Today's WIP Wednesday is about honesty: a final tribute to the shifty Richard Ridyard.
Aaron Polson is my real name. I understand the need for pseudonyms. I respect most people who use them. Tricky Dick Ridyard, I do not. The "Aaron Polson" on Facebook from Australia is not me. There is a small town in Montana named "Polson" and a former liquor store in Manhattan, Kansas named Polson Liquor. I have no affiliation with either. The surname Polson is Scandinavian, meaning (at some point in history) Paul's son.
I teach at McLouth High School in McLouth, Kansas. The town has less than 1,000 residents. Our school district has nearly 600 students. You do the math...many of my students live in the rural areas near Kansas City, Lawrence, and Topeka. I teach English to our 11th and 12th grade students. Words are my friends. I chose English as a major because it was more challenging than math. True story.
I guess I hadn't taken the hard math courses yet.
My face is scarred from a bicycle accident when I was 19. I'd like to say it happened during a sweet trail ride, but alas, I wrecked 1/2 block from my house. I've worn glasses since I was in 2nd grade; I'm too lazy for contact lenses and stopped wearing those when I was 18.
My worst fear used to be death. Now, I make fictional characters die (or suffer worse fates) and it somehow makes me feel better. I've been writing since the summer of 2007. Yeah, I dabbled before, but nothing serious.
On some days, I feel like everything I do is a failure. I work harder on those days than any others.
The freedom of speech is the most valuable "possession" I have. I'm exercising it right now. I've made mistakes...many mistakes in life. Giving up hasn't been one of them, yet.
I finished writing "Shallow Drownings". It will take at least three edits before I'll release it to the wild. The final lines:
The man in the pool continued to rock. He began to hum a few notes from a simple lullaby.
“My God…Mick, who are you holding?”
Anything else you'd like to know?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
I've Been Violated (and so have many others)
So there's a plagiarist afoot who calls himself Richard Ridyard. It seems Tricky Dick tried to pull the proverbial wool over some eyes at Shock Totem by subbing a little changed version of Stephen King's "The Boogeyman".
Um, Dick? Here's a clue: the editors at a pro-paying horror mag have probably read everything by Mr. King.
Stoooopid.
But wait...there's more: Check out Angel Zapata's blog for all the gory details. It seems Tricky Dick Ridyard has been up to a lot of "tricks". And guess what?
Tricky Dick took my work, too. I guess "Communion" from Flashes in the Dark was too tasty a morsel. Check out Dick's take from this month's Infinite Windows: "Satanic Mantra". (I know, WTF?)
My initial response...hidden cameras, right? Then I sort of went "Incredible Hulk" (geeky horror writer/teacher style). I didn't make a dime on "Communion". I basically gave it away with one little bit of payment: (it's called a "byline") I WROTE THE EFFING THING, ALRIGHT?
Sorry. Hulk mad.
See Dick Plagiarize. Bad Dick, bad.
Richard Ridyard, whatever your "real" name is, get a life, okay?
I'm gearing up for year two over at Fifty-Two Stitches. (We just received our shiny new ISSN, too) I'll be on the watch for dirty tricks and the Richard Ridyards of the world. Too bad I can't just spend my energy on the 'zine without worrying about dishonest charlatans.
Sheesh.
Um, Dick? Here's a clue: the editors at a pro-paying horror mag have probably read everything by Mr. King.
Stoooopid.
But wait...there's more: Check out Angel Zapata's blog for all the gory details. It seems Tricky Dick Ridyard has been up to a lot of "tricks". And guess what?
Tricky Dick took my work, too. I guess "Communion" from Flashes in the Dark was too tasty a morsel. Check out Dick's take from this month's Infinite Windows: "Satanic Mantra". (I know, WTF?)
My initial response...hidden cameras, right? Then I sort of went "Incredible Hulk" (geeky horror writer/teacher style). I didn't make a dime on "Communion". I basically gave it away with one little bit of payment: (it's called a "byline") I WROTE THE EFFING THING, ALRIGHT?
Sorry. Hulk mad.
See Dick Plagiarize. Bad Dick, bad.
Richard Ridyard, whatever your "real" name is, get a life, okay?
I'm gearing up for year two over at Fifty-Two Stitches. (We just received our shiny new ISSN, too) I'll be on the watch for dirty tricks and the Richard Ridyards of the world. Too bad I can't just spend my energy on the 'zine without worrying about dishonest charlatans.
Sheesh.
Monday, September 28, 2009
A Peek Inside
My "process" (nod to KV Taylor, Danielle Ferries, and Cate Gardner among others for going before):
1. Are you a “pantser” or a “plotter?”
I like to know the end before I begin, but I generally let the story and characters write the rules as they go. I've flirted with plotting, but it all crumbles in the process. The end is a destination, but the journey to the end is the story.
2. Detailed character sketches or “their character will be revealed to me as a I write”?
A little of both. Some characters need specific flaws or "character glitches" to make things work out. I try to write with honesty and avoid "types" as much as possible. Every person (and character) has the ability to do great things or to fail miserably.
3. Do you know your characters’ goals, motivations, and conflicts before you start writing or is that something else you discover only after you start writing?
This goes along with knowing the end before I begin. Although some of a character's personality might be revealed along the way, I like to know what motivates them--especially in short fiction--because motivation helps dictate how they resolve their "problems".
4. Books on plotting – useful or harmful?
Read every written word of advice with a skeptical eye. Even these.
5. Are you a procrastinator or does the itch to write keep at you until you sit down and work?
Once I start, I can really cruise. Starting is the trick. If I don't write for a while, the itch takes over.
