Tag Archives: Perilisc

An Excerpt of Song By Jesse Teller

First I need to apologize to Jesse, I had all of this for so long and I said I would post it on release day. Well here we are 20 days later. So sorry again Jesse, and thanks for the Excerpt!

 

The Guard of Mending Keep

One Year After The Escape

 

The serving boy’s face was stained green with disgust and horror. He looked about to be sick, about to flee, about to weep. Rayph saw the trembling lip and the panic in the eyes, and he knew what the boy was carrying. It was small, maybe a little over a foot wide, spherical, and covered with a towel. The boy wove a path through the reclining bathhouse patrons and made his slow, methodical way around the main tub to the corner where Rayph sat with his good friend, playing crease and taking in the steam.

As the boy drew closer, the dread that rose up within Rayph prompted him to turn to Dova and grimace. Rayph moved his tile, tapping it lightly with his finger, and shook his head.

“I’m afraid we are about to be interrupted,” Rayph said.

The boy trembled beside the gaming table. His white, sweating face held the world’s shock, and Rayph nodded at him. “Set it down.” He waved his hand across the boy’s eye line and muttered his spell’s incantation. The serving child’s face smoothed clear of all trepidation, and he let out a long-held breath.

“Where did you get it?” Rayph asked.

The boy’s dark eyes looked troubled even through the effects of the spell. “He hurt me,” the boy said.

“Hurt you how?” Rayph asked.

The boy pointed to his temple. “He got in here. He burned me.”

Rayph clenched his fist and anger bubbled deep within him. “What did he look like?”

“He was trimerian, but his third eye,” the boy rubbed his forehead, “it seemed to be flaming. He stunk of sulfur.”

Rayph’s blood ran cold, and he stood. “Watch the boy. Lock down the house. If he returns, do not engage, just defend, Dova. He is beyond even you.”

He looked to his ethereal friend, naught but churning wind where his body sat. The towel draped over Dova’s shoulders and tied around his waist, the only indicator of his form.

Rayph grabbed the boy’s shoulders a little too rough, just a little too hard. “Where did he go?” Rayph tried not to let fear get the better of his voice, but it trembled. There are so many innocents here. If he unleashes, how much of the city can I save? The answer was very little.

Dova exploded with a slight puff of wind. The towels fell to the floor. Rayph could feel his friend fill the room, warm air, fluttering and vibrant with life, swelled, blowing curtains in a flurry. The doors to the bathhouse slammed shut.

“Where did he go, son?” Rayph asked the boy.

“Who said he’s gone?” The voice held a new lilt of arrogance to it, a soft tinkling, musical and filled with spite. The boy leapt back. His forehead ripped open, betraying an eye. His back split and out flapped two wings that bled greasy smoke.

“Clear the room,” Rayph commanded as he loosed his spell. The power of the spell’s thrall was so great that every reclined man leapt to his feet and rushed for the door. The doors flew open to slam closed again. Every lamp in the room surged, hissing flame before dying completely. The room was thrown into gloom, the only light issuing from the great opening in the roof centered over them.

With a flick of his wrist and the uttering of a command word, the air around Rayph’s right hand tore and his sword dropped from the wound. The air zipped closed again, and Rayph turned to the serving boy, who hovered before him.

“You harm that boy any further and I will hunt you, Meric. I will plunge into that darkness you surround yourself in and I will rip you from it.”

The boy tossed his head back and unfurled a hideous laugh that trembled the ceramic tiles of the wall. “I have not come to quarrel with you, old friend.”

“You and I were never friends,” Rayph said. The sky above the opening darkened, and Rayph stepped closer. “Why have you come here? Why show yourself now, after this many millennia?”

“The nation is wide open, dear friend. No one is watching over Lorinth in your absence. You have forsaken your post.”

“I still guard this nation. I serve not the throne, but this is still my home. I will return as court wizard one day.”

The boy’s head lobbed back, and he poured out another hideous laugh, so violent the corners of the mouth split, and the boy coughed blood. “Too late, Rayph, you will return too late.” The head shook. “You have not yet looked at the present I left for you. How rude you are, Ivoryfist.”

Rayph extended an arm toward the table and muttered a word. His eyes stayed locked to Meric as the object floated the room to hover before Rayph. With a jerk of the cloth, he unveiled the severed head. Rayph looked in horror at the face, so contorted in pain from its last moment he could not recognize it.

