The Next Big Thing

 

   

Last week I was tagged in the ongoing "Next Big Thing" series by the lovely and talented Rose Blackthorn...  http://roseblackthorn.wordpress.com/ 

 

I was both anxious and flattered by this development as I have no real "novel-type" works in progress and that seemed to be the line of questioning in the thing. Nonetheless, I did my best with the questions and here is what I came up with:

 

 

 

What is the working title of your book or story?

I’m working on a few different things at the moment, none of them anywhere near completion. One is a collaboration with Ryan Bridger to be called HUBBA HUBBA STEAMSHOVEL.  I also have a novella in the works entitled LOVING THE GIRL WITH X’S FOR EYES. And then there is DOMINOES.

Where did the idea come from for the book or story?

I never really know. Sometimes they jump into my head fully formed. Most times they come a piece at a time, like a scene will present itself and Ill note it and then later another scene shows itself and I decide they work well in the same idea and so on.

What genre does your book fall under?

They’d probably all fall beneath the banner of strange and surreal, maybe bizarro a little.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I’ve never given it much thought,  I don’t know...maybe once these are completed I’d have a better idea. I'd kind of like Tom Waits in there somewhere...and maybe Tim Curry.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book or story?

Satirically whacked out barbarian insanity in construction vehicle-machinery garb.

 Will your book or story be self-published or represented by an agency?

Far too early to say...by the time any of these see completion, there may be all new technology out there.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

We're still working on it. And the solo ideas, I'm picking at a little at a time.

What other books or stories would you compare this story to within your genre?

I think HUBBA HUBBA has the best chance of being finished anytime soon. It’s of similar tone to a lot of the Deadite Press stuff. Violent and ridiculous and completely entertaining.

Who or What inspired you to write this book or story?

John Skipp. Ryan and I were at KillerCon and I’m not sure how the idea came to life but we unofficially pitched it to Skipp, he seemed intrigued and excited and we thought, “Uh-oh, now we’ve got to write it.” And so we are.

What else about your book or story might pique the reader’s interest?

Well, there is a deep void in the area of futuristic apocalyptic wasteland dramas where a young man encounters very odd characters in his quest and is forced to dress up like a construction vehicle and fight against others to the death. We are trying to satirically deconstruct that genre. We also have shitty attention spans and it may take quite a while.

 

That's it. My feeble answers to the weighty questions. I now pass the torch to these five folks:

Ken Wood:  http://www.eyesoretimes.com/

Mark Allan Gunnells: http://markgunnells.livejournal.com/

Amanda C. Davis: http://amandacdavis.com/home

Violet LeVoit: http://violetlevoit.blogspot.com/

Micahel Wehunt: http://michaelwehunt.com/

 

 

 

 

A Short Story Boy In A Novel World: Guest blog by author Mark Allan Gunnells

Ladies and Gentlemen...I am once again loaning out the musty, dusty space of my neglected blog to a writery friend...so that they may breathe life into this cadaverous site and spread their gospel.

Behold!!!


A SHORT STORY BOY IN A NOVEL WORLD

 I have always considered myself a short story writer.  It is a form I have great passion for, and I feel I have an instinctual understanding of the pacing of short stories.  Since I was quite young, I have been crafting short fiction, honing my skill at providing the reader with a satisfying tale as well as a fully formed world and characters, all within a limited scope.  It has brought me great joy.

Not to give the impression that I have any negative feelings toward novels.  As a reader, I love the form; it’s just that as a writer I have always felt my talents lay more with short fiction.

But I’m also a writer who wants to stretch myself, challenge myself.  It’s the only real way to improve my craft.  And there are some ideas that come to me that just can’t be contained in a short or even a novella.  As a firm believer that the story should dictate its length, not the writer, I have to go where the idea takes me, even if it’s territory that scares me a little.

 And I won’t lie, writing novels does scare me a little.  I don’t approach them with the same sense of confidence I do short stories.  When I sat down to write THE QUARRY a couple of years ago, it was with a good amount of excitement, but quite frankly I was also terrified.  It wasn’t the first novel I’d ever written, but it was in fact the first novel I’d written since starting to publish, the first novel I wrote knowing that a publisher would be looking at it when I was done.

