. Your name was on a watchlist. I'm surprised you didn't get nabbed at the airport,” the cop said. “We're supposed to hold onto you until the military arrives to get you.”
They drove to the police headquarters building in downtown Nashville. On the way to the station they passed a drug store.  The police officer pulled into a parking garage underneath the building and parked near an elevator. He let them out of the cruiser and directed them onto the elevator. From there they ended up in the rear of the station. The officer led them through some hallways and into a room with a holding cage inside.
He took out a key, unlocked it, and ushered them inside. 
“Do we really need to be in here?” Maria asked.
“Yeah, it smells like piss,” Jake said.
“We have problems all over the city. I can't babysit you. Someone will be in with a meal and to take you to the bathroom in a bit. I'm sorry,” he said, and left the room. 
Maria looked around the holding area. A metal bench lined one wall. There were various sayings scrawled on the wall in pen, one of them reading Ruben Sucks Cock.
“I guess we should try and get comfortable,” Maria said.

Chadwick watched the men move up on the busted doors of the HSBC tower. Glass glinted on the sidewalk and the metal framework of the doors had been bent as if melted by something hot. From inside came gunfire and the unintelligible grunts of the zombies. He thought they were about to become zombie chow, going in there like this. Jonas was too fucking stubborn to wait for reinforcements.
The trucks and Humvees were parked nearby.
Chadwick had his sidearm drawn and it felt inadequate to him. A tank might be more fitting. 
He waited with Jonas near the Humvee. The other man still hadn't drawn his sidearm, but instead stood with hands on hips, sleeves rolled to his elbows. 
“How many would you say were in that group, Chadwick?”
“A hundred?”
“That would be my guess, too. Not much of a hot zone, is it? I expected more.”
“That's bad fucking luck, talking like that. Be glad that's all we found.”
The men disappeared into the lobby and gunfire erupted again. Chadwick saw the throng of zombies surge forward. They hadn't gone very far into the building, most of the group gathering in the lobby.  As they moved out of the lobby, Chadwick saw fresh blood on their pale faces. One of them held a loop of entrails in its hands and he realized with despair that the trapped squad hadn't gotten far; they'd been devoured. 
“This is crazy. We need to pull out,” Chadwick said.
“So be it.”
Chadwick heard a chorus of howls. He looked to his left and saw a mob of the dead charging down the street. It looked as if Jonas had gotten his hot zone, after all. 

Emma was about to hop out of the back of the truck when she heard the commotion outside. Men yelling and the unmistakable grunts and groans of the newly dead. It was a sound she'd become used to, even in the short time since the virus broke out. It was also a sound she'd like to forget.
She got down, urging Kayla to the edge of the truck. “Wait here a sec.”
She slipped on the harness she'd taken from the soldier. Flipped off the safety on the M-4 and peered around the edge of the truck. What she saw shocked her: a crowd of zombies clogged the street and they closed fast on Jonas and Chadwick. The other soldiers were retreating from the HSBC tower. The dead poured out of the office building like rats abandoning a sinking ship.
The soldiers would never make it back to the truck in time. They'd be overwhelmed. 
“Kayla. Now.”
She reached up, grabbed Kayla, and set her on the ground. Grabbed her hand.
“Sam, tell everyone to hang on,” Emma said.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of here,” Emma said. 
Keeping Kayla close, she hurried to the cab of the truck, where she opened the driver's side door and lifted Kayla inside. She climbed inside and shut the door, noticing a St. Christopher's medal hanging from the rearview mirror. She didn't much subscribe to the notion of saints, but if good St. Christopher would get them out of this mess, she'd pray to him every day. 
She started up the truck, took a second to look it over. It was a standard. Good thing she knew how to drive stick. She threw it in reverse and backed up, intent on swinging around to get away from the approaching horde. 
“Mom, hurry up.”
“I know.”
“They're getting closer.”
“I know. Hang on.”

