Type Treatments

Typography, as I have told my students, and as many as you probably have learned, is a helluva lot harder and more complicated than it looks.

I have pushed around my initial type ideas for the cover (keeping the image the same), and have come up with the above. Please comment and let me know what you think - and that includes if you hate it. (Okay, Phil?)

Oh, and here it is in small, online store size.

Edit and by the way - if you came here early and saw a different tagline, well, you are not losing it. I am fluctuating between two taglines:

"He should have seen it coming."

and

"Do you like what you do?"

The winner (almost)

Nearing the end of my final proof read - and gathering all the thoughts on my designs (many thanks to those who commented online, and even right in person!)

Sorry to make some viewers a bit sad (Phil), but I am going with the above. I am going to continue to tweak the type and try some different colour variations - but the more I look at this cover, the more it feels like Correction Line. Just the right amount of foreboding, me thinks.

What's a Correction Line?

Besides being the name of my novel (soon arriving at a kindle near you), what is a Correction Line anyway?

I heard the term a lot, while growing up on the prairies, usually when someone was giving directions. 

"Oh yeah, head south about ten miles, just past the correction line, you'll see the turn..."

 I knew they were talking about a road, but it was a long time before I figured it out. If you have driven through the Canadian prairies, or the U.S. midwest, chances are you have been on a correction line - especially if like me, you get off the freeway and get a bit more experimental in your road choices. Now, maybe you found yourself on a long "s" curve, and you look around and wonder, "Why is this curve here? We aren't going around anything?"

No, there are not invisible structures to be navigated around, giant hay bales, or colonies of Sasquatch (though, there may be)... you're driving on a correction line.

Here's the official definition from Webster: One of a set of parallels of latitude 24 miles apart that is used for laying out nominally square sections and townships in the public land survey

Huh?

Well, here's how I understand it in basic, non-government language, we live on a ball. I'll explain...

Roads in the province of Saskatchewan are set up in a grid system - one mile apart. Nice and neat, good when your province is a trapezoid. (Saskatchewan, hard to spell, easy to draw.) But if you think about it, what happens when that nice grid is put on something round, ball-like, our planet to be exact? If you keep the mile x mile grid going, eventually those roads are going to converge. Not only will there be accidents, but problems galore for surveyors, cartographers, and cows. (Always bumping into each other).

So, every 24 miles apart, they put in a road that curves one way and then the other - to "correct" the grid. Happy surveyors, happy cows.

In the country these are hard 90 degree turns. But I also recall going around ones that are more "s" like. I had a Pontiac Laurentian, my first car, and one of the greatest feelings was taking that big boat (the Saskatchewan land shark), and easing it around a long curve. Being that there wasn't much to go around, those curves were usually Correction Lines.

So what does this have to do with a novel? 

Next time...

Check out an excerpt from the Correction Line. 

Soon Come

Drawing close to the releasing of my novel Correction Line to the wild - should probably tag its ear and see where it turns up - but just to say, here at woofreakinghoo, I will post soon the release date.

Soon is a fairly wide word of course - when I spent a bit of time in Jamaica, I learned of the phrase "soon come". My daughter, who had been living and teaching there, informed me that "soon come" could mean the person would be there in 10 minutes, an hour, or perhaps a couple of days. That was Jamaica time.

Hopefully, I'll be able to nail it down a bit more. But for now, Correction Line, soon come.

(in the mean time, you can read some excerpts below)

Excerpt Three - Awake

For your Monday, here is another excerpt of Correction Line.

Read part one here.

Read part two here.

(the usual language, violence, and general dark stuff warning applies)

"What the fuck? Aiigh. Shit – what are you? Who are you fucking guys?" Sweat broke across his face, his head dipped back, deep gasping breathes. He struggled against the blade and screamed again, his eyes rolled back and he went out. The John Deere cap fell to the floor.

Dave filled Frank's glass, gulped back the rest of his, and filled it.

"So what's going on? What are you about to do, Dave?"

"You're the one who came for the visit. I should be asking you."

"Let’s just say I got a sense."

"All those miles away? Where was it, out East?"

"Sure."

"You've been gone a while now," Dave's eyes flitted, "I didn't really expect to see you again. Ever."

Kevin moaned, opened his eyes and yelled. He jerked against the chair, the knife held him upright and stuck. His head dipped again. Dave reached into his breast pocket, then held his hand over the glass, grinding a fine powder that rest on the amber liquid. He pushed it toward Frank and nodded. Frank reached over and put the glass to Kevin's lips, a thick river of blood pulsed down his arm. The college kid shook as the full contents were poured in, spilling down his chin and onto his puffy vest. Frank and Dave kept talking as Kevin moaned softer until he was quiet.

"So tell me this, Frank. The way I understand it is that you ran from your family – as what, some weird way to protect them? That has never made sense to me. You have gifts Frank, and I could have used them. Well, to be sure, not as many gifts as your wife, but I've had one of my workers check on her –"

"Stay the fuck away from her."

