If you haven't read my short humor piece, "How to Write a Horror Story" at Eric's Hysterics, I invite you to do so. It's inspired by... Well, something I'm sure. Maybe you'll find it informative.
Triangulation: Last Contact has been released as well, and I'm pleased to say I made the cover this year. Grab a copy at Amazon ($16.00) or Barnes and Nobel (only $10.25!) and read this year's fine entries, including my minimalist sci-fi tale, "The Good Daughter".
Have a great weekend.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
No Kids Movement?
I hadn't heard of such a thing, but read this article the other day. Go on--be surprised and shocked.
Maybe I'm insulated because we do have kids and seem to only go places where other kids abound, but come on people. They're children!
In the comments (and no, I didn't read all ten billion of them), I noticed a number of folks spouting about how parents need to do a better job "controlling" their kids.
Control is such an illusion, folks. If I've learned one lesson in a dozen years as a teacher, it's that.
Control is an illusion.
Sigh.
Maybe I'm insulated because we do have kids and seem to only go places where other kids abound, but come on people. They're children!
In the comments (and no, I didn't read all ten billion of them), I noticed a number of folks spouting about how parents need to do a better job "controlling" their kids.
Control is such an illusion, folks. If I've learned one lesson in a dozen years as a teacher, it's that.
Control is an illusion.
Sigh.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
WIP Wednesday: Now with words...
I'm posting to keep myself honest: for the past five days, I've wrenched myself from bed to write and averaged over a thousand words each day. Nothing groundbreaking, but this book isn't going to write itself.*
One of the characters, in fact the main character, is a young woman working on her PhD in psychology. Her area of study? Fear and anxiety.
There was nothing to fear. She was a God-damned expert.
But yet, in the quiet slumber of the house, a sound came to Kelsey. This sound crawled through the frame and walls, over the polished hardwood of the floors, and into the sheets and comforter on Kelsey’s bed. It whispered in her ears.
I’m here.
Come play with me.
Yes, ol' Aaron is writing about a house again. But this one isn't haunted--not in the traditional sense. Have I mentioned two cameramen follow our intrepid characters around? But this isn't a Ghost Hunters knock-off. Oh no. The cameras are more interested in the living. Sort of.
More soon. Take care.
*of course, now I'm away from home for a wedding, so we all no nothing will get done for the next several days. Sigh.
One of the characters, in fact the main character, is a young woman working on her PhD in psychology. Her area of study? Fear and anxiety.
There was nothing to fear. She was a God-damned expert.
But yet, in the quiet slumber of the house, a sound came to Kelsey. This sound crawled through the frame and walls, over the polished hardwood of the floors, and into the sheets and comforter on Kelsey’s bed. It whispered in her ears.
I’m here.
Come play with me.
Yes, ol' Aaron is writing about a house again. But this one isn't haunted--not in the traditional sense. Have I mentioned two cameramen follow our intrepid characters around? But this isn't a Ghost Hunters knock-off. Oh no. The cameras are more interested in the living. Sort of.
More soon. Take care.
*of course, now I'm away from home for a wedding, so we all no nothing will get done for the next several days. Sigh.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Don't Self-Publish Your Novel (Yet)
Go ahead, shout hypocrite at your computer screen.
Aaron, you say, you've self-published a pile of books (if e-books can be piled). Why shouldn't I self-publish my novel?
Let me start with this: I've killed Borrowed Saints. It was a weak book. I kind of knew it was weak, but I was lured in by the ever-present siren song: a ton of weak books sell, sell, sell. When I read through it the last time, just before publishing, I thought--yes, maybe. There's some good writing here, and some fun characters.
But really, is it the best I can do?
No. No, it's not. It needs work. Another ten-thousand words, at least. The ending, while attempting to be "cliff-hanger-eque" fell flat. I can do better. I know I can.
So I pulled it. One of the beauties of e-publishing. *zip* Gone.
It's easy to e-publish, for better or worse. In the case of Borrowed Saints, I think it might have been worse.
