I'm not much of a fingernail nibbler, but I have a few subs out that are twisting my gut into little knots. Shimmer opened to subs again this week, and I would love to find my way into that pub. The in box has been so silent lately...
I'm cruising on the YA novel. I've hit 30K (with probably another 3K I need to go back and add to earlier parts). The book is in full third act mode, plenty of climax, and I can't seem to write fast enough to satisfy my craving to see how it all works out. I predict about 40K by the end. I don't know how folks can do those word count meters...I had no expectations when I started.
Outside: Fog. The world is quiet in north-east Kansas.
Inside: I wish I was home, locked in what Aimee calls "the man cave", writing my fingers to the bloody stubs, because today is perfect for The House Eaters.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Favorite Movie Deaths: The Black Hole
Call me a cheese-monger, but one of my favorite films is The Black Hole. Yeah, it's a Disney movie (shudders). Yeah, some of the robots are goofy looking (V.I.N.C.E.N.T. anyone?). But it also has a kick-ass soundtrack (in my opinion, John Barry's finest work) and Maximilian, the big, red monster-robot.
Yeah. Maximillian is my favorite robot in all of film.
On to the death...
Once Dr. Alex Durant (Anthony Perkins) discovers the truth about Cygnus's crew (um, robo-zombies), and Maximilian turns on him with those spinning blades (think: garbage disposal), well that makes a nice on screen death. No blood needed. Max shreds Dr. Reinhardt's (his creator) notes in the process for a nice, symbolic and forshadowing moment as well. Later in the film, Max leaves Reinhardt for dead.
The Black Hole is dated. The script is stiff. The robots deliver the best acting. But despite these shortfalls, the movie is creepy, very creepy--a nice blend of gothic "haunted house" sensibilities and twisted technology.
And the look on Perkins's face as Dr. Durant's guts are rearranged by Maximilian...priceless.
Other favorite movie deaths?
Monday, February 23, 2009
What to do with a "Normal" Monday
Last week was nuts. Aimee's surgery, two forensics meets in four days (forensics: speech and drama competition--meets last about 8 hours+travel time=10-12 hour day), my mom stayed with us for the week, Aimee's folks stayed the weekend.
Whew.
I'm spent.
I managed 1,000 words a day on The House Eaters most of the week, eeking out a modest 500 on Saturday. I've crested the 24K mark, with about 10-12K left before I feel like the first draft is done. A respectable amount for a YA book, especially if I add another 2-3K in rewrites (which I am apt to do).
Short story burnout has taken over. The last time I worked on something longer (Rock Gods), I was itching to return to short stories. I don't have that feeling right now. I haven't felt this way for over a year, so it sort of scares me. Short stories used to be my oxygen.
What if all my ideas are gone, poof, into the ether?
Whew.
I'm spent.
I managed 1,000 words a day on The House Eaters most of the week, eeking out a modest 500 on Saturday. I've crested the 24K mark, with about 10-12K left before I feel like the first draft is done. A respectable amount for a YA book, especially if I add another 2-3K in rewrites (which I am apt to do).
Short story burnout has taken over. The last time I worked on something longer (Rock Gods), I was itching to return to short stories. I don't have that feeling right now. I haven't felt this way for over a year, so it sort of scares me. Short stories used to be my oxygen.
What if all my ideas are gone, poof, into the ether?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Isn't it Ironic? (or is it?)
I love arguing about irony with my students. They always mix up real irony with mere coincidence. Although irony in literature is fun, I love real world irony even more.
Here's a situation that skirts the boundary between irony and coincidence:
John Joseph Adams was a sponsor of the zombie caption contest over at Tor.com. On the day I found out I had won, I received a rejection in the mail from Fantasy and Science Fiction signed by John Joseph Adams.
Now if that doesn't put the universe in balance, I don't know what does. Is it ironic? Go ask Alanis Morissette; I'm too tired.
Here's a situation that skirts the boundary between irony and coincidence:
John Joseph Adams was a sponsor of the zombie caption contest over at Tor.com. On the day I found out I had won, I received a rejection in the mail from Fantasy and Science Fiction signed by John Joseph Adams.
