WIP Wednesday: Reading Well and (Hopefully) Being Read Well

It's been a long week at my house. Poor Owen has struggled with asthma, allergies, and now a "secondary" infection (bronchitis). He coughs most of the night, keeps his parents up with worry, and looks as pale as a the back of a pre-licked postage stamp.

Thus, my biggest work in progress has been reading from Ellen Datlow's new anthology, Darkness: Two Decades of Modern Horror, in the wee hours of the night. This book, in many ways, was the inspiration for yesterday's post.

Some may remember my thoughts upon reading Peter Straub's lost boy, lost girl. All in all, I was unimpressed. Straub's entry in Darkness, "The Juniper Tree", is nothing short of brilliant. The prose is tighter in the short story, the imagery more startling, the narrative voice dead on. I felt more uncomfortable reading "The Juniper Tree" than any bit of lost boy, lost girl. (When one reads dark fiction, one should feel at least a little uncomfortable, right?)

"The Pear-Shaped Man" by George R.R. Martin is also a stunning short piece of horror (winning the Stoker Award back in the day). Some stories in the book are less inspiring--maybe just a matter of taste. I don't always agree with Datlow's definition of "horror", but maybe it's the word "horror" which sells books. The writing is all solid. And that's just it. One doesn't find prose like that of "The Juniper Tree" in novels very often. From my limited experience (having just read two of his novels), Straub doesn't write his books with the same pen.

When I titled yesterday's post "Why I Will Never Earn a Living as a Writer", I didn't intend it as a bleak surrender. Quite the opposite: I meant it as a rallying cry around the art of writing, even in "horror". If I could write one story, just one, with the brilliance and efficiency of "The Juniper Tree", I'd die a happy writer. That's my goal, folks. That's the dream I will not surrender. It may not make much money or even be read all that widely (compared with the oft-mentioned in yesterday's comments section Twilight)--but I will gladly die trying.


On another, semi-related note, Necrotic Tissue #10 landed in my mailbox yesterday. There's a delightful little ditty ("Hostile Takeover") by KV Taylor, a short-short by Jeff Strand, and yes, "The Distillery" by yours truly. Hop on over and grab a copy (or subscription). Happy reading.

Why I'll Never Make a Living as a Writer

A comment made in response to Robert Swartwood's recent post about the state of short fiction has stuck with me, pestering me like a bad rash. (here's the full entry and comments)

from Jeff (commenter #3):

"I blame us – writers, but also editors and publishers of short fiction. My wife, who is not a writer but an avid reader, is rather fond of telling me (when I am down, depressed, and angry) that if I want people to read what I write, I have to write things people want to read. This advise goes against everything your [sic] taught as a writer, but it is also profoundly true."

Why has the comment held on? Because it is true. Too true.

I've bristled against popular "art" in the past. If art (be it writing, visual arts, music, performing arts...) is boiled down to "paste-pudding" (to steal a term from Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451), it loses something. Make art accessible to everyone, and it is bland. Simple. Easy to ingest. Not art anymore.

Case in point:

Isn't this the kind of joke we used to make in college (while we were drunk)? How did it become an industry?

So call me a snob. I want my art, and my writing, to challenge me. I've felt the short story was the pinnacle of the "art" of writing for some time. Yes, there are wonderful, challenging novels out there, but most of what we're fed is paste-pudding. Short fiction in the highest paid magazines (and most well-read, even though they sport meager numbers) is more original, better written, more "artful" than popular novels--thus making itself (and the magazines which publish it) less accessible...less popular.

Alack.

I want to hear a little perspective in the comments...give me a piece of your mind, and I will cherish it well (in a jar of on my bookshelf).

Waiting for the Lion

Loaded with linkage today, folks.

So the most-magnificent Jodi Lee made my inbox happy with a home for "Tiny Fingers". The accepted-then-released story from the first run of Arkham Tales will appear in Jodi's forthcoming Ante Mortem. I know Natalie L. Sin will be among the TOC, so a big Huzzah! there.

(I don't know that I've squeezed more links into a single paragraph before...)

Robert Swartwood's novelette "Through the Guts of a Beggar" is available with nifty download options. You know you want to read it. (I do)

I'm trying to focus on edits this week...some for me ("Traveling Through the Dark" and a rewrite of "Keeper of the Dead"--I changed POV from 1st to 3rd and made the ending nasty), some for Strange Publications (Barry Napier's The Final Study of Cooper M. Reid). I also have some reading to do...but I won't let that particular cat slip out of the bag just yet.

Speaking of cats...it's almost the end of March; I wonder where that lion is hiding. Here kitty, kitty, kitty...

