Writing 2009 In Review

I just revisited last year's goals/"resolutions". My goals and how I did:

1. Always have one story in front of a pro-paying market. Right now I have six...granted, three are flash pieces, but I did receive a rewrite request on one longer piece. Still waiting.

2. Finish Rock Gods and Scary Monsters and query that sucker by year's end. Done and done. Still waiting. I currently have two fulls out.

3. Write The House Eaters. Um, done.

4. Write at least one high-quality story a month. Well...I averaged more than one a month. Quality? That's for someone else to decide. I've become a better writer, that's for sure.

5. Give myself some breaks. Check. (Actually, I need to get my lazy butt to work)

Now there were two items on the list that needed "assistance" (i.e., I wasn't in total control).

1. Land an agent/sell a book. Agent, no. A few close calls, but nil. Sell a book...check: The House Eaters to Virtual Tales.

2. Sell a story to a pro paying market. Until three days ago, it didn't look like this would happen...but I did land my first pro-rate sale last weekend. More on this later (trying to keep the cat in the bag for now...poor kitty). I'm thrilled, of course.

So all in all, I did okay. Some other highlights include:

• Reading the first reviews of my writing (the very first was for "A Plague from the Mud" at Horror Drive-in.com--and it was positive).
• Sales to Nossa Morte, Murky Depths, Necrotic Tissue...all markets I'd tried and tried and tried.
• Seeing sweet books like Monstrous, Northern Haunts, and Harvest Hill in print. Hell, seeing Monstrous on a shelf at Borders (with my name on the back...WTF?) was pretty effing cool.
• A growing circle of bloggy-people with whom to share successes and process set-backs. Y'all are awesome.

A pretty darn good year, I 'spose. I'm sure I can scrounge up goals for next year, but for now, I'm out. Have a good New Year's Eve. Stay safe.

What Not to Do

Submitting fiction for publication is like a drug habit (in theory, anyway...I haven't had any drug habits). Those first submissions, oh how the rejection stings. Later, when you get the first "hit", sweet nirvana. Then you go back for more. The stings aren't so bad this time, but the hits don't take you as high. You crave bigger hits. Pro sales. That book deal that will make everything okay.

Only it won't.

The writing has to be the high, really. Why do it if it's not?

All right, enough of that. Onward to today's title:

What Not to Do

or

How to Look Like an Amateur

Never, never write a nasty note back to an editor if you receive a rejection. I've had rejections that were snarky, off-base, misspelled, confused (mixing verb tense with POV...sheesh), but I've never sent a nasty note to an editor.

I don't care what the venue is, how much you would have been paid/not paid...just don't do it. The professional thing? Take the rejection and move on. The longer you do this (see above) the less rejection will sting (of course, the less success will take you high...what a catch-22). Just move on, okay? How can you tell a seasoned pro (even more than by her/his paycheck)? She/he knows how to move on to the next thing.

That is all.

Tomorrow: My writing year in review. Please don't hold your breath.

Decade, You Have Been Good To Me

Whatever history will end up calling the last decade, she's almost over.

In the last ten years I've:

...married my wife (the current and only one).

...seen ten senior classes leave McLouth High School.

...witnessed the birth of my two beautiful boys (Owen in 2003...Max in 2006).

...started and finished my M.S. program at the University of Kansas.

...been nominated for Kansas Teacher of the Year.

...written four books and nearly 200 stories. One of the books really sucks; one is being published; the jury is still out on the others.

...lost a little hair (and a number of the survivors have gone grey).

...helped my wife through some pretty crappy post-partum depression.

...witnessed random acts of violence in the 21st Century's "new war". I'll never forget walking from my classroom on September 11th...my vice-principal told me what had happened, his face drawn and pale. Likewise, bombings in Madrid, London, elsewhere--terrorism was no longer a "Middle East" problem--not that it ever was.

...took my children to the doctor/emergency room for broken arms, fevers, anaphylactic shock, and stitches.

...grown up. A little. ('course Santa brought me a Nerf gun...so pbbbbbt to growing up)

Later this week I'll review my year in writing. For now...wow. What a decade. I know I'm leaving soooo much out. Blame it on the post-Christmas stomach flu. I know I am.

