To Hell with Preciousness

 

The Evil Gatekeeper 

A message for all you would-be fiction writers out there who think your words are too precious to alter: Be prepared to rewrite or be prepared to self-publish. It's that simple. Don't wanna work with the so-called "Gatekeepers" who don't "get" you or who you believe want to squash your vast talent? Cool. Keep banging away on those keyboards and tablets and maybe, just maybe, you will find one or two people willing to publish your work as-is every single time. You might even hit the Big Time that way, except you most likely won't.

Writing for an audience doesn't mean whatever you write is what the audience should accept. While I'm no fan of writing specifically for other people, I am aware that other people are the ultimate goal for anyone sending their work out for consideration. Do you think singers only want to hear themselves in the shower? Of course not. And any singer who wants to leave that shower and be heard isn't going to tell everyone they audition for how stupid they are and how they don't recognize talent when they hear it.

I'm sure you can find a story or two to "prove me wrong" as if such an infinitesimal number proves anything.

Ultimately, writing is a craft. Crafts involve being scrutinized and going back to the drawing board. I'm sorry if your parents told you everything you wrote was brilliant and refused to stifle your imagination when you were out in public and should have been in the moment. Participation trophies are awesome, but they don't mean much more than, "I showed up and failed to distinguish myself." Translating that mentality to submitting fiction will not get you far.

Recently, I submitted a short story to a publisher who wrote back telling me they enjoyed the story but felt it dragged in the beginning and needed some rewriting to fit better with the types of stories they publish. Well, I don't mind telling you I was offended as all hell! I fired up the old PC and let loose with a string of invective that would make John McEnroe blush! I told this gatekeeper they were a fool with limited vision who didn't understand the brilliance they had been handed. How dare you, I wrote, tell me my story needs work? That's just an opinion! You are not worthy of my time or my very stable genius.

I don't mind telling you all of that because it's absolute bullshit. I would never and have never done that.

Have I encountered publishers and editors I determined were not very intelligent based on the feedback they provided? Of course. This field is like any other. Not everybody deserves their job. But I kept my mouth shut and moved on to someone else. That's how it works. Anything else is a temper tantrum.

So, yes. I am rewriting the story for this publication. Within the context of this publication's esthetic, the feedback is spot-on. There's a reason an editor would write the following, "You are a very talented writer and I have published you many times because of that. Would you be willing to rewrite your story to streamline it and pick up the pace?"

I earned that by taking feedback and applying it. Preciousness gets you nowhere except the back of the bitter barn.

That's my feedback. Take it for it's worth or condemn me for misunderstanding your stunning brilliance. it's up to you.

My Letter to Governor Whitmer

 Below is a copy of the letter I sent Michigan Governor Whitmer regarding her abrupt about-face in light of a pandemic that has actually gotten worse since last year:

Governor Whitmer, With all due respect, I feel that you have abandoned your constituency. Last year, when the pandemic was new and you sided with logic and reason, your decisions were sound and your unwavering support of mitigation measures was an inspiration to those of us dealing with the science deniers and gun-totin' extremists. However, since your ability to effectively order lockdowns was taken away by an opportunistic Republican legislature, you have slowly begun acting as if the pandemic has become little more than a minor inconvenience. Gone are the briefings, the recommendations to MDHHS and, frankly, any real acknowledgement of what you so fervently supported in 2020. It is as if you were replaced by an imposter. All I see now is your smiling face in photo op after photo op, dancing amidst the flames of reality. Michigan is worse off now than it was last year. Your tone deaf refrain about vaccinations is meaningless when we already know the latest variant isn't halted by the vaccine. And for those of us who have several months to go before we qualify for a booster, your flippant attitude feels like a betrayal. There are only two things that have changed since last year, and anyone with the ability to observe can see them both. One, Donald Trump is no longer in office. While this is a positive change and President Biden is indeed taking the pandemic seriously, he is also facing a resistant Republican effort to curtail his intentions. Second, you are facing reelection. In fact, you have been in reelection mode since the end of 2020. I won't speculate on your motivations because that would be arrogant, but I doubt my suspicions are too far off the mark. Governor, we need you more this year than last. People are dying in greater numbers and hospitals are full. Please don't try to spin these deaths as only the unvaccinated because that is a patently false claim. My wife's vital surgery was rescheduled because of this latest variant. She was one of your most ardent supporters but now I fear you are close to losing both of us as well as many others who once stood behind "That Woman From Michigan."

Thank you for your time~

A Song in Mah Heart

 You're about to read something I have not spoken of to anyone in a very long time. In fact, it's safe to say none of you knew anything about this side of me because most of you "met" me well after I had already put an end to it. So, it never came up in those conversations where people asked me about my writing and nobody ever got the chance to read any of it.

That's right. It was written work. But not the kind you're used to seeing from me. These were songs.

I started writing them when I was thirteen and experiencing several different types of awakenings my peers had not. My growing disgust with them and with myself for being one of them and at society in general spawned some of the most glorious failures ever put to verse. I had neither the life experience nor the skillset to make most of them work, but the songs demanded to be written. And so I wrote them. I got better, too. Much better. By the time I was an adult, I'd written well over a hundred "albums'" worth of material, some of if pretty damn good, too. 

