‘An Interview With Sci-Fi Author Jason Offutt’ — Hey, That’s Me
Category Archives: Humor
Review: The Brass Queen by Elizabeth Chatsworth
Constance Haltwhistle, a headstrong young woman of unruly hair and suspicious tendencies, has a problem. More than one, really, such as the law demanding she marry someone respectable or lose the family estate, an error with a sausage delivery to the king of Sweden he’s not happy about, and the damn cowboy. Yes, the cowboy was definitely a problem.
Haltwhistle is the Brass Queen, an arms manufacturer in a steampunk Victorian England. She has been in control of Haltwhistle Estate since her scientist father, the Baron Haltwhistle, disappeared. Whether he be treasure hunting in Africa, or China or on another world is anyone’s guess.
Photo credit: Sam Chinigo
The night of her coming-out party is a disaster, complete with an airship, a kidnapping, and the appearance of the cowboy J.F. Trusdale. Is all of this connected? Does Constance find a husband? And what happens when royalty comes to town?
THE BRASS QUEEN is the debut novel of author Elizabeth Chatsworth, and is a dizzyingly fun romp through a world where modern conveniences are run by steam, and all our characters are run by hijinks and shenanigans. Palace intrigue, spies, and Prussian polo, THE BRASS QUEEN has a lot to offer, usually through a veil of cheeky humor.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the rules of Prussian polo,” author Chatsworth writes, “there are only seven hundred and thirty-seven, so it’s much easier to understand than cricket.”
Constance is irresistibly flawed. Brilliant, beautiful, self-centered, and endowed with serious trust issues. The man she butts heads with, J.F. Trusdale, is a mysterious, rustic American who’s a bit of an embarrassment to Victorian British society. These characters gel, even when they try not to. The twists in the plot kept me eagerly flipping pages to see just how the Brass Queen handles herself in this world of royal backstabbing.
Much like its namesake, THE BRASS QUEEN is funny, smart and smooth. Chatsworth’s writing style is tight, light, and easy to read. Even the secondary and tertiary characters are fleshed out, the villains believable and truly, truly unlikeable.
The book, however, isn’t without a weakness or two. Chatsworth shows the reader a picture we’d like to see painted into a little more clarity. For one example, Chatsworth makes a point—more than once—that a character in Haltwhistle’s employ is an accomplished boxer, but we never see him box. This is in no way Chekhov’s gun, but the mentions made me expect he and the cowboy Trusdale (no small man himself) to square off.
No matter, I thoroughly enjoyed the fast-moving, humor-filled THE BRASS QUEEN, and I’m sure fans of steampunk will love it as much as I have.
The Brass Queen is a 448-page steampunk novel available at CamCatbooks.com and all major online outlets.
Jason Offutt is the author of sixteen books, including the novel So You Had to Build a Time Machine from CamCat Books. He teaches journalism at Northwest Missouri State University.
End transmission, over and out
Author’s note: This, as you’ll find in three paragraphs, is the last essay from my 29 years of writing a weekly newspaper column. It is not, however, the last humor column I’ll write. One will pop up every once in a while in this space for you subscribers, so don’t go anywhere.
Well, folks, this is it.
I’ve written a weekly humor column for various newspapers since 1991; that’s 29 years, which is longer than Gen Z has been alive. Gen Z. I have no idea what that means. General Zod? Generic Zantac? Given that generation’s propensity to stare at their phones instead of, oh, I don’t know, traffic, I think I’ll go with Generally Zombies.
I spent way too long on that joke. When I get in this mood, my wife often frowns and says, “you’re not funny.” I always respond the same way, “I have a stack of awards that say otherwise.” Those awards read, “Best Humor Column.”
Why, you’re asking, is this idiot talking about himself? You’re right, I shouldn’t be. The No. 1 rule I tell my opinion-writing students is never write a column about your column. I’m breaking that rule for the first time in 29 years simply because this is my last one.
When summer 2020 ticks off the calendar, so will this weekly essay. I’m finished. Jason’s column will be no more, non-existent, kaput.
Thanks for sticking with me this long.
Since this is my last chance to babble at you, here are a few topics I almost wrote entire columns about but thought better of it. Be warned, my kind and faithful readers, there are reasons I stopped myself.
Random Texts With My Wife
My Wife: My bath today was a baby wipe.
