Hey Hacksters! The new site (www.thehacknovelist.com) has launched, so this site will be going away. Come check it out, update your bookmarks, and sign up to receive new blog posts via email!

Along with a brand new look, the new site will serve two purposes: 1) Provide a platform to share my writing and 2) equip and resource aspiring authors on their own writing journeys. As you explore, you’ll discover that all the material contained there serves one of those two ends.

Come check it out!

www.TheHackNovelist.com

We also reach a milestone with today’s installment of Remnant. The following 1,700 words conclude the first part of the novel. Seems like we just posted the prologue yesterday. Time flies and all that. Anyway, enjoy and I’ll see you at the new site on Monday.

New to Remnant? Start here.

20.

Clayton pulled the rig off the exit, stopping directly in front of three small buildings. One was marked “Welcome Center,” another “Restrooms,” and the third “Vending.” Clayton climbed out and waited for the man to do the same before locking up the rig.

“There should be a pay phone outside the welcome center,” he said as he met the man at the front of the rig. “You can call yourself a tow. If you change your mind about the hospital, I’m still willing to take you.”

The man looked over to the set of phones next to the welcome center and then back at Clayton.

“You need some quarters?”

Clayton reached into his pockets and pulled out a handful of change, depositing it in the man’s open hand.

“I’m going to pinch a loaf,” Clayton said uneasily as the man still didn’t move. “Right, well, good luck to you, Herbert.”

He moved past him up the walkway to the building on the right.

*   *   *   *   *

The fluorescent lights flickered to life above. It smelled relatively clean. Clayton had been in his fair share of rest stop restrooms over the last thirty years of driving.

The bathroom was a long corridor. On his immediate left was a row of sinks positioned in front of rectangular mirrors. On the right wall were two urinals and three stalls. He stopped at the second mirror for a beat and glanced at himself, stroking his mustache with his right hand before moving in closer to examine his teeth. After rubbing the top row with the side of his first finger a couple of times, he sucked in hard, making a smacking noise with his lips.

The final stall seemed the least suspect. The hygiene toilet bowl cover dispenser was empty so he took a couple long strips of toilet paper and placed them on the cold seat before dropping his pants.

The inside of the stall was riddled with graffiti. As he waited for nature to catch up, he read one of the many ongoing dialogues:

God Sucks!

But He Loves You!

Fuck You and Your God!

I Love You Too!

Jesus was Gay!

Jesus Was Not Gay!

Butt-fucking Gay Jesus!

Go Fuck Yourself!

The conversation continued down the left side of the stall and picked up again on the right side. He continued reading until the main bathroom door swung open. Clayton stopped reading as the sound of footsteps grew closer and closer to his stall. Two dirty boots appeared beneath the door.

“Is that you, Herbert? Get a tow?”

No answer.

Clayton glanced up at a message scribbled in pencil just above the door latch that read “For the best blowjob ever, be here on Tuesday night.” It wasn’t Tuesday, but his heart sank anyway.

“Hey, whoever you are, I’m not here for whatever you’re selling, so move on.”

A moment later, Herbert’s body collapsed to the floor, one of his hands coming to rest on Clayton’s right boot.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed, as he jumped to his feet and pulled up his pants.

Before he could buckle his belt, a stream of purplish smoke floated under the door, pooling into a cloud right in front of his eyes.

“Holy shi—”

The smoke swooped into his open mouth before he could finish the word. Every muscle in his body simultaneously flexed. Clayton’s hands instinctively went to his throat, but there was nothing they could do. He began to choke as his eyes filled with blood. Panicked, he swung open the door and stepped out, tripping over Herbert’s dead body and falling face down on the cold concrete floor.

His torso convulsed violently as milky spittle erupted from his mouth in an uneven spray, catching on his chin and mustache. His hands clenched into fists and his mouth stretched wider and wider until there was no more fight left in him.

*   *   *   *   *

What lay within the mist awoke within the new shell and stretched itself out. It could tell Clayton was a strong host, much stronger than Herbert had been. It commanded the body to take a breath and it did.

Slowly, senses began to awaken. Again, hearing came first. The hum of the fluorescent lights above slowly grew to a dull roar. Then the darkness gave way, and it found itself staring at the back of Herbert’s bald head. After collecting itself, it rose, stepped over Herbert’s legs, and moved over to the mirror, admiring his features. A quick search of Clayton’s mind revealed a wealth of information, unlike Herbert.

It pushed open the door to the restroom, walked back over to the semi truck, and climbed up into the driver’s seat. It fully settled into Clayton’s mind. With a turn of a key and a push of a button, the mechanical beast roared to life. It put the rig into the right gear and pulled off into the night.

21.

Josiah Wells walked just off the shoulder of I-40 somewhere between Little Rock and Jonesboro. He preferred to walk. There was something about feeling the ground under his feet that made him feel connected, at least partially, to the one who had sent him there so long ago. He knew the connection wasn’t real, much like an amputee knows the phantom limb he feels isn’t actually there, but the delusion made him feel less alone.

