Halloween Treats

I've added a reading of "The Ox-Cart Man" to my podcast stable. One of my favorite (written-by-me) stories, "The Ox-Cart Man" appears in Northern Haunts and won the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction Contest.

Enjoy the story.

Also...don't forget to read "Seven-Year Itch" by Joshua Reynolds at 52 Stitches today. This is a special, Halloween treat (our 53rd story). 52 Stitches also opens to submissions today. Pour 'em on.

Oh, the candy I'm going to eat later...

Treats - #FridayFlash

"I think I got everything." Zach dropped two plastic grocery bags on the floor.

"Everything?" Nick asked. "What'll it be this year?"

Zach patted one bag. "Apples."

"Going old school?"

"Sure. Why not?" Zach rustled through the other bag, producing a box of generic razorblades and package of caramels. The blades rattled together as he tossed both on the small table.

"Okay...what's with the caramels?"

Zach shook his head. "For the apples, of course. Helps hide the razor marks." His lips curled into a smile, stretched by curving scars at either end of his mouth.

__________

I know apples/razors is soooooo done already, but I couldn't help myself.

Have a wonderful Halloween.

WIP Wednesday: What I Read

I have a "you are what you eat" philosophy about reading. Aside from work written by authors I know personally (including those of you I only know in the digital sense), I tend toward highly recommended material written by acknowledged pros. I'm sure I'm missing some diamonds in the "rough", but reading time is limited (like too much of my life these days).

This is the third year I've picked up Ellen Datlow's Best of the Year--the first year in which the book is solely dedicated to dark fiction (and soley edited by Datlow). While I'm not through with Best Horror of the Year Volume 1 (it's my current "read in progress"), I want to highlight a few high points.

"Beach Head" by Daniel LeMoal is the first piece since god-knows-when that inspired a physical fear response from page one. The set up: three drug smugglers with hands tied are buried to their neck on a sandy beach. It only goes creepier from there. While the prose isn't always razor sharp, the effect is. I felt like I was suffocating while I read.

"The Hodag" by Trent Hergenrader affected me in a different, more nostalgic way. It is a tale that spans decades, and the narrator's chilling realization in the final paragraphs is more frightening than the Hodag itself. What is a Hodag? Glad you asked. "The Hodag" is the kind of story I would write if I could write better. It's a goal.

Some pieces, meh. I didn't finish "If Angels Fight" by Richard Bowes. Not my style, a little slow. But there is variety in this collection. Even if you disagree with Datlow, there isn't a true clunker in the anthology. Not that I've found, yet. It's nice to see what she picks for the best. It's nice to have a sampling of pieces from a number of high quality venues, too.

Yeah, I'm still writing short stories. I've chopped an old piece in half and am reworking it into something completely different, a tale of two friends separated by circumstances (supernatural and otherwise). From "Come Out and Play":

I tried to run; I turned and tried to run down the rough path, but my foot hooked a protruding tree root, and I toppled to the ground, skinning my left palm and striking my elbow on a rock. My inhaler toppled from my outstretched hand and tumbled into a pile of damp leaves. No, no, no, no. The sound of snapping twigs came closer; Gage came closer, but there was another sound—a scratching sound.

The sound of sharpened nails against tree bark. My lungs burned.

So there we are. October almost over (yay! Halloween), but no complete edits to Loathsome. Maybe in November.

You Have My Permission To Slap Me Down

One of my colleagues (who knows about my secret life) asked why I don't strut around: "Look at me I'm a published author."

My response: "Do you know how much rejection is involved in each success?" But maybe I have a problem with self-promotion.

Self-promotion is a sticky subject. I want people to read my work (and like it of course...the two go hand in hand), but if I ever, for one fraction of a nano-second, come across as a cocky ass, you have my permission to lay the biggest case of 'net smackdown the world has ever seen. Promise me you will. No one wants to be that guy. I don't, at least.

This isn't about me. It's about the stories. It's about the readers. I'd quit if it were about me. Seriously.

I live in a constant cycle of "I'm not good enough yet..." That's okay. That's a healthy attitude. Perfectly healthy. Hell, in his introduction to Alone with the Horrors, Ramsey Campbell writes that what keeps him going is the belief that his best story has yet to be written. Now, if there is a list of horror writers who can rest on their laurels, Mr. Campbell would land in the top ten.

