Good girls like bad boys or so I’ve been told. But what happens when a bad boy turns into the bad guy? Does he lose his appeal? Is he any less charismatic? He shouldn’t be.
A truly effect villain should possess a potent amount of charm to survive or at the very least lull those around them into a false sense of safety. Oh, sure there’s the argument for the absolute unstoppable lunatic who slashes his way through the general populace, but he doesn’t pack near the wallop as a villain who has enough endearing qualities to give the reader a vested emotional interest in them.
One of my all-time favorite villains is Elijah Price from Unbreakable. Here is a character born with a rare genetic disorder that makes his bones as brittle as glass. He dedicates his life to searching for an answer as to why he was born the way he was. Through the course of the story, I actually felt sorry for him, even rooted for him at times, until in the very end it is revealed that he is truly the villain of the story. There were clues along the way, but they were easy to dismiss because of the likeability of the character.
I prefer my bad guys to have at least a few redeeming qualities, just as I prefer my heroes to be a little sullied. The world is not black and white, why should our characters be?
Showing posts with label James Goodman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label James Goodman. Show all posts
Friday, January 2, 2009
Friday, December 19, 2008
Break on Through
This is a rather timely post as I’m currently writing outside of my comfort zone. I’m writing so far out of it in fact, that I’ve decided to use a pen name with this series. Yes, I was fool enough to commit to an entire series in a genre I’ve never come close to attempting before. I’m writing a book that is in the highest heat level the particular publisher offers. Oddly enough, the writing is coming easier by the day.
I stalled early on with a m/f/m love scene. It took me nearly a month of writing, deleting and rehashing before I finished it. Once complete, the rest of the story seems to be falling in place and nothing is taboo. To be quite honest, I’m beginning to have a lot of fun with it.
Yet, I wonder if I would be so easily swayed if I were still trying to write this under my own name. There is something very liberating about anonymity. Yes, I still had to stray outside of my own comfort level, but I do so with the knowledge that if I choose to keep it entirely a secret, no one will ever be the wiser.
I told myself I wanted to use a pen name so that my readers wouldn’t be blindsided by just how graphic this novel is, but in retrospect, I think I chose to use the pen name so I could get as nasty as I wanted and never have to worry about my mom or even worse my nonni stumbling across the book and wondering just what kind of a depraved man they have sitting at the dinner table with them at the holiday feast. In that respect, I’m willing to test my own comfort level, but not that of those around me.
As it is that time of year, I have a special present for all of my readers: A free short story.
You can read it Here.
Happy Reading!!!!
I stalled early on with a m/f/m love scene. It took me nearly a month of writing, deleting and rehashing before I finished it. Once complete, the rest of the story seems to be falling in place and nothing is taboo. To be quite honest, I’m beginning to have a lot of fun with it.
Yet, I wonder if I would be so easily swayed if I were still trying to write this under my own name. There is something very liberating about anonymity. Yes, I still had to stray outside of my own comfort level, but I do so with the knowledge that if I choose to keep it entirely a secret, no one will ever be the wiser.
I told myself I wanted to use a pen name so that my readers wouldn’t be blindsided by just how graphic this novel is, but in retrospect, I think I chose to use the pen name so I could get as nasty as I wanted and never have to worry about my mom or even worse my nonni stumbling across the book and wondering just what kind of a depraved man they have sitting at the dinner table with them at the holiday feast. In that respect, I’m willing to test my own comfort level, but not that of those around me.
As it is that time of year, I have a special present for all of my readers: A free short story.
You can read it Here.
Happy Reading!!!!
Friday, November 28, 2008
Let Us Give Thanks
Thanksgiving is a time of family, fun and food. We always schedule our get togethers to be able to have one celebration with my family and one with my wife’s. Yep, that’s a whole lot of eating, but oddly enough I’m alright with that.
It seems with all the demands of life, it’s a rare event to get everyone in the same place at the same time even for a meal. So, I’m particularly thankful for this holiday for providing just such a venue. True, I still don’t get to see all of my family (we’re scattered across the country) every year, but it give me an opportunity to catch up with folks I only get to see every few months and we get to do it while surrounded by tons of food, glorious food.
The first half of the day usually starts out with a menu along the lines of this:
Turkey
Stuffing
Ham,
Green bean casserole
Candied Yams
Potato Salad (with mustard, mayo, onions, eggs, pickles, and garlic)
Mac Salad (with Velveeta, mayo, garlic and onions)
Ziti
An assortment of breads and rolls
Upside down cake
Dirt Cake
Pumpkin Pie
Apple Pie
The second half wraps up with:
Prime Rib
Mashed potatoes and Gravy
Stuffing
Green beans (with bacon and onions)
Cranberry sauce
Deviled Eggs
Rolls
Cheesecake
And an assortment of Pies.
And yes, I try to eat a little bit of everything and more than I should of others. It usually takes me about a week to recover from all the food, but it is totally worth every extra mile I have to run.
So, what’s the standard fare at your house?
It seems with all the demands of life, it’s a rare event to get everyone in the same place at the same time even for a meal. So, I’m particularly thankful for this holiday for providing just such a venue. True, I still don’t get to see all of my family (we’re scattered across the country) every year, but it give me an opportunity to catch up with folks I only get to see every few months and we get to do it while surrounded by tons of food, glorious food.
The first half of the day usually starts out with a menu along the lines of this:
Turkey
Stuffing
Ham,
Green bean casserole
Candied Yams
Potato Salad (with mustard, mayo, onions, eggs, pickles, and garlic)
Mac Salad (with Velveeta, mayo, garlic and onions)
Ziti
An assortment of breads and rolls
Upside down cake
Dirt Cake
Pumpkin Pie
Apple Pie
The second half wraps up with:
Prime Rib
Mashed potatoes and Gravy
Stuffing
Green beans (with bacon and onions)
Cranberry sauce
Deviled Eggs
Rolls
Cheesecake
And an assortment of Pies.
And yes, I try to eat a little bit of everything and more than I should of others. It usually takes me about a week to recover from all the food, but it is totally worth every extra mile I have to run.
So, what’s the standard fare at your house?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Happy Happy Joy Joy
Happy endings? I take it we’re not talking about that massage parlor over on 32nd and Broadway.
I think happy endings are very important, if not an outright must, when you put your characters through as much hell as I do. Having said that, I don’t always deliver a clear cut “and they lived happily ever after.” More often than not, even though the characters are in a good place and have been made stronger through their shared troubles, there is something lurking in the darkness just ahead and ready to take them on the next grand adventure.
Why would I do that to those poor people? In short, I don’t believe in Happily Ever After. I believe in happiness and the pursuit and once found holding onto it for as long as possible, but nothing lasts forever. Now wait just a cotton pickin’ minute, you say. What about love? I do believe in a forever kind of love, but it must be an ever evolving beast and with change comes highs and lows. The love may not diminish, but no one can exist in a perpetual state of happiness. Life just won’t allow that to happen. True, it may NOT be our significant other that causes unhappiness, but we all have to experience our lows to really appreciate the highs.
I think happy endings are very important, if not an outright must, when you put your characters through as much hell as I do. Having said that, I don’t always deliver a clear cut “and they lived happily ever after.” More often than not, even though the characters are in a good place and have been made stronger through their shared troubles, there is something lurking in the darkness just ahead and ready to take them on the next grand adventure.
Why would I do that to those poor people? In short, I don’t believe in Happily Ever After. I believe in happiness and the pursuit and once found holding onto it for as long as possible, but nothing lasts forever. Now wait just a cotton pickin’ minute, you say. What about love? I do believe in a forever kind of love, but it must be an ever evolving beast and with change comes highs and lows. The love may not diminish, but no one can exist in a perpetual state of happiness. Life just won’t allow that to happen. True, it may NOT be our significant other that causes unhappiness, but we all have to experience our lows to really appreciate the highs.
Friday, November 14, 2008
A "Muse" Me
I used to cringe when people asked me the dreaded question, “How do you come up with your ideas?” It’s such a hard question to answer because there is no ONE answer that really covers it. Inspiration comes many times and in many forms throughout the writing of the novel. Oh, sure you get the initial surge that puts the story underway, but how do you decide what to put your characters through as they travel from point A to point B? I’ve had entire chapters spawned from watching a homeless man pick up a smoldering cigarette butt outside of a store or watching a soiled napkin dance along on the wind for parts unknown or from a vase knocked from a windowsill while dusting, shattering and sprinkling petals all over the kitchen floor or… well, you get the gist of it by now.
A muse? I don’t have one per se. It’s more like an ocean of voices vying for attention, each with a story to be told, each with a distinct voice if choose to listen. Most of the time they are hushed whispers and easy to ignore, but occasionally an event happens like one listed above and they scream out a scenario as a cause or effect and I think, Yeah, I can run with that.
