Featured Author: Dan O'Brien

Welcome to the fourth day of the Cerulean Dreams blog tour. It will run until July 24th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, and a video blog by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dystopian world:

Orion, the last city of men. Deep within the desert, a secret lay waiting. Young women found dead in the street. A corporation that controls the sleep of a populace that never sees the light of day. Alexander Marlowe seeks to unravel the mysteries of Orion as he helps a young girl, Dana, flee the city. The closer they come to the truth, the greater the danger that hunts them. Follow them as they search beyond the boundaries of everything they have ever known for answers. 

A few questions for the author:

Do you ever experience writer’s block? 

From a behavior analysis point of view, I simply remove the antecedent. This is a fancy way of saying I eliminate the possibility of experiencing writer’s block by always having multiple projects to work on, whether it is a another piece of short fiction, a consultation job, blogging, etc.

Do you work with an outline, or just write? 

A little of both. I find a living outline to be very useful for the way I write. I will have important ideas and plot points that I want to make sure find a place within the book, but I often deviate as my imagination takes over. 

Is there any particular author or book that influenced you in any way either growing up or as an adult?

Herbert, Hugo, and Hemmingway probably had the most direct influence on types of books I like to write, as well as my attitude toward writing in general. Orwell and Bradbury helped to cultivate a love of dystopian science fiction and Lovecraft, as well as King, helped to foster a love of all things horror.

Can you tell us about your challenges in getting your first book published? 

My first book was a space opera that I went the traditional route with. I queried agents and publishers in the early 2000s, right before the vanity press boom that claimed the careers of many writers. It was a relatively lukewarm experience that I am not particularly interested in re-visiting. Needless to say, it was an important learning experience.

Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:

Chapter IV

The doors opened without incident. The lobby looked far more alive than Cedars Tower. Tenants bustled about. Their voices rose, talking about this and that. About Marlowe no doubt, if his paranoid mind had its way. 

The pair seemed conspicuous immediately. 

Their clothes were dirtied. Their faces were pensive, watchful as they scanned the crowd gathered in the lobby. For a moment, Marlowe could swear that they stopped and looked at him collectively, each of them thinking the same thing: that’s him.

There he is: criminal, terrorist. 

“Monsieur,” called the manager. His bristling walk and crimson suit were both polished. 

Marlowe looked at him, his face haggard. “What?”

The manager was apprehensive, his hands clenching and posture stiffening. Undoubtedly, Marlowe had answered harsher than the man had anticipated. “We are very much abuzz here, monsieur. There have been OrionCorps all about.”

A pencil-thin moustache and placid features were set upon an unscrupulous face. Marlowe looked at him for a long moment, uncertain if he was more repulsive than the strange transient apparitions that beleaguered him. 

“Right, OrionCorps,” said Marlowe dreamily. Dana nudged him hard, giving Marlowe a hard stare. The manager followed her gaze back to the rough mug of Marlowe. “OrionCorps, exactly. I’m Lieutenant Gales,” he started, flashing the badge he had taken from the lieutenant upstairs. He felt a fog lift from his mind for a moment. “I was in pursuit of the suspect. He is in the building.”

The manager looked shocked. 

“This building, monsieur?”

Marlowe felt strange, he walked the line between wanting to laugh hysterically at the little man or smack him across the room. He settled on maintaining the lawful air. “Precisely, I was in pursuit of the suspect,” said Marlowe and then looking at Dana, he grabbed her roughly. “Then I noticed that he had accosted this young girl here and I stopped to help her. I didn’t see where he went.”

The manager looked concerned. He grabbed her hand lightly as he spoke. “I am so sorry, madam. That must have been harrowing for you.”

Dana glanced at Marlowe and then nodded slowly. 

“Frightening.”

Marlowe cleared his throat, adjusting his weapon. “I am going to bring this girl in, but I have instructed OrionCorps that the suspect is in this building. You can confirm this when they arrive. Tell them Lieutenant Gales has brought a witness back to headquarters. Can you do that for me, sir?”

