Check out Isolation, a new anthology from Post Mortem Press, including my short story "Insomnia". Five bucks on Amazon, you can't go wrong.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004HD66TA
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Buy My Book
Well, it's not really my book. Or remotely mine. But I do have a story in it, and it's the first one, if that counts for anything.
Rotting Tales, a zombie anthology from Pill Hill Press, a great bunch of folks who deserve your folding-green.
Rotting Tales, a zombie anthology from Pill Hill Press, a great bunch of folks who deserve your folding-green.
11/8/10: I Tapped James Cameron's Head and All I Got Was This Blog Post
It started two years ago, when I wrote my first novel.
It was supposed to be so grand. After conceiving, plotting, and outlining an epic series of eight novels that would make Atlas Shrugged look like a religious tract, I finally buckled down and wrote the first one, a sci-fi extravaganza called Other. It took four months of eight-hour days, along with approximately a gallon of my blood, sweat, and tears, and then I had it in first draft. Then I got distracted with the second novel in the series ... wrote 40,000 words of another, unrelated novel ... and got addicted to writing short fiction, which left Other sleeping on my hard drive for nearly two years. Until last month, when I decided to dust it off and develop it.
I looked over Other, and liked what I saw. It would need to be rewritten, obviously, which would require a solid month in itself, but I figured it would be worth the investment. If nothing else, the novel contained some technological demonstrations that I thought intriguing. And unique, I thought them very, very unique.
Then, two days ago, I went and saw Avatar, and now my beloved first novel is officially trunked.
If you're one of the ten-odd people who have read my blog, you would know that I don't watch many movies. Okay, none at all, except for one every so often, when I feel "led" to. These inspired movie outings have always resulted in something positive in one way or another -- and Avatar was no different, I suppose, considering it saved me a lot of embarrassment. You see, the showpiece of Other was a technology that allowed one to, among other things, control a surrogate body via a mind-machine interface, kind of like virtual reality made flesh. Kind of like Avatar.
Here's the knee-slapper, though: In my book, set in the year of 2195, society has become interspersed with these surrogate bodies, used primarily by the infirm and intensely agoraphobic. When I was writing the book, it took me a while to decide on a name for these robots, but eventually a really good one came to me: avatars.
Again: I wrote this two years ago, and thought it up years before that.
I considered going forward with the book anyway, in spite of it appearing as a blatant ripoff -- with a note, perhaps, at the start, explaining what I just outlined here. But ... nah.
It was supposed to be so grand. After conceiving, plotting, and outlining an epic series of eight novels that would make Atlas Shrugged look like a religious tract, I finally buckled down and wrote the first one, a sci-fi extravaganza called Other. It took four months of eight-hour days, along with approximately a gallon of my blood, sweat, and tears, and then I had it in first draft. Then I got distracted with the second novel in the series ... wrote 40,000 words of another, unrelated novel ... and got addicted to writing short fiction, which left Other sleeping on my hard drive for nearly two years. Until last month, when I decided to dust it off and develop it.
I looked over Other, and liked what I saw. It would need to be rewritten, obviously, which would require a solid month in itself, but I figured it would be worth the investment. If nothing else, the novel contained some technological demonstrations that I thought intriguing. And unique, I thought them very, very unique.
Then, two days ago, I went and saw Avatar, and now my beloved first novel is officially trunked.
If you're one of the ten-odd people who have read my blog, you would know that I don't watch many movies. Okay, none at all, except for one every so often, when I feel "led" to. These inspired movie outings have always resulted in something positive in one way or another -- and Avatar was no different, I suppose, considering it saved me a lot of embarrassment. You see, the showpiece of Other was a technology that allowed one to, among other things, control a surrogate body via a mind-machine interface, kind of like virtual reality made flesh. Kind of like Avatar.
Here's the knee-slapper, though: In my book, set in the year of 2195, society has become interspersed with these surrogate bodies, used primarily by the infirm and intensely agoraphobic. When I was writing the book, it took me a while to decide on a name for these robots, but eventually a really good one came to me: avatars.
Again: I wrote this two years ago, and thought it up years before that.
I considered going forward with the book anyway, in spite of it appearing as a blatant ripoff -- with a note, perhaps, at the start, explaining what I just outlined here. But ... nah.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
10/2/10: Gwen Stefani Is Just A Girl
Just this morning, I thought, offhand, that there had been a thirsty drought of synchronicity as of late (of ones that I could relate here, at least). That, however, was soon remedied.