He stared at it. The left side of the face was badly burned, the neck severed with some keen, hot blade that cauterized the wound perfectly. Deep claw marks covered the right side of the face and neck. Blood stained the chin and mouth.

Rayph’s heart broke out in a rampaging rhythm, and his mind burst into flames as he recognized the face. “No.” He looked away, but his eye was drawn to the head again as the identity of the head locked in his mind. “It can’t be.”

A gurgling laugh filled the room, and Rayph summoned forth the power to smite Meric.

“No, Rayph, you mustn’t!” Dova screamed. He threw his whistling form before Rayph, and two thrumming hands landed on his shoulders. The air that comprised Dova’s body filled with the water of the tub they stood in, making a figure of rampaging moisture. “If you engage him here, you will destroy my city. You must not.”

“Listen to Dova, Rayph. He always was one for caution,” Meric said. “Caution and cowardice looking so much alike and all.”

“Rayph, who is it?” Dova motioned toward the head.

“Stoic,” Rayph breathed. “He has killed Stoic.” Saying it aloud let the words take on meaning. His friend was gone, his guard, dead. What would become of Mending Keep? Had they all fled? Had the world’s unkillable fiends made good an escape?

He knew the futility of the words before he spoke them but felt helpless to say anything else. “I will make you hurt for this, Meric. In this one act, you have killed yourself.” Rayph felt nauseous.

“Step aside, Dova,” he said.

“Oh, my dear Rayph, please do keep tight check on that temper of yours. I would hate to reduce this city to rubble because you threw a fit,” Meric said. The black smoke issuing from the flapping wings filled the room with unbreathable air. “Stoic is gone, as are his charges, but that does not mean we need come to blows. I was not the one that killed your boy.”

“This head was severed with your blade. Do not try to deny it.”

“Yes, for easier transportation, I assure you. He was dead long before I got there.”

Was Meric lying? Did he have any reason to? Why bring the head at all? Meric was not one to gloat. It was not his way. Why alert Rayph the prison had been broken in to? There was an element to this Rayph could not see, something big moving powerful pieces about the board.

“Who did this?” Rayph asked.

The boy laughed again, weaker this time. He doesn’t have much time. I have to get Meric out of that boy as soon as possible.

“I won’t do all of your work for you, Ivoryfist,” Meric said. Lightning flashed outside, the inky clouds that followed Meric everywhere boiling in the sky above them.

“Does this mean you’re coming off sabbatical?” Meric asked.

“I will find out who did this and why, and when I do, if your name comes up at all…”

The boy laughed again, a hissing wheeze that scared Rayph.

“Remember who helped you when it all comes out, Rayph. Remember who alerted you to the break. You owe me now,” Meric said.

“I owe you nothing. You did not do this for anyone’s reasons but your own.” It’s big. It’s really big, but I can’t see it.

Meric laughed again. The wings pumped, throwing blood through the air, and the boy’s body lifted.

“Leave the boy!” Rayph said.

“You don’t give me orders any more, Rayph. Those days are over.” The boy’s body lifted high above the bathhouse, and Rayph splashed into the center of the tub to stare up at darkened skies. With a deafening explosion, Meric broke loose of the boy’s body, and the child dropped. Rayph set his feet and watched as the body tumbled. The boy dropped through the opening in the ceiling, and Rayph caught him in his arms. The sky opened and rain hammered the city. Rayph looked up at his friend and grimaced.

“I must leave, Dova,” Rayph said. “But first I have to know what happened to Stoic. Can I use your lab and summoning room?”

“Everything I own is at your command, Ivoryfist, you know that.”

The boy woke up screaming.

 

 

Song
The Manhunters Book One
Release Date: October 5, 2017

Some of the darkest minds in Perilisc attacked Mending Keep, releasing all its prisoners. Despite his strained relationship with the crown, Rayph Ivoryfist calls old friends to his aid in a subversive attempt to protect King Nardoc and thwart terrorist plots to ruin the Festival of Blossoms. But someone else is targeting Rayph, and even his fellow Manhunters might not be enough to save him.