Josiah had been standing on the banks of the Wind River in the heart of the Bonneville Basin when the pulse first swept over him. He had been expecting it.

As he came to an exit sign that read “Jonesboro 1 Mile,” he tried to recall whether or not he had ever visited this town. He more than likely had—there were very few places in the world he hadn’t visited at least once. As he searched his memory, he could hear the distinct sound of a semi approaching from behind.

A twinge of apprehension nestled into the pit of his stomach. The mass of metal barreling down the highway wasn’t the source of the subtle trepidation. The sudden feeling of dread that filled his stomach was caused by something more menacing, more dangerous than any man-made weapon. Like a tidal wave, it washed over him as the semi passed, sending him to his knees. Then it slowly faded.

Josiah looked up at the red lights of the semi as they disappeared into the darkness, rose to his feet, and started running after them.

Less than ten minutes later, he reached the base of the Jonesboro exit. The semi that had passed was parked at one of the pumps of a convenient store. Josiah ran over to the back of the truck and pulled a knife from the sheath on his hip. Slowly he crept along the side of the truck, stopping just below the driver’s side door. In one fluid motion, he thrust open the door and swung the blade, but it found nothing except the padded seat.

Josiah climbed up into the cab, quickly scanning the passenger side and the sleeping quarters behind before jumping back down and turning to the store.

Ding.

“Welcome to Stumpy’s,” a young pimple-faced boy said from behind the counter. He noticed the angst on Josiah’s face. “You all right man?”

Josiah managed a nod, but he didn’t feel all right. The nausea had returned, more intense than before. It was close.

The lights of the convenience store went dark, leaving only the outside lights over the pumps spilling through the windows. Josiah turned to the clerk.

“You should run.”

“What?”

“If you want to live,” Josiah repeated, searching the darkness in front of him, “then you should run.”

“If I want to live? Calm down, buddy. It’s probably just a blown fuse or—”

A gunshot rang out from the darkness and a black circular mark appeared on the kid’s forehead. A single stream of blood poured from the hole to one side of his nose. The boy stood for a moment longer before collapsing behind the counter.

Another gunshot whizzed by Josiah’s right ear. He ducked down behind the end of one of the aisles.

“Hello, old friend,” a voice bellowed out of the darkness. “You look like you haven’t changed. Tell me you’ve taken care of yourself all these years.”

“I thought you were dead,” Josiah said, trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from.

“Only resting.”

“Resting?”

“Detained.”

Josiah pulled his knife from the sheath.

“Do you still feel it?” it asked. The voice was closer now.

“The child or your stench?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Yes, I feel it.”

“So you’ve given up on your fool’s errand then,” it mocked. “Taking a break from protecting mankind’s last hope? That’s not like you, Wicker Man.”

“Why don’t you join me?” Josiah said as he slipped to the right behind another aisle. “We can quit the struggle together. Perhaps become friends.”

“And all these years I thought us friends, just on different sides of the fight. Isn’t that what your god teaches? Unconditional love?”

As Josiah peeked above the aisle, a box of corn flakes exploded next to him. He dropped down again.

“Seems like your host is a pretty good shot,” Josiah called out.

“If you can still talk, he must not be that good.”

Its voice was moving closer to the door. As Josiah moved to the wall of coolers at the back of the store, he glimpsed at its new body as it shot across one of the hallways between aisles.

“So how did you do it?” Josiah asked.

“Do what?”

“Survive. I watched you die.”

“You watched my host die,” it corrected. “I survived.”

“And you think you can reach the child before the pulse ends?”

“I will reach the child, Wicker Man, alone.”

The front door chimed and a crashing sound came from just outside. Josiah rose to his feet and stepped into the aisle, just in time to see it walk off toward the semi. In front of the door was an overturned metal crate full of propane tanks.

Josiah rushed to the door and tried to push it open, but the metal case held it shut. It turned, met eyes with Josiah through the glass, and lifted its gun. The bullet sailed through the glass door and hit Josiah in the middle of the chest, knocking him backward into a display of potato chips. He lost consciousness before he hit the floor.

*    *    *    *    *

The smell of gasoline brought him around. Drunkenly, Josiah lifted his head just in time to glimpse the trail of fire racing from the pumps toward the propane tanks just feet in front of him. Moments later, the tanks exploded.

I wanted to play that new song on the guitar perfectly the first time through, beat Shadow Man in Mega Man 3 without dedicating an entire night to the effort, and have Christmas in July. Seemed reasonable to me. However, despite my strained efforts, Clapton’s “Cocaine” remained out of my musical reach, Shadow Man spanked me repeatedly like a Catholic school headmaster, and the jolly fat guy still came in December.

