Well, poop.

Hey Mad Minions,

You might be wondering, “HEY! Where is the Mad Overlord Garycon 11 report?! I shaved my head and joined a cult in the basement of the worlds last Blockbusters waiting in anticipation!”

Well, I had my Mad Computer (like a Bat Computer, but only… madder) stolen.  So all the things I was planning on doing on my evil trip went into the sanitary landfill.  Writing. New video. All kaput.

THEN!

On top of that, while I was running around doing Mad Overlord things (buying components for my genetic experiments, taking measurements for a doomsday device, playing D&D) I had a heck of a time trying to get Amazon to send me a new one.

Do not get me wrong, Amazon is great for books and small things, but I had nothing but trouble with this computer.  They kept saying the bank would not allow the transaction. Which is complete garbage since they funded my operations when the amateurs at the organization S.P.E.C.T.R.E. mysteriously disappeared and I absorbed them into my own institution.

But I digress.

Calling my bank, they said they would gladly okay the transaction if it showed, but it wasn’t showing… so the problem was definitely on Amazon’s end.  Back I go calling them again… and they told me the same thing… bank’s fault. Rinse and repeat a few times. Now we are at the time of Garycon XI and I am scheduled to fly back as soon as the Con is over and STILL no computer!

At this time my normally calm and happy Mad Overlord nature (no matter what my minions say) reached its end. I told them that if they do not like money I will take my business elsewhere… they kept stating that it was the banks problem… not theirs.

Driving back from GaryCon, I stopped at BestBuy and ordered the exact same computer… paid the SAME PRICE as Amazon… and LO AND BEHOLD!!!! The bank accepted it. I guess that proves who was right doesn’t it Amazon?

I am using my new laptop to write this, so I guess the only thing I have left to say is,

“And you don’t stop, sure shot
Goin’ out to the parking lot
And you get in your car and you drive real far
And you drive all night and then you see a light
And it comes right down and lands on the ground
And out comes a man from Mars
And you try to run but he’s got a gun
And he shoots you dead and he eats your head
And then you’re in the man from Mars
You go out at night, eatin’ cars
You eat Cadillacs, Lincolns too
Mercury’s and Subaru’s
And you don’t stop, you keep on eatin’ cars.
Then, when there’s no more cars
You go out at night and eat up bars where the people meet
Face to face, dance cheek to cheek
One to one, man to man
Dance toe too toe
Don’t move to slow, ’cause the man from Mars
Is through with cars, he’s eatin’ bars
Yeah, wall to wall, door to door, hall to hall
He’s gonna eat ’em all.
Rapture, be pure
Take a tour, through the sewer
Don’t strain your brain, paint a train
You’ll be singin’ in the rain
I said don’t stop, to punk rock
Well now you see what you wanna be
Just have your party on TV.
‘Cause the man from Mars won’t eat up bars when the TV’s on
And now he’s gone back up to space
Where he won’t have a hassle with the human race
And you hip-hop, and you don’t stop
Just blast off, sure shot
‘Cause the man from Mars stopped eatin’ cars and eatin’ bars
And now he only eats guitars! YOW!”
Pics and more important details of the trip are coming soon.
Stay Mad.
Be Good.

More Wisdom from Jim Ward.

Jim Ward posted some wisdom about writing, and I had to share it.  Jim, if you ever see this, I hope you do not mind that I post all this…but its so good I need to share it far and wide.

Without further ado…

 

Keep Writing No Matter What
In 1974 when I started game designing and I was a terrible speller and it was a time before spell correction programs. All of my editors gave me tons of heat and most suggested I really didn’t have a career in game design. That didn’t stop me. Like Gary Gygax I could always tell a good story which in my mind is 80% of the work of game design.

So I took the editorial hits and kept on trying to improve my craft. One time the author of a Conan pick-a-path book vanished without a trace. I was the only one available to write the book. Pick-a-path books are tough to write because of the many paths in the story. I did it quickly and if I do say so myself the story was right on in the Conan style. The editor came to me after I was done and told me I had done a terrible job and really shouldn’t write any more TSR projects. I was unusually angry at her words. I asked her, “are the characters true to the Conan universe?” She didn’t know because she had never read a Conan novel. “Did I get any of the complex pathing wrong? No she said. “Was the general plots, and there were several, interesting?” Yes you did that okay. “Then what was so bad about the book you asked me to complete in three weeks when every one else took months and months?” She told me I spelled too many words wrong to be an author. Lucky for me I was her boss. I told her to quit belly aching and do her job. I worked much harder on my spelling in future projects.

