One thing I’ve realized about twist-ending stories is that there are usually several possible endings that can be produced by making only minor alterations in the text. And sometimes with no alterations. In fact, I’ve submitted stories with anywhere up to four different endings. My Halloween Flash this time is an example. Some of you read the story “Precious Cargo” when I entered it in the “Clarity of Night” contest. For that contest it had a bittersweet ending. As you can see, I’ve made a few minor changes at the end, and have changed the title to reflect the story’s new direction. WARNING: This ending is pretty damn nasty. Read at own risk.
Note: There are some more Halloween Horrors listed in the links below the story. Since I’m way behind in checking blogs, I may find more today and will add them here. If I miss anyone, please let me know. As always, older stories are linked in my recent posts.
ROADKILL
No moon.
A sky flecked like mica with stars.
I had my Harley redlined, the V-Twin burning between my legs. It’s always dangerous riding fast at night. But since the change I had nothing to lose, no one to care if I lost it.
Then I saw her, lying across the blacktop.
Dead, I thought.
But she moved when I swerved to avoid her.
I got the bike stopped, u-turned, winced as I saw… Her back was broken.
I hung the bike on it’s kickstand, the headlight painting her, refracting jewels from her liquid eyes. I rushed to her, knelt.
She opened her mouth but made no sound. How could she be alive? How could she breathe with a chest half crushed? What was she doing so far from town? What sick fate had sent a vehicle to rendezvous with her at this lonely spot? There were signs of burnt rubber. Whoever had hit her hadn’t even slowed down.
I tried to force, “It’s OK,” through my lips. The meaningless words wouldn’t come.
Then she looked past me toward highway’s edge. I turned, saw some shadowy movement. When I turned back she looked like she was sleeping but her chest no longer rose and fell.
My feet followed where her gaze had led, and I saw why she’d been crossing the road. Saw what she was returning to. Or running from.
Her puppies had been born dead. But in this new world they hadn’t stayed that way. They smelled me, and squirmed toward me through their mother’s afterbirth, their baby teeth stark and white and gnashing.
I backed away, then screamed as a sudden flashing agony lanced through my legs. I fell, rolled instinctively away from the pain. The mother hound’s mouth was flecked with foam and blood. My blood. Her eyes had been reborn as scarlet hells.
I tried to get up, found she’d torn out my Achilles tendons. Still screaming, I scrabbled away along the highway. The hound growled and hitched herself toward me, her paws slapping at the asphalt. Intestines unraveled behind her.
I almost laughed hysterically as I realized the mother’s broken spine would keep her from catching me.
Then I saw the puppies. On the road. They couldn’t walk either. But they were crawling faster than I was.
--- the end ---
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Halloween Horror Links:
Flash Fictions
Hell Plate by Lucas Pederson.
freaky flash IX, night, by Laughingwolf.
lobo, also by Laughingwolf.
Non-fiction
Barbara Martin has been running some posts on her blog about horror films. Today she has a piece on Dracula.
Travis has a great true story on his blog called Ghost. Well worth checking out.
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Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Halloween Flash #5
In thinking more about the primary topic of my last post, an idea for a flash piece occurred to me. And so, I give you “Isolation.”
Stay tuned after the story for another new Halloween Horror link. I'm expecting some more tomorrow and will add them to this post then.
In last minute news, before this post, I just got an email accepting a short story of mine called "Dragon Lost." I'll write more about that at a future time.
ISOLATION
The snow falls straight down. Like cold feathers at first. Then in heavy clumps like frozen rags. You stumble to your knees. But you’re up again swiftly. To stop moving is deadly. Not that you’ll freeze. That death would be almost welcome compared to the horror you fear. You can’t even name the horror. Not clearly. But it follows you. It follows.
You stagger forward, through the first swirling winds of what threatens to become a blizzard. Wind will cover your tracks, you think. It would be such a gift. But you doubt it’ll happen fast enough to save you.
The snow thickens. You start to sweat. You remember reading how dangerous that is in the cold. The sweat will freeze on you, chill you to death. But you dare not slow. The followers are coming. You hear them, you think. Though you hope it’s only the wind’s shrill shriek.
Then the world knocks you down. You don’t see well anyway without your glasses and in the snow you run head on into a cliff. Suddenly you’re flat on your back with wet white piling on you. Your face throbs. You taste salt at your lips, know that it must be blood.
Somehow you climb to your feet. Your hands find the cliff’s face. You realize it isn’t a cliff at all. It’s a wall. It towers too high to climb over so you begin to feel your way along it, knowing there’s no time to retrace your steps.
A sound stops you, freezes your blood more than the cold surroundings. You turn. Your followers are there, mere silhouettes through the blitz of snow. You back away—until your shoulders press against the wall and there is nowhere left to go.
The followers close in, bulking around you, cutting you off from any escape. You want to cry out for mercy. You would beg in an instant if you thought it would save you. But their soul-less eyes tell you it won’t.
One follower offers something to you in a bulky paw. Though terrified, you scoot slowly forward. The paw resolves itself. It’s wearing a mitten. Your glasses dangle from the digits. You reach for them, knowing what will happen. The glasses are released just as you touch them, drop and disappear in the snow. You feel the sting of tears and fight them back.
From somewhere a bell rings. It’s too late. Nothing can end the game just yet.
The other children laugh as they push you hard against the wall, and you hear the crunch as someone stomps your glasses. You do begin to cry now, even though you know it’ll make things worse. They love the tears, and they don’t care that recess is over. They only care that you’re different, and alone with them. Alone. Isolated.
--- the end ---
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Halloween Horror Links:
Three more from Laughingwolf:
1. Polterguest by Laughingwolf.
2. Dawn Coyote
freaky flash IX, night, a recent one. I'll add this one to links in my next post as well.
One from SQT
Election Day by SQT. OK, now this one is almost too horrific to contemplate.
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Stay tuned after the story for another new Halloween Horror link. I'm expecting some more tomorrow and will add them to this post then.
In last minute news, before this post, I just got an email accepting a short story of mine called "Dragon Lost." I'll write more about that at a future time.
ISOLATION
The snow falls straight down. Like cold feathers at first. Then in heavy clumps like frozen rags. You stumble to your knees. But you’re up again swiftly. To stop moving is deadly. Not that you’ll freeze. That death would be almost welcome compared to the horror you fear. You can’t even name the horror. Not clearly. But it follows you. It follows.
You stagger forward, through the first swirling winds of what threatens to become a blizzard. Wind will cover your tracks, you think. It would be such a gift. But you doubt it’ll happen fast enough to save you.
The snow thickens. You start to sweat. You remember reading how dangerous that is in the cold. The sweat will freeze on you, chill you to death. But you dare not slow. The followers are coming. You hear them, you think. Though you hope it’s only the wind’s shrill shriek.
Then the world knocks you down. You don’t see well anyway without your glasses and in the snow you run head on into a cliff. Suddenly you’re flat on your back with wet white piling on you. Your face throbs. You taste salt at your lips, know that it must be blood.
Somehow you climb to your feet. Your hands find the cliff’s face. You realize it isn’t a cliff at all. It’s a wall. It towers too high to climb over so you begin to feel your way along it, knowing there’s no time to retrace your steps.
A sound stops you, freezes your blood more than the cold surroundings. You turn. Your followers are there, mere silhouettes through the blitz of snow. You back away—until your shoulders press against the wall and there is nowhere left to go.
The followers close in, bulking around you, cutting you off from any escape. You want to cry out for mercy. You would beg in an instant if you thought it would save you. But their soul-less eyes tell you it won’t.
One follower offers something to you in a bulky paw. Though terrified, you scoot slowly forward. The paw resolves itself. It’s wearing a mitten. Your glasses dangle from the digits. You reach for them, knowing what will happen. The glasses are released just as you touch them, drop and disappear in the snow. You feel the sting of tears and fight them back.
From somewhere a bell rings. It’s too late. Nothing can end the game just yet.
The other children laugh as they push you hard against the wall, and you hear the crunch as someone stomps your glasses. You do begin to cry now, even though you know it’ll make things worse. They love the tears, and they don’t care that recess is over. They only care that you’re different, and alone with them. Alone. Isolated.
--- the end ---
-----------------
Halloween Horror Links:
Three more from Laughingwolf:
1. Polterguest by Laughingwolf.
2. Dawn Coyote
freaky flash IX, night, a recent one. I'll add this one to links in my next post as well.
One from SQT
Election Day by SQT. OK, now this one is almost too horrific to contemplate.
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Monday, October 20, 2008
Various Halloween Type Things
The new Shantytown Anomaly is out for Halloween. There are a couple of my horror haiku in it, and our own Greg Schwartz has a piece in it as well.
I’ve been enjoying the spate of horror movies that always show on TV around this time of year. One of my favorites is John Carpenter’s The Thing. I’ve seen it many times by now. Alien is another great one. I think of it more as horror than SF. Predator is the same kind of movie for me. One of the things that all three of these movies have in common is that they take a small group of people and isolate them in hostile environments—outer space, arctic cold, and the jungle. The first two achieve the greatest amount of isolation and are, accordingly, the most powerful.
A movie that achieves a notable degree of isolation despite taking place in a populated setting is Invasion of the Body Snatchers, both the original and the first remake. In some ways, the isolation is even greater because the small band of normals are surrounded by other people but have no idea who they can trust. The Thing capitalized on this sense of paranoia as well.
I used the small, isolated band idea in Cold in the Light. I’d like to revisit it in a future book. Isolation is important in horror. The hero or heroes need to be stripped bare of defenses and support. They have to stand on their own. And if the heroes can be turned against each other, even better.
I’ll have another Halloween Horror Flash up in a day or so. In the meantime, we have more flash fiction offerings from our colleagues in the blogosphere. The newest ones are below, along with some nonfiction links, but check my post from Wednesday, October 15 if you still haven’t read the older ones.
Trick or Treat by Mark C. Durfee.
Inspire by JR.
Loop by Donnetta Lee. This is a micro flash in 55 words.
analine by Laughingwolf.
Chocophobia by Writtenwyrd.
Investigating a Mysterious Ending by Travis.
And for a longer piece, but definitely a nasty one, see Little Friends by Ferrel D. Moore.
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And for those of you looking for markets for horror fiction, check out:
Marketing Horror, put up by Writtenwyrd.
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I’ve been enjoying the spate of horror movies that always show on TV around this time of year. One of my favorites is John Carpenter’s The Thing. I’ve seen it many times by now. Alien is another great one. I think of it more as horror than SF. Predator is the same kind of movie for me. One of the things that all three of these movies have in common is that they take a small group of people and isolate them in hostile environments—outer space, arctic cold, and the jungle. The first two achieve the greatest amount of isolation and are, accordingly, the most powerful.
A movie that achieves a notable degree of isolation despite taking place in a populated setting is Invasion of the Body Snatchers, both the original and the first remake. In some ways, the isolation is even greater because the small band of normals are surrounded by other people but have no idea who they can trust. The Thing capitalized on this sense of paranoia as well.
I used the small, isolated band idea in Cold in the Light. I’d like to revisit it in a future book. Isolation is important in horror. The hero or heroes need to be stripped bare of defenses and support. They have to stand on their own. And if the heroes can be turned against each other, even better.
I’ll have another Halloween Horror Flash up in a day or so. In the meantime, we have more flash fiction offerings from our colleagues in the blogosphere. The newest ones are below, along with some nonfiction links, but check my post from Wednesday, October 15 if you still haven’t read the older ones.
Trick or Treat by Mark C. Durfee.
Inspire by JR.
Loop by Donnetta Lee. This is a micro flash in 55 words.
analine by Laughingwolf.
Chocophobia by Writtenwyrd.
Investigating a Mysterious Ending by Travis.
And for a longer piece, but definitely a nasty one, see Little Friends by Ferrel D. Moore.
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And for those of you looking for markets for horror fiction, check out:
Marketing Horror, put up by Writtenwyrd.
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Friday, October 17, 2008
Halloween Flash #4
Does horror always have to be horrific? Or can it have a lighter touch? Humor and horror seldom go together in my mind, and I don’t think the following piece is a very good example of the proper mix. The mere presence of a ghost, or a vampire as we’ve seen in a lot of recent published works, does not make something horror. But I figure we should have examples of the range of horror for our Halloween Horror October. Maybe someone else can do much better with horror humor. After the story I'll give you some new links to more Halloween Horror tales that have just gone up
INSPIRATION
The ghost fluttered like a butterfly in the wind, wailing like a banshee over the members of the Goth Rock band Scarlet Sphinx while they sat chopsticking some sushi.
"You hear something?" Ricki Naill asked his mates.
"Yeah, you eatin’ like a cow," Harley Storm said. "Didn't your mother teach you to chew with your mouth closed?"
"That’s not what I'm talking about," Ricki said. "It was high pitched, like a Memorex scream, with a...fluttering."
The others laughed.
"You are one psycho mother," Harley said. And thus was born the title and much of the content of their biggest selling album.
The ghost traveled with the band after that and got to live (relatively speaking) the rock-n-roll lifestyle. But even though he was the inspiration for the band’s greatest success, he didn’t get any royalties. And that pissed him off. Royally you might say.
So one night the ghost possessed Ricki Naill, the only one sensitive enough to experience him, and used Ricki’s hands to stab the drummer with his own drum sticks, garrote both the bassist and guitarist with strings from their instruments, and electrocute the keyboardist. Ricki then tried to swallow his own microphone and choked to death.
The ghost was quite happy. Until, in the wake of all the gruesome deaths, the Scarlet Sphinx album went multi- multi-platinum. And he still didn’t get paid.
--- the end ---
----------------
New Halloween Horrors, Just Up
The Lesson by Lucas Pederson. Lucas is a horror writer and has leaped into the fray with a nicely imagine piece.
overlord by Laughingwolf. This is Laughingwolf's fith piece. Can you say prolific?
Rather than list all the links to the older stories here again, I'll just refer you to my Wednesday, October 15 post, if you haven't already seen 'em. We've got a pretty incredible line-up, I'd say.
INSPIRATION
The ghost fluttered like a butterfly in the wind, wailing like a banshee over the members of the Goth Rock band Scarlet Sphinx while they sat chopsticking some sushi.
"You hear something?" Ricki Naill asked his mates.
"Yeah, you eatin’ like a cow," Harley Storm said. "Didn't your mother teach you to chew with your mouth closed?"
"That’s not what I'm talking about," Ricki said. "It was high pitched, like a Memorex scream, with a...fluttering."
The others laughed.
"You are one psycho mother," Harley said. And thus was born the title and much of the content of their biggest selling album.
The ghost traveled with the band after that and got to live (relatively speaking) the rock-n-roll lifestyle. But even though he was the inspiration for the band’s greatest success, he didn’t get any royalties. And that pissed him off. Royally you might say.
So one night the ghost possessed Ricki Naill, the only one sensitive enough to experience him, and used Ricki’s hands to stab the drummer with his own drum sticks, garrote both the bassist and guitarist with strings from their instruments, and electrocute the keyboardist. Ricki then tried to swallow his own microphone and choked to death.
The ghost was quite happy. Until, in the wake of all the gruesome deaths, the Scarlet Sphinx album went multi- multi-platinum. And he still didn’t get paid.