The first ingredient came around three this afternoon, while I drank cheap coffee and loaded up my iPod knockoff with music, in preparation for cutting the day's grass. I settled on several albums, including Tragic Kingdom by No Doubt, a classic. It had been years since I'd listened to it, long enough for it to shed its played-out status, and I looked forward to reopening the old grooves while I laid waste to the local greenery.
Ingredient number two came when I left for town and found smoke issuing from under my hood, so much a corny car commercial. My mechanic was a block away, so I zipped down there, watching my truck's temperature gauge climb angrily. Long story short, my radiator's cap had, mysteriously, come loose, and I only had to fill it back up. However, I had to wait an hour before doing so, for the engine to cool. As it happened, my gym shares a lot with my mechanic, so I went and worked out in the meantime, despite having no plans to do so today.
Ingredient number three came as I worked out, listening to Tragic Kingdom. By the time the album had progressed to the third track, "Just A Girl", I was pretty high on endorphins and my thoughts were growing long, and I remembered a Gwen Stefani interview I had read when I still read such crap. In it, "Just A Girl" was brought up, along with how it perpetually received play on the radio, how people wouldn't give it a rest, blah blah blah; and I thought, distantly, I have never heard "Just A Girl" on the radio. Then the next song came on and I forgot all about it.
The clincher came later in the afternoon. Again, I'll paraphrase: I had to be somewhere at five, but because of my freak radiator-cap incident and its stealing an hour from my schedule, I was forced to go early and wait for approximately ten minutes, in my truck. Bored, I by chance turned on the radio, something I very rarely do, and wouldn't have done today if not for my profaned schedule. I frequency-surfed for a while, listening to snatches of songs and skirting advertisements, and then came across a local college station that has a taste for '90s, playing the tail-end of "Just A Girl".
The first ingredient came around three this afternoon, while I drank cheap coffee and loaded up my iPod knockoff with music, in preparation for cutting the day's grass. I settled on several albums, including Tragic Kingdom by No Doubt, a classic. It had been years since I'd listened to it, long enough for it to shed its played-out status, and I looked forward to reopening the old grooves while I laid waste to the local greenery.
Ingredient number two came when I left for town and found smoke issuing from under my hood, so much a corny car commercial. My mechanic was a block away, so I zipped down there, watching my truck's temperature gauge climb angrily. Long story short, my radiator's cap had, mysteriously, come loose, and I only had to fill it back up. However, I had to wait an hour before doing so, for the engine to cool. As it happened, my gym shares a lot with my mechanic, so I went and worked out in the meantime, despite having no plans to do so today.
Ingredient number three came as I worked out, listening to Tragic Kingdom. By the time the album had progressed to the third track, "Just A Girl", I was pretty high on endorphins and my thoughts were growing long, and I remembered a Gwen Stefani interview I had read when I still read such crap. In it, "Just A Girl" was brought up, along with how it perpetually received play on the radio, how people wouldn't give it a rest, blah blah blah; and I thought, distantly, I have never heard "Just A Girl" on the radio. Then the next song came on and I forgot all about it.
The clincher came later in the afternoon. Again, I'll paraphrase: I had to be somewhere at five, but because of my freak radiator-cap incident and its stealing an hour from my schedule, I was forced to go early and wait for approximately ten minutes, in my truck. Bored, I by chance turned on the radio, something I very rarely do, and wouldn't have done today if not for my profaned schedule. I frequency-surfed for a while, listening to snatches of songs and skirting advertisements, and then came across a local college station that has a taste for '90s, playing the tail-end of "Just A Girl".
Saturday, July 31, 2010
7/26/10: David Wong Fixes His Car at the End
I recently bought John Dies at the End, by David Wong. Don't ask me why. I normally don't buy into hype, or allow myself to be exposed to it to begin with, but somehow I got bit by the hype monster, and purchased the book. I read it rabidly at first, then halfheartedly, finding it way too TV for my tastes. In a nut, the novel was a barrage of dick- and fart jokes, punctuated by some truly great writing. A strange combination. Even so, I endured all four-hundred-odd pages of the text, to find out the devilishly clever way Mr. Wong had John die at the end -- but John didn't die. The book is concluded with John alive and well, with an afterword in which the author mentions that he had originally published the book because he needed to fix his car, a fact that I took notice of for no reason I could ascribe at the time.
Anyway.