The manager nodded, almost gleefully. He was enthralled to be of assistance. “Of course monsieur, it would be my pleasure. Suspect in building. Lieutenant Gales took a female witness downtown. Understood, monsieur.”

Marlowe smiled and moved Dana forward, not bothering to turn around to watch the manager. He could hear the little man delegating to bellhops and other tower staff to search the area and assume security precautions. 

As they moved through the gathered crowd, Marlowe was sure not to nudge anyone too hard or draw attention. Marlowe reminded himself that it was nothing short of a miracle that the manager had not realized who he was. 

As they pushed through the ornate double doors of the plaza, the open air was alive with the sounds of OrionCorps vehicles. The wailing sound of justice was ever-present. Marlowe breathed out, as if he had been holding his breath. “That was close, Dana. That man obviously hadn’t been on his visor lately, otherwise we would’ve been dead in the water.”

The wailing grew closer and Marlowe turned up his collar, hiding his face as a squadron of OrionCorps poured into the building. Dana watched them with a child-like awe, but Marlowe turned her attention back with a rough tug on her arm. 

“Do you think that will keep them occupied for long?”

“Long enough, hopefully just long enough,” echoed Marlowe as he turned the next corner, dragging them down a flight of dirty stairs into the rail station. The station was dark like in Messiah district. Distant, flickering lights were in desperate need of service. They stalked out of the darkness, disappearing for a moment in the light, though only to return into the shadows once more. 

Marlowe pressed forward, trying not to gawk at the frightful apparitions. He felt a mesmerizing quality from them that trapped you in their gaze. 

That was someplace he did not wish to be. 

The station was modern, electronic fixings and long runner boards changed from one advertisement to the next. Marlowe had begun to feel that it was not safe. The world seemed to be talking to him at all times: whispering, not loud enough to drown out the living world, but just enough that he knew it was there. 

“Where are we going?” Dana asked, her little frame stopping to draw Marlowe’s attention. Her small face had smudges of dirt, black soot that seemed out of place on her almost pristine features. 

Warmth passed over his face. 

At first, it was comfortable. But as the warmth grew, with it came dead eyes and pale features. Marlowe realized that the phantoms were now walking through him as they pleased. The dead had no regard for the living. “We are going to take the light rail back to my place,” he began. 

“They will be waiting there for you,” she cut him off. 

Marlowe ran his hands through his hair, sighing exasperatedly. “Right. Of course, they will be. That is the first place they are going to look…” he trailed off and then jumped as one of the strange phantoms walked right through Dana. For a moment, it was a strange mutated creature that was part beauty and part horror. 

“We need to leave Orion,” she spoke. 

Marlowe looked at the girl seriously. “You keep saying that like it’s an option. We’ll die if we leave the city. We can’t survive in the desert. Anyone who walks beyond these walls dies in that desert. We’ll have to think of something else.”

“We are dead if we stay here.” 

“Very astute answer. Not at all helpful, but very clever. I realize that we are dead if we stay. We are dead if we leave the city, but that doesn’t mean I am going to go off gallivanting into a sweltering sandstorm because you like the heat.”

The sound of the approaching light rail was a high-pitched whistle. They both looked up, watching as the bleached steel tube rocketed into the station, the windows and passengers a blur. 

“When the doors open, get on and keep moving from rail car to rail car until we find an empty one. If we can stay away from people long enough, I can figure something out,” he spoke in a low voice. 

Grunting, he scratched at his right forearm. His fingers dug at his flesh through the heavy cloth of his trench. The doors of the rail opened with a grinding squeal. Dana stepped through without hesitation, her blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders. The interior was cloaked in a scattered darkness, much like everything else about Orion. 

She turned toward him, her eyes sparkling. He couldn’t remember if her eyes had been green before. Hadn’t they been blue? “We can’t ride the rail for long. They will look for us on it,” she stated matter-of-factly. 

Marlowe nodded. Swallowing, his throat was barren and salty. “There aren’t a lot of places we can hide in Orion. We will just have to keep on the move. We will take turns sleeping.”

