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New Year’s Message from Tom Trumpinski and everyone at Trumpinski Books Dear Fans and Friends: Looking back, 2008 was a great year. Since my first book, Riding the Hell-Bound Train, premiered at Worldcon in Denver, I’ve been on a roller-coaster ride of appearances. It’s been great fun to travel, meet all of you, do readings and signings, and participate in lots of panels at SF Conventions. The coming year looks even better. We have spent most of this week here at the Borgamy talking about new paradigms in publishing and presentation on the Internet and will be implementing some exciting projects and changes for the website starting in the next couple weeks. First of all, we’re going to put up a story every month for you to read. Some will be ones that were already published in the book; others will be new, exclusive, and set in the Iona universe. I understand that the economy is troubled right now—everyone’s feeling the pinch, and lots of people in the fannish community are out of work. Therefore, we’re not going to charge you one cent to read these stories. Instead, we’re going to have a tip jar attached—after you finish the story, if you like it and want to keep us in business, send us what you can afford using PayPal. Over the next six months, you’ll get the background information for what we’re planning for late 2009: An Iona Novel So far, I’ve got three chapters done on a novel featuring Margee and Jerry, Molly, Doctor Mike Stevens, a host of fairies, and some great new characters. As the year progresses, we’ll be putting up short character biographies and Allie’s very excited about doing some sketches of the Dramatis Personae. I’m not sure how we’re going to market the novel—whether to try to sell it to a larger publisher or talk to John and go the small press route using Peregrination Press again. If, and this is a big if, the contributions on the short stories are large enough, we may just serialize it on the website for donations and then self-publish hardcopies using lulu. Next item—we are revamping the entire website purchasing procedure for buying Hell-Bound Train in order to make it as simple and painless as possible. We’ve been told that it’s just too damn hard, so we’re going to fix that. In addition, henceforth, we will eat the sales tax for Illinois residents and pay the shipping charges for everyone, no matter where you live. Hell, I’ll even sign every copy we sell, personally—all for a total price of $24.50. If you still don’t want to buy a copy over the ‘Net, show up at one of my appearances this year—I guarantee you that I’ll have some with me and we can work out a deal. Finally, and this is still in the very early planning stages, we intend to introduce greater interactivity to our website. Within the next few months, we’ll be putting up a forum and message boards where readers can ask questions, make suggestions, bitch, cheer, swoon, or just hang out. I plan to spend a lot of time on the boards—this promises to be great fun. So, that’s the news. We’re excited about all the changes. Stay tuned, it’s going to be a great year. The Staff of Trumpinski Books — Tom Trumpinski Allison Mazan Marcey Goldstein Kitten Trumpinski-Roberts Tags: business, creativity, notices, writing
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The furnace kicked on and the warm air blew over her—striking her at the line where her tabby fur and orange stripes blended into the brown and gold of her tortoiseshell markings. Mitzi yawned and opened one eye to check the dining room. If she was going to wake up, it would be for a reason worthy of her attention. Not a creature was stirring. The streetlights shone on the wall and when she opened her other eye, her pupils widened from slits to ovals. Rising to her feet, she stretched to her full length and stopped to wash a patch of itchy fur. Time to do rounds, she thought, something might not accept her ownership. She padded into the kitchen, found a morsel of dropped food under the edge of the kitchen island and tossed it into her mouth. Mmmm. Chicken skin. There was dry food and water near the sliding stairway door to where Soft Bed slept every night. Mitzi ate enough to satisfy her tummy and walked into the hallway. The usual line of upstairs cats slept on the floor—it was always warm there for some reason. She was no scientist, but she was aware of her world and took advantage of its natural phenomena every chance she could. Old Girl and Meat Loaf lay on one side of the hall and Stripe-Tom on the other. From behind the door of the bedroom, Shoulder-Girl and Poppa snored, the latter shaking the door when he inhaled. All was as it should be for an early morning. The living room was different than usual and had been for days now. She, like most of her kind, hated change with a passion—all her walking and jumping routes were altered and anything out of her control bothered her. The new tall object, many cat-lengths high, was covered with shiny things. More change—ewwww—now there were boxes under the tall thing. They weren’t there when she fell asleep. Should she be afraid? Should she run forward and attack? None of the boxes moved. She launched herself onto the couch, hit a cushion and rebounded onto the arm of the chair. From there, it was simple to walk across the side of the wall, moving from window-sill to window-sill. She paused alongside the tall thing to bat at a round ball with a cat inside of it that moved when she did. The inside cat hit back at her each time she made a move. She hit the ball hard and it came loose and bounced