Not all scenes are born of the troublesome voices in my head, some are just drudged up from past experiences (both mine and those shared with me), polished a bit and offered to my characters to do with what they will. Others travel down the road of what would happen if different choices had been made at critical crossroads in my own life. Those generally scare the hell out of me. I happen to love the life I have right now, but I’ve had many an opportunity that would’ve taken me to a different place, with different people and a drastically different outcome. I have to say, looking back, I’ve chosen wisely more often than not.
Inspiration is all around us. We are bombarded with possibilities on a daily basis. The trick is recognizing the worthy and stifling the cries of the trivial.
A muse? I don’t have one per se. It’s more like an ocean of voices vying for attention, each with a story to be told, each with a distinct voice if choose to listen. Most of the time they are hushed whispers and easy to ignore, but occasionally an event happens like one listed above and they scream out a scenario as a cause or effect and I think, Yeah, I can run with that.
Not all scenes are born of the troublesome voices in my head, some are just drudged up from past experiences (both mine and those shared with me), polished a bit and offered to my characters to do with what they will. Others travel down the road of what would happen if different choices had been made at critical crossroads in my own life. Those generally scare the hell out of me. I happen to love the life I have right now, but I’ve had many an opportunity that would’ve taken me to a different place, with different people and a drastically different outcome. I have to say, looking back, I’ve chosen wisely more often than not.
Inspiration is all around us. We are bombarded with possibilities on a daily basis. The trick is recognizing the worthy and stifling the cries of the trivial.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Bring on the Noise, Bring on the Pain
My office is really just a corner that sits outside of the main living room. The kids in the neighborhood have deemed my house “the cool” hangout and as a result, I usually have a crowd traipsing in and out of the area, playing pool in the open game room above me or video games with the volume cranked loud enough to vibrate my teeth or any number of other activities that most would find distracting.
The cacophony doesn’t seem to bother me in the least, in fact, I embrace it and I’ve been doing it so long now that when there is an absence of chaos, I have trouble creating scenes that have any real bite to them. As such, when I find myself in silence, I plug my ipod into the stereo, crank the volume a few notches short of max and let the worlds of my characters spiral out of control.
For the most part, I’m a pantser. When I sit down to write, I have very little idea where my characters will take me or what kind of people they will turn out to be for that matter. I guess you could say, I’m reading the story as I write it.
I’ve only attempted to write a story from an outline once, but it is still unfinished. I love the story idea, don’t get me wrong, but when I wrote the outline, it took away something I never knew I would miss: the anticipation. I already know what will happen in the story and how it ends. I’m no longer reading along as I write, I’m just plugging in the details.
I juggle a day job that requires a fair amount of travel, raising my son, housework, writing, promotion and as much fun as I can squeeze into each and every day. Sometimes I drop a ball or two, but for the most part my hectic lifestyle seems to be just the thing I need to keep the creative juices flowing. I guess I’m just a Cleric of Chaos. I thrive on perpetual motion and welcome the flurry of activities that dominate my waking hours.
Truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if I were to hit the literary lottery and quit my day job with tons of play money, I’m sure I would just find some other activity to take its place. Perhaps I was a shark in my past life and have some deep rooted fear that if I stop moving I will die. Perhaps, I just suffer from adult ADD. Either way, I seem to funnel the pandemonium into my writing.
But enough rambling about my writing environment (or lack there of), it’s time to offer up a bit of writing inspired by anarchy.
The Sweet Release
The pain rouses me. I’m aware of every inch of my body. I search for some part of me that is unharmed. I come up short. I feel cold steel beneath me. I wish its caress would soothe my battered limbs, but it only amplifies the severity of my wounds. The bright lights of the room make the world look pink through my shut lids. I don’t dare open them. Seeing is believing and I desperately don’t want to believe. Reality is overrated.
It hurts to breath. I will myself to take small draws. The flesh of my lips break open as I pull them apart. The moisture is welcome. The pain in my chest lessens. The air rattles when it comes up through my throat, escapes from my mouth. I barely resist the urge to cough. To cough would be disastrous. The pain would be more than my already fragile mind could bear. My lungs are full of something. I don’t dare guess what.
My tongue is swollen; my teeth won’t meet. How many of them are still whole? I feel the jagged edges as they scratch the sides of my tongue. I taste copper at the back of my throat. Fluid pools there, blood, saliva…Lord only knows what else. I don’t dare swallow.
I listen for movement. I can hear nothing but the pound of my heart and the buzz of a fluorescent light. The room is still. Am I alone? I don’t dare hope.
My tiny breaths are coming faster, harder to control. I chance the pain, take a deep gulp, trying to calm myself. The smell of blood and urine assault my nostrils. I gag. My chest threatens to explode from the movement. I just thought I hurt before.
My eyes open. The light burns, blinding me. I resist the urge to slam them shut. I have to see. I need to see. My vision slowly adjusts to the brightness of the room. I’m not sure whether I should be thankful or not. Seeing is believing after all. I let my face fall to the left. I shudder as I study the bizarre looking instruments laid neatly in a row on the table beside my head. I look beyond them to the wall. I focus on the calendar. I know this is important, but I can’t remember why. Ducks rise from a pond, forever frozen in mid-flight for the picture of the month.
It’s October. The first three days bear brown, crusty Xs. Two days are blank. The 6th is marked with a smiley face, drawn in blue Sharpie. The 6th is my birthday…my death day. The end is near. How can I manage to survive for another three days? How has my body lived this long?
I want to sit up, but the leather straps bite into the skin of my chest and thighs. The movement causes me to release the pent up cough. Blood and mucus spray the shiny metal table. I watch as it pools and oozes back towards me. I scream out as the force of the cough clenches the muscles around my broken ribs. The room swims, fades to black.
The pain returns. I’m still here. It wasn’t a nightmare. I lie still; I hold my breath. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I can’t keep the tears from rolling down my face when I hear the footsteps cross the floor above me. A door slams. I flinch with each creak of the stairs. He makes his way to me. His stride is sure, full of purpose. Another door opens. I feel a gust of air when he enters the room. He still has a smile for me.
He whistles to himself while he opens a cabinet over the sink, rummages through a cardboard box on the middle shelf. The tune is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. He pulls out a syringe and a small brown vial. He pushes the needle through the stopper on top. He pulls back on the plunger; the chamber fills with something the color of honey. He flicks the tip of chamber with his free hand and he walks toward me, still whistling.
He takes a long look at me, his gaze traveling from my feet to my eyes. His head moves slightly form side to side in rhythm to the song he whistles. He holds the needle over my face.
“I’m not ready for you yet,” he whispers, placing a hand on my forehead to hold me still as the needle moves closer slowly, deliberately. “I haven’t even finished my dinner. I would think you’d have learned a bit more courtesy by now. It’s rude to inconvenience your host.”
“Don’t do it. Please! I’m sorry.” My voice sounds childish even to me.
“Oh, don’t worry, my dear boy; we’ll have plenty of quality time soon, but for now, you need your rest.”
I struggle to pull away from him. I turn my head, but his voice draws my gaze back to him.
“Save your strength, Ray.” His laugh is a low rumble that seems to originate from deep within his bowels. “You’re gonna need it. I can promise you that much.”
His eyes are bright. He licks his lips in anticipation. It is apparent that he is still enjoying his petty torments. He resumes his song and I watch the needle grow. The plastic chamber looks enormous as it slides to the left of my nose, into my eye socket. I barely feel it; my body has greater pains with which to occupy my mind.
“Pop goes the weasel,” he sings the last verse of his song while he empties the syringe into me.
I knew the song was familiar.
Cold fire builds around the needle in my flesh. I feel it spread, numbing my face, numbing my mind. The darkness grows in my peripheral vision, consuming me, carrying me away. The pain is fading; it’s almost a distant memory.
I dream of the knock on my door, the smiling face that greets me, the little white carrier filled with plastic bottles. He wants to sell me cleaners, offers a demonstration. His face is too charming to deny. He wants to know when my birthday is. Charmed by his smile, I tell him. His hands are like stone on my throat. I feel the coffee table break beneath me, the air leave my chest, my hands fall away from his hair. My eyes water from the fumes as he presses the towel over my nose and mouth. Blessed darkness becomes my new best friend.
“Will you please stop passing out? We have a lot to do today and our birthday is almost over,” his voice fills my mind as he gentle taps my cheek with the back of his hand.
The darkness is gone. Pain rules my world once again. His eyes are as bright as ever.
“It’s already my birthday?” I strain to see the calendar on the wall.
The crusted Xs now cover the smiley face.
“Would I lie to you?” he asks, patting the top of my head.
His smile seems so innocent.
“Wh-wh-why?” I struggle to form the question as I watch him pick up a long thin blade that reflects the light from above as he brings it closer.
“Because this is the day you were born.”
“No.” It is increasingly difficult to concentrate my thoughts on anything but the throbbing of my open wounds. “Why are you doing this?”
“I have to.” He rests his elbows on the table, leaning closer to my face. “This isn’t just your birthday, but mine and the anniversary of my salvation.”
“I don’t understand,” I admit, blinking away his fetid breath as it washes over my lashes.
“Have you already forgotten? Everyday you ask me and everyday I tell you the same thing. Do I really have to tell you again?” He waits for an answer, but I can only nod. “I was killed six years ago today.”
