Creepy Things, Zombie Nation and a contest...

Well, lets get to the good stuff first.

I'm considering having a contest on my "Risky Fiction" blog for writers, in particular my #fridayflash friends. You will have a chance to win copies of the anthology "Zombie Nation: St. Pete." This is an anthology of local zombie fiction that will be released at a premiere party at the St. Petersburg Pier this Saturday. I get to go sign books and hobnob with great writers such as Jeff Strand and pretend I'm an author, too. My story "The Lust, the Flesh" is among the other great stories that local writers have put together for this really big event in my hometown. I'd like you, my friends, to help me celebrate...bust out the virtual champagne, all that.

Here is the book you'd receive if you are one of the winners:

There may be another prize in the offing as well for the very best (grand prize) of whatever contest I decide to do.

I need your help with this. Please leave a comment on this post about what you'd like to see happen with a contest. The idea I have so far from Jim Bronyaur involves me posting an excerpt of my story and then giving you all a story starter for another zombie story and having you write the story. People could then go to the Risky Fiction site and vote on their favorite stories. The top vote getters win. How does this sound? If you have other suggestions, please include them in your comments.

Those of you living in New York, Pittsburgh and Los Angeles have further reason to want to check this book out. Future "Zombie Nation" projects are scheduled for these areas. In fact, the submission deadline for "Zombie Nation: New York" is December 31st, 2010. Go here to learn more.

Now for other news:

I've received my copies of "Creepy Things," the anthology by "Static Movement" that published my former #fridayflash story "World Wide Web." This anthology is now available to purchase on Amazon.

Below is a picture of me holding the book at the mini-cafe on campus at St. Petersburg College, where I'm currently a full-time student.

I thank my friend in my Algebra class for taking this photo.

Concerning Prehistory Beasts: Arctodus

Arctodus simus. The Giant Short-Faced Bear. Prehistoric predator...seriously bad news to whatever crosses its path. This is the reason we have primal fear...our cave-dwelling ancestors faced this beast. And look below how it compared in size. Now, imagine if one could speak. What do you think it would say? In Burr, they speak. They are not very intelligent but they are just as deadly as they seem here. Stupid, but deadly.

Arctodus, like most of the prehistory beasts of Burr, were created by the Mages. Why? Guardians, Gate-keepers, and sometimes hired thugs. Could you imagine anyone trying to get past one of these creatures guarding the home of a Mage? Really only a dragon, or a T-Rex could do it. But the Mages have other protections against these...

My first literary encounter with Arctodus was in "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dragon," a short story that takes place in Burr, but in a different time period as my novel "The Mages of Morrow." This particular Arctodus was typical of the species...big, dumb and dangerous. He'd been sent on a mission of thuggery by his master, the Mage Y'ansick. 

I enjoyed writing the character of the Arctodus in "Tiny Dragon," so it's for sure that I'll feature at least one Arctodus in book 1 of the Mages series: "The Mages of Morrow."

Lazy Days and Holidays

I had the perfect opportunity to do lots of writerly things for the past 3 1/2 days.

I could have written. That would have been ideal. Lots of time with no bedtime curfews for a couple of days. I could have pounded out another couple thousand words on "The Coffee Wars" to prepare me for the upcoming NaNoWriMo, but I thought to myself: That's all still many months away, I don't have to worry about that now. 

Research. I still have a ton of it to do. Some to print and file in my story notebook for "Tiny Dragon" and some stuff to Google and Wikipedia about exoplanets and terraforming for "Into the Glow, Aborning." Again, the excuses began running rampant.

I hate to say it, but the excuses won out over every good inclination I had to actually use this time off from the stress of the workaday world to accomplish something toward my goal of getting published in 2010. I must have caught a holiday meme that got into my head and screamed: "Everyone else is lazing about and relaxing for the New Year, so should you."

Excuses, excuses.

It's been so damned cold I haven't felt like typing much. My fingers are frozen to the keyboard. Yet, it's colder now as I am typing this. Excuses are like opinions, everyone's got at least one. I have found several to keep me from the tasks at hand, namely the writer's acronyms: BIC - HOK - TAM;

• BIC = Butt In Chair
• HOK = Hands on Keyboard
• TAM = Typing Away Madly 

So, maybe it was time for me to relax and chill a little. Maybe once I get back to work, I'll settle into a comfortable rhythm of really looking forward to coming home from the stress of work to the relaxation of character fleshing and world building.

I have to. November will be here before I know it and I want nothing to keep me from the beautiful and fulfilling goal of writing and finishing a novel.