Marlowe placed one foot on the dirty steel of the rail and the other stayed on the ground. He watched the ground with interest. It had moved. The vibration was slight, as if a wave had passed across the ground. “I think something might be very, very wrong,” he whispered. 

Dana looked at him coldly, her arms crossed. “Worse than everything that is chasing us?” she asked sarcastically. 

Marlowe lifted his foot. A section of the concrete moved with it, a webbed imprint that was a perfect match of his foot. His face slipped to a grimace as he watched the ground bubble, pieces of it popping and sending liquid splatters against the side of the rail. 

“I think the ground is melting,” he muttered.

He placed his other foot on the ground of the light rail. The surge of steel and power as the rail started forward rocked Marlowe’s balance, forcing him to grab a hold of one of the poles that ran from ceiling to floor. They were cold to the touch. He lifted his foot––the webbing of sloshing concrete had dissipated. 

“Could have sworn….”

Dana looked out the wide windows of the rail. Her reflection was that of a beautiful stranger: bright blonde hair and gray eyes. Hadn’t they been green? Her sigh was announced with the pout of her small lips. “It is worse when you sleep. The Lurking watches us, haunting our every step, waiting for us to lower our defenses, let up,” she spoke. 

Marlowe watched the girl. “Why are they after you?”

“The truth.”

Marlowe waved his hand dismissively. 

“There must be more to it than that.”

She remained silent, her thin arms hugging herself. Marlowe pulled himself forward with the light rail pole, looking at the next car. “We should keep moving from car to car, keep in motion.”

She nodded. Eyes glassy, her little body moved out ahead of Marlowe. Moving through the hunched figures of other commuters who muttered to themselves via their visors, he watched them as they passed. Most didn’t take the time to acknowledge their passing, except one.

“Marlowe.” Her voice felt like a cold spike. 

A man had her around the waist. She wiggled against him, trying desperately to find a way to pull herself loose. Marlowe drew his weapon. The man watched, his intense eyes looking from the girl to Marlowe. The blade was sharp. The glinting edge was tight against her throat. 

“Let the girl go,” Marlowe growled. 

He took a step forward. 

The man pulled Dana up, the blade touching her skin, crimson melting into ivory. His teeth gleamed. Some were sharpened to razor points. His face distorted. What had been pale skin was now moldy like old bread. Teeth were decayed, yellow and blackened from lack of care. The cackle that erupted from the man was otherworldly. 

“The pretty one is mine now,” he crooned. 

Fingers were long and slender.

Nails dirtied and cracked. 

Marlowe blinked. 

The very act was heavy. 

He shot once, twice. The first round caught the man in the throat. Greenish blood spilled in a fine arc. Dana fell away. Her shriek fell on his deaf ears. The second shot exploded through the man’s chest.

Dana watched as Marlowe loomed over the man, his wide eyes glazed as he emptied the chamber. Each shot made the man jump, his body lifting from the ground as if pushed from beneath. 

“I think he is dead,” she whispered. 

Marlowe continued to pull the trigger. The man’s face was a haunting smile, blackened lips and bleeding gums forever frozen. The world around him seemed silent. The click of his weapon, Dana’s words, all of it was a silent symphony. 

Then the voices returned. 

Low whispering that at first climbed and climbed until there was a raging cacophony of screams that were indiscernible from one another. He looked at Dana, her lips moving, but the words were lost to him. 

It came slowly, half of the message lost. 

“…leave.”

He looked at her strangely. “What?” he asked, splatters of the man’s blood plastered across his chest. 

Her eyes pleaded. 

“We should leave, get off of the train.”

He nodded, licking his lips again. The world had refocused. “News certainly does travel fast, this kind more so than most. Not often you have a dead demon on a train.”

It was Dana’s turn to look at him oddly. He moved around her, reloading his weapon and aiming at the metal doors. The force of the round charred the steel in a perfect circle. 

The screech of the train frightened the passengers. 

As the doors opened, Dana jumped through, Marlowe following. Many of the onlookers disengaged their visors. They watched as the blood-soaked Marlowe and an angel of a young woman departed the train and fell into the murky tunnel. Marlowe watched the walls, looking for the crawling figures. Immediately, he regretted diving so blithely into the darkness when there were things that wished to speak to him from the shadows.

Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.

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Featured Author Dan O'Brien

I'm happy to welcome Dan O'Brien to A Blue Million Books today for something a little different: a look at publishing from an editor's point of view. Dan is a writer, editor, and screenwriter. He's an editor for Empirical, a national magazine, and he recently started his own consulting business. Dan has written over ten novels and screenplays, and we're also fortunate to sit in on an interview he recently had with his characters from The Path of the Fallen.

A Writing Perspective from the Other Side of the Fence

A Guest Post by Dan O’Brien

Life as a writer can be hard sometimes.

Success is elusive; fans shift as often as a summer wind.

Yet, we persevere, writing into the late hours of the night and waking in the early hours of the morning to log the hours and enter, for a time, the worlds we create. When I first started writing, more than a decade ago, it was because I loved the idea of immersing myself in a place where I could construct the narrative; walk through dense forests and to the tops of mountains. Over time the process became more about writing as a tool to move through emotions and languishing memories that required catharsis.

Writing takes on many forms, for many different writers, over the course of our lives.

For me, the process is the reward.

I love to write.

When I ask myself that silly question of what I would do if I had all the money in the world, the answer is always quite simple: write. Now more than a decade later, I have a renewed sense of purpose and have become quite adept at balancing the spinning plates of responsibility.

Recently, between being a full-time graduate student and writer, I joined Empirical magazine as an editor – among other responsibilities. A national magazine similar in spirit to Harper’s or The Atlantic, the magazine is firmly rooted in a West Coast sensibility. There is a little something for everyone, and honestly, the hope is that everyone will take a look. Contributors to the magazine come from around the globe and cover everything from politics to fiction.

Working at a magazine, especially at this point in its maturation, is a wonderful experience. There are so many moving parts that enliven your day. Sometimes I spend the day sorting through fiction and poetry submissions, searching for that piece of prose, or perhaps a stanza, that ensnares my imagination. Other days I am editing, constantly referring to the Chicago Manual of Style to ascertain the correct usage of an archaic sentence structure. As a writer, the prospect of editing and rummaging through the work of others might not sound exciting, but there are some wonderful consequences:

1.    You learn to become a better editor of your own work
2.    You begin to recognize redundant sentence structures and overused phrases
3.    Your grasp of language grows exponentially

However, the most important component for me is:

4.    You get to help others bring their work into a public forum

For many writers, and certainly for me early in my writing career, the notion of being picked up by a magazine or a small press was foremost in my mind. It was that distant promise of publication and everything that goes with it that pushed me forward. When I got rejection letters, most of which lacked a personal touch, I would get down on my writing, denigrate my ability.

The years passed, during which thousands of rejection letters amassed, and I realized that the pursuit of writing for a purely extrinsic reward was dooming myself to Vegas-style odds. I became clear to me that I needed to write because I loved it, and then find a way to share it with others – even if it was not through traditional routes. I found that I was more comfortable with my writing when I did it for the pure joy of it.

Now that I am on the other side of the fence, so to speak, I have noticed a few myths about submitting to paying publications that otherwise mystified and frustrated me prior to becoming an editor and being responsible for interacting with first-time and established authors.

I have decided to provide a humorous, but serious, collection of things you should do and things you shouldn’t do when submitting and entering into a discourse with a publication – sprinkled, of course, with some anecdotes. And without further ado (or perhaps slight ado if you count this sentence here):

Things You Should Do

1.    Read the publication you are submitting to before sending an email. This one sounds obvious, I know. However, it happens so often that it warrants mentioning. If you have written a brilliant piece of prose that is about zombies, it is quite likely that Popular Mechanics will not be that interested in it. Pick up an issue of the magazine you are interested in submitting to and familiarize yourself with the kinds of stories they publish. The next part is the hardest part: be honest. Does your piece fit with what they publish?

