Sunday, March 30, 2014

"Deluge" by Daniel Diehl

by Daniel Diehl

Deluge is currently on tour with GMTA Publishing. The tour stops here today for my interview with the author and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Noah’s wife and sons knew he was old but they assumed his claim of being over 600 years old was a joke. But when he begins hearing a disembodied voice claiming to be an unknown God who is about to destroy the world, they begin fearing for his sanity.
When Noah insists on building a huge ship to save his family they are certain that advancing age is destroying his mind – at least that’s what they think until the mysterious strangers appear out of the desert and claim they have been sent to help Noah build his great ship.
Finally accepting this strange situation, Noah’s sons agree to help build the ship, but as construction progresses relations between Noah’s family and their neighbors deteriorate into ugly confrontations and threats of violence.
Then, as the ship nears completion, it begins to rain…and then the real problems start.

Book Trailer

The old man pressed the heel of one hand hard against the small of his back and levered himself up from where he had been kneeling to trim the last suckers and unwanted tendrils from one of his grapevines. He had been carefully and lovingly trimming his vines since just after sunrise and his joints and muscles were now painfully cramped; but it was not the ache in his back that made him look up from his work. Poking his head between the upper two of the three trellis slats on which the vines had been trained to grow, he looked westward, up the rocky rise toward the top of the low hill. There, standing behind a chest-high wall of stone, mud brick and thorn bushes stood his wife, and she was calling to him. He waved one hand above the trellis before cupping it to his ear, indicating that he could not quite make-out what she was saying.
“I said, it’s past mid-day and your lunch is ready.” Making a broad, beckoning gesture with one arm she added, “Come in out of the sun before you roast your brains.” She only waited for him to wave an acknowledging hand before turning away, muttering to herself and shaking her head, before disappearing from view.
Pushing himself up from the dry, sandy earth with his knuckles, the old man stared down at himself as he dusted bits of soil and vine trimmings from the trailing ends of his hair, his stomach-length beard and the coarse-woven homespun cloth of his dun-colored gown. Before turning from his work he made a quick, final survey of his vineyard. It covered almost half an acre and had taken him nearly ten years to cultivate - collecting wild vines from the slopes of the eastern hills and replanting them on the hillside east of his home where they would be exposed to the soft, nourishing goodness of the morning sun. He had nurtured them, trained them to run along the neat rows of wooden trellises, carefully pruned away unwanted shoots and suckers, leaving only the best, fruit-bearing branches to flourish. He had no way of being certain, but as far as he was aware no one else had ever tried to cultivate the wild grape vines from the mountains and it was an accomplishment in which he felt a justifiable pride. He was grateful that his two oldest sons had taken over the woodworking and blacksmith shops; only when he had been freed from the constant demands of work could he make his long-held dream of taming the wild grapes a reality. He rubbed the palms of his hands together one last time, clearing them of the last, tiny specks of dirt, smiled to himself and turned toward the house and his wife.
On his way up the gently rising path toward home and food he surveyed his own tiny kingdom as it revealed itself from the crest of the hill. The little compound covered just over an acre and a half. Safe inside the protective stone wall was the home he had shared for over thirty years with his wife, Nin. It may not have been grand by the standards of people who lived in a city but with two commodious rooms, a serviceable mud brick floor and a good, solid roof strong enough to serve as a sleeping platform during the heat of the summer, it was as nice as any house in Eridu. Together, he and Nin had raised three fine sons here…well, he admitted to himself with a sad shake of his head, they had raised three sons and two of them were very fine indeed. Ham, however, was a slightly different matter. Also inside the compound stood the house of Shem, his eldest, which he shared with his wife Utap – who was a good, strong woman – and their seven year old daughter Beni. Ham’s house was there too, as was his long-suffering spouse Shallat. Poor, sweet natured Shallat with her dark, wounded looking eyes; she deserved better. The three houses shared the compound with a small kitchen garden, an orchard containing a stand of mature pomegranate and apricot trees, the communal well, the chicken yard and a small sheepfold. There too, was the open-sided building where he and the boys stored their precious supply of timber after it had been split into planks and neatly stacked for drying. Trudging up the path toward the woven willow gate leading into the compound, he passed the workshops. The carpentry shop was empty as was the smithy; both of the elder boys must have gone home for lunch. Certainly Shem had done so and he could only hope that Ham had done likewise and not wandered off with some of his rowdy friends or gone to the tavern.
