Sortmind Blog – Michael D. Smith

Fannin and Felicia: Wasn’t Art Enough Passion?

Posted on February 6, 2016 by Michael D. SmithAugust 20, 2019

Art Department Chair Fannin Richardson came out of my 1990’s desire to use my visual talents to move ahead with an art life. I’d just gone through the discouraging setback of mailing off scores of query letters for my novels Sortmind and Property (the latter much improved and published 2015 as CommWealth). This was pre-Internet, when contact with publishers and agents was mailed query letters and mailed manuscripts, including self-addressed stamped envelopes for the likely return. Along the way I had the oddly uplifting experience, which I predict will never happen again, of mailing an entire 320-page typewritten MS. in a box for $10 along with $10 return postage, which the agent or slush pile reader would then eagerly affix onto that same box in order to mail it back with a slip of paper stating: “Sorry, not a fit for us.” After one hundred percent of my attempts met with rejection slips I was definitely disheartened, but I also noted something funny: rejections from book publishers were inevitably more cordial, sometimes with encouraging handwritten notes, than my stories’ magazine rejection slips, which were often snotty and hostile. Though I’d come to the conclusion that sending off these query letters was like buying a lottery ticket with a similar chance of success, at least the rejections confirmed that I was on the right path. I was a writer of novels, not of stories.

But the question became: who has the time or inclination to sift through your query letter, much less three sample chapters, much less your three hundred-page novel? Whereas it was obvious that people were responding in an instant to my paintings. Their effect hits you all at once and you either love the image or not, want to purchase it or not. If your book is published after five years of work and three years of query letters, you might see a teeny advance: $1,000? $1,500? Contributor’s copies? But you could easily sell five paintings, a couple weeks effort, for $400 apiece.

Pursuing the visual wasn’t primarily because I thought it would be more lucrative, but more for involvement with the world: response, feedback, growth, breaking out of the depressing state of isolation and obscurity. Visual art seemed a much more straightforward path. Except that I forgot my ancient 80/20 balance, where I feel most psychically correct when spending 80% of my time on my real love, writing, and 20% on painting and drawing. In the ’90’s I even thought of getting a masters degree to teach art in a junior college. Armed with a new garage art studio and enough extra cash to buy those terribly expensive art supplies, I turned out a couple hundred paintings, learned a lot, had some one-man shows, and sold a few works. But I also met so many people who loved “the art life” but really had little to give either as artists or gallery owners. My new visual art life provided contact with some very expensive mediocrity, lots of clever design, admittedly with some stunning jewels mixed here and there, all supervised by art gatekeepers the way the publishing industry has its literary gatekeepers.

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Himal and Moolka

Posted on February 4, 2016 by Michael D. SmithJune 26, 2019

Although Moolka Waxtor’s romance with Derrick Dexter is central to The Soul Institute, Himal Steina, the bombastic new writer in residence who’s inexplicably appointed to the secret ruling council of Overcrons, develops an obsession for this eighteen-dimensional goddess, eventually getting much more than he’d bargained for. But first we see him jousting with the charismatic and slightly deranged Alfred Moid Burlcron, Director of the Soul Institute, who later guarantees that Himal can marry Moolka. From the novel:

Alfred Moid Burlcron motioned the newcomer to a large armchair in front of his desk. “Come on in and have a seat.”

“Well … uh … thanks.” Himal Steina uneasily took the chair as if strapping himself into the cockpit of a jet fighter. He was a powerful little bear, with burly arms and torso, woolly hair, and a puffy unshaven face. Burlcron found himself taking an instant dislike to this man, tempered by a fascination that anyone could let himself be so small and bearlike.

“So you really did drive down here in one day,” Burlcron said, taking his seat behind his desk and tapping his Himal Steina folder.

“Uh, yes, sir,” Steina said, shifting his thick legs in his armchair.

“In a race car, no less, as I hear it.”

“Uh … a race car …?”

“I’m joking, of course. You’d mentioned to my secretary that you’d be driving a Porsche down here in one day. I told her you would need a race car for that.”

“Oh … right … when I called the other day and you weren’t in … well, don’t get me wrong, sir! I wasn’t trying to impress your secretary, sir! In fact, the Porsche is really a piece of … of junk, you know. It’s a 928 S4, but it’s an ’89, got it real cheap … the previous owner rolled it and really abused the engine …”

“Hmm …” Burlcron said, suppressing the urge to write interviewee nervous on his Himal Steina folder. After all, this wasn’t an interview. The man already had the job.