Random Conversation with Our Children
The Boy: *Yawns during homecoming parade*
Me: Are you tired?
The Boy: Yes.
Me: Well, you weren’t up half the night with a baby like I was.
The Boy: You know what you did. That’s your own fault.
Random Texts with My Wife
Jason: I forgot the list. What do we need from the store?
My Wife: Ice cream.
Jason: That’s it? Ice cream?
My Wife: Yes. Something with chocolate chunks in it.
Jason: What about milk?
My Wife: There’s already milk in ice cream.
Jason: I meant do we need milk? You know, for our children.
My Wife: Yeah. Get some eggs, too. And bread.
Jason: Do we have anything to eat at home?
My Wife: No. That’s why you’re buying ice cream.
Random Conversation with Our Children
The Girl: What’s for breakfast?
Me: Rocks and sticks.
The Boy: That’s better than what Mom cooks.
Random Events With the Baby
When a child is born, parents take it easy on them, at least the first few weeks. They have to be a month old before we even start thinking about tattoos. And smoking? No way. Not until kindergarten, young lady, and that’s final.
The first time we took our baby (now almost 6) out of the house, we were prepared for almost anything.
Have you ever gotten a newborn dressed to go into the late October air? The typical wardrobe consists of a onesie, PJs, some kind of sweater, a Kevlar vest, thermal Antarctic explorer pants and a coat made out of a bear.
Everything went well. My wife turned around to talk to the baby during the drive, even though at a couple of weeks old the baby’s conversation skills were lacking.
That’s not entirely true. The baby knew when she opened her mouth Mom would stick a boob in it.
When I parked, the baby started crying. My wife exhaled slowly.
“I wasn’t going to get her out.”
Putting a newborn into her snowsuit and strapped into and out of her rocket chair takes longer than when Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins got strapped in to go to the moon.
“I’m still not,” she said.
Then my wife did something so unexpected, so uncharacteristic, I had a hard time knowing what was real. She undid her bra, leaned into the backseat and breastfed the baby still strapped into the car seat.
I’d never been more in love with her.
Well, that’s it. I should have ended my last column with a poop joke, but my wife said that was tasteless. I thought she realized you all knew me by now. If you want to read more, you can subscribe to my website. I actually update it, sometimes.
As always, thanks for reading.
Get Jason’s New Novel
Jason Offutt’s newest novel, “So You Had to Build a Time Machine,” is out and available wherever fine books are sold (and they’re selling Jason’s too). This 352-page humorous sci-fi romp has been described as “quantum shenanigans” in a recent five-star review that declares, “This book is a gem. A perfect blend of sci-fi and light humor.”
Pick it up in hardback, trade paperback, audiobook or ebook at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or for an autographed paperback copy, right here:
About the book:
Skid doesn’t believe in ghosts or time travel or any of that nonsense on Syfy. A circus runaway-turned-bouncer, she believes in hard work, self-defense, and good strong coffee. Then one day an annoying theoretical physicist named Dave pops into the seat next to her at her least favorite Kansas City bar and disappears into thin air when she punches him (he totally deserved it).
Now, street names are changing, Skid’s favorite muffins are swapping frosting flavors, Dave keeps reappearing in odd places like the old Sanderson murder house—and that’s only the start of her problems.
Something in the world has gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Absolutely &#*$&ed up.
Someone has the nastiest versions of every conceivable reality at their fingertips, and they’re not afraid to smash them together. With the help of a smooth-talking haunted house owner and a linebacker-sized Dungeons and Dragons-loving baker, Skid and Dave set out to save the world from whatever scientific experiment has sent them all dimension-hopping against their will.
It probably means the world is screwed.
‘So You Had to Build a Time Machine’ is HERE
Jason Offutt’s new novel, “So You Had to Build a Time Machine,” is available NOW from CamCat Books.
Skid doesn’t believe in ghosts or time travel or any of that nonsense on Syfy. A circus runaway-turned-bouncer, she believes in hard work, self-defense, and good strong coffee. Then one day an annoying theoretical physicist named Dave pops into the seat next to her at her least favorite Kansas City bar and disappears into thin air when she punches him (he totally deserved it).
Now, street names are changing, Skid’s favorite muffins are swapping frosting flavors, Dave keeps reappearing in odd places like the old Sanderson murder house—and that’s only the start of her problems.