So how did I approach the writing of THE QUARRY?  First of all, I had to make a decision regarding to outline or not to outline.  All due respect to Shakespeare, but that is the real question.  I’ve never been much of an outliner before, I usually write “from the gut” as I like to say, just start and let the story whisk me away.  That works fine for shorts, but I figured a novel needed more structure.  Still, I couldn’t bring myself to do a full outline.  I need a little freedom, the opportunity for the story to spread its wings and lead me in unexpected directions.  So I did a loose outline, basically just notes about plot points that needed to happen at certain times, character relationships, the general direction of the story.  I figured that would give me a blueprint to keep me on track while still leaving enough room for the story to grow and evolve.  (In the end, I did find the story pretty much followed the path I had envisioned, but some supporting characters came to life in a way I didn’t expect and went in some interesting directions that were not a part of the original blueprint.)

 One thing I worried a great deal about with the novel was pacing.  With longer works, I felt I had a tendency to either drag things out to an excruciating degree, or rush everything.  With shorts, as I said, I felt I had an innate sense of that, but with novels I was felt I was always groping around like a blind man in an unfamiliar room.  All I really knew to do to combat my pacing problems was to make sure I always had something that at least pushed the plot forward, or raised questions, or surprised the reader, every so many chapters.  Whether I succeeded with that or not is entirely up to the reader to decide.

 I also employed a few other tactics when writing THE QUARRY.  First, I made the decision not to write any short stories during the writing of the novel.  I felt they would prove too much of a distraction and I would become tempted to just write one short after another, putting the novel on hold.  Also, I enlisted some friends whose opinions I trusted to read the novel as I wrote it.  I know some writers use beta readers when they’ve completed a manuscript, but I really wanted people reading each chapter as it was written so that they could let me know when the pace started to lag, when something was confusing, or if something just plain didn’t work.

So the writing of THE QUARRY was a lot more work than the short stories I love…but that is perhaps how it should be.  A novel in many ways is a much more ambitious project than a short.  There were times when I wanted to pull my hair out, times when I wondered if I was going to have anything worthwhile when I was done, but I am also happy to report that mostly it was a joy.  Short stories or novels, the act of creation is a source of much joy for me.

 When I first finished the book, it was hard to be objective about it.  I wasn’t sure if I loved it or hated it, but after some time and revision, I actually have a novel that I’m very proud to call my own, I put it out on the market through Evil Jester Press with a certain confidence.  And I hope people do enjoy the novel, that it entertains them and intrigues them.  And I hope they want to see more novels from me.

 Because while short stories remain my first love, I definitely plan to write more novels in the future.

 THE QUARRY can be purchased here:  http://www.amazon.com/Quarry-Mark-Allan-Gunnells/dp/0615598439/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_6

Happy Holidays!

"Twas The Night"

No snow. The sky like a cataract. A few ice-edged puddles lined the street, trapping soda cans and detritus in place. The breeze that toyed with the crumbling wreaths and faded red ribbons smelled of suplhur and oil. The reek of long ago progress.

Bob "Mr. Pickles" Hedress sat inn his dilapidated house, beside the window. He peered through the stained curtain and scrutinized the empty street. His work vehicle sat at the curb, a dinosaur carcass rotting to rust. The vinyl decal rainbow spots curling or missing. The carefully rendered script painted on the hood and doors, once proudly proclaiming "Mr Pickles, The Number One Party Clown" was now almost invisible beneath the coating of dust and grime. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Pickles" Bob wheezed as he drew a stinging drag from his fifth cigarette. Snakes of smoke coiled about his balding head like spectral fingers. He coughed and spat a piece of lung into the coffee can at his feet. Something moved in there, a small splash and a squeak as the mouse contniued to struggle not to drown in the mucous, blood and lung tissue. Bob sat the dirty plate he was holding over the mouth of the can and the squeaking muffled. "And a Merry Christmas to you, Cheeser."