My gaze directed ever inward, I wrote songs about unrequited love, (a huge theme in my shy days) songs about that never-ending feeling of unfulfillment that had dogged me since puberty, songs about relationships I'd not even experienced yet, and songs about human apathy and greed. I also experimented heavily with first person narrative in my songwriting, often presenting the singer as the subject of a song about someone truly reprehensible. For example, in a song I called "The Corporate Kingdom," the narrator unapologetically refrains, "I am just a man with ambition/On an economic mission" in a mock Country-Western warble. The subject isn't just greed; it's also the celebratory manner with which some people extoll the virtues of that greed and have no problem being all alone in the world. 

Thanks to Talking Heads and XTC and later on King Missile and Cake, I was comfortable with satire and even self-parody, something that has informed my fiction and non-fiction writing for years now. 

One of my favorites, "Echoes in the Dust," has lyrics my father could not comprehend. He grew more and more frustrated as he read the lines, "A fragile world of glass comes crashing down/And all the lies of love start flying around/He lied to her and she lied in return/Now there's nothing left, watch it all burn." I felt the meaning was clear as a newborn baby's phlegm, but my father just grunted. If only I had performed it for him. 

That's where things get a little weird. Since I became a fan of music in the New Wave era, I was obsessed with lyrics. I wouldn't go as far as Talking Heads guitarist Jerry Harrison and say music without words in meaningless, but I definitely feel music with words is much more meaningful. That's especially true if the words have a true meaning beyond, "My boyfriend is a prick" or "That bitch owe me money." I wanted to tell stories with my songs. And sometimes I wanted to vent all my impotent rage. These were lyrical snapshots of moments and moods I could revisit and reexperience whenever I felt the need or desire. But what about the music?

I never learned to play an instrument or how to write music. Every song I ever wrote resided in my head. There were moments where I thought about sitting down with a musician and working them out, but I never had the confidence to go through with it. Then life got in the way. 

If you're wondering where all those hundreds of songs wound up, might I suggest you check the landfill? Yes, I destroyed them. All of them. 

I won't go into great detail about that except to say that when you've had your heart ripped from your chest, squeezed in front of you until the blood is gone, and then thrust back in, the desire to write songs can be the greatest casualty. I never wrote another song.

Or did I?

A few weeks ago, something strange happened. That sound, that distant musical sound I hadn't heard in years, returned. I ignored it at first, figuring it was little more than an echo of a previous time, a part of me that no longer existed. But it persisted and soon I had song titles written down. Once again, that was where things seemed to end. I decided that was fine. But the music would not be denied. 

I have now written five songs in a tiny notebook the size of the palm of my hand. I damn near cried when it started happening. I'd thought that part of me long dead, not simply asleep. I find myself unable to stop now. In fact, as I write this, the chorus to a song I called "Temporary" is incessantly playing itself over and over in my head. 

These songs gaze inward in ways I was incapable of accomplishing in my younger years. My anger isn't gone, but it doesn't control the direction of the songs as much as it once did. There is a song about human apathy called "Big Release" but its tone is decidedly sympathetic to the idiots in the song. With lyrics such as, "Look to your right/What do you see?/The misinformed yearning to be free" it feels as if I have compassion for people I also find reprehensible. We are, after all, human beings desperately craving relevance.

Who knows what other songs I will write before I have what would be considered an album's worth of material? What I do know is I feel alive in ways I have not for years. Perhaps that is the greatest song o them all~

Another Place to Order Some of My Work.

 I happened upon "ReaderIQ" which has some of my work available for sale.

Click here for the link.

You Can't Invent this Level of Horror!

 Writers of dark fiction love to plumb the depths of the human psyche and the spiritual realm in the hopes of either scaring the absolute crap out of their readers or, if they like to aim a little higher, making some type of hopefully meaningful comment on the human condition and the various masks we wear in our lives. This usually involves a well-developed imagination and a willingness to face our fears that not everyone possesses. We may not always succeed, but our aim is sincere and worthy. However, there are some terrors that defy our best attempts.

May I present to you one such example?

Gaze, dear readers, upon...

The creepiest couple ever!

Okay, she's not really all that creepy. She's more creepy by association. Mr. Cherwenka, however, is the kind of character I would mentally dismiss as too over-the-top, too absurd, and too off-putting to be effective in a work of fiction. It isn't enough that he is an artificial-lifeform real estate investor whose income seems to also involve getting people to pay him to tell them about how he does it. It isn't enough that the back cover of the book pictured above features both he and his spouse half-naked in workout clothes and that his pic looks seriously photo-shopped. 

See for yourselves:

You're probably thinking, "Okay, that's pretty disturbing. Surely that's the whole story and I may now go scrub my eyes and brain with a scouring pad." 

Well, hold on to your SOS pads, because we're just getting started!

You see, Cherwenka claims to be a Born Again Christian whose wealth and success are a direct result of pleasing Jesus. Apparently, all the Christian Messiah requires of his followers is a real estate license and killer abs. In his testimony entitled, "Stripped Bare by the Lord," Cherwenka reveals how he came to be a devout follower of Christ, and it starts with his days as a male exotic dancer. This came about, he says, when some female students at his college dared him to enter a contest where he wound up winning $500.00. He then became a dancer with a male revue at $100.00 per night. Big Money for a college student in the Eighties. 

Cherwenka went on to become rather well-known in the field, appearing on Phil Donahue and Jerry Springer and garnering equal parts admiration and envy, the latter from his fellow male revue dancers who didn't like all the publicity he was enjoying. Of course, he was able to establish a new male revue with dancers working for him, and it was one of them who started Cherwenka on the road to personal salvation. This dancer "gave his life to Christ in 1993" and set about doing what all Evangelical Christians feels they are commanded to do when encountering a non-believer. He actively began preaching the Word. 

