Today the Book Ninjas are spotlighting The Mummy by Renald Iacovelli!
When Harold Ostrich, a successful businessman, buys a mummy at an antique shop and it comes to life, his world is turned into a nightmare. For the first time he must deal with the terror of a supernatural event, which in its persistence threatens to undermine everything he has worked for and any chance of happiness in his life.
By turns anxious, bizarre, and wryly funny, THE MUMMY explores what happens when a life based on unquestioned notions of reality is overturned by coming face to face with the frighteningly inexplicable, and what struggles and spiritual transformations take place along the way
Questions From the Ninjas
People wonder if we ninjas are hiding a blush under our masks—something we 100% deny! But it makes us curious--what as an author is the most blush-worthy thing that's ever happened to you?
My proofreader telling me that a scene out of a certain chapter of my book was out of its timeline.
Ninjas must train in all sorts of things--one of us (who will go unnamed) is even a ninja at decorating cakes. What's your secret ninja skill?
Do you have any ninja writing tricks you can share with our readers?
Don't force it---it never works that way; on the other hand, when you're inspired, do more than you had intened.
Are you out of your mind?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know who this person is, or what’s wrong with him”—and here, conscious of the impoliteness in talking about someone before his face, he turned to the mummy and apologized, saying, “Excuse me for saying so,” and then turned back to Ostrich and continued—“but you’ve got a lot of nerve taking someone in his condition around and wasting people’s time!”
“But this isn’t a ‘person’!” Ostrich said, his voice rising with disbelief that the curator could think so. “Does this look like a person to you?”
The curator could no more look at the mummy again than a squeamish person can bring himself to behold a scene of bloody mayhem. Confronted by something he was incapable of emotionally handling, he was more than willing to sacrifice his intellectual integrity for the sake of his mental well-being. Thus he said between teeth still clenched, and in a voice more urgent and angrier than ever:
“What kind of sick human being are you? I don’t know what kind of accident he was in, if he was in a fire or—or I don’t know what. But you should be ashamed of yourself. And this man should be in a hospital!”
“Are you kidding me?” Ostrich asked, his voice a singsong of incredulity. “Anybody can see it’s not a person! When I bought it, it was all dried up like a regular mummy, but then I soaked it in water and it came to life—don’t ask me how because I don’t know how. But the fact is that it’s still a mummy and I can’t keep it any more, and you have to take it!”
—At which explanation the curator gave a certain decisive, swift putting down of his arms, uttered a peremptory, “Goodbye!” and turned around and walked off.