Patience requires regular exercise to keep in shape, especially for dreamers. Over the last couple years, I’ve become a black belt in it, and if you’re serious about becoming a published author, you’ll need to do the same.

Writing a novel, from concept to completion, can take upwards of two years. If you go the traditional publishing route, tack on another six months to a year of pitching that novel to potential agents and/or publishers. Once a publisher picks it up, you’re looking at another twelve to eighteen months before the book actually hits shelves, putting your entire investment at three to four years. That’s a presidential term!

Of course, the rewards can be great. You could secure a book deal, make a career out of writing, and potentially hold a finished product in your hands every single year. Naturally, that’s the best-case scenario, but that outcome isn’t farfetched if you’re willing to put in a shit ton of hard work and patience. The problem is most folks aren’t willing to invest 3-4 years of their lives for an uncertain outcome, and I don’t blame them. It’s a daily grind that might end in utter disappointment.

“Wow, Hack…thanks for the pep talk. What’s on the agenda for Friday? Apocalyptic contagions? Mass puppy suicides?”

I don’t mean to be a downer, Loyal Reader. I just think folks should be prepared before embarking on a long journey. You wouldn’t attempt Everest with only a walking stick and a Members Only jacket. No, you’d equip yourself with the right equipment for the journey, after putting in months and months of training. That’s the best way to ensure you reach the top.

Here’s the good news. You have everything you need to become a published author. I don’t believe in the philosophy that some folks simply can’t write. Everyone has a story in them. You do whether you know it or not. If you want to bring that story to life but have no idea how, sign up to Become a Hack on the new site debuting next week. I’ll walk you through every stage in the process from planning to publishing and send you weekly emails full of helpful tips and encouragement. You’ll also have access to writing resources, discussion forums, and most importantly, each other.

And the best part is it’s absolutely free. All you have to do is put in the work (and there will be a lot). So what do you say? Ready to get that best-selling idea out of your head and down on paper?

Well, stay tuned. We’re getting ready to launch!

Follow Hack on Twitter.

It looks like it’ll be another week before we launch the new website and blog. Truth be told, we probably could have launched it today if we absolutely had to, but we don’t, so we’re going to take this week and really tighten it up. Measure twice and cut once, I always say.

Over the weekend, I thought a lot about my next book, which I’ll start writing once I’ve stabbed Remnant with the proverbial fork. I’m grateful for the extra time. Having that time to really think through the story has afforded me a better understanding of the narrative.

I think too many writers get started on longer projects before they are truly ready. I learned that the hard way. When I wrote my first novel, I started with a short story idea and built the 75,000-word story off that simple idea. It all worked out, but it took a fair amount of rewriting/re-envisioning before it all came together. In the end, I wasn’t extremely satisfied with the result. The characters were flat, the plot was loose, and the ending left so many questions unanswered, it felt more like an incoherent dream than a polished novel.

Since that pseudo-disaster, I’ve developed a strategy for planning, which worked really well for my latest novel and will be paramount for my next. This strategy will be available in detail for folks who sign up for the Become a Hack program on the new site, but here’s a brief synopsis.

My planning process has five steps:

• Idea
• Concept
• Plot Summary
• Character Development
• Research

Every novel starts with an idea. Most of the time, my ideas come to me as questions. For example, a short story I wrote entitled “The Conductor” started with the question: “What if I woke up on a train with no idea where it was headed or how I got there?” After thinking it through, I transformed the question into the following statement: A man wakes up on a train rocketing out of control into an empty darkness and finds that he is the only person on board who seems concerned.

Once I had the idea, I was ready to flesh out a concept. The concept is the heart of the story. In the movie business, it’s called a logline—one sentence that sums up the entire story. To give you an example, the concept or logline for Remnant is: Six individuals brought together to protect the last remnant of God on Earth; if they fail, life ceases to exist.

To arrive at your concept, you should ask yourself a few questions:

• Who is the main character of your story?
• Who/what is the main villain/conflict?
• To what end is your main character headed?

If you can answer those questions, you can write a solid logline.

Once I’ve fleshed out my idea into a working concept, I write a plot summary. This provides me the opportunity to see any major flaws in the plot before I get to the outlining stage. It also gives me a pretty good idea whether or not the story is worth pursuing.

Next comes character development. I spend a lot of time in this step, writing detailed character profiles for each main and secondary character. It takes a lot of time, but it’s worth it. If you are unsure of who your characters are, it’ll be obvious to your readers, so know them well. Once you do, they’ll write themselves.

Finally, I conduct any research necessary before writing. The time it takes to complete this step depends on the story. For Remnant, I did extensive research into a number of different time periods and cultures. Only a fraction of that research made the novel, though all of it was pertinent. You should be able to convince someone who actually knows what he/she is talking about that you do as well.