In what seems like a steady stream of subtext-filled odd word choices, Cherwenka writes that his former employee was, "going to witness to me hard and heavy." But he wasn't interested in what his friend was peddling, so Cherwenka went through the motions by saying The Sinner's Prayer without actually meaning it. That was when, he claims, God took major umbrage and came down on him like a bag of anvils landing on a bag of rabid cats. 

The male revue began suffering from infighting and a lack of focus, his wife wanted a divorce despite having given him a child, she wound up with pneumonia when she went back into touring as an exotic dancer, and they had a stolen vehicle situation. As far as he is concerned, this was God's way of showing how unamused He was by Cherwenka's insincere and flippant attitude. In his own words, "Times were getting so bad that God put the writing on the wall, 'Either give your life to me or I'm going to take it.'"

God was going to "take" his life if he didn't choose to follow Him.

Sometime later, Cherwenka writes that his religious friend encouraged him to go see a guy with the last name of "Schwartz." Again, I can't make this kind of stuff up! This individual convinced our hero that he was miserable because he was separated from his Creator, the God who had low-key threatened to murder him if he couldn't manage to become a follower. Cherwenka's account of his interaction with Schwartz includes how "unclean" he felt and how he wept like a child as he realized his desire to please his heavenly father.

That didn't stop him from being a male stripper though. At least not right away. There was still Big Money to be made after all. But he did tell his guys the Christmas show was to be the last one. He was Born Again. Saved. A self-described "brand new creation." But somehow one last stripping expo to celebrate Christ's birth was just what the reverend ordered! 

Wiggle it...just a lil' bit...

Hey, he was under contract! It's not as if true believers have been willing to be imprisoned for their faith throughout history. It's all about convenience. And one thing that isn't convenient is knowing where your money is going to come from when you've left your successful career...ahem...behind. 

Thankfully for him, Cherwenka took notice of a foreclosure seminar advertised in the newspaper in 1995. Realizing it's not profiting off of someone else's suffering if you buy the property with the intent of fixing it up, he went for it and failed spectacularly thanks to having been defrauded by a wholesaler. Our hero had expected God to cut him some slack now that he was a devoted Christian but it didn't seem to be working out that way. He was sleeping in the properties he was renovating with no utilities and showering at a truck stop.  Then he went and spoke to a pastor with the last name of, and remember I'm not making any of this up, "Cox."

He...slept in empty houses and showered at...truck stops and visited Pastor Cox...

😕

The pastor ministered to him and asked him how much money he needed. I'm sorry, I need a moment to separate myself from all this subtext!

Talk amongst yourselves...

Okay, I'm back! 

Cherwenka asked, umm, the pastor if God still intervenes in the lives of people in the 21st Century. He asked this in 1996, which makes him either incredibly forward-thinking or someone who forgot what century he was writing about. Either way, kudos. Naturally, Cox believed that God does indeed do that. So, our hero, who felt "compelled" to cut his shoulder-length hair (the last vestige of his dancin' daze, which he maintained because it was a...visual aid for his testimonials?) and then his narrative jumps to him having a nervous breakdown while a radio minister preached the word. Like all self-pitying Christians, he likened himself to Job. To be honest, his story mirrors Job's in some significant ways.

However, Cherwenka received a reprieve in what could very well be a miraculous event. In his own words:

"Tuesday morning I  woke  up  after  sleeping at the  property, and  two huge  trees  on  the side  of the  house  where  I  needed  to put a driveway were  split in  half by lighting (see pictures  below) and  there  is  no other  storm damage  in  the  county! Neither  tree  fell on  the  two houses  I  was  working on, nor  did  I  hear  a noise  in  my sleep. My spirits were  restored  and  GOD’S  greatness  was  in  my presence."

The picture provided does indeed show trees that have been struck by lightning and, if his account is to be believed, is is rather interesting that they were the only thing to be struck in the entire county. That's actually an impressive story.

Since then, Cherwenka got back on his feet and became a successful wholesale real estate guy. According to a quick online search, he and wife Tolla (pictured on the book) married in 2014. His first wife, despite becoming Born Again in 1996, did not stay with him. He views his business as his ministry, mentioning how he finds deals for people as if it has holy significance. But what's really fascinating is how Cherwenka attributes horrible moments in his life to the perfect God he follows in a way that is akin to an abused child excusing his parent's horrible behavior.

For example, one day in 1998 while on his knees playing with his child, he began wondering why he no longer got on his knees to pray. His infant son started choking and the frightened dad had to call 911. The child was eventually fine, but as far his father was concerned, this was God telling him not to "get too comfortable." A year prior, he hired his brother-in-law to do some painting on a property he owned and spoke harshly to him for not getting the job done on time, a move he describes as Un-Christ-like. Never mind that Jesus was reproachful of people not doing what they were supposed to do on at least four occasions. Never mind that nonsense. Cherwenka wound up placing too much gas on a trash fire and burning down an acre of forest. His conclusion? 

"God was telling me to keep my cool to avoid the heat."

No remorse for the burned land or the animals that might have died as a result. The whole thing was just about him.

His child nearly chokes to death and it's God communicating with him. He burns down a section of forest and God is using that to tell him to cool it.