Now if that doesn't put the universe in balance, I don't know what does. Is it ironic? Go ask Alanis Morissette; I'm too tired.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
I'd Like to Thank the Academy
K.C. Shaw just informed me that I won the Zombie Caption Contest at Tor.com.
There were some wonderful entries; pop over to the site and read them.
Consider me shocked and awed.
And hungry...
There were some wonderful entries; pop over to the site and read them.
Consider me shocked and awed.
And hungry...
I'm to Tired to Say Much About Hell House
No, not the Richard Matheson novel, but the 2001 documentary about one of the original evangelical Christian "Scare them to Jesus" haunted houses. I picked this up at the library last week (thank you public library), and wow...was it powerful and deeply disturbing on many levels. The filmmakers do not comment directly, but through a masterful arrangement of shots and sequences. Such subtle comment is how I prefer my documentaries.
Watch it, and prepare to feel uncomfortable.
Thanks for all the well-wishing. Aimee cruised through surgery fine yesterday. According to the doctor, "she only lost about 100ccs of blood". I guess that's a good thing. My favorite hospital sign:
Blood Bank
Please enter to pick up
blood products.
What exactly are "blood products" other than, well blood? I guess there's plasma...maybe soylent red.
Mmmm...soylent red (drools).
Monday, February 16, 2009
Third Time is the Charm
I'm in Kansas City today, pacing a waiting room while Aimee has sinus surgery for the third time. She had the first operation five months before we were married, the second about a year before Max's birth, and now, the third. Different doctors each time; this one is supposed to be the best in the area. I hope the surgery helps because the poor woman has been suffering with chronic infections for most of the past year.
On a less important, but much weirder, note, Gary Sump makes another appearance at Everyday Weirdness today. This time, he tells his side of the story about the little people in his backyard. Hopefully he comes across as at least the slightest bit sympathetic (or just plain pathetic). The piece is aptly titled, "Gary Sump is an Angry God". Enjoy.
On a less important, but much weirder, note, Gary Sump makes another appearance at Everyday Weirdness today. This time, he tells his side of the story about the little people in his backyard. Hopefully he comes across as at least the slightest bit sympathetic (or just plain pathetic). The piece is aptly titled, "Gary Sump is an Angry God". Enjoy.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Love Letter (a work of fiction)
My shift ends at eleven, but I usually don’t come home until two or three. I like to call it “the long way home”. I’m always pretty quiet about it, and you are asleep. I figure you’ve never noticed and don’t think you ever would with how soundly you sleep. It’s not that I’m avoiding you or anything—hell, the best part of my night is crawling under the blankets after taking a quick shower; you keep the bed so nice and toasty warm.
See, I can’t come home right after my shift. I’m sort of revved up, ready to howl at the moon. Usually, I hit a bar or two—sometimes one of those dance clubs downtown. The “face” crowd really fills those places—the “beautiful people”. I still find you plenty attractive; that’s not it at all. Just that something worms into my blood, and I have to wring it out before I come home.
I’m afraid of what might happen if I don’t.
You know those love letters stashed under the bed in the spare room? The old shoebox crammed full of the little snatches we used to write each other? Sometimes I think of those letters when I come home and see you all snuggled in the bed. I have a little box, too, only mine is an old cash box, metal with a tiny clasp. It’s buried down by Stranger Creek. I move it around a lot, different spots almost every week.
Sometimes, when I’m watching the crowd dance at one of those clubs and I see a tattoo (all the young girls have them nowadays), I think of those love letters. Remember how we went back and forth on the tattoo topic when I was in Afghanistan? How you said you’d dump me like a hot rock if I got myself all inked up? I see a tattoo sometimes and I think about how jealous I was back then, back when you were going to college and I was dragging my sorry ass all over the mountains in central Asia. I see a tattoo sometimes, and I think about love letters, especially after you had my name inked on your own skin, even though you hated the idea. I still have that picture, the only one you sent in a letter. We exchanged plenty of digital pics, but that one is special. I have it stashed down at the creek with the rest of my collection.
That something in my blood starts to itch at times, and I go home with one of those girls with a tattoo. I never touch them like that—there’s no sex. I’m sure there could be plenty, but that’s not it. That’s not it at all. I never cheated on you, and I want you to know.