6. Do you write in short bursts of creative energy, or can you sit down and write for hours at a time?
Life intervenes: I simply cannot write for hours at a time. I can't do anything for hours at a time anymore. I do always try to stop while I'm still enjoying the process--it makes it much easier to return later.
8. Do you write with music/the noise of children/in a cafe or other public setting, or do you need complete silence to concentrate?
The man cave is my best friend. Ambient music is nice, too. For spooky writing I like On Land and Apollo: Atmospheres and Soundtracks (Brian Eno) or Stalker (Robert Rich and B. Lustmord). Midnight Syndicate is nice, too, but a little cheesy. The music sets a mood and provides sufficient "off-white noise".
9. Computer or longhand? (or typewriter?)
Computer. No debate here. I occasionally sketch notes, but only if a keyboard isn't available.
10. Do you know the ending before you type Chapter One?
Absolutely. The end is never "set in stone", but it never deviates much from what I've planned, either. I allow for development, but I have to have a destination, especially in longer works. Otherwise, I'm floundering (like with my current WIP...ugh).
11. Does what’s selling in the market influence how and what you write?
Maybe it should...
12. Editing – love it or hate it?
Love it. Editing is the real meat of writing. First drafts...just make sure the plot is in the right place. Editing is where the magic happens. It is crucial to give each piece a few days of "simmer" time before reading it again (or a few weeks/months in terms of a novel).
That was fun. Try it.
1. Are you a “pantser” or a “plotter?”
I like to know the end before I begin, but I generally let the story and characters write the rules as they go. I've flirted with plotting, but it all crumbles in the process. The end is a destination, but the journey to the end is the story.
2. Detailed character sketches or “their character will be revealed to me as a I write”?
A little of both. Some characters need specific flaws or "character glitches" to make things work out. I try to write with honesty and avoid "types" as much as possible. Every person (and character) has the ability to do great things or to fail miserably.
3. Do you know your characters’ goals, motivations, and conflicts before you start writing or is that something else you discover only after you start writing?
This goes along with knowing the end before I begin. Although some of a character's personality might be revealed along the way, I like to know what motivates them--especially in short fiction--because motivation helps dictate how they resolve their "problems".
4. Books on plotting – useful or harmful?
Read every written word of advice with a skeptical eye. Even these.
5. Are you a procrastinator or does the itch to write keep at you until you sit down and work?
Once I start, I can really cruise. Starting is the trick. If I don't write for a while, the itch takes over.
6. Do you write in short bursts of creative energy, or can you sit down and write for hours at a time?
Life intervenes: I simply cannot write for hours at a time. I can't do anything for hours at a time anymore. I do always try to stop while I'm still enjoying the process--it makes it much easier to return later.
8. Do you write with music/the noise of children/in a cafe or other public setting, or do you need complete silence to concentrate?
The man cave is my best friend. Ambient music is nice, too. For spooky writing I like On Land and Apollo: Atmospheres and Soundtracks (Brian Eno) or Stalker (Robert Rich and B. Lustmord). Midnight Syndicate is nice, too, but a little cheesy. The music sets a mood and provides sufficient "off-white noise".
9. Computer or longhand? (or typewriter?)
Computer. No debate here. I occasionally sketch notes, but only if a keyboard isn't available.
10. Do you know the ending before you type Chapter One?
Absolutely. The end is never "set in stone", but it never deviates much from what I've planned, either. I allow for development, but I have to have a destination, especially in longer works. Otherwise, I'm floundering (like with my current WIP...ugh).
11. Does what’s selling in the market influence how and what you write?
Maybe it should...
12. Editing – love it or hate it?
Love it. Editing is the real meat of writing. First drafts...just make sure the plot is in the right place. Editing is where the magic happens. It is crucial to give each piece a few days of "simmer" time before reading it again (or a few weeks/months in terms of a novel).
That was fun. Try it.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Tending the Garden
A word of caution...this one isn't for the kids.
John Wilton found himself in his sun porch clutching the handle of a stirrup hoe. Rain had soaked the yard for the past few days, and he knew—following Karen’s example—that the garden would need a good weeding. It was her garden, suggested by her therapist, a hobby to occupy her troubled mind—something living to help her forget the baby.
But Karen didn’t forget. With her in the hospital, he was left with the house and the garden to tend, alone.
He took the hoe in both hands and began at one end of the plot. With steady thrusts, he pushed the blade into the topsoil and raked it clean of small green weeds and stray grass. John took care around the base of each tomato plant. With a surgeon’s precision he worked the dirt down the rows of lettuce. An earthworm, close to the surface after the rains, accidently came in the path of the hoe and was split in two. John smiled as each segment wriggled away into the ground.
He came to the potatoes and paused.
The dirt swelled at the base of each plant. Karen made neat mounds to encourage growth, covering the fledgling potatoes to urge them higher, to make more room for the tubers. In the center of each mound, a plant thrust toward the sky—in the center of all but one.
Little miracles, she had called the potatoes. They grow in secret, underground. Dig the potatoes up once the plants have died.
John laid the hoe at the edge of the garden and knelt near the odd hill of dirt. He brushed away the top layer of soil, the layer dried by the sun, and found wet, dark mud beneath. The rains had saturated everything. Close to the ground, the heavy, earthy scent hung in his nostrils. He pushed his fingers under the surface.
Just a little at first. Then more.
His index finger struck something smooth. Not too firm.
A potato?
John’s face crept into a smile. No plant. Karen was right. He dug into the hill with both hands, letting the pungency of good, dark mud fill his senses.
They’re my babies, she had said on his last visit to the hospital.
