Hello, friends.
This summer has been one crazy week after another. I can’t say that I’ve entirely been fond of how busy I’ve been outside of the writing/creative stuff. And now I have one full week of summer vacation left and still so much to do. While there wasn’t as much done this week as I would’ve like, there was some significant things done.
Welcome to the 82nd installment of Gauthic Times, the newsletter about my writing, my life, and excerpts of stories.
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Anyway, let’s do this!
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I finished the line edits for Project: Monster this week!
With the edits done on paper, I’m now ready to go into the file and start fixing things there.
I decided to do something I’ve never done before and put the manuscript in a binder. The main reason is that I don’t have a large enough desk to have the manuscript laid out but I have a spot near my desk that I can easily put it in a binder. I can also take it with me easily, should I choose to. I’ve seen other writers working like this so figured, Why not?
Anyway, the edits are done so now it’s just fixing the manuscript. I will be printing out Project: Amusement Park sometime in the next few days and start the process again. I may just put it straight into a binder.
I’ve had a fairly good, polished version of Project: Monster with an agent for almost a year now (as a matter of fact, I think next week makes a year) but need to move forward and begin the process some more.
One of the things I neglected to do this summer was research agents for Project: MG Space Adventure I. I’m bad a research and need to stop that crap.
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For this week’s newsletter, I’m going to do a little something different. I don’t have anything else to really talk about right now. However, Patrons at a paid level will have access to a short story called “The Death Museum.”
Below is an excerpt of the story.
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THE DEATH MUSEUM
by Bill Gauthier
Dealing with death had a way of changing time which made the walk from the brand-new 1988 BMW to the front door of the Victorian mansion seem to take hours. For Nathan Blythe, this was common before a negotiation. He tried to ignore the drizzly mid-October air chilling his face and hands; it was better to stay focused. Always better to stay focused.
The four steps leading to the front porch creaked under his weight. He removed his right hand from the warmth of his overcoat pocket and rang the doorbell as the grip on his attaché briefcase tightened. Nathan turned away from the door. Red, yellow, orange, and brown splotches of wet leaves lay on a bed of green grass provided all this day’s color. The leaves, if they were dry, would’ve been something Natalie enjoyed playing in and collecting. His soul reached out to a sunny fall afternoon when she was four and they’d collected leaves for preschool.
Focus, he told himself. Stay focused.
Nathan inhaled and turned. He raised his hand for the doorbell again when the door opened a crack and a gray eye appeared.
“Yes?” a woman with dyed blonde hair asked.
“Mrs. Collins?” Nathan asked.
“That’s me,” she said, voice soft but with an underlying roughness to it. At one time, Anne Collins may have sounded innocent, naïve, perhaps even airheaded. No more. She waited for him.
“My name is Nathan Blythe. I work for a man named Augustin Dabrowski, founder of the Death Museum.” He held a business card toward the gap between door and jamb.
Anne Collins eyed the card for a beat before a slender hand took it. Her crimson fingernails glimmered though they weren’t fancy. The fact that she did her nails at all meant the worst of her mourning was probably over. Nathan stepped back and she opened the door a little wider, revealing her whole face. She was beautiful but Nathan believed that just six months ago she might have been exquisite. Her blonde hair, cut fashionably, was washed and brushed but not set. Her clothes–all designer–drooped on her thin frame. They’d been bought for their fashion but were now being worn simply to cover her. She studied the card.
He hated this part.
“The Death Museum?” she said, her voice emotionless. “It sounds like a bad horror movie.” The line was old, a cliché, but she didn’t throw the card back at him or thrust it toward him or try to return it in any way. She studied it, running a finger over the thick cardstock and raised lettering. She knew quality when she saw it.
“Regretfully so,” Nathan said. The response also belonged in a bad horror movie but it was what Mr. Dabrowski wanted him to say, paid him to say. “However, rest assured, there are no theatrics involved. Mr. Dabrowski has a business proposition for you.”
Anne Collins’s gray eyes looked him over as they had the card. A navy blue suit, navy and maroon silk tie, gray overcoat, hair short and styled, good shoes. Her eyes went from the brown leather attaché briefcase in his left hand, halted a moment at the wrist (she caught a glimpse of the gold Rolex peeking out from the overcoat), and met his brown eyes, weighing the possibility of this being some kind of trick.
“What kind of business?” she asked, wary.
“It concerns your husband,” Nathan said. His heart rammed. This was always the most difficult part of the job; mentioning the dearly departed could catalyze any reaction.
Anne Collins flinched minutely at the mention of Gregory Collins. Barely noticeable. “I’m afraid–”
Nathan raised his right hand. “We’re aware of Mr. Collins’s unfortunate demise. Please accept our condolences. Unfortunately, his demise is the reason I’m here.”
Anne Collins said nothing, just looked at him.
“Augustin Dabrowski owns a museum that has a select clientele,” Nathan said. “Many of his clients are very wealthy and pay costly dues. However, to add new exhibits to the museum, we must have legal authorization from–”
“You want to display my dead husband in your museum?” She sounded disgusted, shocked.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Heavens, no.” Heavens, no was also part of Mr. Dabrowski’s script. “We have no interest in your husband as he is now. We have an interest, however, in the incident that took him from you.”
Recognition filled Anne Collins’s eyes.
“We have the contracts all ready but can change them if they’re not to your liking,” Nathan said, indicating the briefcase. “If I could come inside….”
Anne Collins stood framed between the narrowly open door and its jamb for a moment, looking past him.
“Greg used to rake the leaves,” she said to herself. Then, as though startled by the sound of her own voice, her eyes returned to Nathan. “How much did you say Mister…?”
“Mr. Dabrowski.”
“Mr. Dabrowski was offering?”
“Well,” Nathan said. “Ten thousand dollars is our offer.”
“Twenty-five thousand,” Anne Collins said. For the first time since she opened the door, life seemed to fill her.
“I’ll give you five thousand just for your time,” Nathan said. “If you let me in.” He held out a roll of bills.
Anne Collins took it, a cold finger brushed his, and counted the roll. Satisfied by the one hundred dollar bills, she stepped aside.
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I think that’s it for this update. Thank you for reading!
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Gautham: Bill Gauthier.com 
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