No excuses.

Memories of Christmas

It's Christmas eve, and my thoughts are taking me down memory lane. Back to the Christmases I spent growing up in Ohio.

I grew up on a tenanted farm and my family was very poor. We were in good company. Nearly all of the other rural renters in the area were at or below the poverty line. Such was the norm in a state that has always suffered from economic instability.

It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized just how rich we really were in our lack of material wealth.

I saw glimpses of it at Christmas. In both receiving and giving.

I can remember with wide-eyed wonder waking up on Christmas morning, and while not getting exactly what I asked Santa for, it was a source of ceaseless wonder to me just how intimately that jolly fat old man knew me. I would get books for Christmas. Mostly, they were used books, but that didn't matter to me. What mattered were the authors and the subjects. Stephen King. Edgar Allen Poe. Tolkien. Science fiction, fantasy and horror. To me, these were the best presents ever. They were gifts that kept on giving to an overactive childhood imagination that I hope I never outgrow.

The best part of all was the giving. Every year I would get an allowance to spend on buying some little trinkets for the children in my family. One year, I accidentally bought too many gifts and had some leftover presents that would be for a boy, but I had no one to give them to. One week before Christmas, someone from town told my uncle about a family whose father lost his job. They had no Christmas tree, no food and no toys for their two young sons. Everyone in our family came together to bring Christmas to this family, who were worse off than we were. And the two boys had presents from Santa to open on Christmas morning.

We did that a lot. I'm not bragging about it. It's just something that we did.

My uncle had a Santa costume given to him and he enjoyed playing Santa for the children around our country neighborhood. Nowadays, he has gone from playing Santa for the kids to dressing up as Elvis and playing music for the elderly in nursing homes. My uncle likes to make people happy. I am grateful to have been brought up in such compassionate surroundings. It has increased my appreciation for what I have and has instilled in me a desire to share with those who are less fortunate than myself. It is put into practice most efficiently when I am able to give of myself all throughout the year.

This is what Christmas is really all about: A King was born into poverty so that he could eventually ransom himself for all of us poor, miserable souls. God gives us this most precious of all Gifts.

So let us celebrate the joy of giving through all of 2010.

My prayer for you this Christmas and New Year is not original. And it is not new. In fact, it's very, very old:

The LORD bless you and keep you! The LORD let his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you! The LORD look upon you kindly and give you peace!  ~ Numbers 6:24-26

This prayer is most specifically dedicated to my friend (and CRHP sister) Debbie, who has taught me much about the Jewish heritage and tradition that Our Savior lived.  

How Do You Like Your Science Fiction: Hard or Soft?

My high school Earth Science class did not do much for me, except showcase how monumentally inept I was at science. After the first few weeks of struggling with it, I transferred to the General Science class and performed much better there.

I did learn a valuable lesson in those first torturous weeks of Earth Science. It would have a far greater impact on my writing than it would on anything else. It caused me to begin an exercise in thought that I now utilize on a regular basis, both when looking for story ideas or just for sheer enjoyment.

Microcosmic worlds. Neat little panoramas that reveal themselves in my brain that I like to try and sort out. My Earth Science teacher was the first to introduce this concept. A few years later, I read a classic short story by Theodore Sturgeon called "Microcosmic God" that established it beautifully for me and planted the way of thought firmly in my mind, so that I'm always looking for microcosms to speculate on.

What if there are microscopic life forms existing in their own engaging little world on the head of a match? And they experience Apocalypse whenever we strike it?

Most of these ideas are in the realm of fantasy and this is where I primarily live. There may be elements of science in my writing. And there most certainly may be horror. I like to mix it up a bit. I like that term "speculative fiction." It covers so much wonderful landscape.

I've often heard that some people are vehemently opposed to what is labeled "soft science fiction." My guess is that would be a story that doesn't sport some astrophysics or chemistry lesson every other page. "Here, Mr. Spock, is why we can not travel past the speed of light: blah...blah...blah." I'm not saying there's no room for hard science fiction in my life. A great deal of what I read is hard science fiction. But I do not write hard sci-fi. I write fantasy sautéed with science fiction, with a side dish of horror. I write "Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors of Weird." For me, it's about plot and characterization. I like my speculative fiction like my ice cream: sometimes hard, sometimes soft-serve.

I don't have a degree in physics, astronomy, chemistry or even writing. I've learned a few things over the years about the sciences that interest me: sociology, psychology and meteorology (meteorology actually applies some physics principles such as thermodynamics, the Bernoulli and Coriolis effects). I've found that structuring a good story out of these elements brings me the greatest satisfaction. And most folks seem to like it. I also believe that there is no more alien or horrifying a landscape than that of the human mind. That is something I love to explore.