--- the end ---
----------------
New Halloween Horrors, Just Up
The Lesson by Lucas Pederson. Lucas is a horror writer and has leaped into the fray with a nicely imagine piece.
overlord by Laughingwolf. This is Laughingwolf's fith piece. Can you say prolific?
Rather than list all the links to the older stories here again, I'll just refer you to my Wednesday, October 15 post, if you haven't already seen 'em. We've got a pretty incredible line-up, I'd say.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
More Halloween Horror October Links
My next flash fiction story, #4, will be up Friday but in the meantime there is plenty of new stuff to read regarding Halloween Horror October. New stories are rolling in from around the blogosphere, and there are some non-fiction things happening as well.
Although not officially described as a Halloween Horror, Bernardl certainly has a Halloween themed short horror piece at his blog. It’s entitled Jack-o-Lantern.
Sidney Williams has thrown a second Horror flash into the mix. It’s a very nasty one, and similarly entitled Jack-O-Lanterns. I suppose evil minds think alike.
Laughingwolf has two, count ‘em two, flash horror pieces up at his blog. These are: freaky flash iii, and witch. “witch" is particularly interesting, I think.
L. A. Mitchell treats us to a haunting and lyrical piece of mood horror called Home.
And for non-fiction, Rick at “The Writer and the White Cat” is running a very informative series about the “monsters” of horror fiction. His latest report is on “The Sex Lives of Werewolves.”
And over at “Blog of the Beast,” Scott is doing a series on horror movies, including one of the goriest films ever, “Dead-Alive,” which was directed by none other than Peter Jackson.
If that isn’t enough, you can find my first three horror flash fictions at my blog under the names “Halloween Flash #1, #2, and #3.
And, in case you missed any of them, below we have the links to more short horrors by our colleagues in the blogosphere. I never guessed when I said for folks to “join in” that we’d have so much creative effort put toward the writing of flash fiction horror tales. A pleasant surprise! Or an “unpleasant” one depending on whether you like horror fiction or not.
Fat Man by Stewart Sternberg.
Twisted by Miladysa.
Having His Say by Sidney Williams.
The Empress of the Fescue, by Avery DeBow.
Problem Child by Avery Debow.
flight by Laughingwolf
lady jane, another by Laughingwolf.
Finally, the new Illuminata is out. That’s the October 2008 issue. It has pieces in it by myself and the blog world’s own Rachel.
Although not officially described as a Halloween Horror, Bernardl certainly has a Halloween themed short horror piece at his blog. It’s entitled Jack-o-Lantern.
Sidney Williams has thrown a second Horror flash into the mix. It’s a very nasty one, and similarly entitled Jack-O-Lanterns. I suppose evil minds think alike.
Laughingwolf has two, count ‘em two, flash horror pieces up at his blog. These are: freaky flash iii, and witch. “witch" is particularly interesting, I think.
L. A. Mitchell treats us to a haunting and lyrical piece of mood horror called Home.
And for non-fiction, Rick at “The Writer and the White Cat” is running a very informative series about the “monsters” of horror fiction. His latest report is on “The Sex Lives of Werewolves.”
And over at “Blog of the Beast,” Scott is doing a series on horror movies, including one of the goriest films ever, “Dead-Alive,” which was directed by none other than Peter Jackson.
If that isn’t enough, you can find my first three horror flash fictions at my blog under the names “Halloween Flash #1, #2, and #3.
And, in case you missed any of them, below we have the links to more short horrors by our colleagues in the blogosphere. I never guessed when I said for folks to “join in” that we’d have so much creative effort put toward the writing of flash fiction horror tales. A pleasant surprise! Or an “unpleasant” one depending on whether you like horror fiction or not.
Fat Man by Stewart Sternberg.
Twisted by Miladysa.
Having His Say by Sidney Williams.
The Empress of the Fescue, by Avery DeBow.
Problem Child by Avery Debow.
flight by Laughingwolf
lady jane, another by Laughingwolf.
Finally, the new Illuminata is out. That’s the October 2008 issue. It has pieces in it by myself and the blog world’s own Rachel.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Halloween Flash #3
OK, here is my third Halloween flash story. It's a revision of something I once posted on another blog in response to a prompt. I hope I was able to turn it into something appropriately Halloweeny. I've also reposted the links to all the other Halloween flash pieces just below my piece. We have new, additional pieces from Avery and Laughingwolf.
HEAVEN
The spaceship jarred as it landed. The computer had done its job, had brought me down safely from orbit. But I was weak, gasping for breath, mind drifting from lack of oxygen. The recycler had broken down. Even my space suit was nearly exhausted of air. But I managed to make it to the airlock.
I didn’t know this planet. Was the atmosphere breathable? I had no choice but to find out. The outer hatch opened under my hand. I staggered through, fell to hands and knees, slapped my helmet release.
A breath shuddered into my lungs. Warm. Languid. It fed me. My lungs filled with it; my body drank it like nectar. I coughed, then forced myself to my feet. The view froze me.
A low mist coiled thickly around my feet, as if I stood on a cloud. But up through the fog thrust metal trees, of copper, black iron, gleaming platinum. Their leaves chimed in a zephyr breeze. Above me, the sky was clear and golden, like melted butter.
And in the sky drifted a city of silver. I heard the belling of trumpets, and rising over the city’s needle spires came a flock of beings who swept toward me. They were white, blindingly white, with feathered wings.
For an instant I wondered if I had died aboard my ship, or if I lay dreaming with brain damaged from oxygen loss. But I’d always understood the difference between fantasy and reality, and the reality was that the creatures who dove toward me were angels.
They began to sing. My heart swelled with the beauty. I lifted my own voice to join theirs.
The angels swirled before me. Their luminous eyes were sharp, piercing. Their voices rose higher and higher.
My own voice faltered. I couldn’t match them. And I realized that their song was no song at all. No song at all.
At the sound of the angels’ laughter, my ears began to bleed.
--- the end ---
----------------
LINKS TO OTHER STORIES
TWO NEW ONES:
Problem Child, by Avery Debow.
lady jane, by Laughingwolf.
EARLIER ONES IN CASE YOU MISSED ‘EM:
Fat Man by Stewart Sternberg.
Twisted by Miladysa.
Having His Say by Sidney Williams.
The Empress of the Fescue, by Avery DeBow.
flight by Laughingwolf.
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HEAVEN
The spaceship jarred as it landed. The computer had done its job, had brought me down safely from orbit. But I was weak, gasping for breath, mind drifting from lack of oxygen. The recycler had broken down. Even my space suit was nearly exhausted of air. But I managed to make it to the airlock.
I didn’t know this planet. Was the atmosphere breathable? I had no choice but to find out. The outer hatch opened under my hand. I staggered through, fell to hands and knees, slapped my helmet release.
A breath shuddered into my lungs. Warm. Languid. It fed me. My lungs filled with it; my body drank it like nectar. I coughed, then forced myself to my feet. The view froze me.
A low mist coiled thickly around my feet, as if I stood on a cloud. But up through the fog thrust metal trees, of copper, black iron, gleaming platinum. Their leaves chimed in a zephyr breeze. Above me, the sky was clear and golden, like melted butter.
And in the sky drifted a city of silver. I heard the belling of trumpets, and rising over the city’s needle spires came a flock of beings who swept toward me. They were white, blindingly white, with feathered wings.
For an instant I wondered if I had died aboard my ship, or if I lay dreaming with brain damaged from oxygen loss. But I’d always understood the difference between fantasy and reality, and the reality was that the creatures who dove toward me were angels.
They began to sing. My heart swelled with the beauty. I lifted my own voice to join theirs.
The angels swirled before me. Their luminous eyes were sharp, piercing. Their voices rose higher and higher.
My own voice faltered. I couldn’t match them. And I realized that their song was no song at all. No song at all.
At the sound of the angels’ laughter, my ears began to bleed.
--- the end ---
----------------
LINKS TO OTHER STORIES
TWO NEW ONES:
Problem Child, by Avery Debow.
lady jane, by Laughingwolf.
EARLIER ONES IN CASE YOU MISSED ‘EM:
Fat Man by Stewart Sternberg.
Twisted by Miladysa.
Having His Say by Sidney Williams.
The Empress of the Fescue, by Avery DeBow.
flight by Laughingwolf.
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Monday, October 13, 2008
Halloween Horror October
My Halloween Flash #3 is almost ready but I probably won't get it posted till tomorrow. Today is Lana's birthday and we're off to the big city's bright lights for some fun and games. Actually, we're going to the insectorium because we just don't get enough bugs around here.
However, so as not to leave you Jonesing for some flash fiction horrors, two new folks have entered the lists with their own wicked quickie tales. So check 'em out for some shudders. The links are:
Fat Man by Stewart Sternberg.
And:
Twisted by Miladysa.
And Sidney Williams, Avery DeBow, and Laughingwolf still have their tales up as well. The links are below.
Having His Say by Sidney.
The Empress of the Fescue, by Avery.
flight by Laughingwolf
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However, so as not to leave you Jonesing for some flash fiction horrors, two new folks have entered the lists with their own wicked quickie tales. So check 'em out for some shudders. The links are:
Fat Man by Stewart Sternberg.
And:
Twisted by Miladysa.
And Sidney Williams, Avery DeBow, and Laughingwolf still have their tales up as well. The links are below.
Having His Say by Sidney.
The Empress of the Fescue, by Avery.
flight by Laughingwolf
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Saturday, October 11, 2008
Halloween Flash #2
Well, here is the second installment of Halloween Horror October. It's called "Spot." But don't rush away after you finish the story. Two other folks have joined in the fun, Avery DeBow, with the very eerie "The Empress of the Fescue," and Laughingwolf, with a tightrope walking piece of prose called "flight." The links to these stories will be posted after the end of "Spot." And if you missed my "Halloween Flash #1," called "Goodnight," just see my Thursday post. Hope you enjoy!
Note: Sidney Williams has posted a Halloween Flash Horror over on his blog so I'm going to add his link to this post, at the bottom. It's an evil little piece deserving of your attention, called "Having His Say."
SPOT
Spot is my pet and I love him. My daddy brought him home last week, but already we’re inseparable. He sleeps on the floor by my bed and I feed him scraps from the table when no one is looking.
I love my daddy, too. And not just because he brought Spot home after my dog, Rover, died. Daddy knows everything. He teaches at a major university and is a doctor, though I’m always sposed to remember he’s not a “med doctor” but a doctor of Sperimental Psychology. He says med doctors are just plumbers.
I’m eight years old and one thing that worried me at first about Spot was that he was older than me. So was Rover. But when I asked Daddy if he thought Spot might die soon from old age, he said not to worry, that Rover had died from barking too much and Spot doesn’t bark.
Spot plays all the games I like, as long as I give him clear orders. I especially like to play fetch with him, and he never gets the ball all slobbery like Rover did. The only thing I don’t like is that he’s not as much fun to pet as Rover. Part of it is that he doesn’t have Rover’s soft fur, but I think a lot of it is the ugly black box attached to his head. It gets in the way a lot.
Daddy says the box is really important, though. He says that it has lectrodes that control Spot, and that without it Spot would run away. I don’t want that to happen so I’ll just have to live with the box, I guess. I sure wouldn’t want to see Spot’s picture on a milk carton like those other lost kids.
--- the end ---
----------------
Empress of the Fescue, by Avery DeBow.
flight, by Laughingwolf.
Having His Say by Sidney Williams.
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Note: Sidney Williams has posted a Halloween Flash Horror over on his blog so I'm going to add his link to this post, at the bottom. It's an evil little piece deserving of your attention, called "Having His Say."
SPOT
Spot is my pet and I love him. My daddy brought him home last week, but already we’re inseparable. He sleeps on the floor by my bed and I feed him scraps from the table when no one is looking.
I love my daddy, too. And not just because he brought Spot home after my dog, Rover, died. Daddy knows everything. He teaches at a major university and is a doctor, though I’m always sposed to remember he’s not a “med doctor” but a doctor of Sperimental Psychology. He says med doctors are just plumbers.
I’m eight years old and one thing that worried me at first about Spot was that he was older than me. So was Rover. But when I asked Daddy if he thought Spot might die soon from old age, he said not to worry, that Rover had died from barking too much and Spot doesn’t bark.
Spot plays all the games I like, as long as I give him clear orders. I especially like to play fetch with him, and he never gets the ball all slobbery like Rover did. The only thing I don’t like is that he’s not as much fun to pet as Rover. Part of it is that he doesn’t have Rover’s soft fur, but I think a lot of it is the ugly black box attached to his head. It gets in the way a lot.
Daddy says the box is really important, though. He says that it has lectrodes that control Spot, and that without it Spot would run away. I don’t want that to happen so I’ll just have to live with the box, I guess. I sure wouldn’t want to see Spot’s picture on a milk carton like those other lost kids.
--- the end ---
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Empress of the Fescue, by Avery DeBow.
flight, by Laughingwolf.
Having His Say by Sidney Williams.
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Thursday, October 09, 2008
Halloween Flash #1
I love Halloween. Always have. I love spooky stuff. I love a haunted mood and a good gore fest both. So, in the spirit of the month, I plan to post a few horror flash pieces over the next few weeks as we approach the big night. Feel free to join in if you’re a mind too, and if you want to send me a notice that you’ve done so at Kainja at hotmail dot com (Put Halloween Horror in the subject line), or drop me a note in my comments section, then I’ll post the links to your stories here on my blog. Let’s call it Halloween Horror October. Below is my first burnt offering.
GOODNIGHT
You are lying awake and still in the darkness when you hear the noise, a soft shuffle, like rotted feet dragging on carpet.
Your heartbeat speeds. Your mouth dries. Who’s coming? Who’s coming!
The door to your bedroom opens, scritching back on hinges that need oiling. A shadow bulks in the faint glow from the hallway lamp. A scream rises in your throat, bulges your lips like vomit trying to escape.
But then you hear Momma say: “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Yes, Momma,” you reply. And: “I love you, Momma.”
You think you see her smile. Certainly there is a flash of white in the dimness that could be her teeth.
The door closes and you lie awake and still. But no matter how still you lie, there is movement under the sheets.
You bite your lip. Your nose itches but you dare not lift a hand to scratch. You must: “sleep tight.”
Or else the mandible-clicking little monsters that Momma tucked in with you earlier will rip you to shreds.
--- the end ---
---------------
GOODNIGHT
You are lying awake and still in the darkness when you hear the noise, a soft shuffle, like rotted feet dragging on carpet.
Your heartbeat speeds. Your mouth dries. Who’s coming? Who’s coming!
The door to your bedroom opens, scritching back on hinges that need oiling. A shadow bulks in the faint glow from the hallway lamp. A scream rises in your throat, bulges your lips like vomit trying to escape.
But then you hear Momma say: “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Yes, Momma,” you reply. And: “I love you, Momma.”
You think you see her smile. Certainly there is a flash of white in the dimness that could be her teeth.
The door closes and you lie awake and still. But no matter how still you lie, there is movement under the sheets.
You bite your lip. Your nose itches but you dare not lift a hand to scratch. You must: “sleep tight.”
Or else the mandible-clicking little monsters that Momma tucked in with you earlier will rip you to shreds.
--- the end ---
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Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Word Count and Ruthlessness
Novels have room for words, lots and lots of words. That doesn’t mean you can spend them unwisely, but it does mean you can loosen the cinch on your story a “bit” without losing your saddle. Not so with short stories. I’ve heard that writing novels and short stories are two different art forms, and I believe it. Short stories require a ruthlessness that most novel writers seldom need to match.
