
Hawaiian shirt postman! Way too hot for the thick shirts.


It’s been some years of waiting, re-reading (or in my case most often, re-listening) to the rest of the series, diving through the threads on Reddit or the forum on his website, and scouring YouTube for interview bits, but Jim Butcher has put out his next novel, “Peace Talks”, with a follow-up “Battle Ground” hitting my Audible app in September.
A duology within a series that is supposed to end on a trilogy. Dammit Jim, but you’re good.
After taking a hiatus that I know very little details about, and honestly do not want to know; that’s his private life and dammit that needs to be respected, and it’s not like I’m not going to prepare myself for a new book by going through all of the previous stories, but “Peace Talks” hit my phone a few days ago and I gave it my utmost attention.

To give some personal history, I was introduced to this series back in 2006, when a friend of mine bought me a hardcover copy of “Proven Guilty” as a Christmas present. I made it until Lasciel showed up in the story before I put the book away and decided that I needed to know more about the series and should start at the beginning. From there, I delved into the world of Dresden and marveled at the interpretations of the mythologies I grew up around. I even have my hardcover copy of “Changes” autographed by Jim, done by proxy from a friend who was attending a convention. It’s all but impossible for me to attend a convention, and he knew how much of a fan I was of the writer. Good people are hard to find, so hold them close.
Anyway, “Peace Talks” hit my phone and I listened to James Marsters tell me the story. I reveled in ‘seeing’ all of the people I’ve spent the past 14 years knowing, learning about the fallouts from their decisions and making my personal predictions of where they’d go (by the way, Jim, I friggin’ called Thomas’ outcome back when I heard “Thomas, you idiot” and I want that noted somewhere, hence the blog), and also being totally floored by the new introductions.
Understand, readers: I’m an amatuer historian, but I read a LOT of Irish mythology. I was not expecting to see who I would, and it’s raising a metric fuckton of questions that I’m pretty sure Dresden can’t resolve, and Jim simply won’t (I’m a writer, I understand the perverse joy of denying readers their answers if they don’t figure it out for themselves). Namely because I don’t think Dresden would really survive a conversation with Lugh, if he managed to survive his own problems way back when. But it’d be stupidly awesome to see Dresden trying to manage the Spear of Assal, just saying.
The only problem I really have with the story is the time displacement, and that is honestly just a personal one as I rectify internal calendars. Some of the story elements hit like they’re from 2014 (about the time that we last saw Dresden, or so I’ve been told by good sources), but some others hit like they’re from 2019, and when I notice them I try to place them historically. That’s a crux of writing urban fantasy with real-world settings; I’m looking for the when so I can have a bulwark of personal questions concerning the characters.
All in all, a good book, Jim, and a good read, James. I’d love to go into more detail and discuss particulars, but I will not spoil it for anybody who hasn’t yet had the time to read or the opportunity to listen.
I’m actually about to go through my second listen, to see what I missed. See y’all around, folks.