“But you’re not dead.”
“Yes, my Gods have chosen in their infinite wisdom to spare me. They gave me back my life and in return--”
“You give Them mine?” I ventured when he fell silent.
“Bingo! I pay tribute to them once a year, a life for a life.” He winks at me. “It’s only fair, don’t you think?”
“Will they save me?” I hoped against hope.
“No, you’re not worthy. I died doing what I love. I died fighting. I died in Their honor.” He throws his head back, laughs. “You’re a victim. You were born for this and you will die for me. You will die for Them.”
“How did you die?”
“With a blade in my chest and smile on my lips, but then, who wouldn’t smile when they look into the face of their Gods?”
He pushes himself up from my side, drops the blade back onto the tray. I can hear the rattle of steel on steel as he searches for just the right instrument with which to resume his games.
I can barely hear his words, his search. My body is on fire, licking at the last vestiges of my sanity. He has been working on me for years it seems, but I’m still aware enough to know it’s only been days. Bits and pieces of memories flutter in my mind. I shut them out; they’re too much to relive. He has been a busy boy. His laughter is infuriating, intoxicating, all I have to hold onto. I am adrift; the pain is pushing me away. His voice is an anchor drawing me back. I can no longer make out his words, but his meaning is driven home with each puncture of my flesh. I try to detach myself, flee inside my mind. It is futile; there is no escape for me. All I have is my agony and his smile.
Light flashes from something he’s picked up, blinding me. I’m oddly thankful. Shadows swim; purple dots fade. I can just make out his arm, he his holding something above my head, out of my line of sight. His hand moves; I catch my first glimpse of the blade. Its length stretches beyond both my shoulders. It’s as thick as my hand is wide. I see a reflection as it passes over my eyes, a sunken face, vacant stare, lacerations accent my swollen cheeks. My stubble has grown into a patchwork beard, segmented by long gashes. Is that really me? The edge of the blade is even with my chin. He pauses; turns the blade vertical. He rests it on my chin. I can see myself again. It is not a pretty sight. I try to turn away. I can’t. I try to close my eyes. I don’t dare. Resignation trumps all. My breath fogs my reflection, obscuring it, hiding my stare, hiding my shame.
He moves to stand behind me, his smiling face inverted over mine. His left hand is still on the handle. He rests the palm of his other hand on the dull side of the blade. He lifts the blade from my chin, holds it calmly in the air between my chin and chest. He pushes down hard. The blade meets my throat with the weight of a punch and moves on to the table beneath it with a clang.
I hear my body thrash and twitch. I can no longer feel it. My throat throbs; I try to swallow. Is that the ocean I hear? My vision narrows. The room fades. Only his smile remains. The pain is gone. I am free. Happy Birthday to me.
The End
The cacophony doesn’t seem to bother me in the least, in fact, I embrace it and I’ve been doing it so long now that when there is an absence of chaos, I have trouble creating scenes that have any real bite to them. As such, when I find myself in silence, I plug my ipod into the stereo, crank the volume a few notches short of max and let the worlds of my characters spiral out of control.
For the most part, I’m a pantser. When I sit down to write, I have very little idea where my characters will take me or what kind of people they will turn out to be for that matter. I guess you could say, I’m reading the story as I write it.
I’ve only attempted to write a story from an outline once, but it is still unfinished. I love the story idea, don’t get me wrong, but when I wrote the outline, it took away something I never knew I would miss: the anticipation. I already know what will happen in the story and how it ends. I’m no longer reading along as I write, I’m just plugging in the details.
I juggle a day job that requires a fair amount of travel, raising my son, housework, writing, promotion and as much fun as I can squeeze into each and every day. Sometimes I drop a ball or two, but for the most part my hectic lifestyle seems to be just the thing I need to keep the creative juices flowing. I guess I’m just a Cleric of Chaos. I thrive on perpetual motion and welcome the flurry of activities that dominate my waking hours.
Truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if I were to hit the literary lottery and quit my day job with tons of play money, I’m sure I would just find some other activity to take its place. Perhaps I was a shark in my past life and have some deep rooted fear that if I stop moving I will die. Perhaps, I just suffer from adult ADD. Either way, I seem to funnel the pandemonium into my writing.
But enough rambling about my writing environment (or lack there of), it’s time to offer up a bit of writing inspired by anarchy.
The pain rouses me. I’m aware of every inch of my body. I search for some part of me that is unharmed. I come up short. I feel cold steel beneath me. I wish its caress would soothe my battered limbs, but it only amplifies the severity of my wounds. The bright lights of the room make the world look pink through my shut lids. I don’t dare open them. Seeing is believing and I desperately don’t want to believe. Reality is overrated.
It hurts to breath. I will myself to take small draws. The flesh of my lips break open as I pull them apart. The moisture is welcome. The pain in my chest lessens. The air rattles when it comes up through my throat, escapes from my mouth. I barely resist the urge to cough. To cough would be disastrous. The pain would be more than my already fragile mind could bear. My lungs are full of something. I don’t dare guess what.
My tongue is swollen; my teeth won’t meet. How many of them are still whole? I feel the jagged edges as they scratch the sides of my tongue. I taste copper at the back of my throat. Fluid pools there, blood, saliva…Lord only knows what else. I don’t dare swallow.
I listen for movement. I can hear nothing but the pound of my heart and the buzz of a fluorescent light. The room is still. Am I alone? I don’t dare hope.
My tiny breaths are coming faster, harder to control. I chance the pain, take a deep gulp, trying to calm myself. The smell of blood and urine assault my nostrils. I gag. My chest threatens to explode from the movement. I just thought I hurt before.
My eyes open. The light burns, blinding me. I resist the urge to slam them shut. I have to see. I need to see. My vision slowly adjusts to the brightness of the room. I’m not sure whether I should be thankful or not. Seeing is believing after all. I let my face fall to the left. I shudder as I study the bizarre looking instruments laid neatly in a row on the table beside my head. I look beyond them to the wall. I focus on the calendar. I know this is important, but I can’t remember why. Ducks rise from a pond, forever frozen in mid-flight for the picture of the month.
It’s October. The first three days bear brown, crusty Xs. Two days are blank. The 6th is marked with a smiley face, drawn in blue Sharpie. The 6th is my birthday…my death day. The end is near. How can I manage to survive for another three days? How has my body lived this long?
I want to sit up, but the leather straps bite into the skin of my chest and thighs. The movement causes me to release the pent up cough. Blood and mucus spray the shiny metal table. I watch as it pools and oozes back towards me. I scream out as the force of the cough clenches the muscles around my broken ribs. The room swims, fades to black.
The pain returns. I’m still here. It wasn’t a nightmare. I lie still; I hold my breath. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I can’t keep the tears from rolling down my face when I hear the footsteps cross the floor above me. A door slams. I flinch with each creak of the stairs. He makes his way to me. His stride is sure, full of purpose. Another door opens. I feel a gust of air when he enters the room. He still has a smile for me.
He whistles to himself while he opens a cabinet over the sink, rummages through a cardboard box on the middle shelf. The tune is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. He pulls out a syringe and a small brown vial. He pushes the needle through the stopper on top. He pulls back on the plunger; the chamber fills with something the color of honey. He flicks the tip of chamber with his free hand and he walks toward me, still whistling.
He takes a long look at me, his gaze traveling from my feet to my eyes. His head moves slightly form side to side in rhythm to the song he whistles. He holds the needle over my face.
“I’m not ready for you yet,” he whispers, placing a hand on my forehead to hold me still as the needle moves closer slowly, deliberately. “I haven’t even finished my dinner. I would think you’d have learned a bit more courtesy by now. It’s rude to inconvenience your host.”
“Don’t do it. Please! I’m sorry.” My voice sounds childish even to me.
“Oh, don’t worry, my dear boy; we’ll have plenty of quality time soon, but for now, you need your rest.”
I struggle to pull away from him. I turn my head, but his voice draws my gaze back to him.
“Save your strength, Ray.” His laugh is a low rumble that seems to originate from deep within his bowels. “You’re gonna need it. I can promise you that much.”
His eyes are bright. He licks his lips in anticipation. It is apparent that he is still enjoying his petty torments. He resumes his song and I watch the needle grow. The plastic chamber looks enormous as it slides to the left of my nose, into my eye socket. I barely feel it; my body has greater pains with which to occupy my mind.
“Pop goes the weasel,” he sings the last verse of his song while he empties the syringe into me.
I knew the song was familiar.
Cold fire builds around the needle in my flesh. I feel it spread, numbing my face, numbing my mind. The darkness grows in my peripheral vision, consuming me, carrying me away. The pain is fading; it’s almost a distant memory.
I dream of the knock on my door, the smiling face that greets me, the little white carrier filled with plastic bottles. He wants to sell me cleaners, offers a demonstration. His face is too charming to deny. He wants to know when my birthday is. Charmed by his smile, I tell him. His hands are like stone on my throat. I feel the coffee table break beneath me, the air leave my chest, my hands fall away from his hair. My eyes water from the fumes as he presses the towel over my nose and mouth. Blessed darkness becomes my new best friend.