That’s it. For this new novel, I’m taking my time in the planning stage. When I’m done, I’ll move on to the outlining phase. From there, I’ll be well equipped to begin writing. Bazinga!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to learn more about the Cuban Missile Crisis and the fall of the Studebaker.

Follow Hack on Twitter. You know you want to.

On another note, next week we launch the new website, so get ready to change your bookmarks. If everything goes well over the weekend, we should go live on Monday. Either way, I’ll still post my blog here for a couple of days. Can’t wait to show you around!

New to Remnant? Start here.

19.

Provident, Georgia, sat at the base of the Peach Crest Valley, almost exactly between Atlanta and the Tennessee state line. The town was built on the bottom of Lake Lanier after the completion of the Lusa Oka Dam in 1908. At the time, Governor Fitzsimmons deemed Provident “the next great metropolis of the fine state of Georgia.” Over a century later, it had yet to live up to the honorable governor’s expectations.

With populations of 25,000 and 42,000 respectively, Summerville to the south and Fairview to the northeast made Provident look like a truck stop. In 2007, the Provident county census claimed 3,142 people lived within the city limits and another 892 on the outskirts. Both numbers were inaccurate. At least 1,000 of the counted residents didn’t actually exist—the remains of a ditch effort of the 1945 city council to get Provident named as one of Georgia’s “major cities.” Even with the fictitious names, they had fallen short of the 5,000 mark necessary to earn the title. However, the names were never taken off the registry. Ray William Tanner, who didn’t exist in 2007 anymore than he existed in 1945, turned 134 that year. No one threw a party.

Provident’s population problem was access. Both Summerville and Fairview were easily accessible from I-75, as well as from three state highways. The only way into Provident, other than a handful of back roads or crossing the lake on the Fairview side, was by Highway 72. Once a major thoroughfare, Highway 72 now only saw semis hauling loads and Provident residents escaping for a few days’ vacation. Provident was cut off, quarantined for no other reason than its unfortunate location.

Like most small towns in Georgia, there was a school, a courthouse, a firehouse, a Dairy Queen, and a jail. It was modern to the extent that they had running water, a video game arcade with three pinball machines, Galaga, and Centipede, and a video rental store that offered a fine assortment of VHS tapes and one shelf of DVDs. The only real variety in Provident was its religion, boasting twelve churches including two Methodist congregations and three Presbyterian—First, Second, and the Reformed.

Despite a lack of innovation and adequate access, Provident was an overall great place to live. The streets were clean, the three schools consistently returned some of the best test scores in the state, and there was little to no crime. Back in the late ’90s, Town & Country magazine had featured the city as one of the 100 best-kept secrets in America. It made the list at 98. “Quaint, remote, and friendly” had been the caption next to the thumbnail.

The mail was still delivered every afternoon on foot by one of two mail carriers, and home high school football games were considered the top social events of the year just behind the annual Watermelon Festival in June. Provident was a true and bona fide portrait of Hometown America.

The Provident Square, renamed Freedom Square unanimously by the city council after 9/11, was the heart of the town. The name change was more sentimental than practical. Most folks still called it the square or the box. Small shops intermingled with law offices and real estate companies. Four streets led away from it, each named for a different founding father.

There was no school busing system in Provident, so most kids walked to and from. Joseph Mitchell was no exception. He lived with his father about one mile down Division Street and made the walk every morning and afternoon. His best friend, Jake, usually joined him.

“How do you make a 24 on a quiz?” Jake asked as they passed Ms. Bee’s consignment store. “I think Ms. Shelton gives you twenty points for spelling your name correctly. You did spell your name correctly, right?”

“Shut up, Jake,” Joseph said. “I’m going to get enough flack from my dad.”

Jake ignored the request.

“I’m just saying it has got to be a record or something,” he continued. “24 out of 100! I only knew how to do half of the problems, and I got an 86! Wait a minute. You’re going to tell your dad?”

“Ms. Shelton sent a letter home a couple weeks ago with a schedule of quizzes and tests, so he knows I took it and got it back. He’ll ask me about it tonight.”

“Then lie.”

“Can’t,” Joseph said. “He makes me bring all quizzes and tests home.”

Jake put his hand on Joseph’s shoulder and mocked a solemn look.

“Well, it was nice hanging with you, Joe. You understand I’ll have to replace you as my best friend when your dad grounds you for the rest of your life. Nothing personal.”

Joseph swallowed the comeback he had brewing when he saw what was ahead of them. Jake’s smile disappeared as he saw it too.

“I don’t think they’ve seen us yet,” Jake said. “Maybe we can run.”

“No, if they see us running, it’ll just make it worse. Maybe we can slip by them on the opposite side.”

They slowly made their way to a line of trees that shaded the sidewalk.

“Hey!”

The voice stopped Joseph in his tracks. Jake had already crouched down behind a car just to his right.

“Where you going, Shit-chell!” Drew Davis called from across the street. Although he hated it, even Joseph considered the nickname clever. Replacing the Mit in Mitchell with Shit was just funny.