Something in the world has gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Absolutely &#*$&ed up.
Someone has the nastiest versions of every conceivable reality at their fingertips, and they’re not afraid to smash them together. With the help of a smooth-talking haunted house owner and a linebacker-sized Dungeons and Dragons-loving baker, Skid and Dave set out to save the world from whatever scientific experiment has sent them all dimension-hopping against their will.
It probably means the world is screwed.
Find it at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and wherever books are sold.
The Endless Joys of Isolation
With COVID-19 lockdown restrictions easing across the world, it’s time to look back with fondness at the month or more we spent trapped inside the house with our families.
We watched all 6,579 titles on Netflix. We read. We baked. We taught the children how to make a shiv using a spoon. It’s called togetherness, people.
Near the end, something changed. A feeling in the house, like music played slightly off-key. Our children, who usually fight to pass the time, now played together quietly, exchanged grins and nods from across the dinner table, and whispered when my wife and I entered a room.
Sure, we’ve been restrictive. Parents have to be restrictive during a pandemic. No friends in the house. We don’t care if you are flossing, that medical mask stays on. And if you want to play Monopoly the shivs stay under your mattress.
But what about the note I found written in code in, wait, what is that? Blood? Could our children actually be plotting against us?
No, not our kids; but just in case, I took detailed notes for the lawyers.
The COVID-19 Diary.
Day 40: I found a tripwire at the top of the stairs. At first, I had flashbacks to the war, then I remembered I was never in a war. That trap wasn’t set for the Germans, or the Iraqi Republican Guard, or the Rebel Alliance. It was set for me. Or were the children simply playing a game, like Daddy Fall, or Collect My Inheritance Now? I must be overreacting.
Day 41: We’re running low on food and I’m hungry.
Day 42: I couldn’t wait for a grocery run so I ate all the houseplants.
Day 43: I just realized we’ve never owned houseplants.
Day 44: Our oldest child winked at our youngest who then stared directly at me and dragged a finger across her throat. She’s only five so it was adorable.
Day 45: The Oreos hidden in our bedroom closet are missing. I suspect everyone.
Day 46: I saw our children in the yard dressing a deer carcass. The Boy held a spear. They’re getting so big. I wonder if loincloths are in this year.
Day 47: The children have gone feral. We can only communicate with them through grunts and hand motions. I’ve begun wearing tribal face paint in an attempt to blend in. I look like guitarist Ace Frehley from Kiss.
Day 48: My wife and I barricaded ourselves in our bedroom. The children have discovered fire. The stone hand ax and Clovis point are next. It’s only a matter of time.
Day 49: The house has gone quiet except for a rhythmic thump. Maybe the neighbor is working on his car.
Day 50: The steady pounding isn’t mechanical. It’s a war drum—from the living room.
Day 4 million: The children are breaking down the door. Dear, lord. This is like Moria in “The Lord of the Rings.” If you’re reading this, send hel—
And that’s where his journal ends. Dad’s at the hospital now. Please send flowers and cards.
Jason’s upcoming novel, “So You Had to Build a Time Machine,” is available for preorder at jasonoffutt.com.
Zoom: the new way to be that awkward family
It took the third lockdown Zoom meeting with my wife’s family for me to understand how awkward relatives are when we’re not eating. I knew we were awkward, I just didn’t know why.
Food, I’m now certain, is what makes the family dynamic hum. Look at the times families gather. At Easter, there’s food. Memorial Day, food. Thanksgiving, food. Weddings, birthdays, funerals, graduations, reunions, food, food, food. We learn how to communicate with each other between bites. Or, in the case of my family, during.
Of course, with my family the main food was actually booze, but the adults always made sure there was enough ham and Jell-O salad to keep the kids out of everyone’s business. And by “business” I mean standing near the beer cooler.
Now when families gather in Spring 2020 to discuss work most of us no longer go to, sports our children no longer play and school that was one of the first things closed due to the pandemic, it’s over the internet. Each part of the family sits in their own house staring silently at their computer, or iPad, or smartphone wondering who’s going to talk first.
Fun fact: No one does.
This is what COVID-19 has done to America, it has revealed our country’s core weakness—we can’t talk to one another unless there’s cheese dip.