Today was my day off! I did not have to be up at the hour of “whatthefuckisthetime”, did not have to make the mad-dash out the door, did not have to mindlessly sort my letters, and did not have to walk 12-16 miles for my daily bread. As it’s a dream to finally finish the novel and send it off for editing/possible publication (and start work on the next one), you’d think I would have taken this opportunity to seclude myself at my desk and plunk away at the keyboard.
Alas, you’d be wrong.
The main reason I don’t use my day off to fully embrace my introversion and write for 8 hours is a reasonable one: I love my family and it kills me that I don’t get to see them that often. A couple weeks ago, my daughter, soon to be 4 years old, was up with me while I readied to head to the office.
“Will you be gone all day?” she asked. I was buttoning my shirt and looking for my satchel.
“I’ll be gone all day,” I said. “But I’ll be home in the evening, at least by dinner-time.”
This little girl stood by the door and gave me a blank stare. “I never see you,” she said. “I wish you were home.”
I’m not going to lie, people. Being told by your child that they miss you, and the reason that they miss you is because you’re gone for most of the day, between 8-12 hours, just fucking hurts. On top of that, when I get home, I’m too exhausted to really play or do anything except sit down and decompress. I’m on my feet all day for my bread, so I take full advantage of the couch when I get home. I have to wait until the late-night hours, when everyone is asleep and my mind is finally clear of the mail, for me to focus on the story. Until that moment, I try my best to be present around the family, which can get troublesome, as both kids are stubborn and don’t like being told things like “we don’t push” or “stop leaping off the couch into the pile of laundry” or, my favorite, “if you don’t stop running without looking, you’re going to hit a wall at full speed”.
But wait, that’s not the only reason I struggle to write.
One of the problems with being in a full-time job of old-school trappings is that it becomes a fight to be both an old-school husband and a modern day spouse. Yes, I work my long hours to provide for the family. But I also want/need to handle my share of the chores, and that has a higher priority than being useless in the house and smacking the keyboard with hopes of entertaining the masses. There’s dishes to do, animals to feed/care for, and the yard to maintain. If I was already a successful writer, and not gone for most of the day, I don’t think I’d notice these chores. They’d all be done before 10. But as I do work a ‘real job’, I have to have the mad-scramble of taking care of all of these things in the few hours I have between “I have clocked out!” and “I’m gonna pass out now!”, thanks to the sheer exhaustion of enduring the elements for the daily bread.
But wait, there’s STILL more.
This one is an honest trapping of the writer’s mind: it’s a bitch to want to write after work, and the day off is such a joy to have that I unknowingly embrace the entirety of a day off. I relax (as much as I’m capable of), I goof off, I play friggin’ video games. This is a discipline issue, but dammit man, I never get to do that and it’d drive me crazy to not.
I’m looking into a possible career change that wouldn’t take me away from home for so long. I’ll stay in the federal field if I can, as I’ve already invested almost 10 years into it. But I’m looking into something like programming or IT, so I’d be able to do more work remotely. That’d be something, right?
I did manage to get almost 800 words down today, in snippets throughout the day. I still need to attend to my lunches for the week, and then, then, I’m going to attempt to write more.
Cheers, folks.
It’s that wonderful time in the life of the parent where you attempt to teach your child the ins-and-outs of a sport you haven’t played in over 20 years. It’s proud papa-talk, but she’s getting the hang of it, I’d say.

Of course, I had to follow the tradition of dads all throughout history: attempt to give a batting lesson, then get hit by a full-force swing in the thigh. Hence the sitting down at a distance that gave me this photo opportunity.