Matthews had been in some bad situations. Going house-to-house to look for insurgents in Iraq was one of them. The clusterfuck that took place in Anderson was another. But he really believed this one might be the end of him. He'd gone into the lobby of the HSBC under Jonas' orders and found the soldiers he'd been sent to help in pieces. One poor bastard had been ripped in two, his legs ten feet from his upper body, both halves still twitching.
Now, he retreated from the lobby of the building with the zombies pouring from the building and their brethren coming down the street.
He watched Jonas and Chadwick duck into their Humvee.
The last truck in the convoy was backing up, which puzzled him. He couldn't figure out who was driving it, but he made a break for it. 
He turned to check on what remained of his squadmates and saw the dead catch up to two of them. They were pulled down and swarmed, the zombs pouncing like lions on a fresh kill. High pitched screams echoed in the street. Jonas should be court-martialed for this. They didn't half enough men by half to take on the crowd of creepers that was coming at them. 
Matthews neared the truck. He was perhaps ten yards away when he felt something coming from his left. He whirled and saw a zombie coming at him. It was an elderly guy in a plaid suit and khakis. One of his feet was missing, the nub of bone sticking out from his pantleg. The loss of a foot didn't slow him much. 
Matthews cracked the creature in the face with his rifle butt. Bone crunched and the zombie stood stunned for a moment, staring at Matthews with those milky white eyes. A look of rage crossed its wrinkled face and it started forward, but Matthews raised his rifle and fired, turning its head to jelly. The body slumped to the pavement. Jesus Christ, he thought. This is becoming the new normal. Shooting people that were actually human beings just a few days ago.
The zombie dispatched, he ran for the truck, glancing over his shoulder. Jonas and Chadwick were swinging their Humvee around, the vehicle surrounded by zombies. They managed to turn and blast forward, running over a pair of the dead and splattering them on the pavement. 
He didn't see any of his former squadmates. 
I'm it, he thought. All that's left.

Writing Updates

I spent most of the week's writing time working on freelance articles, but did manage to get some work done on the Dead Land Trilogy, the third zombie book in a series. It stands at about 25,000 words, roughly halfway done. I'm anticipating an October release if all goes well.

My latest thriller is also available. Beat the Devil is available for Kobo and Nook.

It's about an ex-Navy SEAL who gets recruited by a government agency to take out a serial killer.

Only $2.99.

Buy from Amazon

By from Kobo 

Beat The Devil Now Available

My latest thriller, Beat The Devil, is now available for Kindle and Kobo.

Notorious serial murderer Raven has escaped during his prison transfer. A merciless killer, Raven had struck terror into the hearts of the populace for years before being locked up.

Now he's free again.

A newly-created government agency doesn't want Raven arrested. They want him dead. The Agency kidnaps ex-Navy SEAL John Childress' family and makes him a proposition: kill Raven and he gets his family back.

With the help of an ex-cop who put Raven away and one of the Agency's assassins, Childress must find his quarry before time runs out.

Beat the Devil. The hunt is on.

$2.99 for Kindle and Kobo. Nook version to follow soon.

KOBO

Kindle 

The Day's Writing

This was the first weekend I didn't have to work my day job in some time. I took advantage by working on some writing projects.

The first John Childress novel is done. Just waiting for the proofreader to go over it, then I'll be uploading it to Kindle, Nook, etc. I haven't decided whether to do a paperback version. There hasn't been much demand for them, but Createspace makes it easy to do, so I just might do a paperback anyway.

I'm working on a crime novella about a mob wife that rips off her husband. There's crooked cops, a hit man, and lots of mayhem. I typed in about 5 pages from the rough draft I'd started in a notebook. This should be a fairly quick project, possibly uploaded next week.

I had someone ask me about the third Dead Land book, and I'm outlining that now. Should be out in July if all goes well.

Beat The Devil Chapter 2

Here's Chapter 2 of Beat the Devil. It still needs to go off to the proofreader, but I thought I'd post a preview.

Beat the Devil - Excerpt
Copyright 2013 Anthony Izzo

John Childress climbed the stairs, an important mission on the line. He was to read The Hungry Caterpillar to Jordyn. At six-years-old, she was one of the top readers in her class, but she still loved her father to read to her. This was what he'd missed while in Afghanistan.

He's put in his twenty in the SEALS and had retired earlier in the year. It suited him fine. He had loved what he did, relished every mission, but being home was even better.

As he entered Jordyn's room, she was sitting up, a pillow behind her back. Her damp hair hung in loose curls, sill wet from the shower Megan had given her.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Are you still awake? Shouldn't you be sleeping?”

“Dad, really?”

“Really. You should go to sleep,” Childress said.

“Quit teasing,” she said.

“Or if you'd like me to read this,” he said, holding up the book.

She patted the bad and he sat next to her, their backs against the headboard. As he opened the book, the lights went out. Jordyn gasped.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Just a circuit breaker. I'll flip a switch in the basement and the lights will come back on.”

Jordyn eyed him as if she didn't believe her father.

Jessica entered the room, a flashlight in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and a few errant strands crossed her forehead. As usual, she looked amazing, even with her hair hastily pulled back.

