Welcome to The Writer's Life! Now that your book has been published, we’d love to find out more about the process. Can we begin by having you take us at the beginning? Where did you come up with the idea to write your book?
Thanks! It’s a pleasure to be here.
If you don’t mind I’m going to just say “Dragonking” instead of “Day of the Dragonking: Book One of the Last American Wizard. I guess I could build a macro to type it for me but it’s probably as much of pain to read as it was to write. If you’ll excuse a short detour; the fact is that I came up with the idea of “the last American Wizard” long before I came up with the rest of the book—and readers will realize that the “dragonking” is really a double-meaning joke I simply couldn’t resist.
Anyway, when I began writing, I had a bit of a plan: I’d write a Thriller series, a private eye series, an urban magic series, and a YA series and see if I could thrash out one from each category every year. Well, THAT hasn't worked out but I did get two of the Thrillers done (“Courier,” and “Warrior,”) and the private eye blocked out and outlined into chapters. Then I was forced to write a Western. Seriously, I was held with a gun to my head (a Peacemaker Colt, of course.)
I have always loved the Dresden Series by Jim Butcher, the Magic Atlanta series by Ilona Andrews, and the Hollows series by Kim Harrison. You take a normal city and just add magic.
Sadly, I don’t live in a “normal” city at the best of times; I’ve lived and worked in Washington DC for 40 years. (Oddly, I only showed up here in 1973 intending to spend a few weeks and then move to a much more interesting place. Go figure.)
I was also determined not to have any vampires or werewolves running around, nor anyone with six-pack abs. I don’t have them and I don’t see why I should be embarrassed by my own book cover.
So, I was left with politicians, terrorism, and various plots to take over the world; which is not the worst stew to make a book from.
How hard was it to write a book like this and do you have any tips that you could pass on which would make the journey easier for other writers?
I was a television scriptwriter for the past 25 years and I’ve had deadlines you just wouldn’t believe and they usually came with people screaming at you. For a while, I considered playing a tape (I am SO old) of screaming but then found that playing Bruce Springsteen or Warren Zevon did the trick.
Anyway, I’m afraid that I sit down at a keyboard with a vague idea of what’s happening at a particular moment: an airplane is being magically hijacked, my hero is being attacked by stone sphynxes, or falling 4 stories to his death; whatever. Then I just start writing and see what happens.
I don’t worry very much about editing on the first time through. I’m usually finding out who the characters are and how they react to things. OK, I know this sounds very Grad School Creative Writing, but it’s what happens.
Someone needs to be the hero, the Last American Wizard, so I pick a freelance reporter named Steve who isn’t getting a lot of jobs (a character type I know VERY well,) and then I put him through hell. Then what? Well, the phone rings and it’s a newly sentient computer from the NSA. What would he be like? How would he talk? There’s a knock on the door and it’s a beautiful blonde woman. I need a strong sidekick so she becomes a woman who used a bit of voodoo to look like a man so she could make it through SEAL training (I spent a week at Coronado Beach where the SEALS train so that was in my head.) Now, you’ve got a fairly cool team. Time to put them in danger.
Some very strong creature begins to batter Steve’s door in. The SEAL (Ace) says it’s time to leave.
“OK.” Steve swallowed hard. “How does this work?”
The blonde responded, “I have no idea, sir. I’m not the Fool. You are. It’s your card.”
“Great. How long do I have?”
Ace fired another couple of rounds, elicited another shriek, and holstered the pistol. She looked down at the ground. “I’d say about four seconds.”
She wrapped her arms around him firmly and threw both of them off the balcony.
And we’re off!
Who is your publisher and how did you find them or did you self-publish?
OK this part is strange and sad, so I’ll try and keep it short. My first novel was picked up by an agent and, eventually, sold to a British publisher named Exhibit A. I went nuts.
The day before I was to speak at the International Thriller Writers Debut Author Breakfast, I saw a press release that announced my publisher had been closed. So, I was a “published author” for about 6 weeks. I worked out fairly quickly that it had nothing to with me or any of the other authors, it was just a part of the preparation for a series of purchase, bankruptcies, and mergers. My speech at ITW turned into a plea for an agent or publisher to adopt an orphan. No luck there.