With the dirt cleared away, he saw the skin of the thing, a light tan, almost flesh-tone with a hint of pink. He glanced at his mud-marred hands, but something tugged at his vision, pulling his gaze back to the hole at his feet.
The thing moved. Pulled away deeper into the ground, twisting like a thick earthworm. John’s throat tightened, squeezed by invisible fingers.
Too thick…couldn’t be a worm.
As thick as a baby’s leg.
John lurched back, sickened by the sight of the pale skin working in the ground, kicking back and forth. He staggered to his feet, stooped for the hoe, and swallowed a breath as the blade snapped to the hole, cutting into pale, twitching flesh. He struck again and again until the small hole filled with blood, dark as the soil.
"Tending the Garden" sat in my "WIP" folder longer than I care to remember.
John Wilton found himself in his sun porch clutching the handle of a stirrup hoe. Rain had soaked the yard for the past few days, and he knew—following Karen’s example—that the garden would need a good weeding. It was her garden, suggested by her therapist, a hobby to occupy her troubled mind—something living to help her forget the baby.
But Karen didn’t forget. With her in the hospital, he was left with the house and the garden to tend, alone.
He took the hoe in both hands and began at one end of the plot. With steady thrusts, he pushed the blade into the topsoil and raked it clean of small green weeds and stray grass. John took care around the base of each tomato plant. With a surgeon’s precision he worked the dirt down the rows of lettuce. An earthworm, close to the surface after the rains, accidently came in the path of the hoe and was split in two. John smiled as each segment wriggled away into the ground.
He came to the potatoes and paused.
The dirt swelled at the base of each plant. Karen made neat mounds to encourage growth, covering the fledgling potatoes to urge them higher, to make more room for the tubers. In the center of each mound, a plant thrust toward the sky—in the center of all but one.
Little miracles, she had called the potatoes. They grow in secret, underground. Dig the potatoes up once the plants have died.
John laid the hoe at the edge of the garden and knelt near the odd hill of dirt. He brushed away the top layer of soil, the layer dried by the sun, and found wet, dark mud beneath. The rains had saturated everything. Close to the ground, the heavy, earthy scent hung in his nostrils. He pushed his fingers under the surface.
Just a little at first. Then more.
His index finger struck something smooth. Not too firm.
A potato?
John’s face crept into a smile. No plant. Karen was right. He dug into the hill with both hands, letting the pungency of good, dark mud fill his senses.
They’re my babies, she had said on his last visit to the hospital.
With the dirt cleared away, he saw the skin of the thing, a light tan, almost flesh-tone with a hint of pink. He glanced at his mud-marred hands, but something tugged at his vision, pulling his gaze back to the hole at his feet.
The thing moved. Pulled away deeper into the ground, twisting like a thick earthworm. John’s throat tightened, squeezed by invisible fingers.
Too thick…couldn’t be a worm.
As thick as a baby’s leg.
John lurched back, sickened by the sight of the pale skin working in the ground, kicking back and forth. He staggered to his feet, stooped for the hoe, and swallowed a breath as the blade snapped to the hole, cutting into pale, twitching flesh. He struck again and again until the small hole filled with blood, dark as the soil.
"Tending the Garden" sat in my "WIP" folder longer than I care to remember.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Glorious Weird Insect Deaths
After yesterday's Zombie Snails, I couldn't help posting this:
Some of the most gloriously weird insect deaths caught on film.
Some of the most gloriously weird insect deaths caught on film.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
WIP Wednesday: Zombie Snails!
How could I watch this video about zombie snails and not be inspired to write something?
“I am the cops, Steve.” Mick pulled in a lungful of night air and pushed back his broad shoulders. He took a step toward the body, tilting his head for a better look at the mass of disordered blonde hair. “Looks young. Maybe twelve…thirteen. You don’t know who she is?”
Steve paced forward, then back. “I swear to God man.”
Mick pulled on a latex glove and knelt next to the body. He poked a cheek with his finger, testing for warmth. “All right. Here’s what you need to do. Call 911.”
“But—”
“But I was never here, got it?”
Steve nodded.
I call my take "Guided by Wire" and it will appear in a future edition of the new Night Chills magazine. A man who eats of the snail that has eaten of the worms...
Okay, so what am I working on, now? I finished "Tap, Tap" last weekend...it needs some significant edits, but I do like the ending. Nothing is more important than the end of a short story (only if nothing is another name for the beginning).
I'm halfway through another piece I'm calling "Shallow Drownings". Damn if Lovecraft isn't still sitting on my shoulder, this story involves swimming pool portals, a remorseful father, and little invaders that take the form of children (children a little like those in The Brood). I have one more short I want to wrap up before the end of the month. "Tony's Apartment" has sat half-finished for about three months, and now is the time.
October is for novel edits (Loathsome, Dark and Deep)...November...well, maybe I'll do NaNoWriMo again. Maybe.
From "Shallow Drownings":
“I didn’t know who else to call, Mick.” The thinner of the men fidgeted with his wedding ring. “If I call the cops—”
“I am the cops, Steve.” Mick pulled in a lungful of night air and pushed back his broad shoulders. He took a step toward the body, tilting his head for a better look at the mass of disordered blonde hair. “Looks young. Maybe twelve…thirteen. You don’t know who she is?”
Steve paced forward, then back. “I swear to God man.”
Mick pulled on a latex glove and knelt next to the body. He poked a cheek with his finger, testing for warmth. “All right. Here’s what you need to do. Call 911.”
“But—”
“But I was never here, got it?”
Steve nodded.
Have a magnificent Wednesday. For those of you who check the time stamp: it's early here. Stupid allergy season.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
What was I Going to Write About?