It’s a day off, the skies are clear, and it won’t get much hotter than 86 degrees.
This weather is perfect…..for staying inside and writing in the book!
Look you, I’m outside almost every day for my bread and butter, so I take every opportunity to write at my desk.
For about two years, I worked as a Shop Steward within my local Post Office Union. I’ve had an in-depth experience with what a union does, how it operates, and the importance of its existence for a workforce. I have represented my coworkers in various negotiations between them and management, namely to keep them from being disciplined or to ensure that their overtime hours are noted for the next paycheck. In my time as a Steward, I’ve become a devout follower of the concept that is a ‘worker’s union’. I am and will always be a diehard union supporter.
That said, I’ve been looking into police unions, and I have to say something that does piss off my coworkers and puts me in an interesting spot between the rock and the hard place:
While Unions are Great, the Police No Longer Deserve Theirs
Before I dive into this opinion piece, I am going to do the annoying thing and talk about the history of police unions. I like giving as much context as I can in a debate (probably why no one debates me: it takes too damn long). I’ll do as much of cliffnote’s version as my nerd-brain will allow.
In the United States of America, policing goes all the way back, to the point of night watches in the fledging colony villages, as far back as the 1630’s. These were people who agreed to go about the towns at night to look for gambling and prostitution, but this would evolve and change as villages and towns became cities. In 1838, Boston founded its own police force that was organized, uniformed, and on-duty. With that idea in the zeitgeist, we began having police forces being established in other cities, ensuring public safety of persons and property.
Sidenote: The concept of police in the South, as it came into being, was centered on making sure the slave trade continued running smoothly, and I continue to be mortified at my regions’ history.
Enter the Labor Movement and all of the whacky (to the upper class) concepts that came along with it!
Again, we go to Boston, but we’re in 1919, now. I want you to take a moment and imagine this time: World War I has ended, the United States went from a backwater nation to the banking capital of the West, soldiers were coming home, the October Revolution (Bolshevik Revolution) is raging in Russia, and the Spanish Flu is sweeping through the planet. The world is changing at a rapid pace and no one quite knows what to expect next.
(Kind of like modern day. Listen to the historians, people.)
In all of this, we have policemen realizing that they’re being required to work 72 hour weeks for little pay, with few workers’ rights, and overall a rather shitty existence. As a postman, I can’t help but relate to that mindset. They were not guaranteed anything like retirment, a fair wage, or proper treatment from their supervisors. Again, something I can relate to. So, what to do? Unionize.
Of course, once you unionize and demand the higher-ups actually listen to you, you get all kinds of shit. In 1919, the Boston Police Department joined the American Federation of Labor (AFL) and started a chapter for themselves. This went as well as you’d expect for the time. This was considered to be a Bolshevik-minded thing! How dare these policemen actually demand better working conditions! You get the point. Edwin Curtis, the Commisioner of the time, refused to speak to the union organizers, suspending them and 11 other officers, and the rest of the force was told that no such thing as unionizing was going to happen.
Welp, shit got real soon after. There was a strike among the police force, and Boston went somewhat insane. The Massachussets State Guard was called in to replace the police force, which went about as well as you’d think. They weren’t used to dealing with rowdy crowds. People were shot. 9 people died.
And so the world learned that police were needed, but they needed to be listened to about working conditions.
That was 1919. Let’s jump to today.
In the now-over-100 years since that time, the police force has ready access to the firepower it believes it needs to handle the level of crime that persists in this country. Whatever the crime, they have the power and authority (two different things in this statement) to handle it, and they believe it to be absolutely necessary, and I would agree to that, if I believed that every city is dealing with the kind of criminals we see in movies.
And we’ve arrived at the point that I, a stalwart union-man and all-around rabble-rouser for worker’s rights, will put my foot down and say “that’s enough”.
We are now at the point when the local police force (my town is around 45,000) has access to military-grade armaments and vehicles. They are protected by the authority invested unto them to observe the people and enforce the law, and when their personal judgement results in a non-white person being killed for a minor infraction, their union will fight tooth-and-nail to make sure, at minimum, they will keep their job.
On paper, I get that. It’s exactly what I’ve done as a union steward. But when I’ve done it, it was because someone misdelivered a package that cost $30 or were 2 minutes late one too many times, or (my real most common problem to deal with) because they argued that they needed overtime to deal with an overburdened route. I know that fight. I’ve fought that fight.
Do you know what happens when a postman steals or dumps mail? They’re fired and most likely jailed, and the union doesn’t do shit for them. That’s a fuck-up that is common sense: Don’t do that.
In these modern days, the police have access to more ways to kill people than the average citizen, and God help that citizen if the officer is young, or nervous, or has a prejudice or rascist attitude.
If a Postman has a rascist attitude to a customer, they don’t have a job. They might, might, get the money they put into their retirement. But the postal workers of the United States don’t have the ability to decide, at a whim, that someone is going to die, even though they do get attacked and killed. They’re not allowed to carry firearms and have to use de-escalation for everything from a barking dog to a crazed individual wanting to steal the parcels in their truck.
If a Policeman harms or kills someone, in the line of duty, whether it was justified or not, their union will step in and fight to keep their job. Even if the person who was killed was an unarmed black man who tried to use a $20 note that turned out to be fake and was in circulation.
Sorry, fellow people in blue. You don’t deserve your union represenation anymore. You’re not a protector but a low-grade soldier that doesn’t realize it’s fighting a war that doesn’t exist. I’ve worked routes considered “high crime”, and I went into those neighborhoods without bullet-proof vests, without guns, sometimes without dog-spray. I’ve been a fixture of the local community. I’ve walked into gang fights and talked the folks down (had a certified letter for a leader to sign) and walked away perfectly fine, even after having a gun pointed at me.
If you want your union to actually mean something, maybe be something worth protecting.


With the chaos of the day-job done for the week (1 guaranteed day off), I get to greet an early Sunday morning surrounded by pine and a good distance from the highway.
There will be attempts to get some writing done for the day, I swear.
Buster is a 14-year old Terrier type of dog that has greeted me every day for 5 years with the same thing: Old-ass hatred. He growls at me and slowly walks away. Once and only once has he barked at me. I’ve never worried about being bit; I don’t think he has enough teeth for it.
Today was a day for concern. He’s usually asleep when I walk up, but he wouldn’t growl at me the entire time I sorted letters, dropped mail off, even called his name. I was worried enough to knock on the door and ask his owner about him.
He did wake up while I was asking after him and give me a light growl to express his hatred. He then accepted a petting with a contented look, growled again to make sure I understood where he stood on the matter, and went back to sleep.
He’s a good old man.

Sidenote: He has a bed right behind where I’m standing in this picture, but he refuses to sleep on it.