So when I received an email from Bards and Sages letting me know "Fresh Produce" was voted as the best of their April issue, I was thrilled. But I know where to tip my metaphoric hat. Readers make that brand of magic happen; thanks for voting.

Now, feel free to kick me in the @$$ and tell me to get writing.

Splat...

...go my thoughts, spraying every which way.

Firstly, two great contests find themselves in full, um, gear. KV Taylor asks what nasty (fictional) villain or other undesirable you might bring to a Halloween party. Barry Napier wants recommendations for quality, online dark fiction at his blog. Try 'em out. You might win something fun.

Secondly, Cate Gardner will be cheering on our NaNoWriMo suckers friends. I'll be there, too, bringing the pictures (each post in November will have an "inspiring" photo). My Friday flash might even have a NaNo theme. Time will tell.

Thirdly, 52 Stitches will change its look a little this Saturday (Halloween). I'm running a poll for font/background color suggestions. You can also use our newly purchased url: http://www.52stitches.com/ (which redirects to the blog). Yes, I've given up--the "official" name of the site is 52 Stitches (in numeral form, not word). If you don't know what I'm talking about, that's fine. I'm not sure I do, either. (I tried sooooo hard for Fifty-Two Stitches to stick...but the url is sooooo much easier this way. Ease=more memorable.)

Finally, I'm thrilled that "Inked" will find itself in this year's Every Day Fiction anthology. Of the four pieces I've had in EDF, "Inked" was the one which received the most derisive comments. Go figure.

Happy Monday, everyone.

Quiet Time

He sent away for the box six weeks ago. Finding the ad in the back of an old issue of Carnage Corps at the comic shop, he tore along the dotted line and pushed the rough, pulpy paper inside his waistband. His breath froze in his chest as he walked past the clerk. Heart ready to burst, his rubber soles pounded against asphalt, and the ad flew away with the next day's mail.

The box arrived on a rainy day. The boy scooped it into his arms, brushed his damp sneakers on the rug in the foyer, and rushed to his room to read the instructions.

His father was first, and the boy snuck into the living room while the television prattled away and the old man snored in his recliner. Following the directions, he started at the man's feet, peeling back the flaps of the box and pulling the man's toes inside. His father stirred, but did not wake. With a hushed sucking noise, not unlike a noodle dancing into one's mouth, the box took care of the rest.

Later that night, he added his mother and sister--each with a propensity to mutter in her sleep. The box made short work of both. Swoooosh. Swooosh. Cardboard flaps tucked together, and he tacked them down with a slick length of packing tape.

He affixed the return label that came with the box and set it on his stoop for the postman. Then, exhausted from his work, the boy crawled under the warm weight of his quilt, pulled an extra pillow to his chest, and slept until noon, the first solid night of sleep in ages.

(I think the picture adds a layer, don't you?)

WIP Wednesday: I Need an Intervention

Just as I wrapped up edits on my flash pieces last week, just as I thought it was safe to delve into full revisions of Loathsome...another short story idea seized me by the throat and wouldn't let go. I blame it on American Fantastic Tales, a new two-volume collection from the Library of America (more on this in the future).

So I'm writing one more short story while limping along with Loathsome. Call this one "Guarding the Dead":

Sometimes, when I dream of gates, I imagine one wrought of iron, heavy and black with hints of rust where the bars cross. To either side of my dream-gate, square blocks of limestone form pillars seven feet high, only a foot taller than the length of the spine-topped stone wall. The gate is the weakest point, the only threshold for me to guard.

When I wake, I remember the yard, the setting sun, the dark shapes that form and un-form in the shadowed but wall-free perimeter around the house, and I reach for my gun.

One little WIP note from school--one class engages in a creative writing endeavor I've simply titled The Monster Project wherein pairs of students create a mass of news reports, eyewitness accounts, video, audio, and physical evidence for an imaginative monster (think Bigfoot but totally original). I plan on posting the best bits to my school blog when they're done, and I'll add a link here, too. It's quite fun to watch them conjure beasts from their imaginations.