So I wake up this morning and Cate Gardner has declared herself a member of the Aaron Polson Fan Club.
Me: shocked. Humbled. Thrilled somebody reads my words let alone enjoys reading them.
Thanks, Cate.
I had something to write about...what was it...yeah:
Arwiculate: A word of the day game for Twitter.
Being a reluctant Twitter user and English teacher, I thought "Wow: something I can actually use in my classroom that makes use of one of the fastest growing online social networking tools?"
Check it out, see what you think. I'm off to craft some tweets with my first period class.
Me: shocked. Humbled. Thrilled somebody reads my words let alone enjoys reading them.
Thanks, Cate.
I had something to write about...what was it...yeah:
Arwiculate: A word of the day game for Twitter.
Being a reluctant Twitter user and English teacher, I thought "Wow: something I can actually use in my classroom that makes use of one of the fastest growing online social networking tools?"
Check it out, see what you think. I'm off to craft some tweets with my first period class.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Sacking of the Public Domain
I've not read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies; I barely read the book without zombies. I laughed at the trailer for Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters (Carrie Harris posted a link on her blog today). Other titles from the public domain that have received a recent mash up:
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn...War of the Worlds...The Wizard of Oz...
But I'm done.
Really.
Write something new, okay?
Or, at the least, take an idea and make it new instead of inserting bits into a time-worn classic. I'm looking forward to Kim Paffenroth's zombified treatment of Dante in Valley of the Dead. I enjoy a good nod to the canon without cheapening the original text. War of the Worlds Plus Blood, Guts, and Zombies? Pleeeeaaase. H.G. Wells's version was pretty damn scary all by itself.
Of course my latest work in progress is Bram Stoker's Dracula and Zombies: Now with Undead on Undead Action!
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn...War of the Worlds...The Wizard of Oz...
But I'm done.
Really.
Write something new, okay?
Or, at the least, take an idea and make it new instead of inserting bits into a time-worn classic. I'm looking forward to Kim Paffenroth's zombified treatment of Dante in Valley of the Dead. I enjoy a good nod to the canon without cheapening the original text. War of the Worlds Plus Blood, Guts, and Zombies? Pleeeeaaase. H.G. Wells's version was pretty damn scary all by itself.
Of course my latest work in progress is Bram Stoker's Dracula and Zombies: Now with Undead on Undead Action!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Ghostbusters Scandal!
Plagiarism afoot? Duh...no. It's damn funny though.
Make sure to head over to Fifty-Two Stitches and read "Cat-Napped" by Paul Milliken.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
I Smell Smoke
"How to Burn a House" is up today at Every Day Fiction.
Make sure to check the batteries in your smoke alarms and lock your doors.
Make sure to check the batteries in your smoke alarms and lock your doors.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Ergonomic My...
The principal drones on, and Bob's chair comes to life.At first, he is only aware of a dull sensation in his buttocks like bits of broken wood poked him through his shorts.
Bob shifts his weight, trying to wake his slumbering muscles. The chair moves with him. The metal feet skid across the tile floor, creating a jarring screech. The other teachers glare, some with mouths open. Voices blur together.
"I never..."
"Bob, really..."
"What's wrong?"
He answers with a yelp. The dull sensation sharpens as jagged bits of plastic snap off and push through cotton and into the meat of his upper thighs. The chair, it seems, has claws. As Bob stands, the chair comes too. He stumbles a few awkward, chair-stuck-to-butt steps and collides with the table. The others mumble as they hurriedly skirt around Bob and out the door. Blood trickles down the back of his thighs, staining his calf-high athletic socks. Tears squeak from the corners of his eyes.
Bob shifts his weight, trying to wake his slumbering muscles. The chair moves with him. The metal feet skid across the tile floor, creating a jarring screech. The other teachers glare, some with mouths open. Voices blur together.
"I never..."
"Bob, really..."
"What's wrong?"
He answers with a yelp. The dull sensation sharpens as jagged bits of plastic snap off and push through cotton and into the meat of his upper thighs. The chair, it seems, has claws. As Bob stands, the chair comes too. He stumbles a few awkward, chair-stuck-to-butt steps and collides with the table. The others mumble as they hurriedly skirt around Bob and out the door. Blood trickles down the back of his thighs, staining his calf-high athletic socks. Tears squeak from the corners of his eyes.
"Pull..." he begs, slumping to the floor, but the room is empty.
Empty except for the other chairs, all of them now awake and snapping their sharp plastic teeth as they march on the downed man.
__________
I wrote that during a meeting earlier this week. Could you tell?
Read on: "A World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable" is up at A Fly in Amber. I'd love it if you'd stop by, comment and rate. I might even feature your name in a future Friday Flash.
Fifty-Two Stitches is now available at Amazon.com. You know you want a copy...
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Dead Bait and the Magic Season
Dead Bait has been released, a fantastic collection of 19 horrific tales of weresharks, zombie piranha, and my very own mutated bottom feeders (they evolve before your eyes in "Grim Adaptations"). Good reading for the haunted season.
Speaking of this magical time of year (October, with that most wonderful of holidays, Halloween, is just around the bend), I need some suggestions for reading and watching material. What books, movies, TV shows, etc. do I need to fill up my haunted days? How can I make the magic last a whole month, maybe more?
I love October.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
WIP Wednesday: Shaving Cream
Yes, Owen (left) and Max (right) playing with shaving cream on our dining room table. These two munchkins are my real "works in progress". Notice how studious they are, investigating the properties of Barbasol.As for writing, yes, I've been working on a few things. I finished "Climb" (3,400 words) and another short-short, "Guided by Wire" (1,700 words), and both are out in submission land. The real joy of shorts: they leave the nest so soon.