“And … the transmission’s a mess. The clutch slips, fifth is nonexistent, if you know what I mean … the car’s really nothing but dents … which of course I expect to have fixed as soon as possible …”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite sure …” Burlcron murmured. Now he did write car problems on the folder, and then: Salary? Did we discuss that?

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Multilayered Characters Introduce an Epic Fantasy Series (Review of Outpost by F. T. McKinstry)

Posted on January 31, 2016 by Michael D. SmithJanuary 31, 2016

Outpost, Book One of The Fylking, fantasy author F. T. McKinstry’s meticulously crafted new fantasy series, is a truly masterful achievement.

The Fylking are powerful, otherworldy beings who use the planet Math as a portal to numerous planes of existence where they battle the mysterious and deadly Niflsekt. While respected and feared among the people of Math, the Fylking are also distant and abstract, and the novel creates a wondrous sense of human beings battered by unknown forces beyond their comprehension, playing out their own conflicts with a disturbing yet fully accepted belief that godlike beings always have the final say and may be manipulating humans to their own ends.

Book One focuses on three excellently drawn main characters, who anchor and make concrete the novel’s world-building: Arcmael, a warden tasked with being an intermediary between humans of Math and the Fylking; Melisande, a knitter who begins to understand that the “pattern sense” she weaves is actually ancient magic with more power than she ever suspected; and Othin, Melisande’s lover, a warrior and King’s ranger who becomes a renegade to escape a dreary political marriage with his boss’s manipulative daughter.

Constantly encountering serious trouble against the background of coming war, each of these characters has limitations and powers which they must face up to during their adventures. These aren’t just stereotypical fantasy characters or superheroes who always know exactly what to do. Their past defines them but they are open to vast future change. They learn about themselves and discover new strengths even as conflicts erupt many levels above their understanding. The three are multi-layered personalities, products of their culture, subject to its traditions and with their own psychic shadows.

The novel has a sensuous, visceral, you-are-there feel. The settings and plot are well-wrought but never overdone. As you suffuse yourself in the complex characters, the background of the coming of war and the history of Fylking involvement on this planet unfold effortlessly. The bad characters are also very real, again not overdone, acting from ambition and power impulses not so different from what we encounter in real life, so that when they oppose our main characters, their actions are all ring true.

I have no idea what lies in store for the second book, but the thoroughly satisfying ending does beg for more investigation of the Fylking. There is an epic structural sense about this series already apparent in Book One. The Fylking have been demonstrated to be central to this book, but in many ways they’ve been backstage during the narrative; thus we look forward to further revelations in Book Two, and we sense it won’t be a mere sequel, that the author has much more to unfold about this intriguing planet and its uncanny gateways to other worlds.

Outpost is available as an eBook from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords, and in paperback from Amazon.

Review by Michael D. Smith

Mitar, Rhea and Inhalant Abuse – from The Soul Institute

Posted on January 22, 2016 by Michael D. SmithJune 26, 2019

It hasn’t quite sunk in yet that I’ve published a literary, adult novel. This is not to denigrate my Jack Commer science fiction novels or CommWealth, which is also a literary novel but borders the science fiction and dystopian genres. But I’m marveling that one doesn’t have to stick to narrow genres in order to push some real expression into the world.

Years after finishing and then essentially abandoning the first version of The Soul Institute, because I assumed such a novel could never be published, I began running at a park bordering a creek and whenever I came up to the stream flowing under the overpass I thought of Khinwhoi Ookinga from The Soul Institute. Khinwhoi had fled his parents and dropped out of junior high so he could spend his days inhaling carburetor cleaner in the town’s storm sewer, and that overpass, which for some reason seemed an exact copy of where I’d envisioned him living in Draft 1, always made me feel that I ought to get back to finishing and publishing TSI, that I owed it to Khinwhoi and the rest of the Paint Sniffing Gang. Yet for years this dream seemed futile and whenever I ran towards that overpass I was running towards an impossibility. And though I’d think, Well, maybe someday … I never quite believed I’d tackle TSI again.