against the wall, dropping into the pile of boxes below her. That’d show the stupid tiny cat! When she got to the end of the windows, she leapt to the speakers, to the box with pictures (black at the moment), and then to the floor, arriving right next to an unsuspecting box. She put her paw forward, poking it against a ribbon. The box did nothing. Was it asleep or dead? Dead things were sometimes edible like the food in the kitchen, nice to sleep on like the furniture, or fun to play with. The box was none of those, so she dismissed it. It was time to go back to her warm spot and sleep. There was a smell here, though—one that taunted her when she tried to ignore it. She drew in a deep breath. By Tuna, it smelled better than anything she’d ever smelled before. Where was it coming from? Mitzi stepped up, climbing even higher onto the pile of boxes. There was a gap between them and she slipped her head into it. Aha! At the bottom of the pile was a box with the yummy smell all over it. She pushed the top box over and it slid down the pile. The white tip of her tail lashed as she pulled at others with her front paws. She didn’t see the black streak as Demon Black Fluff, her feline nemesis, flew from her hiding place near the wall. Fluff landed on her, biting at Mitzi’s fur and pulling at it with her teeth. Mitzi let out a howl of anger, pulled away from her attacker, and somersaulted into a clear area. Both of the cats arched their backs, sang their warning songs, and snarled. It was a standoff. The Demon was willing to maim with her teeth, but lacked the front claws that made Mitzi so proud. Mitzi didn’t fight with other cats except to play, so she lacked the aggression of her opponent. They sang louder, filling the living room with noise. BANG. The bedroom door opened and then slammed shut. Poppa’s footsteps came down the hallway and into the living room. He made some not-cat noises and picked the Demon up in his arms, carrying her away into the kitchen. Mitzi heard the sliding door and knew she didn’t have to worry for a while. Having a peaceful reputation was useful, if nothing else. Once Poppa had returned to bed, she resumed her project—the buried box. It smelled wonderful for a dead thing. She pushed boxes off of it until its entire top was visible. It wasn’t square like the other ones and it was soft and rolled into a cylinder. There was a ribbon around the center with a piece of paper attached. She chewed the paper in two bites, spitting it out when she realized it had no taste. Mitzi looked around carefully. Sometimes she was punished for using her claws on dead things. No one was visible in the living room—not even White Old Lady, who often slept by the corner register to ease her arthritis. Safe. She tore the paper wrapping on the box into tiny bits within seconds. They flew around her, landing a full cat-length away in some cases. Inside was not a box at all, but a clear bag with something inside—something that smelled like heaven. The plastic didn’t last any longer than the paper had. Her claws shredded the bag and the plant bits inside fell out. They smelled even stronger than before. Her eyes watered, her whiskers twitched, and her tail stuck out so straight she almost pulled a muscle. Joy! The room swirled—even things that were dull a moment before were mesmerizing. This is what the other cats must mean by “catnip”, she thought. She couldn’t imagine anything else that would do this to her. The silver tinsel on the tree called to her, teasing. There were many more balls hanging on the tree than she had seen before and each one of them had an inside cat that looked just like her. She would have reacted to their challenge, but her back legs weren’t working right and she fell over on her side in the shredded paper. For some reason, this was the funniest thing that had ever happened to her. Moving quickly just resulted in her writhing on the wrapping paper. When she got onto her feet again, the ribbons on the other packages were moving. Snakes! She crouched and waved her tail in the air, ready to kill. These ribbon-snakes, like all snakes, were a natural enemy. Her pounce took her over the pile of boxes onto a larger one with a deadly-looking ribbon. Her teeth were like blades, ripping the ribbon into bite-sized pieces that she swallowed. Ugh! Nasty thing. Now, the wall of boxes moved, taunting her. She leapt onto it, striking out with her front claws against the top one and then falling down into the center. She grabbed a small box with her front paws and raked it with her back claws. Again and again she struck, first against the boxes—then moving fast against the tinsel and ball-cats. When she finished, exhausted, she had killed everything infesting the tall thing. The bodies of the offenders were at her feet. She lay, nose in the heavenly-smelling plant bits, and fell into a near-coma. Tall-Chair came through the back door of the house and was most of the way through the dining room before he saw the carnage beneath the Christmas tree. Presents were unwrapped, boxes had their tops torn off, and ornaments lay in pieces around the base. Lying beneath the tree, holding the bag of organically-grown farm catnip up to her face, was Mitzi, unconscious, with a long strand of tinsel wrapped around her back legs. He was laughing while he walked through the kitchen on his way to the back steps, dodging other cats along the way—they’d need everyone to get this cleaned up before company came over. “Hey,” he called out the back door to Table-Feeder—who was busy walking Barker—“next time we’ll have to double-bag the kitties’ present.”