I was talking to a young writer not long ago about short stories. She was explaining how all her stories ran long because there was just so much to tell. One idea led to another, one twist to the next. And then she found herself wanting to explore every quirk of her characters.
My advice to her was to: “Stop that!” I said: “Such distractions rear up in my own stories sometimes. I beat them about the head and ears until they go away.”
“Distractions!” she said. “But those are the kinds of things that made me want to write the story in the first place.”
“Then you’re thinking primarily like a novelist,” I responded. “There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s different than thinking like a short story writer. Short stories are hard enough to publish for money as it is. But when you trowel in sub-plots and layers of characterization for multiple actors in the story you’re virtually assuring that you’ll never sell it as a short.”
Nine and ten thousand word short stories very, very seldom sell. Unless you already have a big name, which you probably got from writing novels. I wish this wasn’t true. I enjoy reading longish short stories and novellas, but there isn’t much market for them today. In fact, there hasn’t been in my memory, because in my early days of writing, my stories used to run long too. Especially my fantasy stories. And selling them proved extremely tough.
So what’s the solution? How do you tell the story completely in the way you want to tell it and still sell it? The solution for me was to take those long stories and rip their guts out. Sub-plots? Gone! Full character development for secondary characters? Gone! World building? Minimized! Description? Intensified but minimized! Twists? Leave one or two and throw out the rest!
I still have story files on my computer with titles like “Riderorig,” which stands for “The Evening Rider, original version.” Then there’s a second file just called “Rider.” The second version is three thousand words shorter. Guess which version sold.
You can always write a story for yourself, save it, then revise it under another file name strictly for the reader. The existence of one doesn’t hurt the other. So have your cake. And eat it too.
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I was talking to a young writer not long ago about short stories. She was explaining how all her stories ran long because there was just so much to tell. One idea led to another, one twist to the next. And then she found herself wanting to explore every quirk of her characters.
My advice to her was to: “Stop that!” I said: “Such distractions rear up in my own stories sometimes. I beat them about the head and ears until they go away.”
“Distractions!” she said. “But those are the kinds of things that made me want to write the story in the first place.”
“Then you’re thinking primarily like a novelist,” I responded. “There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s different than thinking like a short story writer. Short stories are hard enough to publish for money as it is. But when you trowel in sub-plots and layers of characterization for multiple actors in the story you’re virtually assuring that you’ll never sell it as a short.”
Nine and ten thousand word short stories very, very seldom sell. Unless you already have a big name, which you probably got from writing novels. I wish this wasn’t true. I enjoy reading longish short stories and novellas, but there isn’t much market for them today. In fact, there hasn’t been in my memory, because in my early days of writing, my stories used to run long too. Especially my fantasy stories. And selling them proved extremely tough.
So what’s the solution? How do you tell the story completely in the way you want to tell it and still sell it? The solution for me was to take those long stories and rip their guts out. Sub-plots? Gone! Full character development for secondary characters? Gone! World building? Minimized! Description? Intensified but minimized! Twists? Leave one or two and throw out the rest!
I still have story files on my computer with titles like “Riderorig,” which stands for “The Evening Rider, original version.” Then there’s a second file just called “Rider.” The second version is three thousand words shorter. Guess which version sold.
You can always write a story for yourself, save it, then revise it under another file name strictly for the reader. The existence of one doesn’t hurt the other. So have your cake. And eat it too.
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Sunday, October 05, 2008
TV: Where's The Beef?
I’ve never written about TV. Maybe it's time. My family was one of the first in our neck of the Arkansas woods to get color TV. We watched it a couple of hours each night. In those days, parents decided on the channel, though we only had three to choose from. We watched the news, which I didn’t get at that age, and Lawrence Welk, which I hated, and Grand Old Opry, which I didn’t like, and sometimes the Porter Wagner show, which I hated. A little later Hee Haw came out, and that I liked. It had pretty girls and I was beginning to notice girls. And sometimes we’d watch Bonanza or Gunsmoke, both of which I liked a lot. I remember when Star Trek came out. In the first season it was on at 7:00 and some serious begging earned me the chance to watch it. The next year it was on at 9:00 and that was past my bedtime. No more Trek for me, and I didn’t see the 2nd and 3rd seasons until years later in reruns. I never watched The Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits because those were deemed too scary for me.
By college, I had pretty much lost interest in TV. I’d watch Star Trek, and for a while got semi-hooked on Buck Rodgers. The only other shows I watched occasionally were the westerns, Big Valley and High Chaparral, and sometimes the detective series Mannix. I would catch episodes of things like Hart to Hart but didn’t watch them regularly. Unlike most of my friends, I never watched MASH, or WKRP in Cincinnati (although later I caught episodes of each in syndication.) I watched episodes here and there of some SF shows I really liked, such as The Invaders and Land of the Giants.
When Star Trek: The Next Generation came out, I made it a habit to watch it each week. That lasted most of a season. I just found it impossible to schedule time to devote to a weekly TV show. Plus, I often simply forgot a show was going to be on. Time and again I started watching a series and failed three to four episodes in. It happened with Space Above and Beyond, with Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek Voyager, Star Trek Enterprise, Stargate SG1, and, more recently, the new Battlestar Galactica. Just this last month I decided I was going to watch Fringe. I managed two episodes and got bored.
The only TV shows I’ve seen every episode of are the original Star Trek, Star Trek: TNG, Frazier, and Nip/Tuck. In all cases I saw far more episodes during syndication (or rebroadcast) than when it first aired.
I guess, in part, I just don’t get what is so interesting about TV. I can read for hours, write for hours, play a video game for hours. But ten or fifteen minutes into most TV shows and I’m clicking channels. And this has gotten much worse as TV shows have introduced ambitious multi-year arcs. I don’t even try to watch shows like Lost, for example, because I know I’m never going to keep up.
Do I have a point? Not really. I like the characters on some shows and there are often interesting story lines and special effects. But most of the time they seem like more trouble than they're worth, or they interfere with a dozen other things I’d rather do. So what is it about particular TV shows that hooks you as a viewer? I’d like to know.
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By college, I had pretty much lost interest in TV. I’d watch Star Trek, and for a while got semi-hooked on Buck Rodgers. The only other shows I watched occasionally were the westerns, Big Valley and High Chaparral, and sometimes the detective series Mannix. I would catch episodes of things like Hart to Hart but didn’t watch them regularly. Unlike most of my friends, I never watched MASH, or WKRP in Cincinnati (although later I caught episodes of each in syndication.) I watched episodes here and there of some SF shows I really liked, such as The Invaders and Land of the Giants.
When Star Trek: The Next Generation came out, I made it a habit to watch it each week. That lasted most of a season. I just found it impossible to schedule time to devote to a weekly TV show. Plus, I often simply forgot a show was going to be on. Time and again I started watching a series and failed three to four episodes in. It happened with Space Above and Beyond, with Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek Voyager, Star Trek Enterprise, Stargate SG1, and, more recently, the new Battlestar Galactica. Just this last month I decided I was going to watch Fringe. I managed two episodes and got bored.
The only TV shows I’ve seen every episode of are the original Star Trek, Star Trek: TNG, Frazier, and Nip/Tuck. In all cases I saw far more episodes during syndication (or rebroadcast) than when it first aired.
I guess, in part, I just don’t get what is so interesting about TV. I can read for hours, write for hours, play a video game for hours. But ten or fifteen minutes into most TV shows and I’m clicking channels. And this has gotten much worse as TV shows have introduced ambitious multi-year arcs. I don’t even try to watch shows like Lost, for example, because I know I’m never going to keep up.
Do I have a point? Not really. I like the characters on some shows and there are often interesting story lines and special effects. But most of the time they seem like more trouble than they're worth, or they interfere with a dozen other things I’d rather do. So what is it about particular TV shows that hooks you as a viewer? I’d like to know.
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Thursday, October 02, 2008
Around the Blogosphere Today
Well, of the three articles I have to do for that mental health reference book, the ones on Neuropsychology and on Transvestism are completely done. The third one on Fear is pretty much done except for polishing and putting together the annotated bibliography. The deadline is not until October 17 so I’ve got a bit of time. I hate letting deadlines creep up on me so I usually have stuff done ahead of time. Can you say, “obsessive?” I knew you could.
Several things are happening around the local blogging group that I wanted to call attention to. Many of you may already know of these. But:
First, lets all send good thoughts and prayers to Bernita and her husband, who is in the hospital.
Also, Moonrat is holding the “Mischief Fights Cancer raffle,” where she is raffling off her editorial talents to help someone who has been diagnosed with cancer. This could be a good chance to get feedback on a manuscript or query letter, and help a good cause at the same time.
Travis Erwin is also promoting a good cause on his blog today, about helping kids’ education, and, especially, getting them to read. Check it out.
Sarai has a contest going where you can win a free book.
Belatedly, I forgot to add that Shauna Roberts is also running a contest where you can win a book over on her blog, where she has an excellent interview with writer Jade Lee. More possible free books, folks.
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Several things are happening around the local blogging group that I wanted to call attention to. Many of you may already know of these. But:
First, lets all send good thoughts and prayers to Bernita and her husband, who is in the hospital.
Also, Moonrat is holding the “Mischief Fights Cancer raffle,” where she is raffling off her editorial talents to help someone who has been diagnosed with cancer. This could be a good chance to get feedback on a manuscript or query letter, and help a good cause at the same time.
Travis Erwin is also promoting a good cause on his blog today, about helping kids’ education, and, especially, getting them to read. Check it out.
Sarai has a contest going where you can win a free book.
Belatedly, I forgot to add that Shauna Roberts is also running a contest where you can win a book over on her blog, where she has an excellent interview with writer Jade Lee. More possible free books, folks.
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Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Agents and Other Elusive (Mythical?) Creatures
I am told there are such beings as literary agents. I’ve even seen their footprints and heard their apparent calls in the great wilds of the internet. But man, they are wary creatures and so far I have no firm physical evidence of their existence. Much like Sasquatch, all the sightings come from other folks, and even though I believe many of those folks are generally reliable witnesses, there is always the chance of a misidentification. Perhaps it was a wandering minstrel. Or a politician.
Let me tell you about my own hunt for the legendary agent. It began in 1994. I was in a writing group with a fellow who had one. He recommended me and one of my friends, who was also in the group, to his “connection.” We both sent query letters at the same time concerning our newly finished manuscripts. Both of us had PhDs, and both of us had published before, although I had many more short story sales under my belt than my friend. After 3 weeks my friend got a personal phone call from the agent asking to see his whole manuscript. After 3 months I got a form rejection saying, thanks for your manuscript but it’s not right for us. Uhm, I only sent a query there. Did you even read the letter?
I then sent a query and sample to a local New Orleans agent who I’d met at a book signing for one of her authors. She was quite gracious in saying “no,” and that she didn’t represent Science Fiction, although this was for Cold in the Light and the SF elements are pretty minor. I think it might have been the gore. Still, it was refreshing to find someone who’d actually read the thing and I was gratified at my progress.
Then I got a call from an agent who was interested in my work. I was quite enthusiastic, until I found from a quick internet search that the fellow was being sued by several of his clients for stealing their money and was generally considered scum by many writers. I turned him down, although in truth it was kind of hard to do.
Well, remember my friend from the writing group who got the personal call from an agent? That agent ended up not signing him, but my friend soon got another agent to represent his work. And now, he recommends me to this agent. Eagerly, I send off my query. Months pass. I email. Nothing. I email again. Nothing. Finally, I hear through my friend that the agent has decided to get out of representing fiction. Perhaps a gentle line in my direction would have been appreciated. I never heard a thing.
Over a year passed before I tried again to acquire an agent. And I got one. She seemed enthusiastic about my work. I went around with a smile on my face for a couple of months. Then came the morning I opened my email and found a note from her saying that, because of health reasons, she was retiring from the literary biz. Turns out, she’d never sent my manuscript out to anyone. Or, was she only another of those UFO sightings that turn out to be weather ballons?
I immediately began querying other agents, or at least those who "claimed" to be agents. One wrote me concerning a partial of Cold in the Light and she also seemed very enthusiastic. I sent her the whole manuscript at her request, and at least she read it and paid attention. But in the end she decided it had too much horror in it for her. Alas, she had obviously never experienced the horror of searching for an agent or she would have thought “CITL” was pretty tame by comparison.
After that, I gave up on agents and started submitting “CITL” to small publishers myself and sold it to The Invisible College Press. Several years later, when I was starting work on a new thriller, another friend from a writing group recommended me to her agent. I got a personal phone call from that agent and we seemed to hit it off pretty well. I thought. I sent her a copy of “CITL,” a copy of an anthology that had a story in it by me that had won an award, and information on the other thriller project, as well as stuff about the first two Taleran books, which by that time had been published as magazine serials. I also included some ideas that I had concerning nonfiction, primarily because I wanted the agent to know that I’d made quite a bit of money over the years from NF. I’d heard that agents like writers who might make them some money.
That was over three years ago now and I still haven’t heard another peep. Well, as all Bigfoot hunters know, you set up your recording devices in the forest and you listen and listen, and once in a while you hear a "cry" you can't clearly identify. But then everything is silence and you wonder, was it really Bigfoot? Or maybe just a mocking bird?
So there you have it. Literary agent? Reality or myth? Perhaps what I heard on the phone those times was only a ghost. Or a mimic. Perhaps the footprints I think I’ve seen are really cardboard cutouts constructed by some clever and creative writer.
To heck with those shows where they try to find Hogzilla or Nessie. Why don’t they track down something really elusive, like the literary agent? I’ll believe in them when the evidence is right in front of me. Until then, they remain a fascinating possibility, but I’m not quite ready to buy their existence. I certainly wouldn't bet on it.
Shazbot, Nanu Nanu
Let me tell you about my own hunt for the legendary agent. It began in 1994. I was in a writing group with a fellow who had one. He recommended me and one of my friends, who was also in the group, to his “connection.” We both sent query letters at the same time concerning our newly finished manuscripts. Both of us had PhDs, and both of us had published before, although I had many more short story sales under my belt than my friend. After 3 weeks my friend got a personal phone call from the agent asking to see his whole manuscript. After 3 months I got a form rejection saying, thanks for your manuscript but it’s not right for us. Uhm, I only sent a query there. Did you even read the letter?
I then sent a query and sample to a local New Orleans agent who I’d met at a book signing for one of her authors. She was quite gracious in saying “no,” and that she didn’t represent Science Fiction, although this was for Cold in the Light and the SF elements are pretty minor. I think it might have been the gore. Still, it was refreshing to find someone who’d actually read the thing and I was gratified at my progress.
Then I got a call from an agent who was interested in my work. I was quite enthusiastic, until I found from a quick internet search that the fellow was being sued by several of his clients for stealing their money and was generally considered scum by many writers. I turned him down, although in truth it was kind of hard to do.
Well, remember my friend from the writing group who got the personal call from an agent? That agent ended up not signing him, but my friend soon got another agent to represent his work. And now, he recommends me to this agent. Eagerly, I send off my query. Months pass. I email. Nothing. I email again. Nothing. Finally, I hear through my friend that the agent has decided to get out of representing fiction. Perhaps a gentle line in my direction would have been appreciated. I never heard a thing.
