What, No Shmuley?

Sol Sharp on 24 March, 2025

The fourth novel in the Shmuley Myers series is…underway. In the same way that heading into Manhattan at 8:30 on a Monday is “commuting.” I’m on deadline for a manuscript that also has Jewish connections, but is more a light fantasy/love/relationship tale. However, I’ve got a few things to share:

A Measure of Mercy is the novel’s working title. Like previous novels, the title connects a thread running through the novel. The action picks up a few months after The Property of Blood leaves off. Here’s a draft snippet from the opening scene:

I squirmed in the car’s driver seat. I was at the edge of the Austin HEB’s mostly empty parking lot, far from the entrance, but with a good view of the loading dock side of the massive building. People from my ultra-Orthodox community shopped here, and I wasn’t wearing a head covering—kerchief or wig. At least the weather was keeping people scurrying from bus or car into and out of the supermarket.

“Two to rescue,” my anonymous Upline coordinator had said. Why on a Sunday late morning, and why somewhere in the open was beyond me. Two to disappear from the Preborn Investigation Bureau’s passion to keep women enslaved to their uteri, according to the Twenty Seventh Preborn Life Amendment, which awarded citizenship from the moment the sperm hit the egg.

I patted the net bag on the seat beside me: day-old carrots and a bundle of beets. At least had the alibi done. Now I needed to remember how to make borscht like my mother made. I glanced at my windup watch: Eleven-twenty-five. Almost late.

Shmuley would be wondering by now where I’d gone, leaving all the chores to him. Ahuvi, a part of my mind wailed. My love. I tensed, my stomach muscles pulling at the scars on my abdomen and beneath. Scars from when a religious crazy—no, a psychotic mass murderer—slashed me open. I was helpless, and Shmuley, again, was my savior. The man killed himself rather than be taken, stealing the justice—and revenge—due his victims’ families.

I got out of the car, feeling naked without my hair covering. I hung an old, heavy winter coat across my right arm—the meeting signal—and closed the car door. I walked toward the bank of loading bays, shaded from the misting rain. September meant the rain was hot, with what felt like steam rising from the cracked tar pavement.

I stretched, the muscle memory of my Krav Maga training driving me to be prepared for anything. After the…after I got better, the Shtetl psychologist, a little granny, suggested learning how to fight the demons torturing my sleep. And the instructor, after hearing my story when I cried after my first lesson, promised me knife training when I got my first belt. A month later, that started. Between teaching, grading homework, and training in martial and knife fighting, I managed to soak up any time I might have had with Shmuley. Seeing the look of guilt and pity on his face. And I didn’t have the strength to hurt him more by waving off his feelings for me. Of me. Better to wall everything off. Look ahead, not remember the nightmares of the past.

A garbage dumpster blocked the three nearest loading bays, parallel to them, flush with the front of the grocery store delivery doors. Across from the dumpster, over by the property fence, was a delivery truck. No driver in sight. Good.

As I reached the shade on the far side of the dumpster, I heard a car door slam. Two women had left an old sedan near where I’d parked my car. They were dressed like me: long-sleeved shirts and long skirts. Maybe fervent Christians? They had the most to fear from being pregnant against their wishes. Not just from the Preborn Investigation Bureau—their own communities would turn on them if they even thought too loudly about terminating a pregnancy. Jethro, my partner today, had all too many stories of how that turned out. He was Saved, just like all the babies taken away from women who’d dared…I stopped that thought and rubbed my abdomen.

“Are you here for the big giveaway?” I asked when they got nearer.

“Pink galoshes,” the older of the two answered.

That was the right code, but they weren’t acting with the usual mincing fear. Not looking around to see if anyone was watching. Oy. Now they were between me and my car. Striding. People on a mission. I backed up and gave a quick glance behind me. Nobody. Hashem willing, Jethro was somewhere nearby.

The women sped up. A sound from the direction of the truck—a man was coming at me at a sprint wielding a sword—a sword!—in one hand.

More anon!