Approaching his house, Noah saw the wooden door standing open on its leather hinges, as usual. Dusting himself off one final time and straightening his coat and gown, he crept to the edge of the threshold and peered around the doorpost like a small boy spying on his parents. Across the dimly lit room Nin crouched in front of the low, open hearth of the stove. After chucking a few patties of dried ox dung into the flames she laid another flat, unleavened loaf of manna bread onto the flat surface of the cooking stone.
“Hey, lady, can a starving stranger come in for a bite to eat?”
Rising from where she knelt, Nin brushed the flour from her hands and moved briskly toward the door to give her husband a peck on his whiskery cheek. “Absolutely not. But if you see my husband, tell him that if he doesn’t come home soon I am going to skin him alive.” Noah smiled and returned her kiss.
“I’m sorry if I’m late. I just got so involved with the vines and…”
“Husband, you always get involved with your vines.” Nin shook her head, turned and moved back toward the baking manna. “Sometimes I think you care more about them than you do about your own wife. I saw more of you when you were running the shops than I do now that you’re retired.”
“But you like the wine, don’t you?” Gently, he teased her, shadowing her steps until he was close enough to where she knelt that he could bend down and nuzzle her neck with the bristly ends of his mustache.
“I never said I didn’t. You make the best wine in Eridu. Now take your seat before the stew gets cold and the manna is burnt to a cinder. I even melted some goat cheese into the stew, just the way you like it.”
In passing, Noah gave his wife’s bottom a playful swat. “Of course I make the best wine in Eridu. I make nearly all the wine in Eridu.” Then, craning his neck to look into the loft occupying one wall of the house’s main room, he scratched his chest and mumbled, “Where’s Japheth?”
Japheth, their youngest, still lived at home, but Noah knew he would probably not be there for long. He and the girl Merimda had been spending more and more time together over the past six months and all the signs pointed toward marriage sooner or later. Probably sooner.
“You were so late that he finally ate and left. He and Shem are working on something in the shop and he went over to Shem and Utap’s place. Before he left he told me to ask you to go down and give them some advice when you’re done eating.”
“I missed him in the vineyard this morning. One day soon he’ll be getting married and…” Noah shrugged, bit off a piece of the chewy manna after sopping up some of the succulent, spicy gravy, redolent of dill and coriander, and chewed on it resignedly.
“And we will extend the walls so he and Merimda can build a house here in the compound and you will see him every day just as you have for the last eighteen years.”
“I know. But he’s my last.”
“No, husband. He is my last. I’m nearly forty-six years old and way past child bearing; you, however, can always repeat the process - indefinitely if what I hear about you is true.” She had moved across the room to stand near the table and now she drove a knuckle into Noah’s ribs, making him wince and pull away with a grunt.
“Thank you for your confidence wife, but no more children, no more families. I’ve grown too old for such frivolities.” Waving his wooden spoon in the air expansively, he shoveled the last drops of stew into his mouth and spluttered, “From now until I die it is just you, me and the grapevines.” Swallowing the last morsel and washing it down with a final swig of heavily watered wine, he hoisted himself up from the three-legged stool. “And since we are about to be left to shift for ourselves in this lonely house, I think I should wander down to the shop and spend a few moments with my sons before going back to sweat in my fields.”
“You are welcome to go see what the boys are working on, old man, but after giving them the wisdom of your council you are going to come straight back here and take a rest before you go back out there in that hot sun.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yes you are, and it’s my job to see that you stay that way.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Don’t you start, Noah. Now be off with you. Go. Go.” Grinning like a child, Noah ducked around the door to avoid having his back-side flogged by the hem of Nin’s skirts, which she was now waving at him as though she were shooing an errant chicken out of the house.
Strolling across the courtyard toward the gate and the workshops beyond, Noah could hear the sound of voices coming from Ham and Shallat’s house. As usual the sounds were loud and angry. Noah shook his head sadly and hoped it would not be Ham who inherited the strange gift of unnatural longevity that seemed to bless – or afflict – one male child in each generation of his family. According to Noah’s father, Lamech, the oddity of their long lives began with his great-grandfather, Enoch, whose life had spanned more than five times that of a normal man, and whose U-shapti statue now held pride of place on Noah’s family altar. Noah had never held any great faith in the vast pantheon of gods from which individuals, towns and villages each chose their patron deities, but anyone who bestowed a gift of nearly eternal life certainly deserved the deepest respect and the occasional offering of honey and wine. Still, sometimes Noah wondered whether living for centuries was more of a curse than a blessing. What does it say for a man when he has to bury everyone he has ever known and everyone he loves - wife, children, grandchildren – and repeat the process time after time, down through the centuries until he could hardly even remember the names and faces of his first half-dozen families?