That was in June and I went ahead with a book tour and whatever until Christmas, when the distributor in the US announced they would mulch all my books for compost and my eBook just vanished.
There was only one thing to do. I became Ronin Robot Books and published myself.
What other books (if any) are you working on and when will they be published?
Under the name Terry Irving, I’ve self-published “Courier” and the sequel “Warrior” the first two books in the Freelancer Series. They are both what I’ve termed “political/motorcycle” thrillers but, since they are set in the exciting days of my youth (the 1970’s,) I’ve been horrified to find them listed as “historical fiction.”
How can your own life become historical?
On the other hand, now that 50 years have passed since the political crimes I’m using as the backdrop for the series, it’s fascinating to do research and find out all the crimes that were really taking place as even the most paranoid only suspected it. I find that younger readers can have a tough time with my books because they conflict with what they’ve been taught but I’ve done pretty rigorous research on everything I write—except the characters, of course
Ronin Robot Press has a list of over 30 books and, except for the classic Westerns, I’ve either wrote or strongly edited almost all of them. A.R. Arrington is our extremely popular Western writer and he will soon be joined by Chastity Blankfield who writes exciting Western Romances.
Next is the first of the Angel Pearl private-eye adventures; they’re set in 1930’s Manila where Americans, Filipinos, Chinese, Japanese, Russians, Armenians, Malays, and Basques mixed in a wild place that has never had an equal. I’m basing this on the life of a real PI from that period who was wilder than I can write.
Lately, I’ve been doing more editing than writing. Tony Hirashiki was a cameraman for ABC News throughout the War in Vietnam and I’ve just finished his memoirs, Jim Milton Smith has written a “novel” about the Secret War in Laos, and I’m almost finished with a book about Len Bias, the Maryland basketball star who died from a cocaine overdose on the day he was drafted for the Celtics but left an unforgettable legacy for everyone who met him.
What’s your favorite place to hang out online?
Wow. That’s a tough one. I’ve been online since 1980 in the days of Compuserve but I usually don’t hang out online. I post, tweet, and answer Quora questions a lot but when I have the chance to take time off—I can usually be found with an Audiobook playing in my ears. I could be asleep; I could be just thinking. It’s hard to tell.
Finally, what message (if any) are you trying to get across with your book?
Washington is a very interesting place—even without magic. Most of what’s in the book, a Confederate General with a statue in a public park, a Statue called “Grief” which is actually based on an Indian goddess, the Peeping Tom ghost on Capitol Hill, a bar named Lord Telford’s that you couldn’t find when it existed and could well still exist, the alien ambassador and the Roswell story—About 90% of all that is completely true and doesn’t really even require magic.
Next time, more Elves and Dwarves, I promise.
Inside the Book:
Inside The Book
Title: The Day of the Dragonking
Book 1: The Last American Wizard Series
Author: Edward B. Irving
Publisher: Ronin Robot Press
Publication Date: Paperback - February 2, 2106 / eBook - May 17, 2016
Pages: 316 pages
Genre: Urban Fantasy / Satire
A “mystical terrorist group” sacrifices an airplane full of innocents to a dragon and uses the deaths to power an event that wreaks magical havoc on Washington, D.C. All the wizards in the U.S. government’s employ abruptly lose access to magic, and the world’s computers and gadgets become sentient.
Second-string journalist Steven Rowan embodies the tarot's Fool and is forced to figure out the card's magic on the fly. Bombshell soldier Ace Morningstar, who used her magic to disguise herself as a man so she could become a SEAL, drafts Steve and his cell phone, which contains the ghost of a Chinese factory worker who now communicates through screen animations and bad autotranslations, to help fix the mess. Gathering allies, including NSA supercomputer Barnaby and Ace's BMW, Hans, the team fights off newly transformed demons, dog monsters, and ogres while trying to find out who is controlling the Illuminati before the villains embark on the next step of their world-domination strategy.
It was the insane screaming of four of the world’s largest jet engines being pushed twenty percent past their factory- recommended maximum thrust only thirty feet over his head.
In addition, awake wasn’t really the correct term for his state of consciousness at that point.
Steve was standing stark naked in the center of the room, jerking back and forth in the classic fight-or-flight reflex–his mind frantically spinning between possibilities, developing and rejecting dozens of possible threats every second, and running throughas many options for escape. A small part of his mind was simultaneously working on the less-important questions of who he was, where he was, and what he’d done to himself the night before.