Spider and I (Part 1)

"Spider and I" originally appeared in The Devil's Food, although I doubt anyone but contributors have seen a copy. As far as I know, none of the authors were paid for their stories. A damn shame. Now the book isn't even available (except perhaps through used sources). Another tragedy. Stories are meant to be read, after all.

I'll post a piece each Friday for the next few weeks, eventually revealing the whole thing.

"Spider and I"

by Aaron Polson

We leaned on a window ledge in our abandoned factory home while the full moonlit the streets below like little silver-grey arteries. An occasional car would skitter down one line like a dark insect. I did most of the watching because Spider was pretty much blind. He couldn’t hear well either, but he had this way of feeling. Spider could feel almost anything about you except maybe the color of your eyes. Sometimes things were harder at night with a full moon. I could see him better with a full moon. I could see just enough to make me want to stay awake all night.

“I’m hungry, Jackie,” Spider whined, “something for my belly, okay? Something crunchy and wet?” His long spindle-fingers flicked in front of his mouth, brushing across his jagged, mountain-range teeth. His black, almost lidless eyes shimmered like fat marbles in the moonlight under an angry patch of brush-bristle hair. He was one of those things parents lied to their kids about so they could sleep at night, one of those things that couldn’t exist in a sane world. Not my parents, of course. They were dead. Spider was just about the only parent I ever had.

“Jackie?”

“Quit moaning, all right?” I edged away from him, slipping toward the back window and fire escape. A breeze shuffled through the broken glass, floating through the darkness like a whisper. I grabbed an old burlap bag next to the window. “I’ll do my best. Bring you something as soon as I can.” My feet slipped over the window ledge as I hopped onto the creaking grate and rushed down the fire escape.

I climbed, silent and nimble as a cat, into the shadows around that factory. I don’t know what they used to make there, but that building was mostly empty now with nothing but bits of paper and trash, some graffiti, and broken bottles scattered on the floor. We’d been living in that hole for a couple of weeks, always moving to keep Spider fed and the both of us safe.

The building shielded a portion of the adjoining park from the moon, and I walked in the thick blue-black of midnight. During the day, giggling kids filled that park, little kids playing catch and swinging after school, but at night an eerie quiet spread across the grass. The air swam with a cold, moist smell; Spider was waiting, hungry, up in that building. I stopped at the edge of the big shadow for a moment and looked back at the factory like it was some big brick monument.

Standing out in that shaded playground, I heard a dog bark in the distance, clutched the bag in my hand, and turned to follow the sound. Spider was hungry, and the dog sounded like he might be just the right size.

"Billy Boy" Up at Every Day Fiction

Head over to Every Day Fiction for "Billy Boy" today. It's quick and (relatively) pain free, promise. As always, I appreciate your comments (and vote...wink, wink).

The story was inspired by the classic folk ballad "Charming Billy" (lyrics here--you'll have to scroll down) and a (mostly) abandoned strip mall in Lawrence where my carpool used to meet. Kind of spooky looking in those empty stores.

Tim O'Brien, one of my favorite authors, wrote a story entitled "Where Have You Gone, Charming Billy?" which I used to teach to sophomore level students. If you can find a copy, it's a great read.

Enjoy Thursday, and thank you for your support.

WIP Wedesday: Split Decision

My WIP kinda-sorta young adult novel (as yet untitled but set in my fictional town of Springdale, just a hop down the road from Broughton's Hollow of The House Eaters) split in two last night. For a moment, I thought it was going triplicate.

I've shifted POV to 3rd person and will run two parallel story lines. Both Andy and his sister Phoebe (yes, her parents named her Phoebe after Holden Caulfield's sister in Catcher in the Rye) will have chapters. Phoebe was just too strong to hold back. You go, Feebs.

From her first chapter:

Phoebe Ellison hated mirrors, and mirrors shared the sentiment.

She stood before a mirror in one of the less traveled ladies restrooms in Springdale High, exchanging a glare with the reflection. Tiny white lines on her forearms reached from the glass and shouted in her ears. Phoebe ran a finger across her skin, wondering if it was her imagination or the truth she felt in those little, rigid scars.

Muffled voices sounded in the hall. Phoebe’s hands worked without thought—her left turned the hot water tap, and her right reached for the soap dispenser. The bathroom door crashed open. Haley Garret and her entourage brushed behind her, close enough Phoebe could smell Haley’s perfume.

If she only had a match, they would all go up in flames.

“Lookie here,” Haley said. She positioned her well-tanned face over Phoebe’s shoulder in the mirror. “A piece of fresh meat.”