Last fall, I mentioned an e-publisher made an offer for my first novel. That poor book has been through the proverbial wringer, battered and abused and edited to death. I picked it up again, planning to give it one more pass before self-publishing. Hey, if a publisher liked it...
But it stinks. The ideas, characters, and plot don't stink (much), but the writing?
Phew.
So I'm starting a rewrite (along with my other WIP, a supernatural thriller). I'm keeping the characters, plot, and general idea, but killing all the over-wrought prose. I can see the writer I was five years ago in that book. That writer is dead. Without the failure and success of the last five years, without the struggle to sneak into a few prestigious short story markets and find publishers for my books, I wouldn't have become the writer I am now.
Thank God for bad books. Thank God for the hours I've spent writing, editing, revising, and deleting. Thank God for failure and the willingness to do it again. And again.
That novel you've written? Is it the best you can do?
Just because e-publishing is easy, it doesn't mean you should.
Aaron, you say, you've self-published a pile of books (if e-books can be piled). Why shouldn't I self-publish my novel?
Let me start with this: I've killed Borrowed Saints. It was a weak book. I kind of knew it was weak, but I was lured in by the ever-present siren song: a ton of weak books sell, sell, sell. When I read through it the last time, just before publishing, I thought--yes, maybe. There's some good writing here, and some fun characters.
But really, is it the best I can do?
No. No, it's not. It needs work. Another ten-thousand words, at least. The ending, while attempting to be "cliff-hanger-eque" fell flat. I can do better. I know I can.
So I pulled it. One of the beauties of e-publishing. *zip* Gone.
It's easy to e-publish, for better or worse. In the case of Borrowed Saints, I think it might have been worse.
Last fall, I mentioned an e-publisher made an offer for my first novel. That poor book has been through the proverbial wringer, battered and abused and edited to death. I picked it up again, planning to give it one more pass before self-publishing. Hey, if a publisher liked it...
But it stinks. The ideas, characters, and plot don't stink (much), but the writing?
Phew.
So I'm starting a rewrite (along with my other WIP, a supernatural thriller). I'm keeping the characters, plot, and general idea, but killing all the over-wrought prose. I can see the writer I was five years ago in that book. That writer is dead. Without the failure and success of the last five years, without the struggle to sneak into a few prestigious short story markets and find publishers for my books, I wouldn't have become the writer I am now.
Thank God for bad books. Thank God for the hours I've spent writing, editing, revising, and deleting. Thank God for failure and the willingness to do it again. And again.
That novel you've written? Is it the best you can do?
Just because e-publishing is easy, it doesn't mean you should.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Friday Fright-Night
Yesterday, while recovering from the stomach flu (damn you, stomach flu!), I watched:
And it rocked my proverbial effing socks off. If you haven't seen it, you need to. Like right now. Go on. Scoot.
That is all.*
*wait...not really all. I have big plans. BIG PLANS. But I'm not sharing.
Yet.
And it rocked my proverbial effing socks off. If you haven't seen it, you need to. Like right now. Go on. Scoot.
That is all.*
*wait...not really all. I have big plans. BIG PLANS. But I'm not sharing.
Yet.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
An Apology to Stephen King
Back in junior high school, when I first saw classmates carrying black-covered mass-market copies of King's novels, I thought too scary for me. I was the kid who had nightmares just watching a Friday the 13th trailer on TV.
In high school, I took the snobbery approach. Yes, even then I thumbed my nose at "mass market trash". My buddy Ken read about a book a day during school and would relay the plot to me over a Dairy Queen cheeseburger that evening. He always hit the sensational parts of King's plots, the sex and the murder.
I didn't pick up a Stephen King novel and devour from beginning to end until I read 'salem's Lot three years ago. The man is a genius. My high school self? Not so much.
I'm now reading On Writing. There are sections which make this English teacher say "well, duh" (of course, not everyone is an English teacher), but the book is brilliant. Even better than the "how to write" portion, in my opinion, is the first section--C.V. It's a compact biography of King's life up through the mid-eighties.
