It is my pleasure to announce the launch of yet another new book from the twisted mind of me. It is a calling, a compulsion, an avocation, a truly devious deception I offer to the reading public. For is not fiction a great deception? The verisimilitude of plausible irony? Indeed, only words for one's pleasure, sentences for a semblance of scenery, and a plethora of comedy faux pas not withstanding. That said, I refer to THE WARRIORS BAUMANN, available in either paper form with a back or in plastic form under electronic duress. The choice is yours, dear gentlereader!Here we have a ribald comedy set in a future Missouri where medieval society reigns - 200 years after the end of the previous volume in the FLU SEASON Saga (THE GRANDSONS, Book 6). Two brothers, Baumann descendants, find themselves journeying to the capital city of Louis on a mission: Elder brother Rory intends to wed the princess and thereby make the Baumann clan into high-class folks. Rory's larger but younger brother Stank (a.k.a. Stanley K. Baumann) doubts the scheme. For one thing, there is a duke who must be removed to clear the way for Rory's courtship to proceed. With an out-of-work actor, a feisty warrior girl, and other players joining them, this tale has more twists than one of those twisted braid pastries with the pecans and frosting on it. A delight which Princess Majory would snarf down in an instant.
However, this is not the end of the Baumann family saga. Even now work continues on the next volume: an epic of medieval monstrosity, a most serious account - serious in ways THE WARRIORS BAUMANN is amusing - of the fantastic war between twin princes in 3030 - as mentioned by travelers in my 2017 novel EPIC FANTASY *WITH DRAGONS. We can see how the timeline is coming together. The next novel shall be titled A TIME OF KINGS, and while the focus of the story is not any Baumann descendant, the narrator of the story is yet another member of the Baumann line who participates in the war between these twin brothers.
How did this madness begin, you might be wondering. There is a tale as old as time, when thoughts and actions were set as words on surfaces: clay, stone, parchment, paper, electronic screens. I, too, partook of the art of invention, drawing from the stormy clouds images and sounds which I mistook for reality. Called fiction by the scribes of my locale, I found them a secret delight. Indeed, I fancied my own creations and thereby took up the paper pad and pencil and drew forth the lines that represented persons of my imagination. I circled their spoken words like bubbles over their heads so they might tell us their thoughts.
Given this ability, I sought further expansion and learned the form called paragraphs. The gathering of ideas within a single block of words proved miraculous. Being only a child at the time, I was praised for presuming too much and offering more than my size should produce. In time my scribblings made sense, drew more praise and encouragement flowed, foisting me into a light of key limes - or perhaps that, too, was mere dream. Thus I fashioned many such tales of quite unalive persons acting as I wished them to act for purposes of delighting myself and others with the many ways such persons could act. And, to our great amazement, we were entertained by such invention.
Indeed, I grew bolder and imaged more - even as this talent grew weary for those close to me. So I tempered my enthusiasm bit by bit until nothing remained of my fictionalization urges. I slipped into the ordinary life, a world of vast emptiness, a plane of plain musings not of what invention might bring but only the facts, ma'am, only the truth - as set on the pages we read in our school lessons. But there is more truth in the pages of imagination than those scraped across our great institutions - truth of a kind. A split was due.
As I gained entrance to a higher school, my fictionalizing also grew, became unwieldy and couldn't be contained. I wrote out stories for each and every assignment regardless of the class or its subject. All was narrative. All a protagonist's journey and an antagonist's blockade. The pattern repeated endlessly. On one fine day I ventured into a new room and found there a scholar who believed my fictioneering had merit. I accepted the praise in my usual humble manner. That said, I devoted myself to the creation of imaginary tales of made-up persons doing ordinary and interesting things, occasionally extraordinary and highly interesting things, such that greater stories were put to the page.
In that ancient era, we employed the device called the Smith-Corona manual typewriter. The device allowed a single person to push keys which imprinted characters upon an inserted sheet of paper. An amazing invention for the time. In that terse apprenticeship, I composed a story of 66 pages, in single lines, following the model of a book titled "1984" - which we had read in a class. I thought my take on the tale was totally tremendous. Passing it around to friends, who passed it to their friends, brought it to the attention of half the school by the time the stapled pages found their way back to me. I was to become a legend - if not for my musical career bursting on the horizon, sending me and my tuba to a proper university; indeed, a conservatory, to hone my skills and make something of myself, as the professors liked to say.
I continued to compose stories alongside composing music. Both became outlets for my imagination: a tale told in words or a tale told in notes. The same to me; I knew the details. Then came the time in which decisions were made. Alas, I did not become a great composer of Classical music or even film music. I allowed myself to be swept away into foreign intrigue. Only then did I realize the story side of my efforts was the true one. Oh, I could still dabble in music, enough to entertain myself. But I had to admit it was a lot easier to write a book and hand the pages to a reader than it was to gather a bunch of musicians, copy out individual parts, and perform a symphony. I did actually compose a symphony but the 3 movements were never performed all at one concert.
So I took up the cause of the English teacher. I made myself into one of those who taught how to write. How to write all manner of texts, in all situations, employing a variety of styles and tone, incorporating information and opinion, images and links to the at-large world. It grew tedious in time. I started to scribble again on the side. Even as I worked to earn my money, I created stories which saved my soul. That is the story I'm telling. There is more to tell, however; I would call it the good parts. You be the judge.
So I took up the cause of the English teacher. I made myself into one of those who taught how to write. How to write all manner of texts, in all situations, employing a variety of styles and tone, incorporating information and opinion, images and links to the at-large world. It grew tedious in time. I started to scribble again on the side. Even as I worked to earn my money, I created stories which saved my soul. That is the story I'm telling. There is more to tell, however; I would call it the good parts. You be the judge.
I shall continue this history lesson in a less haughty fashion in my next post. In the interval, I highly recommend you get started with THE WARRIORS BAUMANN, and prepare yourself to burst out laughing perhaps forty times between its covers. And please note: there will not be a test at the end of your reading, so simply enjoy the tale of our two brothers doing their best to win at life! So let it be written, so let it read!
(C) Copyright 2010-2025 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog.
Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.