Noah did, however, remember vividly when his father had told him that his grandfather, Methuselah, had been nearly nine hundred years old when Noah was born; naturally he refused to believe it, who would? But by the time Methuselah died, Noah himself had celebrated nearly ninety birthdays. And so it went through one generation after another of his family. Almost certainly the same strange condition would afflict one of his own sons, but which one there seemed no way to predict. Time, undoubtedly, would tell. How many times over the centuries had he wondered about this? A hundred? A thousand? Who knew? What he did know, was that he had never been happier. Despite Ham’s problems, Noah had a fine wife and two of his boys had grown to be all a father could ask for; fine, responsible, hard-working Shem and dear, sweet, loving Japheth. Noah knew it was wrong to favor one child over another, but of all the children he had fathered over all the long centuries, Japheth was beyond doubt the dearest to his heart…maybe because he would be the last.
“There you are, father.” As though his appearance had been cued by Noah’s thoughts, Japheth came darting out of the wood shop and grabbed him by the hand. “Shem and I thought you got lost. Where were you?”
Throwing an arm around the boy’s shoulder, Noah gave him a lop-sided squeeze and leaned his forehead against his son’s long, shiny black locks, inhaling the fresh, clean scent of youth. “I’m sorry, I just lost track of time. If your mother hadn’t called me in for lunch I would still be out there trimming suckers and lashing stems to the lattice. Tomorrow you have to come down with me and see how well the new white grapes are coming along.”
“The ones you and I built the new arbors for?”
Noah was about to tell Japheth about their new vines, but he was pre-empted by the sound of Shem’s voice.
“You need to be careful; it gets too hot out there.” A few steps inside the big double doors of the shop, Shem was speaking to his father while wrestling awkwardly with the frame of a plow he had been building.
“Thank you, Shem; now that your mother has reminded me of that fact, and you have so dutifully reinforced it, maybe my poor old mind will be able to remember.”
“Don’t joke about it, Papa. We’re just concerned about you.”
“I know, son, but I think I can still take care of myself.”
“Good. Then see that you do.”
“So, boys, tell me what is so fascinating about Raneb’s plow that it has managed to become your sole concern and topic of conversation for the past, what, three days now?”
Shem laid down the tongue of the heavy plow, brushed the sawdust from his leather apron and came to the door of the shop where his father and brother were still standing. Motioning Noah toward a stump of wood, Shem leaned his back against a workbench and crossed his thick, hairy arms over his broad chest. Japheth was perfectly happy to drop cross-legged onto the dusty, hard-packed earth floor.
Shem prodded the long, heavy tongue of the newly built plow with the toes of one bare foot as though being in physical contact with his work helped him concentrate. The plow was as neat and carefully built as everything that came out of his shop. Nearly half again as long as a man was tall, its main shaft and tongue were hewn from a timber five inches wide and nearly twice that thick. At the front end a heavy iron ring had been attached to the wood by means of a wide metal band. Through this ring would be passed the plaited rawhide ropes that would, in turn, be attached to the ox yoke and thereby allow the great, placid beast to drag the plow across the fields. At the rear end of the plow two handles rose in a ‘V’ shape, providing a means of steering and keeping the plow upright as it burrowed its way slowly through the sandy soil. Immediately in front of the point where the handles joined the main shaft, a five inch square arm of wood jutted downward toward the ground at a sharp forward angle. The front and bottom edges of this arm had been hewn to a crude point: this was the share, which served as a blade, digging into the earth, breaking up the clods, shaping the soil into water-retaining furrows and turning it to provide aeration. It was toward the share that Shem was now waggling his finger as he tried to explain Raneb’s demands and his own thoughts on the matter.
“Raneb says he’s tired of replacing broken shares. He is only having this new plow built because he had to replace so many shares on the old one that the socket it fits into finally wore out.”
“Raneb is an old woman; he complains about everything. Shares wear out, they break, you replace them. So what makes Raneb special?”
“The point is that Raneb told me he wanted me to make the share for the new plow out of iron.”
“That’s ridiculous. Even Raneb, rich as he is, couldn’t afford that much iron; and even if he could it would make the plow so heavy it would dig itself straight into the ground until it was buried. It wouldn’t work.”