Have a lovely Wednesday, and add "In the Bag" by Ramsey Campbell to my list of favorite short horror tales. Thanks for all the suggestions, too.

Chilling Short Fiction: Five of My Favorites

I've never been much a fan of "best" or "top five/ten/twenty-five" lists (even though I've thrown together a few myself). Call this a list of some of my favorite works of short fiction fitting the Halloween spirit. I'm sure I'll add more in time.

1. "The Lonesome Place" by August Derleth. No other single story has influenced my own writing more than this short story by Lovecraft's biggest fan. You can find snippets on the 'net (like at Google Reader), but the real value is in finding a dusty old book with the whole text.

2. "The Assembly of the Dead" by Chet Williamson. I've read this piece more than any other I've not taught. (as a teacher, I have too many touches with some stories to count) The end still baffles me, but in a good way: just enough mystery, just enough darkness.

3. "The Caterpillars" by E.F. Benson. You can read this one yourself.

"Occasionally one fell off on to the floor, with a soft fleshy thud, and though the floor was of hard concrete, it yielded to the pincerfeet as if it had been putty, and, crawling back, the caterpillar would mount on to the bed again, to rejoin its fearful companions."

4. "The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft. Only recently has this piece unseated "In the Vault" as my favorite by Mr. Lovecraft. Gawd...the ending. Just read it.

5. "Incident On and Off a Mountain Road" by Joe R. Lansdale. Say what you will about Mr. Lansdale, he spins one helluva entertaining story. "Incident..." kept me going right up to the end, then blam!--punch to the gut (in the best way possible).

I'll add more before Halloween. Promise. I haven't even touched King or Poe, so you know it's going to get messy.

What else should I consider? What are some of your favorites?

Premature Burial

Not mine.

A student asked about the term "graveyard shift" this morning which led to a bit of interweb^TM investigation. Yes, "accidental burial" signaling devices were once in vogue. For a fascinating starting place to research the topic of premature burial, I recommend this article from Snopes.com.

Ah, the macabre. What a wonderful month is October! Today, we read "The Raven":



Enjoy Monday.

Consultation

The thing stoops as it lumbers through my door. The eyes blink, shades drawn over milky cue balls.

It grunts.

Trudging toward me, it allows both hands--if you could even call the gnarled, wicked mass of flesh at the end of its arms hands--to drag the floor. The knuckles scrape the carpet, shhhhhk, leaving an oily trail. Blood? Something else?

Me: choking on my heart. My hands sweat.

The mouth opens, revealing rows of teeth like broken chalk, only green. It lifts its body onto a desk, hand/claws on the bottom, clacking against wood with yellow nails.

It grumbles. Kind of sounds like "How's my kid doing?"

On Persistence

Yesterday, Melissa De Kler at Nossa Morte notified me that my short-short "Tesoro's Magic Bullet" will appear in a future issue. I'm thrilled. Nossa Morte is a quality market, garnering four honorable mentions in The Year's Best Horror (ed. by Datlow). I've read, and enjoyed, their offerings for the past two years.

But here's the back story: this wasn't the first time I've submitted to Nossa Morte. Or the second. Or third.

I think you can see the pattern.

"Tesoro's Magic Bullet" was at least (if my records are correct) my 11th try to crack that market. It took some helpful notes from the editor, some assistance from a few readers, and a boat-load of persistence. In fact, that particular piece had been rejected (in slightly different form) three times prior. Write and rewrite. Send it out again.

Someone might read the previous paragraph and quip: Man, that guy's a loser...he failed 10 times and came back for more? Someone who isn't a writer might say that.

Writers know.

They know publication isn't a quick fix. The only essential natural "talent" for a writer is the willingness to keep going. The thick skin that sheds rejections like rainwater only comes with time. The ability to weave magic with words and phrases is attainable with practice, patience, and persistence. God knows I'm still trying. I'm not gifted with a ridiculous amount of natural ability. I'm not in a life position to take off to Clarion West. All I have is persistence.

I hope I still will be trying a year from now. Two years. Hell, ten years from now.

