"After the Kool-Aid is Gone" Kindle Edition Available

 

With the Kindle release of the anthology pictured to the left that features my short story, "The Gipper Memorandum" and a host of other timely tales comes also the fact that it is being released during Domestic Violence Awareness month. Due to this and the fact that the publisher is a domestic violence survivor, a portion of the sale of each copy will go to the National Domestic Violence Hotline.

Order your copy now for only $2.99 by clicking here.

I'll return to update you on the paper copy once it's available for you old school types like me.

When Writing Hurts.

Two days ago, I finally located the flashdrive that had so much of my work on it, both finished and in-progress. I wasn't too worried about finding it. I knew it was safely put away in my house and I had gone through a rather impressive creative spurt these past few months that kept my submission rotation going strong.

While revisiting some of the stories on the drive, I located one that I thought had been published before. However, when I asked Google, the only result was a post by yours truly discussing the odd rejection letter it received from an editor. That post was written nine years ago and can be read here. (For the record, it is no longer the oddest rejection letter I've received) Since this was the only thing I could find associating that title with my name, I had no choice but to conclude that it had never been published. There's probably a good reason for that.

This story, possibly more than any other I've written, is so uncomfortably personal, so intense and unflinchingly honest about its subject matter, namely the complete loss of sanity from rejected love and the depths to which one can sink, that I'm surprised I finished it without winding up in a fetal ball in a puddle of my own drool.

Yes, it's that intense.

The amount of pain and anger that went into that story makes me uncomfortable, so I can only imagine how the editor felt!

But a writer shouldn't shy away from baring his or her soul. Ever. If you ever doubt that I fully embrace that philosophy, you should probably pledge at least a dollar to my Patreon page and see for yourself.  The third and latest post in particular will tell you everything you need to know.

I feel this decade-old story deserves to be published, but I also know it's a difficult sell because of its subject matter and execution. So, I'm going to send it out once or twice and see what happens. If no one bites, it will wind up on the Patreon page and, somewhere down the line, in a short story collection.

When writing hurts, share it with others so they can experience it, too. Not to be sadistic, but shared human experience shouldn't stop at fuzzy self-help moments. Unless you're open as a reader to all that life offers, you are cutting yourself off from truth and that, my friends, is when things will really start to hurt~

"The Handmaid's Tale"- The Struggle was Real!

When I was much younger, my mother was my source for literature. She was my internet, albeit a far more learned and well-read source than most of the ones I encounter virtually. She introduced me to science fiction, Stephen King and Ray Bradbury. And even when my own tastes formed and I started branching away from what I considered her safer, more by-the-numbers interests, I never stopped respecting her opinions, as they were informed and well-expressed. I have, in fact, tried to live my life in a similar fashion.

So when I finally decided to give Margaret Atwood's "The Handmaid's Tale" a chance, I found myself struggling with that respect in the worst sort of post-mortem way.

"What the hell, Mom?" I said to her memory. "Were you drunk?"

Realizing that was a horrible thing to ask a diabetic even if she's no longer among the living, I retracted that question and instead said, "Dude, seriously?" because nothing thrilled my mother more than being addressed as "Dude."

In fact, she loved it so much she appeared in my family room seconds after I said it.

"What's your problem?" she said.

"Nice to see you, too." I held up the copy of "The Handmaid's Tale" I'd borrowed from work and shook it in her direction. "But since you asked, this is my problem. Excuse my Swahili, but what the hell were you thinking?"

"You didn't care for it, I presume?" My mother's eyebrows were always thin and fine, yet somehow they became darker and bushier when she raised them in disdain.

"You presume correctly, Doctor Nadeau. You talked this book up throughout my teen years, made me think it was an untouchable, brilliant masterpiece of social commentary, and--"

"And?"

"And I'd like to know if you were still in the process of getting your meds adjusted at the time."

She crossed her arms and sighed. "You know damn well I never took anything except Insulin and pain meds later on in life."

Nodding, I said, "Which brings us to the real issue, then. I mean, I know we disagreed on matters of taste when I got older. You kind've settled into a comfort zone, most likely due to your health issues and all."

She shrugged. "Probably a safe assessment. I always said you should have gone into psycho-analysis."

"One shrink in the family was enough. But my point is, setting aside the clearly intriguing concept, this is one of the dullest books I've read in years."

"All right." She uncrossed her arms and took a seat across from me. "Why?"

I sat as well. "For starters, the writing is bland and self-conscious."

"How much of it did you actually read?"

"I got through the first two chapters."

A heavy sigh. "Christopher,is it possible you'd like it more if you stuck with it?"

"Yes. It's also possible I could learn to like electrocution if I keep my feet dunked in water."

At this point, her image shimmered as if someone had flicked the lights off and on. I asked her if she was okay and she smiled. "What else didn't you like about it?"

I went into greater detail then. I told her how even though it accomplished the requisite task of establishing its universe early on, it never felt genuine. It felt, in fact, like a preachy commentary piee with a thinly disguised parable as its artful dodge. I concluded with the fact that the entire concept is wrapped in a cozy cocoon of white middle class feminism that presumes only gender divides stand between people and freedom.

"Okay, fair enough," she said. "But are you sure it's the book you're upset about or is it the fact that you're disappointed in my praise of it?"

I dropped the book onto the floor and stomped on it twice. "The book."

She grinned, telling me I hadn't lost my flair for the dramatic. "It's okay that you didn't care for it. If I taught you nothing else, I hope it was to develop your own tastes and be able to defend them. You've done that. So, why am I here?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's been years since I've had the opportunity to berate you. I've missed it."

She smiled that smile I can only recall in spontaneous memories or maybe sometimes find in an old photograph and said, "I miss you, too."

I watched her shimmer again, this time fading a bit. Our time was nearly up, then. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too, sweetie."

"Book still sucked, though."

And as she faded, I'm not entirely sure, but I think she flipped me off~

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

“You don’t tell anybody to shut up!You work for us!”

-A Constituent in Frost, Texas in response to Rep. Joe Barton (R)