Sadly, a lot of performers are narcissists. This is especially true when those performers are known for what they look like. A person like that who discovers religion would naturally gear it towards his own benefit. And part of that would look like a person trying to help people. This isn't to say that Mike Cherwenka is some sort of freewheelin' sociopath. He may be a lovely human being who truly cares about others. I mean, don't most real estate moguls want you to see what their bodies look like with fewer clothes on?

Source

Print Edition Available!!!

 

The Fall 2021 edition of the Horror Zine featuring my story "Package" is now available for ordering in both kindle and paperback!

Click for deets!

And then slap me right across the mouth for writing "Deets."

My latest short story

 The November issue of The Horror Zine has arrived and with it my latest short story "Package".

Click here to read it.

Editorial Praise

 "Well, Christopher, you did it again. Your story is brilliant. I absolutely love it. Your ending took even me by surprise, and that is hard to achieve.

You also write professionally, so the edits are minimal....

Let me know if you approve the edits. Some day I will do another "Best of The Horror Zine" antho and this story will definitely be included.

See attached. Let me know if you approve the edits.

Thanks,

Jeani Rector, Editor"

"Looks great! Thanks so much for the kind words!"

"Wonderful. You know, you really can write. I'll be in touch."

Told'ja I used to do Stuff!

 

My Unacknowledged Letter to the Atlantic

 Back in December of 2020, the Atlantic ran an article called, “Why Some Libraries are Ending Fines.”

I happened to run across it while looking into going fine free at the library where I work and I found its large number of inaccuracies so off-putting, I decided to write a letter clearing them up. That was earlier this year and, so far, I have received no response. I don't expect, either. The lack of accountability in today's press is practically insurmountable.

However, never to let a worthwhile piece vanish into the ether, I have decided to reproduce it below:

I feel the need as a library employee to point out the inaccuracies in your December 4, 2020 Atlantic Article, “Why Some Libraries are Ending Fines.”

As Head of Circulation at a library, I am currently in the process of evaluating whether or not going fine free is a worthy choice for us and the community we serve. Having worked for a library that did indeed go fine free, I have mixed feelings about the practice and not-so-mixed feelings about the flawed rationale behind implementing it.

In the process of conducting research on the pro and con sides of the debate, I ran across your article. While it definitely contains some useful data, it also presents several inaccurate claims and relies much too heavily on skewed demographic data to be of much use. I have listed the issues below:

 

1.       Your article relies almost exclusively on major metropolitan area libraries and asserts that all libraries should follow suit without allowing for differences in demographics, income and political climate.

2.       You mention how “collecting fines and blocking accounts can be time-consuming, stressful, and unpleasant for librarians” when in reality librarians rarely if ever deal with any of those things except peripherally. The Circulation department deals with those things and we are often disregarded by the press and the public who assume everyone in a library is a librarian. Does your doctor draw your blood? Does the law clerk represent you in court? Yet for some reason, only librarians work in libraries.

3.       When you do actually mention a town other than a major East or West Coast city, you mercifully omit its name and location but you once again attribute an experience that most likely involved someone working in Circulation. Also, the assertion made during this anecdote that incidents such as these shake the foundations of the public trust is absurd.

4.       Piggybacking off that previous sentence, your paragraph claiming fines can “cause general discomfort and even ill will in a community” can be countered by the uncountable number of patrons who have expressed to me their disgust at the library going fine free. Yet I see no attempt to speak with those individuals. In fact, there’s no attempt made to present the con side of the debate beyond a few brief mentions of lost revenue. You clearly advocate a side, and that’s fine, but the inaccuracies diminish the argument.

5.       Finally, you espouse the “barrier to service” argument made by so many Children’s librarians around the country. This argument holds that fines are somehow a “barrier to service,” as if patrons are somehow barred from entering the building and taking advantage of the services and materials while they are there. While the concept of the lending library is an ingrained part of our society, so too is the concept of personal and civic responsibility. Borrowing items makes one part of a social contract that involves returning items so other patrons may also borrow them. Fine free removes a consequence from not honoring that obligation…until they suddenly receive a replacement fee, of course.

 

 This letter is in no way meant as a slam or series of insults, so my apologies if it comes off that way. Having worked for several libraries and never as a librarian, I have become sensitive to the fact that non-librarians are often disregarded and discounted when the press writes about libraries. 

Thank you for your time.

On Being Told What to Write

 

So, here we are again entering the horrifying world of Prior Review and Content Control. I swear this topic comes up every so often as a matter of course these days, and nowhere is it more prevalent outside of politics than in the world of genre fandom. This particular incident was pretty extreme, reminding me of a certain Batman movie's devoted, fanatical base about twelve years ago whose ire and outrage resulted in several attacks when I posted a link to my review on the now defunct Yahoo! Message Boards.

This time was different, however. Not only did it take place on Facebook, but it also resulted in a volley of personal and professional attacks. The fanboy Battalion has mutated since those days of simply telling a person they were wrong and sending threatening emails to professional film critics for not liking a movie they adored. 

I wouldn't have even known about this if not for the fact that a Facebook friend had posted her views on James Gunn's "The Suicide Squad" by referring to it as basically a stupid failure. I concurred, posting my blog post/review to show her just how much. You can read that here. I saw a dissenting comment from a guy whose name shall remain undisclosed (I'll refer to him as "Soy" based on a comment another friend made) which I read and immediately forgot all about. However, at some point between me not being online for a while and finally going back on, my Facebook friend had unfriended and blocked this individual for comments she found obnoxious.