I’m happy to report that as I worked with many full time game designers I discover that 100% of them were poor spellers.

 

Thanks again Mr. Ward.

Stay Mad.

Be Good.

The editor is gone. The editor is gone away. The editor is gone baby. The editor is gone away. You know the editor done me wrong baby. And they’ll be sorry someday. (Apologies to the late BB King).

Well, one of my editors is fantastic. Everything I send her she gets back to me with a reasonable turnaround time. She is amazing. The other editor… well, since I started talking with them back in October, they kept giving me reasons they will delay working on my stuff. I bet they thought I would forget by now. But Mad Overlords are insane and never forget those who make promises (so they can exploit them for favors when the Day of Reckoning comes).

I understand that things happen. I pushed back the release of my first book no less than three times.  So, I do understand.  That said, I am now looking for a new editor with a race to see if I can get it done by Garycon 11.

Luckily, my first editor is awesome. I just need someone to look and see all the pieces are there. All the backstory works. Does everything make sense?  Does ANYTHING I write ever make sense? Specially when I am raving about how I will take over the world by making sure all toothpick containers have an odd number of picks inside.

The race is on.

If anyone knows of a good page layout artist, please let me know.

More cool stuff is coming.

Stay Mad.

Be Good.

 

What’s in a name? An N, an A, an M and an E. National Novel Writing Month 2018 – WON!

Hey hey Mad Minions.

The first year I joined Nanowrimo was in 2013.  It was really tough trying to reach that 50,000 words and looking back, everything I wrote then was complete garbage.

Fast forward to 2018. I hit 50,000 words on November 21st and going over what I wrote I am, for the most part, very happy with what I wrote. So happy in fact, I am going to combine this into a book of horror tales.

I will eventually need to find a cover artist… I threw this together in five minutes in flash.  I really like minimalist art in black and white so I  would like to do something similar here.

Anyway, just wanted to send everyone an update. The Castle of Blackwood Moors Adventures, is done with one editor and gone to the second editor. The Sequel is still being tinkered with… but I really wanted to get some horror short stories out there that have been bouncing around in my brain lately.

That and I still have big plans for the Youtube channel.

Stay Mad

Be Good

He rocks in the treetops all day long Hoppin’ and a-boppin’ and singing his song All the little birds on Jaybird Street Love to hear the MAD OVERLORD go tweet-tweet-tweet

Hey hey Mad Minions,

After many years avoiding it with my introverted self, one of my best friends has finally got me to join Twitter (they promised me it is necessary for world domination). I will still make the blog the main place I update, but feel free to add me.

Search for ‘Mad Overlord Studios’ on Twitter.

EDIT: My word count for  NaNoWriMo this year so far is 26,770 as of Nov 12th. I am not sure how GOOD any of it is… and it will need heavy editing, but the words are on (digital) paper.

Stay Mad

Be Good

 

Another sample of writing…

Hey hey Mad Minions,

One of the things I am doing, is I am writing a story for a Chinese IP. I am sure peeps like the South Korean stuff and the board game stuff, but this blog/vlog whatever, is going to be mainly about writing. Writing stories. Writing D&D adventures. Writing ransom notes. So here is the first draft (pardon the typos and bad grammar) of a chapter in one of the books (more on the other stuff soon) I am working on.

Its a short chapter, but it is one of my favorites.

As always, this is used with permission from Zeus Interactive, if you copy it they will come after you with pointy sticks.

Chapter 12

“For the Love of One’s Mother”

The meadow Bren wandered through was full and green. He felt the heat of the sun bear down on him; the low buzz of the cicadas tickled his ear as he slowly pulled the cart down the bumpy road.  All the roads in this part of the world were in this condition, “At least it didn’t rain. This road would have been a lot worse.” He mused and smiled to himself.