It’s the tattoos, really. The little love letters on their skin. My blood boils over with this kind of jealousy, and I have to have the tattoo.
I keep my knife real sharp for the job. I learned too much in the army.
I take the little love letters down to Stranger Creek and slip them into my cash box with the photo of your tattoo. I have your picture in a Ziploc because I don’t want any blood or mud to spoil it. After I find a new place to stick the box, I usually jump in the creek to wash off the dirt and everything. Sometimes, the water is mighty cold, and I’m chilled down into my bones.
The shower helps with the chill and the rest of the stuff I find caked under my nails, but I’m not really warmed up until I snuggle in next to you.
I love you, baby, and that’s why I have to take the long way home.
See, I can’t come home right after my shift. I’m sort of revved up, ready to howl at the moon. Usually, I hit a bar or two—sometimes one of those dance clubs downtown. The “face” crowd really fills those places—the “beautiful people”. I still find you plenty attractive; that’s not it at all. Just that something worms into my blood, and I have to wring it out before I come home.
I’m afraid of what might happen if I don’t.
You know those love letters stashed under the bed in the spare room? The old shoebox crammed full of the little snatches we used to write each other? Sometimes I think of those letters when I come home and see you all snuggled in the bed. I have a little box, too, only mine is an old cash box, metal with a tiny clasp. It’s buried down by Stranger Creek. I move it around a lot, different spots almost every week.
Sometimes, when I’m watching the crowd dance at one of those clubs and I see a tattoo (all the young girls have them nowadays), I think of those love letters. Remember how we went back and forth on the tattoo topic when I was in Afghanistan? How you said you’d dump me like a hot rock if I got myself all inked up? I see a tattoo sometimes and I think about how jealous I was back then, back when you were going to college and I was dragging my sorry ass all over the mountains in central Asia. I see a tattoo sometimes, and I think about love letters, especially after you had my name inked on your own skin, even though you hated the idea. I still have that picture, the only one you sent in a letter. We exchanged plenty of digital pics, but that one is special. I have it stashed down at the creek with the rest of my collection.
That something in my blood starts to itch at times, and I go home with one of those girls with a tattoo. I never touch them like that—there’s no sex. I’m sure there could be plenty, but that’s not it. That’s not it at all. I never cheated on you, and I want you to know.
It’s the tattoos, really. The little love letters on their skin. My blood boils over with this kind of jealousy, and I have to have the tattoo.
I keep my knife real sharp for the job. I learned too much in the army.
I take the little love letters down to Stranger Creek and slip them into my cash box with the photo of your tattoo. I have your picture in a Ziploc because I don’t want any blood or mud to spoil it. After I find a new place to stick the box, I usually jump in the creek to wash off the dirt and everything. Sometimes, the water is mighty cold, and I’m chilled down into my bones.
The shower helps with the chill and the rest of the stuff I find caked under my nails, but I’m not really warmed up until I snuggle in next to you.
I love you, baby, and that’s why I have to take the long way home.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thoughts on POV / Progress
The House Eaters is nearing the end of part 1 (I envision three parts, each culminating with a supernatural event). One thing I enjoy about drafting a longer work is that characterization can take time, it can be more subtle. I also enjoy how those characters take on their own lives and start acting on their own.
I had no idea that the protagonist's sister exhibited psi until it happened, opening a whole series of plot events and back story. She has a psychic connection to her brother, an echo of something that took place years before the current tale, and it will factor in the climax of the novel. That was a nice discovery.
The book is just under 16K now, so the final draft will probably hover between 40-50 (a decent amount for typical YA). So far, so good.
Last night, I had a POV quandary that nearly shut me down. I've been writing the story in first person. (Surveying the books my students are reading, I'd say POV is about 50/50 in the YA area--I haven't done any real research.)
My quandary wasn't a real problem, per se, just a fear that first person wasn't right (i.e., it wouldn't sell). When I write short fiction, I stick to third person pretty religiously (80/20). I think third person works best with horror fiction, especially short fiction. This book isn't a strict horror tale, but more dark YA fantasy.
Any thoughts?
I had no idea that the protagonist's sister exhibited psi until it happened, opening a whole series of plot events and back story. She has a psychic connection to her brother, an echo of something that took place years before the current tale, and it will factor in the climax of the novel. That was a nice discovery.
