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-air 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.

"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.

An Excerpt from "The Coming and Going of Rectus: An Infinity's Core Side-Trip"

 In 2009, my first novel "Dreamers at Infinity's Core" was released to mild acclaim and even milder sales. The sequel was written and ready to go within months. Titled "Echoes of Infinity's Core," it was vastly superior in every way and advanced the concept into new and exciting ways and directions.

Nobody read it.

Nobody even saw it because it was never published. Through a series of mishaps and external horrors, the publishing venture that published my first novel fell through. That left a finished sequel and a half-finished third and probably final installment languishing in literary limbo for years. 

In the meantime, I returned to the "Infinity's Core" universe twice with very short stories designed to expand upon what was already a rather expansive concept. Neither of those stories featured the snappy dialogue and quick scene jumps of the novels, skewing instead in a more esoteric direction. Someday I hope to write a collection of Core-related tales. but not before the story of Ned, Ernie and the Narrator has been told.

A few years ago, I started wondering if I could even write in that style anymore. I feared I could not, an alarming thought considering how badly I wanted to finish book three. Could I jump back into that sardonic, self-referential type of writing after having changed my style to one more introspective? There was only one way to find out.

That was the birth of the short story mentioned in this blog's title. Considering how much time passes between each novel, I knew there had to be things happening to my characters while they waited for the next Big Thing. What better than a smaller-scale version of the first novel, stripped down to two rooms in one house and my three main protagonists dealing with potential Armageddon and discomforting full front male nudity?

Yeah. Naked Ernie convinced me I could still do it. Thanks, Ernie, you poor beleaguered, magnificently tragic bastard.

So without further ado and no more context than that, here is the excerpt:

“LET US ENTER YOU.”

“Not even in a prison shower.”

“WE DON’T WISH TO IMPRISON YOU.”

“Flew right over their zipper,” Ernie says with a chuckle.

I decide now is the time to go for broke and say, “Rectus? Why did you steal Ernie’s shiny new expensive pants?”

“WE REQUIRE A CONDUIT THROUGH WHICH TO—“

“Enter our world and achieve life,” Ernie and I finish.

“Conduit,” Core-spawn loves that word.  It was how some of them viewed Chad when they attempted to manifest into the physical universe.  Now these also-rans are applying it to clothing?  What’s next?  Condoms?

“Gimme my fucking pants, you little assholes!”

Clearly Ernie has lost patience with this situation.  I nod at him and he breaks into a trot, jumping onto the arm of my couch and into the air with a fluidity I’d have never expected from him.  As the pants try to scamper away from his sudden assault, I break into a less graceful trot and manage to grab hold of one pant leg.

If you’re thinking that’s all it takes to resolve this, you really need to go read the book!

The pants twist out of my grasp as if there’s oil on my palms, floating through the air like a kite as Ernie’s jump into the air affords him the opportunity to wrap his arms around his clothing and land hard on his knees.  I glance over in time to see not only a full moon but the cave entrance.

“GROSS!”

“Puke later, help now!” Ernie struggles on the floor with the writhing Rectus, clearly seconds away from losing the fight.

“Wait,” I say. “Hold on for a few more seconds.”

“No problem! Do you need to use the bathroom or anything while I’m doing that?”

Nobody likes a smartass and Ernie seems to have become the poster boy for sarcasm.  I think I preferred him when he was slower-witted; I’m still not sure how he changed but perhaps it has something to do with the Narrator’s arrival.  Speaking of whom, why should we have to suffer without our third wheel?

As if reading my mind, Ernie says, “Don’t call him! I’m half naked!”

Too late.  I’m already sending an emergency text to my alternate reality doppelganger.  What, you don’t have one?  I thought everybody did.

He arrives within minutes, having apparently already been on the way over.  Since he doesn’t belong in our world, a place he has dubbed rather arrogantly as “Earth-Redux,” he never likes to remain in one place for very long.  He spends a lot of his time trying to figure out why he’s here and whether or not he wants to go back to a world he makes sound like a chaotic shithole.  When he isn’t doing that, he takes advantage of the standing invitation to crash at my place.  Little did he know what to expect when entering the house.

“Holy full frontal, Batman!” he says.

“Godammit,” Ernie says.

“I tried to text you,” I say.

The Narrator, who looks a lot like me except a bit heavier and with less hair on his head, tries to address me without looking at me.  “I heard it go off but I figured I could check it when I…why is Ernie wrestling with those shiny pants? Is this the Earth-Redux version of Twister?”

I explain what’s been happening in as succinct a manner as possible.  In truth, the Narrator is far better at self-editing than I am.  The novel we wrote together was proof of that.  He listens stoically, nodding once or twice, before responding:

“This might have rated an actual phone call, guys.”

The Cover of my Next Anthology Appearance Finally Unveiled!!!