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Time to ramp up for the trip to Worldcon. I wanted to let everyone know when I'm arriving and leaving and where I'll be at to increase the liklihood of us hooking up while we're there. I'll include here the listings from the pocket program about the panels, etc. Arrival: No later than 3pm on Wednesday. We're staying at the Grand Hyatt Denver. 2:30pm Thursday 177 Rising Stars Reception Sheraton - 2nd Level, Grand Ballroom Join Hosts Gay and Joe Haldeman as we welcome our newest writers to Denvention 3. Stop in and chat with these aspiring writers, recruit them for panels at your convention, get some autographs, find out whose book just came out or will be published in the near future! Ann Marie Rudolph
5:30pm Thursday
235 Reading: Tom Trumpinski
Hyatt - Agate A
I'll be doing pieces from Riding the Hell-bound Train and perhaps some other works.
8:30pm Thursday 252 Heinlein and marriage Sheraton - 2nd Level, Tower Court C Robert Heinlein explored a variety of marriage forms in his writing, and portrayed happy marriages between couples, triples, groups, and lines. Were these drawn only from the writer's imagination, and what experiences have others had in turning fiction to reality? David Silver, Deb Houdek-Rule, Eric James Stone, Geo Rule, Tom Trumpinski
Friday, 2:30pm
CCC - Room 506 345 Making the People We Want: Genetic Engineering
The benefits, costs, and unanticipated consequences of genetic engineering in human beings. Would there be fashions? At what point do they stop being human? Amy Sterling Casil, (m) John Moore, Mary Rosenblum, Nancy Kress, Tom Trumpinski
1:00pm Sunday
656 Heinlein - The Hugo Years
CCC - Room 503 During the decade between 1956 and 1967, Heinlein won four Hugo awards for best novel. This pinnacle came in the middle of his career. Some people say this is his best work while others prefer his earlier or later work. Bill Patterson, Bradford Lyau, (m) Robert Buettner, Tom Trumpinski, Toni Weisskopf
Note the big gap enabling us to party all Friday and Saturday nights. I intend to make the most of that.
We'll be staying through Sunday night and leaving about 6:30 or so Monday morning for Socorro. I'm very excited and looking forward to seeing all the folks we know there.