The book is just under 16K now, so the final draft will probably hover between 40-50 (a decent amount for typical YA). So far, so good.
Last night, I had a POV quandary that nearly shut me down. I've been writing the story in first person. (Surveying the books my students are reading, I'd say POV is about 50/50 in the YA area--I haven't done any real research.)
My quandary wasn't a real problem, per se, just a fear that first person wasn't right (i.e., it wouldn't sell). When I write short fiction, I stick to third person pretty religiously (80/20). I think third person works best with horror fiction, especially short fiction. This book isn't a strict horror tale, but more dark YA fantasy.
Any thoughts?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The World is Shrinking; The Land of Dead Stories
I confused my wife yesterday. I do so frequently, and Aimee is quite used to it.
Me: I sold some books to help the fires in Australia.
Aimee: Huh?
Rewind: There are terrible fires in Australia. I know some writers (through my writing experiences) who live in Australia. I tried to think of a way to help, and figured I could donate a few copies of Tainted for sale, sending the proceeds to the Red Cross.
Aimee: Now I understand.
Me: The world is shrinking.
Aimee: Sure (nods her head politely and walks away)
In other news, I officially killed one market last year. Grim Graffiti had accepted "In the Dark, Alone and Hungry" before folding. I'm too tired to find another home for that piece (it has already made the rounds, anyway), so in an act of closure, I'm posting it as the first resident in The Land of Dead Stories. If anyone ever has a piece that kills a market and you don't want to search for a new home, let me know. I'll add it to The Land.
Me: I sold some books to help the fires in Australia.
Aimee: Huh?
Rewind: There are terrible fires in Australia. I know some writers (through my writing experiences) who live in Australia. I tried to think of a way to help, and figured I could donate a few copies of Tainted for sale, sending the proceeds to the Red Cross.
Aimee: Now I understand.
Me: The world is shrinking.
Aimee: Sure (nods her head politely and walks away)
__________
In other news, I officially killed one market last year. Grim Graffiti had accepted "In the Dark, Alone and Hungry" before folding. I'm too tired to find another home for that piece (it has already made the rounds, anyway), so in an act of closure, I'm posting it as the first resident in The Land of Dead Stories. If anyone ever has a piece that kills a market and you don't want to search for a new home, let me know. I'll add it to The Land.
__________
Saturday is Valentine's Day. Regardless of how you feel about the holiday, I'll have a love letter for my dear readers. Hugs and kisses (from a zombie).
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Big and Small of Publishing
I've been receiving the Galley Cat daily feed, and news is good for small publishing houses (or at least better than it has been for the dinosaurs). In the latest bit of news, Chelsea Green Publishing reported record sales last year. While Chelsea isn't a fiction publisher, I want to reflect on what I believe might be happening.
Purely speculation, but that's what I do.
When the purse strings are tight, people stop spending money on "extras". For a huge chunk of the popular fiction/non-fiction crowd, these "extras" would include books. Schunk! We just eliminated a swath of the big publishers' sales. Small houses (whether fiction or non-fiction) do a better job with niche markets. They know what readers (those people for whom books are not "extra") want. When the surplus money dries up, they are still above water because the dedicated readers are still buying books.
Just a theory.
Recessions have a way of forcing the cream to the top (i.e., better music, better art, better literature). Consumers must become more discerning in their purchases when their purchasing ability is limited. I hope this recession can create a renaissance, too.
Purely speculation, but that's what I do.
When the purse strings are tight, people stop spending money on "extras". For a huge chunk of the popular fiction/non-fiction crowd, these "extras" would include books. Schunk! We just eliminated a swath of the big publishers' sales. Small houses (whether fiction or non-fiction) do a better job with niche markets. They know what readers (those people for whom books are not "extra") want. When the surplus money dries up, they are still above water because the dedicated readers are still buying books.
Just a theory.
Recessions have a way of forcing the cream to the top (i.e., better music, better art, better literature). Consumers must become more discerning in their purchases when their purchasing ability is limited. I hope this recession can create a renaissance, too.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Selling a Few Copies for the Red Cross
If you read Felicity Dowker's recent post, or have been paying attention to world news, you know about the horrible fires in Austrailia.