 

Here is the final cover for "After the Kool-Aid is Gone," the latest anthology to feature one of my short stories and, I assume, short stories by a bunch of other people. Okay, no assumption is necessary. I've met then online. They exist and they're extremely talented. But enough about them. My story is the one that features the true reason behind the Reagan assassination attempt and the inhuman creature that controls our destinies.

I love the retro political cartoon look, serving as a not-so-subtle reminder that we have been here before and will be again.

Soon to be released, "ATKIG" as the hipsters are calling it, is another timely anthology that really shows how well art and technology can work together, especially when the world is rapidly descending into the cosmic toilet.

More on this anthology once it's available for preorder~

My "Amazing Story"

 

The zippered Flesh anthology may be six years old, but I'm still running across reviews of its disturbing stories. This one, for example.

To Every Story its Time

 It happens every time.

I hit a period of non-stop creativity where I crank out several stories at once, and then it comes to a screeching halt. Somewhere in that process, I start submitting my work to various publishers, sometimes scoring an acceptance or two early on and then...nuthin'. 

And that's okay. It stopped bothering me a while ago. My original strategy involved descending into self-loathing, rushing headlong into impostor syndrome and, when those failed, rewriting older stories until I got my mojo back. Speaking of older stories, I have a few I have been trying to get published over the years. One such work, titled, "The Gipper Memorandum," sat in my files since 2012, occasionally rearing its head whenever I felt a publisher might be interested in publishing it. 

Lately, my run of luck has been of the sucking variety. Rejections didn't exactly flood in but they definitely trickled water onto my forehead with each disappointing email. Reasons ranged from the generic "not for us" to the "man, that's good writing! Sorry, no" variety. At least one came with compliments for "parts" of the story, concluding with the painful "it's too preachy" opinion.

So, when I opened my email this morning and saw two emails from publishers to whom I'd sent stories, I assumed they too would be negative responses. The first one turned out to be simply a confirmation of receipt. The second one was an acceptance of a story that was written in 2012. 

I never lost faith in "The Gipper Memorandum" but I did reach the conclusion that it was probably a story for a short fiction collection. A so-called "Added treat" in the form of an unpublished story. But then some big shot editor had to go and accept it and ruin the surprise for everybody! 

I am, of course, beyond pleased to see one of my older stories finally get picked up. If anybodsy takes anything away from my post, make it this: Don't just leave those stories and novels in your desk drawers and on your hard drives. Assuming you tried to get them published, try again and again. Sometimes it's all about timing and, in my case, waiting until there's a fascist lunatic in charge of a country that should know better. 

I will post more anthology info for "After the Kool Aid is Gone" once it becomes known~

User Review: "Blower of Whistle"

 My unproduced political satire script on Kindle titled, "Blower of Whistle" has its first customer review and it is a positive one!

Read it here!

"BLOWER OF WHISTLE" Now Available on Kindle!!! (Updated with link)

Are you excited? You're excited, aren't you? Yeah, you are! You can't wait! Your heart's all a'flutter! Your bladder can barely avoid releasing. The sun is a little bit brighter, the clouds a bit fluffier. There's a spring in your step and a song in your soul.

Now you just need to know what the hell I'm talking about and your conscious mind can catch up with your nervous system. Then wait no further, faithful reader! Wait no further!

But wait a minute. How could you not know about my un-produced screenplay? What are ya, some kinda unknowing type that doesn't intuit when something no one has ever seen has been written? I don't need people like you in my life. You sicken me. I taste bile. It stings almost as badly as the many disappointments in my life. Why do you torment me so?

Okay, I got that off my chest. Feel better? Good. I'm glad we worked that out like mature adults who hold onto petty grudges until the ulcers consume them like acid poured over a murder victim to conceal his identity. It's called being mentally healthy.

"Blower of Whistle" was and, I suppose, is a short screenplay I was challenged to write for an actor I know who wanted to produce it. When I say "challenge," I use it as facetiously as she did; she knew full well I could write this and finish it quickly. She read it and laughed in all the right places. Having done my part, I sat back and waited for the magic of film production to turn my little teleplay as they were once called into hopefully hilarious reality. 

There was even talk of casting me as the President's smarmy, weasel-like attorney. And then that talk ended and my actor friend grew more and more frustrated with her acting troupe. Thus did my Hollywood hopes get dashed on the shores of Boo Hoo Beach.

So, the un-produced screenplay languished on my hard-drive for several months, becoming less timely and relevant as a very real impeachment took place. For a while, I felt I'd written something hopelessly dated, a piece that was written to be seen before the proceedings. What could I do with it now, I wondered. Then it occurred to me. So what?

So what if it was written to be seen before the actual impeachment? I didn't name anyone, although the targets of the satire could be seen from space. Wasn't this story supposed to take place prior to the impeachment anyway? Who could say what secret meetings were held in the days leading up to the impeachment? ME! Haven't you been paying attention!?

So this, then, is the tale of the top secret meeting held before the impeachment to help a clueless, boorish president avoid national embarrassment.  I'll let everyone know when it's officially available. 

And available it is!

click here and bring money!