Over a year passed before I tried again to acquire an agent. And I got one. She seemed enthusiastic about my work. I went around with a smile on my face for a couple of months. Then came the morning I opened my email and found a note from her saying that, because of health reasons, she was retiring from the literary biz. Turns out, she’d never sent my manuscript out to anyone. Or, was she only another of those UFO sightings that turn out to be weather ballons?
I immediately began querying other agents, or at least those who "claimed" to be agents. One wrote me concerning a partial of Cold in the Light and she also seemed very enthusiastic. I sent her the whole manuscript at her request, and at least she read it and paid attention. But in the end she decided it had too much horror in it for her. Alas, she had obviously never experienced the horror of searching for an agent or she would have thought “CITL” was pretty tame by comparison.
After that, I gave up on agents and started submitting “CITL” to small publishers myself and sold it to The Invisible College Press. Several years later, when I was starting work on a new thriller, another friend from a writing group recommended me to her agent. I got a personal phone call from that agent and we seemed to hit it off pretty well. I thought. I sent her a copy of “CITL,” a copy of an anthology that had a story in it by me that had won an award, and information on the other thriller project, as well as stuff about the first two Taleran books, which by that time had been published as magazine serials. I also included some ideas that I had concerning nonfiction, primarily because I wanted the agent to know that I’d made quite a bit of money over the years from NF. I’d heard that agents like writers who might make them some money.
That was over three years ago now and I still haven’t heard another peep. Well, as all Bigfoot hunters know, you set up your recording devices in the forest and you listen and listen, and once in a while you hear a "cry" you can't clearly identify. But then everything is silence and you wonder, was it really Bigfoot? Or maybe just a mocking bird?
So there you have it. Literary agent? Reality or myth? Perhaps what I heard on the phone those times was only a ghost. Or a mimic. Perhaps the footprints I think I’ve seen are really cardboard cutouts constructed by some clever and creative writer.
To heck with those shows where they try to find Hogzilla or Nessie. Why don’t they track down something really elusive, like the literary agent? I’ll believe in them when the evidence is right in front of me. Until then, they remain a fascinating possibility, but I’m not quite ready to buy their existence. I certainly wouldn't bet on it.
Shazbot, Nanu Nanu
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Fear
I haven’t been keeping up with blogs well because I’m very busy working on a 2000 word article on “Fear” for a Mental Health reference book. You’d think a horror writer would be perfect for such an article, but it’s not about my “thoughts” on fear, or about anything to do with writing horror fiction. (I have plenty of thoughts on those.) It’s about the physical and mental attributes that accompany fear, and how these are controlled in the brain. I’m enjoying it, but am finding it fairly effortful. I know the general physiology but there are a lot of details that I need a refresher on. Just below is the abstract of the piece, which will give you an idea of the focus.
Fear is an unpleasant emotion that occurs in response to an immediate and identifiable threat, usually of an external nature. It includes physiological elements such as increased heart rate and muscular tension, behaviors such as running or hiding, and hormonal changes like the release of epinephrine (adrenaline). It should be differentiated from “anxiety,” where the threat is only anticipated and is often not specifically identifiable. Fear is largely adaptive, in that it prepares us for immediate danger, while anxiety is maladaptive, in that it occurs to threats that cannot be controlled or avoided.
To bring this post around to writing, though, I’ve seen other writers talk about the internet and how it can distract one from writing. I agree that one can get caught up in surfing and lose sight of your writing goals, but--for me--net access has become extremely important to my productivity and the speed with which I can complete projects. However, this is true only for nonfiction. I just finished two other nonfiction articles and I had the net up almost the entire time while I was writing them. I was able to fact check at a click of the mouse, and was able to access journal articles and historical documents galore to give me just the details I needed when I needed them. My productivity level with nonfiction is three or four times what it was before I had regular net access. I would have had to spend a lot more time in libraries and ordering material through interlibrary loan. That time now is spent in actual writing.
With fiction, however, I tend to write away from the net. Oh, I find it helpful on occasion to quick check facts online about sailing ships, or weapons, or various props that are used in my story, but fiction is not primarily factual. Stories need mood and atmosphere, and the net can’t give me that. Also, fiction is hard, harder to me than nonfiction, and when I get to a sticking point on a story I can so easily allow myself to “see if there are any comments on my blog,” or “check my email.” This is the death knell for “flow.” A sticking point in nonfiction can be broken by more research. A sticking point in fiction usually can’t, because it’s not about the facts but about the “feel.”
How about you? What’s your take on the net and writing. Helpful in all cases? Harmful? Or is it different for different forms of writing?
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Fear is an unpleasant emotion that occurs in response to an immediate and identifiable threat, usually of an external nature. It includes physiological elements such as increased heart rate and muscular tension, behaviors such as running or hiding, and hormonal changes like the release of epinephrine (adrenaline). It should be differentiated from “anxiety,” where the threat is only anticipated and is often not specifically identifiable. Fear is largely adaptive, in that it prepares us for immediate danger, while anxiety is maladaptive, in that it occurs to threats that cannot be controlled or avoided.
To bring this post around to writing, though, I’ve seen other writers talk about the internet and how it can distract one from writing. I agree that one can get caught up in surfing and lose sight of your writing goals, but--for me--net access has become extremely important to my productivity and the speed with which I can complete projects. However, this is true only for nonfiction. I just finished two other nonfiction articles and I had the net up almost the entire time while I was writing them. I was able to fact check at a click of the mouse, and was able to access journal articles and historical documents galore to give me just the details I needed when I needed them. My productivity level with nonfiction is three or four times what it was before I had regular net access. I would have had to spend a lot more time in libraries and ordering material through interlibrary loan. That time now is spent in actual writing.
With fiction, however, I tend to write away from the net. Oh, I find it helpful on occasion to quick check facts online about sailing ships, or weapons, or various props that are used in my story, but fiction is not primarily factual. Stories need mood and atmosphere, and the net can’t give me that. Also, fiction is hard, harder to me than nonfiction, and when I get to a sticking point on a story I can so easily allow myself to “see if there are any comments on my blog,” or “check my email.” This is the death knell for “flow.” A sticking point in nonfiction can be broken by more research. A sticking point in fiction usually can’t, because it’s not about the facts but about the “feel.”
How about you? What’s your take on the net and writing. Helpful in all cases? Harmful? Or is it different for different forms of writing?
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Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Follow-up to Hot, Blue, and Righteous
Well, I’m scrounging for blog posts at the moment, not having a lot of time outside of work to “think.” So, here’s a follow-up to my last post.
Those who guessed this poem is about ZZ Top, also known as “That Little Old Band from Texas,” are correct and win…uhm, well, nothing. The poem contains numerous references to the Top, mostly in song titles, or occasionally in lyrics. I’m annotating the poem below with the references, in brackets []. As you can see, if you care to read through it, some of the references are clear and concrete while others are oblique or downright vague. But this is how my mind works sometimes while I’m drinking, especially when I get to just the right level of buzz. As you can also see, the moral of this piece is “Drugs are bad. Okay. Kids, don’t do drugs.”
HOT BLUE & RIGHTEOUS [song title]
Three [3 members in the Top] went blind [Song title is “Arrested for Driving while Blind”] to Texas [the Top’s home state]
Down to the forest and the [lyric from “Jesus Just left Chicago”] plains [“Plains” is a common mishearing of the real word, “Pines,” in “Jesus Just left Chicago.” In fact, I thought it was “plains” for years.]
Drew a last “got paid” from the bank [Song title, “Just Got Paid”]
Bought one hellraiser [from “Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers”] bottle of black [ref to “Black Fly” song + a twist on the line “drink down a bottle of midnight red” from “Groovy Little Hippie Pad”]
Carried a siphon under pressure [“She’s Got Me Under Pressure” is a lyric from a Top song]
Cause gas cost too much nationwide [Song title, “I’m bad, I’m Nationwide”]
And they bummed [“Bummed” is a frequently misheard lyric for “bombed” in the song “Pearl Necklace”] in sparks and beer [from the songs “Master of Sparks” and “Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers”]
And smoked the butts gone [ref. to the song “Mexican Blackbird”]
Drank the Rio Grande to dregs [“Rio Grande Mud” was the Top’s second album and the first one I bought. Also, drinking is common in a lot of Top songs." The Rio Grande also borders Texas]
While the Top played the radio [for ZZ Top, of course, and you hear ‘em a lot on radio]
And they dreamed women [Most Top songs seem to be about women]
Blackbirds and pearls [Ref’s to song titles “Mexican Blackbird” and “Pearl Necklace”]
Francine with legs [“Francine” and “Legs” are both ZZ Top song titles, and both songs are about women, as referenced in previous line]
But when momma called [Next few lines, down to “Boogie Woogie,” are only slightly twisted lyrics from the song “Backdoor Medley,” one of my favorite Top pieces]
On that long distance cell-o-phone
And daddy didn’t tell ‘em
To Boogie Woogie [Papa said “Let that boy Boogie Woogie.”]
They brought their blue jeans [from song titled “Blue Jean Boogie”]
Home to Mississippi [several songs, but mainly “My Head’s in Mississippi”]
What’s up with that? [a song title]
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Those who guessed this poem is about ZZ Top, also known as “That Little Old Band from Texas,” are correct and win…uhm, well, nothing. The poem contains numerous references to the Top, mostly in song titles, or occasionally in lyrics. I’m annotating the poem below with the references, in brackets []. As you can see, if you care to read through it, some of the references are clear and concrete while others are oblique or downright vague. But this is how my mind works sometimes while I’m drinking, especially when I get to just the right level of buzz. As you can also see, the moral of this piece is “Drugs are bad. Okay. Kids, don’t do drugs.”
HOT BLUE & RIGHTEOUS [song title]
Three [3 members in the Top] went blind [Song title is “Arrested for Driving while Blind”] to Texas [the Top’s home state]
Down to the forest and the [lyric from “Jesus Just left Chicago”] plains [“Plains” is a common mishearing of the real word, “Pines,” in “Jesus Just left Chicago.” In fact, I thought it was “plains” for years.]
Drew a last “got paid” from the bank [Song title, “Just Got Paid”]
Bought one hellraiser [from “Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers”] bottle of black [ref to “Black Fly” song + a twist on the line “drink down a bottle of midnight red” from “Groovy Little Hippie Pad”]
Carried a siphon under pressure [“She’s Got Me Under Pressure” is a lyric from a Top song]
Cause gas cost too much nationwide [Song title, “I’m bad, I’m Nationwide”]
And they bummed [“Bummed” is a frequently misheard lyric for “bombed” in the song “Pearl Necklace”] in sparks and beer [from the songs “Master of Sparks” and “Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers”]
And smoked the butts gone [ref. to the song “Mexican Blackbird”]
Drank the Rio Grande to dregs [“Rio Grande Mud” was the Top’s second album and the first one I bought. Also, drinking is common in a lot of Top songs." The Rio Grande also borders Texas]
While the Top played the radio [for ZZ Top, of course, and you hear ‘em a lot on radio]
And they dreamed women [Most Top songs seem to be about women]
Blackbirds and pearls [Ref’s to song titles “Mexican Blackbird” and “Pearl Necklace”]
Francine with legs [“Francine” and “Legs” are both ZZ Top song titles, and both songs are about women, as referenced in previous line]
But when momma called [Next few lines, down to “Boogie Woogie,” are only slightly twisted lyrics from the song “Backdoor Medley,” one of my favorite Top pieces]
On that long distance cell-o-phone
And daddy didn’t tell ‘em
To Boogie Woogie [Papa said “Let that boy Boogie Woogie.”]
They brought their blue jeans [from song titled “Blue Jean Boogie”]
Home to Mississippi [several songs, but mainly “My Head’s in Mississippi”]
What’s up with that? [a song title]
---
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Monday, September 22, 2008
Hot Blue and Righteous
Some of you will get the references in this drunken piece of drivel, but only if you're a fan of a certain Little Old Band. There's even a tie-in between the band and the second part of my post for today.
HOT BLUE & RIGHTEOUS
Three went blind to Texas
Down to the forest and the plains
Drew a last “got paid” from the bank
Bought one hellraiser bottle of black
Carried a siphon under pressure
Cause gas cost too much nationwide
And they bummed sparks and beer
And smoked the butts gone
Drank the Rio Grande to dregs
While the Top played the radio
And they dreamed women
Blackbirds and pearls
Francine with legs
But when momma called
On that long distance cell-o-phone
And daddy didn’t tell ‘em
To boogie woogie
They brought their blue jeans
Home to Mississippi
What’s up with that?
Also, a good friend of mine, Scott Hall, has just started to blog. He’s a fellow REHupan, a fine writer, and another “longhair.” Please give him a welcome over at Blog of the Beast. And no, beast is a nickname for him, not anything to do with him being the son of Satan. Although, I swear a time or two in Cross Plains, Texas I’ve seen the outline of horns under his Viking hair. Coulda just been the beer. And the mead.
BTW, Scott and I have another thing in common. We’re both married to women far higher on the looks scale than we are. Talk about beauties and the beasts they married.
*Waves at Kim and Lana*
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HOT BLUE & RIGHTEOUS
Three went blind to Texas
Down to the forest and the plains
Drew a last “got paid” from the bank
Bought one hellraiser bottle of black
Carried a siphon under pressure
Cause gas cost too much nationwide
And they bummed sparks and beer
And smoked the butts gone
Drank the Rio Grande to dregs
While the Top played the radio
And they dreamed women
Blackbirds and pearls
Francine with legs
But when momma called
On that long distance cell-o-phone
And daddy didn’t tell ‘em
To boogie woogie
They brought their blue jeans
Home to Mississippi
What’s up with that?
Also, a good friend of mine, Scott Hall, has just started to blog. He’s a fellow REHupan, a fine writer, and another “longhair.” Please give him a welcome over at Blog of the Beast. And no, beast is a nickname for him, not anything to do with him being the son of Satan. Although, I swear a time or two in Cross Plains, Texas I’ve seen the outline of horns under his Viking hair. Coulda just been the beer. And the mead.
BTW, Scott and I have another thing in common. We’re both married to women far higher on the looks scale than we are. Talk about beauties and the beasts they married.
*Waves at Kim and Lana*
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Saturday, September 20, 2008
Politics
I’ve seen quite a few blog posts lately on political issues. It’s understandable, given the times and the upcoming election. But I’m often at a loss as to how to comment on such posts, and I hope folks don’t get upset with me if I disagree with them. People often express very strong feelings, and it’s usually clear that they really “don’t” understand how anyone could believe differently from them. Of course, I’m the same way. If I view a candidate in a certain light, it seems obvious to me that my reasoning is correct. I like to tell myself that I make my decisions based on reason, but I know that isn’t always the case. Everyone wants to think they are being rational, but humans can’t escape their emotional natures. And this means you too, I’m afraid. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.
I also find myself to be an incredible cynic these days where politics is concerned. I mean, when have we seen a politician who really seems to care about people in the modern world? Oh, they all give lip service to it. But do you believe their words? I’m afraid that most of the time I don’t. And I’m talking about Republicans, Democrats, and Independents. There’s an old adage: how do you know when a politician is lying? Answer: when his, or her, lips are moving. Well, I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that there’s a lot of truth in that.