I've started another piece called "Tap, Tap" (shooting for 2,500-3,000 words). The idea for "Tap, Tap" came to me while I swam laps at the aquatic center. The deep end is soooo deep and it has this creepy little grate at the bottom...
The first paragraph (subject to change):
Dillon paced the floor of the deep end, mop in hand, waiting for his shift to end. The Olympic-sized pool had been drained as it was every year for cleaning and maintenance, and Dillon found himself, along with the other lifeguards, doing a very un-lifeguard like task.
He's going to be doing a number of un-lifeguard like behaviors before it's all over.
Also, "The Surgeon of An Khe" is up at The Absent Willow Review. The story was originally slated for release in Our Shadows Speak vol. 2, a project that editor Lincoln Crisler recently scuttled. Oh well...now you can read it for free (I wrote the darn thing almost two years ago).
Enjoy the ride.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
On Writing in Our Age
I spent some time in a used bookstore last week. The Dusty Bookshelf, with stores in Lawrence and Manhattan (Kansas...not that Manhattan), is a wonderful maze of old paper, words, and dreams. The photo on their website doesn't do the store justice. I've never been in the place without books stacked ten to twenty high around the desk.
It's where books go to die (if they are good and lucky). A sort of book Valhalla.
I perused the Horror, Science Fiction, and Fantasy sections, flipped through the yellowed pages of books by past lumanries, and remembered. Some books screamed their age with woefully dated cover art. Others looked like they might crumble in my hands. Words filled each one, someone's thoughts and ideas, sweat and hard work...and I was left to feel a bit like Hamlet as he stares into Yorick's empty gaze.
All that struggle, for this...
My sister used to be a journalist. She wrote for a few newspapers before returning to school to become a teacher. Even then, she wrote feature articles and made pretty good money. She still writes and has one book out through a small press. We spoke recently, bantering about the current state of publishing.
She started in the industry before the past decade or so of consolidation, before small houses became imprints for bigger publishers, before editors by the score were fired in the name of profit margins. She had a few houses look at her work unagented--can you even imagine such a thing today? Today: no agent...no way. Most of all, my sister loathes the idea of working for free. She can't believe I blog regularly or write short stories for pocket change...sometimes even less.
But now, you're expected to work for free as an author. You're expected to build a platform...find a following. You're expected to spend your own advance on promotion...if not (snap), your book runs the risk of landing in the other book graveyard, the one in which no one pulls it off a shelf and pays pennies on the dollar to take it home and cherish. Your book lands on a remainder table to be passed over by fickle consumers. You're done.
Pardon the forthcoming extended metaphor (my wife abhors any reference to war). I can't fight a battle that way. I don't have the resources, the troop strength, or experience to win. But, as guerilla fighters through the ages have shown, a good insurgency is a mighty weapon against superior forces. They don't fight with the intention of winning one battle, but winning the war.
What I can do, all I can really do, is keep writing. If I do...if I do...I've already won.
It's where books go to die (if they are good and lucky). A sort of book Valhalla.
I perused the Horror, Science Fiction, and Fantasy sections, flipped through the yellowed pages of books by past lumanries, and remembered. Some books screamed their age with woefully dated cover art. Others looked like they might crumble in my hands. Words filled each one, someone's thoughts and ideas, sweat and hard work...and I was left to feel a bit like Hamlet as he stares into Yorick's empty gaze.
All that struggle, for this...
My sister used to be a journalist. She wrote for a few newspapers before returning to school to become a teacher. Even then, she wrote feature articles and made pretty good money. She still writes and has one book out through a small press. We spoke recently, bantering about the current state of publishing.
She started in the industry before the past decade or so of consolidation, before small houses became imprints for bigger publishers, before editors by the score were fired in the name of profit margins. She had a few houses look at her work unagented--can you even imagine such a thing today? Today: no agent...no way. Most of all, my sister loathes the idea of working for free. She can't believe I blog regularly or write short stories for pocket change...sometimes even less.
But now, you're expected to work for free as an author. You're expected to build a platform...find a following. You're expected to spend your own advance on promotion...if not (snap), your book runs the risk of landing in the other book graveyard, the one in which no one pulls it off a shelf and pays pennies on the dollar to take it home and cherish. Your book lands on a remainder table to be passed over by fickle consumers. You're done.
Pardon the forthcoming extended metaphor (my wife abhors any reference to war). I can't fight a battle that way. I don't have the resources, the troop strength, or experience to win. But, as guerilla fighters through the ages have shown, a good insurgency is a mighty weapon against superior forces. They don't fight with the intention of winning one battle, but winning the war.
What I can do, all I can really do, is keep writing. If I do...if I do...I've already won.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The House Eaters
I've had an offer from Virtual Tales for The House Eaters.
I originally titled this post "Arm Wrestling with Some Demons". I'm going to take the offer, of course, but the future is unknown, and the unknown is filled with shifting shadows which frighten and confuse.
I made some major revisions to the book after guidance from some dear beta readers (thanks). I resubmitted to one agent, and said agent ultimately passed. I let the book sit. I've used "I" too much in this paragraph.
After the ups and downs of the revision/resubmission process, I sent out to Virtual Tales. Remember this post about the small press? Yeah...I still feel that way. I prefer guerrilla tactics to a straight fight, any day.
So...Huzzah! (and Cthulhu help me!)
I originally titled this post "Arm Wrestling with Some Demons". I'm going to take the offer, of course, but the future is unknown, and the unknown is filled with shifting shadows which frighten and confuse.
I made some major revisions to the book after guidance from some dear beta readers (thanks). I resubmitted to one agent, and said agent ultimately passed. I let the book sit. I've used "I" too much in this paragraph.