“Yes, but listen to Shem’s idea, Father, its fantastic.” Japheth’s eyes had lit up and he was bouncing up and down on his whip-thin rump.
“Ah, your big brother the genius.” Noah smiled and turned back to where Shem stood, but gently squeezed Japheth’s knee cap just hard enough to make the boy wince. “So, genius, what is your big plan?”
“I was wondering why Ham couldn’t forge some kind of an iron skin for the cutting edge of the share - some kind of a curved, wedge-shaped plate that had swept-back sides and a good, sharp edge so it would cut through the soil the way the blade of a knife cuts through meat.”
Noah slowly took this in. Shem knew his father had taken the suggestion seriously because he had begun twisting the end of his beard into little ringlets the way he always did when he was deep in thought. “This knife blade - or should we call it a plow blade - it would have to be relatively thin, otherwise it would still be so heavy it would pull the plow deeper and deeper into the soil until it bogged down. It’s going to be hard for Ham to beat the metal that thin and not have it become so brittle it breaks the first time one of Raneb’s plowmen slams it into a rock. If it breaks, Raneb will be right back where he was before and he will blame you for the broken plow.”
“Yeah, Raneb is really good at complaining, especially when it costs him money.”
“Right, Japheth, and the less we see of Raneb and his complaining, the better.” Again, Noah turned back to Shem and stared at him quizzically.
Shem nodded silently and began pacing slowly back and forth across the dusty shop floor. At twenty eight years of age he was not only the oldest of the three boys, he was also the cleverest as well as the broadest and brawniest. Even though Ham worked as a blacksmith, it was Shem whose body was covered in thick, ropey muscles. “I think if we use the best grade of iron, and shape the wooden share behind it so that only two thumb’s breadth of the plow blade extends beyond the bottom edge of the share; it should be stable enough to turn over the soil and rocks without breaking.”
“Why leave so much of the bottom edge exposed? Why not just a single thumb’s breadth? Why any at all?”
“Because the iron will dull with use and need constant sharpening. If it’s too close to the share to start with, Shem won’t be able to sharpen it after two or three years.”
Noah nodded thoughtfully. “It sounds good. Very clever, Shem. I think you should tell Ham to keep the bottom edge a bit thicker than the rest of the blade; that will give the cutting edge some extra strength without adding too much to the over-all weight. I think this blade idea of yours may well make the plow work better. Good job, son. This is a far cry from the way it was when I was a boy. There wasn’t any such thing as a plow back then; we had to till the earth with a short-handled hoe. It was back breaking work, I can tell you.”
“Papa, you may not have had plows where you grew up but, honestly, I think there were plenty of them around. The plow has been around almost forever.”
“Laugh if you want, son, but I’m telling you I can remember when word of the first plow came to my village and it amazed everybody.”
“And when might this have been?” Shem raised one skeptical eyebrow, a half-smile playing at one corner of his lips.
“Oh,” Noah rubbed his chin in thought, disarraying the silvery thickness of his long beard, “at least five hundred and fifty years ago, maybe a little bit more. It gets hard to remember.”
Noah had already raised his hand and was about to open his mouth to protest, when Japheth injected himself into the conversation.
“Hey, Shem, could these iron blades be put on old plows, too? You know, so somebody could make their old plow work better without having to buy a whole new plow.” Japheth’s eyes had taken on a far away, dreamy look.”
“I don’t see why not; do you, Papa?” In response, Noah only pursed his lips, shrugged almost imperceptibly and shook his head.
“Then we could make plow blades for everybody. We could take them to Shuruppak and Ur and Uruk and Nippur and Jericho. We can sell our plow blades to everybody in the world…”
“And get rich?”
Japheth knew Shem was teasing him. Shem always scoffed at his brother’s ideas and now the best Japheth could do was to pick at the dirt and mutter, “Well we could.”
Noah scratched the back of his neck and leaned toward Japheth. “I think there might just be a market for these plow blades, son, but first we need to see if they really work. Why don’t you go find Ham and bring him down here so you and Shem can explain all this to him?” Noah heaved himself up from his log with a small grunt and took a step toward the door. “I think I’m going up to the house and lay down for a little while.”
Japheth jumped up and started toward the door but paused, whirled around and gave Noah a small hug. “Thanks Father.”
“For what?” Noah opened his eyes in mock confusion.
With the single word “everything”, Japheth shot through the door and up the path toward his middle brother’s house.
Stifling a yawn, Noah turned in the same direction and waved off-handedly at his remaining son. “Later, after supper, we should sort through the wood pile. I know some of the acacia wood needs turning. Would you mind helping me?”