“Will you please stop passing out? We have a lot to do today and our birthday is almost over,” his voice fills my mind as he gentle taps my cheek with the back of his hand.
The darkness is gone. Pain rules my world once again. His eyes are as bright as ever.
“It’s already my birthday?” I strain to see the calendar on the wall.
The crusted Xs now cover the smiley face.
“Would I lie to you?” he asks, patting the top of my head.
His smile seems so innocent.
“Wh-wh-why?” I struggle to form the question as I watch him pick up a long thin blade that reflects the light from above as he brings it closer.
“Because this is the day you were born.”
“No.” It is increasingly difficult to concentrate my thoughts on anything but the throbbing of my open wounds. “Why are you doing this?”
“I have to.” He rests his elbows on the table, leaning closer to my face. “This isn’t just your birthday, but mine and the anniversary of my salvation.”
“I don’t understand,” I admit, blinking away his fetid breath as it washes over my lashes.
“Have you already forgotten? Everyday you ask me and everyday I tell you the same thing. Do I really have to tell you again?” He waits for an answer, but I can only nod. “I was killed six years ago today.”
“But you’re not dead.”
“Yes, my Gods have chosen in their infinite wisdom to spare me. They gave me back my life and in return--”
“You give Them mine?” I ventured when he fell silent.
“Bingo! I pay tribute to them once a year, a life for a life.” He winks at me. “It’s only fair, don’t you think?”
“Will they save me?” I hoped against hope.
“No, you’re not worthy. I died doing what I love. I died fighting. I died in Their honor.” He throws his head back, laughs. “You’re a victim. You were born for this and you will die for me. You will die for Them.”
“How did you die?”
“With a blade in my chest and smile on my lips, but then, who wouldn’t smile when they look into the face of their Gods?”
He pushes himself up from my side, drops the blade back onto the tray. I can hear the rattle of steel on steel as he searches for just the right instrument with which to resume his games.
I can barely hear his words, his search. My body is on fire, licking at the last vestiges of my sanity. He has been working on me for years it seems, but I’m still aware enough to know it’s only been days. Bits and pieces of memories flutter in my mind. I shut them out; they’re too much to relive. He has been a busy boy. His laughter is infuriating, intoxicating, all I have to hold onto. I am adrift; the pain is pushing me away. His voice is an anchor drawing me back. I can no longer make out his words, but his meaning is driven home with each puncture of my flesh. I try to detach myself, flee inside my mind. It is futile; there is no escape for me. All I have is my agony and his smile.
Light flashes from something he’s picked up, blinding me. I’m oddly thankful. Shadows swim; purple dots fade. I can just make out his arm, he his holding something above my head, out of my line of sight. His hand moves; I catch my first glimpse of the blade. Its length stretches beyond both my shoulders. It’s as thick as my hand is wide. I see a reflection as it passes over my eyes, a sunken face, vacant stare, lacerations accent my swollen cheeks. My stubble has grown into a patchwork beard, segmented by long gashes. Is that really me? The edge of the blade is even with my chin. He pauses; turns the blade vertical. He rests it on my chin. I can see myself again. It is not a pretty sight. I try to turn away. I can’t. I try to close my eyes. I don’t dare. Resignation trumps all. My breath fogs my reflection, obscuring it, hiding my stare, hiding my shame.
He moves to stand behind me, his smiling face inverted over mine. His left hand is still on the handle. He rests the palm of his other hand on the dull side of the blade. He lifts the blade from my chin, holds it calmly in the air between my chin and chest. He pushes down hard. The blade meets my throat with the weight of a punch and moves on to the table beneath it with a clang.
I hear my body thrash and twitch. I can no longer feel it. My throat throbs; I try to swallow. Is that the ocean I hear? My vision narrows. The room fades. Only his smile remains. The pain is gone. I am free. Happy Birthday to me.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
New Releases
Weirdly Volume II: Eldritch is a collection of strange tales that will be released on June 24th by Wild Child Publishing.
Here is the blurb:
From paranormal to weird, from chilling to odd to scary, Weirdly Volume 2: Eldritch will sate your lust for strangeness in bite-sized pieces. Each tale weaves its own spell. Vampires, beasts, ghosts, evil creatures and, of course, every day people inhabit Weirdly’s pages.
Soldiers must reach their destination before the undead get to them first... What does the picture on the wall mean to Jen? Fate holds something in store for Lewis—but is it what he wants? Lillie embarks on another quest... Is the young man who sees and hears fluffy beings insane? An old letter urges a young woman to the train station—but is the train that puffs into view real? All these tales and more. Dare you read them?
Esprit de Corps is my contribution to this anthology. It is the story of a group of Army Rangers trying to get out of Al-Rutbah. They aren’t worried about insurgents keeping them from reaching their destination. No, it’s the hordes of zombies they must overcome to make it home.
Be sure to pick up a copy. This is a collection of stories you don’t want to miss.
Pixels and Pain is now available in e-book format.
Pixels and Pain
Here is a blurb:
Explore the dangerous domain of a madman…
Johnny Walker is a FBI agent on a personal crusade to catch a killer. One year ago, his little sister was brutally murdered and the police still don’t have a suspect.
Mary Marshall founded a watchdog group to rid the world of online predators after her sister fell victim to a charismatic stranger she met on the popular networking website, HiyaSpace.
As the similarities surrounding their losses draw these two together, they soon embark on a desperate quest for answers—a quest wrought with peril, betrayal, and unimaginable horror.
In a virtual world where everyone’s a friend, and everyone’s a suspect, will Johnny and Mary be able to track down and stop an internet serial killer whose unspeakable deeds threaten to destroy them all?
Or will these two hunters become the prey, unable to escape the web of Pixels and Pain?
Here is the blurb:
From paranormal to weird, from chilling to odd to scary, Weirdly Volume 2: Eldritch will sate your lust for strangeness in bite-sized pieces. Each tale weaves its own spell. Vampires, beasts, ghosts, evil creatures and, of course, every day people inhabit Weirdly’s pages.
Soldiers must reach their destination before the undead get to them first... What does the picture on the wall mean to Jen? Fate holds something in store for Lewis—but is it what he wants? Lillie embarks on another quest... Is the young man who sees and hears fluffy beings insane? An old letter urges a young woman to the train station—but is the train that puffs into view real? All these tales and more. Dare you read them?
Esprit de Corps is my contribution to this anthology. It is the story of a group of Army Rangers trying to get out of Al-Rutbah. They aren’t worried about insurgents keeping them from reaching their destination. No, it’s the hordes of zombies they must overcome to make it home.
Be sure to pick up a copy. This is a collection of stories you don’t want to miss.
Pixels and Pain is now available in e-book format.
Here is a blurb:
Explore the dangerous domain of a madman…
Johnny Walker is a FBI agent on a personal crusade to catch a killer. One year ago, his little sister was brutally murdered and the police still don’t have a suspect.
Mary Marshall founded a watchdog group to rid the world of online predators after her sister fell victim to a charismatic stranger she met on the popular networking website, HiyaSpace.
As the similarities surrounding their losses draw these two together, they soon embark on a desperate quest for answers—a quest wrought with peril, betrayal, and unimaginable horror.
In a virtual world where everyone’s a friend, and everyone’s a suspect, will Johnny and Mary be able to track down and stop an internet serial killer whose unspeakable deeds threaten to destroy them all?
Or will these two hunters become the prey, unable to escape the web of Pixels and Pain?
Friday, June 27, 2008
Three the Hard Way
Well, I had a post all prepared for this morning, but when I went to upload it from my thumb drive… it was gone. I’ve tried to recreate it as best I can on short notice, but if you find it halting and poorly written, I must beg forgiveness and promise to try to do a better job next week.
The ménage, that dirty little secret, that fantasy many have, but few will admit, this is the topic of the week and those who’ve came before me have done a remarkable job of covering this issue from all angles. Well, almost every angle…
Maybe it’s because I’m odd, maybe it’s because I’m just wired this way, but m/m/f does absolutely nothing for me. Always one to keep an open mind, I’ve tried to become interested in it, tried to see it from a character’s point of view, but I’m just not into it.
Why on earth would I say something like that, especially knowing full well, that some of my friends from this very blog, write about this exact type of relationship? Because as a writer, even though the books with m/m/f are very popular right now, I’ll never be able to write one, because my personal preferences would surely bleed down to my characters and the result would be meh at best.
Now the f/f/m scenario is a different matter all together.
Picture a time when waterbeds were still popular. Now imagine the bed with all of the sheets and covers tossed to the floor and four industrial sized bottles of strawberry flavored body glide poured on it.
Two women and a man frolic on the slippery surface, their glistening bodies entwined, skin sliding, lips roaming, fingers probing, tongues flicking. And that’s just the foreplay. The center of attention shifts frequently, each of the participants striving to please each other, striving to maintain a balance to be sure the experience is nothing short of bliss for all concerned.