While I'm trying to remember what I forgot, please have a look at this lovely review of Kaleidotrope #7 from Tangent Online. My entry lands some favorable e-ink:

'To Put Away Childish Things’ provides some remarkable observations about the nature of humanity...

(the reviewer then goes on to kick me in the teeth with a glancing shot of feminist criticism...read for yourself)

Gotta love it.

Crenshaw's Gift

Little Ralphie hugs the package to his chest and shakes it back and forth. The contents rattle, a muted clatter-clatter.

"It's so big," he says, smile beaming.

Mom leans over to Dad and lowers her voice to a whisper. "Legos, right?"

Dad shakes his head while Ralphie strips the paper from the large box.

"Well...it's big. Almost as big as the boy." She frowns. "Tinker Toys?"

Head shake.

"Lincoln Logs?"

Head shake.

"All right...I give."

Ralphie yanks open the end of the box. "Whoa..."

Dad smiles. "Remember old man Crenshaw down the street?"

Ralphie tips the box and the contents tumble to the floor in a noisy, off-white pile. The skull, round and empty, falls out last.

Mom frowns and covers her mouth with one hand. "My god..."

"Don't worry honey. I bleached 'em clean." Dad looks at Ralphie. "Careful boy--there's no spare bits in there. A real one-of-a-kind set."

__________

Have a very pulpy Christmas, everyone.

WIP Wednesday: Holidays (Not for the Kids)

Merry Christmas to all, and stay away from Santa's cookies!

Reviewy-Tuesday

Catching up on some reviews and other news.

I've posted my recommendation of See No Evil, Say No Evil by Matt Betts at Skull Salad.

Jorge Solis of Fangoria.com had some nice things to say about Dead Bait, including my contribution, "Grim Adaptations":

My favorites in the collection are Tim Curran’s “Piraya” and Aaron A. Polson’s “Grim Adaptations.” In both tales, dead fish are reanimated back to life as zombies to feed off of humans...

Luke Reviews covered Monstrous back in May, but I've only recently stumbled across this lovely send up of "A Plague from the Mud":

In this tale, Polson presents us with a slowly evolving tale of dread, as the clues are all there, and we all know what will happen, but we can't turn and look away. This dark piece works that dread well, playing on suspense and short bits of story with lots of breaks, nailing the suspense of the dying town of Monument, Oregon.


Finally (for the review portion of the post), Tom Powers at Small Press Reviews mentioned "Dancing Lessons" while covering Triangulation: Dark Glass.

...a girl poignantly encounters an animated carnival monster who may be her dead father...

In other news,"Precious Metal", a short-short accepted by the venerable Albedo One last year, is due out in their next issue. I'm giddy about this, as Albedo One has a long and storied track record.

Last but not least I found myself listed in the International Science-Fiction Database. They only have two of my shorts listed: "A Plague from the Mud" and "The Ox-Cart Man". Weird to be listed at all. I must be "real".

Oh, and I've added the "followers" bit to the sidebar. I wrestled with it for a while, not wanting to seem to narcissistic, but I think it can be a good social networking tool for visitors. So, there it is.

Doing "It" Well

I received an interesting bit in the mail on Friday. At first, from the shape and size, I thought it was another Christmas card. (don't get me wrong, I love Christmas cards...but they are about all I've received of late)

No, it was a glossy press-release type page and note from Robert Dunbar (author of The Pines, The Shore, and Martyrs and Monsters). The handwritten note mentioned my blog (this blog). I wrote about Martyrs and Monsters a few months ago...here.

Oh, I thought, through this simple gesture, Mr. Dunbar has made a Fan for Life^TM. I firmly believe that making connections with fans is the single most important thing an author can do in the new writing order. Does Dunbar spend a little on postage? Sure. Will he make that money back by selling a couple of books to some schmuck in Kansas? No...but I'm blogging about it. I'm more likely to read another book with his name attached, hunt down short stories, etc. And I'm working on a more detailed "review" of Martyrs and Monsters for Skull Salad. Will that sell more books? Dunno, but it can't hurt. Good karma for the win.