Order Song at Amazon, Kobo, iBooks, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

 

About the Author

Jesse Teller fell in love with fantasy when he was five years old and played his first game of Dungeons & Dragons. The game gave him the ability to create stories and characters from a young age. He started consuming fantasy in every form and, by nine, was obsessed with the genre. As a young adult, he knew he wanted to make his life about fantasy. From exploring the relationship between man and woman, to studying the qualities of a leader or a tyrant, Jesse Teller uses his stories and settings to study real-world themes and issues.

He lives with his supportive wife, Rebekah, and his two inspiring children, Rayph and Tobin.

Recognition

SPFBO 2017 entrant
Literary Titan Gold Book Award Winner, April 2017
Drunken Druid Editor’s Choice, March 2017
Drunken Druid 2016 Book of the Year Short List
Hungry Monster Gold Book Award Winner, September 2016

 

“Jesse Teller is a talented author with the future in his hands.” —Peter Tr, booknest.eu

“A very strong author who boldly builds the world he has created with strong themes and no apologies.” —Dianne Bylo, Tome Tender Book Blog

 

“Jesse’s newest project, Song, is part of his Perilisc fantasy world: a richly detailed setting, ripe with legends, magic, and secrets whispered but not yet explored.” —Bookwraiths.com

 

 

Author Links:
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Amazon
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Author Interview with Jesse Teller

When I do an Email interview like this I usually just post it as is. But, Jesse has really given some in-depth responses on some of the questions so I will respond (in brackets like this)

 

  1. If you could do it all over again, would you change anything in your FIRST book?

I did do it all over again, six times. There were seven drafts of that book. Mostly honing wordplay and some surgery of characters and plot points. There was a really cool idea where this half-demon cuts open this wizard that serves him, and he takes out his heart and replaces it with a crystal, and then closes his chest up again. The crystal performs all the tasks the heart would, but the crystal never needs rest, so the body never needs rest. This wizard was unable to sleep and he worked round the clock for the demon. In that draft, I got to explore the mercy of sleep, because sleep is a mercy. It provides an end and a beginning. Sleep is the most selfish thing we do for ourselves. Sleep gives us time to regroup before we face the troubles of the next day. All of those things were taken away from this wizard. He worked for the half-demon nonstop. His day never ended, and there was an immense amount of cruelty in that. If I could rewrite that book, I think I would put that back in.

(I suffer from Narcolepsy, so to me sleep is the bane of my existence. So I wouldn’t mind being that wizard, as long as he gets coffee breaks.)

  1. Have you ever judged a book by its cover?

It’s hard not to. It’s really hard not to. Let’s just talk about books because there’s the thing where you can say, “I met that guy and never really gave him a chance. I judged the book by its cover.” Let’s just set that aside and talk about actual books and actual covers. Have you seen the original cover for Stephen King’s book Wasteland? It’s all oranges and blacks and it’s got that scary train on it. It’s absolutely terrifying. When I first saw that book, I bought it immediately. Man, I wanted to read that book. That’s when I found out it was the third book of a series. So, I had to buy the other two. But man, when I opened that book, I was so excited. I got that feeling you get, when you’re watching a horror movie and you realize that it’s building and it’s coming for you, and you know, any minute, it’s going to break like a wave and the really, truly horrible part’s gonna come out. You keep waiting for that, and the tension keeps building and keeps building and keeps building and keeps building until, it happens. Well, I finished Drawing of the Three, which is the book before it, the night before. I woke up to go to school that day. On my way out the door, I grabbed Wasteland and stuffed it in my backpack. It sat there all throughout the bus ride, all throughout first hour and second hour and third hour and fourth hour, just building and building like a horror movie. I knew it was in that bag. At lunch, I skipped lunch, and I went out by the baseball field and sat on the bleachers. It was a cold day. I pulled the book out and held it between my hands. It took bravery to turn the cover. That was one of the times I judged a book by its cover, and I was not disappointed.

train

3.       Who designed your cover/covers? Where you able to work with the artist or is it all the publisher/artist/God/ Kid with the crayons?

I got to work with mine. She’s cute and sexy and she married me years back. She’s a great artist. She’s a graphic designer in profession. She listens to what I have to say about the covers, which I know is not what you get with traditional publishing. I had final approval rights on all of my covers. We chose a theme, and that theme was shadows. So, you’ve got the shadows of characters on three of them and the shadows of the skyline on the fourth. For my book that comes out in October, we hired a gifted cover designer from Seedlings Design Studio and I’m really excited about what she came up with.