Parent-teacher conferences are today (twelve hours in my classroom for about 1 1/2 hours of face to face time). That takes a little persistence, too. Last year on PT conference day, I heard from Fred Coppersmith that "To Put Away Childish Things" would appear in Kaleidotrope. That issue came in the mail this week, one year later, packed with slipstream goodness (for $5 domestic, I can't think of a better deal).

These things take time.

WIP Wednesday: This I Believe

If you've never listened to NPR's This I Believe, you just might be missing something. Maybe.

What do I believe?

I believe in persistence, for one thing. I believe the underdog fights harder because he/she has something to prove. I believe in rewrites.

I believe I'm ready to start revising Loathsome, Dark and Deep. This past week, I finished "The Unfortunate Persistence of Harold Francis Beamish" (yes, I changed his name); it's my most Joe R. Lansdale-style tale (think "Stepping Out, Summer 68"). Let's just say the man they hit on that lonesome country road was already undead and stays that way.

“I wanna go home, man,” Bobby whined.

“I know…I know.” Darren rubbed his sore knee and suddenly snapped his head to one side.

“What?”

“Listen,” Darren whispered.

I wonder what he heard?

I've also finished two flash pieces since last week, and I'm mulling markets for them. One, "Sometimes They Come Back" is a rumination by a librarian. Yes, he/she is speaking of overdue books. Of course, these books are different. The other, "Billy Boy", is a (hopefully) haunting piece about a missing child. From "Billy Boy":

The game was Billy’s idea.

We built a circular wall of boxes in the storeroom of one of the anchors to the mall, the largest building on the south end. In our circle, our sanctuary, we told stories, we pushed our imaginations to the blackened corners of that space to flirt with spiders and dust. Our stories grew arms and legs, fingers and eyes; they flickered just past our musty cardboard fortress.


We made monsters, and Billy was the best.

Libraries vs. Bookstores & Honorable Insight

Because I needed something to do while sick this weekend, I broke down the honorable mentions from 2008's Best Horror as selected by Ellen Datlow. My copy of the book should be somewhere between Delaware and my house (according to Amazon), but the full list of honorable mentions is available here.

If anyone is curious like I am, you can download the list of all markets receiving 5 or more mentions in PDF here. I listed everything periodical as a "magazine" (even though some consider themselves quarterly anthologies), anything available online as "online", and multi-author collections..."anthologies". These numbers don't reflect stories actually reprinted in the anthology. Black Static was the big winner with 20 mentions. Gives one some idea of the markets receiving notice.

On Sunday afternoon, after watching the Cheifs lose (again...but hey, overtime baby), I took a trip to the library. Lovely thing, libraries. I picked up a few books to read (great display of horror/dark fiction for the Halloween season), and even placed a hold on a book not yet on the shelf (a scholarly work about monster mythology).

Then I went to the book store (Borders, in this case). Blah.

The library always fills me with hope and wonder...so many books...so quiet.

The books store? So many stacks of Glenn Beck books (ugh. How did he get away with posing in a pseudo-nazi uniform anyway?)...so few books I actually wanted to find. Can I help you? the employee asked. Yes--show me the door.

I've expressed my love of used book stores before (more like the library, really). I feel much the same way about independents, but it will be some time before you find me in a "big box" chain again.

More Book Trailerage

First, a new trailer for Fifty-Two Stitches...

Then, go read Robert Swartwood's lovely "Dead Weight".

Finally: start writing.

The submission window for year two starts on Halloween, 2009. Guidelines here.

Doping

She holds the trophy above her head as the stadium erupts in applause.

Despite the cacophony of hands slapping together and cheering voices, the single "boo" lances her in the ear. The trophy drops a few inches, a miniature tennis pro in gold hovering in front of her face.

"Boooo!"

The cheers evaporate. Murmurs travel around the seats in waves away from the man in the fifth row. He cups his hand to the side of his mouth.

"Cheater!"

She narrows her eyes and tightens her fingers around the base of the trophy, feeling the cold marble and metal bars. Her head spins, blood throbbing in her ears. Heat crawls across her neck.

"Boooo!"