Many of the folks I see posting on politics are idealists. They honestly want to make the world a better place. I admire that. But I always want to warn folks that idealists are the politician’s favorite prey. If one can focus passion, then one can accomplish one’s goals. Unfortunately, the politician’s goals may not be the same as what the passionate believers “think” those goals are.
Cynics are not necessarily the enemy of politicians, however. If they’re so cynical that they do nothing, then the politicians can freely discount them. So, I’m going to vote. And I’m voting for the candidate that I “believe” best offers a chance for a change in the direction our country has been heading. Do I believe the direction will really change? Nope.
But I have hope. I suppose I just have to. It’s part of my irrational nature.
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I also find myself to be an incredible cynic these days where politics is concerned. I mean, when have we seen a politician who really seems to care about people in the modern world? Oh, they all give lip service to it. But do you believe their words? I’m afraid that most of the time I don’t. And I’m talking about Republicans, Democrats, and Independents. There’s an old adage: how do you know when a politician is lying? Answer: when his, or her, lips are moving. Well, I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that there’s a lot of truth in that.
Many of the folks I see posting on politics are idealists. They honestly want to make the world a better place. I admire that. But I always want to warn folks that idealists are the politician’s favorite prey. If one can focus passion, then one can accomplish one’s goals. Unfortunately, the politician’s goals may not be the same as what the passionate believers “think” those goals are.
Cynics are not necessarily the enemy of politicians, however. If they’re so cynical that they do nothing, then the politicians can freely discount them. So, I’m going to vote. And I’m voting for the candidate that I “believe” best offers a chance for a change in the direction our country has been heading. Do I believe the direction will really change? Nope.
But I have hope. I suppose I just have to. It’s part of my irrational nature.
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Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Mood In Writing
The response to my Monday post suggested how important mood is to writing. It started me thinking that one of the primary goals of writing is, in fact, to create a mood in the reader—happy, angry, frightened, melancholy. A writer’s success at hooking the reader, or lack thereof, depends to a large extent on whether readers are experiencing the mood the writer wants them to experience. But how can words create a mood?
Fortunately, human beings are emotionally expressive. We’re wired for emotion and most of us like it. We read fiction to be emotionally involved. So, the writer has a partner in the drive to create a mood. I know, as a reader, I desperately want the writers of the books I’m reading to be successful. I’ll meet them halfway, but they are the ones driving and the first move is theirs.
I find that most writers have strengths and weaknesses in their ability to create mood. Personally, I find it easier to create melancholy moods than happy ones. I’m not exactly sure why. I’ve definitely experienced sad times, but I’ve had plenty of happy ones as well. I’m not generally a sad kind of guy. But an important aspect of creating mood in writing, I think, is for the writer to be experiencing the very mood they are trying to induce. When I’m happy, I tend to spend less time writing. I’m doing other, happy things. I express myself with laughter maybe, but happy moods don’t send me to the keyboard. In contrast, when I’m feeling a little down I seem to naturally gravitate toward words in an attempt to express the feeling.
I also find that certain words or phrases have the strength to evoke certain moods in me. “Gray rain.” “Barren trees.” “Cemetery.” “Coffin.” These shift my mind toward melancholy. “Zephyr wind.” “Clear stream.” “Cicada.” These tend to create a summer mood, peaceful and relaxed. A lot of this is the power of association. Cemeteries are associated with loss, and loss with sadness. In Arkansas, I remember hearing the Cicadas’ strident song every summer when I was working on the farm. To create mood we need to find the words that are associated with the experience of that mood. And those words and phrases, if we let them, will shift our own mood toward the one we’re trying to convey.
So, if you’re a writer, what mood do you find easiest to evoke? Which one is hardest? As a writer or a reader, or just a person in general, what words or phrases create mood for you? I’m curious to see how different your words are from mine.
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Fortunately, human beings are emotionally expressive. We’re wired for emotion and most of us like it. We read fiction to be emotionally involved. So, the writer has a partner in the drive to create a mood. I know, as a reader, I desperately want the writers of the books I’m reading to be successful. I’ll meet them halfway, but they are the ones driving and the first move is theirs.
I find that most writers have strengths and weaknesses in their ability to create mood. Personally, I find it easier to create melancholy moods than happy ones. I’m not exactly sure why. I’ve definitely experienced sad times, but I’ve had plenty of happy ones as well. I’m not generally a sad kind of guy. But an important aspect of creating mood in writing, I think, is for the writer to be experiencing the very mood they are trying to induce. When I’m happy, I tend to spend less time writing. I’m doing other, happy things. I express myself with laughter maybe, but happy moods don’t send me to the keyboard. In contrast, when I’m feeling a little down I seem to naturally gravitate toward words in an attempt to express the feeling.
I also find that certain words or phrases have the strength to evoke certain moods in me. “Gray rain.” “Barren trees.” “Cemetery.” “Coffin.” These shift my mind toward melancholy. “Zephyr wind.” “Clear stream.” “Cicada.” These tend to create a summer mood, peaceful and relaxed. A lot of this is the power of association. Cemeteries are associated with loss, and loss with sadness. In Arkansas, I remember hearing the Cicadas’ strident song every summer when I was working on the farm. To create mood we need to find the words that are associated with the experience of that mood. And those words and phrases, if we let them, will shift our own mood toward the one we’re trying to convey.
So, if you’re a writer, what mood do you find easiest to evoke? Which one is hardest? As a writer or a reader, or just a person in general, what words or phrases create mood for you? I’m curious to see how different your words are from mine.
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Monday, September 15, 2008
Gray as Hearth's Ashes
Drove through a cemetery sky the color of steel-wool this morning. And "through" is the exact word. On the Causeway bridge over Lake Pontchartrain in the rain, with the clouds sewn gray around you like a tattered shroud, you are part of the sky. And alone. Oh, there were other cars on the road with me. But they were separate coffins. Each one set apart. Each one isolated.
And on such a day, the radio played only sad songs. Bound within the car's frame with my thoughts, it was impossible to believe that the music came from elsewhere, from far away. It seemed to arise wholly out of the bubble of space I occupied, transmuted from the whine and hiss of the tires on wet cement, and from the metronomic swish of the wipers.
My mood deepened, darkened. Why at such times do you always remember the wrongs you've done? I tried to weigh my contributions this morning, subtracting the bills that others have paid because of me. I'm afraid I found the balance sheet wanting. I’m in the red.
I wonder sometimes if the world will end this way for me, and I’ll be left driving on into the rain, driving on forever on a bridge that goes nowhere. I imagine the other cars sliding away, one by one. I feel the sky closing in until my wheels turn only on wind. Do you think there will be a moment when the music stops and I am caught in a world of gray amber, left to listen to gathering silence?
Will I know it when it happens?
And on such a day, the radio played only sad songs. Bound within the car's frame with my thoughts, it was impossible to believe that the music came from elsewhere, from far away. It seemed to arise wholly out of the bubble of space I occupied, transmuted from the whine and hiss of the tires on wet cement, and from the metronomic swish of the wipers.
My mood deepened, darkened. Why at such times do you always remember the wrongs you've done? I tried to weigh my contributions this morning, subtracting the bills that others have paid because of me. I'm afraid I found the balance sheet wanting. I’m in the red.
I wonder sometimes if the world will end this way for me, and I’ll be left driving on into the rain, driving on forever on a bridge that goes nowhere. I imagine the other cars sliding away, one by one. I feel the sky closing in until my wheels turn only on wind. Do you think there will be a moment when the music stops and I am caught in a world of gray amber, left to listen to gathering silence?
Will I know it when it happens?
Friday, September 12, 2008
I'm a Winner
How cool is this! I just won a $25.00 gift certificate over at the Book Roast for a t-shirt slogan idea I posted. There were some great entries so I’m amazed that I won. My entry was: “Reading: It’s not just for the bathroom anymore.” Thanks very much to Moonrat for selecting me, and to Chris Eldin for organizing these roasts, which must be a lot of work. I’ve already been poking around at Amazon to see what I want. Well, who am I kidding, I really kind of want them all. But I’m looking forward to narrowing my selection down.
As for the local conditions, we’ve had a lot of wind yesterday and today due to Hurricane Ike passing underneath us, but nothing serious has happened. But this is a big storm so I hope all our friends in Texas are bracing for impact or getting the hell out, depending on where they live.
In writing news, I’m working right now on the update for the Neuropsychological article and it’s getting close to done. I still have two original pieces to do, though, which will take longer, and I’m going to have to cut back on blogging a bit. This morning I had 50 new posts on Google Reader, then 18 more new ones after lunch, and 9 more just a few minutes ago. There is so much great stuff going on in the blog world, like the Book Roast, Bernardl’s online novel, the interviews that Shauna Roberts’ runs, and the funny cartoons that folks like Laughingwolf post, but I’m pretty close to saturation point at the moment. I’ll continue visiting blogs but won’t be posting comments as frequently. The writing just has to come first.
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As for the local conditions, we’ve had a lot of wind yesterday and today due to Hurricane Ike passing underneath us, but nothing serious has happened. But this is a big storm so I hope all our friends in Texas are bracing for impact or getting the hell out, depending on where they live.
In writing news, I’m working right now on the update for the Neuropsychological article and it’s getting close to done. I still have two original pieces to do, though, which will take longer, and I’m going to have to cut back on blogging a bit. This morning I had 50 new posts on Google Reader, then 18 more new ones after lunch, and 9 more just a few minutes ago. There is so much great stuff going on in the blog world, like the Book Roast, Bernardl’s online novel, the interviews that Shauna Roberts’ runs, and the funny cartoons that folks like Laughingwolf post, but I’m pretty close to saturation point at the moment. I’ll continue visiting blogs but won’t be posting comments as frequently. The writing just has to come first.
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Wednesday, September 10, 2008
To The Princess in the Olive-Green Volvo SUV
Dear Princess:
Clearly from our interactions on the highway this morning, I am not suited to share the road with your highness. However, because there might be other peasants who do not instantly recognize your royalty and may get in your way tomorrow, I wonder if you’d allow me to make a few humble suggestions and comments.
First, on-ramps onto the freeway are typically meant for one individual automobile at a time. In the future, instead of passing me on the on-ramp so that you can swing into the far lane before I’ve even merged, thus putting you fifty feet ahead of me, simply flick your headlights at me and I will instantly move over and allow you to proceed. After all, how dare I merge before you.
Second, strangely enough, despite your need for speed, when we got to the toll bridge some three miles later, you were precisely in front of me. Other peasants were in your way perhaps. Anyway, I’m sure you were far too busy with your high-level thoughts to read, but the line that says “toll-tag only” is actually meant for those who have toll-tags on their automobiles. There are several other lanes for those who will need to pay cash for their toll. Of course, despite my own toll-tag, I was happy to wait in line behind you while you searched through your purse for the three dollars. Other peasants might not be so patient, however, so perhaps you should get a personalized license plate that reveals your “royal blood.”
Third, I imagine you were putting your purse away, or some equally important task, as you got onto the Causeway, which would explain why you were driving slowly after leaving the toll booth. I am sincerely sorry that I attempted to pass you in the other lane, and I appreciate you cutting me off, forcing me to slam on my brakes as you finally selected “my” lane to drive in. It was thoughtless of me to attempt to drive the speed limit when you were going more slowly in front of me. You will note that I backed well off from your bumper after that event so that you could proceed unhampered by such dirt-grubbers as myself.
Fourth, what a glorious day it was to find that after driving 24 miles of the Causeway bridge, we arrived at the far end at almost precisely the same time. You may remember that you were in the left lane and I in the right. I am so sorry that I forgot my previous lesson and once more attempted to pass you. I was confused because your lane was moving more slowly than mine. How dare I take lane space better suited for your sweet little Volvo. My horn was only meant to indicate that I wanted out of your way before you took off my entire front end as you once more cut me off. I do appreciate you honking your own horn in acknowledgment.
And please have no doubt as to the intentions behind my lone fingered salute. It was only meant to indicate that you are indeed…Number 1.
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Clearly from our interactions on the highway this morning, I am not suited to share the road with your highness. However, because there might be other peasants who do not instantly recognize your royalty and may get in your way tomorrow, I wonder if you’d allow me to make a few humble suggestions and comments.
First, on-ramps onto the freeway are typically meant for one individual automobile at a time. In the future, instead of passing me on the on-ramp so that you can swing into the far lane before I’ve even merged, thus putting you fifty feet ahead of me, simply flick your headlights at me and I will instantly move over and allow you to proceed. After all, how dare I merge before you.
Second, strangely enough, despite your need for speed, when we got to the toll bridge some three miles later, you were precisely in front of me. Other peasants were in your way perhaps. Anyway, I’m sure you were far too busy with your high-level thoughts to read, but the line that says “toll-tag only” is actually meant for those who have toll-tags on their automobiles. There are several other lanes for those who will need to pay cash for their toll. Of course, despite my own toll-tag, I was happy to wait in line behind you while you searched through your purse for the three dollars. Other peasants might not be so patient, however, so perhaps you should get a personalized license plate that reveals your “royal blood.”
Third, I imagine you were putting your purse away, or some equally important task, as you got onto the Causeway, which would explain why you were driving slowly after leaving the toll booth. I am sincerely sorry that I attempted to pass you in the other lane, and I appreciate you cutting me off, forcing me to slam on my brakes as you finally selected “my” lane to drive in. It was thoughtless of me to attempt to drive the speed limit when you were going more slowly in front of me. You will note that I backed well off from your bumper after that event so that you could proceed unhampered by such dirt-grubbers as myself.
Fourth, what a glorious day it was to find that after driving 24 miles of the Causeway bridge, we arrived at the far end at almost precisely the same time. You may remember that you were in the left lane and I in the right. I am so sorry that I forgot my previous lesson and once more attempted to pass you. I was confused because your lane was moving more slowly than mine. How dare I take lane space better suited for your sweet little Volvo. My horn was only meant to indicate that I wanted out of your way before you took off my entire front end as you once more cut me off. I do appreciate you honking your own horn in acknowledgment.
And please have no doubt as to the intentions behind my lone fingered salute. It was only meant to indicate that you are indeed…Number 1.
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Monday, September 08, 2008
When Death Comes for Me
Feel like rocking tonight. Listening to old Black Sabbath. “Sweet Leaf.” “Snow Blind.” “The Warning.” If there’s a soundtrack to evil, Black Sabbath wrote it.
Then I open a more modern Hell for some Black Label Society. “Suicide Messiah.” Or I listen to a little cultural commentary with Marilyn Manson’s “The New Shit” and The Crue’s “Find Myself.” Wind it up with a little “I am the Bullgod” with Kid Rock. After, I slow it down with “Space Lord” by Monster Magnet and then "Screaming in the Night" by Krokus.
Makes me want to ride a pale horse with the Wild Hunt, to feel the scrape of briars across my leathers while the horns skirl and reap the silence.
In my dreams sometimes I run the dark. My teeth are long. Crimson at the roots. At campfire’s edge, my eyes gleam wicked yellow. My pupils are dilated. And I am:
WATCHING
When death comes for me
I’ll wait in the black light
Armed to the teeth
With blade and bullet
Standing in the rain
The wine bite of life
Bloody on my tongue
Eyes smoking ready
When death comes for me
I’ll be fueled for fire
I’ll throw him a red kiss
But it won’t be sweet
Standing under eclipsed sun
With the wink of steel
Hiding cold in my fists
Smiling only with my mouth
When death comes for me
His angel wings spread dark
He’ll find a machine rusted
But sharp edged and poison
Standing in a blank wind
A ghost with scars for eyes
With ruins for memories
He’ll find me...watching
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Saturday, September 06, 2008
Lost Days.