To me, it reveals how an author is formed. King doesn't pull punches. He doesn't candy-coat or whitewash anything.
So Mr. King, as if you need an apology from this hack, I'm sorry for my teenage snobbery. The high school me didn't know what the hell he was doing. Most days, I still don't.
But I will keep trying.
In high school, I took the snobbery approach. Yes, even then I thumbed my nose at "mass market trash". My buddy Ken read about a book a day during school and would relay the plot to me over a Dairy Queen cheeseburger that evening. He always hit the sensational parts of King's plots, the sex and the murder.
I didn't pick up a Stephen King novel and devour from beginning to end until I read 'salem's Lot three years ago. The man is a genius. My high school self? Not so much.
I'm now reading On Writing. There are sections which make this English teacher say "well, duh" (of course, not everyone is an English teacher), but the book is brilliant. Even better than the "how to write" portion, in my opinion, is the first section--C.V. It's a compact biography of King's life up through the mid-eighties.
To me, it reveals how an author is formed. King doesn't pull punches. He doesn't candy-coat or whitewash anything.
So Mr. King, as if you need an apology from this hack, I'm sorry for my teenage snobbery. The high school me didn't know what the hell he was doing. Most days, I still don't.
But I will keep trying.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Lost in the Wilderness
We are on vacation, hopefully approaching the Badlands sometime mid-afternoon. You have to love a place with a name like "Badlands" don't you?
(Man... I needed a vacation.)
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Yes, It's True: I am WIPing
My writing has come in "fits and spurts" this summer, but I am writing. I promise.
I've put my two longer projects (filed under "Secret Project Q" and "Secret Project W") for the time being, and am trying to finish a short I started at the beginning of the summer.
From "Story Set in Tibet Without a Name":
The passenger door squeaks as Dr. Stenner opens it and hops to the ground. He pulls the fur-lined neck of his coat closer to his chin. Bataar watches from the driver’s seat.
“Are you getting out?”
“Yes. Sorry.” Bataar pulls his hands away from the wheel. He is not only the American’s driver, but his translator as well. Uncle Chulunn has little English, and Bataar knows he’s needed. His boots crunch the hard steppe ground. The wind bites his cheeks. “This is my uncle’s place,” he says.
And good ol' Uncle Chuluun has some really "special" tapestries hanging on the walls of his yurt.
I'm also WIPing this in my basement, but it isn't writing:
I've put my two longer projects (filed under "Secret Project Q" and "Secret Project W") for the time being, and am trying to finish a short I started at the beginning of the summer.
From "Story Set in Tibet Without a Name":
The passenger door squeaks as Dr. Stenner opens it and hops to the ground. He pulls the fur-lined neck of his coat closer to his chin. Bataar watches from the driver’s seat.
“Are you getting out?”
“Yes. Sorry.” Bataar pulls his hands away from the wheel. He is not only the American’s driver, but his translator as well. Uncle Chulunn has little English, and Bataar knows he’s needed. His boots crunch the hard steppe ground. The wind bites his cheeks. “This is my uncle’s place,” he says.
And good ol' Uncle Chuluun has some really "special" tapestries hanging on the walls of his yurt.
I'm also WIPing this in my basement, but it isn't writing:
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
I Butcher the Meme. (Sorry Meme)
The talented and Australian Danielle Ferries tagged me, so I shall play:
Are you a rutabaga?
Quite possibly. I haven't checked in the past week or so...
When was the last time you ate lion meat?
Last Tuesday. Of course, she got a good hunk of me, too.
Upload a heartwarming picture of something that makes you smile.
If you could go back in time and kick the crap out of someone, who would it be?
The guy who booted Hitler from art school. Can't you see that kid needed an outlet?
Name one habit that makes other people plot your demise.
Oi. Can't answer this one. They're too good at plotting in secret. (Should I be worried?)
What song would you like to be playing while you are kicking the crap out of someone?