Like any juicy scandal-loving 'Murican, I decided to look him up. To my delight, I found that he had reposted the above review and written a disdainful commentary about it. This was so his like-minded, sycophantic followers could start making insulting comments about the review itself, the writing of it, and the various word choices they deemed pretentious. The post was public, so it was easy for me to jump in, first by thanking Soy for the repost and then responding to some of the comments about the review. I found it interesting how Soy kept trying to make it seem as if me seeing negative comments about something I wrote was some sort of turnabout is fair play situation instead of an expected part of being a writer...Almost as if he was some uber-nerd twit who didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

This suspicion was compounded by the fact that he seemed hellbent on telling me what I should have written, and how I should have written it. The review, in his opinion, lacked "nuance," a word he seemed to have just learned sometime this week and couldn't  wait to use over and over until he sounded like a special needs parrot. I began to wonder: What exactly had him so upset and offended? My dislike of the material, the way I presented it, or the fact that I didn't gently take him by the hand and explain every sentence and word choice so he didn't soil his diaper? I suspect it was all three.

In the midst of Soy's kiss-ass geek patrol calling my writing terrible and saying how much it sucked, he kept telling me how I should have written my review. Oh, and he used the word "nuance."

A lot.

I've dealt with guys like this before. They represent both cheeks on the political butt. Extreme righties tend to indulge the behavior more often, but extreme lefties do it, too. The tactic is to lure the person onto their page, insult them and then let their friends attack them from all angles while appearing to be the reasonable one "just trying to make a point." It is a tactic employed by both bully and bullied alike. It hasn't ever worked on me when dealing with people who were much better at it, and it sure as shit didn't work on me this time.

The intellectual lightweights on Soy's page were barely a distraction, but they definitely brought the entertainment value. Yet despite the constant back-and-forth with such gems as "I want to kill your high school English teacher 'cause you suck" and other award-winning zingers of the highest level, Soy was still telling me what and how to write.

Deciding I'd had enough fun with the dingleberries, I focused instead on the post's originator and his repeated insistence that my post lacked...sigh...NUANCE. 

At this point, I'd already had a relatively decent back-and-forth with the one person not necessarily following Soy's orders who had expressed an interest in knowing what my opinion of the movie might be now that the initial hostility had faded. And to be fair, I did give Soy one point: The review was not a *GROAN* nuanced take on the film. It wasn't intended to be; it was written as an extension of my Facebook live posting. Soy even admitted my views on the handling of Viola Davis' character were pretty accurate.

The conversation could have, and probably should have, ended there. We had found a point on which we agreed and did not agree on the rest because Soy had issues with the way it was presented. Fair enough. I've stopped reading many a novel for similar reasons. The difference is, I didn't contact the author and tell them how they should have written the novel. I moved on. It's what grownups do. Soy, on the other hand, chose this as a hill to die on, a cause he could not relinquish. He was, in essence, the fanboy cliché nobody can stand; a know-it-all expert on all things with no foundation in any of them who thinks he has the right to police content. 

I owe no one who isn't paying me for my work anything. The mere fact that he was ignorant of the difference between a journal-like blog post and a professional film review shows that he proceeded from a false assumption. I certainly don't feel obligated to some random shit-starter on social networking to accommodate him with my writing, nor am I fazed by a bunch of followers of this person to feel that I need to alter my writing style. Awards, positive reviews and over thirty published stories speak for themselves. Besides, anyone who gets that angry over someone's opinions about a silly movie has more emotional issues than I am qualified to deal with.

I will thank Soy and his too-cool friends for the blog post material. It's difficult to not write about someone who accuses me of getting upset about a post when the post I am responding to is literally the result of the person getting upset about a post, throwing a tantrum, and trying to gain validation. Pointing out a person's lack of self-awareness doesn't usually go well, and I wound up blocked for my efforts. 

However, in the interest of helping people get past their soft, squishy ego problems, may I submit for their use...

Oh, I almost forgot:

NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE

Review: "The Suicide Squad"

I've never been completely in support of Auteur Theory, but James Gunn's soft reboot/sequel "The Suicide Squad" might be the best argument against it in years. And while that particular attitude towards film has its positive outcomes in the works of Stanley Kubrik, Quentin Tarantino and Bernardo Bertolucci, Gunn ain't none of those guys.

What he is, however, is a gifted mimic who has fooled a lot of people into thinking he has a personal style. If you've seen his 2010 small budgeted takedown of the superhero genre "Super," you know what I mean. It's a good movie but it apes other directors' styles to the point of absurdity. 

People also forget that the first "Guardians of the Galaxy" movie was originally written by Nicole Perlman. Short memories aside, she was the one being praised for the screenplay when that film was released. Flash forward less than a decade and all anyone remembers is James Gunn. 

I was not among those praising Perlman's screenplay. I thought it was mediocre, dull and filled with terrible attempts at humor. Although, I wonder how much of the latter came from Gunn's work on the script. That brings us to "The Suicide Squad," a God-awful, unfunny, needlessly gory, thinly plotted pile of steaming crud from the "mind" of a man whose hackery really upsets me when I think about how he shares a name with one of my writing mentors.