Phoebe’s neck bristled. She could leave—walk out now and not look back.

“Whatcha doing, fresh meat?”

Haley’s clones giggled.

“Washing my hands.” Steam began to rise in the basin, distorting the faces in the mirror. “Going back to class.”

“Right.” Haley pushed her shoulder into Phoebe’s back as she turned. “Don’t be late, fresh meat.”

The giggling trio slipped out of the door. Water vapor condensed on the mirror, blurring it to a white haze. The steam began to tease Phoebe’s dark hair. She smelled fire—felt it burn her nose. Smoke and ash. Voices crying. The voices always blended into a memory of her parents’ final cries. How old had she been, four…five? Pain radiated through Phoebe’s forearm, to her shoulder, across her back, and into her lips. Sweet pain. When she pulled back her hand, the hot water had seared a red mark on her skin.

She wanted to smash the mirror. She wanted to crush it into a million pieces and grind the pieces beneath her sneakers. Her right hand balled into a fist. Maybe she’d cut her knuckles on the shards. There’d be blood. Phoebe fought the smile at the thought, and the bell rang, forcing her out of the bathroom, right hand clutched over the left to hide the burn.

Tomorrow, I have a story up at Every Day Fiction. Bracing myself for impact. Enjoy Wednesday.

Time Travel Anyone? (Plus a Smattering of Cover Art)

Permuted Press (yes, that Permuted Press) has guidelines up for a new time travel themed anthology. I'm sure competition will be tight, but my muse doesn't seem to care right now. Check out the guidelines here. They open in April.



I shared the link to "The Awful Majesty of Being Gary" last Friday, but I couldn't help sharing the cover art to Port Iris #1.

Green is such a lovely/creepy color, don't you think? The morbid little grave, strange little dude, and shafts of light are just perfect. Port Iris has kicked off with a very nice aesthetic.

Gary Sump might appear again...if I can decide what he'll do next. It's hard to be a god.

I received my contributor's copy of Aoife's Kiss #32 yesterday. A story I used to teach in Sophomore level English inspired my story. "Distillation" is set in an apocalyptic/dystopic future where not everything is as it seems. (Like, when is it?)

The first lines:

Scars are curious things, whether worn as badges on the flesh or pressed deep inside one’s memory. I will always remember the night we lost the old man. It was black and silent, no hints of life outside the factory. He looked at me, his face bunched with wrinkles and his eyes damp. “They’re out there tonight. Can you hear them?” he asked.

Aoife's Kiss #32 has some nice poetry by Bruce Boston and Marge B. Simon, and plenty of fiction. Purchase at the genre mall.

Enjoy Tuesday.

So, Yeah. Monday After Spring Break.

And my brain is a mess.

A former student (who graduated ten years ago...Gawd I'm old), posted a comment on Facebook: "went to the book store earlier to buy a 'Where's Waldo' book. When I got there, I couldn't find the book anywhere. Well played Waldo, well played."

Yes, my students used to call me Waldo. I'm tall, relatively thin with dark hair, and wear glasses. I'm sure you can understand the comparison.

In the "Local" section of the blog, this is pretty cool in an indie-filmmaker sort of way:

http://www.lawrence.com/news/2010/mar/19/zombietube-area-filmmakers-prepare-undead-online-s/

Good peeps in Lawrence, Kansas I tell you. Good peeps.

The indomitable Robert Swartwood takes Narrative Magazine to task today. I like his moxie, whatever that is.

Finally, I'm putting together a lens at Squidoo (www.squidoo.com) to help fledgling writers. I'm not much more than a fledgling myself, but I've learned sooooo much that I'd like to share. Stop by (www.squidoo.com/writinghorrorfiction) and give it a look. Comments and suggestions are welcome. I have a list of additions to make, including an expansion of "the writing process" that includes tips on finding ideas, editing, and revising.

Enjoy your day, folks.

Howard's Game Part 8; Port Iris #1 Up

Transcript of Missing Child Report from Action 6 News, Springdale, October 1st, 2009

Anchor: We have a new Amber Alert this evening for a ten-year-old from the Suncrest Heights neighborhood. Michael Renfro has dark brown hair and blue eyes. He was last seen leaving Suncrest Elementary after school this afternoon. According to his parents, Michael walks home from school traveling south on Harvard Avenue to Sixth Street. Any information regarding Michael can be directed to our tips hotline, (811) 766-TIPS.



Transcript of conversation between Howard Talbot and Mrs. Cheryl Manlo, Counselor, October 2nd, 2009

CM: Do you know what I want to talk about Howard?