"Jumpin' Jack Flash" by the Rolling Stones. Kicking as and takin' names since 1968.
Where da muffin top at?
Um. I can't answer that. This is a family blog.
How many goats, stacked atop one another like Yertle’s Turtles, would it take to reach the moon?
42
Describe yourself using obscure Latin words.
puter mens
(that's for any Latin-reading zombies)
Why does evil exist?
Because it can. That, and good needed a playmate.
What the chiz are you thinking right now?
I'm hungry. It's nearly 2 PM and I haven't eaten since breakfast.
Tag 5 people:
(because I like to speculate, we shall tag...)
1. The Guy Who Kicked Hitler Out of Art School
2. Abraham Lincoln
3. Socrates
4. Oscar Wilde
5. My son, Max (he loves to play tag)
Pick a funny nickname for number 1.
Dumbass. Not funny, but apt.
Make up a rhyme about number 2.
Legend has it he was so tall,
he'd span the continent should he fall.
Where would number 3 hide in the event of the apocalypse?
In Plato's cave.
Where does number 4 purchase his pants?
None of your damn business. (Do you like them?)
What would number 5′s favorite dance move be?
Falling on the ground and giggling like an idiot. (I said like an idiot.)
That was fun.
Are you a rutabaga?
Quite possibly. I haven't checked in the past week or so...
When was the last time you ate lion meat?
Last Tuesday. Of course, she got a good hunk of me, too.
Upload a heartwarming picture of something that makes you smile.
If you could go back in time and kick the crap out of someone, who would it be?
The guy who booted Hitler from art school. Can't you see that kid needed an outlet?
Name one habit that makes other people plot your demise.
Oi. Can't answer this one. They're too good at plotting in secret. (Should I be worried?)
What song would you like to be playing while you are kicking the crap out of someone?
"Jumpin' Jack Flash" by the Rolling Stones. Kicking as and takin' names since 1968.
Where da muffin top at?
Um. I can't answer that. This is a family blog.
How many goats, stacked atop one another like Yertle’s Turtles, would it take to reach the moon?
42
Describe yourself using obscure Latin words.
puter mens
(that's for any Latin-reading zombies)
Why does evil exist?
Because it can. That, and good needed a playmate.
What the chiz are you thinking right now?
I'm hungry. It's nearly 2 PM and I haven't eaten since breakfast.
Tag 5 people:
(because I like to speculate, we shall tag...)
1. The Guy Who Kicked Hitler Out of Art School
2. Abraham Lincoln
3. Socrates
4. Oscar Wilde
5. My son, Max (he loves to play tag)
Pick a funny nickname for number 1.
Dumbass. Not funny, but apt.
Make up a rhyme about number 2.
Legend has it he was so tall,
he'd span the continent should he fall.
Where would number 3 hide in the event of the apocalypse?
In Plato's cave.
Where does number 4 purchase his pants?
None of your damn business. (Do you like them?)
What would number 5′s favorite dance move be?
Falling on the ground and giggling like an idiot. (I said like an idiot.)
That was fun.
Monday, July 11, 2011
On the Internet, Every Review is Equal
One interesting thing I've noticed since We are the Monsters went free on Amazon (and it still is as of this writing): people who wouldn't normally read your book will review it when they paid nothing.
From a recent two star review:
"This book was not good. It jumped from reality to nonreality."
Well, yes... That's what I write. Fantastic fiction. Speculation. Horror and the surreal.
"Nonreality."
This post isn't about the review (it's folly to do these things), but it is about reviews in general. A wealth of book-related websites now exist (with the best of them being Goodreads, LibraryThing, and the all-powerful Amazon), and they all have star ratings.
Once upon a time, an author looked to a handful of powerful review sources for validation. Now, anyone with WiFi can hang out in a coffee shop and spread his/her opinion. This is positive, of course... I believe in free speech and the open internet... But there is a caveat.
Take this example: I do not read romance novels. I think they are drivel. You are welcome to disagree with my opinion because, quite frankly, that's all it is: opinion. I'm sure many folks would say the same about the "nonreality" nonsense I write. Drivel.
