Tagged: BSA3


It’s Christmas Night. I hope everyone had a splendid day, filled with everything one could possibly want!

A few bits of news and an observation are what I’ve got for you tonight. The observation comes first: as a writer of zombie fiction, most of the gifts I receive from other people will be zombie related… from now until I die.

News. “Bobby Check” is mutating on me. The characters have started to move the plot in an unexpected direction: alien romance comedy. Excuse me? What?

More news. BSA3 is now 5,800 words long, and the characters have thrown me an asteroid-size curve ball. Charlie is to blame for it. (And she tells me it is in the name of “icky, dramatic good times”.) The irony is that it bends the plot towards one of my early concepts for what would happen after BSAI ( back when the working title for the books was “Man Scythe: Freelance”).

BSA3 might, depending on whether or not I agree with Charlie, end up with “Blood-Soaked and Insane” as a temporary title. Not too sure how I feel about it… Bothers me a little.

Can you tease

the beginning of the third book when the second hasn’t even been released yet? I don’t know! Want to try?

Let’s go!

She trains for it every single day. Before the day that went to hell, she was a blade fancier, just like me. Not anymore. Now she’s bare-hands, guns, and a club as long as my biological forearm. Her choice of weapons isn’t the beginning or the end of how she changed in the months after that night.

I watched her spar with four recruits one afternoon and it was one of the most brutal physical beat-downs I’ve ever seen. Charlie demolished them all. Thankfully, the guys were recent nanotechnology recipients—they healed well and quickly—or there would have been four battered corpses on the floor of the gymnasium.

Her physical appearance changed to match her feelings, I think. When we first met, she looked like ¼ tomboy, ¾ hot country chic. She was curvy, really curvy, and maybe a pinkie finger width overweight. It didn’t matter to me because she was spine-straightening gorgeous, but I knew she didn’t feel good about it.

When I’d last laid eyes on her, prior to our afternoon Slopehead encounter, there was not a single extra ounce of weight on her. Sure, the curves hadn’t disappeared, but the rest of her was ripped and lean.

She’d also cut her hair; the blonde curls I loved so much were gone, replaced by unevenly cropped spikes.

You get the idea.

My reverie was disrupted by the thunk of tires over the lid of “severe tire damage” spikes outside the far gates of NOVA FOB 001—I used to call it “home” before it became a base and sprouted acronyms like a herpes outbreak.

Northern Virginia Forward Operation Base 001.

If we’d been asked to brainstorm on a name, we would have come up with something much more creative. They didn’t ask.


I’ve written the first 2300 words of the first draft.

I never thought I’d end up with a trilogy, but it is pretty clear I’m writing one.

One of my Rodia notebooks has become the official place to write down plot points and questions I need to answer. This book won’t write itself, and I’ve got a lot of continuity to keep track of now.

I also have a sketchbook containing designs for some of the unfortunate things the BSAC cast will run into in book 3. This makes me happier than you can imagine. Now if I could sketch the characters themselves in such a way that I’d agree with my own imagination, I’d be a happy camper.

Can’t have everything.