So I've been thinking: What can I do to help fan the flames of my potential readers? Cate Gardner did a brilliant job marketing her chapbook, The Sour Aftertaste of Olive Lemon, earlier this year. (Cate's a pretty brilliant social networker all the way around) With my first book (The House Eaters) on schedule for "future release", what can I do to help make that connection? How can an author help make you a Fan for Life^TM?

One Up

Two men lock stares across a worn table; both of their faces mottled with stubble and sweat, one wearing a green Pioneer cap. A buck knife sticks from the pocked table top. The crowd circling them, most with sewn-on name tags, grease stains, and breath to kill Satan, press closer to the cone of light offered by a single naked bulb above the table.

"What you got now, Jeb?" The man in the Pioneer hat says.

Jeb let's his left hand drop below the table. His mouth curls open. "Jus' this."

He pulls the tin snips from beneath the table and drops them with a clatter. The knife falls over, tumbles from the wooden surface, and rattles on the floor. Voices rise from the crowd. Bets are exchanged.

Pioneer hat swallows hard, opens the snips, and slides a finger through the blades. His eyes are closed when he presses down, using the table top for leverage with his free hand. He doesn't see the blood spurt across the table, but he hears the crunch as the snips break through the bone. He yanks the bloodied hand away and thrusts it in his lap, his face swollen and red as a boiled beet.

The crowd hoots and claps until Pioneer hat raises his other hand.

"My...turn," he mutters.

Jeb shifts in his chair. The wooden slats of the floor creak.

Pioneer hat points to his mouth and leans forward into the light. For the first time, the crowd gets a good look at his teeth, how sharp and crooked they are like the maw of a shark. Jeb raises a shaking finger, pushing across the table toward the other man's mouth...

Another Way to Help Your Small Press Friends

...and this one won't cost a cent.

Reviews of products at Amazon.com are great, but tagging those products can be more productive in driving traffic. Each product page should have a section that looks like this:

(yeah, it's from Fifty-Two Stitches, not that I'm suggesting you tag that particular book)

Simply click the little box next to each term to add your vote. You can also add new tags (there's a little box below the list). The more tags (i.e., number of instances of a particular tag), the higher a product will appear when someone searches for that tag. It's the Amazon equivalent of placing a book in the front of the store. When I managed the book department at Hastings in Lawrence (we sold books, music, and video), my job was all about "real estate". The books on end caps and up front sold better because of their visibility. That should be obvious, right?

So you want to help the small press? Tag the books. Do anything you can to help increase the visibility of books, magazines, etc. that you enjoy.

WIP Wednesday: The OUCH! Edition

Why I don't submit to many "literary" markets anymore:

This story requires a suspension of disbelief of epic proportions. The title is not great. The story is not original. Again, thanks so much for your submission.

No, thank you for reminding me.

So I am knocking out the first draft of a piece for The Harrow's forthcoming Day Terrors Anthology. I haven't written anything for a specific anthology in a while...quite a while. Yeah, it only pays $10, but I see it as a challenge--plus, I had this dream that fit perfectly. (put that in your pipe and smoke it, 'cause some folks think that's all 10 bucks is worth)

From "In the Grass":

Barry’s face was ashen, drawn. He lifted his right arm, blood oozing from fresh wounds, and pointed toward in the direction of the road, only there wasn’t a road. “We’re lost.”

Nick coughed and spat a dark mix of blood and mucus on the ground. “You aren’t lost…you’re trapped.”

I owe part of the story to the Flint Hills, a unique geological feature to east-central Kansas, and "What Was It?" by Fitz-James O'Brien (as reprinted in American Fantastic Tales Volume 1, edited by Peter Straub).

When I finish the story, I plan on a final editing pass of Loathsome, Dark, and Deep in preparation for submissions early next year. Oh, and Daniel LeMoal, the author of one of my favorite stories from Best Horror of the Year Volume 1 ("Beach Head"), will have a piece in 2010's 52 Stitches line up. (hence the fan-boy squee yesterday)

Wednesday is good. Enjoy yours.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things...

Okay, aside from the obvious (or should be obvious)...my family, job, etc.