“Wanna play amateur electrician?” she asked.

“Consider me hired,” he said, and stood up. He took the flashlight from Megan and she took his spot next to Jordyn on the bed. After going to the basement, he opened the breaker box and found none of them tripped. He speculated there was an outage on the road somewhere.

The lived in a rural area, the nearest neighbor hundreds of yards away. He couldn't even peek out the window and see if the neighbors lost power, as well. They were bordered by fields and the neighbor's house was too far away to determine if the lights were on.

He went upstairs and looked out the bay window in the living room. The pole light at the road cast a glow on the end of his driveway. It was odd that the light still had power.

They had an extra flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer. He entered the kitchen and something caught his eye outside. Someone was creeping across the field and coming towards the house. Dressed in black. A chill went down the back of his neck.

He burst from the kitchen and raced up the stairs. Entered Jordyn's bedroom. “Listen to me. Go in the hallway bathroom. It'll be safe. There's no windows. Lock the door and don't come out until I tell you.”

Megan stood up, her brow knitted into a frown. “John, what the hell's going on?”

“Call 9-1-1,” Childress said.

“John, tell me.”

“There's someone creeping up on the house,” he said, and went to Jordyn's window.

It overlooked the back yard, and looking out, he saw more of them, dressed in black and carrying pistol-grip shotguns. They were to the edge of the field, almost at the house.

“Who?”

Childress gripped her wrist and brought her to the window. He pointed out the men, who were mere shapes in the darkness. Her eyes grew wide.

“You have your cell?” he asked.

“In my pocket.”

“Lock yourself in and call the cops.”

She took the cell phone from her pocket, dialed, and held it to her ear. “Nothing.”

They only had cell phones, no landline. It occurred to him that the intruders may have jammed the signal, which would mean they were professionals. Had there been a leak? He wondered if he'd been exposed to some terrorist cell and they were coming to seek revenge.

Childress ushered his wife and daughter into the upstairs bathroom. He heard the lock click into place. He went to the hallway closet and grabbed his old softball bat. It was better than nothing.

He went downstairs, racking his brain as to who might be coming after him.

In the kitchen, he peered out the rear window. Two of them, carrying shotguns, crept near the back of the house, the men getting closer to breaking in.

More of them might be coming through the front door, and he cursed himself for not locking it. He hurried to the front door, flattened himself against the wall. As he reached to lock it, the door was eased open.

The two men came inside, but they hadn't seen Childress yet. Both of them were clad in black, all but their eyes obscured by ski masks.

He hit the second man in the knee, sending him to the ground. Followed up by smashing him in the face, the bone giving with a hollow crack. He fell face down on the floor.

The first guy turned, aimed the shotgun at Childress. He swung the bat, clipping the shotgun and forcing the guy to point it at the ceiling. He jabbed the guy in the throat with the butt-end of the bat. The intruder fell to the floor holding his throat.

He grabbed the shotgun from the man, a Mossberg pistol grip. A moment later, the back door exploded inward. The other four men entered the kitchen and fanned out. He fired the Mossberg, forcing them to scatter. Glass shattered. Hope that wasn't the good china, he thought.

Trying to Win New Wheelchair Van

For the second year in a row, our son Tony is entered in a contest to win a new wheelchair van. The contest is part of National Mobility Awareness Month. It's a nationwide contest, and people can vote one time per day.

Tony has mitochondrial myopathy, which falls in the Muscular Dystrophy spectrum of diseases. There is no known cure and we depend on the van to get him where he needs to go.

I'd like to take a moment to ask if people would take a look at Tony's profile and cast a vote. It only takes a second, and our family truly appreciates every vote. We've got our fingers crossed, as our current van is 14 years old and has 120K miles on it. My wife drives Tony to her school, which is 50 miles round trip.

Please consider voting for Tony by clicking on the link below.

http://www.mobilityawarenessmonth.com/entrant/anthony-izzo-east-aurora-ny/

Thriller Excerpt - Chapter One of Beat the Devil

I have about sixty pages left to edit on Beat the Devil. Here's the first chapter. I'll post additional chapters over the next few days.

Excerpt from Beat the Devil
Copyright 2013 Anthony Izzo

1

They were taking him to one of those Supermax facilities, where John Raven would spend the rest of his days in a cell. Twenty-three hours a day in a six-by-eight cage, with an hour allowed for exercise.

The guards walked him out of the cell block, Raven shuffling along with cuffs and leg irons. The Department of Corrections van waited for them, dimly visible through the sheets of rain falling outside Block D.