 

  1. Have you ever had a side character Try to steal the show? Would you like to go back and make a spin off series or something for them? Or is there a theme or idea you’d love to be able to explore in more depth?

Oh man, her name is Helena Flurryfist. And I am obsessed with this woman. She’s got a bit part in a 7-book series I wrote, and, OK, the thing is this. I’m a fantasy writer. I write fantasy books. Action, magic, harrowing battle, love stories, and fire. I like fire. I do not write romance novels. Now I need your help, because you have to help me tell my beta reader and my wife that I do not write romance novels, and I cannot write Helena Flurryfist as a romance heroine, even though that is what they are telling me to do. I keep telling them, I don’t write romance. My wife keeps giving me that look, and that wife eyebrow she’s got, and she gives me that little smile that says, “I know you’re eventually going to do this anyway.” And I keep thinking about Helena. You’ve gotta help me, hobgoblin.

(She sounds hot, I bet she looks just like this)

dress

  1. If you could read any book again for the first-time What book would it be?

The book is called Conan the Usurper. I’ve got a thing for Conan. Not the Arnold Conan. I need my Conan pure, like a good brandy, it needs to be aged. It has to have been written by Robert E. Howard in the 20s when he first created the character. Nobody writes Conan like Howard. We’ve seen a lot of people try. There have been some good Conan stories told, but nothing like Howard. So I’m reading this story, and it takes place way out in the jungle in nowhere. It’s a Robert E. Howard jungle, so it’s dark and old and musty and wet and muddy and gritty. And there are these drums off in the distance, and every now and then you hear a scream out there. And you’re a hero that’s headed for those drums, and you can feel it right here, right in your chest. You can feel that bass rattle in your ribs, and the closer you get, the more details you get. That’s the horror of it. The closer you get, the more you can hear that there’s rattles, you can hear that there’s screaming, you can hear begging, you can hear mumbles and chants. And you’re just pushing through the thick, waxy leaves, squelching in the mud, wishing you didn’t have to take the next step to get closer. Man, only Robert E. Howard can put you there. There was something savage about that night. I was in a little one-room apartment. It was my apartment, so it was dirty. It was an old building, and you could hear it tick around you. It wasn’t far away from a highway, but it was far enough that the only thing you could hear were the semis screaming by. The book was an old nickel paperback. When you turned the pages, you could feel they were gritty, like those old paperbacks get. The book was battered and bruised. There were pages, a big chunk of pages, missing out of the back. And I knew that when I got to those pages, I wouldn’t be able to finish the story. But I had started it, and I was in the jungle, and I’m moving forward through the leaves and I can hear the drums. I can hear the screaming. I can hear the rattle. I can hear the chanting, and I’m not even kidding, hobgoblin, I ran out of pages. I set the book down in the middle of the floor, and I stood up and I stared at it. I knew that even if I had a brand new copy, and the pages I was missing were in there, I was never going to have that experience again. So years later, when I found the book at a used bookstore, I walked right past it. To this day, I’ve never finished that book. And I wish more than anything, that I could go back to that night and read that story again, and again run out of pages.

index

  1. When trying to figure out what a character should look like, do you Think of Celebrities, or just start looking at everyone you pass as if your looking through a mug shot book?

It’s really neither one of those. A character literally just walks in my office. Sometimes I see them and I know what they should look like, but they don’t look that way, so I describe them how they should look. Allow me to give you an example. I’ve written a book called Forsaken. Now this book’s not coming out for a very long time, but it has a character named Earl Flurryfist. Earl is a member of the Flurryfist clan. His people, dating all the way back to the progenitor of the clan, had thick blonde hair. Earl showed up in my office that day with short cropped black hair. So I wrote him with thick blonde hair. And now, every time I see him in the book, he’s got black hair, and every time I see him in the book, I describe him as a blonde. There’s other things, too. Sometimes, scars will be there and I don’t know how the scar was created, so I don’t describe the scar. I’ve got one character in one of my books—now goblin, I only write fantasy books set in the fantasy time period. One of my characters showed up in my office one day wearing an object I can never describe in any of my books. He was wearing a Rolex watch. Had a sword, and a dagger, and a gold Rolex. When I wrote that character, of course, I didn’t describe the Rolex. That didn’t stop him from checking the time. I just didn’t describe it.