1. Even though my beloved Chiefs suck this year (um, for the last four years), I'm taking Owen to his first game on Sunday. I guess I should say "because" they suck this year, I'm taking him to the game. When your team is 3-10, playing another squad at 2-11 (the Cleveland Browns), you can pick up pretty good seats for 10 bucks on eBay. Just sayin'.

2. Running a small potatoes publishing outfit is a boat-load of work, but you (sometimes) receive submissions from authors that make you squee. I found just such a sub for 52 Stitches in my inbox this morning, and I'm honored every time a writer I respect chooses us as a venue. By the way: only five slots open for the 2010 line up. (nudge, nudge)

3. The forthcoming twelve consecutive days off. I check out of school at 1:45 next Tuesday and don't come back until the 4th of January. Finals get to all of us. Praise be to Zeus.

There's more, of course...these just seemed extra poignant this morning. Hope you find much that rocks your world today.

(Oh yeah, I posted the first recommendation over at Skull Salad yesterday. I've been meaning to write up a bit about Michael Stone's Fourtold...so I finally did.)

Here's to the Word of Mouth

Last Monday, I posted about the "power" of the internet. That post, in part, was a response to all the brouhaha surrounding John Scalzi vs. Black Matrix Publishing.

One commenter, Diana Lyles of Scribblers and Ink Spillers, LLC, suggested:

If you, the short story writers, want paying markets for your work, then support those magazines and journals that do pay.

That happened to be pretty darn close to one of my resolutions last year (buy something small press at least once a month). How'd I do?

Well...I subscribed to Necrotic Tissue, Kaleidotrope, Morpheus Tales, and Murky Depths. I purchased Shock Totem #1, and Black Ink Horror #5. I was fortunate enough to win copies of Malpractice and Barry Napier's Debris collection, and Grant's Pass. Camille Alexa's wonderful Push of the Sky, K.C. Shaw's delightful Jack of All Trades, and Michael Stone's magnificent Fourtold found their way to my door via Amazon. Finally, I'm awaiting R. Scott McCoy's debut, Feast from Shroud. Wait...wait...I picked up the bizarre and delicious The Sour Aftertaste of Olive Lemon by Cate Gardner, too.

So, I could do better. Eleven small press subs or purchases (that I can remember) in twelve months came pretty darn close to my goal, but I did that without effort. Purchasing is one thing, but reviewing and getting out the word is something else entirely. I plan to amp up my small press promotion with a "reviews" blog, trying to mention something about everything I read from the "small press". Whatever small press means.

As Diane noted in her comment, word of mouth is the best promotion any work can get. I plan on blabbing a bit over the next year. Let's build this community. I'm calling my reviews ('cause they need a site of their own and blogs make me happy): Skull Salad Reviews. If you want to write reviews, I'd be happy to have the company. Drop me a line.

Have a wonderful Monday.

Armour-Plated Rooftops

Ralphie peered from a tiny chink in the boarded window with the shotgun in his right hand.

"What'er they doin'?" Nichole asked. Hunkered behind an overturned table across the room, she clutched a Berreta like a lover.

"Dunno. They're all milling around some kind of contraption. Gettin' smart, I guess." His knuckles whitened around the gun. "Wait...oh..." Ralphie crouched and scampered away from the window. "Brace yourself."

A distant, muted thump sounded, followed by a moment of silence, then a thunderous crash above them, the sound of something big and wet--like a bushel bag of cooked oats--hitting a sheet of metal.

"Ha!"

Nichole frowned at Ralphie. "What the hell was that?"

"One of them. They've built some sort of catapult, tryin' to get in the roof. Not too smart, yet..."

__________

Thanks to Cate Gardner for the title (hence the Queen's English spelling, eh?)

Steampunk Non-Fiction

I'm not completely sold on Steampunk, a niche at best (even though Loathsome, Dark, and Deep has some Steampunkish elements to it), but a story on NPR this morning about Charles Babbage's Difference Engine piqued my interest.

(Fully operational Difference Engine at the Computer History Museum in Mountain View, CA)

From the article:

The story goes that Babbage was inspired to create the Difference Engine one day when he came across multiple errors in a book of astronomical calculations. "I wish to God these calculations had been executed by steam!" he exclaimed.