So, if you’re one of the 95 percent of Americans trapped at home hanging out with your loved ones on Zoom, Skype, FaceTime or some other video conferencing software, spice things up. Try Jason Offutt’s Sure-Fire Methods of Ruining a Virtual Family Gathering:
Hopefully we can try all these out during our weekly family cyber gathering. Good times.
- Before the meeting, fix a sandwich, or better yet, support a local business and order pizza to be delivered during the online shindig. Your chat with the pizza guy will give everyone watching the social interaction they crave. Pro-level: Invite the pizza guy to stay for dinner, then make him sit outside while calling him your brother-in-law’s name.
- Join the conversation late, make sure everyone sees you, then walk away. Pro-level: Place your laptop in the doorway to the bathroom and take a shower.
- Thoroughly go over the news of the day and keep everyone up to date on British Prime Minister Boris Johnson’s COVID-19 condition by interrupting whenever someone speaks. Pro-level: If your spouse’s family is well educated, keep referring to Boris Johnson as Boris Yeltsin.
- Have a friend ring your phone during the meet-up. Take the call and talk like there’s bad reception. Pro-level:Discuss an upcoming drug deal or mob hit.
- Don’t wear pants and stand up a lot. Pro-level: Also, don’t wear underwear.
- Take the contrary position to everything anyone says, especially if it involves politics or child-rearing. Pro-level: Ask someone how they’re doing and when they say, “fine,” tell them, “You can’t be. You look awful.”
- Download sound effects such as someone breaking down a door, gunshots and police sirens and when you play them, start screaming. Pro-level: Actually set your house on fire.
Jason’s upcoming novel, “So You Had to Build a Time Machine,” is available for preorder at jasonoffutt.com.
The Offutt family surviving in self-isolation
I smell bad. When my family, like many around the world, began self-isolating during the spread of the COVID-19 virus, I didn’t consider how it would affect my hygiene.
How naïve.
I haven’t changed out of my pajamas for so long I forgot what color underwear I’m wearing. It’s gotten to the point I’m afraid to check. Socks, too. I’m actively avoiding looking down.
Weeks ago, before the call to hide from reality, my wife decided it would be wise to stock up on food and household items in case we were locked inside our home for an undetermined amount of time.
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Hmm. Writing that made me realize three things:
- She’s smarter than I am.
- I shouldn’t have admitted we stocked up. Now I’m worried about people looting our house for paper towels and dental floss. That’s a thing, right?
- I must have subconsciously realized I wouldn’t shower during self-isolation because when she asked if anyone needed deodorant I said “no” without checking.
By the way, I’ve mostly stopped using it. Our house smells like a dead cat we’re all too lazy to look for.
Lazy is a key word during America’s lockdown. Nothing seems to make an easily bored family lazier than being told we should stay home. It’s given us permission to indulge in some of the Seven Deadly Sins, like Gluttony and Sloth, and maybe even Lust if an unnatural desire for strawberry cheesecake ice cream counts as lust.
All this simply means I’m saddened by the fact that someday I’ll again have to wear pants and go outside.
Human self-isolation is affecting more than just our bathing and clothing habits. Air pollution over major cities across the world has decreased drastically (air pollution in New York City has dropped 50 percent due to COVID-19 precautions). And the once murky waters of the Venice canals are now clear (and strangely devoid of beer cans and rusty shopping carts to show how un-American Italy is).
The plague is also putting French prostitutes out of business, according to the international news agency Agence France-Presse. So, there’s that.
In an effort to prove America’s the best country on Earth, we’ve recently surpassed Italy and China for the most confirmed cases of COVID-19. This is mostly due to the strictly American belief that we can defeat the virus by punching it.
The United States now has a population of 330 million mostly non-showering, non-working citizens, a virus that’s killing us and ruining our economy, and a federal government trying to jumpstart that economy by giving away trillions of dollars it doesn’t have.
Sounds like a party to me.
It’s scary outside. I’m glad we’re trapped inside our home watching Netflix, eating junk food, and stinking up the joint. We’ll come out when all this is over, or we run out of ice cream, or French prostitutes go back to work (a traditional sign of spring), or I need more deodorant.
I was kidding with that last one.
Jason’s upcoming novel, “So You Had to Build a Time Machine,” is available for preorder at jasonoffutt.com.