( I am not surprised, even goblins know that it is all about the bling.)

ed 1

  1. How many books have you written, how many have you tried to publish, and how many are in print?

Monday night I finished my 25th book. I’m a no-child-left-behind kind of writer. I don’t write a book and decide I’m never gonna publish it. I’ve decided on a publishing rate of two books a year for normal size books, and for my epic books (anything 700-pages or longer), one a year. At that rate, the book I finished Monday will be published in 2033. I’ve only printed four so far. But I don’t have time to slow down. I’ve got a lot more planned past these 25, and I’ve got a lot of work to do. My all-time hero is Louis L’Amour, and I hope one day to be the Louis L’Amour of fantasy.

  1. Are there any occupational hazards to being a novelist?

OK, so I type with three fingers on my left hand and four fingers on my right. I didn’t learn to type properly. So, my pinky finger on my left hand is always flexed and out of the way. That is fine for a normal workday. But toward the end of a book, I go into what we call end-of-book mode. And my wife allows me to obsess about the book, and I start putting in real numbers. When that happens, my pinky finger starts to cramp, and it feels like it’s on fire. But I can’t stop typing. That’s not an option. And I don’t use voice software. So what I do is I take medical tape and I tape my finger straight. It’s not very comfortable. It causes me to cuss a lot, and it slows me down a little bit, but at least I can still type. But every now and then, I look at that finger and the quote from the Bible, “If thy right eye offends thee” will come to mind, and I’ll think to myself, “Could I still get by if I only had 9 fingers?”

(I know this is a really bad graphic but Sorry not sorry)

The_Blade_Itsel

 

  1. If you had 1 million pennies what else would you have?

A big jean pocket. No, if I had that many pennies, like I wouldn’t need all that, so I’d take about 5 pounds of pennies and I’d melt it down. My wife thinks blacksmiths are sexy, so I’d set myself up with a forge. I’d smelt the copper and pour it and make a copper sword. While the metal was still cooling, I would sink pennies in it to form the skin of the sword so you could still see Lincoln’s face. And I would call it The Emancipator.

(now that is a great answer)

penny.jpg

  1. How many people have you killed over the course of your career?  Real people first, then fictional.

Real people? I can’t really get into that. Not so much because it would incriminate me, but a lot of really good friends put their lives on the line to help me dispose of bodies. But let’s talk about killing characters in books. I can’t even begin to tell you how many characters I’ve killed. Pitch battles where tens of thousands of people died, down to the little deaths where somebody just curled up in an alleyway and gave up the ghost. I can tell you about the ones that hurt me. The way I deal with it is I don’t blame myself. A lot of times when I’m writing, it doesn’t feel like the story’s coming from me. It feels like I’m witnessing it and writing it down. So when I witness the death of one of my favorite characters, I don’t take the blame for that. All I can do is try to represent that death in the best way possible. They’re gonna die, they’re gonna die horribly or die well, and the way I see it is, I owe it to them to make that death as representative of how it actually happened as I possibly can. In the end, I’m not a god in this world that I work with. People have said that I am. An editor I respect looked at me once, when I told her something wouldn’t work, she looked at me and said, “You are the god in this world. You can make it work.” That’s not bad advice. But I don’t think in my particular case it’s very accurate. I’m not a god in this world, I’m a reporter. I’m just trying to bring the news of what has happened in Perilisc to the people who want to read about it.

(Why won’t anyone answer the first part of this question? But I do Recognize your loyalty and must applaud you for it.)joke517bac-c

  1. What has been the toughest criticism given to you as an author?  Did it end up helping? Or did we just count that person in question 10?

