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~

In Mourning

 

My mentor, Golden Age science fiction author James Gunn, has passed away. I have no words right now to describe how important his guidance was to me. Maybe in a few days, but not right now. 

Writing for the Interwebs: The Perfect Way to Watch your Work Disappear Forever

 Readers of this blog know I have published both fiction and non-fiction, much of the latter online. There is an accepted axiom in today's culture that "the internet is forever" but that's only true if some third party decides to take a screenshot of your work. At least, in some cases. Sometimes that person is me, but more often than not, I don't bother and my work vanishes into the ether from whence it came.

I first realized the internet was not forever when a website I'd written dozens of articles for suddenly decided to shut down and gave all of is "content generators" thirty days to grab our shit and go. In the virtual world, that equates to finding ways to screenshot all of your work before it is unceremoniously wiped from all existence.

That's not to say that print is forever, but I've reached the conclusion that there is more of a likelihood that some physical copy of one's work will still be out there somewhere. 

What prompted this, you ask? Lately I've been listening to an audiobook about Robin Williams' life and tragic demise. When he died, I was writing for the now defunct The Movie Network, whose editors encouraged every single writer to flood them with Williams articles. It was that rare moment when repetition was desired and most of us rose to the challenge. And it was a challenge.

Having anticipated that every other writer working for the site would come up with some "What Robin Williams meant to me" article, I decided to watch the movie everyone was relating to his apparent suicide, "Father of the Year." I used my review of the film (Spoiler alert: I thought it was brilliant!) as a way of talking about my own father, whose adoration of Williams had been a strong influence on my childhood. I realized rather quickly that losing Robin Williams felt like losing my dad all over again, a mixed, jumbled torrent of conflicting emotions and uncertainties once more manifesting themselves in my mind. I was older now and better equipped to handle it, but it was no less significant.

I poured everything I had into that piece and while I was paid for it, I wrote it because I had no choice. These were thoughts and feelings I had to express or risk going mad(der). I considered it one of the better things I wrote for them, and I wrote over 200 articles for them in a six month period. Don't worry. I was well-compensated. I know you were worried. But more importantly, I was pleased enough with my body of work with them, the film reviews in particular, to guide readers to them even after several of us were unceremoniously and without warning, no longer needed.

The articles remained up for years and I suppose I gave into a false sense of eternity. How easily that sense is dispelled, however, for it is gone, gone, gone. Not just the article, mind you. The website itself. Gone as if it has never existed. I don't even have an original copy of the review; my fault entirely. I am often rather lazy when it comes to my non-fiction. 

My fiction has fared better in the longevity department, but it was particularly painful when the entire website that supported one of my high water marks in the writing world vanished seemingly forever. Voluted Tales, which published six issues of my beloved "The Darkness Internal" is, alas, no more. Most of the issues featured the works of other authors but I wrote an editorial for every issue. I also conducted all of the author interviews...HEY! More lost non-fiction! See how that works?

It hurts to know so much of my work will never be read again. That doesn't mean I won't continue to have stuff published online, however. There really isn't much of a choice to be had these days, but I will hopefully be a bit smarter about preserving my work in the future.

Sex Workers of the Literary World Unite!

 As I've mentioned on this blog in the past, I subscribe to an online group called The Horror Tree that sends out emails alerting writers to potential anthology, periodical and novel publishing opportunities. Every so often there's one that grabs my attention not necessarily because I want to send the publisher my work but because something in the description draws me in. This time, the anthology in question is called "Beast Volume 1."

It is yet another furry horror collection, a sub-genre whose existence I find endlessly fascinating and sometimes downright terrifying. I'm still trying to fully wrap my brain around the concept as well as the sub-culture whose existence doesn't baffle as much as the fact that there have now been more than one furry horror anthology and apparently more on the horizon.

However, this time around at least, it isn't the reality of furries that has drawn my attention. It's the sentence below:

BIPOC Authors, Queer Authors, Disabled Authors, Authors who are currently or former Sex Workers are strongly encouraged to submit.