Tom Trumpinski Tags: panels, worldcon, writing
Current Mood:  happy
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So Marcey's got twenty-five raucous Pure Romance consultants in the house doing a major training session, so I am relegated to the ManCave. They seem to be having a really good time out there in the commons. Man, is she good at this. I've just compiled a list of updates to the website to bring it up to date with the current situation with the book and sent them off. Sometime tonight they should be done and people will be able to once more order the book from the site, since the Peregrination Press link seems to be broken for some reason right now. ( Here's the direct purchase link, btw.) I want to take a few minutes here to talk about the wonderful woman who is working as my publicist and webmistress. ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) vulpecula6 is the greatest Girl Friday than any man could ever ask for. Not only has she done the marvellous job with the website (for a very reasonable cost), she is also talented in the clothing design and sewing department with her own sales site, gooseEatFox on Etsy. In addition to being a trained chemist, she's currently in charge of six thousand chickens on a ranch in New Mexico. Oh, and when I send her a nearly-finished manuscript, she sends it back with eight comments per page added and I end up rewriting one more time because she's mostly right. In other words, she's a goddamn Heinlein heroine and I bless the day that she walked into my office for the first time. I couldn't do this without her. Agenda for the rest of the evening: I think I'm going to try to get my pseudonymic erotica story completely marked up for a rewrite. (If anyone would like to have a copy when I get it finished, I'd be happy to send it to them--just drop me a line at trumpinski.books@gmail.com.) I'll eventually be posting it on a BDSM website, so be forewarned that it's going to be kinky as hell. It won't be a for-sale item, nor am I planning on including it in any future books. I wrote it partially as a gift for someone and partially to see if I could. Turned out well, if I do say so myself. I've got to go downstairs to the family library and pick out the Heinlein books I'm going to reread before I do the Worldcon panels. I'll be reading The Rolling Stones, Moon is a Harsh Mistress, and Time Enough for Love to look at family life and MIAHM, Starship Troopers, Stranger in a Strange Land, and Double Star for the Hugo Years panel. If I can get the story done by Wednesday, I can start reading full-time. If there's any time left after that, we'll see about playing some Mass Effect before bedtime. Age of Conan's possible, too--Sean's not working tonight. Tags: friends, life, reading, writing
Current Location: ManCave
Current Mood: busy
Current Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eONhto0x_nI
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The Frog’s Tale By Tom Trumpinski Once upon a time there was a wide-mouthed frog. Like all frogs, he had a name made up of a series of rumbles, a series of croaks, and a ribbet with a burp thrown in. For our purposes, however, none of that is important, so we’ll just call him Frog—it’s easier. Frog lived in a big pond in the woods with lots of juicy flies and mosquitoes. He was happy, for the most part, but something was missing. As time went on, he watched all of the green frogs, peepers, and tree frogs find a girl and settle down. There were no frog girls like him, though, and that made him sad. There was an old witch who lived in a hut in the woods and was said to be wise. Frog figured if anyone would know how to help him, it would be her, so he set off down the path, one hop at a time, to ask her. The path was dangerous for a small amphibian. There were foxes and lynxes in the woods; weasels lurked in the shadows. He was careful to hide as they passed by and after they were gone, he continued on his way. Finally, shortly after dawn, he arrived at the door to the witch’s hut and realized that, being a frog, there was no way to knock. He settled down next to two toads in her garden to wait. “Been here long?” he asked the larger of the two. “Yep,” the toad answered him, “you waiting for the witch, too?” Frog blinked his eyes twice to show agreement. “I want to know why there aren’t any girl frogs for me. You have any ideas about this?” The smaller toad said in a feminine voice, “Could it be you don’t have enough warts? I find warts very attractive,” and kissed the larger toad. This wasn’t helping him any, but before he had to wait much longer, the witch emerged from the hut and came into the garden. “What are you doing here? Want to become ingredients, eh?” She jumped at the toads and they scattered, not stopping until they had reached the edge of the woods. Frog was still there. “So,” she said, “you must have something very important to ask me. The scare was to chase off the riff-raff—I’d never have a minute’s peace if I didn’t have a selection process. Come on.” She put her hand down on the ground and Frog hopped into it. She took him inside and set him on her table. The hut was dark and smoky; a fire burning in the hearth had a pot bubbling over it that gave off unidentifiable smells. The witch’s black cat hissed at Frog and retreated to a corner of the single room to wash itself. “I came here to ask you for help,” Frog said. “Everybody does,” replied