The toughest criticism I ever got… Well, there’s the little deaths you suffer when you’re a writer. You talk to somebody and they tell you how interested they are in your work, and you give them the book, print it off and hand it to them, and they say, “Yeah, I got through the first chapter and then I ran out of time.” And what they’re really saying is, “I read the first chapter and I didn’t feel the need to read anymore.” I was told once by my stepfather, when I was in high school, I had just written a story, and I was told by him, “I’ll read it when it gets published.” But that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re not talking about the little deaths. My editor for Liefdom came back with pages of comments, with suggested rewrites. This was in 2010. I read it, and there’s the knee-jerk reaction of “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” or “She just doesn’t get it,” or this one’s my favorite, “She’s just jealous.” And what I had to understand was that I just wasn’t a good writer. So, I was at a crossroads. There’s the turn to the west that says now we work, now we work at being better. We write one book after the next after the next after the next, until we get good at this. Or you turn to the east, and you’re like, we’re not good at this, I give up. At this point, either one of those is a viable path. We choose to give up on things we’re not good at all the time, that doesn’t make us bad people, or weak. She gave me those pages and I had looked to the west and looked to the east, and I went west. Ask me on another day, and maybe east. I eat a bad breakfast and have indigestion, maybe east. But I went west, and I worked for six years, writing every day, until I was good enough to publish.

  1. What has been the best compliment?

That one is super easy. I’ve heard this a couple of times and I think every writer would agree with this. “I just couldn’t put it down.” For two women I know, the day they started Liefdom was the day they finished it. One of them made a day of it, got up, started reading, read all day, went to bed. But one of them was a single mother of two lively daughters. She put her daughters to bed after working a full day, and picked up my book to unwind before she went to bed, and when she was done with that book, she took a shower, she woke her daughters up, sent them to school, and she went to work. How can that not be the greatest compliment I’ve ever gotten?

  1. Do you have any advice to give aspiring writers?

This one is really easy. Write all the time. When you’re done writing, either eat or sleep and get back to writing. The more I wrote, the more I trained my brain to write. So, at first, I needed an idea of what I was going to write that day in order to do the job. Flash forward 300,000 words, and now I don’t even need to think about it. The day’s words just come to me. Flash forward 3 million words, where I am right now, and I don’t really need a game plan for the book at all. The more you train yourself to write, the less you need to plan, the less you worry about doing it. I have a friend I’m mentoring and he’s like, “I just didn’t have anything to write today.” My advice to him is always the same. Write anyway. Work inspires more work. Very rarely have I ever come across an artist in any field who made a piece of work and was done. Usually, during the course of making a piece of art, they become inspired for their next piece. Work inspires work.

  1. What will be your Final words?

When I die, the final words I say will be, “I love you so much. You were such a good wife. and I’m so proud of you.” When I write, my final words will be one of two things, “And he looked across the smoking ruin of the world, and laughed.” or “He looked across the smoking ruin of the world, and decided he could help.” It all depends on who wins.

  1. What one question do you think I should have asked you, but didn’t?

I was talking to my father-in-law one day. He was driving me to pick up my kids at martial arts, and I had just completed an interview. He’d never read any of my interviews. I said, “I took an interview today.” He said, “OK.” I said, “They’re all starting to sound the same.” He said, “Oh,” and then he listed off four questions. The man has never read an interview for a writer, and he knew the four questions I had to answer the most. When you’re doing this, you answer a lot of the same questions, and I haven’t had to do that with your interview. This is one of the best interviews I’ve ever had. And I always wonder, why didn’t they ask about this, or why didn’t they as about that? I’d say you cut pretty deep into the meat of what I am doing. But the question I’ve never been asked is, who is your audience? In our mind, as writers, we picture the people we’re talking to. Usually it looks something like Comic Con, where you’re sitting on a stage and you’re talking to a crowd of people that are all dressed up like the characters you’ve written, and those people are going crazy for you. That’ll get you through one or two books, but you’ve gotta dig deeper when you’ve been writing for six years and two people have read your work. When you’ve been doing it that long, you need to have a more defined audience. So what I do is, I pretend that I’m dying, that my kids are too young to understand, and I’m not going to be able to teach them and raise them in all the things I want them to know. So all I have is the book I’m writing, and in that book, I have to teach them something about the world, that they’re too young to know now. All of my books are love letters to my children. One day, when they’re much older, and before they go to college, I’ll give them a copy of all my books that I’ve published to that point. When they read that, they’ll truly know their father.

