About Sam Best

Sam Best is a speculative fiction author living in San Diego, CA.

Wrapping Up

There’s nothing like being able to put the final touches on a manuscript that’s been gestating for two years. As I get closer to hitting the publish button, I realize I’ve forgotten how good it feels to actually finish something.

Deep Black is in the final stages of editing, and each day is better than the last because I’m approaching the horizon. Sure, I have almost twenty pages of notes to get through, but it’s exciting more than it is daunting.

I’m already looking forward to writing my next book, which I hope to start right after Deep Black hits the digital shelves. I’m slowly building up my notes for that one so I can churn through it with minimal delay. It has a slightly different flavor than the Infinite Sky series, but the time period and the technology feel very similar. I hope, anyway. I guess we’ll find out when it’s finished.

Until then, happy reading.

Will The Real Me Please Stand Up

Just for clarity’s sake, I thought I’d let everyone know what’s going on with my different pen names.

I don’t publish everything under one name because I write in several different genres, and having a different name for each style helps with marketing and minimizes brand confusion (buzzwords!).

Currently, I have three:

  1. Samuel Best – science fiction
  2. Sam Best – horror/fantasy
  3. A.P Kensey – Young Adult action/fantasy

More might come along in the future. I’d like to write a thriller and maybe something leaning toward the literary. We’ll see.

That’s it for now. Happy reading.

Local Newspaper Interview with Thomas Marks

I recently had the pleasure of sitting down with Thomas Marks, a man who hasn’t slept for more than one night in one place ever since his personal quest to prepare for what he calls “a terrible war” started almost a year ago. He was kind enough to swing by my office on the way to his next meeting and fill me in on the book Long Road to Phoenix which sheds a little light on his exciting adventure. Continue reading

Yes, we are monsters.

A procession of small bronze sculptures lines the east bank of the Danube in Budapest.

If you keep your eyes on the city’s impressive architecture and hardly ever look down, you’ll miss them. If you’re both lucky and unlucky, one might catch your eye and draw you in for a better look.

As you get closer, you realize they’re shoes of all shapes and sizes. Empty shoes.

Welcome to the Shoes on the Danube Bank, a holocaust memorial.

Continue reading

Finding Truth in the Wild

Blood or blisters.

Either of those on my hands at the end of the day means I’ve earned it.

Earned my sleep. Earned the right to call myself a man. It sounds like macho posturing. I guess everything needs a label. So be it.

The feeling is primal and deep, pure and unfiltered.

It is not an emotion I gleaned from reality television or the newest lifestyle magazine. It cuts through the everyday bullshit and reminds me that I did something today. Something real. Something that will leave a scar. Continue reading

Short Verse – “The Cold Man”

I found this in an old notebook. It’s at least 12 years old, if not older:

The Cold Man

At the bottom of the sea, he sits

Bubbles rising; crystal prints of amorphous spheres

Disappearing into the black above.

Below?

Who knows? He hasn’t swam that far.

Yet.

Tomorrow?

Maybe yes. Maybe no.

He might break Surface today.

Join the crowd; don The Suit.

Sit for a meeting; drink some coffee.

He’d be back by noon, of course.

He never lasted that long above.

Just like his father.

His father.

He who dared to swim below, into the abyss;

To discover.

Who knows what he found

Down there in the deep?

Maybe I’ll go down tomorrow, the son thinks.

Maybe.

The chance to solve the mystery intrigues him.

He ponders it a while,

Then leaves his sandy perch

and follows the bubbles to the surface,

His long tail tracing ripples in the dark.

Worlds

While I’m a supporter of National Pride and I think it’s a sentiment that is often ignorantly cast aside in favor of popular (or at least more vocal) opinion, I still have little interest in the Winter Olympics. On display are disciplined athletes performing at a higher level than most could ever hope to achieve, yet I’m still kind of peeved that it postpones the small handful of television shows I watch by several weeks. Shame on you, over-achievers, for not making it easy to indulge bad habits.

This got me thinking about the various cultures surrounding “things”. Many people have a “thing”, be it football, stamp collecting, painting, etc. Each of these things is a world unto itself, wherein there are heroes, villains, outcasts…stories. Worlds within worlds; branches leading to smaller branches, all growing from the never-ending tree trunk of life. What may look superficial at first glance is actually a culture steeped in tradition, often dating back hundreds of years. With the Winter Olympics, there isn’t just one sport to hold your attention. You could learn everything there was to know about bobsledding and yet know nothing about the history of the snowboard. There are endless worlds within our own, and they are each being explored by someone out there.

This, in turn, got me thinking about books. Every book is a world waiting to be explored. Think how many libraries are bursting with texts, each one a universe unto itself. It boggles my mind, and it throws so many layers of depth beneath an existence which is already satisfyingly deep. Enriching. That’s the word I’m looking for, I think.

So you winter athletes keep doing your thing, and you football players keep doing your thing, and you writers keep doing YOUR thing. Someone out there lives in your world. Who knows how many countless others will stumble in?