The guard, a pig-faced slug named Harrod, nudged him along with a shotgun. One of the other guards slid the door open and they muscled Raven into the van. A steel grid separated the driver and passenger from the rear seating. They shut the van door and Raven listened to the rain beat on the van roof. It was a six hour drive to Supermax. To the end of his freedom.

Herrod turned to him and said, “Going to enjoy your new home, Raven?”

“I'd enjoy skinning you. That's what I'd enjoy.”

The look of anger appeared on the pig's face was worth it.

“Boy, if I had five minutes with you, I bet you wouldn't talk so tough,” Harrod said.

“You wouldn't last five minutes with me. “

He scared people. That he knew. He'd always been big, growing to six-foot-five as a teenager. He had done thousands of pushups and burpees in his cell, packing on slabs of muscle. His long, dark hair sometimes hung over his eyes, making him hard to read. And then there was the scar: a mess of pink tissue that crisscrossed his right cheek, given to him by a cop.

“You'll never see the sun again, know that Raven?”

“Do you have family? I once cut a family of four to pieces. The father lasted two hours before he died.”

“You deserve to rot,” Herrod said, turning around.

Raven smiled, something he rarely did.

The van began rolling and he looked out the rear window and Griffin State Penitentiary faded in the distance, becoming a large gray blur in the falling rain.

The scenery rolled past, the road flanked by towering pines. Up ahead twin head lights approached on the other side of the road. He could see the running lights of a semi, the rig swerving back and forth. Something was wrong with it.

It drew closer and Raven watched it veer towards the van, the grill looking like the maw of a great beast. The van's driver tried to swerve, but the semi clipped the van's bumper and they whipped around and before Raven knew what was happening, they had flipped. The van rolled several times and Raven felt as if he were in a steel drum being rolled down a hill.

He heard screeching metal and the blare of a large horn as the van came to a stop. He was staring up at the broken side window, the van resting on its side. Turning his head to the right, he saw the pig-faced guard sprawled over the seat. His neck was cocked at a bad angle. Broken.

The front windshield had been smashed out and the driver was nowhere to be seen.

His body felt as if he'd been hit with baseball bats. He realized when he moved his arms, his wrists were no longer bound, the chains having been snapped by the crash.

He got to his knees and began crawling towards the front of the van. The cage separating the driver from the passenger's had been peeled open. He crawled over the dead guard, who smelled as if his bowels had let go. After ten minutes, he managed to crawl out the hole where the front windshield had been.

The guard who had been driving lay on the blacktop, his face covered in blood. Raven went to the dead guard, hunkered down. He found a set of keys on the man's belt and undid his shackles. Then he took the guard's weapon, a Glock 40. He grabbed the extra clips, too.

Looking down the road, he saw the semi had rolled. The trailer had been ripped open, looking like someone had taken a can opener to it. Smoke billowed from the tractor.

He saw a second set of headlights approaching and he watched as a Ford pickup truck approached. It stopped and a large man in a blue mechanic's uniform got out. A grease-smeared cap rested on his head. “You okay? Any other prisoners around?”

“Just fine, and I'm the only one,” Raven said.

“You ain't going to hurt me, are you?”

Raven shook his head.

“I'll get my cell,” the man said, approaching. “Call for help.”

“I'll be needing your clothes,” Raven said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your clothes,” Raven said, and shot him in the face.

He undressed the man, who was roughly Raven's size. After stripping down to his prison-issue boxers, he dressed in the man's uniform. The patch sewn on the shirt indicated the guy's name had been Jeff. “Thanks Jeff,” he said, and dragged the body, now clad in a pair of red jockey shorts, into the woods. Taking the Glock and ammunition, he got behind the wheel of the Ford and drove off.

He wondered how much time he had before they realized he was loose. And if it was enough time to settle some old scores.

He drove for half-an-hour until he spotted a ranch home tucked back on a hill. A long driveway snaked up to the house. Even at eleven p.m. the lights were still on.

Turning up the driveway, he killed the headlights and eased the vehicle forward.

Off in the distance, sirens cried out.

Donald Spielman was in bed watching the local news run through a fluff piece, something about a dog riding a skateboard. He wondered why he bothered with the news at times. The dog, a terrier named Sydney, rolled along on screen, its tongue wagging in the breeze. Nonsense, he thought.

He glanced at Isabel. His wife was sleeping on her side, her breasts pushed up in the lace nightie. He considered nuzzling her neck and seeing where it went. Their boys were staying with her parents for the night, which meant a rare evening alone.