I have a few extra copies of Tainted: Tales of Terror and the Supernatural lying around, and I'm going to unload them, donating all but the shipping cost to The Red Cross Victorian Bushfire Appeal.
If you want a copy, and I have five, order below. Ed and I are considering all profits for this month's edition of Sand go to the Red Cross as well.
God Speed.
Update: only a couple of copies left. ;)
I have a few extra copies of Tainted: Tales of Terror and the Supernatural lying around, and I'm going to unload them, donating all but the shipping cost to The Red Cross Victorian Bushfire Appeal.
If you want a copy, and I have five, order below. Ed and I are considering all profits for this month's edition of Sand go to the Red Cross as well.
God Speed.
Update: only a couple of copies left. ;)
Man, I Was a Weird Kid...
Thanks to K.C. Shaw for starting another meme. This one is simple: childhood book memories.
I have sooooo many happy memories of books as a kid, but I'll pare it down to three.
1) The Crestwood Monster Series
We had these books in my K-3 school library. I always had one in my desk. Personally, I think they made me the monster lover I am today. All the big names had a book: Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy, even a generic mad scientists book and one about giant bugs. Each volume was basically a summary of old movies (Universal and otherwise). We still have a few copies at the Lawrence Public Library.
2) Mickey the Microbe
Maybe my memory fails me, but I'm pretty sure the eponymous Mickey was a microbe traveling through a young boy's body, exploring all the parts, and reporting his adventures. My third grade teacher read this one to us, and I can't seem to find anything about him on the web. (It seems Mexico has a Mikey Microbe character who promotes health.) I vividly remember the day Mickey crawled up the nasal passage--sort of spelunking in snot.
3) Hidden Places
My third and final warm fuzzy is the hidden reading spot. In fourth grade, it was at the back of the room, tucked to the side of the coat rack. I could actually worm my way out of sight, balancing on a box of playground balls, and read in a little secluded cave. I've always enjoyed cramped, dark places for reading, despite my general claustrophobia. I've always needed to shut off all distractions to really engage in a book, and I still love it today.
I think I'm going to stop by the library on the way home today...
I have sooooo many happy memories of books as a kid, but I'll pare it down to three.
1) The Crestwood Monster Series
We had these books in my K-3 school library. I always had one in my desk. Personally, I think they made me the monster lover I am today. All the big names had a book: Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy, even a generic mad scientists book and one about giant bugs. Each volume was basically a summary of old movies (Universal and otherwise). We still have a few copies at the Lawrence Public Library.
2) Mickey the Microbe
Maybe my memory fails me, but I'm pretty sure the eponymous Mickey was a microbe traveling through a young boy's body, exploring all the parts, and reporting his adventures. My third grade teacher read this one to us, and I can't seem to find anything about him on the web. (It seems Mexico has a Mikey Microbe character who promotes health.) I vividly remember the day Mickey crawled up the nasal passage--sort of spelunking in snot.
3) Hidden Places
My third and final warm fuzzy is the hidden reading spot. In fourth grade, it was at the back of the room, tucked to the side of the coat rack. I could actually worm my way out of sight, balancing on a box of playground balls, and read in a little secluded cave. I've always enjoyed cramped, dark places for reading, despite my general claustrophobia. I've always needed to shut off all distractions to really engage in a book, and I still love it today.
I think I'm going to stop by the library on the way home today...
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
The Blurb: Publishing's Letter of Recommendation
True Story: our school librarian used to feed/water William S. Burroughs's cats. Yes, that William Burroughs. (Burroughs lived in Lawrence from 1981 until his death.) While she knew him, Burroughs's would often ask her for blurbs; publishers sent him books, he didn't read them, and his cat sitter wrote the recommendations that landed on the covers with his name attached.
True story.
With the latest cat fight in publishing (Stephen King vs. Stephenie Meyer), my attention has been brought to the almighty book blurb. We are so used to seeing big time authors' names attached to positive comments in order to sell books, the King/Meyer fiasco has raised eyebrows.