2.    Read and follow the submission instructions. Again, a no-brainer. If you are thinking that you don’t know where to find the submission instructions and you just have an email address, be prepared for disappointment. Your email might go to submission purgatory with a one-liner response about having received your correspondence – if you’re lucky.

3.    Address your submission to the appropriate person. If you are thinking that I am giving you the obvious pointers, then you are quite right. With that in mind, imagine that I still receive hundreds of emails a month that manage to ignore these simple suggestions. If you are writing a stunning expose on corporate greed, the poetry editor is probably not the best destination for your work.

4.    Edit your work. I tell this to students a lot, so I will mention it here as well: spell check in Microsoft Word is not sufficient. I am not saying that you need to be a copy editor to submit to a magazine, but do yourself a favor and read it out loud. If it something sounds funny when you read it, you can only imagine how it will sound to an editor who is choosing among thousands of articles and stories to determine what goes to print.

5.    Be cognizant of turnarounds. By this I mean, the amount of time between when you sent in the work until you hear back from an editor about the status of your submission. Nothing will send your work to the bottom of a slush pile than to send a follow-up email the day after you submitted, wondering whether or not you are going to be in the magazine. Most publications will post how long it takes to hear back from them about the status of a submission, and an amount of time after which you should contact them if you haven’t heard from them.

Things You Shouldn’t Do

1.    Send an email telling an editor that they would be stupid not to publish your work. It always surprises me when I get an email telling me that I need to publish a story, poem, or piece of nonfiction because it is the next best thing. Top this off with letting me know that I would be a fool not to accept it, almost guarantees a trip to the trash can.

2.    Send a photocopy of your story by registered mail.  If you want to have your story in a magazine, start by giving it to editors in a format that they can actually use. By sending a faded and blurry photocopy of your forty-word poem and declaring that it is a soul-searching masterpiece does not inspire as much confidence as you would think.

3.    Contact an editor on a frequent basis about the status of your submission. I have to sort through hundreds of emails a day, edit for the current issue, and work on editing an anthology; not to mention a thousand other intangibles. We posted a time table about getting back to you for a reason: read it.

4.    Be discouraged by a form rejection letter. This is a bitter pill to swallow for many writers. They think the form rejection letter means that the editor didn’t read their work, or simply had things already planned and was stringing writers along. The reality is on any given month I send out hundreds upon hundreds of rejection letters. There is simply not enough time in the day to offer feedback to every single person. This not to say that I do not offer feedback, or that editors do not offer feedback in general, but instead the process is streamlined so writers can be responded to in a reasonable amount of time.

5.    Call the magazine to find out about your submission. This is subsumed by not contacting an editor about the status of your submission before enough time has passed, but I thought it warranted a special mention considering it is really going the extra mile in terms of being an irritation. If we haven’t gotten back to you yet, calling us is not going to suddenly make us more accessible.

6.    Send another email with corrections. Read twice, send once. If you don’t think what you sent is ready for publication, then please don’t send it. You get one chance at a first impression, and nothing speaks to being underprepared and unprofessional than sending a draft and immediately following up with another draft. If your piece needs work, note that in your submission, but don’t send a series of emails chronicling the different stages of the edits for that story. The exception, of course, is if you have already been accepted and you have been asked to make edits.

7.    Contact the magazine to air your frustrations about not being selected. I say this with all seriousness. It is very likely that you got rejected because the piece was not a good fit and not that the magazine has decided to order a hit on your writing career. Please don’t treat it that way. Lashing out at a publication for sending a form rejection letter, or passing on a piece you have written, reeks of a lack of professionalism and could impact your ability to publish elsewhere. Many editors are friends, especially in the digital age, and word spreads fast.

8.    Contact the magazine to ask if you think a story you are working on would be a good fit elsewhere. I can appreciate the sentiment. A lot of editors are writers themselves, and they love talking about the process and the product. I find myself building friendships with writers, those we publish and those we do not, and often I will give them suggestions about their work. However, if you don’t know me personally and have never been published or solicited in any way to use me as a sounding board, then do not contact me and ask if a poem or story would be a good fit at another magazine. If you think it is ready for publication, then submit it here. An obvious exception would be if the writer knew the story would not be a good fit and asked because they were uncertain in venturing into new territory.