"Come on Frank, you know how I feel about language. Check out your friend Kevin." Dave pointed without looking at the bleeding hitchhiker. "What do you say you come work for me again?"

"I thought when I left that you'd forget about them. Move onto something else." Frank took another long drink and looked around the room. "You got anything that looks like a cigarette?"

"Did you think I was only interested in you? Did you know that your wife is not well?"

"You drink this vile shit," he drained his glass, "and you think nicotine is bad for you. Who knows what colour this changes inside you. I know she's sick."

"You've been visiting? Interesting." A light within Dave’s eyes flashed like a camera bulb. Frank glanced outside, the window was a stained purple, the first star had appeared. "Have you ever told them why you left?"

Frank nudged the glass toward Dave, who filled it to the brim. It had been seven years since Frank last saw Dave, yet Dave seemed even younger now, his skin smooth and tight across sharp cheekbones, black hair pulled back into a small ponytail, a band of red holding it in place. There wasn't much colour left in Frank's ponytail, and his laugh lines had become dark crevices.

"So, you haven't told them. You leave a wife and a young daughter – head out for parts unknown. They used to say that in books: part unknown. And yet, when you come back you decide to come and see me."

"She knew why I had to leave."

"You're a very interesting man, Frank."

"And you're an evil son of a bitch." 

Kevin moaned, his eyes fluttered, the whites underneath glistened. He mumbled something and passed out again.

"And who is this you brought? Some long lost cousin? Maybe a friend in law enforcement? You know I don't like being visited in pairs – hard to focus on important matters."

"He was hitching – thought, I'd need some help with the driving."

Dave studied the stabbed man. "So, you've come far?"

Frank, his glass empty again, got up from the table. "I've seen," he stopped, looked out at the darkening sky, and continued," I've felt what you've been doing around here."

"That's an odd way to put it." Another flash in Dave’s eyes.

"Let’s quit this. Whose dick is bigger and who gives a shit? I know where things are headed and she knows too." Frank got up from the table.

"Your wife or your daughter?"

Frank's body jerked as he stepped forward, his arms stiffened, knees buckled, bile arose in his throat and he went to his knees. He was inches away from Dave. Grimacing, he pushed himself off the floor, rubbed his legs and smoothed his tie.

"I know how these things get passed on. It's a bit odd for both parents to possess some of what you might call, gifts – but it makes a lot of sense that they would pass it on. How old is she now?" Dave turned in his chair to face him.

Kevin opened his eyes, yelled and wrenched his body. "Who are you? What are you doing? I'm just a fucking guy!" He grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled.

"Nobody is just a guy." Dave reached below the table and in one fluid motion put a bullet in the man's forehead. 

Frank stepped back slowly.

A woman with pale skin and Asian features emerged from the bedroom rubbing her eyes.

"What's going on Dave?"

She wore a thin sleeveless t-shirt, red track marks ran down both arms.

"Go back to bed. I am just about done here."

Frank was back in his chair. "What can I do to protect them?"

"Why do you think they need protection?" Dave asked.

"Tell me."

"Hmm. Well, for starters don't leave. Come to work for me again."

"You know I won't do that."

"Do you like what you do?"

Frank reached for the bottle, which sat next to the 9 mm Dave had laid on the table.

"Just tell me." Frank poured.

"How old is the girl?"

"I am not going to deliver her to you. I've been told she's going away. She's confused, needs to find out some things."

"Like what happened to her father?"

"She thinks I'm dead."

"You don't really believe that do you?" Dave looked at him and grinned, then his face twitched, that strange flash again. "Children have a way of knowing."

Frank's chest constricted, he couldn't catch his breath. He brought his fingers to his face, inhaled deeply, slowly filling his lungs, expanding his body.

"Stop it." Frank brought his hands down, still shaking, and then still against his legs.

"Here is the thing, my friend. You tell me where she is headed, and I will find her. And you don't need to worry – she will find the protection you are seeking for her. I'll keep her close. We'll have lots in common I am sure."

"And my wife?" Frank's voice shook.

"You want me to leave her out of it, I will." He smiled and the colour in his eyes shifted. "You know maybe it is best you leave. Go back to that place, where was it, out West? You need not worry – you must know the story of Abraham and Isaac?"

"Are you saying that my daughter is the ram?"

"That's one way of looking at it." Dave rose from the table, turned and walked into the kitchen. "Better get going – driving at night is a challenge even when you have all your wits."

Frank got up from his chair, slid it back into place and walked out to the yard. The sky was a long slash of black, pale stars were scattered across the expanse. He opened the passenger door, reached over and threw out the dirty backpack. The lights inside the house went out, and an odd glow briefly lit the pine trees. In his mirror, he saw headlights of a car speeding down the grid. Dave had already phoned someone to come and clean up. Frank cranked the Dodge's engine and sped down the lane spitting gravel. He forced himself to not look back.