She springs toward the divider between the stands and the court, her rubber soles squeaking against the clay surface. "Boo this, you son-of-a-bitch," she howls. The trophy swings in one hand as she hurdles a Lexus advertisement. The crowd parts, scrambling for the exits in a noisy bustle.

All except him. The man with black eyes still holds one hand against the side of his mouth. "You cheat," he says. His other hand pantomimes an injection.

She grasps the trophy in her left hand like a club and brings it down against the concrete steps. It snaps in two with a metallic tang. Both ends glint in the afternoon sun, sharp and jagged.

The man doesn't move.

She storms the final three steps and thrusts one crooked point into his torso, just below his left arm. The metal slips in too easily. She expected ribs...some kind of resistance.

"Gonna have to do better," he says, smiling, his mouth curling a little too far.

The blood hammers against her temples, her neck tight and bulging like match point. The other hand swings with a downward jab, driving the second fragment of trophy into the flesh between his neck and shoulder.

There is no blood.

"Sorry," he says, still smiling.

She stumbles backwards and collides with the back of a seat. Pain shoots across her back.

The man stands, plucks both pieces of trophy from his skin and drops them with a clatter to the ground. His fingertips tug at the bottom of his shirt and pull it over his head. They find the hole in his side and peel away the skin in both directions. The space grows, black and empty, nothing inside his chest.

His eyes almost sparkle. "Empty. Kind of like your victory."

Sometimes, I'm Not So Scary

Thanks to Jameson T. Caine for the AlienSkin reminder; I'd forgotten my story, "Melons" was up this month. It features a recurring character of mine, Pete Archer, a hobo/magician of sorts who first appeared in "Catalog Sales" from Necrotic Tissue #4 (download for free). Pete shows up again in next year's edition of Champagne Shivers ("Lullaby, Little Monster"). What a rascal.

Anyway, "Melons" was inspired by a Japanese folktale. I love Japanese stories, full of magic and mystery and demons. Yum.

It isn't scary, not really, but magically-real to be sure. Read Jameson's "The Sea Hath No King" while you're there, and then lock your doors...especially if you are near a beach.

Tomorrow, I spin one of my wife's dreams into a tennis match gone wrong.

WIP Wednesday: Scraps

I was trying to sew together some stray bits and pieces, hopefully rendering something worthwhile from the fragments of my flash drive. So then, I take a walk, and WHAM!

...new ideas start smacking me around like a stubborn mackerel. (die fish, die)

Other than furiously scribbling notes and typing bulleted points, I rewrote a thrice rejected piece this week, finished a longer tale about Gary Sump, "The Great God Gary Sump", and flirted with revisions to Loathsome, Dark, and Deep. I've also made a decision regarding NaNo.

Not this year.

I know I'm going to feel "left out", but I have to do what is right for me and my writing. Peer pressure is a bitch. I don't want to be the kid on the outside looking in, steaming the window with my breath. NaNo is a great motivator. Right now, my most important WIP is trying to shake a lingering cough and land a decent night's sleep.

So I'll spend the rest of October cobbling scraps together, editing Loathsome, and plotting a novel that I won't try to finish in one month. (But I do plan on starting in November.)

I have nothing else in progress, but here's the title to my notes from last night's walk:

"The Unfortunate Persistence of Harold Francis Bechard"

(cough, cough)

Stew

Not the good lamb with Guinness kind, but a bit of everything in today's post...even a recipe for stew if you hold on 'till the end.

My flash story, "Policy Woes" is up at Hypersonic Tales. Sort of a science fantasy, definitely dark, and a little disturbing. I chalk this one up to a "popcorn dream" ala Joe R. Lansdale (if you don't know what I mean, read one of his short fiction collections).

Bards and Sages Quarterly is running a survey for their "best of the year". Not that you would want to vote for my entry ("Fresh Produce" in issue #2), but you might want to vote just to exercise your democratic rights. The survey can be found here: http://www.surveymonkey.com/s.aspx?sm=7Wiaz81ynZDqQovM998ydw_3d_3d

I have a flash drive full of stories in need of homes (after some revisions). I like many of them, and think they're saleable after a little work. My problem: they don't all fit in a clear cut genre. Most of them are dark, or weird, or dark and weird, or maybe just "off kilter" a bit. Duotrope is handy when searching for specific genres, but many of these stories fall through the cracks of literary or mainstream fiction. Any suggestions for markets I might overlook?