The pulsating howl of the jet began to diminish, but the screaming only grew louder and more intense. Suddenly, Steve fell to his knees, slamming clenched fists into his temples over and over, and screaming at the top of his lungs.
Tears flew from his eyes as he crawled forward and began to pound his head against the glass door to the balcony. A small rational part of his mind wondered that he could be driven to such desperation that he would fill his mind with self-inflicted pain in the vain hope that it would expel the shocking sound, the sheer terror, and the infinite grief.
He felt a sharp spark of agony as the glass cracked.
Suddenly, as blood began to stream down his face, the terrible pain diminished. The confusion and terror, the immense waves of emotions, all of that continued to pour through him, but the anguish had ceased. The massive assault of sound began to break down into hundreds of what he could only think of as voices.
Men and women were screaming, a mother was kissing the top of a tiny head and whispering soothing sounds, a man on a cell phone was frantically dialing and redialing–desperate to leave a message. In contrast, two men were running through a checklist with professional calm, but curses tickled at their throats, fighting to get out.
In the center, he heard a steady sound. A quiet chanting– young voices tinged with success and anticipation.
The glass door exploded.
It was going to be a lousy morning, his head hurt even worse than usual, and his head usually hurt like someone dying from alcoholpoisoning.
Steve opened his eyes at the sound of someone singing about hiding in Honduras and needing “lawyers, guns, and money.”
OK, that was Warren Zevon, so it was probably his phone ringing. On Mondays, he set it to Afroman’s Because I Got High just to irritate any senior editorial staff he might run into, but this song pretty well summed up his mood every other day.
He waited patiently until the late Mr. Zevon finished singing about how “the shit has hit the fan” and then listened for the Asian gong that would indicate a phone message.
Instead, Max Weinberg’s driving drumbeat pounded out the syncopated SOS that began Bruce Springsteen’s We Take Care of Our Own. Since every journalist knew (but would never report) that this song raised the dead whenever the Boss played within a mile of a graveyard, Steve figured someone was truly serious about talking to him.
In addition, he was curious because he’d deleted it from his phone over a month ago, exhausted by its contrast between the American ideal of “help your neighbor” and the reality of greed and selfishness that was currently sweeping the nation.
There was a series of clicks and several of those odd changes in the quality of silence that indicate a call is being bounced from machine to machine or area code to area code. Of course, these were also the sounds that you heard when a telemarketer’s robot war dialer realized it had a fish on the line and switched in the human voice to make the sale.
“Is this a freaking robot?” he said, sharply.
There was a short pause without any clicks. For some reason, Steve thought the caller was thinking.
“Mr. Rowan?” It was a man–the deep and authoritative voice of someone used to giving commands.
“Who the hell wants to know?” Steve hated people with that kind of voice.
“Mr. Stephen Rowan of 14500 Windermere Drive, Apartment D2?” The voice had changed, just slightly. It wasn’t quite as abrasive and superior. Steve thought he could have a conversation with this guy.
“Yes.” Steve’s state of awareness was beginning to recover sufficiently so that it wasn’t taking all of his concentration to talk on the phone. Unfortunately, that allowed him to begin to look around the room. If he hadn’t just received his ten-year chip from Narcotics Anonymous, he would have instantly identified this as a drug dream—and not a pleasant one.
The smashed sliding door. Glass shards covering the carpet. The dozens of framed photographs he’d hung to remind himself of the good times when he’d worked in cool places were gone. They were in a heap of wood, glass, and photo paper on the other side of his bed. Only one remained. A picture of a Lebanese militiaman with an AK-47 wearing a T-shirt decorated with a picture of an AK-47 and the words “Lebanon War.” He reached over and straightened it.
“Mr. Rowan.” The voice on the phone had changed again. Now it sounded like a person cowering with fear. Hell, this guy was afraid to speak to him. “Umm. Are you busy at the moment?”
Steve looked around the wreckage of his apartment. His cheek tickled and he touched it with a finger. He stared at the blood on his fingertip. “Busy? No, not really.”
“Would you be so kind as to consider possibly doing me a favor?”
Now the voice had gone all the way to obsequious.