the witch. “Sometimes I even give them some. You look healthy enough—big pop eyes, slimy skin, green as grass. Whatever could be the problem?” “I’ve never met a girl frog like me. There are all kinds of other frog-girls, but I’ve been alone all my life.” “Well, my dearie, that’s because you’re a magic frog.” She walked to her bookcase, pulled out a black-leather journal, and blew the dust from its pages. Opening it, she ran her fingers down first one page and then another. “Here we go—you’ve got a magic power, even. If a human princess kisses you, she becomes a frog, too. Looks like you’re descended from royalty, me boy.” “Princesses?” he asked. “There aren’t any princesses in the woods. There aren’t any people at all, just talking animals—most of which want to eat me. What should I do?” The witch slammed the book down on the table next to Frog, scaring him so much he jumped over two plates and a sugar bowl and landed in the witch’s lunch. “What a dumbass,” she said, “they won’t come to you—you have to go to them! When the path crosses the stream, follow the water upstream. You’ll come to a town with a castle and the princess there has a lily pond just right for a frog like you.” “Thank you, thank you, oh wise witch. I want to reward you, but I have no money, how can I repay you?” “That’s all right, you’ve provided more than enough entertainment for one day. Now, get out of my bean salad before I stick a fork into you.” She opened the door and Frog headed off down the path. His journey took days, hiding from predators while constantly heading toward the town. On the morning of the last day, he could see the towers and battlements of the castle in the distance, so he hopped twice as fast. In the moonlight that night, he slipped through a hole in the castle wall and found the lily pond. The next morning, he was sitting on a lily pad when a beautiful golden-haired human girl came to sit beside the pond. She had a songbook with her and sang of knights and their ladies, dragons and their wickedness, and kings and their wisdom. Frog sat, transfixed, as her voice echoed off the garden walls and provided harmony. This person was the most wonderful thing he had ever encountered. She fed the pond’s goldfish breadcrumbs and then went back to her room and her studies. Late in the afternoon, Frog could see her leaning from her window above, watching the clouds as they shifted and billowed in the blue, blue sky. Day after day, she came back. Sometimes she sang; sometimes she read poetry; sometimes she just sat and sewed. After a week of watching her, Frog got the nerve up to speak to her. “Hello,” he said, “princess?” The princess looked around for the source of the voice, standing up to peek around the gate into the garden. “Hello?” she said as she looked up at the windows of the tower above. “Over here,” said Frog, “in the pond. I’m on the lily pad.” “Oh,” she said, coming over to kneel next to the water’s edge, “a talking frog. You must be magic. Are you a prince, like in the stories?” Frog was worried now. He was magic, of course, but the princess shouldn’t know that. She was beautiful and had thumbs and could do all sorts of wonderful things; he couldn’t ever ask her to give that up. So, he lied. “No, not magic at all—well, except for the talking part, but everything in the woods down the road can talk. It must be some kind of natural law or suspended disbelief or something. I do like to listen to you. What’s your name?” “Estrella,” she said, “it means star—there was a nova on the day I was born that lit up the sky.” The two of them spent the rest of the day talking. She told him of court life and of the princes who came to court her, none of whom would ever say “no” or have a backbone. He told her of life in the forest—swimming in clear water, singing all night, and being able to catch things on the fly with his tongue. Before they parted for the night, Frog sang her a lullaby with notes so deep, they made ripples in the pond. They did this every day that summer and long into the fall. Every day, Frog fell more deeply in love with the princess and was only happy when he was with her. It was getting toward the beginning of winter—the time he’d hibernate—when she came through the garden gate, crying. “Oh, princess,” Frog said, “what’s the matter?” “Frog, you’re going to go to sleep for the winter soon and I don’t know how I can stand to be away from you for that long. I would do anything to keep you with me. I love you.” “Oh, heavens,” Frog thought, “she feels the same way about me. Should I tell her?” He tossed the question back and forth through his little froggy brain until, finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Estrella,” he said, “you were right when we first met. I am a magic frog, but not the kind you thought I was. I can cast a spell with a kiss, but it won’t change me—it’ll change you. If you kiss me, you’ll become a frog just like me.” “Really?” she asked. “A frog just like you?” She reached down into the pond and scooped Frog up in her hand. Holding him close to her mouth, she put her lips together and gently touched Frog on his. Nothing happened. Not to be deterred, she tried again. Again, nothing. Frustrated, she said, “Maybe you’re supposed to kiss me, instead. Go ahead.” The princess closed her lovely blue eyes and puckered. Frog hopped to the edge of her hand and planted the biggest kiss he could on her. Still nothing. “This is