WWA

Sol Sharp on 5 April, 2024

Writing in the 4th novel has been dragging slowly lately. Writing With Arthritis is fun (for some perverse values of the word). In the meantime, the upcoming US elections will again act as a referendum on women’s ability to have agency over their lives.

Judges > Science

Sol Sharp on 26 March, 2024

The US Supreme Court (SCOTUS) has taken it upon itself to decide whether a drug is dangerous for human use.

The Thalidomide tragedy in the early 1960s might be history for most Americans, but I had a schoolmate, Amy (full disclosure: with whom I had a crush), who had two fingers and a thumb on one hand. She had it hard, and, in 1st grade, not a lot of mercy and understanding was to be found among the kids. But it didn’t keep her back. Despite Benevolent Drug Companies, the Food and Drug Administration pulled the drug from shelves after reports of birth defects. (Okay, because of a female scientist who wouldn’t shut up). Scientists looked at data made a data-based decision, and issued rules based on same.

To have a flock of eminently unqualified, black-robed, here-for-life judges make decisions about what drugs are or aren’t safe for women is, in a word, bananas. Would you want a bookkeeper to decide which drug to use in what dosage for a heart condition? Maybe ask an embalmer what a good recipe for a roast might be?

I don’t think SCOTUS will get involved in this specious, religiously-slanted issue. To rule to limit mifepristone would open the way for RFK Jr. to lobby for vaccines to be removed from pharmacies and for a certain ex-chief executive to get bleach put into HMO formularies.

Unintended consequences of laws, the foundation of the Shmuley Myers series, rolls out the red carpet for insane ideas brought to their ad absurdum ends. Georgia’s current IVF issue is a small example of it. Getting mifepristone banned would simply make more “sinners,” not more murderers. For some religions’ definition of “sinner.”

Lurching Back to Life

Sol Sharp on 21 March, 2022

Restart with a Goal

Being an author with both a life and another full-time job makes adding the social media aspect hard. Add to that writing a series as well as working on other manuscripts, and you’ve got one overloaded human.

But I’m going to try anyway. Starting with getting a team together:

  • I’ve started looking for a social media person w/author management experience.
  • My awesome White Gold Wielders writing group sets things up for my alpha readers (for Jewish law, medical, and law enforcement double-checks) which leads into beta readers and finally a professional editor. One need only pay for one once to understand just how important they are (are you listening, Robin Seavill?).
  • Gudrun Jobst does page design and layout as well as the covers. And a dang great job she does of it.

This takes time and money, and having a paying job helps. And will help pay for the first bullet point, above.

I’ll have a post every week or so, with little tweaks and updates as I have the time.

Where Are We At, Again?

A Day at the Zoo is out and available on most all ebook platforms. It’s also available as a trade paperback from Amazon. It’s weird to have the occasional person ask that I sign their copy. What do I say, “hi, thanks for buying it?”

Too Good a Cover?

Book Two in the series, A Question of Allegiance, just went off to the editor and should be back for my edits and final cleanup in a month or so. Unlike AD@tZ, AQoA went through a more systematic editing process (all hail for learning on the job), and so I’ll need to get with Gudrun in a couple weeks to work on the next cover. I sort of outfoxed myself with the first cover as it is generic. If I could use it as the series “cover,” I would. But, alas, folks need to be able to quickly see the difference. I’ll have the blurb up shortly.

Book Three, The Property of Blood, was a very hard one to write. Authors do so ever get attached to their characters. It’s a complete draft, twice gone ’round, but now ready for alpha readers to have at it. It’s a bit longer than the second book, and might need to have some scene deletions, but, since this is being self-published instead of hewing to the ever-changing whims of the publishing industry (which seems to be imploding), I can give the readers a bit more Shmuley than otherwise dictated.

Book Four, A Measure of Mercy, about half complete, word count-wise. Which {sigh} means it’s probably only a quarter of the way done. I did more planning for this book, since as the number of books in the series gets longer, there’s more “Did Shmuley ever this place?” “How does Jethro get involved in the story line early on?” “And what about Erian???” As usual for the series, I’ve got a good view of most of the key events, but not wrapping up the loose threads into a knot — I’m not done making all the threads yet!