The previous "Suicide Squad" film fell victim to what all DC Comics movies were dealing with in those not-so-long-ago days: Studio interference from imbeciles who had no concept of what they were doing. Thus director David Ayers, a far more gifted filmmaker than Gunn ("Training Day" alone cements that claim) saw his film sliced to ribbons. Despite this, it is still superior to Gunn's follow-up

With only four returning cast members from the first one, Gunn decides to populate his film with all the worst, stupidest DC villains in that company's history, because killing them off is funny to him. So, we get an entire opening sequence of disposable, useless idiots who die horribly so the so-called A-Team can emerge from the water to handle the mission. Who are they?

A big stupid bi-pedal shark played by a totally wasted Sylvester Stallone because Gunn can't seem to make an ensemble film without a bug dumb character that makes no sense. But this Shark is no Groot, who is at least a likable character with a soul. King Shark spends his time making idiotic comments like a slow-witted child, none of which are even remotely amusing. It's sad when the CW version of a character was vastly superior. 

Then there's Bloodsport portrayed by Idris Elba, who appears to have not gotten a good night's sleep in about eight years. He brings zero weight to this role, shuffling through like a zombie except when he's screaming "Fuck you!" over and over at his child.

Margot Robbie is back as Harley Quinn, the ubiquitous eye-candy psycho who really needs to be retired from comics for about a decade. Even she must feel this way based on her uninspired performance this time around. Her sub-plot involving a Central American dictator contains some of the worst writing and acting I have seen this side of "It: Chapter 2." 

There are newer characters as well, including John Cena as Peacemaker, a character Gunn single-handedly ruined by turning him into a joke. Cena has the comic timing of a clogged drain, and nowhere is this more evident than when he and Elba indulge in high wit by discussing eating a beach full of dicks.

This is seriously the kind of Middle School-level dumbshittery that Gunn thinks is comedy!

In addition to the three heavyhitters mentioned above, there's the character of Ratcatcher 2 portrayed by Daniella Melchior. She is, without a doubt, a terrible actor and in possession of one of the most annoying voices. Her line readings sound just like what they are: Someone without talent reading their lines. There is a scene on a bus involving her sob story and some unconvincing graphics that is, ironically, the best scene in the movie. Then I realized it was because it ripped off the bar scene in the first one!

But I saved the "best" for last" The disservice Gunn does the great actor Viola Davis and the character of Amanda Waller actually tows the line of casual racism. Gone is the cool, calculating Waller of the first film and the comics. In her place stands a stereotypical angry, hysterical black woman who doesn't seem to know what the hell she's doing and is easily manipulated by her staff and the Suicide Squad. This is the same woman who stared down Batman and told him to watch his ass?

What can I say about the supposed plot and story elements? Gunn clearly knows nothing about his missions work. He has no grasp of Third World politics. Shit, he doesn't even know the difference between a nightclub and a strip club! 

By the time the Big Reveal takes place, one any comics fan already saw coming in the first reel, all it does it serve as a reminder that this guy doesn't get DC and should stay as far away from it as possible.

Who Knows What Hackery Ruins Great Characters? James Patterson Knows.

 

This disgusts me. Not only because of the so-called "author" who purchased the rights to arguably the greatest pulp era character in literary history, but also because Patterson doesn't even write the material bearing his ubiquitous name.

Oh, you didn't know that? It's surprising to me how many don't, including some librarians I have worked with in the past. That's right, kids. James Patterson is a brand name under which hungry writers toil  so he can appear as if he is the most prolific author of all time. Click here if you doubt me.

There are other authors whose names appear on books on a monthly basis. Nora Roberts a.k.a "J.D. Robb", Debbie Macomber, and Laura Snelling come to mind. There are also authors who haven't let a pesky little obstacle such as death keep them from cranking out book after book. Agatha Christie ain't goin' out like that and neither is V.C. Andrews, both of whom have been dead for a long time and still meet their, ahem, deadlines.

The quasi-con of publishing dead authors who didn't actually write the material being published has been going on for a long time. Unfortunately, so has the one involving writers who only wrote a few of their own books before hiring a virtual sweatshop of aspiring writers to do all the work under that person's pen name. Mack Bolan author Don Pendleton did it. So did Oprah's least favorite author/franchise  runner James Frey. So, Patterson certainly isn't an original in this regard. Actually, he's not an original in any sense.

For those unfamiliar with the Shadow character and its history, he is, quite simply, the superhero archetype. As a pulp era hero, he dealt with more grounded situations such as murderers, spies and the occasional misguided scientist. The radio dramas were hugely successful and, in my opinion, the ones where the character was portrayed by Orson Welles were among the best spoken word drama ever made. Without the shadow, there would be no Batman. 

The Shadow's two most famous sayings, "Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of men? The Shadow knows" and "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit" could be seen as templates for nearly every costumed hero's philosophy over the past nearly one-hundred years. He is a character firmly rooted in the Depression era, steeped in noir-ish grandeur and filled with the charm of a more innocent but still very dangerous time. 

A brief perusal of the plot of this Patterson-endorsed Shadow reveals a ridiculously insipid tale of time travel and a character with super powers that were never in his box of tricks. The publisher disagrees with that, of course, as evidenced by this gem of a quote:

“James Patterson is the all-time master of the American thriller genre,” said Markus Grindel, Managing Director, Global Brand Licensing, Condé Nast. “The origins of that genre began with The Shadow stories of New York’s golden age. There’s a natural creative match at work here along with a significant through-line.”

If you want quality Shadow storytelling, look no further than the graphic novels published by Dynamite Entertainment. The writers over there understand the character and aren't trying to shoehorn him into idiocy for the sake of their own egos.

