When I decided, lo, the many years ago, that I was going to quit pretending to be writer and actually put some effort into, you know, writing, I had many, many expectations. I expected I’d put a lot of silly words down. I expected I’d have to keep at it until I didn’t suck anymore. I expected to someday have a novel I was proud to put my name one. I expected to make myself mostly crazy.
Check. Check. Check. Annnnnd…check!
I’m pretty sure I’ve driven the Puddinette mostly crazy in the process, too. But that’s more of an added bonus.
But of all the things expected, it’s the ones I never imagined that really have made all the blood, sweat, tears, and bunny sacrifices worthwhile. And of all the unexpected outcomes of becoming a writer, one stands out among the rest. A glaring, shiny example of why we should always set out to reach the top the mountain, while making sure to revel in the climb.
Because along the way you’re going to meet others, others like you, others who know the pain and glory of putting hand over hand, foot in front of foot, word after word on a white space filled only by an infuriating blinky cursor and the mad ramblings of your fevered gray matter.
I have a tribe now, one unlike any I’ve ever had before. One that gets it, that gets me, that truly understands why we do—must do—what we do. A tribe of pen-wielding brothers and sisters, scratching their own way up the mountain. No matter how long it takes to reach the top of that summit, my life has been made immensely better by them.
That said, then, it’s a pretty Big Deal when one member of the tribe finds that perfect path, hits all the right footholds, and scrambles on ahead, to the top of the peak. That’s when you hoot and holler and cheer like a damned fool, as if you’re trying to wake the dead.
Which is what I’m going to do right now.
A writer friend of mine, JC Nelson, has a book hitting shelves and Kindles and Nooks and iBooks and pretty much anywhere else a book can land with an impressive, satisfying thud in this day and age. And I just can’t say enough good things about the book in question, Free Agent.
What’s it about, you ask? Well, this:
When it comes to crafting happily-ever-afters, the Agency is the best in the land of Kingdom. The Fairy Godfather Grimm can solve any problem—from eliminating imps to finding prince charming—as long as you can pay the price…
Working for Grimm isn’t Marissa Locks’s dream job. But when your parents trade you to a Fairy Godfather for a miracle, you don’t have many career options. To pay off her parents’ debt and earn her freedom, Marissa must do whatever Grimm asks, no matter what fairy-tale fiasco she’s called on to deal with.
Setting up a second-rate princess with a first-class prince is just another day at the office. But when the matchmaking goes wrong, Marissa and Grimm find themselves in a bigger magical muddle than ever before. Not only has the prince gone missing, but the Fae are gearing up to attack Kingdom, and a new Fairy Godmother is sniffing around Grimm’s turf, threatening Marissa with the one thing she can’t resist: her heart’s wishes.
Now Marissa will have to take on Fairies, Fae, dragons, and princesses to save the realm—or give up any hope of ever getting her happy ending…
Free Agent is a funny, action-packed thrill ride, as entertaining as it is creative. It’s a fresh, novel take on old fashioned fairy tales laid over the complications of modern life. Well, I mean, a modern life that’s a bit more Secret Agent than sits-at-a-computer-and-types-all-day like you and me, but still.
And before you ask, no, no one asked me to write about it. I volunteered. I’ve read the book, and although a lot of urban fantasy leaves me a little meh these days, Free Agent did exactly the opposite. I found myself always wanting to read just one more page, to squeeze in just one more chapter. In fact, my kids don’t realize the favor JC Nelson did them, because if nothing else, Free Agent earned them plenty of extra time to stay up before I could tear myself away from Marissa’s misadventures to put them to bed.
Look, I know I don’t tell you what to do often, but if you love books with an off-kilter twist, a unique sense of humor, and a fat wallop of action, you should totally checkout Free Agent. And, Look! Convenient links to purchase it are right here:
What’s that? My effusive praise somehow just isn’t quite enough to get you to take the bait? Fine, then. Play hard to get. Look, it’s cool with me. But how about this, then: why not read the first chapter? Yeah, sure, free of charge. Tell you what, this one’s on me. Just take a taste. Read Chapter One, it’s posted below. See if you like it—because yeah, I’m pretty sure you’ll like.
Then, when you’re done and you want to read what happens next, why not hit up one of those links above?
And even if I can’t persuade you to buy a copy of your very own, how about joining in the hooting and the hollering? Because you can never have too many voices raised in celebration of great accomplishments as if you’re trying to wake the dead!
More on JC Nelson
A Texas transplant to the Pacific Northwest, JC Nelson lives with a family and a flock of chickens near rainy Seattle.
Find JC Nelson online at:
Face book: www.facebook.com/authorjcnelson
The New Year’s Eve countdown told me I had five minutes until the ball drop. That gave me six minutes until somebody got killed. I spotted the shoplifter in line at the theater and worked my way across the street, through the teeming crowd. She had no idea what she was wearing, which made her both stupid and dangerous. Stupid was dangerous enough by itself.
“Marissa, I might remind you of the time,” said a man’s voice. It came right out of the store window beside me, the dry voice with its not-quite-English accent. He watched me with critical eyes.
“I got it, Grimm.” I walked along the theater line, head down.
His image followed me, reflecting from the windows and even the brass banister knobs that held the velvet rope. “I’ll believe that when you actually do.”
Call it women’s intuition, or maybe the slippers she wore tipped her off, but the shoplifter turned and looked right at me. Our eyes met, and she knew why I was there, if not who I was. As the crowd surged forward, she ducked into the theater, disappearing into the throng.
“God Damsel-it.” I spat out the faint taste of soap. “Doesn’t count, not a real curse.”