And now … abruptly … though after immense effort … there’s an eBook and a hefty, glossy-covered paperback of The Soul Institute out there. I don’t know what to make of it.

I also don’t know why I’ve never acknowledged that one of the major seeds of The Soul Institute was a newspaper account from sometime in the early 90’s about gangs of preteen kids living in storm sewers in Juarez and ruining their minds inhaling spray paint or whatever hydrocarbon products they could find. I still have the clipping though it’s buried in a box somewhere along with 2,700 pages of notes for the novel.

Inhalant abuse was an area of the book I did not write from experience. My familiarity with it paralleled Mitar’s in that he confesses that he’d “felt funny” after building a model of a Japanese World War II fighter plane “without adequate ventilation,” as he put it. Then there was senior year at Rice when I decided to tape newspapers all across the walls of my Houston apartment so I could spray light blue paint over my six-foot-tall sculpture of cotton and wood. Hours later, running out of the cans and needing more, I drove down Bellaire in the night, towards a distant Eckerd’s I knew carried the stuff … I was in a fugue state, definitely with no adequate ventilation … and with no desire to repeat the experience.

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Jipo and Derrick

Posted on January 19, 2016 by Michael D. SmithJune 26, 2019

I was pointedly hard-nosed about Jipo Jarg in the first version of The Soul Institute as I strove to delineate Jipo and Derrick’s bitter corporate marriage. Maybe Jipo was all shadow-projection on my part, and the below excerpts probably reinforce that. Then again, the hysterical Derrick is shadow stuff as well. But it was a surprise to me that both their pastel portraits, emerging during the first draft of the novel, point to much deeper psyches. Jipo in fact comes off as a beautiful woman, which is why her pastel is entitled Jipo Jarg Reconsidered.

The reimaged Jipo might explain why, towards the end of the book when she goes about seducing sophomore TSI student Dorrington Caldwell, she can gush, “Oh, I’m mad about art. Always have been. I’m going to do it myself one of these days. When I get a little time. With some pushing, I suppose I could be one of the premier artists. I’d do sixteen-by-twenty-foot canvases. I’d have a whole chapel of them, like the Rothko Chapel in Houston. All this mystical passion flowing out of me!”

So from the novel, here is Jipo Jarg, Vice President for Academic Affairs, member of the ruling circle of Overcrons, Derrick’s wife, and disinherited heiress to the Jarg family’s oil fortune:

“Sorry I’m late! Had to finish my run!” Jipo Jarg, who looked to weigh sixty pounds, still wore her running togs after pounding her daily fifteen miles through the streets of Linstar. Her teeny boobs jutted from her tight black shirt like the armored ridges of some deep-sea crustacean. Her arms and legs were strained, yellow, and wet, like something Derrick might find in his basket beside the coleslaw at Clampers Chicken. He’d nearly run her down at a stoplight last week when, obsessed with her runner’s high, she’d ceased noticing traffic. Derrick had screeched to a horn-honking halt to avoid the idiot, then recognized who it was. But she never turned to acknowledge him and in disgust he hadn’t bothered to call a hello.

“Where’s the OrganoWater?” Jipo cried, moving towards the wine table, the bright red key cord around her neck slapping across her bony chest.

Later, at his welcoming party, newly arrived and thoroughly drunk writer in residence Himal Steina encounters both Jipo and her husband Derrick Dexter. Derrick is cousin to the director’s wife Debbie, their daughter Lisa Melinda, and Moolka Waxtor, the former writer in residence who’s changed her mind about quitting and now begs to stay at TSI. Like Moolka, Derrick is also a shellshocked refugee from the Waxtor Carnationist College debacle decades ago. From The Soul Institute:

The toilet flushed from inside the bathroom. Faucets worked, the door flew open, and out charged a skinny wedge-faced woman in a red-checkered dress. “Excuse me,” she snarled as she sliced between them and marched into the living room to grab Burlcron’s elbow.

“That’s one of ’em now,” Richardson declared. “I figure every educational institution has a quota of ’em. Power tripping bureaucrats. You know the type.”

“Uh … well …” Himal didn’t want to think about politics in paradise.

“Jipo Jarg. The worst asshole you can imagine. She’s Vice President for Academic Affairs, and she sticks her nose into everything on campus. She can think of ways to fuck you over you couldn’t even conceive of. Moolka told me she has this two-year timetable for fucking up the History Department. It’s thirty pages single-spaced! Sometimes I even feel sorry for that twerp Derrick.”