Consider this: as a high school teacher over the past ten years, I've written dozens of letters of recommendation for students seeking scholarships/college entrance/jobs. I feel like it is part of my job. Although I'm always positive (if I can't say anything positive, I let them know with a simple, "Do you think I'm the best person to write this letter?"), the letters usually straddle the line between fantasy and reality. The letter of recommendation is an art form in saying the positive and ignoring the rest.
Isn't a book blurb the same? Some blurbs come across as forceful, almost: "read this book or die" or "you will find true enlightenment if you read this book" or even threatening "you will never be happy again unless you read this book". I take them all with a healthy dose of skepticism, but they are the norm, the letter of recommendation of the publishing world.
How important are they? How serious do you take a book blurb when seeking new reading material?
True story.
With the latest cat fight in publishing (Stephen King vs. Stephenie Meyer), my attention has been brought to the almighty book blurb. We are so used to seeing big time authors' names attached to positive comments in order to sell books, the King/Meyer fiasco has raised eyebrows.
Consider this: as a high school teacher over the past ten years, I've written dozens of letters of recommendation for students seeking scholarships/college entrance/jobs. I feel like it is part of my job. Although I'm always positive (if I can't say anything positive, I let them know with a simple, "Do you think I'm the best person to write this letter?"), the letters usually straddle the line between fantasy and reality. The letter of recommendation is an art form in saying the positive and ignoring the rest.
Isn't a book blurb the same? Some blurbs come across as forceful, almost: "read this book or die" or "you will find true enlightenment if you read this book" or even threatening "you will never be happy again unless you read this book". I take them all with a healthy dose of skepticism, but they are the norm, the letter of recommendation of the publishing world.
How important are they? How serious do you take a book blurb when seeking new reading material?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
But I Like Writing Short Stories...
The title of this post comes from Fred (my subconscious mind/muse/internal voice). He's whining again. He prefers to write short stories, but I'm making him help me with another novel.
The only problem is that ol' Fred only wants me to write YA novels. I'm okay with that. No one (apart from Stephenie Meyer or J.K., maybe a handful of others) makes a living on YA, but I'm not banking on making a living at this anyway (that would be, how you say, a pipe dream--although a very attractive one).
I started working on The House Eaters (which will, no doubt, receive a title change). I tried to work the whole adult horror angle (3rd person, the whole nine yards), but when I hear a narrator's voice, it's a seventeen year old boy. Maybe Freud could help me with that...
So, my narrator moves from the city to a rural farmhouse just before his senior year because his mom has lost her job. Their new place is 1/2 mile from a run down house (haunted? not really). He is suspended on his first day (always bullies, aren't there?), and hears the House (as he calls it) talking to him (no, it's not haunted...not in the conventional sense) while spending the day at home. I'm trying to blend some Native American spirituality with "old dark house" sensibilities with a healthy dose of teenage angst and dissolving family dynamics. Whew.
Oh, and The Black Garden is available for pre-order from Corpulent Insanity Press. The book has received a few interesting pre-release reviews.
The only problem is that ol' Fred only wants me to write YA novels. I'm okay with that. No one (apart from Stephenie Meyer or J.K., maybe a handful of others) makes a living on YA, but I'm not banking on making a living at this anyway (that would be, how you say, a pipe dream--although a very attractive one).
I started working on The House Eaters (which will, no doubt, receive a title change). I tried to work the whole adult horror angle (3rd person, the whole nine yards), but when I hear a narrator's voice, it's a seventeen year old boy. Maybe Freud could help me with that...
So, my narrator moves from the city to a rural farmhouse just before his senior year because his mom has lost her job. Their new place is 1/2 mile from a run down house (haunted? not really). He is suspended on his first day (always bullies, aren't there?), and hears the House (as he calls it) talking to him (no, it's not haunted...not in the conventional sense) while spending the day at home. I'm trying to blend some Native American spirituality with "old dark house" sensibilities with a healthy dose of teenage angst and dissolving family dynamics. Whew.
Oh, and The Black Garden is available for pre-order from Corpulent Insanity Press. The book has received a few interesting pre-release reviews.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
My Secret Life
Writing is my secret life, the one most people I see on a daily basis know nothing about, hence the title of my blog.
This post was inspired by Barry Napier's article about working as a freelance writer over at Freelance Writerville. I read the article, or at least the first 1/2 (the rest will be posted later), and thought about my secret life.