Jake peered up at Joseph from the side of the Chrysler.

“We should run,” he whispered. Joseph lifted the fingers on his right hand as if to say “be cool, he hasn’t seen you.”

Drew Davis was twice the size of Joseph and rumored to have pubic hairs, an unparalleled accomplishment for a seventh grader. Normally an equal opportunity bully, Drew had taken a special interest in Joseph over the past year. Joseph had no idea why. Perhaps it was the fact that Joseph’s father was the middle school janitor or the fact that Joseph was one of the only black kids in the school.

“That’s not my name,” Joseph said as he walked back around the car, meeting Drew in the middle of the street.

“Really?” Drew said. “See, I thought since your dad cleans up our shit all day, that it just made sense. That’s his job, isn’t it?”

His two friends snickered.

“Well, it is, isn’t it?” Drew said as he pushed Joseph. He stumbled backward but kept his footing. “And where is that little weasel you’re always hanging out with?”

“He had to stay after school.”

“Is that right?”

For a moment, Joseph considered that Drew had seen Jake. That he knew he was crouched down behind the car to his left.

“Yeah, I’m alone.”

“That’s right, Shitchell,” Drew said, advancing closer. “You are alone.”

He moved in so close that their noses were less than an inch apart. Joseph retuned his stare as long as he could.

Careful, baby, Joseph heard his mother say. He’s looking for a reason to hurt you.

“So what you got for me today, Shitchell?”

“I don’t have anything.”

Drew glanced back at his friends behind him with a smile.

“See, now that’s not okay,” Drew said. “If I’m going to let you pass, you’re going to have to pay the tow. I think five bucks should do it.”

“I don’t have any money, and it’s toll.”

Drew grabbed Joseph by the straps on his backpack and slung him into the arms of his two friends. They forced his backpack off and threw it to Drew.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” Drew said. “Let’s just see what you’ve got in here.”

Drew unzipped the backpack and dumped the contents onto the pavement. A couple textbooks went first, and then a calculator followed by a couple notepads. Joseph glanced over at the car. He could see Jake’s eyes peering out from underneath.

Drew opened the front pocket and dumped out its contents. Paper clips, pencils, and pens bounced off the pavement as three one-dollar bills floated to the ground.

“What’s this?” Drew said, picking up the three bills. “I thought you didn’t have any money?”

Before Joseph could answer, Drew turned and swung his fist. The blow connected with Joseph’s left temple, sending him to the ground.

“That’s for lying to me. Next time I ask you something, you better tell the truth.”

He motioned to his two buddies and started to walk off, making sure to step on Joseph’s calculator as he went. It made a crunching sound under his foot.

“See you around, Shitchell.”

Joseph looked from his crushed calculator to Jake lying on his stomach, staring back at him with wide eyes.

“Are they gone?” he whispered.

Joseph sat up.

“Yeah, they’re gone,” he said, tentatively touching his eye with the back of his hand.

“Are you sure?”

“Jake!”

“Okay! I just wanted to make sure,” he said as he cautiously stood and came around the back of the car, gathering up Joe’s belongings as he went. “How’s your face?”

“Fine.”

Jake finished putting everything back in his backpack and handed it to him.

“Sorry I hid.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, taking his backpack from Jake. “I would have done the same thing.”

But that wasn’t true; Joseph wouldn’t have hid.

“Well, now you’ve got to explain a black eye to your father along with another F on your quiz,” Jake said absently.

“Thanks, Jake. That’s a real pep talk.”

“Sorry.”

The two continued down Division Street. Neither said much until they went their separate ways into their own houses.

In other news, I realized this morning that it’s been a while since I’ve updated you on the progress of my upcoming novel. So much has happened in the last couple weeks that it’ll be hard to fit it all into a single post, but I’m going to try.

Ready? Here we go.

On Saturday night of last week, I received the first proof of the interior of the book. A good friend of mine, Jacob Blaze, is laying it out for me. This is the first book he’s ever formatted, but talent is talent. I knew he would do an amazing job, and he hasn’t disappointed. Here are a couple sample spread for your viewing pleasure:

Since Saturday, I’ve been working through the proof, making sure all italicized phrases, special characters, and margins match up with the original. It’s tedious work, but the final product will be worth it.

I sent the manuscript off to an eBook designer yesterday. With the print version, what you see is what you get. The first word on page 124 will be the same in every single book that is printed. In contrast, an eBook is dynamic, meaning the copy will not remain static. The reader will have the option to change the font and size on their reading device, which requires the designer to think dynamically. Whereas the final product from Jacob will be an InDesign file, the eBook designer will provide me with a Word document that will play nice with the eBook convertor I’m planning to use.

The website is coming along nicely. I’ve used most of my morning writing sessions lately building up the Become a Hack section. Who knew that constructing an all-inclusive resource for writing a book would be so much work? Not this guy. It’s turning out to be a very useful tool though. I hope several of you will Become Hacks once the free service is up and running.