HT: Talk talk talk. (giggles)

CM: Howard, this is serious. Mike’s parents are worried.

HT: Mike?

CM: Mike Renfro, Howard. He’s missing. He never came home last night, and his mother has called the police. It was on the news.

HT: (whispering) I didn’t do anything to M-mike.

CM: You and Mike had some arguments on the playground—

HT: (raising voice) I didn’t do anything to Mike.

CM: Howard, I know things have been difficult. I’m sorry to hear about your dad.

HT: I’m not.

CM: (chair creaks) Let me start again. Do you know where Mike is, Howard?

HT: (mumbles)

CM: What was that?

HT: Shovel man’s got him.

CM: Howard? Howard Mike’s parents just want to know that he’s okay. Can you tell me where Mike is?

HT: I’m not in charge of shovel man. (giggles) Shovel man ain’t through with him, yet.

CM: Howard…why are you smiling, Howard? Is Mike okay?

(end)

And if you haven't had enough of me this week, Port Iris #1 is up, featuring the latest edition to the Gary Sump Mythos, "The Awful Majesty of Being Gary". It's a retelling (of sorts) from a 3rd person perspective.

Howard's Game Part 7

Missing Springdale Man Found Dead

(from the Springdale Sentinel, September 30, 2009)

A body found Tuesday morning behind a residence in south Springdale is that of a man who was reported missing since the 17th. Springdale police identified the body, found buried behind the residence at 1352 Harker Road as that of Richard N. Talbot, 39.

Mr. Talbot had been reported missing on the 25th by his wife, Lindsay Talbot. Mrs. Talbot could not be reached for comment. Police spokesperson Mitchell Saunders indicated the remains would undergo autopsy at Spring County Memorial before transmission to Burt-Schwenson funeral home for final arrangements.



Office of the Spring County Coroner

NAME: Talbot, Richard N.
AUTOPSY NO: 09A-027
DOB: 08/06/1973
DEATH D/T: 9/18/09 approx 1900
AGE: 36Y
AUTOPSY D/T: 09/27/09
PATH MD: MEYER
ID NO: 173217
TYPE: COR
COR/MEDREC#: 1474-09-A
AGE: 39 years
Race: W
Sex: M
Length: 70 inches
Weight: 210 pounds

FINAL DIAGNOSIS:

I. Asphyxia by foreign matter lodged in the throat and primary airways
II. Puncture wounds noted on left anterior forearm (appear to be human bite marks)


CAUSE OF DEATH: Asphyxia
MANNER OF DEATH: Homicide


Handwritten Post-it note on the report:

Gary –

I’ve never seen so much dirt in a man’s esophagus and lungs before, even bodies that were buried alive. It’s like somebody forcefully shoved fistfuls in this guy’s mouth.
- H. Meyer

Howard's Game Part 6

Notice of Discipline Referral

Student: Howard Talbot
Teacher: Mrs. Reynolds

Mike Renfro ran up to me in tears this morning, claiming that Howard told him “shovel man” was going to bury him out back with his dad. I approached Howard, and he told me to “fuck off”. His voice didn’t sound right. He wasn’t even stuttering like usual. I sent Mr. Fontenot in with Howard immediately.

9/28/09, 10:13 AM



To: mm_talbot@gmail.com
From: gboling@usd166.org
Date: 9.28.2009
Subject: Howard

Dear Mrs. Talbot,

Howard had another difficult day at school today. He threatened another boy on the playground—the same child he bit last week. He kept saying something about “way out back in a little shallow hole” when I had him in my office to talk about the incident. I asked him what that meant, and he said that’s where “shovel man” was going to put the other boy, right next to his father.

Do you have any idea what Howard is talking about? Please contact me at your earliest opportunity. Again, our office number is (811) 766-6109.

Thank you,

Mr. Gerard Boling,
Principal, Suncrest Elementary



from Mitchell Saunders police report, September 29th, 2009

Officer Clarke and I traveled to the Talbot residence at 1430 hours to follow up on a call Mrs. Talbot placed in regard to her missing husband. She showed us a fresh plot of upturned earth measuring approximately six feet by three feet in her backyard behind a small garden shed. Mrs. Talbot explained she didn't own a shovel. Officer Clarke and I made a cursory search, verifying no digging tools on the premises. The dirt in the plot was soft and freshly upturned. Officer Clarke probed the soil with his baton, noting firmness about eight inches below the surface. With a shovel from the cruiser, we uncovered partial human remains in the initial stages of decomposition, and at that time called in forensics for exhumation.