But what if I decided to review a romance novel? The power to do so is only a few clicks away.
One star: mushy and unrealistic.
One star: cheesy love scenes.
One star: this is why my students can't read literature.
You get the idea. Of course, I wouldn't ever do such a thing--I don't read romance and have no grounds from which to review a romance novel.
Even in the age of the internet and a voice for all, not all reviews are created equal. They just appear that way on the surface.
From a recent two star review:
"This book was not good. It jumped from reality to nonreality."
Well, yes... That's what I write. Fantastic fiction. Speculation. Horror and the surreal.
"Nonreality."
This post isn't about the review (it's folly to do these things), but it is about reviews in general. A wealth of book-related websites now exist (with the best of them being Goodreads, LibraryThing, and the all-powerful Amazon), and they all have star ratings.
Once upon a time, an author looked to a handful of powerful review sources for validation. Now, anyone with WiFi can hang out in a coffee shop and spread his/her opinion. This is positive, of course... I believe in free speech and the open internet... But there is a caveat.
Take this example: I do not read romance novels. I think they are drivel. You are welcome to disagree with my opinion because, quite frankly, that's all it is: opinion. I'm sure many folks would say the same about the "nonreality" nonsense I write. Drivel.
But what if I decided to review a romance novel? The power to do so is only a few clicks away.
One star: mushy and unrealistic.
One star: cheesy love scenes.
One star: this is why my students can't read literature.
You get the idea. Of course, I wouldn't ever do such a thing--I don't read romance and have no grounds from which to review a romance novel.
Even in the age of the internet and a voice for all, not all reviews are created equal. They just appear that way on the surface.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The Editing Ninja Strikes on Saturday: FANBOYS
The Editing Ninja took an unplanned leave of absence of late (i.e., my home improvement project has been kicking my ass).
As promised, here is the scoop on the FANBOYS, otherwise known as coordinating conjunctions, otherwise known as those wonderful things with which you can join two complete sentences (or independent clauses) into one sentence without any nasty comma splicing*.
So for this quick and easy recipe, you need two complete thoughts (sentences or independent clauses):
Mom started the car.
The kids scrambled into the back seat.
and a FANBOYS (For, And, Nor, But, Or, Yet, So).
In this example, and would work nicely.
Mom started the car, and the kids scrambled into the back seat.
Evidently, Mom was going to leave without the kids. Notice how it reads differently if you invert sentence order:
The kids scrambled into the back seat, and Mom started the car.
Did you see the comma? Yes, when joining independent clauses with FANBOYS, you must place a comma before the conjunction.
Simple? Sure. The FANBOYS can do other things, too, but today we'll stick with the clauses.
*a comma splice is when two clauses are joined together with a comma and no conjunction. It's like suturing with garden twine. Don't do it.
As promised, here is the scoop on the FANBOYS, otherwise known as coordinating conjunctions, otherwise known as those wonderful things with which you can join two complete sentences (or independent clauses) into one sentence without any nasty comma splicing*.
So for this quick and easy recipe, you need two complete thoughts (sentences or independent clauses):
Mom started the car.
The kids scrambled into the back seat.
and a FANBOYS (For, And, Nor, But, Or, Yet, So).
In this example, and would work nicely.
Mom started the car, and the kids scrambled into the back seat.
Evidently, Mom was going to leave without the kids. Notice how it reads differently if you invert sentence order:
The kids scrambled into the back seat, and Mom started the car.
Did you see the comma? Yes, when joining independent clauses with FANBOYS, you must place a comma before the conjunction.
Simple? Sure. The FANBOYS can do other things, too, but today we'll stick with the clauses.
*a comma splice is when two clauses are joined together with a comma and no conjunction. It's like suturing with garden twine. Don't do it.
Friday, July 8, 2011
My Interview with an Inanimate Sheet of Drywall
Me: Good morning, drywall. How are you today?