Whatever hard science I use is employed like a sugary waffle cone, wrapping all that delectably sweet, gooey fantasy/horror weirdness down inside. I do lots of research and hope that I'm writing my science as factual as possible; breaking as few rules as possible, and if rules are slightly bent then I do my best to provide plausible scientific excuses for it without making it become a college physics lecture.

It's hard to do, but well worth it if the result is a satisfied reader.

The Shadow of Creativity: Inspired by H.P. Lovecraft, Mostly

In an effort to improve my writing prowess, I recently began to think of creative springboards: exercises to fuel my creativity which I could write about and post on this blog, which is, in itself an attempt to become better at my beloved craft. 

One of the subjects that came to mind was a "Why I Write What I Write" exercise, but to author it in the style of a writer whose work I admire. This is not an exercise that I intend to employ as a means of imitating or copying the style of another writer, but one that will hopefully teach me to look for, find and use my own voice, even when I am engaged in writing a Cthulhu Mythos piece in the Lovecraftian vein (which I have planned to do in the near future).

Someone once gave me a book of Lovecraft stories. I no longer remember who presented me with that awesome gift of reading pleasure or what the title of the book was. That information no longer matters. Keys are small things by themselves. But when you turn them, you can open doors into fascinating hidden rooms or ignite engines of great power and complexity. 

All I know is, the opening paragraph of one of the first stories I encountered grabbed me and held me spellbound and it does so still to this day. It sealed my fate in an overpowering desire to write. It is from a story called "Dagon":

I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain, since by tonight I shall be no more. Penniless, and at the end of my supply of the drug which alone makes life endurable, I can bear the torture no longer; and shall cast myself from this garret window into the squalid street below. Do not think from my slavery to morphine that I am a weakling or a degenerate. When you have read these hastily scrawled pages you may guess, though never fully realise, why it is that I must have forgetfulness or death...

H.P. Lovecraft was born on August 20, 1890 in Providence, Rhode Island. His first published story was called "The Alchemist" and it was published in 1916 in a magazine called "The United Amateur."

Without further explanations, here is my Lovecraft inspired look into my inner madwoman, an apologia of why I write, and why I write what I write:

The Shadow of Creativity: Inspired by H.P. Lovecraft, Mostly

My friends are convinced that I am insane. They are probably right.

Mental balance and I achieved a stubborn stalemate many years ago after decades of ceaseless turmoil and foul warfare. Any measure of normal psychological stability now keeps a well-defined and uneasy, if not peaceful distance from me.

I’m a writer of speculative fiction and I know of no better habitation than the dark recesses of my own fetid imagination. My vistas are oblique, non-Euclidean and terrifying realms of stark raving chaos where strange and often horrifying things dwell in Fortean splendor.

The faces I prefer do not have striking jaw-lines or piercing blue eyes. Instead, I am drawn in a state of near catatonia to visages sporting tentacled chins and piercing fore-claws. Eyes? Just a singular, Cyclopean horror of unblinking, hypnotic skill is enough to send me into a frenzy of terrible shuddering and provoke uncountable sleepless nights. Whenever I do manage to heed the call of Morpheus to "Come, come" my sleep is troubled and oppressed by these maddening visions. I must then get up and write.

My tormented brain chants a continual mantra: sci-fi, fantasy, horror, steam-punk, alternate history, future history, cyberpunk, space opera, scientific romance…mmmm…zombies…alien shape-shifting serial killer spider…Cthulhu mythos….

Like a trapped mink, I'm stuck in the cruelly sharp steel jaws of my own design. Writing is a sweet, albeit temporary, release from the madness, the equivalent of chewing off a foot and limp-running headlong, blindly into the arms of reckless abandon. The Trapper's name is Sanity and I am determined he shall not have my skin!

There are (no doubt) writers whose works are sunshiny blossoms of spring days, all romance and straightforwardness, where there's no mistaking the authors intentions regarding character, setting or plot.

Comparing writing with painting, these writers would rack up with Claude Monet and his Water Lilies. Edgar Degas and his Ballerinas.

My writing is none of that easily definable stuff.

My work is Van Gogh, who, though he painted some pretty sunflowers, he also painted swirling cosmos skies and cut off part of his own ear to embrace his inner madness.

My writing is Jackson Pollock. I desire to chuck many of those elements of my mental mantra onto the page, grab a palette knife and start cutting in, the ink flowing from my fingertips to the keyboard to the blank screen, the chaos taking on form and finally, meaning.