Listen (or read) the rest of the story.

You have to love a guy who exclaims "I wish to God these calculations had been executed by steam!"

WIP Wednesday: Other Schtuff

Yeah. Another "snow day" (I'm bracing for another barb from our friends on the east coast...). Hey man, we have drifts. Big drifts. ;)

Anyway. Here's what I have to offer on this WIP Wednesday: Ed's departure from our publishing venture has left me in solely in charge at Strange Publications (evil laugh). So Sand is morphing, evolving if you will, into a chapbook line. Because chapbooks are cool and so indie. Because I can. I've been toying with this idea since Ed bowed out. Guidelines are up...queries accepted in January.

Then there's the issue of our annual holiday letter. I'm going "green Christmas" on this and posting the letter as a PDF file anybody can download (right click and 'save as' or just click). Enjoy:

Holiday Update 2009 PDF

(if you find any glaring typos, please let me know...the holiday update isn't my favorite thing to write...)

Finally, I'm applying a high sheen to Loathsome, Dark, and Deep before sending out to some beta-folk.

Enjoy Wednesday.

Commission vs. Submission

No school today (yippee!). More below.

I'm a geek for word origins (etymology). In follow up to yesterday's post, I started thinking about the words commission and submission. As a writer, I've had exactly one commission. It was nice, my highest per word rate to date (a whopping 2 cents a word). Granted, as a piece of flash, it was only 1000 words (so I earned 20 bucks). Whoot.

Everything else has been via submission. Different world...and more competition.

Basically, the difference lies in the those two words: commission and submission. A commission is an assignment (from words meaning commit and mission); an editor/publisher comes to the writer and requests something. The writer writes to specifications. Hit it big enough, the door will open for a writer to receive more commissions. The pay rate is generally higher (from what I've learned) because the editor is trying to sell the idea to the writer. Supply (the work from that particular writer) is limited.

In the more typical submission model, the writer is trying to sell to the editor. Submission traces its history through Late Middle English and Latin, once upon a time carrying the denotation a letting down. When a writer submits, they take a lesser role. They join the horde trying to squeeze through the door. Understandably, the pay rates are going to be less. (Um, remember supply and demand...more stories=less pay for stories)

Ironically, submission requires an author to be on their 'A' game. There is a horde at the door, and even the worst FTL markets reject work occasionally, regardless of what other POVs may suggest. (You can't bank on Duotrope for accurate numbers, that's for sure...I'm not accepting 50+% of subs to 52 Stitches...no where near that, in fact) Competition brings out the best (and worst). Competition makes those at the top better. It does. (there are downsides to competition, but I'll reserve those for a later discussion)

Maybe, when a writer becomes good enough to garner commissions on a regular basis, it's because all those submissions did their job. Maybe a writer gets better through competition, first at the little mags, growing stronger and making better sales. It doesn't have to be every writers' journey, but it's a legitimate path...every bit as legit as landing a bestseller and then writing sub-par work on commission (as some "pros" invariably do). Pro writing isn't a clear line on the playground; if it was, as I said yesterday, everyone would eventually cross that line. Writing, like all art, will always be subjective.

...so, rant over. Like a said, snow day today. I should say "ice" day because there just isn't much snow. (see the picture from my front door)

But...the ice continues to fall. Ice is dangerous, I 'spose, and I do teach in a rural district. So I'm off to write our family Christmas letter. My wife, luv ya, thinks this should be easy because "I'm a writer". Har. I don't think any of my weird, dark magical realism, horror-fantasy will work in the letter.

If you're still reading, and I salute you if you are, you can roll over to Flashes in the Dark and read "Bleeding the Trees". I wrote it for Northern Haunts (talk about competition...didn't I know other people would write about maple trees?), and then sold it to another market which subsequently folded. As I've said before, I don't really mind giving away flash. Sorry.

It's the story, not me.