After the ups and downs of the revision/resubmission process, I sent out to Virtual Tales. Remember this post about the small press? Yeah...I still feel that way. I prefer guerrilla tactics to a straight fight, any day.
So...Huzzah! (and Cthulhu help me!)
Friday, September 11, 2009
Old School
I use black thread because of the way it looks against his skin.
Its skin.
But before I sew, I pour in the salt. At first, the stench seeping from its mouth knocks me back, but I hold my nose with one hand, hold out the container with the other, and dump the contents past its rotten teeth. The pile of salt conjures thoughts of sugar or a small hill of snow. Must taste awful though, if the poor thing still can taste.
Then, the stitches. I push my needle--a heavy upholstery needle from that little shop downtown--through the lower lip at one corner. The skin is a little tougher because he--it--has been dead a few weeks, so the needle, designed to punch through thicker fabric, is a must. I don't bother with a fancy pattern, just a simple zig-zag, back and forth across the lips.
Just as I tie the knot, it opens its eyes, and I swallow a scream. We make eye contact for a second, and I imagine a muted "thank you" pushes through the clot of salt and sewn lips before the eyes roll back and go dark.
*nods to the original Kolchak: The Night Stalker
Its skin.
But before I sew, I pour in the salt. At first, the stench seeping from its mouth knocks me back, but I hold my nose with one hand, hold out the container with the other, and dump the contents past its rotten teeth. The pile of salt conjures thoughts of sugar or a small hill of snow. Must taste awful though, if the poor thing still can taste.
Then, the stitches. I push my needle--a heavy upholstery needle from that little shop downtown--through the lower lip at one corner. The skin is a little tougher because he--it--has been dead a few weeks, so the needle, designed to punch through thicker fabric, is a must. I don't bother with a fancy pattern, just a simple zig-zag, back and forth across the lips.
Just as I tie the knot, it opens its eyes, and I swallow a scream. We make eye contact for a second, and I imagine a muted "thank you" pushes through the clot of salt and sewn lips before the eyes roll back and go dark.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Of a Split Mind
Last night was the annual rules meeting for Speech/Drama coaches. For those of you who don't know, I spend a number of Saturdays each spring with teenagers who like to "act". (beyond the usual adolescent drama)
On the way to the meeting (a nice 35 minute drive), I was listening to NPR. British commandos rescued a reporter for the New York Times, Stephen Farrell. Farrell's Afghan interpreter (a fellow reporter), Sultan M. Munadi, was killed in the raid. The NPR piece told a little about Mr. Munadi...he was 34 (I'm 34), father of two (I have two kids), interested in public education in Afghanistan (I'm a public school teacher)...
Too often we overlook those who die in war zones. Casualties become numbers. Numbers are easier to ignore than the deaths of real human beings. My heart goes out Mr. Munadi's family...and all those touched by war. If you do nothing else, read this Times piece and remember a brave man who was driven by a quest for truth.
At the rules meeting, we discussed appropriate sources from which students may take "cuttings" for prose/poetry interpretation. (What is oral interpretation?) As it now stands, the official governing body for our activity does not recognize online sources. Basically, if it isn't published on paper, it doesn't count.
What?
Most of those who read this blog write. Most writers know the abundance of high quality online venues for fiction. (um, Clarkesworld, Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Chizine...just to name a few in the realm of spec-fic) More and more "content" is only being published in digital form. With resources like Lulu.com and Blurb.com, dead tree publishing isn't really a gateway to "quality" anymore.
While I appreciate the original aim of the rule, I believe it has become outdated. Paper is more or less meaningless. (yeah, it has great sentimental value to me as a writer, but we're moving into an increasingly digital society) I'm writing my state activities association representative this morning to explain why.
Another interesting chapter in the online v. print debate from a different perspective...
On the way to the meeting (a nice 35 minute drive), I was listening to NPR. British commandos rescued a reporter for the New York Times, Stephen Farrell. Farrell's Afghan interpreter (a fellow reporter), Sultan M. Munadi, was killed in the raid. The NPR piece told a little about Mr. Munadi...he was 34 (I'm 34), father of two (I have two kids), interested in public education in Afghanistan (I'm a public school teacher)...
Too often we overlook those who die in war zones. Casualties become numbers. Numbers are easier to ignore than the deaths of real human beings. My heart goes out Mr. Munadi's family...and all those touched by war. If you do nothing else, read this Times piece and remember a brave man who was driven by a quest for truth.
__________
At the rules meeting, we discussed appropriate sources from which students may take "cuttings" for prose/poetry interpretation. (What is oral interpretation?) As it now stands, the official governing body for our activity does not recognize online sources. Basically, if it isn't published on paper, it doesn't count.
What?
Most of those who read this blog write. Most writers know the abundance of high quality online venues for fiction. (um, Clarkesworld, Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Chizine...just to name a few in the realm of spec-fic) More and more "content" is only being published in digital form. With resources like Lulu.com and Blurb.com, dead tree publishing isn't really a gateway to "quality" anymore.
While I appreciate the original aim of the rule, I believe it has become outdated. Paper is more or less meaningless. (yeah, it has great sentimental value to me as a writer, but we're moving into an increasingly digital society) I'm writing my state activities association representative this morning to explain why.
Another interesting chapter in the online v. print debate from a different perspective...
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
WIP Wednesday: Huzzah for the Short Form!
Okay, I ended my first draft of Loathsome on Monday with a sub-stellar word count of 62K. With 10-15K of needed additions, I can sit with that.