Is it already Saturday? How time flies when you have electricity. I remarked to Lana during the “Lost Days” as we refer to them, how slow time seemed to move when we had no computers, no telephone, no internet, no TV, and when we couldn’t even get out of our own yard. I read during those days, read and sweltered and occasionally grilled something on the barbecue. I wouldn’t mind a little bit of that slower pace sometimes, but only if it can come with AC at the same time.
Lana is still uploading videos from the Lost Days so I won’t steal that thunder. I’ll post here when they’re ready. The process is slow.
In other items, I finally managed to respond to my Google Reader feeds yesterday. When I got back online I found 198 posts waiting for me, and in a moment of “Oh my God, I can’t do this,” I hit “mark all as read.” Sorry about that, and about the great posts I'm sure I missed. But sanity required it. I’m still behind but I’ll start getting caught up today, and will resume making individual responses to comments on my own posts.
I’ve got to get started quickly, however, on three new reference articles for a book on mental health. I’ve got new pieces to do on the topics of “fear” and “transvestism,” and have to update an entry on Neuropsychology. I sent in a list of ten topics I’d be willing to work on, chosen from their master list of topics, saying that I only wanted three assignments total. This is the three.
The “fear” one is a natural for me since I’m interested in horror fiction and have given presentations on fear and horror before. And since I’m a biological psychologist, the neuropsych one is straightforward. I threw the transvestism topic in as a possibility because it’s something I don’t know much about, but I find it interesting as a disorder since the act of cross-dressing is so prevalent in our society. It seems like every TV sitcom has had some episode where a guy dresses as a woman and everyone laughs. I’m not quite sure why. I don’t know if they still do it, but there used to be a group of male Washington Redskin fans who dressed as really “ugly” women for the games. My tiny hometown of Charleston, Arkansas even has a “womanless beauty contest.” And, of course, in New Orleans there is Mardi Gras and Southern Decadence, both of which involve extensive costuming and cross-dressing.
I’ve already learned that the term “transvestism” was coined by Magnus Hirschfeld in 1910 in Germany. Hirschfeld had several things working against him during the later Nazi period and had to flee the country. He was Jewish, gay, a cross-dresser, and a foot fetishist. Worst of all, he was a medical doctor.
Finally, one book I read during the Lost Days deserves special mention. This is Nightblood by T. Chris Martindale. What an excellent action horror novel. It’s one of the best I’ve read in a long time. Great characters and action mixed with atmospheric horror and vicious vampires. I’ve read one other horror novel by Martindale, Where the Chill Waits, and it was even better. I’m reading a third one by Martindale now, and have a fourth one ready. That’s apparently all he wrote. One rather odd thing I’ve noticed about Martindale is that he, more than any other writer I’ve ever read, reminds me of my own writing style. I’m talking about the style I used in Cold in the Light particularly.
All right, time to make the Google Reader rounds.
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Lana is still uploading videos from the Lost Days so I won’t steal that thunder. I’ll post here when they’re ready. The process is slow.
In other items, I finally managed to respond to my Google Reader feeds yesterday. When I got back online I found 198 posts waiting for me, and in a moment of “Oh my God, I can’t do this,” I hit “mark all as read.” Sorry about that, and about the great posts I'm sure I missed. But sanity required it. I’m still behind but I’ll start getting caught up today, and will resume making individual responses to comments on my own posts.
I’ve got to get started quickly, however, on three new reference articles for a book on mental health. I’ve got new pieces to do on the topics of “fear” and “transvestism,” and have to update an entry on Neuropsychology. I sent in a list of ten topics I’d be willing to work on, chosen from their master list of topics, saying that I only wanted three assignments total. This is the three.
The “fear” one is a natural for me since I’m interested in horror fiction and have given presentations on fear and horror before. And since I’m a biological psychologist, the neuropsych one is straightforward. I threw the transvestism topic in as a possibility because it’s something I don’t know much about, but I find it interesting as a disorder since the act of cross-dressing is so prevalent in our society. It seems like every TV sitcom has had some episode where a guy dresses as a woman and everyone laughs. I’m not quite sure why. I don’t know if they still do it, but there used to be a group of male Washington Redskin fans who dressed as really “ugly” women for the games. My tiny hometown of Charleston, Arkansas even has a “womanless beauty contest.” And, of course, in New Orleans there is Mardi Gras and Southern Decadence, both of which involve extensive costuming and cross-dressing.
I’ve already learned that the term “transvestism” was coined by Magnus Hirschfeld in 1910 in Germany. Hirschfeld had several things working against him during the later Nazi period and had to flee the country. He was Jewish, gay, a cross-dresser, and a foot fetishist. Worst of all, he was a medical doctor.
Finally, one book I read during the Lost Days deserves special mention. This is Nightblood by T. Chris Martindale. What an excellent action horror novel. It’s one of the best I’ve read in a long time. Great characters and action mixed with atmospheric horror and vicious vampires. I’ve read one other horror novel by Martindale, Where the Chill Waits, and it was even better. I’m reading a third one by Martindale now, and have a fourth one ready. That’s apparently all he wrote. One rather odd thing I’ve noticed about Martindale is that he, more than any other writer I’ve ever read, reminds me of my own writing style. I’m talking about the style I used in Cold in the Light particularly.
All right, time to make the Google Reader rounds.
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Thursday, September 04, 2008
Back Online At Last
Just a short note to say Lana and I got our power back this evening and can finally start to claw out from under our backlog of messages. Some initial priorities included baths. Four days without electricity in southern Louisiana, meaning no AC and no running water, can...well...let's just say that it's a good thing this net thing doesn't allow smellovision.
We came through the storm OK, and we'll be giving some updates as time permits. Lana did some short videos that she'll be showing over this week, too. Our main problem was the electricity going out on Monday morning about 8:00, and then getting trapped in our neighborhood by rising flood waters. Our house and cars survived, but for three days we weren't even able to move out of our driveway unless we walked.
Anyway, more later. For now I'm going to try to catch up on critical emails and dream of a night sleeping with AC.
We came through the storm OK, and we'll be giving some updates as time permits. Lana did some short videos that she'll be showing over this week, too. Our main problem was the electricity going out on Monday morning about 8:00, and then getting trapped in our neighborhood by rising flood waters. Our house and cars survived, but for three days we weren't even able to move out of our driveway unless we walked.
Anyway, more later. For now I'm going to try to catch up on critical emails and dream of a night sleeping with AC.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Sunday Evening Update, Gustav
Well, it's a bit after 10:00 pm here at Fortress Gramlich, and so far we've had no trouble. A band of rain squalls came through around dusk but there wasn't much wind with them. We lost internet for a while, and we've had two brownouts, but nothing to worry about as of yet. I can see on radar a much thicker band of rain squalls headed our way. They should be on us before long but they don't actually look terribly heavy. Of course, the storm won't make landfall until tomorrow so we've got some waiting to do.
In the meantime, I watched "Duel" again on TV, and it wasn't quite as good as I remember. Dennis Weaver was a bit of a whiney bitch. I've been doing some reading, as well. Don't feel as if I could concentrate on much writing at the moment.
Well, more updates as time passes. Internet access allowing. Take care all.
In the meantime, I watched "Duel" again on TV, and it wasn't quite as good as I remember. Dennis Weaver was a bit of a whiney bitch. I've been doing some reading, as well. Don't feel as if I could concentrate on much writing at the moment.
Well, more updates as time passes. Internet access allowing. Take care all.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Technicolor Zombies
Yesterday, I finished reading Bits of the Dead, the zombie anthology I’ve mentioned here. Although it has hits and misses like any anthology, I thought the majority of the stories were pretty good. And I’m not just saying that because I have a piece in it. Since all the stories are short, flash fiction pieces of 1 to 3 pages, it also doesn’t take long to finish one you don’t particularly enjoy and move on to one you do. Especially in these days when concern about Gustav is always in the back of my mind, I appreciated the short pieces. They took me away for moments at a time from my worries, but didn’t require the lengthy concentration a novel would have. I actually wish I had a few more of these flash fiction anthologies around for just this reason.
The stories were salient enough so that last night I dreamed of zombies. I don’t remember all the details, but the gist of it was that people who were pretending to be zombies were attacked by real zombies. The real zombies had your standard gray, monochromatic appearance while the pretend zombies were done up beautifully in Technicolor hues. The fake organs and intestines they’d glued on were brilliant reds and pinks. They had bold slashes of yellow across their faces, and the pure white of fresh bones showing artfully through the fancy rags of their carefully selected costumes. The strangest part was when the pretend zombies were bitten and became real zombies, and how they hunted people now with their faces made up like zombie hookers. Outside, they were works of art; inside, they were gray and empty of all but hunger. I remember one, in particular. He was trying to eat his own fake intestines. He’d shove them in his mouth and bite down, then make a face and spit them out. Only to try a fresh bite moments later.
The stories were salient enough so that last night I dreamed of zombies. I don’t remember all the details, but the gist of it was that people who were pretending to be zombies were attacked by real zombies. The real zombies had your standard gray, monochromatic appearance while the pretend zombies were done up beautifully in Technicolor hues. The fake organs and intestines they’d glued on were brilliant reds and pinks. They had bold slashes of yellow across their faces, and the pure white of fresh bones showing artfully through the fancy rags of their carefully selected costumes. The strangest part was when the pretend zombies were bitten and became real zombies, and how they hunted people now with their faces made up like zombie hookers. Outside, they were works of art; inside, they were gray and empty of all but hunger. I remember one, in particular. He was trying to eat his own fake intestines. He’d shove them in his mouth and bite down, then make a face and spit them out. Only to try a fresh bite moments later.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Gustav
Although Gustav is at current a tropical storm only, the coast is taking this one seriously. Xavier has already cancelled classes as of this Friday afternoon and only plans to reopen Thursday of next week, September 4. This seems a little bit of an overreaction to me. Since the storm is not going to even get close until Sunday at the earliest I'm not sure why Friday classes needed to be cancelled. And I guess it seems early to cancel classes next week when we are already off on Monday for Labor Day. However, all predictions are that Gustav will become a hurricane again, possibly a category 3. And that's nothing to sneeze at. Anyway, I'm not making the decisions, and I'm glad I'm not. I wouldn't want the responsibility.
I'll be posting again before the storm approaches, but if it comes close at all we'll surely loose our satellite internet connection. I may be out of touch for a few days next week. Let's hope it won't be longer than that. After Katrina it was months before the grid was back up.
As long as it's no more than a category 1, Lana and I will probably ride it out in our home. For a category 2 we'll have to strongly consider its direct track before making a decision. And if it's a 3 or better we're out of here.
I'll be posting again before the storm approaches, but if it comes close at all we'll surely loose our satellite internet connection. I may be out of touch for a few days next week. Let's hope it won't be longer than that. After Katrina it was months before the grid was back up.
As long as it's no more than a category 1, Lana and I will probably ride it out in our home. For a category 2 we'll have to strongly consider its direct track before making a decision. And if it's a 3 or better we're out of here.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Change of Pace
I’ve started the commute to work again and that means listening to the radio. I have a CD player but I tend to listen to the radio because they also have traffic reports. And I’m reminded in my travels of a rant that I’ve shared with the seagulls and the lake on occasion. That is, why do they have to play the same songs over and over and over? Many of them bad songs, of course. To explain, I only get three radio channels, and a fourth one when I’m in range in the evening going home, that I’ll listen to. One is classic rock, one new rock, and the other oldies. I’ll listen to the oldies when the other two channels have nothing but talk talk talk on, which is far too often. But even when the rock stations are playing music they tend to play only the standards.
Now, I like a lot of the standards. Love “Stairway to Heaven,” “Radar Love,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and many more. But there are plenty of other good songs that never get played: "Space Lord" by Monster Magnet. "Suicide Messiah" by Black Label Society. Etc. And, lets face it, there are some commonly played rock tunes that just frankly suck. They sucked the first time I heard them, and they certainly haven’t aged like fine mead. So, without further ado, here is my top twelve list of “rock” songs that I wish every radio station would lose from their catalogue.
12. “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue. I really like a lot of Motley’s songs. Their second album is especially good. But this song nearly made me stop buying Crue CDs forever. I eventually recovered and continued to pick up new Crue releases. But this tune is a wound I’ll never get completely over.
11. “Pour some Sugar on Me” by Def Lepperd. The Lepp had some good music back in the day, but this is simply godawful. It should be titled pour some “saccharine” on me, then shoot me in the head with a large caliber handgun before the bees sting the hell out of me because they feel gypped.
10. “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas. Kansas could play some pretty decent mellow songs, like “Cheyenne Anthem.” This isn’t one of them. And although it was OK the first couple of times I heard it, it really wears on one, sort of like how dust in the wind erodes the hardest rock. I’m worn down already.
9. “Mr. Roboto” by Styx. You know how I said I almost stopped buying Motley Crue albums after “Home Sweet Home?” Well, I did stop buying Styx albums after “Mr. Roboto.”
8. “The Other Side,” by Aerosmith. From it’s limp wristed opening to the insane babbling at the end, this one sucks all the way through. I’d rather listen to white noise. In fact, I have listened to white noise when this was all that was on.
7. “November Rain” by Guns & Roses. I’ve never made it all the way through this song. Not once. Maybe it gets really, really good at the end. But I doubt it. I’m not willing to suffer through the first part to find out.
6. “Nevermind” by Nirvana. Sorry grunge fans, but Nirvana hadn’t the faintest idea how to rock. Except for “Smells like Teen Spirit.” “Nevermind” is a freaking lullaby. I could sleep to it probably, if it didn’t make me feel faintly nauseated. You know, kind of like somebody soaked my pacifier in Scotch.
5. “The Lemon Song” by Led Zepplin. Is it really necessary to hear about the “juice” running down Robert Plant’s leg four times a day? I cry enuff’s enuff.
4. “We are the Champions” by Queen. How can you follow one of the hardest rocking pieces in rock and roll, and by that I mean “We Will Rock You,” with one of the all time lamest pieces of drivel? It’s blasphemous is what it is. And there isn’t even a decent break between the two. I try to catch the exact moment of the change so I can press a button to flee the station, but I sometimes fail and the first fragment of “Champions” bleeds through and nearly convulses me. Please, radio stations, stop while you’re “rocking me.”
3. Anything by Poison, but especially, please, I’m begging you, never, ever play “Every F*$@#*& Rose has its Thorn” again. I mean, I’m gagging on my own bile here. And that’s because I’ve already emptied everything else in my stomach.
2. “Beth” by Kiss. I was never a big fan of Kiss. I remember that it was not long after I’d discovered rock music that I was gleefully listening to the radio when “Beth” came on. What’s this, I thought? Isn’t this pretty weak? But, knowing that some rock songs start out slow and then burst into explosive acoustics, I listened to the song all the way through. I still shudder to think of that experience. Makes me wish I was better at repressing memories. I believe this is where I first used the term “wimp shit.” I have reused that term a lot, though, so the incidents kind of run together.