###

Bob stood before the mirror and adjusted the hat. He had to roll the white fur an extra time to keep it from sliding over his eyes. Who would have thought you could actually lose weight on your head!? He buttoned the red suit and stuffed another pillow down the front of his pants. He recalled better years when he filled it out nicely, when the only accessory needed was the itchy fake beard. He picked up the sack, sewn from old bedsheets, and went back downstairs to the living room.

The dolls were piled nearly to the ceiling. All hand made, stitched from clothing and stuffed with hair. He thought of every child he had scalped, not really. They were already dead. The morning he awoke and found himself alone, the dead lined the streets, three deep in spots. After the flies took their wage and the wolves stole of bone, all that remained were remnants of clothing and hair. He salvaged that. He made something from them. Bodies of T-Shirt cloth and denim, filled with hair and mud. Into each doll was sewn a scrap of paper and upon each scrap a single word was scrawled.

He walked the streets and placed a doll before every door of every house he passed. He whistled and sang and stooped when he heard growling or saw red eyes glowering from dark spaces. He made it home before the night and re-took his spot by the window. He watched the clock as the minutes ticked by, scurrying like roaches in bright light. He took off the Santa hat and picked at the white fuzz that stuck to his lesions. He pressed his hot skin against cold window glass and uttered a word. The word he'd read about in college, in religous histories. The single word in the belly of every doll he made. "Emet".

###

Mr. Pickles sat at the window. His jokes all in order, his props all laid out and waiting on the table: The rubber chicken, a whoopie cushion,  a fake bouquet dusted with flour to make him sneeze when he sniffed them. He pushed the red rubber ball further onto his nose so the putty would adhere it in place. His smile broadened at the sound of the first furtive footfalls on the warped lumber of his porch. He heard dusty giggling and small voices. He sighed deeply and smiled with exaggeration. He stood and walked to the door on clown-shoed feet. You cannot disappoint children.

All I got was a rock...

Holy Cow! I have not posted anything on here since May?! I suck.  But I have been sort of busy. Honest.

JULY:

...saw me attend my first ever writer-type gathering. Nick Contor (another of my Shock Totem brothers) flew out from where ever the fuck it is he lives...not Arizona. He and I then drove from Pennsylvania to Bristol, Rhode Island to attend the legendery NECON. A very cool gathering of some big names in the genre of dark and fantastical fiction. Over 8 hours in a car, nearly 100 degree heat and too many fucking bridges ( I'm  Gephyrophobic) made for a wonderfully interesting journey.  We arrived at our destination and met up with our esteemed leader Ken Wood. The weekend was full of great conversations and friends, both old and new. Ken killed a pillow and threew a booger on the floor. Violet LeVoit astounded with her rendition of "Bizarre Love Triangle" at the Scary-Oke. While John Skipp pummelled with his version of "The Banana Boat Song."  I was a Skipp fanboy to the highest power BEFORE Necon and meeting him in person, it went off the charts, so much so that I presented him with a 10 pound chunk of the delicacy that is Lebanon Bologna. I was also lucky enough to finally meet the wonderful Jack Ketchum...a sweet and soft spoken fellow, a fantastic writer. There were others too numerous to list but everyone I met was cool.

I was also painfully reminded as to the reason I do not drink. I have an alcohol allergy. The slightest sip will have me bed-bound and vomitting within the half hour, and this harsh lesson also cost me missing out on the most fun of late night activities on the last night there. Of course, being the sympathetic friends they are, Ken and Nick saw fit to come in peridoically and tell me what I was misseing out on. Over all, a great, great time was had.

AUGUST:

CF and I travelled to the wilds of Clearfield, Pa to see veteran 80's bands Cinderella, Firehouse and Slaughter perform. It was a good show.  The rest of that month cruised by as usual, working, spending whatever time I can with the family and slacking off when I should be writing.

SEPTEMBER.