The Power of the Interweb

Every time something like the brouhaha over the pay rate at Black Matrix Publishing rears its ugly mug, I'm reminded of the power of the Interweb^TM. (for a nice POV on said brouhaha, check out L.R. Bonehill's blog)

John Scalzi brought the fight to Black Matrix on his Whatever blog, claiming, in part, to be a watchdog for the little guy, pointing out publishers that are taking advantage of them...er, me. I've been paid less than Black Matrix's stated rate...hell, I've given my work away in the past. I don't have a name that's going to sell anything, so nobody's knocking down my door with 5 cents+ a word. (Scalzi writes about his own rates here) It just ain't going to happen. If I want to earn that kind of money, I'll have to fight for it.

Some claim you should only publish in pro mags, regardless of how long it takes you to get there. Some claim publishing in lesser arenas will smear your name and make it harder to go pro later. I call bullshit for a whole variety of reasons. 1. I would have quit writing before I'd "honed my skills" at all if that were the case (still desperately seeking that 1st pro sale), 2. the amount of space open to unknown writers is pretty damn small...last time I checked, there wasn't a shortage of folks vying for that space, 3. Being published in a pro venue isn't a simple matter of writing well enough--no, it involves having your work in the right place at the right time and a whole pile of external factors (like editorial preferences, etc.). If it were as easy as writing pro-level material, everyone who writes long enough and works hard enough would go "pro".

Sorry, I'm not buying that argument.

In steps the power of the Interweb^TM. David Daley of Five Chapters has a nice interview here. Listen to it. If you don't want to, let me summarize: the internet has made "everything" free. Remember all that blather about cost-benefits analysis last week? It goes for readers, too. Read something of slightly less quality for free online? Sure. Sales have dropped for all printed (dead tree) fiction and nonfiction. Newspapers are dying. Sales are drying up for classic magazine venues for genre fiction. Bestselling authors working awfully damn hard to keep their heads above water. I salute all of them for making it work as long as they have.

One comment on Black Matrix's blog (singed simply "Pittsburgh journalist") carried the angst all professional writers must feel at this point in history:

"Well, as a professional writer who struggles every month to pay the bills, I frankly resent the fact that you are forcing down the price for the rest of us."

Sorry Pittsburgh, it's not Black Matrix that's driving down the price...it's free that's doing it. It's the market. Yeah, some fiction markets make it online and pay decent rates. How Strange Horizons does it, and has done it for so long, amazes me. Awesome, really. But by and large, the money isn't there...not enough to feed the hordes of people, like me, who want to tell stories more than cash checks.

Call me all the nasty names you want. Insult my writing. Throw stones. I have nothing to hide, and I won't comment anonymously on your site 'cause you know, the Interweb^TM has freed my speech a little, too.

Let me "out" with a little snippet from Maya Angelou:

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."

Casualties

Two boys with toy rifles crawl through a drainage ditch at the far end of the high school practice field. The fog smudges distant buildings into blots of ink. Both boys stop and gaze out of the ditch.

“They’re coming,” says the taller of the two, a ten-year-old with too much black hair in a curly heap on top of his head. He rolls over, digs into the cargo pocket of his pants, and draws out a roll of black electrical tape.

“All right, Jack. Who is it this time?” The other boy, thin enough to slip between the posts on the guardrail at the zoo, wipes his nose on a shirt sleeve.

Jack peels a section of tape from the roll and starts covering the orange cap at the end of his play gun. “The Germans, Gabe. The Germans.”

Gabe frowns. “I’m tired of playing world war.”

Jack pokes out his tongue. “Who is it then?”

“Maybe we’re protecting the homestead from border ruffians?” Gabe aims his rifle into the fog. A new shape appears as a black scribble against the white backdrop.

“With these rifles? These are M1s, Gabe. They didn’t have M1s in the old west.” Jack tacks one last piece of tape on his gun. “There.”

“What’re you doing?”

A smile splits across Jack’s face. “Covering up that stupid safety tip. Now this looks like a real gun.”

The black shape comes closer and melts into a man. Both boys watch him and fall silent. Jack raises his gun, takes careful aim, and squeezes the trigger as “Crack!” pops from his mouth.

The man tumbles to the ground.

Jack utters a low, almost whispered, laugh.

“Got him.” Jack rises to a crouch and starts toward the prone body. “C’mon!”

Gabe swallows hard and follows, crouching like his friend.