He was amazed by her beauty. The dark hair and flawless olive skin. Even more amazed that she had fallen in love with an average long-haul trucker.

He was about to make his move when a knock came at the door. It made him flinch.

Who the hell was here at this hour?

Donald got out of bed and threw on a faded terrycloth robe. The thing was so ragged Isabel threatened to burn it every so often. He tied the belt, intent on telling the person at the door to politely fuck off.

They did get the occasional visitor. They were a few miles from the nearest neighbor. Visitors usually came in the form of stranded motorists. Probably someone looking for a jump or help with changing a flat.

As he opened the front door, he heard himself gasp. A man with a bouncer's build stood on the porch. He wore a pair of coveralls that strained at the seams. His long, dark hair partially obscured his eyes, making the man hard to read.

“You break down?” Donald asked.

“I need a place to say,” the man said. His hands were jammed in the coverall pockets.

“This isn't a Motel Six. I'll bring the phone to the porch, if you need to call someone.”

“Your place will be fine.”

Donald felt his face start to flush. “Take a hike, huh?”

He started to close the door, but the stranger pulled a semiautomatic pistol from his pocket. Donald froze.

“Who else is in the house?”

Donald's heart jackhammered. “My wife.”

“We're going inside. If you try and run or call for help, I'll shoot you between the legs. Got it?”

He'd been a fool for opening the door. He wanted to lunge at the man, gouge his eyes, but he didn't. Getting shot here wouldn't help Isabel. “Okay.”

“Good man. Now let's go meet that wife of yours.”

Concept Art

Here's a cover concept I came up with for my first book in the John Childress series. Let me know what you think. I'm looking at a late April release for this one. The description is below.

In the blink of an eye, a corrections department van crashes, unleashing one of the nation's most feared serial killers. Sentenced to life in a Supermax facility, John Raven is turned loose on an unsuspecting population. He has only one thing on his mind: getting revenge on those who punished him.

John Childress is an ex-Navy SEAL. While at home one night, men in black fatigues close in on him and his family. Taken to a government compound, he's given an ultimatum by an organization known as The Agency: track and kill Raven or never see his family again. It's the Agency's business to eliminate internal threats, and Raven is on their radar.

Teaming with an ex-cop and one of the Agency's best operatives, Childress must hunt down a brutal killer and secure the release of his family.

If he fails, there'll be Hell to Pay.

An action-packed thriller from Anthony Izzo.

Sneak Peek at Book Description

I finished up the edits on the latest novel, for which I still don't have a good title. That will come. I have  a few in mind, but nothing that thrills me yet. I thought I'd post what will eventually become the book description on Amazon, etc. I'm not in love with calling my shadowy government organization "The Agency," so that will likely change. This is an extremely rough draft, but I thought I'd share.

Childress appears in my short story "Underworld," which I wrote under the Jack Vincent pen name. He's teaming up with Cody Garrett, an ex-cop who readers will recognize from The Hollow.


In the blink of an eye, a corrections department van crashes, unleashing one of the nation's most feared serial killers. Sentenced to life in a Supermax facility, John Raven is turned loose on an unsuspecting population. He has only one thing on his mind: getting revenge on those who punished him.

John Childress is an ex-Navy SEAL. While at home one night, men in black fatigues close in on him and his family. Taken to a government compound, he's given an ultimatum by an organization known as The Agency: track and kill Raven or never see his family again. It's the Agency's business to eliminate internal threats, and Raven is on their radar.

Teaming with an ex-cop and one of the Agency's best operatives, Childress must hunt down a brutal killer and secure the release of his family.

If he fails, there'll be Hell to Pay.

An action-packed thriller from Anthony Izzo.

Escape From NY

My wife and I just spent three days in New York City. We stayed in Manhattan and did roughly a hundred-and-fifty miles of walking. We had a blast. There's no place like NY, at least not that I've been.

Highlights were the fossils at the Museum of Natural History and the Arms and Armor display at the Met. The nerdy kid inside me could've spend all day reading the descriptions of the different suits of armor. The armor designed for King Henry VIII was particularly cool. The displays of armor, axes, maces, and swords also provided a ton of inspiration for future stories.

There were also two geeky-looking guys who looked like twins (right down to matching suits). I had some interesting thoughts on how to work them into a novel.

We had great Italian food in Hell's Kitchen and some terrific Turkish food at a restaurant called Parsha.