I could probably keep listing things you shouldn’t do, but I will wrap it up there. I encourage you to keep trying and keep writing. Things only get better with time, and time is all we really have. I love to hear from other writers and potential readers, so please stop by and say hello.

Dan Interviews E'Malkai, Elcites, and Fe'rein & Arile

As I sit down at my computer, I am struck by the eerie presence of someone behind me. Leaving behind the blinking cursor, I realize that the cast of my latest novel, The Path of the Fallen, are standing behind me. E’Malkai, sullen and burdened by the weight of the pilgrimage he has undertaken, stands behind the immovable figure of his Umordoc guardian, Elcites. Arms crossed over his chest, his gaze unsettles me despite how much time I have spent in his company whilst writing The Path of the Fallen. Arile, proud hunter of the north, leans against his spear and inspects the wall with a carefree look upon his face. Fe’rein, shrouded in the darkness that complements him so well, seethes with a dark mix of irritation and confidence.

E’Malkai: I heard that you wanted to speak to us.

Me: (clearing my throat) In a manner of speaking, yes.

Fe’rein: (glowering) What do you want? We have business left unfinished.

Me: I am releasing The Path of the Fallen, after nearly a decade hiatus, and wanted to let potential readers know a little more about it. Instead of giving them a dry summary or an adjective-laden exposition, I thought getting to know the characters might be a fun exercise. 

Arile: (not making eye contact and looking away with a bored look on his face) What precisely would these potential readers want to know about us? We are an open book (snickers).

Me: Let’s start with something simple: Describe yourself to the readers.
Fe’rein: Darkness. Death. There is little else to know.

E’Malkai: (shifting uncomfortably behind his guardian) I do not know what to say about myself. I thought I knew what I was supposed to do with my life, but there was always something missing. When I learned about the history of the Fallen and the journey my father began, I realized that I had to find out more, learn about where I came from.

Elcites: (grunting) I am no more than what is expected of me. I guard E’Malkai. That is all that matters.

Arile: I am the last of my people. We once could hear all the voices of the earth. The world has been broken. I can no longer hear what I once could. My people have been scattered into the winds, but I can still hear their distant voices. They speak of a new age, and of a final war.

Me: That all sounds quite dire. You make it seem like there is only darkness and sadness. Are there no happy moments in your life, memories that give you pause and hope when you consider them?

Elcites: The day I was given my charge, when I first met young E’Malkai, was the greatest and saddest day of my life.

E’Malkai: (looking up at the stoic look on his guardian’s face) I recall playing with my uncle once upon a time. (Pausing) The world changed, and so too did those memories. I cannot seem to look back upon the strained moments of my life and see happiness.

(Fe’rein scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. He clearly is not going to answer the question.)

Arile: Each day is full of happiness and sadness, joy and terror. I find grace and importance in the simplest of tasks. This day is a gift. We must not look upon it with sorrow.

(I start to speak, but Fe’rein interrupts me, his power crawling over his skin like a swarm of frightening insects.)

Fe’rein: What makes this story any different than any of the other drivel available?

Me: That is a bit strong, isn’t it? I would like to think that my writing offers a fresh perspective on the fantasy and science fiction genre. I always try and include elements of ethics and philosophical assumptions in my novels, and this one is no different. I love to explore the elements of good and evil, as well as the murky gray area that is exposed when decisions and choices and are no longer easy. I think it captures the essence of the monomyth, or the hero’s journey, as well as being a rousing adventure tale that a reader of any age can enjoy.

E’Malkai: How is it doing so far?

Me: It is a bit early in the game to really say much about it. I released it almost a decade ago and it was well received, but it was in desperate need of a strong editing session. Now, I feel like it accurately reflects my growth as a writer and that it has a strong chance of being pretty successful, perhaps my most successful work yet. Let’s put the focus back on you: What do you want from life?

E’Malkai: I want to set things right…

(Fe’rein stands suddenly. Elcites turns, interceding between the Dark Creator and the youth. Arile moves soundlessly behind the mion.)