My focus from here on will be getting all my ducks in a row for the release and tying up any loose ends that present themselves. I should have printed copies of the book in hand by the end of this month (Bazinga!) and am currently on track for an April 10^th release date! The print version will be offered at $9.99 on Amazon. The price for the eBook version has yet to be determined. I’ve flirted with a number of options, ranging from $.99-$7.99. There are legit arguments for landing on either end of that spectrum, so I need to think on it a bit more.

I was talking with The Better Half yesterday about the process of writing and publishing a novel. Despite what folks might think, there’s no real secret to getting it done. It takes two things: 1) hard work and 2) a relentless pursuit. If you’re willing to work hard and pursue your dreams without pause, you can meet any realistic goal you set. I hope you believe in yourself enough to believe that. I do.

Follow Hack on Twitter.

Last Wednesday we talked about the importance of not skimping on the cover design for your self-published book, and I provided a couple of ways to get a professionally designed cover for half the price. Today I’d like to build on that post by giving you some advice on how to get the vision for your cover implanted in your designer’s mind.

Let me begin by giving you a sneak peak at the cover for Remnant. As I mentioned before, I had a friend with years of cover design experience take a stab at it. He provided me with a number of options. Here’s what we finally decided on:

You like? I certainly do. I think it’s both striking and relevant, and I couldn’t be more satisfied with how it all turned out.

Before we started the design process, I sat down with my designer and told him what it was I was trying to accomplish. That’s the first step. What is it that you want your cover to accomplish? My answer was two-fold: 1) I wanted it to be striking as a thumbnail (very important), since the majority of folks exposed to it would be viewing it on a device of some sort (eBook store and Amazon), and 2) I wanted the cover image to capture the essence of the story.

Then I gave him a copy of the prologue and a one-page summary of the book for him to read, which he did. Before we left that initial meeting, I also told him that I thought the cover should incorporate a dragonfly, as it is the seed from which the rest of the story grows. Two weeks later, he provided me with 10+ cover designs that could work, including the one above.

So how do you get a similar result? Getting from “I need a cover” to “I think it’s perfect!” requires you to do three things:

1. Communicate your vision
2. Familiarize him/her with the story
3. Choose an iconic symbol that represents that story

Communicate Your Vision

If your designer is worth her salt, she will ask a few basic questions the first time you meet. Questions like: What is the story about? What is the mood of the book? Do you want that mood communicated through the cover? Do you have anything specific in mind? Prepare answers to these questions before you meet. Designers can’t read your mind. The more you can communicate of your vision from the beginning, the more productive their work will be.

Familiarize Her with the Story

At the very least, you should provide the designer with an excerpt and synopsis of your book. This will give them a good idea of the mood of the story. “It’s a paranormal romance” is not a good enough descriptor. That tells them about as much about your story as the playbill from the Ford’s theatre told of the Lincoln assassination. Give them a good taste of what lies between the covers so they can fashion imagery to match.

Choose an Iconic Symbol

If you had to choose an image to set up the conflict of your novel, what would it be? For me, it was a dragonfly. Everything bad that happens in the novel spurs from that fossilized insect. For you, it might be a murder, an apocalyptic event, or a chance encounter. Identify one or more images that set up the main conflict and communicate that to your designer. Don’t assume she will figure it out on her own. That’s not their job—it’s yours.

Most designers will provide you with three rounds of designs. The first round will be painted with a broad stroke, of which you will choose 2-3 potentials. The second round will be variations of those 2-3 winners, of which you will choose one. The final round is all about tweaking the design to perfection, after which you should have your cover.

One note of caution: You have not hired a live-in designer to make endless tweaks and modifications to the design. He/she is there to perform a service, so respect their time. You wouldn’t have a plumber install a new toilet and then ask him after it’s up and running to move it to the opposite side of the room. Know what you want, get it right the first time, and move on with your life.

That’s about it. The cover design process should be exciting, so enjoy it. If you do it right, you’ll end up with a final product you love and can be proud of. I did.

Is there a cover design for a book you’ve read that you really love? Provide a link to Amazon in the comments and tell us why you like it.

In today’s installment, we learn what the entity that lies within Herbert Winsome has been up to. It’s a shorter section, but they can’t all be 2,500-word tomes. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Have a great weekend and we’ll talk again on Monday.

New to Remnant? Start here.

18.

Daryl Clayton was finishing up his eight-hour shift somewhere outside of Alliance, Nebraska. He’d hoped to get as far as Milford before shutting the rig down for the night, but a delay at his unload had eaten into his drive time by more than an hour. In the good ole days, he would just fudge the books and drive through the night, but that was about twenty years and fifty federal regulations ago. The business had changed—in Clayton’s opinion, not for the better.