Most of the stereotypes I've heard about New York were false. We stayed in Manhattan the whole time and I never felt unsafe. The people were friendly and I didn't feel like I was playing Russian Roulette every time I crossed the street. In fact, it's probably safer crossing the street there than it is in Buffalo. I'll definitely be going back.

On the writing front, edits continue on the yet-unnamed thriller. I'm looking at a release later this month, and I'll really be pushing this one, promotion-wise. I'll be posting an excerpt in the near future.

Forgotten Now Available

The 40th birthday has come and gone. I had a terrific weekend with friends and family. My wife did a bang-up job with the birthday dinner (beef enchiladas and salted caramel cupcakes for dessert). She also surprised the hell out of me by getting me a Kindle Fire and Amazon gift card. I spent the gift card last night and have enough reading material to keep me busy for a couple of years. Looking forward to reading books by Nate Southard, Victor Gischler, and Jack Ketchum.

Forgotten, my latest horror novel, is available for Amazon. Nook and Kobo versions will follow in the next few months. It's also available to borrow for members of Amazon Prime. Here's the description from Amazon.com:

A 60,000 word novel of terror from the author of The Hollow and The Dead Land Trilogy.

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. You can pick it up here

New Novelette Coming Soon

I'll be putting up a new novelette, roughly 10,000 words, for sale on Amazon in the next day or two. I'm also doing a print version through Createspace, which I thought might be cool to give away for contests, etc.

It's called One Crazy Night.

It started with a noise in the attic.

Then the strange footprints appeared on the stairs.

Soon, a young couple will find out just what is hiding in their attic, and it will lead to a night of terror they'll be lucky to survive.

The Best Writing Advice I've Read In A While

Perhaps truer words were never spoken, at least in the context of writing advice. Courtesy of E.B. White:

"A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper."

Updated Cover Art

So I decided to play with the cover art for No Escape. This was my first e-book and I felt an update of the cover was due. I like the new cover and think it's appropriate. A clandestine military unit plays a large role in the book. Plus I just liked the image.

From the book's description page:

It started with an experiment gone wrong...

A ship carrying the military's latest weapon in the war on terror ran aground...

Now it's loose...


Jack Hammond is an ex-Special Forces soldier who has returned from the war. He's looking to take a peaceful island vacation with his family and forget about the horrors in Iraq and Afghanistan. Soon after the Hammonds' arrival on the island, a military ship runs aground. It's carrying the military's latest weapon in the war on terror, bloodthirsty creatures trained to kill terrorists. And now they're loose. Soon bodies begin piling up, and a clandestine military unit arrives on the island to deal with the threat. Jack must battle the creatures and hostile soldiers to get his family off the island before it's too late. Before there's no escape.

A novel of terror from the author of CRUEL WINTER, EVIL HARVEST, and THE DARK ONES.


Pick it up for $2.99 at Amazon

A Few Updates

I have one more scene to finish in Forgotten, then I'll let it sit for a week or so before editing begins. I'm about ten pages into writing a novella called Above (working title). It's about a serial killer that hides out in a young couple's attic. It was inspired by the Villisca Axe Murders. I've read accounts where it was believed the killer hid in the house and waited for the family to go to sleep. I found that idea pretty creepy, and decided to do my own take on the scenario.

In December, I'll turn my attention to writing the final book of The Dead Land Trilogy.

Tonight's Survivor and Criminal Minds night in our house. The fam is requesting Paninis for dinner. Good food on a cold night. While we watch TV, I'll be typing away on the laptop.

Corrupting The Youth of America

The other day, I spent my morning molding impressionable young minds at one of our local high schools. A good friend of mine is an English teacher, and twice a year I speak to his classes about writing. The kids in his classes are always funny, smart, and observant.

I usually have a favorite question. This year it was: "Do you feel like a psychopath when you write?" My immediate reaction was to laugh. Horror writers have that reputation. As if we have a basement full of corpses. That's not true. They're really in the attic.

I choose topics and stories that get under my skin. Write scenes that disturb me, bother me. Hopefully that creates the same reaction in the reader. And the greater and more disturbing the evil, the greater the triumph when the good guys win in the end (at least with some of my endings).

A few of the kids always want to be writers. They ask for my best advice. I always tell them to write a lot and read a lot. Sitting down and putting words on the page is the only way I know to become a writer. A thousand words per day nets you a first draft in two or three months.

I'm going back next week to talk to another class. We'll see if I get the psychopath question again.  In the meantime, I'll practice my dead-eyed stare and creepy laugh.