“Uh … Derrick …” Himal said, not quite remembering.

“He’s the poor bastard married to her. Over there.” Richardson pointed to the medium-sized man in a sport coat with no tie. He had a bland pouting face. Funny, he’d looked teary-eyed when Himal had been introduced to him earlier. Maybe he liked to cry. Dexter’s face was so smooth he seemed to be wearing makeup, and his lips protruded so much they reminded Himal of a duck’s bill. Derrick Duck. Now he recalled Burlcron telling him that Dexter was virtually orphaned as a child and was sent to live at Waxtor Carnationist. That after he’d floundered at various menial jobs after college, Burlcron had rescued him and made him Chair of the English Department.

TSI – Amazon Kindle eBook
TSI – Amazon paperback
TSI – Barnes and Noble EPUB
TSI – Smashwords in numerous e-formats
TSI – Background

The Soul Institute in Paperback

Posted on January 11, 2016 by Michael D. SmithJune 26, 2019

A small coastal college promises sanctuary to a downtrodden midlevel computer technician who inexplicably finds himself named writer in residence at the Soul Institute–but quickly finds that he’s blundered into chaos and tragedy. The Soul Institute, published by Sortmind Press, is now available in paperback from Amazon.

The Soul Institute paperback
ISBN: 9781522846901
$14.99
574 pages

There’s something about bright light on translucent chess pieces that encapsulates whatever strange forces led me to spend two decades on this literary novel–which is also a coming of age story about fourteen-year-old Mitar Burlcron’s descent into drug abuse and gang violence, and his eventual psychic integration as the author of Deathometer Rising!

The Soul Institute is also available in eBook format at

Amazon (Kindle)
Barnes and Noble (EPUB)
Smashwords (EPUB, mobi (Kindle), PDF and other formats)
Kobo (EPUB)
Apple/iTunes (EPUB)

More background on The Soul Institute
Sortmind Press

The Soul Institute is Published

Posted on December 16, 2015 by Michael D. SmithMay 16, 2020

“Back away from the novel and slowly put your hands on top of the Internet. Keep your mind where I can see it.”

Sooner or later you come to this point. The time has finally arrived to push the novel out there.

A bestselling if somewhat unhinged novelist founds a small coastal Texas university dedicated to the study of the human psyche. Appointed writer in residence at the whim of the director, computer technician Himal Steina realizes his dream of mythic sanctuary at the vast foggy Soul Institute, falling in love with one of its numerous faculty goddesses but unaware that he’s blundering into a catastrophic jumble of power lust, romantic chaos, drug abuse, and gang violence.

The Soul Institute is my aircraft carrier flagship novel. I do think this is my best work, and it’s karmically important for me to publish TSI after either eleven or twenty-four years of work, take your pick once you see my calculations below. Since September I’ve more or less put all my energy into a final revision and publication effort. This novel isn’t science fiction, not even the bizarre “what if” social commentary of CommWealth’s dystopian economy, but like almost anything I write, The Soul Institute is farcical / over the top / serious / psychological / tragic / absurd. And hopefully funny. I try to navigate through the drafts of a novel by amplifying those sections I feel have good flowing energy, and cutting those parts that drag, no matter how necessary they might at first seem to the book’s structure. But I figure if something bores me as I reread it, it can’t really be necessary. If you reread your work with a feel for whether energy is leaping off the page, you eventually coalesce around the emotionally correct parts that are necessary. The point is that I think the entirety of The Soul Institute is now high energy.

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CommWealth Paperbacks–and Nancy’s Review

Posted on September 3, 2015 by Michael D. SmithMay 16, 2020

CommWealth is now available from Amazon in paperback format, in addition to Kindle eBook format.

In addition, the paperback and a variety of eBook formats are available from the publisher, Class Act Books.