My partner in "crime" at Strange Publications, Edward Lupak, is done with the "business". In the interest of full disclosure, his name wasn't even Ed to begin with (protecting the innocent and all that). "Ed" is a buddy of mine who offered financial and editorial support to get off the ground. His family has recently expanded by two (twins! *shakes fist at sky*), and life has become a little more "crazy". Thanks for everything, man.

Finally, a recipe for Irish Lamb and Guinness Stew (taken from http://www.gumbopages.com/food/irish/stew.html):

3 pounds lamb shoulder with a little fat, cubed
1/2 cup flour
3 large Russet potatoes, peeled and cubed
3 large carrots, peeled and sliced
6 stalks celery, cut into 1/2" slices
2 large yellow onions, cut into large dice
3 - 4 cloves garlic, minced
1 bunch fresh rosemary
1 bunch fresh thyme
1 bunch fresh parsley
2 quarts lamb or beef stock, or as needed
12 ounces Guinness stout
1 cup pearl barley (optional)
2 teaspoons corn starch
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

For a real Irish country touch, include the barley--cook it for 20 minutes in 3 cups of lamb or beef stock, then add when you return the meat to pot with the vegetables.

Cut off some of the parsley leaves and chop enough to make 2 tablespoons; reserve. Cut off some parsley stems, and tie them into a bundle with a few sprigs of rosemary and thyme; reserve.

Season the meat with salt and brown the meat in a little oil. Remove and reserve, and sprinkle with a little flour, shaking off excess. Add the onions, garlic, carrots and celery to the pan and sauté, tossing to coat with the fat. Add the Guinness and deglaze, scraping up any caramelized meat juices. Add the potatoes, return the meat to the pot (and the barley if you're using it). Add enough stock to barely cover, cook over medium heat until just boiling, then reduce heat to very low and simmer 2 - 3 hours, until the meat is tender, stirring occasionally.

Check seasonings, add salt and pepper to taste, then remove from heat, stir in parsley and the cornstarch (mixed into 4 teaspoons water) and stir. Cook over low heat for a few more minutes to thicken.

Goes well with Irish brown or white soda bread, tea and more Guinness if you like.

I might try this next weekend, provided I can find a good shoulder of lamb. (The Guinness won't be a problem).

On Eating One's Tail: The Death of Necrography and the State of Short Fiction

Another small press magazine bit the dust. As a former contributor, I received an email that Necrography was no more. The publisher produced one and only one issue (which can still be purchased through Amazon.com), and my short story "Brian Cullen's Confessional" found itself in the TOC. It's a nice little magazine, glossy and slick with clean layout.

Am I sad that another paying market has bitten the dust? Yes.

Am I surprised? No.

I turned to writing short fiction when my first novel was in the "query quagmire". I loved it. Still do. In order to continue to sell short fiction, markets have to exist to exhibit that short fiction. How do paying markets exist? Well, by selling copies (or enough advertising to make the cover price reasonable.)

To whom does a small press horror mag generally sell copies? Well, from my experience, contributors (generally at a discount), or hopeful contributors doing "research". Eat your tail, short fiction community and cough up some cash to help small presses. Buy a copy of a nice looking anthology or magazine. Most of the folks "publishing" do so with limited help, volunteering their services, and often paying for the excess costs from their personal cache. Short fiction publishing doesn't make money, folks. Not for most 'zines...not until they've survived long enough to build a reliable readership. Unfortunately, many don't have the resources to "live" long enough to see that happen.

I quote from the email:

"Our submissions have been 12 times the number of our purchases and the advertising and promotion we've done have only served to increase those submissions rather than our readership."

More advertising=more people jostling for limited spots in the TOC? Where's the sales? If we, as short fiction writers, expect fine, small press venues to continue to exist, we must help support that press. We can't just complain and throw up our hands.

In full disclosure, yes I "own" a small press (all by myself now that Ed's been "fired"--not really, but that's for another post). Yes, I'd love your support...(wink, wink). But part of me want to keep going just because I know there's a bunch of writers whose work needs an outlet, even if I have to eat the financial loss...or part of my own tail.