Clayton made the round-trip from Memphis to Rock Springs twice a week. Typical for that time of the evening, Interstate 80 was quiet. He preferred it that way. No traffic meant he could more easily slip into what he referred to as the zone—the paradoxical state of being fully present and absent at the same time. Regular folks, or civies as Clayton called them, would know it as the feeling one gets when arriving somewhere but not remembering the drive. It made the hours roll by and helped chase away the lonesomeness that usually accompanied a long haul. Clayton had just reached the zone when billows of smoke on the horizon broke him out of it.

At first, Clayton figured it was someone burning leaves in their front yard just off the interstate—it was that time of year after all—but as he drew closer, he realized the source was a car pulled off to the side of the road.

He slowed as he passed to get a good look at the smoke escaping in large billows from the seams in the Pontiac’s hood. There was no fire as far as he could see.

Probably a busted radiator or blown transmission, he thought to himself.

As he passed, he took one more look in his side mirrors at the car before looking forward again just in time to swerve around a man walking in the right lane, missing him by mere inches.

Clayton locked up the brakes, brought the rig to a stop some twenty-five feet ahead, and jumped out of the rig. By the time he reached the back end, the man he’d nearly hit had made up the distance.

At first glance, Clayton assumed he had been in a fight. His eyes were bloodshot, his thinning gray hair dripped with sweat, and one side of his T-Shirt was completely soaked through with blood. The man collapsed to the ground as Clayton reached him.

“You okay, buddy?” Clayton asked, kneeling down beside him.

“Water,” he managed.

Clayton ran back to his rig and grabbed a thermos from the cab. Unscrewing the top as he returned, he handed it to the man.

“It’s coffee, but at least it’s cold.”

The man grabbed the thermos and started guzzling it.

“Is that your Pontiac back there?” Clayton asked. “Did you hit something?”

The man took another long drink and then dropped the thermos to catch his breath.

“I only ask ’cause it looks like you’re bleeding pretty good.”

“Do you have any food?” the man asked, ignoring Clayton’s question.

“What?”

“Food . . . do you have any food?” the man repeated as he struggled to get to his feet.

“I’ve got some sardines and crackers in my cab,” Clayton said, helping the man to his feet. “Not exactly fresh, but I reckon it won’t kill you.”

Clayton walked with the man over to the truck and helped him into the passenger side seat before moving around to the other side and climbing in himself.

“Mister, I damn near flattened your ass all over the highway,” Clayton said as he rummaged through a knapsack beside him, his hands shaking. “Scared the living shit out of me.”

He pulled out a plastic sleeve of crackers and a couple tins of sardines. The man ripped the bag out of his hand, tore into it, and stuffed several crackers into his mouth. As he watched the man devour the crackers, Clayton used the thin metal key to crank open the first can of sardines. The distinct aroma of preserved fish filled the cab.

The man dropped the half-emptied sleeve of crackers in his lap and grabbed the can from Clayton’s hands, turning it upright. Milky goo fell into his open mouth. As he was swallowing, Clayton reached over and turned the key on the can a couple more times, allowing the sardines to come into view. The man gobbled them two at a time.

“You got a cell phone?” Clayton asked. “Called anybody about your car?”

The man shook his head.

“You want me to drive you to a hospital to get your shoulder looked at? It looks like you’ve lost a shit ton of blood.”

“No,” the man said as he took the second can of sardines from Clayton’s hands, cranking it in the same way he had observed the first one.

“Okay,” Clayton said uneasily. “Well, there’s a rest stop about five miles up the road. They’re bound to have a pay phone. We can call you a tow truck.”

The man nodded as he lifted the can upright and emptied the contents into his mouth.

“All right,” Clayton said as he pulled the big rig off the shoulder and back on the road. “You got a name, friend?”

The man thought for a moment before answering.

“Herbert. My name is Herbert.”

Follow Hack on Twitter.

So how do you make sure your book has a stellar cover? Simple. Invest in it. That’s right, I’m talking to you, self-publishers. You’ve spent a year of your life writing a kick-ass novel and weighed your publishing options, finally settling on self-publishing. Step one is figuring out how you’ll print and distribute your masterpiece. Most folks these days go with a service like Lulu.com or Createspace—services that offer publishing packages that include cover design and distribution. It makes sense to simply pay a nominal fee to get a template cover, right? After all, it’s cheap, easy, and readily available.

Wrong, bucko.

Although I think these printing and distribution services are legit options for self-publishers, the hard truth is they are about as invested in your book as they are the 5 oz of cheerios you ate for breakfast. My best advice for self-publishers going this route is to use these companies for their distribution and printing services but resist the urge to take them up on their $200 cover design.

If you want your book to stand out on a crowded bookshelf (or the virtual one Kindle and Apple offers) you need a cover design that screams “PICK ME UP…YOUR LIFE JUST MIGHT DEPEND ON IT.”