Each person sharing the pleasure of all, each body plunged into near sensory overload, each becoming a part of a whole. When I hear (or read) ménage, this is the image that most often springs to mind.
Now, I’ve never claimed to be an erotic writer (haven’t quite succumbed to the draw of the dark side), but I’ve actually incorporated a ménage scene (or three) into one of my novels that should be coming out next year. It may be the start of a trend. I found I really enjoyed writing these particular scenes. I guess only time will tell…
Regardless of the gender of the participants, I wonder what effect the writing might have on the reader. Does the mere fact that the reader has chosen this story suggest it is already a fantasy that interests them? What if a writer has captured the scene with such vivid imagery and passion (as a good artisan is quite capable of doing), the reader decides they want to give it a try in real life? Fantasy and the actual act are often miles apart as regards to the emotional impact and possibly tangible consequences of indulging in a night (week, month?) of pleasure. Or by choosing to read about the fantasy are they afforded to indulge without the risk of hurting or being hurt by people they care about? Or does it matter at all? We provide the entertainment, what they do with the information afterwards is up to them
The ménage, that dirty little secret, that fantasy many have, but few will admit, this is the topic of the week and those who’ve came before me have done a remarkable job of covering this issue from all angles. Well, almost every angle…
Maybe it’s because I’m odd, maybe it’s because I’m just wired this way, but m/m/f does absolutely nothing for me. Always one to keep an open mind, I’ve tried to become interested in it, tried to see it from a character’s point of view, but I’m just not into it.
Why on earth would I say something like that, especially knowing full well, that some of my friends from this very blog, write about this exact type of relationship? Because as a writer, even though the books with m/m/f are very popular right now, I’ll never be able to write one, because my personal preferences would surely bleed down to my characters and the result would be meh at best.
Now the f/f/m scenario is a different matter all together.
Picture a time when waterbeds were still popular. Now imagine the bed with all of the sheets and covers tossed to the floor and four industrial sized bottles of strawberry flavored body glide poured on it.
Two women and a man frolic on the slippery surface, their glistening bodies entwined, skin sliding, lips roaming, fingers probing, tongues flicking. And that’s just the foreplay. The center of attention shifts frequently, each of the participants striving to please each other, striving to maintain a balance to be sure the experience is nothing short of bliss for all concerned.
Each person sharing the pleasure of all, each body plunged into near sensory overload, each becoming a part of a whole. When I hear (or read) ménage, this is the image that most often springs to mind.
Now, I’ve never claimed to be an erotic writer (haven’t quite succumbed to the draw of the dark side), but I’ve actually incorporated a ménage scene (or three) into one of my novels that should be coming out next year. It may be the start of a trend. I found I really enjoyed writing these particular scenes. I guess only time will tell…
Regardless of the gender of the participants, I wonder what effect the writing might have on the reader. Does the mere fact that the reader has chosen this story suggest it is already a fantasy that interests them? What if a writer has captured the scene with such vivid imagery and passion (as a good artisan is quite capable of doing), the reader decides they want to give it a try in real life? Fantasy and the actual act are often miles apart as regards to the emotional impact and possibly tangible consequences of indulging in a night (week, month?) of pleasure. Or by choosing to read about the fantasy are they afforded to indulge without the risk of hurting or being hurt by people they care about? Or does it matter at all? We provide the entertainment, what they do with the information afterwards is up to them
Friday, June 13, 2008
Time to Play
The family vacation, that institution of American life, brings to mind a bevy of images, some good, some bad, but all memorable. Most of my vacations when I was young involved hitting the open road. The journey was often as exciting as the destination, sometimes more so. I watched the world through a dust covered window, music played softly in the background as we discussed points of interest along the way. We never had a firm schedule and if a roadside sign advertised something too good to miss, by golly we stopped to check it out.
I’ve explored vast underground caverns in Missouri and New Mexico, feed exotic animals in a drive through zoo though I can’t remember which state it was in, watched glassblowers and smithies exhibit their crafts in colonial settings in Williamsburg and Branson, visited countless amusement parks scattered across the country and even ate an entire meal with my bare hands as I watched knights duel in California. I could go on, but the gist is that the experiences were plentiful and widely varied.
Some trips were memorable for all the wrong reasons. I nearly drowned at Rehoboth beach when I was a wee tyke. I got caught in the undertow and it was just a stroke of luck that I was swept close enough to someone’s leg that they snagged me on my way out. I’ve also perturbed a mound of fire ants while on a camping trip and paid for the clumsiness with days of itching and pain. I’ve tipped a canoe and lost nearly an entire days worth of supplies down a river.
There always seemed to be at least one mishap, but it was never enough to dampen my spirits or to cause me not to get antsy with anticipation as the next trip drew close. I loved spending time with my family and it always seemed like my family as a whole smiled more, hugged more and laughed more when we were on our little excursions.
Even though I’m grown with a family of my own now, I still succumb to the excitement of planning out our next adventure. For the last seven years, I’ve had the extreme fortune to take two vacations a year: One just for adults and one for the whole family. Before too many feathers get ruffled by the seeming exclusion, I must point out that though my son lives with us, he is the best thing to come from my first marriage and thus subject to all of the visitation requirements of divorced parents. During the summer he always spends a week or two with his biological mom and that’s when we have the parent vacation.
My son is only ten, but he as already been to the balloon festival in Albuquerque (which is really something to see and words alone can’t do it justice), the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade in New York, the beach (in Ocean City, Padre Island, and Delaware), Worlds of fun and Oceans of Fun in Kansas City, Six Flags in Texas and handful of random road trips just for the sake of seeing someplace he’s never been before where we toured our neighboring states. If all goes as planned, he’ll get to add his first cruise to the list by this time next year.
As for vacations for my wife and I, they vary depending on the mood when we select them. Sometimes we like to go down to Cozumel. Other times we head out to Vegas (or Reno, Tahoe etc.). Last year we went on an eight day Caribbean cruise.
One year we decided to take a week long road trip. We picked a few cities we’d like to see in Texas, loaded up the Trailblazer and set off without a care in the world. We hung out on 6th street in Austin, spent a day at the Schlitterbahn in New Braunfels, played at Fiesta Texas in San Antonio before checking out the River Walk, visited a few museums in Houston, became charter members of Red Lobster in Nacogdoches, and wound up in Shreveport, La at luxury suite at one of their casinos.
This year we won’t take a second vacation. My wife started a new job in January and it just isn’t possible to take the extra time off. It came down to one or the other, so of course we chose the family vacation. It looks like we will spend the week in Texas again, this time focusing around the Dallas area with visits to Dave & Buster’s, of course multiple excursions to Six Flags and whatever else happens to catch our fancy along the way.
I love vacations and I’m always counting down the days until my next one.
I’ve explored vast underground caverns in Missouri and New Mexico, feed exotic animals in a drive through zoo though I can’t remember which state it was in, watched glassblowers and smithies exhibit their crafts in colonial settings in Williamsburg and Branson, visited countless amusement parks scattered across the country and even ate an entire meal with my bare hands as I watched knights duel in California. I could go on, but the gist is that the experiences were plentiful and widely varied.
Some trips were memorable for all the wrong reasons. I nearly drowned at Rehoboth beach when I was a wee tyke. I got caught in the undertow and it was just a stroke of luck that I was swept close enough to someone’s leg that they snagged me on my way out. I’ve also perturbed a mound of fire ants while on a camping trip and paid for the clumsiness with days of itching and pain. I’ve tipped a canoe and lost nearly an entire days worth of supplies down a river.
There always seemed to be at least one mishap, but it was never enough to dampen my spirits or to cause me not to get antsy with anticipation as the next trip drew close. I loved spending time with my family and it always seemed like my family as a whole smiled more, hugged more and laughed more when we were on our little excursions.
Even though I’m grown with a family of my own now, I still succumb to the excitement of planning out our next adventure. For the last seven years, I’ve had the extreme fortune to take two vacations a year: One just for adults and one for the whole family. Before too many feathers get ruffled by the seeming exclusion, I must point out that though my son lives with us, he is the best thing to come from my first marriage and thus subject to all of the visitation requirements of divorced parents. During the summer he always spends a week or two with his biological mom and that’s when we have the parent vacation.
My son is only ten, but he as already been to the balloon festival in Albuquerque (which is really something to see and words alone can’t do it justice), the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade in New York, the beach (in Ocean City, Padre Island, and Delaware), Worlds of fun and Oceans of Fun in Kansas City, Six Flags in Texas and handful of random road trips just for the sake of seeing someplace he’s never been before where we toured our neighboring states. If all goes as planned, he’ll get to add his first cruise to the list by this time next year.
As for vacations for my wife and I, they vary depending on the mood when we select them. Sometimes we like to go down to Cozumel. Other times we head out to Vegas (or Reno, Tahoe etc.). Last year we went on an eight day Caribbean cruise.