Fe’rein: There is nothing to set right. I did what was necessary. They took Summer away from me. They had to pay.

Me: (standing) It seems as though I have struck a nerve. Let’s try something a bit easier, shall we? What’s the most important thing in your life? What do you value most?
Arile: (lowering his weapon) The search for truth, questioning my place in this world. Complacency weakens the mind. I value knowledge, intelligence, and logic.

Fe’rein: (sitting once more with a huff) Solitude. The power to do what I must to keep what I have claimed. Once, I valued family and love, but those times have passed.

Elcites: My charge, my mission.

E’Malkai: My family, the people who depend on and believe in me, even if that faith is misplaced.

Me: Speaking of family, did you turn out the way you expected? The way your parents predicted?

(Elcites maintains his ambivalent stare and Arile inspects something deeper in the darkness of the room.)

Fe’rein: I did not know my mother and father well. I have memories of them, brief glimpses of who they were, moments in time frozen and exaggerated. I used to wonder how they would judge me, but that doesn’t matter to me any longer. I turned out the way I did because of the choices I made. My father could not have known what would fall into my path. His plan for me is irrelevant.

E’Malkai: (looking at his uncle, Fe’rein, with sorrow) I did not know my father, but as I traveled north I learned much about the man he was and who he wanted me to be. My mother was secretive of my past, but I do not blame her. I realize now that she did not want me to die as my father had.

Me: That is quite sad. The path of the fallen began when Seth, your father, was cast from the Fallen and then ends when you return. Were you afraid of traveling north by yourself, E’Malkai? What is your greatest fear?

E’Malkai: Not being able to do what is necessary. Turnabout is fair play: At what point in your life did you realize you wanted to be a writer?

Me: A meaningful question indeed. I think I always knew I wanted to be a writer. When I was about six, I designed an entire play for my cousin’s birthday: sets, script, and little figures on Popsicle sticks. As the years went by, I found that the notion of storytelling was very attractive. This pursuit led me to writing my first novel in high school, a space opera that I published in 2002. Since then I have published ten novels and plan on telling stories until someone spreads my ashes over the sea. (Turning to Fe’rein) Fe’rein, what is your greatest regret?

Fe’rein: Beyond being summoned to this ridiculous farce, I would imagine the content of my life was the result of walking down a path to darkness. It was not sudden or abrasive, but instead incremental and engrossing. My greatest regret is taking my brother’s life. It was too late for me by then. I could only see darkness, despair.

Elcites: (clearing his throat) What was your intent with writing The Path of the Fallen? Why did you set us down this path?

Me: I wanted to tell a very particular story: one in which the line between good and evil become blurred and the consequences of a hero’s actions mean much more than defeating the bad guy. I liked the notion of a family saga wrapped up in an epic science fiction/fantasy novel. The hero’s cycle makes for a powerful story and often answers fundamental questions about the human condition. Hopefully, my book is successful to that end. (Taking a step forward and gesturing to Arile) Arile, how do you decide if you can trust someone? Do you test the person somehow? Or are you just generally disposed to trust or not to trust?

Arile: Trust, like respect, is earned. When I first met E’Malkai, it was his naivety and simple manner that let me know that I could trust him. Generally, the test of whether or not a person is trustworthy is created by the environment, selected for by pressures that challenge a person. The idea of being predisposed to trust, or not to trust, is born of not trusting oneself. Have you written many more stories? Are we to carry on, storyteller?

Me: As the book closes, the story does not end. The path has ended, at least metaphorically, but the journey is far from over. Book of Seth returns to the beginning, giving us a glimpse of the life of Seth Armen, as well as Ryan Armen before he was corrupted. The sequel, which takes place after The Path of the Fallen, is called Breath of the Creator and weighs in on what comes next. There are several other novels with transient beings not of your dimension: a supernatural detective solving murders in San Francisco; a young man who discovers what it takes to be responsible as the world falls apart; a love story set in an epic fantasy world. (Spreading my hands wide, acknowledging all of them) This question is for all of you, what is one strong memory that has stuck with you from childhood? Why is it so powerful and lasting?