In the "real" world, I teach high school English. I try to explain the importance of revising to a room full of slobbering teenagers whose minds are more worried about ditching class, zits, where their next beer is coming from, and...other things.
In my other life, I'm milking this writing thing as much as I can. I know the importance of revising. I understand the value of syntax, grammar, and weaving a good story; if I don't do those things, rejection, rejection, rejection.
I'm worried about my "real" life and my "secret" life colliding. Part of this is a sense of humility; anyone who has had anything published by a legit source knows the struggle involved, and a sense of that struggle really tempers my ego. Part of this worry stems from an understanding that most people in my "real" life don't know how cool it is that "A Plague from the Mud" is reprinted in this month's edition of Apex Magazine. (this was a contractual hook-up with Permuted Press, part of the "Permuted Press Presents" series--a sort of ad for the anthology) Most people in my "real" life would say, "huh? Oh, yeah. Cool," and shuffle away.
I haven't figured out the balancing act. If anybody has, please let me know. Even if you haven't, please let me know.
(And thanks to Jamie Eyberg for pointing out the Apex pub. I didn't know it would be in there this month.)
This post was inspired by Barry Napier's article about working as a freelance writer over at Freelance Writerville. I read the article, or at least the first 1/2 (the rest will be posted later), and thought about my secret life.
In the "real" world, I teach high school English. I try to explain the importance of revising to a room full of slobbering teenagers whose minds are more worried about ditching class, zits, where their next beer is coming from, and...other things.
In my other life, I'm milking this writing thing as much as I can. I know the importance of revising. I understand the value of syntax, grammar, and weaving a good story; if I don't do those things, rejection, rejection, rejection.
I'm worried about my "real" life and my "secret" life colliding. Part of this is a sense of humility; anyone who has had anything published by a legit source knows the struggle involved, and a sense of that struggle really tempers my ego. Part of this worry stems from an understanding that most people in my "real" life don't know how cool it is that "A Plague from the Mud" is reprinted in this month's edition of Apex Magazine. (this was a contractual hook-up with Permuted Press, part of the "Permuted Press Presents" series--a sort of ad for the anthology) Most people in my "real" life would say, "huh? Oh, yeah. Cool," and shuffle away.
I haven't figured out the balancing act. If anybody has, please let me know. Even if you haven't, please let me know.
(And thanks to Jamie Eyberg for pointing out the Apex pub. I didn't know it would be in there this month.)
Tech Tools in School, or Cheating the iPod with Video
I love tech toys (errr...tools), and one of my favorites is the iPod. I occasionally show videos from the thing, and found a nifty trick to avoid the ridiculous cost of the iPod video cable.
It's simple. Buy any ol' cheap 1/8" plug to RCA (Red, White, Yellow) cable. Plug the 1/8" plug into your iPod (just like the headphones) then connect the RCA plugs into the TV/projector...ah, but here's the trick: the yellow plug from your cable must go in the white connector, the white in the red, and the red in the yellow. Apple is sooo tricky.
(this works up through 5th generation...)
Yeah, this post wasn't really about dark fiction or horror, but the cost of Apple's proprietary add-ons for the iPod is very scary.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Some of Your Blood
I finished reading Some of Your Blood by Theodore Sturgeon yesterday.Wow.
The book is written in fragments, semi-epistolary. I struggled through the first third because it was a narrative written by a semi-literate man. (the grammar was atrocious)
I'm glad I did. Since I've started writing, I've scared myself with what my mind was able to conceive, but only on rare occasions. Horror fiction doesn't scare me as it did when I was a child--it doesn't make me look around and put the book down and hope everything is going to be okay.
I felt that way again in a couple of places while reading Some of Your Blood. Without setting off too many spoilers, let me just say the end of the book struck me like no other since I Am Legend; it was just that good.
Some of Your Blood isn't for the casual horror fan. I understand why it isn't more widely read. I'm not even sure some would consider it horror in the popular sense of the term. But if you like to think--if you like a book that makes you go back and reread some passages because of their sheer power, go for it. Be patient. This one avoids cheep scares for deeper, longer lasting discomfort. I promise that you'll think about it after you're done reading.
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