Little, Awful Things

The first of them hits a window with a wet thunk. Valerie jerks upright at the sound.

“What the ‘ell was that?”

Richard mumbles, rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head.

Valerie clutches the quilt, listening. A few more smacks—amplified noises like insect kamikaze against a windshield at high speed—echo from the kitchen.

“Richard, wake your lazy arse.” Valerie shakes Richard’s shoulder.

He moans, sucks a breath into his lungs, and opens his eyes. “What you want to go and wake me for?”

“Something’s outside the house.”

Smack, ping, crunch.

“Probably cicadas.”

“Too big for cicadas.” Valerie clicks on the bedroom lamp. “It’s so damn hot in here besides…”

“My allergies,” Richard says, sniffing as loud as he can. “You want me to suffer?”

Valerie hops from the bed and shuffles to the window. “I got to have a breath of fresh air.” She shuffles through the hallway, into the kitchen, and unlatches the sliding patio door. Tiny shapes flit in the darkness as Valerie pulls her nightgown close to her throat.

Bit chilly, she thinks. Then she hears the sound, soft and flapping. Tiny wings. She reaches backward, pulls open the patio door without looking, and fishes for the light switch. The tiny shapes sharpen in the light.

“Fairies?” she mutters.

Drawn to the sound of her voice, the little creatures flap their bat-black wings, swarming toward her. They reek of rot and decay with gray, poisoned skin. Valerie stumbles on the patio steps, bangs her knee against the glass, and struggles with the door. The minute undead dive bomb Valerie’s semi-prone form, seeking bare skin with their yellow, pin-prick teeth and snatching fingers. She moans, and the flitting, black leather of their little zombie-fairy wings cover her body like an undulating shroud.

In the bedroom, oblivious to Valerie’s plight, Richard stifles a sneeze and calls out, “Shut the damn patio door, will you?”

* This one's for Cate Gardner. Photo by René Ehrhardt.

Starve Artist, Starve!

How much is art worth?

I always like to understand an idea's evolution. This post comes by the way of Jeremy Brooks who sent me to this post from Amanda Effing Palmer, but the seed was planted when I read about author royalties at Galleycat a few weeks ago.

I quote from the comments:

Marvin11: "I think that writer [sic] make MORE than enough money"

PeterKing: "writers should be writing because of their love for the craft, not for the money"

I could go on...but you are all big people. Read for yourself.

So how much is an artist's work worth?

According to some, evidently a penny is too much. Personally, I'm not there yet...I can't and won't demand money for my work. I don't even expect it. The work (in my case writing/editing) is done first, and then maybe, if I'm fortunate, some editor at the Goat's Lunch Review might say "hey, let's print that guy's story and send him a copy and a free donut."

I will continue to write because I enjoy it. I really do...for now. But, if you expect that I'm going to spend thousands of dollars out of my pocket to make someone else money?

I will...only if my payoff is worthwhile. Personally, I favor the direct artist to fan model, but face it: distribution sucks. If I self-publish something, only a handful of people--maybe as many as a dozen, might buy a copy (and that's only after my mom picks up six). I can add value...something special to sweeten the deal (signatures, freebies, etc.), but if nobody sees the deal, it doesn't matter how sweet it is.

You can build a church (or website), but no guarantee people will worship (or visit).

So the big publishing houses have power...at least the ability to help your book be seen by bookstores (they have the distribution channels--they can help it be "seen"). If an author works for a publisher (i.e., the book deal), the publisher is being paid by the author, not the other way around. Famous folk, even D-listers, land huge deals because publishers know they can make money on a D-lister byline. Even a silly celebrity will sell books because of a name. It's about making money, after all. Always has been with "middle men".

Artists create. Fans consume. Middle men do neither, but benefit from the creation/consumption cycle--their motivation is to feed the "beast".

For now, I'm satisfied being what the aforementioned Jeremy Brooks once called a "literary busker". Picture me with my open typewriter case, reading my stories on the street corner, hoping a few kind souls will toss in the latest copy of Goat's Lunch Review...maybe even a leftover donut.

Care to join me?