(As a father myself that really hits home. I will read the rest of your books with a different eye)

  1. Do you have any questions for me?

I could ask how you came up with these questions. I could ask where you got the name the Hobgoblin. I could ask why you spend your time interviewing writers. I could ask what you thought the first time you read my book. But I’m not going to ask any of those questions. I think I’d like to know what age you were when you decided you wanted to spend the bulk of your time in other worlds, and what was the book that did it? What was the book that made you say, “I want to spend my free time doing this.”?

“That is kind of an easy one. I have Dyslexia and when I was young I hated to read. It was really frustrating for me. But I am nothing if not a stubborn little goblin, so I made myself sit and just do it, and I soon started to beat my frustration down.. I started with the Dragonlance books when I was 9 or 10. Then soon moved on to Greek Mythology and  Conan. But when I was 11 I had my first major surgery to remove tumors from my sinuses and when I was recovering my Uncle gave me Lord Foul’s Bane the first book of the The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant by Stephen R. Donaldson  It was good but I read the whole trilogy in 4 days. I needed something nice and thick to sink my teeth into.

I was still really weak. I was not supposed to even get out of bed for another 2 weeks, because, I had after all, just had  8 1/2 pounds of tumors taken out of my head but I needed something to read. So I bribed my brother to take me to the grocery store. I got on my brothers handlebars and he pedaled me the 2 blocks. I was lucky enough that they usually had a good selection of books.(For a Grocery store at any rate) On that day I picked up The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan. It was on a cardboard New Release display, Having read some of Jordan’s Conan books, I was sure I would like it so I picked it up and bought it Without even opening it. In the 27 years since then I have read that book, and the rest of the series as well around 35 times and listened to the audio 15 or 20 times.It consists of 10,173 pages, 4,410,036 words, and the playtime of the Audiobooks totals out at 19 days 5 hours and 25 min.

Here is that book. I was never lucky enough to meet Mr. Jordan and have him sign my old battered book But Brandon Sanderson did.

You know how I asked about if you could go back and read it again for the first time? I was actually able to kind of do that when my son started the series. Our discussions long into the night are some of the best memories I have.”

Well that is all for the questions. I really want to thank Jesse and his wife, Rebekah for taking the time getting these questions done. I hope you guys had as much fun as I did.

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As for you my fearsome Goblin readers you should take a minute and head over to Jesse’s blog and follow him to be entered to win 5 FREE books! Also don’t forget to take a look at the Excerpt of Jesse’s new book I just posted HERE    

Here are details on his new release:

Mestlven: A Tale from Perilisc
Revenge, Insanity, and the Bloody Diamonds
Meredith Mestlven was abused and betrayed by her nobleman husband. After a desperate fit of retaliation, she fled for her life and lost her sanity. Now nearly 20 years later, she returns to her home at Sorrow Watch to destroy her enemies and reclaim her jewels. How far will she go to satisfy her revenge? Dark, cunning and beautiful, Mestlven will win your heart or devour your mind.

Book links:

Author bio:

Jesse Teller fell in love with fantasy when he was five years old and played his first game of Dungeons & Dragons. The game gave him the ability to create stories and characters from a young age. He started consuming fantasy in every form and, by nine, was obsessed with the genre. As a young adult, he knew he wanted to make his life about fantasy. From exploring the relationship between man and woman, to studying the qualities of a leader or a tyrant, Jesse Teller uses his stories and settings to study real-world themes and issues.

He lives with his supportive wife, Rebekah, and his two inspiring children, Rayph and Tobin.

 

 

Excerpt from Mestlven: A Tale from Perilisc by Jesse Teller

excerpt

This is my first time Posting an excerpt so I am just going to post it and then put all my amazingly witty and hilarious stuff down at the bottom……. Excerpt is a strange looking word, isn’t it?

OH I should say this is From Mestlven: A Tale from Perilisc by Jesse Teller.

You know, if you didn’t get that from the title. Anyway here it is.

 

Festival of The Pale

 

The Pale, the goddess of death, fixed her rotting eyes squarely on the city of Mestlven where grew a darkness, patient and terrible. Her murder lifted from the battlefields of Corlene to swoop and brood on Mestlven’s roofs and scream at her citizens. Enormous crows, two feet tall with four-foot wingspans, terrorized the city and ate her trash, her vermin, her dead. When those sources of rotting meat and bloated flesh ran out, the crows began hunting her young. The coming of the crows marked the goddess’s intent for the city to host her annual festival. The clergy of The Pale arrived in force while her citizens cringed and waited with dread.