One year we decided to take a week long road trip. We picked a few cities we’d like to see in Texas, loaded up the Trailblazer and set off without a care in the world. We hung out on 6th street in Austin, spent a day at the Schlitterbahn in New Braunfels, played at Fiesta Texas in San Antonio before checking out the River Walk, visited a few museums in Houston, became charter members of Red Lobster in Nacogdoches, and wound up in Shreveport, La at luxury suite at one of their casinos.
This year we won’t take a second vacation. My wife started a new job in January and it just isn’t possible to take the extra time off. It came down to one or the other, so of course we chose the family vacation. It looks like we will spend the week in Texas again, this time focusing around the Dallas area with visits to Dave & Buster’s, of course multiple excursions to Six Flags and whatever else happens to catch our fancy along the way.
I love vacations and I’m always counting down the days until my next one.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Hero
She is pregnant. He had just saved her from a fire in her house, rescuing her by carrying her out of the house into her front yard, then he continued to fight the fire.
When he finally got done putting the fire out,
When he finally got done putting the fire out,
he sat down to catch his breath and rest.
A photographer from the Charlotte , North Carolina news-
A photographer from the Charlotte , North Carolina news-
paper, noticed her in the distance looking at the fireman.
He saw her walking straight toward the firefighter
He saw her walking straight toward the firefighter
and wondered what she was going to do.
As he raised his camera, she came up to the tired man who had just saved her life and the lives of her babies and kissed him just as the photographer snapped this photograph.
As he raised his camera, she came up to the tired man who had just saved her life and the lives of her babies and kissed him just as the photographer snapped this photograph.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Guest Blogger: Anita Birt
Today the Oh Get a Grip! crew welcomes guest blogger, Cerridwen Press author, Anita Birt! ACCIDENTAL AUTHOR
I've been a reader since I first learned how to sound out printed letters and link them into words. I was also a devious child. I had and still have a very good memory. My mother thought I was reading from a children's story book but I was pretending. I had memorized the whole thing. It had pictures and text and that made it easy to remember.
How and when did I decide to write seriously? Here's how it happened. My husband and I have known the Franciscan Sisters of The Eucharist for years. Their small convent is located at Bridal Veil, Oregon close by the Columbia River. I was walking the grounds with Mother Mary Michael on one of our visits and I said. "Someone should write the history of this house." And Mother Michael said. "Why don't you?" I had never written a book nor done the kind of research required to put together the history of the house. It was built in 1917 as a summer home by a wealthy couple. Little miracles happened along the way that helped me fill in the history.
If you wonder how two Canadians living in Toronto met the Sisters you'll have to read my book – or ask me! My book is called The House at Bridal Veil. Used copies are available at Amazon.com and ABE books. Check my web site if you're interested in seeing the picture of the house, (it is gorgeous) a little blurb and a map.
Having written a book, what should I do with my idle computer? I decided to try writing romance. Looked easy. I wrote a fantastic story, sent it off to Harlequin and waited for the check to arrive in the mail. My book was rejected but nothing daunted I joined Romance Writers of America and the local chapter. I attended conferences, workshops and joined a critique group. Yes, I learned to write and have had five romance novels accepted by Cerriwden Press.
What keeps me motivated when sales suck? I am fortunate. I'm not trying to earn a living from my writing so when sales suck one month, they usually are better the following month. I don't expect huge returns on my writing investment. I write because I want to. I like creating stories. But it would be nice to hit the New York Times Best Seller List. Dream on, Anita.
I've never suffered writer's block. My present work in progress is a historical romance.
I have decided to take extra time with it. I know where it's going and how it will end. Getting there is half the fun. I'm into the middle now, a critical point. I also have two contemporary romances finished and ready for revision.
TOO YOUNG TO DIE
When Ellie Paxton accepted the position of Nanny with Computer Skills to care for three month old, Nicki Blesnicoff she cheerfully moved to her employer's mansion located deep in the Cascade Mountains in Washington. She'd save money, rescue her sinking bank balance and revive her credit cards. Private re-hab to treat her shop-a-holic problem.
What she hadn't factored into her new job were threats of rape, torture and death by armed thugs who invaded the mansion during the absence of Nicki's parents. A city girl not given to feats of derring-do, Ellie wrapped Nicki in a soft blanket and escaped with him into a dense, terrifying forest. At midnight.
As dawn light filtered through the trees, Jack Merano and his two tracking dogs found Ellie huddling with the baby. A nanny and a baby. What could be more innocently appealing? Rescuing her and the bay from the dangerous forest was the easy part but soon enough Jack learned there was a price on Ellie's head and a master criminal stalking her.
Too Young to Die is out now at Cerridwen Press. Click here or on the cover above for more information.
Friday, June 6, 2008
The Life
I’m a writer. I have always been and Gods willing, I will always be. I am driven by voices and powered by demons. All are purged from my system when I shape pixels into words or put pen to paper. Below are a few observations from my personal journey to publication.
You have to develop a relatively thick skin early on if you hope to survive the induction process. Separation between you and your work is the only way to maintain your sanity through the multitude of rejections that seem to mark the beginning of most of our careers.
The one publisher who says yes, definitely makes up for the throngs who said no before them. Even then, you can’t be too emotionally vested in your manuscript. Why? Because the first time you see it again after acceptance, it will likely be bleeding to death. The editorial process can be a shock, particularly the first time around. Yes, it’s an arduous process, but the end result is not only a better book to give to the public, but a better knowledge of what does and doesn’t pass for good writing. If you can take that knowledge and apply it to subsequent books, you’ll find that your next foray into the revision process will be much easier.
Be proud of what you accomplished, but don’t be surprised if it falls in the hands of someone who, though clearly blind to your evident brilliance and top notch artistic style, thinks your book is less than stellar. You can’t please all the people all the time. Hell, you can’t even please all the people some of the time. If you’re lucky, you will at least please some of the people some of the time. These are the ones that will become your fan base. Without them, we are just writing into the void. It’s the loyal readers who will keep us going in the face of bad reviews and wan ratings.
We need more than readers to keep us afloat though. A network of likeminded friends and colleagues is a must. Every career needs a support group, people to turn to who truly understand the problems you’re having and quite possibly have the insight to help you get through them.
Also, I feel obliged to remind any aspiring writers out there to be careful where you place your trust. There are sharks in them there waters. Before you sign a contract with an agent or publisher, be sure they are on the up and up. Scam artists abound on the fringes of our wonderful industry. Do your research.
I could go on, but I feel a bit as if I’m just reiterating the points already so eloquently stated by my fellow writers on this blog. Perhaps, I should end with a poem with a message that sums up everything I’ve discussed above, but hopefully you will find a bit more entertaining.
A Writer's Journey
I answer the call
From my inner voice.
When the muse tickles my ear,
I have no choice,
But to put pen to paper, fingers to keys.
And so, the journey begins
With eyes so bright.
Innocence abounds
As my imagination takes flight.
The masterpiece takes shape
And my mind reaches for the stars.
I envision interviews with Leno
And my prose read in bars.
The book is complete.
I hold it up with trembling hands.
The only thing left
Is for it to find its way to the fans.
I drop queries in the mail
And hope for the best.
My patience and resolve,
Will soon be put to the test.
Still the fantasy remains.
I will be the next big thing.
My fame will surpass
Anne Rice or even Stephen King.
Days, weeks, and months go by
Without so much as a word.
At last, I receive a letter
Address, written in my hand.
It is addressed to dear author
And they're not buying.
Well, what do they know?
I will be published in no time,
Just you wait and see.
The responses picked up speed,
I will give them that.
I had a dozen rejections,
In no time flat.
Don't let it get you down kid,
You've written a best seller.
We just have to find it a home,
Get it in front of the right feller.
My innocence has been replaced
With apprehension.
My sleep is still filled,
With the first timer’s dreams.
My words will be read
And hearts will be moved,
Emotions will be stirred.
With a single book,
I could change the world.
Someone, somewhere will read my words
And will be inspired to do great things.
I dream of a series of books,
crossing all genres.
I dream of books on CD
And book signings,
With throngs of people waiting
For a signature or at least a glimpse.
I dream of an adoring public
That falls so hard for my characters,
They become a household name.
All of this and more I dream.
No matter what happens,
I will always have my dreams.
My dreams are not goals,
They are fantasies and as such,
They will never be crushed.
I am a slave to the muse,
A whore for her voice.
I am a man that hears voices.
I argue with myself
And put it on paper.
I am a visionary,
A dreamer,
A fiend for the written word.
I am a writer.
And with that, I wish you all a happy weekend.
You have to develop a relatively thick skin early on if you hope to survive the induction process. Separation between you and your work is the only way to maintain your sanity through the multitude of rejections that seem to mark the beginning of most of our careers.
The one publisher who says yes, definitely makes up for the throngs who said no before them. Even then, you can’t be too emotionally vested in your manuscript. Why? Because the first time you see it again after acceptance, it will likely be bleeding to death. The editorial process can be a shock, particularly the first time around. Yes, it’s an arduous process, but the end result is not only a better book to give to the public, but a better knowledge of what does and doesn’t pass for good writing. If you can take that knowledge and apply it to subsequent books, you’ll find that your next foray into the revision process will be much easier.