A train delivered one, Ken Wood to Harrisburg and a plane dropped off one, Jeremy Wagner to the airport. I colelcted them both and with CF in tow, we travelled to Gettysburg to the notorious HORRORFIND convention. This was an amazing weekend, the highest point of which was finally meeting James Newman, in the flesh. James is one of the best fucking writers around today, that sadly most aren't aware of. You need to remedy that!  But he and I have been online friends since 2001 or 2 when we both used to hang on the old Horror Channel board...It was a great thing to finally meet him and his family. Jeremy was a treat to finally meet as well, even if we all bopped around playing some sort of "friend tag volley ball" all weekend. I met more cool writery folk: Tim Lebbon, Christopher Golden and Norman Prentiss...and CF and Jamie Newman were trying to pick up hot actory chicks. It was a blast!

Which brings us to now, end of October.  Last year I made a goal to publish 8 pieces within the year and I succeeded and wrapped up 2010 with 10 pieces out there somewhere. This year I left the goal the same.  I have not sold a thing. I have two subs out currently and more unfinished rough drafts that I can count on two hands. That is all. Laziness. Lack of motivation. Lack of discipline. When it comes to writing, I am my own worst enemy. I fight myself to get anything accomplished. I'm a slacker  I gotta work on that.

No Pain Or Strain, Just Sit There And Let It Drain...

I like to write. I am also one of Ken's evil henchmen over at SHOCK TOTEM. We have lots of flash fiction events on our forum. I try and participate in most. below are some of the turdly offerings I have entered, and oddly most have met with nice words of slight praise! Bear in mind these are from the one hour flash contest. As in 60 minutes to conceive, execute and post a story under 1000 words, so there is little in the way of editing here.


“Untitled”


The dance starts slow, winding as a serpent. Her cold hands tied to mine. Her icy lips, between my teeth. “This hand is your hand, this hand is my hand,” I hum and she rolls her eyes over white. The tiny sigh that escapes her mouth flies to the moon, a bat. The grey drizzle soaks my rat skin cape; my saviour coat. I hammer the sidewalk with my feet, in exaggerated soft shoe style a shadow tap dancer. Her petite feet drag like whispers from a drunken tongue. I sigh and drink more from her mouth. Thick sins and tangy regrets. Her short life so heavily stitched with cheap threads of despair. Sometimes, in this business, I feel like I am actually doing one a favor. Sometimes. “From California, to the New York island.”

The streets are dead, all closed store fronts and shells of buildings. Tall boxes of brick and black glass, offer us mirrored audience. Whirlwinds of trash and leaves, spiral around the gutters. I spin and sway and she withers in my arms, the golden fleece to my Jason embrace. Saliva and blood like webs between our lips. I swallow the last of her soul. Then fold her like a handkerchief, small and square, she fits into my pocket. The pocket of my saviour coat, she nestles with the detritus that lives there: a razor, a lozenge, a holiday promise and she. “This land was made for you and me.”



"What It Is To Burn"


All around him was white and ice and frozen and dead. The wind was stuck in mid breeze, a visible swoosh in pale gray air. Those who walked dodged frozen curlicues of breath like bullseyes. Birds were welded to wires and ledges with frost. The night had been so frigid it has shattered and lay on the ground like black glass. Everything seemed carved from white ice, creepily serene sculptures of once water. Amidst all of this stood Alan, literally steaming.

Alan stood seething, as always. So much anger and rage, about everything and nothing. His birth pissed him off, his aging annoyed him. he found free will aggravating. Incensed by existence, he walked alone in this wretched place. So very cold, so void of heat and warmth. He walked the paths and people turned away, faces buried beneath layers of scarf and wool. Leather and fur. "Hello" he said, in his best mimicry of polite behavior. A small child, boy or girl, who could tell beneath the shapless mass of clothing, stopped before him.

"Mphfo" a small voice filtered through layers of cable knitting. Alan smiled as the parent grabbed the waif and dragged it away, angrily. Alan's smile slipped and fell to the ground.

He cast his smoldering eyes upward, and cursed the God that put him here. What a punishment it is to burn alone in a world of ice.