A Brief Excerpt from a work in Progress

 My novel, "2012/2021" hit a stall due to work obligations but I am now reading what I've written so far and resuming work on it. It is my hope that it will be "Slaughterhouse Five" or "Breakfast of Champions," which is what "Dreamers at Infinity's Core" was originally intended to be.

Below is an excerpt:

I nodded. It made sense in a...nothing-makes-sense-anymore kind of way. Tampering with the laws of nature, interrupting the flow of what Taoists call “The Way” had to come with repercussions. I had practically winked myself out of conscious existence. I couldn’t do shit about vanishing physically, so of course some meathead from the Bronx had arrived to cause me further distress.

You could set your watch by it, if people still used their watches to tell time.

Anyway.

I suppose some part of my rational being knew that didn’t explain a pudknocking thing. The very notion that the two had anything to do with each other was absurd, sort of like clown porn. It sounded interesting until the floppy shoes and wigs started bouncing up and down.

10 Spec Fic Novels that Have Altered the Landscape

 Recently, a Facebook friend posted a Polygon article titled, "15 Most Recent Sci Fi Novels that Forever Shaped the Genre." As usual, I disagreed with the choices. In fact I'd only started reading two of the fifteen, and neither of those compelled me to finish them. So, I decided to write my own list, which ironically includes one of the authors on Polygon's but an entirely different novel.

Mastai's debut novel covers a topic rarely, if ever, seen in science fiction these days: The Utopian future. More to the point, how easily one selfish, angry person can cause a reverse Butterfly Effect that destroys the optimistic future correctly (in this novel's conceit, anyway) predicted in all the pulp magazines and "Jetsons" episodes of the past. Mastai balances human relationships and larger sci-fi concepts beautifully without one ever over-shadowing the other.

If there's one thing there's no shortage of in science fiction written by Gen X and Millienal males, it's daddy issues. Also, meta-fiction doesn't always receive the credit it deserves in our self-aware, cynical era. If you want to read novels about time travelers trying to fix the past, this ain't one of them. Our protagonist actually kills himself when he sees himself emerging from a time machine, thus setting off a chain of fascinating ideas.

Neuvel swiftly became one of my favorite authors with his "Themis Files" trilogy concerning recently unearthed giant statues that are more than they seem. The author's manipulation of structure and form are far more palatable than what's to be found in the work of Mark Z. Danielwski because it serves the plot rather than it being the point of the novel. Neuvel's approach shouldn't work, making it all the more glorious to experience. 

 The prevailing wisdom when it comes to alternate history fiction these days is, if you're going to write it, make it big. From a United States perspective, it doesn't get much bigger than a modern era where slavery never ended. Winters presents a future where slavery's enduring presence permeates all parts of American society, especially corporate America. In fact, the ending  is easily up there with "Soylent Green" in its horrifying yet utterly believable revelation.

 "Who Fears Death" is one of those novels that challenges the genre status quo in all the best ways. Featuring a young Nigerian girl-later-woman as its protagonist, taking place in Africa (Sudan, to be exact) and written by someone of Nigerian descent, it is quite literally not the novels of the Grandmasters of Science Fiction. It is a refreshing boost to a stagnating genre and its mixture of cultural richness, fascinating speculation and unexpected moments make it a genuine experience. Even though there is so-called sorcery involved, it is the result of genetic manipulation. Okorafor has chased this story's greatness several times since with novels that unfortunately feel like imitations of its brilliance, but this one and its prequel "The Book of Phoenix" are the ones to read.

 

 No novel receives short shrift more than David Wong's (real name Jason Pargin) "John Dies at the End" because, frankly, I'm not sure readers older than Generation X know what to make of it. It is meta as all hell, it self-references like crazy, and it transgresses all of the known tropes by creating new ones to also transgress. Never has there been a tale of inter-dimensional monster hunters rooted so firmly in gritty reality. 

Sometimes the best science fiction is written by authors who aren't necessarily fans of the genre. "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan" comes to mind. Mullen's novel, second in quality only to his "The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers," concerns a perfect future of a different sort than the one found in "All Our Wrong Todays." In this future, history is considered so sacred that the average person cannot know about it for fear of repeating the mistakes of the past. There is no hunger or poverty or war, but nobody knows who they are or where they came from. Naturally, there is a group hellbent on altering the past and it's up to Zed to stop them, no matter how horrible the events are. 

Whenever an author can take the wackiest conspiracy theories believed by our fellow human and work them into a disturbingly plausible novel, it's worth pointing out. Brilliantly using a missing person case as the springboard for all the craziness yet to be experiences, Renner somehow weaves dementia and humanity's capacity for massive self-destruction into something truly awe-inspiring and terrifying. Novels this ambitious are often a mixed bag, especially when they only clock in at 300+ pages, but "The Great Forgetting" isn't one to...here it comes...ever be forgotten!

Without fear of hyperbole, Claire North (real name Catherine Webb) may well be the most brilliant and talented author of speculative fiction to come along in a generation. Each of her novels displays a level of talent that fill me with equal parts awe and envy. In this novel, the concept of time travel is upended by the reality of reincarnation that, in itself, is more a form of tribal memory that an actual return to life. The tale is riveting and all-too human and North writes with a literary urgency that feels meticulous rather than rushed. 

Unlike Max Brook's "World War Z," the multiple narrator approach in Wilson's novel never wears out its welcome or feels gimmicky. Perhaps that's because robotics is a real thing and Wilson has a PhD in it. There's an authenticity to the proceedings and a logic involved in what's happening that makes all of the shifting perspectives feel entirely natural. Without this novel, it's doubtful "Sleeping Giants" would have been as well-received.