I received some initial copies Tuesday morning, September 1, and they look fantastic. My wife Nancy was so impressed that she updated her review several times during the day:

The novel CommWealth is available from:
Class Act Books in paperback and in eBook formats
Amazon in Kindle format and paperback

Allan Confronts the Three Thugs

Posted on August 30, 2015 by Michael D. SmithMay 16, 2020

Xander Horranger copyright 2015 by Michael D. Smith

Xander Horranger, former Forensic Squad actor and sleazeball who demands Richard Stapke’s entire literary output

An excerpt from CommWealth:

Allan parked the Maserati on Walnut Street and slammed the door with what he hoped was appropriate showdown force. A few customers on the patio looked up, then went back to their beers and chessmen. Allan sprang over the bushes onto the concrete patio. A lovely young woman gave him a sidelong glance, then snickered to her friends.

“Xander, man, we need to talk,” Allan said, moving towards Xander’s usual table. Xander’s back was to him, his ragged dark hair below his collar, his beer mug gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Chunky Darco Stevens raised his own mug. Plater Hampton squinted beneath his thunderhead of wiry gray hair. “Allan, man!” Plater said. “We’re on our fifth pitcher, man!”

“Xander, we need to talk,” Allan repeated.

Xander slowly turned. “Make it quick, buddy, I’m a busy man these days.”

Plater Hampton copyright 2015 by Michael D. Smith

Plater Hampton, Xander Horranger’s gangly, weak-willed confederate

Allan took the empty chair to Xander’s right. “Pour me a beer, man,” he ordered Plater.

Time to reassert a little authority. These twits have been screwing Forensic Squad from the beginning. Dammit, I used to have the upper hand with these guys! Now they sass me! All they ever do is sit here at Lastor’s and guzzle beer! They aren’t actors! They aren’t artists! How’d I ever get mixed up with these jerks?

Plater shrugged. “Don’t got no empty mug, man. Ask goddamn Suzy.”

Allan spotted Suzy across the patio. “Hey, Suzy, I need a mug!”

Suzy grimaced, balancing ten mugs on a tray. “Hold your damn horses, for Chrissakes.”

Well, at least she’s got that low cut German thing on today. Nice.

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Allan Larson’s Cabaret

Posted on August 27, 2015 by Michael D. SmithMay 16, 2020

Erica Thora, Close Up copyright 2015 by Michael D. Smith

Erica Thora, unavailable actress

In my just-published novel CommWealth, Allan Larson browbeats the Forensic Squad acting troupe into staging an infantile play he’s written called Cabaret. (Though he swears his play has nothing to do with the 1972 movie of the same name, one has one’s suspicions.) Several lines of Cabaret find their way into the novel, but I’d forgotten that long ago, while working on initial notes for CommWealth, I’d assembled a sample play from which I could draw consistent quotes as needed. Allan Larson’s four-act effort is all of 939 words (87 of which are the title and numerous dramatis personae listed at the beginning) and reads like classic theater of the absurd, which has always fascinated me. Some of Cabaret seems to come from early plot notes transcribed into dialog. It’s always fun to unearth something you’d forgotten writing and to find yourself thoroughly amused by it. But I’ll refrain from providing a laugh track for the following.

CABARET
A Play in Four Acts
by Allan Larson

Dramatis Personae:

Carl Mindblow, a race car driver
Bonnie Mindblow, his German wife
Friedrich Xylophone, Carl’s mechanic
TC, a German drunkard
Emory Buell, a German musician
Frank Kafka, another mechanic
Billy Marsdenoillamp, an American race car driver
Doomboat Plowgryu, a mysterious tourist
Lila Astorque, a French writer
Jim Paiston, a race car driver
Akardy Slighstone, a motorcyclist
Pains Lurl, a sexaholic artist
Lappa Carugfuest, a German sensualist
Mary Beth Houckfkj, a Hungarian mathematician
Bonnie Kafka, an enigmatic figure