.We host these challenge every other Saturday night on our forum. http://www.shocktotem.com/

Come join in the madcap shenanigans!

On Becoming A Writer... by Lee Thompson

On Becoming a Writer…



Hi there! Are you ready to go on an adventure? Saddle up, bring your rifle, and make sure you have plenty of water. Trials and joys shape writers.


Once upon a time a young boy, a prince, lived in the country. He didn't sleep well at night (because he felt most alive when everyone else slept, he was free to do whatever without being judged, he could dream with eyes wide open) but the King made him feel bad for it anyway. The prince frustrated the King about a lot of things (the prince was more imaginative than practical, had more heart than brains, and his nerves were very close to the surface—everything was an explosion of wonderful sight and sound and textures.) Like most boys who grow beneath punishing hands and critical tongues, he doubted himself, and eventually he grew angry. He and Father threw sticks, then rocks, then cannon balls at each other.


When the prince became a teenager he searched for truth, casted silly spells, lay on the roof at night, staring sadly at stars. Nothing ever got better. He and the King were headed for a showdown. He lifted weights and studied martial arts because he was afraid that one day his dad would hurt him bad. The boy learned discipline without even meaning to. He found confidence in focused repetition, in learning new techniques (much as he would find immense joy with those things later—in his twenties playing guitar, and in his thirties writing.)



He loved his father as much as he hated him. But one day, when the prince was seventeen, they fought and the prince had to move. He went to his uncle's house—they shot guns a lot when not cutting trees up in the forest. And at night the uncle took the prince along to his second job.


The seedy little bar sat out in the country by Shays Lake where the black people lived. It had bad lighting, women slowly shedding skin on a cheap stage, booze in cold bottles. He'd always been happy by himself. He wasn't a social teenage butterfly. The bar of dancing ladies wearing thongs and false smiles made his skin itch, even though the women both aroused and frightened him. He witnessed bad things, drank too much every night for a few years, on his way to being an alcoholic—the whole time still angry, untrusting, cautious.


He spent his twenties moving around—out of state, between family and friends houses, his own places (until he lost them due to his decision to drink instead of pay all his rent), he worked various jobs: from logger in Michigan to installing professional fitness equipment in 13 states, landscaping in Michigan and Tennessee to utility work and building custom decks in Colorado.) He'd been homeless a few times, lived in a half-way house, picked himself back up, and got his shit together for a while until he let old patterns get the better of him. He played guitar live and wrote songs and there were some clear, sober times that gave him a taste of a more stable (and creative) life. He got off on the discipline again. It in itself was rewarding. Finishing things, doing the best job he could, were things he could take pride in.


In his mid-to-late twenties the prince started writing a novel to get some aggression out, examine who he really was (both good and bad), and because he just loved to read at that point. He didn't see the King much and at times he missed the Queen horribly because she'd always been good to him.


Then one day in his late twenties the Queen's brain shorted out.


The young man's heart broke.


The King's heart too.

The Queen lay in a coma and the castle walls trembled as the rest of the family lost their anchor. They wept regret and blood and guilt.


But the Queen didn't die. Nor did she stay asleep. She woke on a cold gray morning surrounded by run-down and rumpled versions of King and Prince. She was confused and frightened because her body wouldn't do what she wanted it to, and worse she didn't remember anyone.


A tightly wound cord snapped between King and Prince. They had to work together for the Queen's sake. They both choose to grow up and truly appreciate what they had and stop crying about what they didn't. They worked together, with softer hearts, more gentle and encouraging words, and slowly the Queen improved. So, suddenly there was genuine tenderness and respect and compromise where mostly fear, self-loathing, chaos, and selfishness roosted before.


The King became a husband and father.


The prince became a man who saw that though some circumstances are tragic they also bind our hearts in love, strength and maturity.


***

Addiction, relationship problems, and family secrets fill my characters minds in NURSERY RHYMES 4 DEAD CHILDREN—the desire to be accepted, respected, to know our purpose and shed delusions while loving as openly and honestly as possible. The three main characters all have a big part of my personality from various points in my life. I've done some horrible things and some good things, and like my characters some choices make me proud and some haunt me.