Drywall:
Me: I see. Not feeling very talkative today. So... How are things? I hear you're about to be attached to the wall in my basement. How do you feel about that?
Drywall:
Me: Oh. Silent protest. I get it. So can you at least tell me what you like to do in your spare time?
Drywall:
Me: Favorite summer paint colors?
Drywall:
Me: Any pets?
Drywall:
Me: Hobbies?
Drywall:
Well... You can see where this is going. How about heading over to Eschatology and reading my short, post-apocalyptic story, "Full Count".
And have a great weekend.
Drywall:
Me: I see. Not feeling very talkative today. So... How are things? I hear you're about to be attached to the wall in my basement. How do you feel about that?
Drywall:
Me: Oh. Silent protest. I get it. So can you at least tell me what you like to do in your spare time?
Drywall:
Me: Favorite summer paint colors?
Drywall:
Me: Any pets?
Drywall:
Me: Hobbies?
Drywall:
Well... You can see where this is going. How about heading over to Eschatology and reading my short, post-apocalyptic story, "Full Count".
And have a great weekend.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
I am WIP Wednesday
June was my least productive month since starting to write five years ago. I managed to squeeze out 12,000 words on a so-so novel. Maybe it's better than so-so. I did manage to sub one story (which is being "held for further consideration"). But as far as write 1 / sub 1... I'm a failure. I'm suffering from a severe case of the blahs right now.
Have you heard of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs? (here's the Wikipedia primer, if needed)
During the home remodel (and yes, it has spilled beyond the bathrooms), I feel stuck on level 2: safety.
Notice "creativity" falls under the top level.
*sigh*
My wife told me to go on sabbatical. I'm not going to do that. I love writing too much.
But for now, I'm going to spend a few hours on rebuilding my home.
How's the summer in your world?
Have you heard of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs? (here's the Wikipedia primer, if needed)
During the home remodel (and yes, it has spilled beyond the bathrooms), I feel stuck on level 2: safety.
Notice "creativity" falls under the top level.
*sigh*
My wife told me to go on sabbatical. I'm not going to do that. I love writing too much.
But for now, I'm going to spend a few hours on rebuilding my home.
How's the summer in your world?
Friday, July 1, 2011
I Do Not Write "Beach Reads"
I don't think I do, at least. Maybe "campfire reads" at times, but not "beach reads".
Anyway, the family went to the swimming pool last night. As will happen when I guy has been teaching for twelve years, I heard the tell-tale "Mr. Polson" from a former student (now a lifeguard at the pool).
"I'm reading your book," he said.
"Really? Which one?"
"Loathsome something. It's really good. Really good."
"Thanks," I said.
My former student moved on to his next station, and we proceed to do the "pool" thing--which means Max runs around in the shallow pool, Owen ditched us for some soccer camp friends, and I just let the cool water soothe my aching muscles. When my former student went on break (the lifeguards rotate every 10-15 minutes), I saw him walking to the break table with Loathsome, Dark and Deep under his arm.
Talk about a somewhat surreal moment. I think it was my first spotting of a book in the wild--at least outside of a bookstore. And at the swimming pool no less...
Awesome. Bizarre. A little bit of both.
Anyway, the family went to the swimming pool last night. As will happen when I guy has been teaching for twelve years, I heard the tell-tale "Mr. Polson" from a former student (now a lifeguard at the pool).
"I'm reading your book," he said.
"Really? Which one?"
"Loathsome something. It's really good. Really good."
"Thanks," I said.
My former student moved on to his next station, and we proceed to do the "pool" thing--which means Max runs around in the shallow pool, Owen ditched us for some soccer camp friends, and I just let the cool water soothe my aching muscles. When my former student went on break (the lifeguards rotate every 10-15 minutes), I saw him walking to the break table with Loathsome, Dark and Deep under his arm.
Talk about a somewhat surreal moment. I think it was my first spotting of a book in the wild--at least outside of a bookstore. And at the swimming pool no less...
Awesome. Bizarre. A little bit of both.
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