1. “Black Hole Sun,” by Soundgarden. Not only is this one of the lamest songs ever, but they play it on both the classic rock station and the new rock station. A double dose of agony, although as soon as I hear the first strains of this--I hesitate to call it music--I’m punching radio buttons. ANY radio button.
So there you have it, my 12 songs of shame. I can’t imagine anyone would disagree. ;) But if you want to argue, have at it.
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Now, I like a lot of the standards. Love “Stairway to Heaven,” “Radar Love,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and many more. But there are plenty of other good songs that never get played: "Space Lord" by Monster Magnet. "Suicide Messiah" by Black Label Society. Etc. And, lets face it, there are some commonly played rock tunes that just frankly suck. They sucked the first time I heard them, and they certainly haven’t aged like fine mead. So, without further ado, here is my top twelve list of “rock” songs that I wish every radio station would lose from their catalogue.
12. “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue. I really like a lot of Motley’s songs. Their second album is especially good. But this song nearly made me stop buying Crue CDs forever. I eventually recovered and continued to pick up new Crue releases. But this tune is a wound I’ll never get completely over.
11. “Pour some Sugar on Me” by Def Lepperd. The Lepp had some good music back in the day, but this is simply godawful. It should be titled pour some “saccharine” on me, then shoot me in the head with a large caliber handgun before the bees sting the hell out of me because they feel gypped.
10. “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas. Kansas could play some pretty decent mellow songs, like “Cheyenne Anthem.” This isn’t one of them. And although it was OK the first couple of times I heard it, it really wears on one, sort of like how dust in the wind erodes the hardest rock. I’m worn down already.
9. “Mr. Roboto” by Styx. You know how I said I almost stopped buying Motley Crue albums after “Home Sweet Home?” Well, I did stop buying Styx albums after “Mr. Roboto.”
8. “The Other Side,” by Aerosmith. From it’s limp wristed opening to the insane babbling at the end, this one sucks all the way through. I’d rather listen to white noise. In fact, I have listened to white noise when this was all that was on.
7. “November Rain” by Guns & Roses. I’ve never made it all the way through this song. Not once. Maybe it gets really, really good at the end. But I doubt it. I’m not willing to suffer through the first part to find out.
6. “Nevermind” by Nirvana. Sorry grunge fans, but Nirvana hadn’t the faintest idea how to rock. Except for “Smells like Teen Spirit.” “Nevermind” is a freaking lullaby. I could sleep to it probably, if it didn’t make me feel faintly nauseated. You know, kind of like somebody soaked my pacifier in Scotch.
5. “The Lemon Song” by Led Zepplin. Is it really necessary to hear about the “juice” running down Robert Plant’s leg four times a day? I cry enuff’s enuff.
4. “We are the Champions” by Queen. How can you follow one of the hardest rocking pieces in rock and roll, and by that I mean “We Will Rock You,” with one of the all time lamest pieces of drivel? It’s blasphemous is what it is. And there isn’t even a decent break between the two. I try to catch the exact moment of the change so I can press a button to flee the station, but I sometimes fail and the first fragment of “Champions” bleeds through and nearly convulses me. Please, radio stations, stop while you’re “rocking me.”
3. Anything by Poison, but especially, please, I’m begging you, never, ever play “Every F*$@#*& Rose has its Thorn” again. I mean, I’m gagging on my own bile here. And that’s because I’ve already emptied everything else in my stomach.
2. “Beth” by Kiss. I was never a big fan of Kiss. I remember that it was not long after I’d discovered rock music that I was gleefully listening to the radio when “Beth” came on. What’s this, I thought? Isn’t this pretty weak? But, knowing that some rock songs start out slow and then burst into explosive acoustics, I listened to the song all the way through. I still shudder to think of that experience. Makes me wish I was better at repressing memories. I believe this is where I first used the term “wimp shit.” I have reused that term a lot, though, so the incidents kind of run together.
1. “Black Hole Sun,” by Soundgarden. Not only is this one of the lamest songs ever, but they play it on both the classic rock station and the new rock station. A double dose of agony, although as soon as I hear the first strains of this--I hesitate to call it music--I’m punching radio buttons. ANY radio button.
So there you have it, my 12 songs of shame. I can’t imagine anyone would disagree. ;) But if you want to argue, have at it.
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Sunday, August 24, 2008
Cool Stuff, at least to me
Language sure is fun. Just in the last couple of days I’ve heard new words, new to me at least, which seemed obvious after I heard them.
Velvis: A term for a velvet Elvis. I thought to myself, how stupid not to have thought of that. How perfect.
Fourgy: A term for an orgy between four people, particularly two couples.
Probably many of you have heard these terms but they were new to me. Sometimes I’m amazed at how much creativity is left in language.
Another thing, cool to me at least, is the publication of Bits of the Dead, a collection of flash fiction zombie stories from Coscom Entertainment. My story “Once Upon a Time with the Dead” appears therein. It begins: “Alkali dust under the white blaze of the Mexican sun. Riders are coming. To a village standing idle on a ghostly quiet day.”
Some of the more famous authors in the book include Piers Anthony and Nancy Kilpatrick. It's available at Barnes & Noble and Amazon, of course.
Last night, Lana and I watched The Spiderwick Chronicles and we both thought it was good. I think I liked it better than she did. At first I didn’t really care for the primary kid character, and I never did really come to like him, but the story itself was fairly compelling and the special effects were great. There was a lot of action for what is essentially a kid’s movie.
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Velvis: A term for a velvet Elvis. I thought to myself, how stupid not to have thought of that. How perfect.
Fourgy: A term for an orgy between four people, particularly two couples.
Probably many of you have heard these terms but they were new to me. Sometimes I’m amazed at how much creativity is left in language.
Another thing, cool to me at least, is the publication of Bits of the Dead, a collection of flash fiction zombie stories from Coscom Entertainment. My story “Once Upon a Time with the Dead” appears therein. It begins: “Alkali dust under the white blaze of the Mexican sun. Riders are coming. To a village standing idle on a ghostly quiet day.”
Some of the more famous authors in the book include Piers Anthony and Nancy Kilpatrick. It's available at Barnes & Noble and Amazon, of course.
Last night, Lana and I watched The Spiderwick Chronicles and we both thought it was good. I think I liked it better than she did. At first I didn’t really care for the primary kid character, and I never did really come to like him, but the story itself was fairly compelling and the special effects were great. There was a lot of action for what is essentially a kid’s movie.
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Thursday, August 21, 2008
Taking Stock
As usual, I underestimated the mass of work that slams me during the first school days. I tried to have as many things done ahead of time as possible, syllabi and so on. But some things you can’t foresee. Xavier is about to undergo accreditation, an event that takes place every ten years, and which takes several years to complete. That means updating faculty vitas (resumes) and filling out many other forms. We also have to turn in an annual (but more extensive now) update sheet that basically tells the university administration everything important we’ve done in the past academic year—from August to August.
The areas in which our updates are made in are: Teaching, Scholarship, University Service, Public Service, and Collegiality. We also have a section labeled “Other Pertinent Information,” for things that don’t fit the big five categories.
For teaching, I list courses that I’ve taught and any new developments for those classes. For scholarship, I count non-fiction pieces only, and only those that have some relationship to the areas I teach in. I count writing articles, for example, since I teach “Writing in Psychology,” but a piece on “Sword & Sorcery” wouldn’t count. As for fiction, Xavier, as does most universities, looks askance at fiction and poetry publications for anyone outside the English Creative Writing Department. I have been known to mention some of this stuff under “Other Pertinent Information,” but I doubt it’s ever helped me. In fact, I’m sometimes convinced it works against me. Maybe I’m not working hard enough at my career if I have time to write a novel, for example.
For University service, I mention committees I serve on, particularly the Internal Review Board (Human subjects committee), which I’m chair of. And for public service I mention public lectures that I’ve given on various issues related to psychology, or writing, or evolution, or dreams. I do list the talks here that I gave at Babel Con and similar venues.
I’ve actually never minded much doing these updates. It gives me a chance to take stock, to put into writing the things I feel I’ve accomplished over the year. As a person with a streak of OCD, I rather like making lists, and updates are kind of like lists. Just expanded ones.
How about you? How often, if ever, do you “take stock?” What categories are important in your life? Your career?
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The areas in which our updates are made in are: Teaching, Scholarship, University Service, Public Service, and Collegiality. We also have a section labeled “Other Pertinent Information,” for things that don’t fit the big five categories.
For teaching, I list courses that I’ve taught and any new developments for those classes. For scholarship, I count non-fiction pieces only, and only those that have some relationship to the areas I teach in. I count writing articles, for example, since I teach “Writing in Psychology,” but a piece on “Sword & Sorcery” wouldn’t count. As for fiction, Xavier, as does most universities, looks askance at fiction and poetry publications for anyone outside the English Creative Writing Department. I have been known to mention some of this stuff under “Other Pertinent Information,” but I doubt it’s ever helped me. In fact, I’m sometimes convinced it works against me. Maybe I’m not working hard enough at my career if I have time to write a novel, for example.
For University service, I mention committees I serve on, particularly the Internal Review Board (Human subjects committee), which I’m chair of. And for public service I mention public lectures that I’ve given on various issues related to psychology, or writing, or evolution, or dreams. I do list the talks here that I gave at Babel Con and similar venues.
I’ve actually never minded much doing these updates. It gives me a chance to take stock, to put into writing the things I feel I’ve accomplished over the year. As a person with a streak of OCD, I rather like making lists, and updates are kind of like lists. Just expanded ones.
How about you? How often, if ever, do you “take stock?” What categories are important in your life? Your career?
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Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A Mistake to Remember
I know better, but I made a mistake the other day in a story submission. I wanted to send a story to an anthology featuring strong women characters. The editor’s first name was “Roby.” (Let’s say the last name was “Doe.) I went to the market’s website, as I always do, and checked the submission guidelines and the section on “about.” There was no mention of Roby’s gender. Since I know a man whose first name is Roby, I addressed my email, written like a business letter, to the editor as “Mr. Doe:”
Big mistake. I didn’t hear from the editor herself, but from another woman at the market who took me to task for referring to Ms. Doe as Mr. Doe. I received a brief lecture on how I should check the website so I wouldn’t make such mistakes. She even sent me links to the website, which were the same ones I’d already investigated and which didn’t mention Ms. Doe’s gender.
Although I thought the lady’s response was rather out of proportion to my mistake, the truth is it was easy to avoid. All I would have had to do is address the letter as: “Dear Roby Doe:”
Because of a single moment of carelessness, I pissed off an editor and quite possibly lost a potential market. Don’t do what I did.
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Big mistake. I didn’t hear from the editor herself, but from another woman at the market who took me to task for referring to Ms. Doe as Mr. Doe. I received a brief lecture on how I should check the website so I wouldn’t make such mistakes. She even sent me links to the website, which were the same ones I’d already investigated and which didn’t mention Ms. Doe’s gender.
Although I thought the lady’s response was rather out of proportion to my mistake, the truth is it was easy to avoid. All I would have had to do is address the letter as: “Dear Roby Doe:”
Because of a single moment of carelessness, I pissed off an editor and quite possibly lost a potential market. Don’t do what I did.
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Saturday, August 16, 2008
I'm Backkkkk
Back from Arkansas. As I expected, there was no time to blog or check blogs. I spent the days visiting with mom and family. And doing a fair amount of eating. My favorite pie is lemon, so family members baked me not one, but two lemon pies. I think I’ve had enough lemon pie for a while. I also ate home-grown steak and ground beef, which was nice and lean, and a variety of vegetables from the garden, including green beans, tomatoes, corn on the cob, potatoes, purple hull peas, and spinach. What I didn’t eat, although I was offered them about 100 times, was okra and onions. My mom and brother Paul David just love okra, but they must have gotten all the okra genes in the family because the stuff reminds me of something that might have been edible eons ago but which has been mummified in dry desert air for a few too many millennia.
One thing I didn’t get done in Arkansas is any real writing. I tried a couple of times to sit at the laptop but in a small town where everyone knows everyone there are always visitors dropping over. Besides that, about a quarter of the town of Charleston is related to us, if not by blood then by marriage. That’s a lot of family to see in a short time.
As always when I go home to Charleston, I was overwhelmed by memories. On a couple of afternoons I rode around in the countryside with my brother and it seemed like every field and woods and dirt trail were haunted with the ghosts of the past. I imagine that would settle down if I moved back to the area permanently, which Lana and I have talked about doing after I retire from teaching. We have land there, some of which I’ll eventually inherit, and I wouldn’t mind building a house along the creek where I spent a many hot summer day.
Rita, my sister-in-law, asked how I’d get in and out if I lived back along the creek and I told her I only needed to get in. She asked what Lana thought of that, and I had to tell her that Lana loves the idea. My wife is not a social butterfly. She and I are both pretty intense introverts.
Well, it’s off now to do a little catch up blog visiting, but I’m sure I won’t be able to comment on every post I’ve missed. Seems like most of us here in blog land are pretty prolific posters. Plus, I’ve got to turn up the back-to-school engine big time to get syllabi and other such tasks done before school starts next week. When I got off school in early May it seemed like the days stretched out forever in front of me. Now that the summer escape is over it sure did seem to go fast.
Later
One thing I didn’t get done in Arkansas is any real writing. I tried a couple of times to sit at the laptop but in a small town where everyone knows everyone there are always visitors dropping over. Besides that, about a quarter of the town of Charleston is related to us, if not by blood then by marriage. That’s a lot of family to see in a short time.
As always when I go home to Charleston, I was overwhelmed by memories. On a couple of afternoons I rode around in the countryside with my brother and it seemed like every field and woods and dirt trail were haunted with the ghosts of the past. I imagine that would settle down if I moved back to the area permanently, which Lana and I have talked about doing after I retire from teaching. We have land there, some of which I’ll eventually inherit, and I wouldn’t mind building a house along the creek where I spent a many hot summer day.
Rita, my sister-in-law, asked how I’d get in and out if I lived back along the creek and I told her I only needed to get in. She asked what Lana thought of that, and I had to tell her that Lana loves the idea. My wife is not a social butterfly. She and I are both pretty intense introverts.
Well, it’s off now to do a little catch up blog visiting, but I’m sure I won’t be able to comment on every post I’ve missed. Seems like most of us here in blog land are pretty prolific posters. Plus, I’ve got to turn up the back-to-school engine big time to get syllabi and other such tasks done before school starts next week. When I got off school in early May it seemed like the days stretched out forever in front of me. Now that the summer escape is over it sure did seem to go fast.
Later
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Going to Arkansas, and Other Cool Things
I’m leaving tomorrow to go visit my mom in Arkansas. I’ll be gone until at least Friday and most likely won’t be posting or visiting blogs during that time. I’ll be staying at my mom’s and they don’t have internet. And it’s not like there are a lot of wi-fi hot spots in small town Charleston, Arkansas. I may check in at the library on occasion to get email. But, I only see my family about once a year so I want to spend every moment I can with them. I’m sure you’ll all survive for a week without commentary from me. I’ll catch up next weekend. After that, though, school will be starting again and I’ll have to make some adjustments in posting.
In the meantime, I got a couple bits of good news. My poem, “Blue Soul,” has appeared in Dreams and Nightmares #80. I’m in the company of some very fine poets, including Gary William Crawford, Ann K. Schwader, Bruce Boston, Deborah P. Koladji, and our own Greg Schwartz.