John McDonnell (my lead character) is torn by choices. He's a wreck. An alcoholic of guilt. Only his problems are much larger than mine ever were. I think at the start of the novel he's a strong mix of me in my teens and early twenties. I hurt for him because I remember what it's like to be Afraid. To wonder if you're making the right choices, to feel as if the world is pulling you apart and there's not damn much you can do about it. For John it's all about the mystery of life, regret, and choices.



Michael Johnston (other lead character and John's best friend) is mostly me now. I like to get things done. I protect those I care about it. And even though I have a solid dozen people I think are wonderful I'm still pretty much a loner. It makes me feel weird sometimes. But like Mike, I have faith in myself, and faith in those who've shown they are responsible, reliable, and respectful. His past haunts him, too. There are things he learns on his journey that could destroy him if he let them. For Mike it's all about planning, committing, and action.



-Lee Thompson:
http://alongthispathsodarkly.blogspot.com/

A Valentine

“This Twilight Garden”




    The lot was hedged with thick shrubs and squat bushes. Where there were gaps, there was fence. Nice, tall ,plank fence. Miller stared up at the moon with wet eyes and spoke quietly to no one. He picked up the spade and knelt beside the garden. A small rectangle of tilled earth adjacent to the unused garage. He gouged and turned the soil and watched the dislodged worms as they squirmed and wriggled back into hiding. He swiveled and took one handle of the black cargo bag that sat on the grass. He unzipped it and took out his newest trophy.

    The pale green silk of the handkerchief had darkened from the blood that soaked it. He looked at the heart in the moonlight; a fist of glistening black muscle. It had held all of her love. He gently placed it in the furrow and covered it with dirt. He picked up the small marker he had made, a ruler-sized sliver of wood with a name written upon it in flowing cursive. This one was Emily. She had actually kissed him. Her lips dry and trembling, tasting of fruit flavored wax. He picked up the watering can and sprinkled its contents over the tiny mound, as well as the six other marked mounds and their name stakes…

   Mary, the one who had held his hand. Thelma, the tall girl with the birthmark over her ear. She talked to him for hours, but never listened. Carrie, plain and sweet but so full of slef loathing. Sara, the dark haired dirty girl, her eager hands were her downfall. Alice, she wanted money and fame and was gone as soon as it was made clear Miller could suplly neither. Patricia, the quiet girl. She smiled and listened and did all the right things, but in the end, she just was not the one.

   His knees popped as he stood and looked at the garden and the markers. It was like a miniature cemetery. He went back into the house to get something to eat, and to prepare for his evening.

Lonliness is a lot like a too big room or ill fitting clothes. These girls had all been loved by him but at some point sought to leave him. They all broke his heart. He knew it was not their fault. The heart is a seed. It can only grow as much as the hull will allow, and if the seed is damaged or sick, then it will grow monstrous and wrong. If you love something set it free…

  He decided to free the seeds and plant anew. He stood at the kitchen window and watched the moonlight soak his garden. As he chewed on a bite of pear, he saw the ripples in the soil. Small rolling waves. He saw the fingers as they sprouted from the earth and reached towards the sky. He saw the arms extend. They were growing. He saw the arms and head break through the earth, the moonlight painted dusty breasts silver. It was working.

   He sat at the table and straightened his tie. Seven heart-shaped boxes of candy and seven single roses waited on the wooden surface. He heard muffled groans and the sound of bare feet on patio tile. The cloying smell of earth was coming through the window screen. He licked his fingers,smoothed down his hair, and wished he had a mint.

The End


 
Thoughts on the story:  I really don't have much to offer here. We, the folks behind SHOCK TOTEM, had such a blast doing the Christmas shorts, that we decided it would be a hoot to tackle other holidays. The only funky fact of note, is that when Ken asked me if I had an idea for a Valentine's flash, I told him I did. And that it involved a man who was planting hearts. Ken scoffed: "No way! My idea has a guy harvesting hearts."  Oddly ironic.
 
HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!