Howard's Game Part 5

Mrs. Reyonlds’ personal Journal, September 25th, 2009

TGIF.

Still a little freaked out by that Talbot kid. He’s been talking to himself at recess the last two days. None of the other kids will come anywhere near him. At least he can’t bite them if they’re out of range. Ha.

Jerry’s got a sitter tonight, and we’re going to dinner. Maybe I’ll get drunk and he can take advantage of me. Ha.



Lindsay Talbot’s diary, September 25th, 2009

I called the police today and reported Rick as a missing person. I thought he’d just left. I thought it was his secretary. After he told me about their…relations. I don’t know what to think.
I’m scared. The worst part is that Howard scares me.

God. I’m afraid of my little boy.

Howard's Game Part 4

*quick note: Happy birthday to me with an early present from Space and Time (my birthday being today and the acceptance came on Saturday). "Rats of the Roscinante", a nod to Lovecraft's "Rats in the Walls" set in space, will appear in a future issue. Huzzah!

Now on to "Howard's Game"...

To: gboling@usd166.org
From: mm_talbot@gmail.com
Date: 9.23.2009
Subject: Howard’s father

Mr. Boling,

I want to apologize for not being forthcoming on the telephone the other day. I was surprised by Howard’s behavior, and very disappointed. But I wasn’t totally surprised. Things have been tough at home since Howard’s father left I tried to keep things from Howard as long as I could, but he’s asking questions. Needless to say, his father isn’t on a business trip. I wanted to keep the family business private, but after being alone with Howard for the past couple of days, I’m a little worried about him. I’m worried about how he’s taking his father’s absence.

Would it be possible for him to speak with the counselor when he comes back to school tomorrow?

Thank you,

Lindsay Talbot



To: mm_talbot@gmail.com
From: gboling@usd166.org
Date: 9.23.2009
Subject: Re: Howard’s father

Mrs. Talbot,

I’ll make sure to let Cheryl Manlo, our guidance counselor, know about Howard. If there is anything else we can do at school to help your son, please contact us. Cheryl’s direct line is (811) 766-6120.

Mr. Gerard Boling, Principal
Suncrest Elementary



Transcript of conversation between Howard Talbot and Mrs. Cheryl Manlo, Counselor, September 24th, 2009

Cheryl Manlo: Hi Howard.

Howard Talbot: Hi.

CM: Do you know why I called you in here today, Howard?

HT: Um. My dad maybe.

CM: That’s right, Howard. I thought we could talk about your—

HT: I’m not gonna.

CM: (clears throat) Your mother sent a note Howard.

HT: Umm-huh.

CM: She’s worried.

HT: I’m not gonna talk about Dad.

CM: All right then. (pause) I also wanted to talk about what happened on the playground the other day. What happened with Mike.

HT: Okay.

CM: Can you tell me what happened?

HT: M-mike said m-mean stuff.

CM: Okay…

HT: He made fun of me. Laughed at me.

CM: What did he say?

HT: M-made fun of the way I talk. S-said I was poor and stupid and worthless and a dork.

CM: And then?

HT: I told him he’d be in t-trouble.

CM: What kind of trouble, Howard? Trouble with teachers?

HT: Trouble with shovel man.

(audible click on tape followed by a pause)

CM: Shovel man? Who is shovel man?

HT: My friend.

CM: Is he…is he a kid at school? Does he go to school here?

HT: No.

CM: Is he an adult, Howard?

HT: Sort of.

CM: Um-huh. Sort of. (pause) Where does shovel man live?

HT: (whispering) Someplace else.

CM: Where Howard? Why are you whispering?

HT: He doesn’t like me to t-talk. (mumbles, indistinct) He doesn’t want me to talk about him anymore.

CM: (pause) What happened next, after you warned Mike?

HT: He called me a liar.

CM: And then?

HT: I told him he would die. (mutters something indistinct) D-dust to dust. I grabbed some dirt, to show him what would happen.

CM: What happened next?

HT: Mike hit me.

CM: After you picked up the dirt.

HT: Yes.

CM: And then you bit him? (pause) Why’d you bite him, Howard?

HT: Had to taste his blood for shovel man.

CM: What?

HT: Shovel man needs the blood taste to find him. Shovel man doesn’t have eyes like you and me—

(tape hisses then clicks followed by silence)


Notes from Howard Talbot’s guidance file, recorded 9/24/09

I spoke with Howard today (Sept. 24, 2009). He didn’t want to talk about his father, and seemed a little agitated when I brought it up. When asked about the infraction on the playground, he mentioned someone called “shovel man”. In general, Howard seemed to be a bit cold and distant. He smiled a little, but only when talking about “shovel man”. Make sure to ask about this when calling his mom. I’m going to transcribe the session for the record.
- CM

Added 9/25/09

The tape stopped before the end of my conversation with Howard. I can’t seem to remember what else was said.