Also, William Jones has accepted my story, “The Vivarium,” for his anthology Tales out of Miskatonic University. I did the Psychology Department story. I’ll post more about that in the future, of course.
I'll be visiting blogs today and responding to comments. After that, see you in a week.
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In the meantime, I got a couple bits of good news. My poem, “Blue Soul,” has appeared in Dreams and Nightmares #80. I’m in the company of some very fine poets, including Gary William Crawford, Ann K. Schwader, Bruce Boston, Deborah P. Koladji, and our own Greg Schwartz.
Also, William Jones has accepted my story, “The Vivarium,” for his anthology Tales out of Miskatonic University. I did the Psychology Department story. I’ll post more about that in the future, of course.
I'll be visiting blogs today and responding to comments. After that, see you in a week.
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Friday, August 08, 2008
Friday’s Forgotten Book: Kyrik: Warlock, Warrior
Before I ever found Conan the Cimmerian by Robert E. Howard, I found books by other writers with words slashed across the cover that read: “In the Tradition of Conan.” This book, Kyrik: Warlock, Warrior by Gardner F. Fox, was my first sword and sorcery read. It had those words on the cover, but after I read it I might have thought Conan was “in the Tradition of Kyrik.”
Gardner Fox was a prolific writer in the paperback explosion of the 1960s and 70s, and also wrote a lot for the comics. He did two sword and sorcery series, The first, in the 1969-1970 period, was about Kothar, a barbarian swordsman very similar to Conan. There were 5 books in this series. The second series (4 books) was about Kyrik, in the 1975-1976 period. He also wrote a two book Sword & Planet series featuring earthman Alan Morgan on the planet of Llarn. These were written in the early 60s and were entitled Warrior of Llarn and Thief of Llarn, although “Thief” was the first one I found. Kyrik: Warlock, Warrior was the first in the Kyrik series, and besides that, two Kothars, and the one Llarn book, I never got copies of the others until I was in my thirties.
To start with, Kyrik: Warlock, Warrior had a great cover, at least for a fifteen-year-old boy. I’ve never been one to care much about book covers, but this one has always stuck with me. Painted by Ken Barr, you can see the exotic nature of it.
Intriguing as the cover was, it was the story that thrilled me. Years later, in my thirties, when I found and read the other Kyrik books, I didn’t think they were that well written or that interesting. But that first one! Oh, the adventure, the thrill. It began with a sorceress stalking an exotic bazaar in search of a legend. She finds it in the form of a statue, of a warrior named Kyrik, who has been dead 1000 years. It turns out that the statue is Kyrik, and the sorceress removes the spell that has kept him trapped in stone for ten centuries.
Fox captured very well the sense of immense past times and it was all heady stuff for a young fellow new to the glories of Sword & Sorcery. A fifteen-year-old now would have been exposed to this kind of stuff at a much younger age, but I was growing up in small town Arkansas, in the Bible-Belt. It was new to me. Just glimpsing that cover still ignites my imagination, and I’m almost fifty years old.
Kyrik: Warlock, Warrior is not that hard to come by. I’ve seen copies at used bookstores where SF/Fantasy is featured, and on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. You can find it if you want it, though I doubt you’ll thrill quite as much as my young mind did in 1975.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Battle Song
I started fiddling with a post on battle songs but got off track with a poem that I thought I'd put up. The song that I think captures a sense of battle better than any ever written is "Deaf Forever" by Motorhead. Love it. I basically tried to write more stanzas for that song, and try to make them relevant in some twisted way to today. If you listen to the song then you'll hear the rhythm that this poem should be read in. If you don't want to go to that trouble, no problem. This isn't very good anyway, and I wouldn't ever submit it anywhere.
I'm going to try and post the video, but if I don't get that done, I think this is a link to the song on You Tube. Deaf Forever
Battle on!
Cold as Hell
Battle yell
Death awaits me on the devil’s leash
Sword on shield
No one will yield
Worm waiting for the murdered feast
Cut them down
Killing ground
Dream of evil with an angel’s face
Shade of ice
Sacrifice
Lost your honor in a blind disgrace
Bone and blood
Crimson flood
Love returns as an emptied lust
Nothing left
No blade to heft
Can’t feed a child on war’s cold crust
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I'm going to try and post the video, but if I don't get that done, I think this is a link to the song on You Tube. Deaf Forever
Battle on!
Cold as Hell
Battle yell
Death awaits me on the devil’s leash
Sword on shield
No one will yield
Worm waiting for the murdered feast
Cut them down
Killing ground
Dream of evil with an angel’s face
Shade of ice
Sacrifice
Lost your honor in a blind disgrace
Bone and blood
Crimson flood
Love returns as an emptied lust
Nothing left
No blade to heft
Can’t feed a child on war’s cold crust
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Sunday, August 03, 2008
The Influence Thing
X-Dell asked an interesting question in my comments: “With respect to the previous post, did you ever consider that what you read early on was a better influence in some ways? After all, if you've read certain narratives all your life, wouldn't there be a temptation to re-create those tales instead of creating fresh ones?”
This came from my "Jealousy" post, and I got other interesting comments on that post, too. I thought I’d answer X-Dell here, and respond generally to the other comments as well. I always enjoy talking about influences. It’s a topic I find endlessly fascinating.
Humans learn throughout our life spans, but we are especially sensitive to learning during our early years. Language, for example, is largely acquired in the first 7 years of life. Other experiences have later sensitive periods. I believe that for most readers, and writers, the ages between 8 and 18 are of critical importance as influences. I discovered ERB’s Barsoom books at that time, and I’ve loved Sword & Planet fiction ever since. I still enjoy reading this type of fiction, even if, from an adult perspective, it’s not objectively well written. On the other hand, I never read a Doc Savage or Shadow adventure until my late twenties / early thirties, and I still find them Ho Hum.
I found Louis L’amour, John D. MacDonald, and Ray Bradbury early, and I don’t pass a day without riffing off one of their great themes in my own imagination. I even dream experiences influenced by these writers. But Cormac McCarthy, David Gemmell, and James Sallis, whose books I adore today, don’t have nearly that impact on the deep levels of my mind. When I try to incorporate themes in a story that I’m playing with from Hemingway, for example, I’m always completely conscious of what I’m doing. When I wrote the Taleran books I was almost completely “unconscious” as far as theme and content were concerned.
Being “unconscious” of one's sources has potential risks and potential benefits. On the risk side, it’s possible to stay so close to the original that you are simply writing pastiche. On the benefit side, being unconscious of influences allows a seamless mix and match of many influences into the blend that makes up true creativity. When there’s a little ERB, a little REH, a little Bradbury, a little L'Amour, Andre Norton, and Jim Kjelgaard, then no single influence predominates and the whole is a recipe for something new.
As a biological psychologist, though, I also believe there is an interaction between experience and biology. ERB and REH influenced me not only because I found them early, but also because they resonated with the biological bent of my imagination. As an example, take music. As a youngster, I heard “only” old time country music and whatever you call Lawrence Welk. I instantly disliked it, and dislike it to this day. The “moment” I first heard rock and roll, at around 13, I loved it. And from the first, I wanted to hear it louder and faster. I’m not biologically attuned to old style country music, like Merle Haggard, Porter Waggoner, and Hank Williams Sr. I’m attuned to AC DC, ZZ Top, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. But once I discovered rock and roll, then “experience” played a role in my tastes. I heard the Stones before I ever heard The Beatles, and to this day I prefer the former to the latter.
The 8 to 18 age range is only an approximation, of course. I didn’t discover horror fiction until my early 20s, and yet it resonated so strongly that I quickly began writing it. I suspect that had I not found horror until my 30s it would be different. Even though horror came outside the 8 to 18 range for me, I notice that “individual” horror writers are only weak influences on me. I devoured everything by Lovecraft in my early twenties, for example, and yet today I don’t think his themes have influenced me much at all.
OK, enough rambling for now.
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This came from my "Jealousy" post, and I got other interesting comments on that post, too. I thought I’d answer X-Dell here, and respond generally to the other comments as well. I always enjoy talking about influences. It’s a topic I find endlessly fascinating.
Humans learn throughout our life spans, but we are especially sensitive to learning during our early years. Language, for example, is largely acquired in the first 7 years of life. Other experiences have later sensitive periods. I believe that for most readers, and writers, the ages between 8 and 18 are of critical importance as influences. I discovered ERB’s Barsoom books at that time, and I’ve loved Sword & Planet fiction ever since. I still enjoy reading this type of fiction, even if, from an adult perspective, it’s not objectively well written. On the other hand, I never read a Doc Savage or Shadow adventure until my late twenties / early thirties, and I still find them Ho Hum.
I found Louis L’amour, John D. MacDonald, and Ray Bradbury early, and I don’t pass a day without riffing off one of their great themes in my own imagination. I even dream experiences influenced by these writers. But Cormac McCarthy, David Gemmell, and James Sallis, whose books I adore today, don’t have nearly that impact on the deep levels of my mind. When I try to incorporate themes in a story that I’m playing with from Hemingway, for example, I’m always completely conscious of what I’m doing. When I wrote the Taleran books I was almost completely “unconscious” as far as theme and content were concerned.
Being “unconscious” of one's sources has potential risks and potential benefits. On the risk side, it’s possible to stay so close to the original that you are simply writing pastiche. On the benefit side, being unconscious of influences allows a seamless mix and match of many influences into the blend that makes up true creativity. When there’s a little ERB, a little REH, a little Bradbury, a little L'Amour, Andre Norton, and Jim Kjelgaard, then no single influence predominates and the whole is a recipe for something new.
As a biological psychologist, though, I also believe there is an interaction between experience and biology. ERB and REH influenced me not only because I found them early, but also because they resonated with the biological bent of my imagination. As an example, take music. As a youngster, I heard “only” old time country music and whatever you call Lawrence Welk. I instantly disliked it, and dislike it to this day. The “moment” I first heard rock and roll, at around 13, I loved it. And from the first, I wanted to hear it louder and faster. I’m not biologically attuned to old style country music, like Merle Haggard, Porter Waggoner, and Hank Williams Sr. I’m attuned to AC DC, ZZ Top, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. But once I discovered rock and roll, then “experience” played a role in my tastes. I heard the Stones before I ever heard The Beatles, and to this day I prefer the former to the latter.
The 8 to 18 age range is only an approximation, of course. I didn’t discover horror fiction until my early 20s, and yet it resonated so strongly that I quickly began writing it. I suspect that had I not found horror until my 30s it would be different. Even though horror came outside the 8 to 18 range for me, I notice that “individual” horror writers are only weak influences on me. I devoured everything by Lovecraft in my early twenties, for example, and yet today I don’t think his themes have influenced me much at all.
OK, enough rambling for now.
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Saturday, August 02, 2008
Pics from the Past
My brother has been scanning some pictures for an older family member and he sent me a few of them. I thought I'd post those today. Not much else going on at Fortress Gramlich. Can you guess who the first two pics are of? Just have a look at the "last" pic on the page and imagine taking off 49 years.
The other pics are my mom and dad with my oldest brother Jimmy as a baby, and pics of my mom and dad's wedding. All these were taken in the yard of the house where I grew up. In the pic with my brother Jimmy you can see the house in the background. It's kinda cool to have these images of a time long gone.
The other pics are my mom and dad with my oldest brother Jimmy as a baby, and pics of my mom and dad's wedding. All these were taken in the yard of the house where I grew up. In the pic with my brother Jimmy you can see the house in the background. It's kinda cool to have these images of a time long gone.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Jealousy
Famous Monsters of Filmland. Creepy. Eerie. Vampirella. Doc Savage, The Shadow, The Spider. Savage Sword of Conan, The Conan comics. Have you heard of them? If you’re a male older than thirty with any interest in pulpy sorts of work you almost certainly have. These are all magazines (or in one case a comic) from the past, although Conan comics are still being published and Vampirella also experienced a resurgence.
If you have heard of them, did they have any influence on you? Your writing? So many of my male friends who are writers tell me how influential these magazines were on their lives. I’m jealous of those friends. Because I never heard of any of these as a kid. I didn’t even hear of most of them or see a copy until I was at least in my twenties.
I’m pretty sure I would have loved ‘em all. But they never made it to Charleston, Arkansas. The library didn’t carry them. They weren’t for sale at the drug store. There were no bookstores in town, and the comic carousal at the quick stop held only a few DC and Marvel comics, Superman, Fantastic Four, Spiderman. Not one of my friends had a subscription to any of them, or even had a copy that they’d gotten from somewhere. I know because any time I was at a friend’s house I looked at their books and comics. I traded some, borrowed others. I was a reading addict and read everything I could find, and was on a constant hunt for more. Had Famous Monsters and the like been available I would have found them.
There is no way to know how differently I might have turned out, or how differently my writing path might have been, had I been exposed to these sources that so many of my writing cohorts enjoyed. Would my imagination have been tuned differently? Or would I have just come upon certain themes in my writing earlier? Or might I have been hamstrung by reading all those magazines? Maybe I would have felt like everything had been done and given up on my own ideas. Maybe it was good that my imagination got to develop in relative isolation. Still, I feel a bit of envy for those who thrilled to such long ago thrillers.
I believe that one’s future reading choices are strongly influenced by the works we discover when we’re between the ages of 8 and 18. That’s why Edgar Rice Burroughs is such an influence on me. That’s why today when I read the exploits of The Shadow or Doc Savage I just don’t find them compelling. I missed the reading window when I would have fallen in love with them.
How about you? What did you miss out on when you were a kid? Is there anything you wish you’d discovered then that you learned of only later? How do you feel about that? The writer in me wants to know.
If you have heard of them, did they have any influence on you? Your writing? So many of my male friends who are writers tell me how influential these magazines were on their lives. I’m jealous of those friends. Because I never heard of any of these as a kid. I didn’t even hear of most of them or see a copy until I was at least in my twenties.
I’m pretty sure I would have loved ‘em all. But they never made it to Charleston, Arkansas. The library didn’t carry them. They weren’t for sale at the drug store. There were no bookstores in town, and the comic carousal at the quick stop held only a few DC and Marvel comics, Superman, Fantastic Four, Spiderman. Not one of my friends had a subscription to any of them, or even had a copy that they’d gotten from somewhere. I know because any time I was at a friend’s house I looked at their books and comics. I traded some, borrowed others. I was a reading addict and read everything I could find, and was on a constant hunt for more. Had Famous Monsters and the like been available I would have found them.
There is no way to know how differently I might have turned out, or how differently my writing path might have been, had I been exposed to these sources that so many of my writing cohorts enjoyed. Would my imagination have been tuned differently? Or would I have just come upon certain themes in my writing earlier? Or might I have been hamstrung by reading all those magazines? Maybe I would have felt like everything had been done and given up on my own ideas. Maybe it was good that my imagination got to develop in relative isolation. Still, I feel a bit of envy for those who thrilled to such long ago thrillers.
I believe that one’s future reading choices are strongly influenced by the works we discover when we’re between the ages of 8 and 18. That’s why Edgar Rice Burroughs is such an influence on me. That’s why today when I read the exploits of The Shadow or Doc Savage I just don’t find them compelling. I missed the reading window when I would have fallen in love with them.
How about you? What did you miss out on when you were a kid? Is there anything you wish you’d discovered then that you learned of only later? How do you feel about that? The writer in me wants to know.
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