“Watch your language, young lady. Only proper women live happily ever after. Now, go get those slippers back.” Grimm appeared in the ticket window, beckoning me on.
If I had enough Glitter to buy a happily ever after, I wouldn’t have spent all day chasing a thief. There were easier ways to make a living, and definitely safer ways.
I breathed in the warm lobby air, laced with enough butter, fat, and salt to make me gain a couple of pounds just from walking through.
The ticket man watched me as I approached, jiggling my leg. “I’ve got to go. Could you save my spot in line?”
He rolled his eyes, the apex of teenage angst, and motioned me past. I’d been to my fair share of balls and knew where I’d go if I had a pair of shoes that were killing my feet. I headed straight to the bathroom. Nobody in the prep area, but I listened. There, soft sobbing, and the click of high heels on ceramic.
“The slippers won’t come off like that.” I hoped I wasn’t talking to a Grandma, but the sobbing cut off.
Grimm coalesced into the mirrored wall, his white hair framing the bald spot on his head. He looked at me over horn-rimmed glasses that masked eyebrows like a yeti’s. “Marissa, two minutes.”
If I’d had something handy, I’d have thrown it at the mirror. In the name of not having a magical disaster, I decided to commit the cardinal sin of the ladies room. I tried the stall door. As my hand touched it, the door burst open, hitting me in the face. Pain made the world flash white. I put my hand to my nose and felt the blood as she dashed out of the restroom. Grimm told me the shoes were enchanted, but the fact that she could run in three-inch heels meant serious magic. Now I knew I had the right girl. In the lobby, the fire alarms wailed as I came out of the bathroom, and I caught a glimpse of her running out. I charged after her, through the fire exit and into the alley.
I wasn’t afraid of your average dark alley. I had standard Agency-issue spells in my coat and a nine millimeter in my purse for dealing with the less dangerous pests, but even I knew you have to be careful with an upset woman.
She pulled at her feet and limped down the alley. “I’m not giving them back.”
No way was she going to outrun me. Tennis shoes might not be the height of fashion, but I wore them for their practicality. I slipped a bag out of my pocket. “This will let me take them off. You can’t remove them because you stole them.”
She stumbled, then slumped against the wall, her feet out in front of her. Passing taillights made the glass slippers glisten, moving and shifting, like something alive. That made sense, since Grimm said they were. The glass filled with red, like she’d cut her toe. The bloodstain spread up the sides of the glass and she began to gurgle and cry.
I pulled out my pocket compact. “Grimm, I might have a problem.”
“Tell me you have them.”
“Get out of there, Marissa. She’s not going to turn into a pumpkin.” His voice was firm and commanding. I’d never been the type to listen to firm or commanding. See, there was this thing about magic slippers. Use them with permission, and at midnight the whole deal expired. Steal them from a custom boutique on Fifth, and at midnight turning into a vegetable was the least of your worries.
She curled into a ball, kicking, growling, and making noises I’d never heard outside of the labor and delivery room. Running through the theater was out; heading back in there would introduce a whole load of teens to a different kind of monster than the movie ones. The loading bays down at the end of the alley didn’t look too promising, and now Princess PMS rose to her feet. The bloodred stains covered her from head to toe. Shadows covered her face, but where the orange wash of the street lights hit her she looked maroon.
“You want to let me help you?” I asked. The growling noise she made ruled out diplomacy. “Okay, we do it my way.”
She leaped at me. I’d mastered seven different forms of self-defense and I wore all four of the major protection charms, but one thing was constant: Whether my assailant was a drug addict or a bridge troll, pepper spray would leave them blind. So I ducked out of the way and gave her a dash of the scent I was sampling that day. It hit her like a brick, leaving her clawing at her eyes. I realized as she stumbled past that her nails were now at least three inches long and razor sharp.
She started sniffing the air, then like a dog, she ran straight into me, knocking me back to the Dumpster. Dumpsters hurt. I caught her arm before she could give me surprise plastic surgery and slammed her into the ground, pinning her underneath me.
That should have ended it, but she rolled over, throwing me to the side, and I barely stepped out of the way of those nails. She kicked at me and I caught her foot.
“Gotcha,” I said, rubbing the shoes with the bag. Grimm said the bag was made of genuine werewolf fur, but whatever it was, the effect was immediate. She thrashed and choked and kicked and I held on tight until she went limp. The slippers came off in my hand without a fight.
They glimmered under the streetlight, and for a moment I saw an image form in them: Me, walking down the street in them. No Agency bracelet on my wrist, a bag from shopping in my hand. I could be free, if only I put them on.
“Marissa,” said Grimm, speaking from the reflection in the shoes, “put them in the bag.”
I did, and the fantasy blew away like dry leaves down the sidewalk. My back hurt where I’d hit the Dumpster. My arm throbbed where she’d grabbed me, and my cheek had that hot feeling that said somewhere in her thrashing, she’d managed to nail me with a foot.
“I’m going home,” I said to my compact mirror. “What do you want me to do with her?”
“Leave her for the police. They’ll be there shortly. Evangeline needs your assistance on the Upper East Side, and there’s the matter of a troll.”
“I’m going home.” I knew full well he’d heard me the first time.
“I’ve got work for you, Marissa, and if you are ever to get your own ever after—”
“The only after I’m interested in right now is after a bottle of wine and after a long night’s sleep. I’ll see you when I’m ready for work.”
“Marissa, you need to ask yourself what you want more: A night’s sleep, or another job.”
I wiped a trace of blood off my lip, took a look at my bruises in the compact. Everything about me ached and the cold seeped out of the shadows into my bones. I put my hand on the bracelet and made my decision. “Tell Evangeline I’m on my way.” Nights like this made me wish I’d never gotten started in this business.