A Poem Upon Returning

 Concrete Beat

By

Christopher Nadeau

Stretching, spreading, growing,

Everywhere at once.

Weeds between the cracks, mothers with broken backs.

Cold. Hot. Always changing,

Footfalls echo, fade, recede, back and forth,

Blood everywhere, unnoticed, unrecognized, unacknowledged.

Bodies soften the surface for those whose feet,

Rarely tread upon roughness.

Sounds fill the air, the mind, the soul,

As dim light hits the eyes just right.

Addictions abound, stenches surround,

Who cares?

Does anyone care?

Did anyone ever care?

It has always been here, unfolding, enveloping.

Leading nowhere, sometimes somewhere, rarely and always

Everywhere. There. Up ahead. 

More.

Enormous, jutting things, filled with

People. Empty, unfulfilled people.

Dwelling and toiling inside the same

Material that leads to them.

Who cares?

Who gives a fuck?

Where does it end?

Shall we go for a stroll?

When The Darkness Internal was a Thing

 With all traces of the once bi-monthly magazine I used to edit slowly vanishing from the inter-webbings ether, it's gratifying to still find a link that hasn't. 

Click here for proof that the Darkness Internal did indeed at one time exist.

The above link is from when D.I. was a special edition, as evidenced by the description below:

Voluted Tales is currently reading for its first special edition, entitled “The Darkness Internal” which is hosted by guest editor Christopher Nadeau. Christopher is looking for the following kinds of submissions

“The Darkness Internal”- Looking for stories that are outside the norm. They can be horror, dark fantasy, science fiction or even mainstream lit as long they meet the following criteria: Tales of inner darkness. Think Kafka or Phillip K Dick or any U.S. Congressional hearing. Stories should focus on an internal struggle or occurrence. Not looking for genre staples such as vampires, werewolves, and especially not zombies. More interested in tales of torment and struggle as defined by the classic “Man Versus Himself” approach to writing. Still, if you can find a fresh and exciting way to tell the story following the criteria and using those fabled beings, knock us out!

Rediscovering Vonnegut, Rediscovering Me

It's been a while since I posted anything here. New job responsibilities and a decision to go on a writing hiatus made it seem pointless. I even made the announcement on Facebook that I was going to stop writing for an indefinite amount of time. Then something truly miraculous happened: The world somehow went even more batshit crazy than it had before. At least, the sizable corner of it known alternately as the United States of America and 'Murica did. It was those who tend to employ the latter term whose insanity and gullibility were on equal display January 6th.

In case you're living in an alternate universe that I would very much prefer to live in, you know that was the day a horde of Donald Trump's supporters descended upon the U.S. capital and did their best French Revolution impression. People were hurt, some died, and property damage and theft rounded out the horrific triumvirate of insipidity. We had, to my way of thinking, officially entered a time where all the surface-level  BS would never return to its subterranean depths again. It was here to stay and it was only going to get worse before it got...I didn't know that it would ever get better. However, the writer in me watched with cool, dispassionate interest, cataloging and extrapolating.

I had no idea he was doing any of that. Having dived headlong into my new job, a job I love, by the way, I had, much like Luke Skywalker in "The Last Jedi," cut myself off from the Force. But the Force has other ways of reasserting itself. Much like how the character of Rey came into Luke's life to rekindle his heroism, another type of powerful influence returned to me in the form of a seemingly random audiobook selection on the shelves at work.

Those who know me, those who have read this blog, and those who have read my first novel all know my first real literary hero was Kurt Vonnegut. Despite an apparent hipster-led assault on his literary reputation over the past decade, he remains the singular influence on my writing voice and sensibility. The elitists can go to hell of they want to diminish me for that. 

Ever since the global pandemic started, I have experienced the urge to reread Vonnegut. I own most of his work. The urge usually occurs whenever I am feeling lost or needing to find my center. Other authors have come along since that fill a similar niche, but none has the powerfulness of Vonnegut's simplistic prose and grand yet grounded notions about the human condition. For most, his best work is "Slaughterhouse Five." It was the first thing I read thanks to an English Lit class. Of the five short novels we read in those 7 1/2 weeks, his was the one that prompted me to run out and buy another novel of his during the semester. 

My favorite Vonnegut novel remains "Breakfast of Champions." My own novel, "Dreamers at Infinity's Core," was an attempt to mimic the approach of Vonnegut's work and put my own stamp on it. I believe that time has come again. 

I've been listening to the audiobook during my drives to and from work. Read by gifted actor Stanley Tucci, the reading is nothing short of incredible. Unlike Ethan Hawk's ponderous monotone on "Slaughterhouse Five," Tucci understands how Vonnegut's prose should be read. Somewhere in all that brilliance, I heard the basis for a novel I have wanted to write for several years. I didn't know it until recently, but I have grown tired of treading the same familiar ground. I want to write a novel that is about something, not just reacting to it. I want the idea to be the thing, not the plot device to propel characters from scene to scene. I want dialogue to be simple but resonant, meaningful. 

Most of all, I want to write about what's going on in my head before it takes me over. And yes, I mentioned the insanity of January 6th because it will be one of two framing devices for this novel. The other is the Mayan calendar. I already know the title and it isn't going to change:

2012
2021

It's time to make Vonnegut proud~