That night, with the bitterly droll aftertaste of John Dies at the End on my tongue, I went to eat dinner, and found that my dad had left a newspaper article for me to read. He does this, as a favor to those he knows, tearing out articles of interest and furtively leaving them in places they'll be found. So, I read this latest leaving as I ate my meal, and the first thing that jumped out at me was a picture of a jolly, jowly, white-haired chap, a Mr. Ken Follett, according to the caption. And then, above it, the headline: Need to fix car spurred Follett's writing career.
Anyway.
That night, with the bitterly droll aftertaste of John Dies at the End on my tongue, I went to eat dinner, and found that my dad had left a newspaper article for me to read. He does this, as a favor to those he knows, tearing out articles of interest and furtively leaving them in places they'll be found. So, I read this latest leaving as I ate my meal, and the first thing that jumped out at me was a picture of a jolly, jowly, white-haired chap, a Mr. Ken Follett, according to the caption. And then, above it, the headline: Need to fix car spurred Follett's writing career.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
7/15/10: And God said, Listen to Michael Manring.
I write, as you've probably inferred after reading this blog in any capacity. Unfortunately, I've yet to reach that Promised Land of Published Writer, and since the bills absolutely refuse to pay themselves, regardless of how much I ask, I work a part-time job cutting grass. It's not such a bad job. Sure, I have to wade dog feces and play garbage man picking up trash, and a week of bad weather can mean food from my mouth, but there are worse occupations to be had. Furthermore, the job jibes well with my burgeoning writing career: you can get a lot of thinking done over an afternoon of murdering grass. Walking in circles for hours on end ... the engine noise drowning the music of the world ... jockeying the mower like a bellwether dog ... the sun smiling on your toil ... the endorphins kissing your gray matter .... It's only natural that your mind retreat into itself. I've composed entire short stories in the space of a lawn, jotting notes like mad during my water breaks. And to think I get paid for it, with a nice chunk of exercise and a tan thrown in the bargain. Yes, I like cutting grass.
But enough about that. I only mention it as context for yesterday afternoon, when I was cutting one of my larger properties. As I sauntered over the rolling plot of grass, dodging landmines and scaring up characterization for a zombie story of mine, an odd thought occurred to me. Out of nowhere, I absently thought of a famous bass player I had just as absently read about some five or six years ago, when I still actively played the instrument. I could remember the man's face, the basses he promoted, his reputation as a virtuoso ... but I couldn't remember his name. I wrestled with it for a couple laps, but it ultimately escaped me. I thought little of it, though, considering I'd never listened to the guy's music, nor had any ascribable reason for thinking of him to begin with.
Fast forward to a couple hours later, after I'd finished my cutting for the day and gone to cash a paycheck that had come that day. After I got the cash, the rascally stuff proceeded to burn a hole in my pocket, and I decided to go relinquish a percentage on some new CD's, having just that morning noticed my lack of new music. I then proceeded to my local used-music watering hole and bee-lined for the M's, where I hoped to find a select CD. The one in question was not there, but I did find one that jumped out at me: Book of Flame by Michael Manring. I stood studying the album a moment, and it hit me that the bass virtuoso I'd thought of just hours previous was, in fact, Michael Manring.
So I bought the CD. I listened to it once today, and I found it mildly enjoyable, if a tad stale.
But enough about that. I only mention it as context for yesterday afternoon, when I was cutting one of my larger properties. As I sauntered over the rolling plot of grass, dodging landmines and scaring up characterization for a zombie story of mine, an odd thought occurred to me. Out of nowhere, I absently thought of a famous bass player I had just as absently read about some five or six years ago, when I still actively played the instrument. I could remember the man's face, the basses he promoted, his reputation as a virtuoso ... but I couldn't remember his name. I wrestled with it for a couple laps, but it ultimately escaped me. I thought little of it, though, considering I'd never listened to the guy's music, nor had any ascribable reason for thinking of him to begin with.
Fast forward to a couple hours later, after I'd finished my cutting for the day and gone to cash a paycheck that had come that day. After I got the cash, the rascally stuff proceeded to burn a hole in my pocket, and I decided to go relinquish a percentage on some new CD's, having just that morning noticed my lack of new music. I then proceeded to my local used-music watering hole and bee-lined for the M's, where I hoped to find a select CD. The one in question was not there, but I did find one that jumped out at me: Book of Flame by Michael Manring. I stood studying the album a moment, and it hit me that the bass virtuoso I'd thought of just hours previous was, in fact, Michael Manring.
So I bought the CD. I listened to it once today, and I found it mildly enjoyable, if a tad stale.
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