"Tragedy... heartache... how much more can Tyler Montgomery and John Webster take? This mission trip, the “healing” one, has only added fresh layers of pain. Construction of an orphanage in Haiti’s northwest... yes. But a doomed rescue operation, human traffickers, human anomalies, extreme personal danger... risk of death? They hadn't signed up for those." Want to learn more about this adventure novel titled Vanished, by our Writer of the Week, Mark Bierman? Follow this story as he takes readers from his home of Ontario, Canada to the tropics of Haiti.
Forty-nine-year-old Mark Bierman of Ontario, Canada says his town was once home to singer Avril Lavigne. "She grew up here, went to the same school that my children currently attend. There is a pizzeria that was once her favorite, and they still have photos of her posing with the owners."
Photo of Author Mark Bierman
Mark is an action/adventure writer and what got him interested in the genre was working as a Correctional Officer in a maximum-security prison. "The environment was so toxic and demoralizing, that I took up writing as a way to gain satisfaction and therapy."
But if you ask what inspires his stories he will tell you quite a few things. "It's a combination of my past work experience in the prison, my work as a P.I., and general life experiences. When I wrote Vanished, the inspiration came from a mission trip that my father and brother-in-law took to post-earthquake Haiti. The main characters are loosely based on them, but most of the events in the book are fiction. "
His favorite spot to write is in his home's office/spare bedroom, "There is a large desk in there that provides plenty of space to peck away at the keyboard." When we caught up with Mark he was between books but told us, "I just finished reading a great one by author Catherine A. Hamilton, titled Victoria's War. There's plenty on my TBR (to be read) to choose from, so I'll be tucking into one of those soon."
Does this action writer have a favorite action series? Mark says, "I don't really have one. Each one is unique, with its own brand of plots and wordsmithing." He also shared with us that action/adventure, horror, and supernatural reads are all favorite genres of his to read. Because we have all dreamed of having our books turned into movies at some point, Mark admitted he could see Mel Gibson playing his main character.
In his spare time, Mark said he is refurbishing an old radio, "I was given an old radio that was made in the late 1930s. It still works, well, sort of. It lights up and makes static. I am currently working on refurbishing it. I may have to find a professional to calibrate it. It still has the old tube system."
Amid his radio endeavors, Mark is also writing another book that will be a stand-alone. His advice for writers who are thinking about publishing this year, "write every day that you can, make it a habit; don’t give up, writing a book is a marathon; join an author support group . . . I joined Rave Reviews Book Club several years ago and it’s been great; use Beta readers (people who will read your finished manuscript, before it gets published) and proofreaders -it is so easy to make typo’s and miss them; after your book is published, be ready to work yourself rugged to market your book- there are a lot of books and voices out there, but support other authors and they will usually support you- I don’t look at them as competition, there are plenty of readers to go around; NOT everyone will love your book- do not take it personally . . .some people want more chocolate while others want vanilla. One rule I use is that if at least three people have the same complaint about your book, then it may have validity."
Mark's favorite author quote by Jodi Picoult sums up the writing process well, "You can always edit a bad page. You can't edit a blank page."
Catch author Mark Bierman on our Podcast Saturday, March 27th at 6 pm EST to learn more about Vanished, his writing, and more about his latest WIP.
But first, read an exclusive excerpt from Vanished, right here on The Writing Wall Blog.
Chapter One
National Penitentiary, Port-au-Prince, Haiti
January 12, 2010
“Twenty-one! I win!" Thierry raised his skinny arms overhead.
“How do you keep winning?
That's every day for the last week! You cheat!” Frantz shouted, crumpling the cards in his fist.
“I’m just better at Casino. Enjoy sleeping on the floor."
“No, I’ll take the hammock!”
“We’ll see, tomorrow.”
“I’ll take it now! Move it, boy!”
“Think you’re man enough? Come get it!”
The two inmates squared off.
From fifteen feet away, Janjak raced to close the distance. He tripped over soiled men and spilled waste buckets. The curses of fellow convicts were ignored. His vision morphed into a tunnel that encompassed only the combatants. Watch their hands! Almost there.
Hands! Hands! Something flashed. Knife! The Haitian launched himself as Frantz pulled the weapon from his waistband. Shoulder met chest in a violent collision. Frantz cried out as he was tackled onto a stained mattress. Pinned underneath Janjak, the felled man snarled and tried to stab his assailant. The pair wrestled forcontrol. Janjak placed his knees on the opponent’s arms, immobilizing them. Hepried the knife free and threw it out of reach.
“Thierry, get out of here now!” he screamed. Thierry slipped away, into the mass of humanity. “Have you had enough?” Frantz nodded and then relaxed. He begged for release. Janjak held his position to ensure it wasn’t a ruse. A caustic cackle split the air. Both men tensed. The predator had smelled blood.