The man lays in an awkward, spread-eagled pose. One arm splays above his head while the other is folded across his chest. His hand clutches at his long, grey coat. Blood smears his fingers.

“Jack…”

The man’s eyes dart between both boys. He opens his mouth. “Meine Frau und Kinder. Sorgfalt für sie, bitte…”

“German. I told you so,” Jack taunts. He raises his gun and “Pow!” fires at the man’s head.

In the distance, the sound of straining diesel engines and the clank of tank treads echo through the fog. Jack and Gabe exchange a look.

“We better find cover,” Jack says. He runs for the ditch.

Gabe is frozen. He looks down at the dead man, staring at the empty eyes.

“C’mon, dummy!” Jack calls.

“You’re an asshole, Jack…” Gabe lowers his head and sprints after his friend, muttering under his breath.

WIP Wednesday: Quick and Dirty

After the introspective spew of the last two posts, here's something quick and dirty. Loathsome rewrites are done, and I'm damned pleased with the book. Yeah, it's short (after one more round of edits I'm expecting 68K), but it's tasty. I stayed up to finish last night because the final third propelled me to do so. I guess that's a plus for a climax, eh?

My favorite exchange in the the whole book (spoilers abound, but you know you're going to read anyway):

“I’ve seen things, Mr. Barlow. I’ve heard things. Men crying in the night. The sobs of the forest.” He held out his hands in a sort of plea. “There’s real darkness here.” As he spoke, one of his hands patted his chest.

I bent and picked up the gun. It was heavy. Solid.

Curt continued. “Do you know how easy it is to pervert a man’s mind? Just a few drops of chemical, really. Dr. Scheller showed me how. The right drops and they become cattle.” He chuckled and shook his head.

I stood with the gun in my hand, the barrel pointing toward the floor.

“Men should never be cattle, Mr. Barlow.” He rubbed a hand across the front of his face. “But Dr. Scheller showed me how to make them more than cattle. He made them bigger than life. With a few additional drops, they became legends. Myths.”

“He made monsters,” I said, aiming the weapon at Curt. “He killed innocent men.”

“Oh, I’ve seen horrors, Mr. Barlow. Horrors. You think any of us get out alive?” Curt sighed. His shadow slumped. “Do it.”

What do you think? A little bleak?

The Dream

Or delusion. I guess it depends on your perspective.

After yesterday's post, I thought I needed a little introspection. What drives me?

Let's start with some history. I once was an art student. Well, okay...art therapy. I wanted to work with troubled kids, make some art, express--all that. Then "they" started telling me what to make (note the difference between what and how). This is where my punk rock sensibility came into play. (it's small, but in there)

I'm all for teaching. But what is different than how, any way you look at it.

So I quit. If I wanted to art, I would art on my own time, doing what I loved. There was no therapy in producing for someone else. Maybe I regret my decision a little. Maybe not.

Now I write, and my life is goverened by a simple cost-benefits analysis, even if I don't conciously think about it. (all of our lives are...and most of us never think about it) I spend an enormous amount of time writing. I don't watch much TV and a lot less films than I used to. I don't play video games anymore. (Yeah, I used to really love video games) And I'm not paid all that well for my writing, if anything.

So where's the benefit for all that cost in time and effort (and heartache before I numbed to rejection)?

I'm doing what I want. I'm making stories. I play with words and worlds and make awful (or wonderful) things happen which stretch beyond what ordinary life has to offer.

There are other little benefits, too. Seeing my name (even if it's spelled wrong) in a review. An accpetance. (especially from a long sought-after market like Nossa Morte or Murky Depths) Publication.

But creation trumps all of those others. All humans have a drive to create. Look at the collective sum of human culture for the past few thousand years. Sometimes, we destroy because we haven't found the proper avenue for that drive. But I'll always take the '+' over the '-'. It's too easy to fall into the snark spiral.

This is the dream: to continue and create while not letting "them" take away the wonder and drive to do so. In more concrete terms (and I'm stealing a bit from Rebecca Nazar here), I want to write and publish as much quality work as I can before I die, staying true to myself in the process while continuing to "hone my craft". I want people to be happy they read something with my name attached and know I was happy creating it.

Get out the crackers 'cause I've given you plenty of cheese.