“Not until you tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you want.” Steve licked his finger, tasting the blood as if it might tell him something about what had just happened. “And stop sucking up.”
“‘Sucking up’?” There was another series of clicks and silences, and the caller continued in its previous, more confident tone. “Mr. Rowan. Let me ask you a question. Could you use a job?”
Steve reached into his back pocket to check his wallet for his current financial position. Suddenly, he felt a hand stroke his butt. He jumped. When he looked down, he realized it was his own hand because he was still naked. Then, a sudden stab of pain proved that the silvery dust all over him was tiny bits of glass from his broken door and he’d just shoved a shard into his ass. He pulled his hand away sharply and held it out in front of him–carefully examining both sides.
“Oh. Sorry, I was distracted for a second. What...Oh, yeah. I have plenty of money.”
“From your increasingly occasional work as a freelance reporter?”
Steve didn’t say anything. The caller continued. “How’s that working out for you?”
Steve surveyed his ruined stereo and television and stopped as he saw his metal-cased laptop. It was rolled into a cylinder. He wonderedwhat in hell could do that to an expensive computer. Or at least one that had been expensive when he’d bought it.
“Don’t worry about the laptop. I think you’ll find your telephone will be sufficient."
Steve’s eyes widened and he slowly pulled the cell phone away from his ear and regarded it carefully–again, front and back. When he turned back to the main screen, a cartoon of a hand making a “thumbs up” sign had replaced his usual home screen picture of the Lebanese militiaman.
Steve just stood there and looked at the hand. He knew it was a cartoon because it only had three fingers and a thumb. Somehow, the artist had made it look happy and confident. That worried Steve.
He heard a faint squawking from the phone. He held the phone with only two fingers and raised it gingerly until it was an inch from his ear.
“Mr. Rowan? Can you hear me?”
Steve cleared his throat and answered carefully. “Yes.” “Good, we can continue.”
“Not until you tell me how you knew about my computer, we can’t.”
“Your computer? Oh, you mean that you were looking at it?” “Yes. How did you know that I was looking at it?”
The voice sounded more confident, almost comradely. “That’s easy. Look straight out your window. See the apartment building with the exterior stairs?”
“They all have exterior stairs.”
“Well, the one with stairs and exceptionally ugly pink paint.” “Got it.”
“OK. Look at the left edge of the building and then run your eye straight up.”
Steve saw the gleaming black cube of a building on the other side of the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. There were dozens of round white satellite dishes on the roof.
“OK, I see the building across the highway. The NSA or Fort Meade or whatever.”
“Just keep watching.”
Slowly, almost ceremonially, all the dishes on the roof turned, swiveled, swung, or tipped so that they were all pointed straight at him. Without thinking, Steve’s left hand moved to cover his crotch.
He made a noise, but it wasn’t a word. Something between a cough and the beginning of a scream, but definitely not a word. On the top of the black building, all the dishes nodded up and down in what he could only describe as a friendly fashion, and then moved back to their original positions.
Steve cleared his throat again. “I guess you just made that happen.”
“That was better than anything I ever saw in college, even on mushrooms, but it still doesn’t tell me who you are.”
“But it does answer the question of how you could see me.” “Yes.”\\
“And demonstrates a certain amount of power over things.” “Things and quite a few people as well.”
“I would have to say that that remains to be proven, but I can agree that you’ve gone a long way in that direction.”
“Why don’t we leave the rest of your questions for a later time and let me ask you one?”\
Steve’s eyes wandered from the roof of the building across the highway. “What am I looking for?” he wondered.
Then he remembered.
“Give me just one more question first.” Steve walked out on the balcony and scanned the horizon as far as he could. “Where is thesmoke?”
“Smoke. From the crash of the plane that just flew over me.”
“Mr. Rowan. Can I suggest you step back inside? Good. You were frightening several of your neighbors. No, there is no smoke and, as a matter of fact, no airplane. Since there is no airplane, there wasn’t a crash and, ergo, no smoke. That’s one of the things I’d like to hire you to investigate.”
Steve thought for a second. “I don’t like it when people say ergo. But we can deal with that later. Right now, I’d like to know why–no wait, let’s begin with how I would investigate the nonexistent crash of an airplane that wasn’t there.”
“You’re getting a bit redundant.”