“Please let me up! Please! Not in front of him,” Frantz whimpered. Janjak didn’t budge. The ice water circulating his veins was vaporized in the cauldron of rage and disgust that boiled inside his heart. He snapped his head around to confront the beast. His eyes came to rest on a convict everyone called Raven.
The title was accurate. The black marble that occupied the left eye socket had more life than the real one. Raven’s cavernous mouth split apart to unleash another hellish peal. Teeth resembling crooked and decayed tombstones rimmed the outer fringes. Widely feared, some whispered he was really Kalfu, the voodoo spirit of darkness.
An atheist, Janjak scoffed at the supernatural designation. Raven may have been a sadistic carnivore, but he was just a man. One who treated his prey with feline cruelty. Frantz began to sob. Now ashamed, Janjak let him up. Frantz scurried away.
A gravelly voice chased him, “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to play! Heee! Haa! Haaa! Haaaaa!” Nauseous, Janjak turned away.
The laughter became thunderous. The building shook. The scene exploded into chaos. For an instant, he almost believed Kalfu existed. What’s going on? A quick glance around revealed three hundred men in the tennis court sized room running amok. They crashed into one another and tripped over debris. The fallen were trampled. Janjak froze. A section of roof collapsed with the reverberating sound of discordant kettle drums, crushing Raven. Red blood flowed from the corpse. Raven was human.
Earthquake!
Slowly, as if regaining consciousness, Janjak returned to his senses. He had a shot at freedom and an equal chance that this vile prison could be his tomb!
There were no cells in this former chapel, however, the windows were barred and the steel door was locked. Their structures may have been weakened sufficiently to allow a few strong men to force them open. He fought through the panicked mob. It took every fiber not to join them.
Another section of roof caved a few feet away. Something struck his head. The pain blinded him; followed by a warm oozing that painted his returning vision red. Blood and dust formed an acidic paste that burned his eyes. His lungs were sand blasted with every breath. An arm appeared from under a mass of ceiling. It thrashed about, as if to escape its master’s fate. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.
Janjak shoved past the last swaying hammock. Ten steps from the door. He was blindsided by another man. The impact sent him into a sprawl, injuring his leg. Try as he might, it was impossible to push beyond a glorified hobble.
He reached the door. The walls moved like paper in the wind. He grasped the handle and pushed. It refused to budge. No use, help was needed. The wall beside him cracked ominously. Time’s almost up.
A young man ran over. Others joined in. With a group of eight, the door began to give.
The noise intensified. A horrific rumble threatened to burst eardrums. Janjak glanced behind. A cloud of dust and debris rolled their way.
The wall teetered back. The crew heaved as the outer fringe of the dust bowl reached them. Pelted by large chunks and deafened by the enraged beast about to swallow them, Janjak waited to die. A transcendental peace filled him. His body continued to push. It acted alone. The mind was gone.
A hard landing brought him back. He was now perched on the door. Some debris and humans were on top of him but nothing that couldn’t be removed. His eyes stung, his head throbbed and his leg protested any attempt at movement. Yet he was alive. At least for now.
Five occupants of the door stirred. Three would never move again. He dug himself out and looked around. The quake had stopped. Bodies littered the ground. Groans and whimpers rose from underneath the ruins, men lost to eternal darkness.
Not me, I’m a survivor. A gang raced around the main cell block. Janjak followed. When he rounded the corner, he was struck with incredulity. The wall! It’s gone!
Men clambered up the ruins. They hesitated, momentarily, at the top. Then, one by one, disappeared. Janjak cocked his ear. No shots, good sign!
He peered down at his leg and gave it a pep talk, "We can do this, just a little pain and we can be free! This is Fate and it's given us a gift!"
The injured man reached the crumbled wall and struggled to the summit. All clear. The former resident of the National Penitentiary stumbled down to the street and entered a city overwhelmed by annihilation and bedlam.
Author Bio:
Born and raised on a farm near Brockville, Ontario, Mark Bierman's childhood consisted of chores, riding horses, snowmobile races across open fields, fishing trips to a local lake, and many other outdoor adventures. He was also an avid reader of both fiction and non.
Transitioning towards adulthood also meant moving from the farm and into large urban areas that introduced this "country boy" to life in the big cities.
Drawing on his many experiences as a private investigator and later a Correctional Officer, Mark combines his unique experiences and imagination to create his stories and characters.
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A new Writer of the Week is featured every Monday at 8 a.m. EST on the blog. Please follow The Writing Wall on Twitter @TheWritingWall or on Instagram @writingsonthewall85 for updates and announcements. Readers may also tune into the podcast every 2nd and 4th Saturday of the month at 6 p.m. EST on Anchor, Spotify, Google Podcast, Apple Podcast, and more.