“No problem, Papa. Bring Japheth along, too. A third hand never hurts.”
“I will if I can. But I’m afraid the charms of stacking planks and beams are no match for those of young Merimda.” Behind him, Shem laughed as he started to roll the plow onto its back so the share was standing upper-most, pointing at the ceiling like the leg of a dead animal. Sweeping the dust of the floor smooth and level with the edge of one foot, he squatted down and began sketching out a broad, gently flaring wedge-shaped design in the dirt; adjusting and changing it as he went along. Not that he would ever admit it to the kid, but maybe Japheth was right. Maybe he could sell one of these plow blades to every farmer in the world.

Daniel Diehl has once again proven his ability to tell an engaging and absorbing story. This time he has tackled one of mankind's oldest and most ubiquitous stories - the great flood. Of course we all know the story from bible school, but the story we have been told is nothing like what Daniel Diehl has created. It must have been a difficult line to walk to recount this religious story in the most secular way. If one assumes that the details of the story are straightforward archaeological and historical facts, and one leaves the question of faith out of the narrative, then what one is left with is a fantastical action adventure story. In this light, it is little wonder that this story has been told and retold for millennium. Deluge is a very worthy addition to this ancient legend. This is a great read and a great take on a story you thought you already knew. I would recommend this novel to anyone.

Interview With the Author
Hi Dan, thanks for joining me today to discuss your latest book, Deluge.
For what age group do you recommend your book?
Deluge is a very family friendly book. I think that anyone over the age of 14 or 15 will find the book approachable and completely understandable. That being said, this is not a young readers book by any stretch of the imagination. I think Deluge is one of those rare book that can be read and enjoyed by people of all ages without anyone feeling that it is either ‘above’ or ‘beneath’ them.
What sparked the idea for this book?
Since Deluge is a novelized version of the Noah and the Flood legend, the idea hardly originated with me. Although I can usually remember when and how I come up with most of my ideas I honestly can’t remember what first gave me the idea to turn this tiny, ancient legend into a full length novel. What I do remember is being amazed how rich and expansive the plotline turned out to be. The few hundred words from the book of Genesis and a few lines from the Gilgamesh saga provided me with an amazing framework on which to build an intricately developed family saga filled with love, strife and endless adventure and discovery, all set in a society that is so far removed from the modern world in time that we cannot possibly conceive of their day-to-day reality.
Which comes first? The character's story or the idea for the novel?
Obviously the general flow of events in the story of Noah and the Flood has been pretty well established for about 2,600 years since it was first written down by the ancient Hebrews. What fascinated me was the fact that while everyone thinks they know the story there is absolutely no indication of what the characters’ lives were like or, in the case of the women involved, what their names were. Here was this wonderful story with absolutely none of the details or richness that gives life to a story. I just saw this as an opportunity too good to pass up.
What was the hardest part to write in this book?
Before writing my first novel I had co-authored 20 nonfiction books and written more than 170 hours of documentary television scripts, so I am thoroughly accustomed to doing massive amounts of background research before beginning work on a book but I honestly had no idea how much research I would have to do to get all of the details right for Deluge.
For the basic story I used three chapters from the biblical book of Genesis, extracts from the ancient legend of Gilgamesh, and selections from a lost biblical book of Noah that was discovered with the Dead Sea Scrolls in 1947. But this was only the beginning of my quest for information. Every detail I used in creating a believable society from more than seven thousand years ago had to be painstakingly researched. In many cases – such as a wedding scene between Noah’s youngest son Japheth and his girlfriend Mirimda, there simply is no information on wedding ceremonies from the prehistoric era. Consequently I used a description of a North African nomadic tribesman’s wedding that was recorded by a French traveler in the late 18th century.
Even things as simple as the wood used to build the ark proved to be problematic. The biblical description says that the Ark was built from ‘gopher’ wood; great, except there is no such thing as gopher wood. It turns out that this – like so much of the Bible – is a sloppy mistranslation. It should say that the Ark was built of ‘kophered’ wood – meaning any wood that has been coated with pitch to make it waterproof. All in all it was a long, involved and, ultimately fascinating, journey of learning and discovery.
Fantastic! How do you hope this book affects its readers?