Be proud of what you accomplished, but don’t be surprised if it falls in the hands of someone who, though clearly blind to your evident brilliance and top notch artistic style, thinks your book is less than stellar. You can’t please all the people all the time. Hell, you can’t even please all the people some of the time. If you’re lucky, you will at least please some of the people some of the time. These are the ones that will become your fan base. Without them, we are just writing into the void. It’s the loyal readers who will keep us going in the face of bad reviews and wan ratings.
We need more than readers to keep us afloat though. A network of likeminded friends and colleagues is a must. Every career needs a support group, people to turn to who truly understand the problems you’re having and quite possibly have the insight to help you get through them.
Also, I feel obliged to remind any aspiring writers out there to be careful where you place your trust. There are sharks in them there waters. Before you sign a contract with an agent or publisher, be sure they are on the up and up. Scam artists abound on the fringes of our wonderful industry. Do your research.
I could go on, but I feel a bit as if I’m just reiterating the points already so eloquently stated by my fellow writers on this blog. Perhaps, I should end with a poem with a message that sums up everything I’ve discussed above, but hopefully you will find a bit more entertaining.
I answer the call
From my inner voice.
When the muse tickles my ear,
I have no choice,
But to put pen to paper, fingers to keys.
And so, the journey begins
With eyes so bright.
Innocence abounds
As my imagination takes flight.
The masterpiece takes shape
And my mind reaches for the stars.
I envision interviews with Leno
And my prose read in bars.
The book is complete.
I hold it up with trembling hands.
The only thing left
Is for it to find its way to the fans.
I drop queries in the mail
And hope for the best.
My patience and resolve,
Will soon be put to the test.
Still the fantasy remains.
I will be the next big thing.
My fame will surpass
Anne Rice or even Stephen King.
Days, weeks, and months go by
Without so much as a word.
At last, I receive a letter
Address, written in my hand.
It is addressed to dear author
And they're not buying.
Well, what do they know?
I will be published in no time,
Just you wait and see.
The responses picked up speed,
I will give them that.
I had a dozen rejections,
In no time flat.
Don't let it get you down kid,
You've written a best seller.
We just have to find it a home,
Get it in front of the right feller.
My innocence has been replaced
With apprehension.
My sleep is still filled,
With the first timer’s dreams.
My words will be read
And hearts will be moved,
Emotions will be stirred.
With a single book,
I could change the world.
Someone, somewhere will read my words
And will be inspired to do great things.
I dream of a series of books,
crossing all genres.
I dream of books on CD
And book signings,
With throngs of people waiting
For a signature or at least a glimpse.
I dream of an adoring public
That falls so hard for my characters,
They become a household name.
All of this and more I dream.
No matter what happens,
I will always have my dreams.
My dreams are not goals,
They are fantasies and as such,
They will never be crushed.
I am a slave to the muse,
A whore for her voice.
I am a man that hears voices.
I argue with myself
And put it on paper.
I am a visionary,
A dreamer,
A fiend for the written word.
I am a writer.
And with that, I wish you all a happy weekend.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Lay Down the Law
Swats, licks, the occasional cuff to the back of the head in a store, we’ve all experienced these I’m sure. Is this tough love? Some might think it so, but I don’t. It is merely a parenting tool to teach your children that every action has a consequence. When my son was younger, a swat to the diaper was the quickest way to get his attention. Mind you with the padding in place, it was the noise that carried the message, but he still seemed to get it.
As he grew older, swats were all but phased out. It has to be a rather severe offense to garner a “whuppin” out of me. Having said that, I still have other forms of punishment, but we’ll get to those in a moment. I’m sure every kid is different, but my son seemed to learn what offenses were worthy of a spanking and subsequently steered clear of them after the first infraction. He is ten years old and I’ve only had to spank him once in the last three years.
For minor offenses, I still use grounding, removal of favorites like TV and/or video games, but my favorite punishment is administered in the good ol’ front leaning rest position. Yep, he does push ups. From the time he was five up to nearly six, I thought I was going to have to turn him into a little clone of Sylvester Stallone, but I could tell were making great progress, so I kept at it. This is a punishment that is dished out anytime and anyplace, giving it a bit more power than the first two options. It also adds a certain psychological element that is an extra incentive not to mess up in itself. Can you imagine the horror of having to pump out twenty push ups in a crowded restaurant? My son can. He threw a fit over not getting desert even though he hardly touched his meal. The tantrum was loud enough to draw stares. Was I embarrassed a bit, but apparently not as embarrassed as he was while he was face down by the table. He never acted like that in a restaurant again.
Have you ever been in a store where a kid was throwing a hissy fit for not getting their way over something. I usually see it handled in two different ways, either the parent starts wailing on the kid, exasperating matters and just generally raising the ire of most parents around them or they let them carry on and pretend to ignore them as they finish their shopping. Neither one really appeals to me.
When my son was nearly five (he still had a couple of months if memory serves correctly) I took him to the grocery store with me to pick up a couple of things I needed for dinner that night. We walked through the sliding doors and he immediately took off at a sprint for the coin operated horse across from the registers. He wanted a ride, but I was in a hurry and explained to him as much. He wasn’t buying it. He could ride while I get the stuff. Well, there’s not a chance in hell, I’m leaving a four year old to their own devices. I promised to let him ride when we came in for our regular weekly shopping. Not good enough… the hissy fit ensued, but it was short lived.
“Give me twenty!” I told him in my sternest voice.
He stopped crying and just stared at me.
“Front leaning rest position now, or I’m taking you out to the car for swats.” (by this time he was well acquainted with what a FLRP was.)
He looked at me, looked at the crowded lines at the register, most of which were already looking at us do to his behavior and looked at the door. Sliding off the horse as if he were in pain, he dropped to the floor and starting his set. A nice elderly lady rushed up to me about that time and said, “That’s not right!”
I smiled at her and said, “Nicely done, ma’am. I almost forgot. Sound off, boy.”
She stormed away to the sound of my son counting out, “ten, eleven, twelve.”
Incidentally, my son is one of the most well behaved boys in public you’re likely to come across and has been for the better part of three years. Coincidence?
Some may say this is a form of psychological abuse. To them I say, “drop and give me twenty.” I’m quite happy with the end result. I have a wonderfully behaved ten year old boy and I don’t have to worry about my son cringing every time I raise my hand around him.
Now, if I could just figure out how to apply tough love to my elders when they ask too much of me…
As he grew older, swats were all but phased out. It has to be a rather severe offense to garner a “whuppin” out of me. Having said that, I still have other forms of punishment, but we’ll get to those in a moment. I’m sure every kid is different, but my son seemed to learn what offenses were worthy of a spanking and subsequently steered clear of them after the first infraction. He is ten years old and I’ve only had to spank him once in the last three years.
For minor offenses, I still use grounding, removal of favorites like TV and/or video games, but my favorite punishment is administered in the good ol’ front leaning rest position. Yep, he does push ups. From the time he was five up to nearly six, I thought I was going to have to turn him into a little clone of Sylvester Stallone, but I could tell were making great progress, so I kept at it. This is a punishment that is dished out anytime and anyplace, giving it a bit more power than the first two options. It also adds a certain psychological element that is an extra incentive not to mess up in itself. Can you imagine the horror of having to pump out twenty push ups in a crowded restaurant? My son can. He threw a fit over not getting desert even though he hardly touched his meal. The tantrum was loud enough to draw stares. Was I embarrassed a bit, but apparently not as embarrassed as he was while he was face down by the table. He never acted like that in a restaurant again.
Have you ever been in a store where a kid was throwing a hissy fit for not getting their way over something. I usually see it handled in two different ways, either the parent starts wailing on the kid, exasperating matters and just generally raising the ire of most parents around them or they let them carry on and pretend to ignore them as they finish their shopping. Neither one really appeals to me.
When my son was nearly five (he still had a couple of months if memory serves correctly) I took him to the grocery store with me to pick up a couple of things I needed for dinner that night. We walked through the sliding doors and he immediately took off at a sprint for the coin operated horse across from the registers. He wanted a ride, but I was in a hurry and explained to him as much. He wasn’t buying it. He could ride while I get the stuff. Well, there’s not a chance in hell, I’m leaving a four year old to their own devices. I promised to let him ride when we came in for our regular weekly shopping. Not good enough… the hissy fit ensued, but it was short lived.
“Give me twenty!” I told him in my sternest voice.
He stopped crying and just stared at me.
“Front leaning rest position now, or I’m taking you out to the car for swats.” (by this time he was well acquainted with what a FLRP was.)
He looked at me, looked at the crowded lines at the register, most of which were already looking at us do to his behavior and looked at the door. Sliding off the horse as if he were in pain, he dropped to the floor and starting his set. A nice elderly lady rushed up to me about that time and said, “That’s not right!”
I smiled at her and said, “Nicely done, ma’am. I almost forgot. Sound off, boy.”
She stormed away to the sound of my son counting out, “ten, eleven, twelve.”