“You’ll have to live with it. It’s a side effect of the unease I’m feeling due to the stress of this uncommon and aberrant situation.” Steve’s voice rose to a shout. “Stop fucking around and tell me what the hell is going on!”
“Well.” The voice on the phone paused as if choosing the next words carefully. “The jetliner did crash. At the same time, it did notcrash.”
“OK, I’m relieved that you made that clear. Now that I understand, I’m hanging up.”
“Mr. Rowan! Wait! Just one more minute.”
Steve didn’t say anything, but he didn’t punch the END symbol, either. He really wasn’t sure why.
“There has been a Change.”
Steve blinked and looked at the phone. He put it back to his ear. “Did you just capitalize the word change?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose I did. This particular change is a pretty big deal and certainly deserves to be capitalized.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. What do you want me to do about this capitalized concept?”
“Would you work for me? Investigate this Change?”
Steve’s answer was quick and automatic. “I’m an experienced freelancer. I don’t work for just anyone.”
“Really? Not even if it was for the Good of the Nation?”
“Stop talking in capitals and, if you mean working for the government, the answer isn’t ‘no.’ The answer is ‘Hell, No.’”
"I believe those last two words were capitalized.” Steve’s head felt like it was about to explode.
“Would it make you feel better if I hired you on a temporary freelance basis?”
Once again, the answer was swift and automatic. “What are you paying?”
“Well, I think I have unlimited funds...”
“Then you’re full of crap. I’m hanging up now.”
The phone began to vibrate in his hand and the voice became agitated. “Mr. Rowan. Don’t do that! It has to be you. No one else observed the airplane!”
Steve’s eyes closed and whatever it was that had woken him up came back with the feeling of a knockout punch. His face twisted up in anguish at the memory of all the people...their terror...their helpless panic. He groaned.
“Mr. Rowan! Are you all right?”
“Not one of my better mornings.”
“I am actually glad to hear that.”
Because I’d hate to think of what it might take to cause a worse morning. What’s your daily rate?”
“Five hundred dollars. Double over ten hours.” Steve always held out hope even though he hadn’t made over $350 a day for the pastdecade.
“You’ve got it.”
Steve opened his eyes. “Plus expenses?” “Expenses and the use of a car and driver."
“A car?” Steve walked over and looked out to the space in the parking lot where he’d parked his light-blue Prius. He thought it was still there, but it was difficult to tell because an enormous jet engine was smoking sullenly on top of the entire row of parked cars.
He could make out some twisted pieces of light-blue plastic in his usual parking space.
“I guess I will need a car.”
“Good. Then we are in business, right?” “I guess so."
“Good. I’ve got some things to do right now, but I’d appreciate it if you could begin immediately.”
Steve slowly turned around and looked at his apartment. His clothes looked as though a knife-wielding fashion critic had attacked them. He touched his laptop and it rolled away, revealing fluttering bits of paper that he deduced must be his stack of notebooks. One of his shoes was lying by his right foot. He picked it up and slowly poured broken glass out onto the floor. “I’m going to need to be paid up front, I think.”
“Not a problem. Just answer the door.”
There was the synthetic clicking sound that cell phones made to indicate the end of a call.
There was a firm knock on his door.
For More Information:
Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads
Book Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGAQxeQgmYE&list=PLsr5cyVheaIZA45ttkzCXzkudqwGNLe77&index=1
Meet the Author
Edward Irving was a respectable television journalist for 40 years in Washington D.C. Any shred of respectability has been destroyed by "The Day of the Dragonking." He is waiting for the committee to call and demand his 4 Emmys back at any time.
He has worked for just about every TV channel: Nightline, Wolf Blitzer, Don Imus, and Fox News Sunday - talk about culture clash! He has written 4 documentaries - mostly on Moral Courage - and the last one was particularly fun since it was about rescuing Jews to the Philippines, a decision made over poker and cigars by Manuel Quezon, Dwight Eisenhower, a private detective named Angel Zervoulakos, and brothers from a family that was the biggest importer of cigars to the USA.
Mr. Irving enjoys many things he can't do anymore: motorcycles, racing cars, hang-gliding, scuba-diving, and long vacations. The good thing is that he can put them into books. He has a very forgiving wife, two kids, two grandkids, and a LOT of old books.