“Keep it down will yah?” His father said from the cart, entwined amongst all the items his father some how ‘aquired’ during their treks to the outskirts of the newly formed human kingdom of Porttown. “King Callum thinks he can unite the races with the dragons gone? Imbicile cannot even build a decent road.” He added some indecipherable mumbling before starting to snore, nursing another hangover.

Bren just smiled wider and kept on walking. It didn’t matter to him that his father drank a good percentage of the profits away, and then passing out for most of the way home. It didn’t even matter that he had to pull his father’s drunken body home, since that is the only time he had peace and quiet. He loved his father, but a twinge of resentment crept into his mind every once in a while for his mother. She worked hard for him yet he constantly drank away the profits that would allow them to obtain a better life. His mother must have once been a beautiful woman, but now her light brown hair was always snarled and unwashed. Her face had deep lines of aggravation etched under her eyes as if by a heavy knife. The clothes she wore were as shattered and torn as her dreams.

Occasionally, both he and his mother, Ahiss, would show up with black eyes, or bruises on their bodies. They lived in the ‘unsavory’ part of the city, so sadly this was common for many. Despite all this, he loved his father. Bren was wise for his age, he knew that while Ogger, his father, may not be the most scrupulous man, he tried his best. It was only twelve years after the war with the dragonborn and he exploited the elves decimation from the poisonous bomb the dragonborn created, to earn a living. But it was still a living. Many had their homes destroyed and had loved ones lose their lives in the war. The mortar was not even dry yet in the newly built city of Kingsport, which was erected on the Spine Tears River, marking the expanded northern border of the civilized lands.

Bren took a slow gulp from the water flask that hung on his belt and continued to pull the cart. Ogger even used to use him to ‘acquire’ objects for him to sell to the elves when he was younger. But now, even at the age of twelve, he was almost as tall as his father. He grimaced at the memory where his father beat him because the goddesses cursed him with a son that was too tall to be any use. Instead his father used him as a workhorse, carrying heavier things like furniture and of course, pulling the cart. Bren liked this better anyway, he always felt remorse when he had to steal and even sometimes left something in its place. Even if it was a few pennies he had saved or a loaf of bread he took from father when he wasn’t looking.

The cart hit a bump in the road, and Bren froze as his father rolled around a bit cursing in a drunken stupor, but did not jostle fully awake Bren could not believe his good luck. If Ogger awoke, he would have gotten a beating and he knew it. ‘This is turning out to be a good day.” And smiled to himself. He contemplated whistling to release some of that happiness bubbling inside of him, but then decided not to push his luck and instead continued on in silence.

It was late afternoon by the time Bren had made it to the outer gates of Kingsport. His father was awake and laying sprawled out in the back of the wagon. He awoke a while ago due to a large number of horses running by in the opposite direction. Since the horses were fast and loud, one could hardly sleep through such a ruckus.It was Bren that got an apple core in the back of the head from his father for being disturbed from his slumber. Weaving through the bustling city streets, he pulled the cart and his father behind him. Turning down Rickety Street, his anticipation bubbled inside. He could almost smell Ma’s cooking from here and his mouth began to water. The area took on a more sinister air here, the local residents were a lot dirtier and most of them wore clothes that were worn and tattered. He turned down Cistern Alley where he called home.

An old woman whose back was so crooked she had to lean on her broom, stared at them through black rat-like eyes, “Back already Bren? She said. When he smiled and nodded at her, she added, “Glad you made it back alright.” Her face hardened a bit, “Glad you made at as well Ogger.” Bren wasn’t sure but he thought he heard her mutter something under her breath.
“Mind your own business you antique battle axe.” He said with a grunt. “Here I brought you a present you crooked old biddy.” He quickly guzzled the last of the contents of the bottle he held and threw the empty bottle at her feet where is broke sending pieces of glass dancing down the street. Ogger laughed, “There. Now you have something to do instead of bothering me.” Then set about pulling the cork from a new bottle with his teeth.

Bren looked his neighbor with an apologetic look upon his face, but she did not notice. She already began to try to sweep up the glass so none of the younger children in the alley would not step on the jagged pieces. Bren wondered what made his father so mean sometimes, but only for an instant. He only had one father, so he told himself he had to make the best of it. Their wooden house leaned heavily and many of the shingles had fallen off the roof and lay in the street in front of the building like discarded playing cards. Despite its appearance Bren sighed in relief after being on the road for so long he pulled the cart up to the front door and prepared to go in.