Forgive my Midwestern ignorance, but  when exactly did Sex Workers fall under the category of marginalized minority? I'm not saying the perspectives of Sex Workers both former and current aren't valid or even something that needs to be seen. On the contrary, there is a wealth of experience and outlook there that is a potential literary goldmine. I'm also no prude when it comes to, ummm, that thing that...men and woman do when it's dark and never speak of once all the sinning is over in 30 seconds. 

So, as someone who has been on the other side of the editorial wall accepting submissions and desperately hoping for something unique and different, I get wanting fresh perspectives. I even commend whoever thought of including Sex Workers as a valid fiction-writing group. What I don't get, however, is including them in a long sentence that mentions marginalized people who have faced discrimination. Much like the logical assertion that there is no such thing as a "Blue Life" because it's a career, can the same not be said for Sex Workers? Yes, many of them are not working willingly or even because they always wanted to work in the skin trade, but still...it's not a race or a gender or sexual preference.

If we muddle the definitions of things to suit our own points of view, we risk rendering the very real issues in society meaningless. 

That said, I look forward to seeing Sex Workers do more!

(That really didn't come out right, did it?)

BAD REVIEW

 

Nothing peps me up more than discovering a negative review of my work. It's even better when it somehow slipped under my RADAR for five years, as was the case with a review on Amazon from a guy in India whose screen name is "Perceptive Reader." Clearly a humble, self-aware individual, Mr. Reader found the majority of the stories in the third book of the "Use Enough Gun" anthology beneath his contempt, at least judging by the way he dismissed them with such in-depth analysis as "Crap," "Meh" and the ever-reliable, "Rubbish."

If you've ever met one of those people who disdain every movie they see by claiming there wasn't enough character development, you've probably also suspected that they didn't really know what that phrase meant. Similarly, whenever someone uses buzzwords such as, "Overwritten," or "longish," one wonders if the reviewer is more in love with their ability to sound knowledgeable and too hip for the room. It's difficult to say. We weren't all taught to give reasons for our opinions, nor were we all taught to eschew buzzwords when we do. So, perhaps there's little point in trying to understand the mindset of a man whose reaction to 80% of an anthology was so hostile.

I defy anyone to read the opening paragraph of Perceptive's review and not either chuckle or shake their head. Not to review the review, but come on! Phrases such as, " ...nod sagely while procrastinating about increasing paranoia among the hoi-polloi, in these days of connectivity and terrorism" are clearly meant to be taken seriously but is that even possible? It isn't for me but your mileage may vary.

My short story "Arrival" happens to be one of my favorite stories I've ever written. It is the sequel to "Emergence," which appeared in "Monster Hunter Legends Both Barrels" also published by Emby Press. That doesn't mean I expect everyone else to love it. It's a rather specific type of story, one that combines elements of classic comic books, horror and religious fanaticism. There's no reason to assume Mr. P. Reader would find that even remotely fascinating. I would love to know why he considered it crap, however, as I'll bet many of the other authors whose works were dismissed in like fashion would also.

Alas, there are no answers to be found in this case. P.R. either didn't feel the need to elaborate or that his simplistic reactions spoke volumes. I will close by adding this one nugget of hoped-for wisdom:

Reviews such as these help no one. They serve no one. They say nothing except "Lookit me being all edgy and stuff." No writer learns from the experience in a way that either helps them grow and improve and, in fact, some probably shrink away from the writing for publication world, discouraged and convinced that their Imposter Syndrome was the real thing. And while I know this is a tough field and that people who can't take harsh criticism need not apply, I also feel strongly that irresponsible reviews such as the one in this post are detrimental and destructive to the overall discourse.

So in spite of myself, I will review P. Reader's review with my own one-word choice: Idiotic.

Latest anthology Update

The paperback copy of "After the Kool-aid is Gone" is now available for ordering and with it comes a five-star reader review. While the review doesn't mention my short story, "The Gipper Memorandum," specifically, the reviewer had kind praise for all of the stories in the collection.

You can obtain that hard copy by clocking here.