FINALLY! I'm so late on this. (For Illustration Friday, it's that guy in the middle, arms folded, waiting not very patient because everything's always late). I spent a couple hours last night on an edit pass of Nanowhere, long overdue. Then this morning, I woke with the idea of doing an illustrated version of the story. (This afternoon I painted the scene below, watercolors and ink on 140lb paper). I've been struggling with a graphic version of Saltwater Witch, doing pretty well, but not as far along as I'd hoped to be by now. One thing that's preventing me from showing more pages is that the manuscript for Saltwater Witch is with an editor at a major publisher--not yet accepted, and I don't want to jeopardize any deal by giving away something I shouldn't have. Also, as cool as a graphic version of Saltwater Witch would be, I think there's a bit wider audience for Nanowhere. I mean, guys with guns, nanotechnology, computer hacking, a love story, it's all there. Age range, teen and up (my teenage daughter Chloe's read Nanowhere many times). There's some violence, some language, but nothing too crazy.
Posting illustrations isn't a problem with Nanowhere. It's already free to download and read in several formats (HTML, txt, RTF, PDF, etc.). I wrote the novel in 2004, posted it online in 2006, and I've had over 10,000 downloads of the ebook since, much of this is due to Cory Doctorow's post and comments about Nanowhere on BoingBoing.
Read NANOWHERE
Okay, without holding things up anymore, here's the opening scene, illustration and text below. Click the pic for the large view.

NANOWHERE
1
Joe and Al
DR. ERNEST STRAFF wasn’t surprised when
the jumptroopers tackled him in his dining room, stuffed his head in a bag,
zip-tied his wrists and ankles, dragged him into a clearing in the forest next
to his house, and cabled him up into a hovering gunship. He just thought or
hoped or wished he had had more time.
In seven hundred and
sixteen seconds—Straff was counting—his captors had him over the New Hampshire
line, crossing western Mass at a shallow angle that would take him into upstate
New York. He knew their direction because he heard a voice through the backroar
of the engines, deep with round tones and a slight Minnesota lilt, curiously
pointing out the Mass Pike to one of his squadmates. I-90 ran east-west across
Massachusetts, dipped south a bit in the middle before it headed into Boston. The
ex-Minnesotan was on Straff’s left, so they must be just north of the Pike,
heading west. Nothing but cold Atlantic east. If the pilot kept a fairly
straight heading they’d cross into New York south of the capital toward the
Catskill’s.
Straff caught all
of this in the space of a few seconds. As soon as the trooper started
speaking, he stopped, having seen another of his team give him a finger drawn
across the throat.
This left another
few hundred seconds for Dr. Straff to blindly think over his fate. The black
fabric bag rubbed his nose and ears. The gunship’s engines threw off a steady
high-throttled chainsaw whine with an accompanying fuselage-vibrating rumble,
and his ears hurt trying to listen for distinguishable sounds out of the dense
storm of noise.
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