“Where do ye think yer going you lazy sod?”

“I wanted to greet Ma and let her know we made it back alright.” He secretly wanted a bite to eat since he had nothing to eat since the half of a loaf of stale bread this morning but he dared not tell his father that.

“I will tell her that. You need to get this cart unloaded.” He motioned to the cart and the crates and barrels it contained. He took a swig of the half full bottle and swayed a bit as his wavering gait got him to the three stairs to entrance to the house. He then challenged himself to lift his feet to the next step that lead to the front door.

Bren turned away, uncaring to see whether or not his father accomplished his impossible task or not. He did not care either way. He just wanted to hurry and finish this task, go inside and rest his feet, get some food in his belly and find out how his mother was doing. He just told himself unloading always went quicker and easier anyway since the crates and barrels were not empty when the trading is complete. The thought made Bren smile in spite of himself and he found his second wind. In just under ten minutes the empty  cart sat in front of the house completely empty and the containers stacked neat alongside the house. Bren even sat on the front steps for a moment and took off his shoes. He winced at the smell as he peeled them off from around his toes. After a minute a resting after his labor, he stood to go inside, proud of all that he accomplished the last few days.

Entering the door he heard his mother cry out, “Bren! How could you?!”

“What? What do you mean?” He looked bewildered. This was not the reception he expected form his mother.

His mother wept in her hands while his father stood nearby. His fahter looked from Ahiss to him and said while shaking a finger at him, other hand clutching his half empty bottle so tight his knuckles began to turn white, “You know what she means you lazy do-nothing!” he took a wavering step toward Bren with the glint of murder in his eyes. “Because of your carelessness while pulling the cart down that bumpy road boy, we lost over half of the money! We are gonna starve because of your stupidity!”

Bren stood there as if someone nailed his feet to the floor and it felt like time slowed to a stop. No words formed in is throat as he saw his mother with her face buried in her hands, every tear emerged from between her fingers and taking an eternity to fall to the floor. Not his mother, not her.

Bren clenched his ten your old fist and struck his father directly under his jaw, sending him reeling back a few steps. “Leave her alone!” He screamed and swung again but this time his father was ready and used his free hand to block the clumsy attack even while in his drunken state.

“You ungrateful brat! I will kill you!” His father brought the hand with the bottle down upon the top of Bren’s skull knocking him to his knees. He struggled to get to his feet and looked up to see his mother with her face still in her hands, too ashamed to even look at her own son.

He managed to say, “Ma…” before the bottle came back down hard on the back of his head again, making the world flash white with pain before an unending blackness engulfed him.

Hope you enjoyed it!
Until next time, be good.

 

A funny thing happened on the way to the Amazon.

We will continue exploring Trader’s Post soon.

While I was writing today, some one pointed out that on Amazon.com my book was being sold for almost four dollars less – brand new – through some vendors.

So I went to investigate, being the nosey person that I am, and sure as sphagnum, there was my book being sold for almost four dollars less.

amazon1

This got me wondering, does this fiver come out of the printing fee? Or my fee? I do not make a lot per book (for a 500+ page book, the printing costs are pretty hefty), it obviously makes me wonder. I do not intend to make a bazillion dollars doing this, I do it because I love telling stories. But, on the flip side, it is a huge time sink writing a Choose your Own Adventure style book so some form of compensation is nice.

This now begs the question, do I raise my prices to offset the loss by this? Do I use harsh language and make faces at the vendors who are knocking a full four dollars from the book? Do I make a post about my personal gripes about it on my newly created blog for the world to see because everyone in the modern day has to air their grievances everywhere for all to see? You get the idea.

I suppose that is how these vendors stay in business. Offering the low price on a wanted commodity. I cannot fault them for that to be honest. Everyone is trying to work an angle in this world. I just wonder if by doing this, they are hurting the starting writer and forcing some writers who could have done great stuff to go into other things. Like, starting book vendors where they undercut amazon’s prices.

See what I did there?

Anyway, As fore mentioned, more world details are coming.

Happy Fridays fun gang, don’t bite the hand that hasn’t been washed recently.

amazon2