Incidentally, my son is one of the most well behaved boys in public you’re likely to come across and has been for the better part of three years. Coincidence?
Some may say this is a form of psychological abuse. To them I say, “drop and give me twenty.” I’m quite happy with the end result. I have a wonderfully behaved ten year old boy and I don’t have to worry about my son cringing every time I raise my hand around him.
Now, if I could just figure out how to apply tough love to my elders when they ask too much of me…
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Time?
Time Managment is not my forte. Not even close. In fact it is probably the single largest factor in the smallness of my paychecks. Scheduling, making lists, sticking to them...I know, at least in theory how to do these things, but they still never seem to happen. About the only way I can really motivate myself to maximize my output is with some sort of external deadline. I can write a 50,000 word book in two weeks. I've done it. So why did a 65K book take me a year? Who knows?I am lucky enough to not have a regular out-of the house job anymore. My kids are teens, old enough to feed themselves, and my father who lives nearby absorbs a lot of the chauffering duties. I am convinced that all of us benefit from this arrangement, so I don't feel too guilty about it. But like any other person who works at their dining room table or couch (I don't have a desk--nowhere to put it) I find myself at the beck and call of family. My friends know better. Besides, most of them have real jobs. I try to sneak in a couple of hours a week doing exercise classes at the local pool, but then a one-hour class ends up taking three by the time you get ready and get home. Some days it's easier to "forget."
Balancing promotion and writing is probably the most difficult knife-edge to walk in this crazy business. I freely admit, I haven't found the right mix yet. Chats are time-consuming but necessary, and so, IMHO is the occasional "water-cooler" conversation with writer friends. That's necessary for my sanity. Writing is a lonely business with lots of emotional highs and lows. If I didn't have a chance to talk to others who understand, I would truly go nuts. Then there are blogs. Many of my friends manage them every day. I have trouble with once a week. And then there's MySpace (have one) and FaceBook (don't have one) and all those other things that eat, eat, eat away at our precious writing time. Today, for instance I have two all-day chats on loops, and another tomorrow. The exposure is great, but OY! I have three WIP's and am getting nowhere on any of them.
These and other great de-motivator posters are available at: http://www.despair.com/
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Sunday Wrap Up
Erotica is simply high-class pornography; better produced, better conceived, better executed, better packaged, designed for a better class of consumer.
~Andrea Dworkin
The difference between pornography and erotica is lighting.
~Gloria Leonard
Saturday, May 3, 2008
A Matter of Perspective
Well, we’ve had several intriguing discussions this week. Is it erotica or is it porn? We’ve read the definitions, identified the characteristics that allow us to distinguish between the two and now are better equipped to assuage the bite of those naysayers who would lump them together.
The research for this week has been interesting, to say the least. My wife thanks you kindly.
I’m reminded of a skit Adam Sandler did back in the 90s called Sex or Weightlifting. The premise was fairly basic: he played an audio clip for random strangers and they had to guess whether it was someone having sex or lifting weights. Invariably, whichever answer they gave was wrong.
What does this have to do with porn vs. erotica? Well in both instances, it really comes down to perception. We’ll come back to that in a moment. First, I want to revisit the definitions from Wikipedia:
Pornography or porn is the explicit depiction of sexual subject matter, especially with the sole intention of sexually exciting the viewer. It is to a certain extent similar to erotica, which is the use of sexually-arousing imagery for mainly artistic purposes.
Erotica (from the Greek Eros - "desire") or "curiosa," works of art, including literature, photography, film, sculpture and painting, that deal substantively with erotically stimulating or sexually arousing descriptions. Erotica is a modern word used to describe the portrayal of the human anatomy and sexuality with high-art aspirations, differentiating such work from commercial pornography.[1] "Curiosa" is generally used to refer to erotica and pornography as discrete, collectible items, usually in published or printed form.
Various sub-genres of erotica exist. As with fiction as a whole, there are erotic stories with a science fiction, fantasy, horror or romance focus. Additionally, erotica can also focus on specific sexual behavior or fetishes such as BDSM, wearing uniforms, cross-dressing, polygamy and sexual promiscuity. Fan fiction featuring characters engaging in male homosexual acts has become known as slash fiction.
Distinction is often made between erotica and pornography (as well as the lesser known genre of sexual entertainment, ribaldry), although depending on the viewer they may seem one in the same. Pornography's objective is the graphic depiction of sexually explicit scenes. Pornography is often described as exploitative or degrading. Erotica, on the other hand, seeks to tell a story with sexual themes. It attempts to explore desire through mystery and intrigue.
In my humble opinion, it all boils down to what we want to believe. If a particularly narrow-minded person chances upon erotica book, hits the first sex scene and instantly labels it porn, there will not be enough definitions or persuasive arguments in the world to convince that person the book is anything but a sexual account and therefore dirty and all things dirty, as we know, are porn… or at least some would have us believe.
Sexuality is a marvelous thing, a glorious thing, a beautiful thing… a natural thing. Yet, there will always be those among us who are ashamed of their baser desires. I feel sorry for them.
Artistic merit, the empowerment of women and the eternal quest for love aside, why do we read erotica? We can find the above characteristics in any number of novels that take us to the bedroom door, offer us a tiny peek and gently shut it before they get down to the nitty gritty. No, for me (and I realize I may be alone here), the only reason I have ever read erotica is for the arousal factor. Are you not aroused?
A great storyline, vivid characters and an emotional journey make for a memorable read, but it’s the lure of sex that brought me to the few erotic romances I’ve indulged in, in the first place. True, the sex is usually that much hotter, because if written properly, you can almost feel the love between the characters and for me sex doesn’t get much hotter than when it’s done with someone you truly love.
In the end, it’s the sex that draws people to both erotica and porn. Yes the distinction is clear, but whether you choose to turn to erotica or porn to get your arousal fix, it really becomes a matter of taste and… perception.
The research for this week has been interesting, to say the least. My wife thanks you kindly.
I’m reminded of a skit Adam Sandler did back in the 90s called Sex or Weightlifting. The premise was fairly basic: he played an audio clip for random strangers and they had to guess whether it was someone having sex or lifting weights. Invariably, whichever answer they gave was wrong.
What does this have to do with porn vs. erotica? Well in both instances, it really comes down to perception. We’ll come back to that in a moment. First, I want to revisit the definitions from Wikipedia:
Pornography or porn is the explicit depiction of sexual subject matter, especially with the sole intention of sexually exciting the viewer. It is to a certain extent similar to erotica, which is the use of sexually-arousing imagery for mainly artistic purposes.
Erotica (from the Greek Eros - "desire") or "curiosa," works of art, including literature, photography, film, sculpture and painting, that deal substantively with erotically stimulating or sexually arousing descriptions. Erotica is a modern word used to describe the portrayal of the human anatomy and sexuality with high-art aspirations, differentiating such work from commercial pornography.[1] "Curiosa" is generally used to refer to erotica and pornography as discrete, collectible items, usually in published or printed form.
Various sub-genres of erotica exist. As with fiction as a whole, there are erotic stories with a science fiction, fantasy, horror or romance focus. Additionally, erotica can also focus on specific sexual behavior or fetishes such as BDSM, wearing uniforms, cross-dressing, polygamy and sexual promiscuity. Fan fiction featuring characters engaging in male homosexual acts has become known as slash fiction.
Distinction is often made between erotica and pornography (as well as the lesser known genre of sexual entertainment, ribaldry), although depending on the viewer they may seem one in the same. Pornography's objective is the graphic depiction of sexually explicit scenes. Pornography is often described as exploitative or degrading. Erotica, on the other hand, seeks to tell a story with sexual themes. It attempts to explore desire through mystery and intrigue.
In my humble opinion, it all boils down to what we want to believe. If a particularly narrow-minded person chances upon erotica book, hits the first sex scene and instantly labels it porn, there will not be enough definitions or persuasive arguments in the world to convince that person the book is anything but a sexual account and therefore dirty and all things dirty, as we know, are porn… or at least some would have us believe.
Sexuality is a marvelous thing, a glorious thing, a beautiful thing… a natural thing. Yet, there will always be those among us who are ashamed of their baser desires. I feel sorry for them.
Artistic merit, the empowerment of women and the eternal quest for love aside, why do we read erotica? We can find the above characteristics in any number of novels that take us to the bedroom door, offer us a tiny peek and gently shut it before they get down to the nitty gritty. No, for me (and I realize I may be alone here), the only reason I have ever read erotica is for the arousal factor. Are you not aroused?
A great storyline, vivid characters and an emotional journey make for a memorable read, but it’s the lure of sex that brought me to the few erotic romances I’ve indulged in, in the first place. True, the sex is usually that much hotter, because if written properly, you can almost feel the love between the characters and for me sex doesn’t get much hotter than when it’s done with someone you truly love.
In the end, it’s the sex that draws people to both erotica and porn. Yes the distinction is clear, but whether you choose to turn to erotica or porn to get your arousal fix, it really becomes a matter of taste and… perception.
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