Jason’s New Sci-Fi Novel is HERE. Want a signed copy?
Skid doesn’t believe in ghosts or time travel or any of that nonsense. A circus runaway-turned-bouncer, she believes in hard work, self-defense, and good strong coffee. Then one day an annoying theoretical physicist named Dave pops into the seat next to her at her least favorite Kansas City bar and disappears into thin air when she punches him (he totally deserved it).
Now, street names are changing, Skid’s favorite muffins are swapping frosting flavors, Dave keeps reappearing in odd places like the old Sanderson murder house—and that’s only the start of her problems.
Something has gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Absolutely &#*$&ed up.
Someone has the nastiest versions of every conceivable reality at their fingertips, and they’re not afraid to smash them together. With the help of a smooth-talking haunted house owner and a linebacker-sized Dungeons and Dragons-loving baker, Skid and Dave set out to save the world from whatever scientific experiment has sent them all dimension-hopping against their will.
It probably means the world is screwed.
Available at Barnes and Noble and Amazon.
For a signed copy, look on the right side of this page, or contact Jason and say howdy at: jason@jasonoffutt.com.
Writing and parenting; Our own personal hell
As writers, we put ourselves under a lot of pressure. Deadlines, arranging words in the right order, showering. It’s all rather stressful.
Throw in children (or out. See Number 6) and no one should wonder why we bleed from our ears. It’s called Writer’s Ear. Or maybe you’ve never experienced Writer’s Ear; it might be just me. I should probably get that checked.
We all became writers for one reason: to get the words out of our head. Being a parent is much the same. If I’m not shouting, “take that out of your mouth,” “I’m not hugging you, I’m picking a kidney,” and “stop that or you’ll go blind,” I’m probably in the wrong house.
According to Data USA (voted the most boring name in data collecting six years running), there are 181,131employed writers in the United States, excluding self-employed/self-published authors, and that person who did 50 Shades of Grey.
Couple that with the fact the U.S. Census Bureau determined 40.66 percent of American households have children, it’s safe to assume at least some of those households contain writers—some of whom apparently weren’t too awkward to have sex with their spouse. Maybe five, or even six of them. I don’t know. Math is hard.
For every lonely alcoholic writer stereotype, sitting at a bar, needing a shave, scratching thoughts on a stained napkin only to go home and throw up something they don’t remember eating, there’s a writer with children.
And those children make the alcoholic writer stereotype appealing. Sure, these writers may be sloppy drunks, but they at least get to leave the house. Children like something called “attention” that binds writers to their property. We’re prisoners, and our wardens may have trouble hitting the toilet.
Parenting is a demanding job, but so’s writing. How do we do both? It’s easy if you follow Jason Offutt’s Seven-Step Stress-free Method of Writing and Child Rearing:
- Hide. Young parents with small children don’t understand the importance of hiding from them. If they can’t find you, they can’t ask questions, such as “Whatcha doin’?” “Can I watch TV?” and “Do you seriously think writing is going to pay for my college education?” To hide effectively, program your children to believe the basement is haunted by Hitler’s ghost. Put a cozy chair and coffee bar down there for maximum comfort.
- Ignore your children. The average five-year-old will only shout for a parent 25.6 times before becoming distracted by a squirrel outside their window. This gives the writer-parent precious time to peck two-to-three uninterrupted sentences into a Word document named, “DearGodHelpMe_FirstDraft.”
- Tell the child not to do something, then leave the room.
- Eat chocolate. You may not realize this but getting into that bag of Twix stashed in the top of the bedroom closet will help your writing career. A 2009 paper in the Journal of Proteome Research showed eating chocolate reduces stress by lowering levels of stress hormones. This also gives you the satisfaction of not sharing treats with the cause of that stress. Little turds.
- Turn a radio onto the oldies station and start singing.
- Make the children go away. Not in a The Twilight Zone kind of way, more like the irresponsible parenting kind of way; it’s easier. If your kids haven’t returned by the time you’ve finished writing, post their Xbox for sale online. They’ll be home.
- Read The Shining for bedtime. Although your children may need therapy later in life, they will NOT get out of bed to ask for anything, giving you plenty of time to finish that parenting book you’ve been working on.
Happy writing.
Pre-order Jason Offutt’s new novel, “So You Had to Build a Time Machine,” at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.