Now (rubs hands together), I can write some short stories. First up to bat: "Climb". I'm about 1,000 words in, and like what's shaping up thus far. The finished product should land around 2500-3000 words.
The elder god, M’bori Sangu, sleeps in his shrine at the center of the plateau. Before each rainy season, the five villages bring their best dishes: spiced yams, ground nut stew, tender mutton. Only two ropes lead to the plateau, and the top climbers—always boys under seventeen years—make the ascent, each carrying a basket of human skulls filled with the delicacies.
Have I mentioned I'm reading a collection of H.P. Lovecraft's short fiction? Man, "The Rats in the Walls" chilled my marrow. I know prevailing wisdom says to write with specific markets (especially anthologies) in mind, but I've never worked that way.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
This is the End?
I "finished" my first draft of Loathsome yesterday. Finished is such a funny word, isn't it? That...thing is far from "finished". I hate the book right now. I'm sure it's total crap.
*sigh*
We'll see how I feel in a month. For now, I'm thrilled to be back in the realm of short stories. My "catalog" is thin, and a few tales have languished on my flash drive, waiting for revisions. Short stories won't make me rich or famous, but I never claimed those goals, anyway.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Tickle, Tickle
At first it's just a pencil.
The lead breaks again, and Wade jams it into the electric sharpener. Under the sound of the whirring motor, a scream, discordant, sharp. Wade jumps back; the pencil falls to the ground.
Where the lead used to be, a tail stretches out, coils, and straightens. The thing is twice as long as the pencil shaft now. It swells, and little legs sprout at the sides. Wade scambles to his desktop, knocking notebooks to the floor.
The black serpentine thing works up the side of the desk. Wade pushes his fists against his eyes, rubbing hard until they water.
It's still there, writhing over his shoe. It tickles his ankle, brushing the hairs of his calf as it winds around his leg. He slaps at his pants, dancing frantically on the desk top, but the black thing works into his skin, finds a vein, and takes over.
for Writer Appreciation Week
The lead breaks again, and Wade jams it into the electric sharpener. Under the sound of the whirring motor, a scream, discordant, sharp. Wade jumps back; the pencil falls to the ground.
Where the lead used to be, a tail stretches out, coils, and straightens. The thing is twice as long as the pencil shaft now. It swells, and little legs sprout at the sides. Wade scambles to his desktop, knocking notebooks to the floor.
The black serpentine thing works up the side of the desk. Wade pushes his fists against his eyes, rubbing hard until they water.
It's still there, writhing over his shoe. It tickles his ankle, brushing the hairs of his calf as it winds around his leg. He slaps at his pants, dancing frantically on the desk top, but the black thing works into his skin, finds a vein, and takes over.
for Writer Appreciation Week
Thursday, September 3, 2009
In Which I Share the Writer Love
Thanks Cate and BT for tipping me off to the post over at Nathan Bransford's blog about Writer Appreciation Week.
Man, where to start?
Okay, I wouldn't still be doing this writer thing if it wasn't for a number of talented, honest, and scrappy people. The blogosphere has gifted me with a new brand of internet-ready friendships that offer both encouragement and a kick in the seat of the pants when either is needed.
There's the aforementioned Cate Gardner with her ability to spin a surreal tale and approach success with humility and grace.
Mercedes M. Yardley is just inspiring. Read her blog and fiction to understand why.
Jamie Eyberg cobbles words together like one of his many handyman projects and manages to put a fine finish on both.
Natalie Sin amuses with her off-kilter sense of humor and mind altering ability to make me watch videos of Korean boy bands.
Brenton Tomlinson (BT) stays honest with his struggles and triumphs, sharing the rocky road of writing and family life. His link salads are delicious.
Carrie Harris proves a ninja can indeed be a zombie. It's true.
KV Taylor forces me to worry about my closet again, for the first time since I was five. She also fires off great spec fic recommendations (almost) every month.
KC Shaw shows me that fantasy isn't all dark. Her story, "The Sand Skinned Man", cheered me at a very dark hour last January. Read her newest book, Jack of All Trades.
There's a host of others that help chase away the lonely shadows haunting every writer: Barry Napier, Jodi Lee, Jeremy Brooks (thanks for coining the phrase "literary busker"), Robert Swartwood, Jeremy Kelly, Alan W. Davidson, Danielle Ferries, Michael Stone, Jameson T. Caine, Elana Johnson, Rebecca Nazar, so many more I'm sure I've forgotten but feel the pressure of the award show music coming on...whew. You all rock. Hard.
And thanks to H.G. Wells, one of the founders of modern speculative fiction. You scared me with blood-draining Martians and lemur-like underground descendants, inspiring me to write weird fiction. I tip my hat, sir.
Man, where to start?
Okay, I wouldn't still be doing this writer thing if it wasn't for a number of talented, honest, and scrappy people. The blogosphere has gifted me with a new brand of internet-ready friendships that offer both encouragement and a kick in the seat of the pants when either is needed.
There's the aforementioned Cate Gardner with her ability to spin a surreal tale and approach success with humility and grace.
Mercedes M. Yardley is just inspiring. Read her blog and fiction to understand why.
Jamie Eyberg cobbles words together like one of his many handyman projects and manages to put a fine finish on both.
Natalie Sin amuses with her off-kilter sense of humor and mind altering ability to make me watch videos of Korean boy bands.
Brenton Tomlinson (BT) stays honest with his struggles and triumphs, sharing the rocky road of writing and family life. His link salads are delicious.
Carrie Harris proves a ninja can indeed be a zombie. It's true.
KV Taylor forces me to worry about my closet again, for the first time since I was five. She also fires off great spec fic recommendations (almost) every month.