ACT 1

Carl: We’re here, safe in the house, but we’re sick, we’re all dying!
Bonnie: Of what?
Carl: Of tuberculosis, of course!
TC: Damn, do you mean to tell me you guys remember your lines?
Emory: Maybe the audience will come back!
TC: Get ‘em a little drunker and they won’t notice!
Bonnie: Won’t notice the tuberculosis?
Carl: Which of us really is Franz Kafka, or was, in a previous life? Which of us will die coughing our guts right out?
TC: Forget it. Blow me, Bonnie!
Bonnie: But I don’t remember the words!
Carl: Don’t worry, we’ll just ad lib!
Bonnie: But–I can’t do that!
Carl: Hey, TC–what’s Bonnie’s next line? She can’t remember!
TC: Nobody can remember their lines! We’re all high, I tell you!
Carl: But the audience is gone! There’s only three people left!
TC: Hey, Emory! You got any hint as to what this play’s about—
Emory: Well, it was obvious the twit girl will become Bonnie in Cabaret, of course. Even though the character was intended to be Lila–
TC: Then again, maybe Lila would play the part–would that be ironic!
Carl: It would express so much!
Bonnie: I am a German housewife!
Carl: But you see … as a race driver named Carl … and …
TC: I don’t believe it! Where’s Friedrich?
Friedrich: As Bonnie turns from a German housewife into the steamiest lay on the planet.
Carl: She’ll know everything!
TC: Do you dare show it to her?

ACT 2

Jill Constantine copyright 2014 by Michael D. Smith

Jill Constantine, reluctant actress

Friedrich: I fear I must sabotage Carl’s car.
Emory: But why?
Friedrich: Because I am the mechanic who works on Carl’s car.
Emory: But the race is today!
Friedrich: Carl must die.
TC: But the young woman driver gives her umbrella to me. She complies with the correct grace.
Emory: Would she like a ride home.
Lappa Carugfuest: I say no thanks.
Friedrich: Everything is free. You just ask for it.
Emory: It is a very nasty December day.
Lappa: Give me warmth against the nasty cold dampness.
Emory: Was I Franz Kafka in a former life.
Lappa: Brown buried room in the nasty winter–do I even have a house yet.
TC: I set out to write a play based on these experiences.
Emory: But Carl has an attitude–afraid to know directly himself, he struts around and feels superior to others on the basis of–
Friedrich: I bury myself in the latest can.

ACT 3

Allan Larson copyright 2015 by Michael D. Smith

The playwright Allan Larson

Billy Marsdenoillamp: I came in around 11 AM for a cup of tea. Some woman was pleasant to me. For a long time she’s been trying to be professional with me. But I haven’t seen her since we met on the street in July.
Doomboat Plowgryu: And she feels no real need to be with anyone, though she’s interested from a very distant emotional place now. But don’t reveal.
Billy: Hadn’t expected to find Akardy here, though.
Lila Astorque: He seems very confused by her arrival, and now she wishes she hadn’t come. Yet she resolves to be a real friend now.
Jim Paiston: Man, I am gonna race!
Akardy Slighstone: Man, I am gonna race!
Pains Lurl: I think she needs the work.
Akardy: They could probably be friends now. The thing with Rupert is over.
Billy: He always spends his mornings here!
Pains: And yet strangely serene.
Jim: Some things remain untouched, and nobody knows why.
Lila: Oh, that’s conversation for you!
Billy: And yet, I am comfortable with his inner self.
Lila: Mystically stable, longing for that sort of relationship–though he knows he doesn’t really want it.
Akardy: Everyone knows that his work is the theater, but he knows he’s cheating.

ACT 4

Carl: I need to get something heavy out of the back. Who will volunteer to help?
TC: You know I can bring your wife to orgasm, you are just an American.
Carl: So Bonnie has kissed you?
TC: I would say so. Albeit not very well.
Bonnie (enters room and kisses TC): Bang me!
Carl: You know why … ever since I first came in here …
TC: Come with me to my car, Bonnie. Let us do the awkward walking to my car.
Bonnie: Where are we going?
Carl: Stop!
TC: You have a race, Carl. Friedrich has prepared your car well. Meanwhile, there is a curious erotic fear going on here that I wish to explore.
Bonnie: I unfortunately wish to explore it as well.
TC: She’s apparently going through with it.
Bonnie: Perhaps he shall wish to explore my box!
Carl: Well, then it’s only fair to warn you that I have been attracted to Pains.
Bonnie: Yet everyone can see that it is more or less shallow.
Carl: Baby, I want to be Number One in your life!
TC: Yet he can’t stop now.
Bonnie: I am practically babbling!
Carl: But I sense an underlying victory.
TC: And I, an underlying excitement.
Bonnie: I am ready, my Knight. Just light the marijuana.
TC: You can expect a report on a very detailed lovemaking session here, based on my point of view.

The novel CommWealth is available from:
Class Act Books in paperback and in eBook formats
Amazon in Kindle format and paperback