Mort arrived in Mestlven on the eve of the festival, her garrote stashed in the cuff of her robe, her dagger hanging from her hip. She murmured the prayers of The Pale and witnessed the spectacle of the massive city. Built by a long-dead race of giants, the scale of the buildings reached beyond her understanding.

Her wagon lurched ahead, rumbling along the cobblestones. The idols it carried trembled. Navigating the hills and winding alleys of the city proved difficult. Citizens pressed in tight to see The Pale’s cloth march through their streets like the slow and steady onset of some plague. Hunched over the reins of the wagon, Mort was used to the way they stared, fear branded on every face. Her brown wool cloak, befitting a priestess of her rank, gave no hint of the trim body she hid within its folds. They could not hope to guess her size. With the grinning skull she had painted on her face, and the scowl their pie-eyed looks teased up from her, she knew their fear nearly crippled them. No city wished to host the Festival of The Pale, but for some reason the goddess’s considerable murder had chosen this town. Mort found her anticipation growing.

For long years she had been a brown robed priestess of The Pale. She longed for advancement within her order, for a better understanding of her goddess and a closeness to The Pale that had been lacking these past months. She thought again of her bishop’s groping hands and the rage they had inspired in her, and she felt at odds with her church’s leadership and its goals. She had never been chosen to attend the Festival of The Pale before, but she knew something grand was about to happen.

The Grim stalked ahead, the personification of The Pale in the world of man. She rode the great albino horse that never died, and a black fog issued from the hem of her rotting robes to crawl the ground in all directions, seeking out the corners and recesses of the city. She carried the staff that claimed everything before it. Mort had never been so close to The Grim, and her excitement for the festival brought her near to panting.

The procession stopped at the center of town. The Grim dropped heavy to the street beside her mount, and with a clawed hand, stroked the beast’s muscled flank. She shuffled forward, dragging her feet and leaning heavily on the staff until she reached the very center of the courtyard. There, she slowly lifted the staff a few inches from the ground and held it aloft.

“Wretched mother of death, we come to this place at this time to make tribute and receive tribute in your honor.” The Grim’s prayer broke across the air, dry like the rattling of bones. “I claim this city for the duration of the festival for you and your enjoyment.”

She slammed the staff into the ground. The street trembled as a circle of power exploded in all directions and embraced the entire city. The crows lifted into the air, screaming as they stained the Mestlven sky as black as a cloud of noxious gas issuing from a ruptured corpse.

Mestlven: A Tale from Perilisc
Revenge, Insanity, and the Bloody Diamonds
Meredith Mestlven was abused and betrayed by her nobleman husband. After a desperate fit of retaliation, she fled for her life and lost her sanity. Now nearly 20 years later, she returns to her home at Sorrow Watch to destroy her enemies and reclaim her jewels. How far will she go to satisfy her revenge? Dark, cunning and beautiful, Mestlven will win your heart or devour your mind.

Book links:

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Jesse is giving books away!!

To enter, just follow jesseteller.com via email or WordPress by July 16th. On July 17, 2017,  he will randomly select winners from his blog followers.

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Five (5) winners will receive a digital version of the Perilisc Starter Set: Liefdom, Chaste, Mestlven, and Legends of Perilisc in the format of their choice (mobi, epub, or pdf available).

One (1) grand prize winner will receive signed paperbacks of the Perilisc Starter Set: Liefdom, Chaste, Mestlven, and Legends of Perilisc.

Author bio:

Jesse Teller fell in love with fantasy when he was five years old and played his first game of Dungeons & Dragons. The game gave him the ability to create stories and characters from a young age. He started consuming fantasy in every form and, by nine, was obsessed with the genre. As a young adult, he knew he wanted to make his life about fantasy. From exploring the relationship between man and woman, to studying the qualities of a leader or a tyrant, Jesse Teller uses his stories and settings to study real-world themes and issues.

He lives with his supportive wife, Rebekah, and his two inspiring children, Rayph and Tobin.

 

 

What? Why are you still here? Oh I was just kidding about the amazingly witty and hilarious stuff. You should know me better than that by now. I will be posting a really great interview with Jesse Teller that I will link here, but for now its 4:00am and I am all out of witty things to say. I guess I am witless.