Howard's Game Part 3

Mrs. Reyonlds’ personal Journal, September 21th, 2009

Weird day today. The kids are way too stir-crazy for this early in the year. Two fights on the playground today, and I had to break one of them up. Keep this up, and Boling will cut recess on us again. Won’t that be great? I have enough trouble with reading and math and science when they get a chance to blow off some steam. The weather’s been weird, though. Maybe that’s it. The weather always gets to them.

Have to admit, the Talbot boy bothers me. The way he bit the other Mike. Drew blood, too, or so Stephanie told me. Creepy. Maybe I don’t want to do this teaching thing for another twenty-five years. I’m not sure I can keep up with these kids.

Howard's Game Part 2

To: mm_talbot@gmail.com
From: gboling@usd166.org
Date: 9.21.2009
Subject: Your son

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Talbot,

I’m writing to inform you of an incident on the playground this morning. Howard and another boy were involved in an argument during which Howard bit the other child on the wrist. As I’ve tried to call you three times today via both numbers we have on file in the office, I hope to reach you via email. Howard has been in suspension this afternoon because it is our policy to institute immediate suspension for fighting of any kind. Please contact me at your earliest opportunity. Our office number is (811) 766-6109.

Sincerely,

Mr. Gerard Boling, Principal
Suncrest Elementary



Transcript of phone call between Mrs. Lindsay Talbot and Mr. Gerard Boling, 3:45 PM, 9/21/09

Gerard Boling: Hello, this is Mr. Boling from the school.

Lindsay Talbot: (muffled sound) Hi.

GB: Am I speaking with Mrs. Talbot?

LT: I’m Mrs. Talbot.

GB: It’s about your son, Howard. He’s been in a little trouble today at school.

LT: (mutters away from the phone)

GB: Excuse me? I couldn’t make that out.

LT: Howard’s done what now?

GB: He bit another boy this morning. On the playground at recess.

LT: Bit a boy? Howard?

GB: Yes ma’am. I tried to get you on—

LT: Look, Mr. Boling, Howard’s father…Howard’s dad is unavailable right now. Business trip.
We’re really just keeping our heads above water right now.

GB: I understand, but your son bit another child. We’ve suspended him, out of school for the next three days, starting tomorrow.

LT: (mutters) You can’t do that.

GB: Ma’am, this is school policy.

LT: Nobody’s going to be home to keep an eye on him. You just can’t.

GB: I’m sorry ma’am, but our policy—

(line clicks dead)

GB: Mrs. Talbot? Mrs. Talbot? Hello?



Lindsay Talbot’s Diary, September 21st, 2009

First Rick lays this bullshit with his secretary on me, and now Howard’s in trouble at school. I don’t need any more of this—drama. Rick should be here, with us. Howard needs a father. Maybe not his father, that two-timing sack of shit.

Poor Howard. God.

The kid doesn’t need this. I don’t need this. What the principal said about Howard biting another boy is weird. I mean, Howard bit Rick after our argument. I thought he was just responding to us, to our fight. Poor Howard shouldn’t have to be part of any of this.

Three days! Shit.

I can’t afford to take three days off. Not with an AWOL husband. I’ll call the lawyer if I don’t hear from him in a couple of days. I’m taking that bastard for everything he has. If he doesn’t want to be part of Howard’s life, I’ll make sure his money is.

Howard's Game Part 1

Notice of Discipline Referral

Student: Howard Talbot
Teacher: Mrs. Reynolds

I overhead Howard arguing with Mike Renfro on the playground during first recess. Howard had two fistfuls of dirt, and fearing he would throw them, I walked closer. Mike began to laugh and pushed Howard. I couldn’t hear what Howard said, but he lunged and bit Mike on the right forearm. I immediately blew my whistle, separated the boys, and sent Mike to the nurse’s office. The bite marks looked superficial. Howard and I came at once to the office.

9/21/09, 10:41 AM

Howard's Game

Spring break "officially" starts tomorrow. Over the next week, I'll have limited internet access (how will I survive?), so I've set up an eight-part experimental horror story to run here on the blog. I don't know if it will "work" as a piece of fiction, but life is about trying new things, right?

"Howard's Game" starts tomorrow.

Enjoy.

WIP Wednesday: Plurality

In other words, what am I not working on?