You might say, “But Hack, I can’t afford to spend $2,000 on a book cover! My entire budget is half that.”

True, a good cover designer could set you back several thousand dollars, but that’s not the only way to get a smoking cover design. Here are a couple alternatives:

Tap Your Resources

Like everything else in the publishing world, who you know is half the battle. If I asked you right now, I bet you could name 10 people you know who have design experience. Reach out to those folks. They may bill out at $100/hour, but don’t let that stop you. Shoot them an email, or better yet, call them on the phone, meet them for coffee, or hold one of their pets for ransom (actually don’t do that). Explain to them what you are trying to accomplish, communicate what you’ve already invested in the project, and then ask if they would be willing to help. The worst they can say is no, right?

Find Up-and-Comers

Live near a college or university? I guarantee they have a graphic design/art program. Reach out to a few professors and ask if they know of any students with chops who might take on a freelance project. Hell, you might even find a professor willing to assign your cover design as a project. That way you get dozens of cover options for free. Pick the one you like, mention the artist in the acknowledgements, and buy the professor a fifth of scotch.

The point is, everyone can have a professionally designed cover, and believe me, it can make all the difference. Sure, it might cost you a few bucks out of pocket, but you’ve already invested an enormous amount of time on your book. Why not invest a bit of green to make sure folks actually read it? I did and I have no regrets.

On Monday, we’ll talk more about getting a cover to die for, specifically how to implant your vision for the cover in your designer’s mind. Plus, I’ll finally reveal the cover for Remnant. You don’t want to miss that!

Follow Hack on Twitter.

I didn’t always feel that way. I used to love to pack into a crowded theater with 200 of my closest strangers and experience the film as one massive emotional being. That has lost its luster in recent years, mostly because I’ve become more particular as to what I consider acceptable behavior in the movie theater. When someone in close proximity to me falls short of that behavior, I tend to concentrate more on their social shortcoming than the movie itself.

In the spirit of the Oscars and moviegoers everywhere, I thought I would share with you a few dos and don’ts for the movie theater. If you currently engage in any of these behaviors, I make no judgment of your character (I’m sure you’re great), but I’m relatively sure we would not go out for drinks after the film. If you don’t currently engage in any of these behaviors, let’s go grab a flick sometime!

Rule #1: Don’t Talk. Guess what? No one wants to hear your commentary on the movie. If the screenwriter and director have done their jobs and not slipped some incoherent dribble by the studios and financiers, I’m pretty sure most folks will be able to grasp the overall plot line without your aid. “It’s him, the killer that is—it’s got to be him,” doesn’t provide me any insight other than a vocal cue as to where to throw my seven-dollar fountain drink.

Rule #2: Don’t Answer Your Phone. This rule is very similar to Rule #1, but unfortunately it needs it’s own number. I guarantee whoever is calling you won’t mind you calling him or her back after you’ve personally apologized to every single person in the theater for your Maroon 5 ringtone and successfully exited the theater.

Rule #3: Keep Your Feet Off. When you purchase a movie ticket, you are in essence renting a chair in the theater. You are not also purchasing the back of the seat in front of you. I understand the back of my seat looks like the perfect place for your size 14 Asics, but resist the urge to put them there unless you plan to reimburse me for half my ticket price. No matter how softly you put them up there, I’ll know your fungus farms are within inches of my head and will be forced to turn around and administer the stink eye. Believe me, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of that.

Rule #4: Small Bladder? End of the Row. I don’t fault you for having a small bladder. You can’t help that. I do, however, fault you for sitting in the middle of a row and excusing yourself every 15 minutes to mark your territory in the porcelain yard. Sit on the end of the row. That way you can get up as many times as that Super Gulp you financed at the concession stand demands.

Rule #5: Open Your Crunch Clusters First. You got there early and found the perfect seat. You’ve got around 2,500 calories worth of popcorn and chocolate to enjoy during the movie. It’s natural to start with the popcorn. It’s easily accessible and delicious. Why not? You can open your Crunch Clusters or Butterfinger Bites once the movie starts, right? Wrong. I don’t care if you’re a master escape artist, you’re not getting into that cellophane packaging nightmare without bursting the eardrums of everyone within five rows. Either carry a surgical scalpel with you or open the damn thing before the previews start. People will like you better.

Rule #6: Don’t Clap. Last but not least, please don’t clap when the movie is over. I don’t know if this was ever explained to you, but those folks up there on the screen aren’t really there. They’re what we call “projections.” Real people for sure, just not in the theater with you. Therefore they can’t hear your applause. The only folks that can hear your applause are the rest of us who know about that whole “projection” thing.

Follow those simple rules and you’ll not only enjoy the movie more, you’ll not elicit the anger of every single person around you. Print them out if you need to and reference them regularly throughout the picture. Just don’t use the flashlight app on your phone. We’ll call that Rule #7.

Follow Hack on Twitter.