insane,” she said. “What are we doing wrong?” Her voice broke with anger. “We’ll figure this out, but in any case, you’re not going to hibernate this year, come on into the castle—I’ll explain you to my parents later on.” Estrella and Frog spent the first of many happy days in the castle. Over the months, their love grew until they were inseparable, Frog riding on her shoulder or behind her tiara, whispering love poetry in her ear. At last, a year later, news came to them that the witch was in town buying materials for her potions. Here was their chance to find out what had gone wrong. The princess sent her two guards, Guido and Max, to the market with orders to bring the witch before her. It didn’t take long. Soon, the old crone was being frog-marched, if you’ll excuse the expression, up the red carpet into the princess’s corner of the throne room. Guido dropped her and asked, hopefully, “You need anything broken, your highness?” “No, Guido,” Estrella said in tired voice, “that won’t be necessary, thank you.” The princess turned her attention to the witch, who was now dusting herself off. Frog watched from her shoulder, trying to figure out what was going to happen now. “All right, witch,” she said, “you have some explaining to do. You told my companion,” she ran her fingers gently over Frog’s back, “he was a magic frog and that if I kissed him, I’d turn into a frog just like him. This has not happened, even though we’ve been trying every night. What’s with this?” “Oh, the frog, the frog,” the witch stepped forward and squinted, “oh, I remember now. Pah, he’s not magic, I was just screwing with him because he interrupted me gathering herbs. Kissing won’t do anything to him, nothing at all.” The Frog looked at the princess. The princess looked at the Frog. Both of them looked at the witch, who looked back at them. “Besides,” said the witch, “it looks like you two are doing perfectly well just the way you are. Why on earth would you want to change when you’re both good enough already? The idea, young lovers, is to find someone you like just the way they are and love them for it. You’ve got my blessings.” The witch turned and walked away from the two of them. Estrella motioned for the guards to let her pass and they opened the door. As the two lovers looked into each other’s eyes—hers, blue as the sky, and his, round as the world, they realized the old witch was right. They kissed, not because of magic, but because of love. And they lived happily ever after. Tags: stories, wedding gifts
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.First of all, I want to thank everyone who has lj-friended me since the publication of Hell-Bound Train and ysabetwordsmith 's link to Dessert Course. I appreciate the nice things that each and every one of you have had to say and look forward to sharing more stories and opinions with all of you. You've made me very happy. Lots of things going on right now: I got an email from the moderator of the panel that I'll be on at Worldcon about the Hugo-winning books of Robert Heinlein. It looks like I'll be on the panel with Bill Patterson, arguably the world's top expert on the history of the man, as well as Toni Weisskopf, the current publisher of Baen Books. I expect that I'll be very, very quiet for most of the hour and ten minutes that I'll be up there. I've also sent email to the person in charge of the Rising Stars track at Worldcon, which is devoted to newly-published writers. John Barnstead's going to make sure I've got at least ten books to take there to sign and sell at the Rising Stars reception and after my reading. I contacted Pages For All Ages, the local indy bookstore, and will be giving them a sample copy to look at in the hopes that they can include me in their local author section. I want to do a home-town reading there, too. On the advice of my webmistress, vulpecula6, I watched Like Water for Chocolate and loved every minute of it. I really need to take a good look at the Central and South American "magical realism" schools of writing. I think we have a lot in common in what we're both trying to accomplish. Rest of the day ambitions--I've been trying to write an Urbanagora column on The End of Death for some time now and I just might have enough time this evening to accomplish that--we'll see. If I get that done, probably play a little Mass Effect and then go out to a late-night caterwaul with the Marcey-wife when she gets back from Danville. Oh, and I'll put up a little fairy-tale here that I wrote for my son and his new wife on their wedding-day at the beginning of the month. Tom Trumpinski
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Well, John Barnstead made the official post, but I wanted to add my friends to the notice. Riding the Hell-Bound Train is now, officially, in print. You can get it directly from the lulu site at the moment. When my lovely webmistress wakes up from her well-deserved rest (she just got hired on the chicken farm today), I'll switch it over to my website. Thanks to my wives (Marcey, kitten, and Cheron), my editor (John Barnstead), my webmistress and publicist (Allie), and everyone else who first-read, posted, illustrated, held my hand, or pre-ordered. It's been a helluva run. Time to start on more Iona stories. TC Tags: life, rule 8--finish, writing
Current Location: ManCave
Current Mood:  crazy
Current Music: Head over Feet
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