KC Shaw shows me that fantasy isn't all dark. Her story, "The Sand Skinned Man", cheered me at a very dark hour last January. Read her newest book, Jack of All Trades.
There's a host of others that help chase away the lonely shadows haunting every writer: Barry Napier, Jodi Lee, Jeremy Brooks (thanks for coining the phrase "literary busker"), Robert Swartwood, Jeremy Kelly, Alan W. Davidson, Danielle Ferries, Michael Stone, Jameson T. Caine, Elana Johnson, Rebecca Nazar, so many more I'm sure I've forgotten but feel the pressure of the award show music coming on...whew. You all rock. Hard.
And thanks to H.G. Wells, one of the founders of modern speculative fiction. You scared me with blood-draining Martians and lemur-like underground descendants, inspiring me to write weird fiction. I tip my hat, sir.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
WIP Wednesday: Cold, Wet, Tired
My MC, that is. I'm about a week out from the end of the first draft of Loathsome at my current writing rate. At 56K, I've been able to ad 8K words in the last week. Huzzah! I'd love to knock this baby out, let it sit for the rest of September, and beef it up during October. October is a good month for adding a few thousand words to a horror project, right?
A tense minute passed. The woods filled with dark forms. I pressed against the tree as if I could become one with the bark, melt, and disappear. Olson leaned his back to a pine. His eyes pressed shut, but his lips worked on some unuttered prayer. Branches scraped against the arms, legs, and faces of our monstrous pursuers. A howl sounded, then two voices bunched together, low and guttural, like wild beasts engaged in mortal combat. Risking a look, I peered around the edge of my protecting tree and saw two of the Ruined Men tearing at each other, dark streaks across one’s face as the other gained the upper hand and tossed him to the ground.
In other horrific news, The Devil's Food is available now. Delightful unpleasantness awaits!
A tense minute passed. The woods filled with dark forms. I pressed against the tree as if I could become one with the bark, melt, and disappear. Olson leaned his back to a pine. His eyes pressed shut, but his lips worked on some unuttered prayer. Branches scraped against the arms, legs, and faces of our monstrous pursuers. A howl sounded, then two voices bunched together, low and guttural, like wild beasts engaged in mortal combat. Risking a look, I peered around the edge of my protecting tree and saw two of the Ruined Men tearing at each other, dark streaks across one’s face as the other gained the upper hand and tossed him to the ground.
In other horrific news, The Devil's Food is available now. Delightful unpleasantness awaits!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
How Many 'O's in My Last Name?
Yeah, I like this meme. I enjoy looking at me books. Thanks, Cate.
The rules...
From the biggest bookcase you have, pick out one book whose author’s last name starts with each letter of your last name. If you have no books by an author whose last name starts with a particular letter, go to the next letter. If you have two of the same letter in your last name, get two separate authors, not two books by the same author. Bonus: If you can, pick the first book you haven’t read off your shelf, unless you’re one of those people who’s read all the books you own.
- Post the first sentence of each book, along with the author and title. Feel free to skip prefaces and such, especially if they’re by a different writer.
A Midwestern town. (Dark Harvest by Norman Partridge - awesome book, even if the first line is a fragment)
First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. (The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien – one of the finest books about war, like ever. Read it now.)
I am old now and have not much to fear from the anger of gods. (Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis – okay, another book you have to read. Amazing retelling of a classic myth.)
Plaxy and I had been lovers; rather uneasy lovers, for she would never speak freely about her past, and sometimes she withdrew into a cloud of reserve and despond. (Sirius by Olaf Stapledon – a brilliant work of science fiction by an author who isn’t read enough.)
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. (1984 by George Orwell – yep, Orwell. I have two Os in my name, after all.)
Fear is fun. (How to Write Horror Fiction by William F. Nolan – yeah, I thought I could figure it out by reading a book. Darn. Great book though, and the only one on my shelf written by anyone with a surname starting with N.)
This is fun because the first line is so important. I like to walk around the classroom and read the first line from books my students are reading. One of my favorites, from Love Sick by Jake Coburn: "I'm a slut for a good rumor." So I tag everyone. On the planet. Dooooo it!
The rules...
From the biggest bookcase you have, pick out one book whose author’s last name starts with each letter of your last name. If you have no books by an author whose last name starts with a particular letter, go to the next letter. If you have two of the same letter in your last name, get two separate authors, not two books by the same author. Bonus: If you can, pick the first book you haven’t read off your shelf, unless you’re one of those people who’s read all the books you own.
- Post the first sentence of each book, along with the author and title. Feel free to skip prefaces and such, especially if they’re by a different writer.
A Midwestern town. (Dark Harvest by Norman Partridge - awesome book, even if the first line is a fragment)
First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. (The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien – one of the finest books about war, like ever. Read it now.)
I am old now and have not much to fear from the anger of gods. (Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis – okay, another book you have to read. Amazing retelling of a classic myth.)
Plaxy and I had been lovers; rather uneasy lovers, for she would never speak freely about her past, and sometimes she withdrew into a cloud of reserve and despond. (Sirius by Olaf Stapledon – a brilliant work of science fiction by an author who isn’t read enough.)
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. (1984 by George Orwell – yep, Orwell. I have two Os in my name, after all.)
Fear is fun. (How to Write Horror Fiction by William F. Nolan – yeah, I thought I could figure it out by reading a book. Darn. Great book though, and the only one on my shelf written by anyone with a surname starting with N.)
This is fun because the first line is so important. I like to walk around the classroom and read the first line from books my students are reading. One of my favorites, from Love Sick by Jake Coburn: "I'm a slut for a good rumor." So I tag everyone. On the planet. Dooooo it!
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