Arile: I will never forget when I returned home from a hunt and found my village decimated, wiped from this earth by Umordoc. I took the long walk into the tundra, to die, but found peace and a new home. The winds have been my companion ever since.

Fe’rein: Your question is foolish, storyteller. My childhood was a lifetime ago. I am no longer that frail boy who walked beside his brother on the tundra.

Elcites: I do not recall my childhood. I was born on Terra and raised in Culouth. My youth was devoted to learning everything I could about human beings and their ways so that I might one day protect E’Malkai.

E’Malkai: Once I had fond memories, but now they all seem like lies meant to obscure my path. Storyteller, do you read other stories? Are you reading anything right now, or have you read anything recently that is worth mentioning?

Me: I have been reading A Dance of Dragons by George R. R. Martin. I have become very invested in that world, though I will admit that the pace of the narrative has slowed dramatically. I find myself undulating between being surprised and intrigued by the story and then suddenly being quite bored.

Elcites: How did we come into being?

Me: I am assuming you are asking me about my writing process. For The Path of the Fallen I wrote it for four months straight, including Book of Seth. Generally, I like to create a living outline that evolves as the characters come to life and begin to guide the narrative. It is dependent on the world I am invested in at any given time.

E’Malkai: Are our names meaningful? 

Me: They are not derived from other lore, if that is what you meant. E’Malkai was named as homage to the naming scheme of the tundra people. It really depends on what I am writing. For instance, The Journey has names that are quite significant in terms of their meaning. Otherwise, I like to invent names for a particular world.

Arile: How do you define success as a writer? Have you been successful?

Me: Success is elusive once you define it. It becomes something that you aspire for regardless of the process and the craft. I would like to think that success is writing stories that people enjoy and connect with, even if it is negatively. I think I have been successful in a very limited way: people have read my books and enjoyed them.

E’Malkai: Do you have words of wisdom about writing that you want to pass on to novelists and writers out there who are starting out?

Me: Write what you love and learn from criticism. The publishing world has changed. I have been writing for nearly a decade, and I find that every year there seems to be a new opinion on which way the wind is blowing for fiction. Stay the course and do what you love. If writing novels and telling stories is what you want to do, then do that.

Fe’rein: I have noticed that you ask this ridiculous question of other storytellers: What is your End of the World Playlist? Why do you ask this question?

Me: I like hearing what people think about the notion of an end-of-the-world scenario. Also, I have a zombie novella of the same name, and I like having the vibes out there for it. Do you guys have anything specific that you want to say to the readers?

Arile: E’Malkai of the South will do what he must to set the world right. His story will be passed on for generations.

Elcites: The Path of the Fallen is filled with both adventure and sadness. Follow E’Malkai and be transformed.

Fe’rein: I will have my day, in this life or the next. I am not evil, nor is E’Malkai good. We are merely opposite perspectives. You decide who visited more harm upon the world.

E’Malkai: I would like to think that I have done the right thing, taken the right path. The storyteller will not give away his secrets, but he might give you a glimpse. The greater question is: Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers, storyteller?

Me: I am honored for anyone to read my novel. I hope that it will foster and appreciation of reading and the arts that is slowly disappearing among children and adults alike. I love to hear back from readers, so if you would like to get in touch with me, please be sure to check out my links below.

About the book:

Set against the backdrop of the tundra and a world desperate for hope, the journey of a young man, E'Malkai, will come to define a realm that has been broken by an evil that does not sleep. A bitter betrayal, and the inception of a war that will consume the world, forces E'Malkai to confront the past and undertake a pilgrimage that is his by birthright. Follow him on his journey and be transformed.

About Dan O'Brien:

A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, Dan O'Brien has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/. He also works as an editor at Empirical, a national magazine with a strong West Coast vibe. Find out more about the magazine at www.empiricalmagazine.com.

Buy Links:

Path of the Fallen (US) / Path of the Fallen (UK) / Amazon.com Author Page

Connect with Dan:

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