Today I have the pleasure to host a guest post of author Tegon Maus on my blog.
Tegon Maus is on a book tour celebrating the release of his new book, Bob, and he kindly accepted to share with us some thoughts about writing.
“Like a lot of writers I rely on my surroundings, what I see,
what I hear, what I dream about for inspiration… not that all dreams
help the way I want them to…
In the beginning, when I was young, I had control over it, I was the master and it was at my command. I was certain of it. Now as time has gone by, I have fallen victim to its seductive lure more often than I care to admit. It has become clear my control was an illusion and I am now at its whim. I’ve tried to fight it, to control it, to hide how badly I need it and I confess… I fear time is running out. Everyone will know… I am a time traveler.
I can jump into the future at will. Sometimes it’s only a few minutes, sometimes it’s as much as three hours but I assure you, I have the ability, the power to do so any time I wish.
It is a lonely responsibility to move through time but I am one of the lucky ones, I have a companion… Auggie. To all outward appearances he is merely an over grown cat but believe me when I say he is in full belief he is a dog.
When he is not patrolling the fence line, he is faithfully at my side waiting for the opportunity of our next jump. As you might expect the method is quite complex and the electronic equipment involved is beyond the understanding of an ordinary mind. The choice of the right frequency is paramount to an early departure and ultimately the success of the jump. Once chosen, usually a cooking channel, I take my place… reclining to allow Auggie access to my chest… it’s the most comfortable position for him to stand guard over me and then, in what seems like a mere 3 seconds to me I am transported to the future.
“Nice nap?” my wife asks and I smile wryly comfortable in the knowledge I have successfully jumped once more and she is none the wiser… I am a time traveler and I have come from the past to help.”
But this is not all. I’m excited to feauture an Excerpt of Tegon’s new book, Bob:
He seized the spike, yanking it from his body, throwing it at her; the woman, having gotten to her feet, removed the second nail and braced for another assault on Carl, her hands bleeding freely.
Bob now stood next to her, ready for a signal to charge.
“She’s not what you think, mate. She’s not human. Believe me, on my mother’s grave, she’s a monster,” Carl said, his right hand clutching his fresh wound, his left outstretched, as if holding them at bay.
“I’m as human as anyone here,” she shouted defensively, looking from side to side between Bob and Fred. She bounced from foot to foot, shifting her weight and then lunged at Carl again.
The two became a tangle of legs and arms until Carl wrapped his enormous hand around her neck.
I had to do something and almost without thinking, my hand found a cold piece of metal as I rummaged about the shelves for a weapon.
The piece of metal turned out to be a pipe wrench. I grabbed it with both hands and swung it as if all our lives depended on it. It made a loud, metallic crack as it encountered the back of Carl’s head and he fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
Bob stood over him, eyeing him closely before looking to me. He snapped his fingers twice and pointed to Fred without a word.
It took me a moment to understand his meaning but the blood flowing from the back of Carl’s head brought me to full understanding.
I pushed my hand into my pocket, retrieving a fifty handing it over to Fred.
He beamed in return, kissing the bill before shoving it into his pocket.
“He’s still alive,” the woman said with disappointment, straddling his body. She clutched the spike in her dripping hand as if trying to decide whether to stab Carl again or not.
My mind flashed with images of being found after breaking and entering, standing over an unconscious and bleeding Carl. And if that weren’t enough… a woman had been nailed to a table. All of which had begun to fill me with panic.
“We have to go,” I pronounced, turning for the stairs.
Fred was way ahead of me, already halfway up as I reached the first step at the bottom.
“I need salt,” the woman said flatly. The nail slipped from her hand, falling to the floor with a loud clank.
“We need to go,” I demanded.
“And I need salt,” she insisted, turning to face me.
I truly saw her for the first time. Her clothes were torn and blood stained, ragged looking. She appeared compact, fit, almost muscular really. Her strawberry red hair hung just above her shoulders, framing her face in an alluring way. Something about her green eyes drew me, held me. They made me feel as if she could see into my very soul. Beyond that, she seemed ordinary, attractive but little more than average…
“What?” I asked, stopping where I stood.
“You were going to ask my name,” she answered, making her way to the steps.
“No I wasn’t,” I lied.
“Yes, you were,” she insisted, pushing roughly past me.
Once we reached the main level, we were greeted by the sound of Fred rifling through the cabinets, throwing pots and pans everywhere, littering the floor.
Emma made a beeline to Fred.
“Salt… there has to be some here, somewhere… there has to be,” she said, joining Fred in his destruction of the kitchen. There was an edge of panic in her voice. Her eyes had begun to take on a wild, desperate appearance as her search had taken on an air of all out urgency.
She emptied cabinet after cabinet to the floor.
“Dude,” Fred said at last, excitedly holding a blue salt box over his head.
Emma grabbed it as if it were about to explode, pouring it onto her wounds and then down her throat.
To my surprise, she swallowed it without choking or coughing, almost emptying the container.
“How I needed that,” she said happily. “Let’s go,” she commanded, slamming the empty box on the counter.
We ran like thieves into the night, and to think about it, if freeing a woman nailed to a table was stealing, then I suppose we were.
No one ran faster than Fred, no one. He ran like a track star, hurtling over rocks, bushes, fallen logs as if we were being chased by dogs, bears or lions or whatever the hell lived in the woods that could possibly be worse.
Emma ran a close second, staying right on Fred’s heels.
I huffed along a distant third as best I could as Bob pushed me from behind. I wasn’t built for running, let alone running at night in the woods over every piece of crap nature had thrown on the ground.
Behind us, the sound of angry voices and the treating whine of truck engines drifted through the trees.
As expected, Fred was the first to reach the car, pounding on its roof repeatedly shouting at us in Russian.
Emma began to hammer on the top of the car, shouting in Russian as well, rushing me along.
Bob removed his keys, pressing the alarm release as he sprinted pass me again, jumping behind the wheel. Fred jumped in next to him with cat like reflexes.
I was raised pretty much the same as everyone else… devoted mother, strict father and all the imaginary friends I could conjure. Not that I wasn’t friendly, I just wasn’t “people orientated”. Maybe I lived in my head way more than I should have, maybe not. I liked machines more than people, at least I did until I met my wife.
The first thing I can remember writing was for her. For the life of me I can’t remember what it was about… something about dust bunnies under the bed and monsters in my closet. It must have been pretty good because she married me shortly after that. I spent a good number of years after inventing games and prototypes for a variety of ideas before I got back to writing.
It wasn’t a deliberate conscious thought it was more of a stepping stone. My wife and I had joined a dream interpret group and we were encouraged to write down our dreams as they occurred. “Be as detailed as you can,” we were told.
I was thrilled. If there is one thing I enjoy it’s making people believe me and I like to exaggerate. Not a big exaggeration or an outright lie mine you, just a little step out of sync, just enough so you couldn’t be sure if it were true or not. When I write, I always write with the effort of “it could happen” very much in mind and nothing, I guarantee you, nothing, makes me happier.