My YA WIP has a title. Sort of. The word borrowers or borrowed will be in there somewhere. Maybe. (I wouldn't want to mix readers up with The Borrowers.) See, there are certain malevolent spirits in the book who sneak into living bodies (body-grabbing) and cause some real effed-up mayhem (let's call it "personality confusion"). Our dear protagonist can see "borrowed" people, just as he can see the ghosts (or at least echoes of them). Of course, at this early stage in the book, he isn't sure what the $(#&^! is going on. Development of ancillary characters has been one of the weaknesses of my earlier YA books, so I'm spending some serious time putting the secondary cast through their paces as well. Basically, I'm plotting extensively before writing much more. So there, paltry word count!

Then there's the short stories...when will I ever stop? I've had three very tantalizing "short list"/"moving on to the other editors" messages in the last few days. These notices just make me want to write more shorts! Agggh! (but it hurts sooooo good)

I have other projects in the works. But those are still secret. Some involve my work; some the work of others. (tee-hee)

Oh yeah...the Shock Totem contest...beta-reading...a few subs for the Sand Chapbooks to read...

*sigh*

Good thing spring break is next week, huh?

Today, We Talk About Cover Art

From Orbit Books, how a book cover gets made (in just two minutes):


And then there's this...

Charlatans and Thieves

Here's the truth about truth: you'll never get the "real" story about anything that's ever happened.

Why?

Human beings have a propensity for skewing reality toward their own point of view.

Take my lies last Friday. Several people identified #6, When I was twelve, my mother took me on a cross-country camping trip in search of dinosaurs, sulfurous hot springs, and giant stone men, as the truth. Yes, we took a trip (in a camper) to see Dinosaur National Monument in Utah, Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming, and Mt. Rushmore National Memorial in South Dakota. True.

But, all of the others held an element of truth:

1. The least true of them all, although I do have a score of unusual birthmarks and one sort of looks like Texas.

2. I did have a cat named MacArthur (General MacArthur was his full name). The others...not so much.

3. I didn't write the story, but I had plenty of nightmares and trouble sleeping after that funeral.

4. I dated a pre-med student once. (at least she said she was pre-med...) We did look at cadavers. She wouldn't let me snip an ear, though.

5. Oh, you know I will. I just can't keep doing it every week. (too many irons in the fire)

7. Totally true except for the part about stabbing the other kid. What did I offer for the exchange that year? Two Star Wars action figures from Return of the Jedi. What did I get? Lifesafers. Suckage.

So I lie. And I lie well enough to hide the truth some of the time. Do you feel robbed? Am I a thief of the first order?

Hope not.

But Robert Swartwood has a nice post today about a different kind of thief, and he raises questions that bear serious discussion. As to the New York Times article about e-book prices, just remember that stakeholders (editors and their ilk), have a stake or investment (hence the name "stakeholder") in keeping themselves relevant. And they are relevant. For now.

Me? I'm done giving away my work for nothing. Meaning, I will still give away my work to venues which increase my audience (I told you I was a liar), charities, and direct-to-my readers. Me to you. Free doesn't need a middle-man unless that middle-man brings something to the table (e.g., bigger audience).

I've got something free to offer in the next couple of weeks. Me to you. We only have to invite a middle man if you want.

Edited to add: You can preview a bit of "Empty Vessels" a short forthcoming in Morpheus Tales #8, here.

It's Like Flash Fiction. Sort of.

Natalie Sin has graced me with this:

THE RULES:

1. Thank the person who gave you this award. Thank you, Natalie.

2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog. (done)

3. Link to the person who nominated you. (done)

4. Tell up to 6 outrageous lies about yourself and at least 1 outrageous truth. (rubs hands together)

5. Nominate 3 creative writers who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.

You...you...and, uh, you.

6. Post links to the 3 blogs you nominate. (do the yous have blogs?)

7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them. (uh...)

6 & 7 are where I suck. I would make an off-color comment about how often this one's been around the block, but...I try to keep it clean here.

Let the lying commence.

1. I have a birthmark above my belly-button in the shape of Texas. It is two inches across and upside down so the Rio Grande points to my rib transplant scar.

2. As a child, I named all my pets after military commanders and dictators. Pol Pot, General MacArthur, Patton, Idi Amin...I even had a cat who liked to drink whiskey from a bowl named Ulysses S. Grant.

3. I wrote my first horror story at age three, right after my grandmother told me a great aunt was "just sleeping" at her funeral.

4. I have a collection of human earlobes gathered from cadavers when I was in college. (Hey, I was dating a pre-med student, okay?) I keep them secret and safe. Wouldn't want the boys to find them...