I just want to stress that although Deluge is the story of Noah and the great flood, it is in no way a religious book. It is the saga of one family who find themselves caught up in an absolutely extraordinary and unique set of circumstances. Like any family, Noah and his extended family are alternately drawn together and pulled apart by forces which are ultimately beyond their control and it is their challenge – as it is the challenge for each of us – to deal with what life throws at us in the best way we can. Deluge is a story of strife, hope, hard work and our ability to cope with pain and loss and still retain hope for the future. The fact that it is a ripping good adventure is just icing on the cake.
How long did it take you to write this book?
Because I was working on other projects simultaneously, I didn’t have the luxury of just setting down and devoting myself to working on Deluge. Consequently my time estimate is going to be a little bit rough but, at a guess, if I had worked on nothing else I think it would have taken me 8 or 9 months to research and write Deluge – that is about 35 to 40 percent longer than I usually allow for writing a book.
What is your writing routine?
Writing is a job just like any other job. I get up, walk the dogs, have breakfast and go to work. My work day usually lasts from about 6:30am until 3:00pm and I do the same routine 6 days a week. I don’t need to feel inspired to do my job; I don’t know anybody who needs more inspiration than next month’s bills to get up and go to work in the morning.
How did you get your book published?
Deluge is my 23rd book so I am pretty well versed in the ins and outs of publishing. Unfortunately, the vast majority of my previous books have been nonfiction and my publishers don’t deal with fiction. Consequently I shopped the proposal around until I found someone who liked the book and who I trusted to handle it properly. In this case it was the nice people at GMTA Publishing down in Fayetteville, North Carolina.
What advice do you have for someone who would like to become a published writer?
The publishing world is almost unrecognizable compared to what it was before the economic collapse of 2008. Before that I could always rely on the combination of my author’s advance and royalties to provide a livable income. Now, everything has changed. The world-wide market for book sales contracted by 40 percent between the end of 2008 and the end of 2009 and it has never recovered. Add to that the ebook phenomenon, which most old-line publishers have never quite figured out how to deal with, and you have a toxic mixture that makes it almost impossible for mid-range authors to make a living at their craft. My advice to budding authors? Stick to writing as a hobby.
What do you like to do when you're not writing?
I’ll have to get back to you on that one. I’m pretty much a workaholic and on those days when I am not working I usually just collapse.
Did you like reading when you were a child?
I loved books but seem to have had trouble picking up the skill for myself. My mother read my two favorite books to me again and again for years – The Wizard of Oz and All About Dinosaurs. As she told the story, one day I wanted her to read All About Dinosaurs yet again and she was simply too busy. Evidently an hour or so later she realized I was being awfully quiet and came to check on me. I was setting on the couch reading the book myself – and I have been reading continually ever since.
When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?
I had been writing occasional magazine articles since 1981, but it was not until 1996 that I stumbled into writing ass a full time occupation. My writing partner, Mark Donnelly, and I had both seen the same – very bad – documentary program on TV and were bemoaning the fact that we could do a vastly better job than whoever had scripted this show and after discussing it for a few hours we decided to do just that. Since then we have written more than 170 hours of documentary television and collaborated on 20 nonfiction books. Although my novels are my own work, I am sure Mark and I will work together on many, many more nonfiction projects in the future.
Which writers have influenced you the most?
I try very hard not to be influenced by other peoples’ writing. A writer should develop their own style and find their own voice.
What can we look forward to from you in the future?
Deluge seems to have been released in the middle of an on-going trilogy of fantasy books that I have been writing. The first book in this series Revelations: The Merlin Chronicles Book One came out last year and in late May of this year (2014) GMTA Publishing will be releasing the second instalment entitled The Sorcerer’s Apprentice: The Merlin Chronicles Book Two. At the moment I am deep into writing the third book in the trilogy and I think that Merlin fans everywhere will be delighted with how this trilogy portrays the old wizard and with the fact that I have brought him into the modern world. It’s a ton of fun.
Sounds great, Dan. Thank you for taking the time to stop by today. Best of luck with your future projects.

About the Author
Daniel Diehl is an author and investigative historian with more than thirty years experience in his field.
He has authored three novels and co-authored 20 historical based, nonfiction books, written more than 170 hours of documentary television and contributed to numerous periodicals. Daniel's lifetime book sales exceed 200,000 English language units and his work has been translated into nine foreign languages.
Daniel has served as historical consultant on such films as The Color Purple (Amblin Entertainment, 1986), Darrow (PBS Television Theatre, 1991) and Baskin’s Run (Finnegan’s Wake Productions, 1994).

Enter the giveaway for a chance to win an ebook copy of Deluge by Daniel Diehl.