5. I will never again write a piece of Friday Flash.

6. When I was twelve, my mother took me on a cross-country camping trip in search of dinosaurs, sulfurous hot springs, and giant stone men.

7. I once stabbed another boy in the back of the hand with a broken pencil because he brought candy as the "secret santa" gift at the school Christmas party. All the other boys received Hot Wheels or Star Wars figures, and I was stuck with Lifesavers. Jerk.

So yeah, no flash today. Sorry. But I've given you some glorious lies. Can you spot the truth?

Is there any truth?

What if they're all true?

WIP Wednesday: I'm Writing. Promise.

My supposed "WIP" is a stubborn monkey.

I have managed a few thousand words since last week. I've also written two flash pieces (one for the Shock Totem competition) and started a short story. In addition, I've made progress on the chapbook front for Strange Publications. So, yeah, I'm giving the novel short shrift.

Sue me. My protag is a nasty, sarcastic teenage boy. Sue him, too.

Our resident born-again Elvis impersonator, Matthew Rexrode, sat next to Christina. He told me once I’d burn in hell for having “bad thoughts” about women. I asked him how Elvis felt about having his mojo thieved by such a total butt-nugget. Matt made collages, Jesus or a cross in every one. Think: “variations on WWJD”.

And feel free to investigate the merits of giving your work away with Scott Sigler.

An Open Letter to the Board of Education

Dear USD 497 (Lawrence Public Schools) Board of Education:

In light of the recent discussion to close certain elementary schools in our district, I want to introduce you to my son, Owen.

Owen is six and a half years old and currently in Mrs. Luna's first grade class at Sunset Hill Elementary school. This is his first year at Sunset, and he's very proud to be an Eagle.

My wife and I have lived in the Lawrence Heights neighborhood since we've been married (the past nine years). We've spoken to Owen about attending Sunset since before he could understand our words. We've walked to the playground countless times. All of the children in our neighborhood, including two young women who now attend West Junior High, are alumni of Sunset. Owen idolizes them both.

Because his birthday is in early August, we waited until his first grade year to transition Owen to public school. It was a challenge at first. The Montessori curriculum from his former classroom didn't mesh well with the public school formula, but the wonderful staff at Sunset made him feel at home and part of something very special.

Sunset is more than bricks and mortar. I can close my eyes and see Owen's artwork on the walls. He learned to read in those classrooms. He's made friends on the playground, and been exposed to some hard lessons about friendship and doing the right thing, too. He loves his teachers, especially PE, art, and music. Mrs. Wilkins, his art teacher, has inspired him to explain at dinner last month, "Maybe I'll be an artist when I grow up."

I know the Board has a difficult decision to make. From the public forum I attended last night, it sounds like a balanced budget without school closure is possible. During the forum, the Board forwarded notion that larger class sizes and reduction of services would be the consequences of not closing a school or two. With the potential savings of only $500K/school, those "consequences" will be a reality to meet the budget shortfall (of $4.5+million) regardless of school closure. It's a little like cutting off a hand to stop a rash that has already spread to the rest of the body. The hand will not grow back; our school will not reopen. But, with time, the rash will come in check. The financial situation will improve.

I also can't help questioning the logic behind closing (in Sunset) one of the most efficient, highest performing, not to mention over-capacity schools in the district. I certainly hope the reason doesn't lie in the suggestion that my child might be "worth" more to the district if he is bused to his attendance center. Such a suggestion is unethical and immoral. My child, and his classmates, are not product or pawns.

We're all going to feel the budget crunch, but this is a strong community and we will survive. I urge you to make the right choice. As Owen can tell you, making the right choice is hard.

Thank you for your time,

Aaron Polson
concerned parent

(Thanks for your indulgence today, writerly people. This is the draft of a letter I'm sending to our school board.)

On Courage

I've never been a very courageous person. As Laertes says to dear sister Ophelia (Hamlet, Act 1, scene 3, line 43): best safety lies in fear. Of course, with fear, nothing much gets done. There's another saying, quite trite but true: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Writing takes courage. Courage to put your work out there for rejection. Courage after publication to face the potential of scathing reviews. Courage to act even though you may feel your whole writing career hinges on one decision...which it (usually) doesn't.

I'm glad, because I'd be done if it did. I've made mistakes. I'm going to make some more. But the biggest failure, really, is letting fear win. Take courage in that.




So I'm basically giving myself a pep-talk to reveal a decision I've made (or at least think I've made). Stay tuned, dear friends. Nothing, even waiting, lasts forever.