In comparing my work with other speculative fiction authors, my earliest recollections find me contemplating the experiences of being absorbed in the macabre murkiness of H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe and a starkly surreal and sometimes hellish poem that I often still to this very day find myself reciting snippets of without being cognizant of it called "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Then, I found my uncle's sci-fi collection and visited Niven's "Ringworld," became too confused at too early an age by Heinlein's "Stranger In a Strange Land" (but not in too bad a way) and discovered even more treasures at my school and local library.

All of these inspirations are what have fueled my intense longing to create strange phenomena, alien landscapes and slimy vistas of darkness so foul and inhabited by denizens so terrifyingly bizarre as to induce nightmares just by reading about them.

That's what I'm hoping for, anyway.

Yes, my friends, I am insane. But it's okay.

I am a writer. I can live no other way.


Dedicated to H.P. and to the author who is the source of my writer's "Quote of the Week" for this blog this week, E.L. Doctorow, who said: "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."

To listen to a truly creepy audio version of "Dagon" visit "The Drabblecast."  Clicking this link will take you directly to the site. "The Drabblecast" is a weekly short fiction podcast. The stories there are mostly narrated by the extremely talented and creepy voice of Norm Sherman. 

Constructing A Story Notebook

I've been very busy these past few days and about to get busier. But this is a good thing.

I've been enjoying the holiday and will be saddened to have to see that all come to an end in a few days. On the other hand, we get to turn around and do it all again in just a few weeks.

I've spent the last day-and-a-half working on putting together a notebook for two short stories: Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dragon and Queendom of the Harpies.

If you've read this lately, you'll note that a couple of posts back I declared that Tiny Dragon was nearing completion, Elagrom's journey almost at it's conclusion. So why now start a notebook on this story?

Several reasons.

The first is this: even though I am 4300+ words into this beautiful saga of Elagrom the Shepherd, and I have stated that the end is in sight (which in my mind it is), I have absolutely no idea how much more I will have to write until that end is reached. I wish writing was that easy.

Secondly, I have amassed a great deal of information in researching this story: dragon lore, dragon anatomy, the properties of lodestone and other magnetic compounds (which has yet to come into play in the story). I need a place to keep all of that information. Sure, I keep a record of information and webpages in the StoryMill research section (great writing software, StoryMill. I thoroughly recommend it.) I have print-outs of all that stuff, though, and I like to physically put my hands on it and study it. I need to do something on my breaks at work.

Thirdly, and I've mentioned this on past posts as well. this story may spill over into a novel set in the same world and history at some point. I'd like to be able to have all of the notes and research available to me whenever I take up that gauntlet. And every day I'm coming more and more to the feeling that I will take it up.

So, I'm making a Tiny Dragon notebook. Sharing the same notebook, on the other side of the middle pocket divider is the section for Queendom of the Harpies.

Harpies is a new story concept and I haven't begun writing it yet. I have started compiling information, both handwritten notes and printed web research and I need to start gathering all of that material into one location and start really planning the story. The notebook will be my primary tool for that as well.

A story notebook can be one of the writer's most dependable tools, and the one they come to depend on most. It helps you keep ideas, characterizations and plotlines straight in addition to being a place to keep all of your research. Keeping information tightly organized is a habit that must be learned by all beginning writers. I am still learning how to do it and using notebooks helps me tremendously.

What I'm Thankful For

It's Thanksgiving day.

Time for family, food and football.

Time to meditate on our blessings and thank God for all that He has provided for us over the past year.

I wonder how many people really take the time out on this busy day to do just that. We need to. I'm going to take the lead and list out ten things I'm thankful for this year.

1. Jesus. My lover and my spouse. I know I should always put You first, yet, You still love me when I don't. I know You have great things in store for me, and I can't wait to walk the path as it unfolds. 
2. I have a good job. Not too many people can say that this year. I praise God for mine. 
3. Economic Stability. Money has been tight for me, but it could be worse and I thank You, Jesus, that I'm getting by. 
4. My friends. They keep me shored up by their prayers and intercede for me daily, I know. 
5. My health. It has not been that good this year. I've had a procedure on my right eye (a cryopexy to treat a blood-vessel tumor) and a mysterious illness that seems to be getting worse involving intense cramping in my feet and legs, lethargy and migraines. Will see rheumatologists and neurologists in the future to try and get diagnosed. Still, I can walk and talk and breathe. Praise the Lord!
6.  My gifts. My writing and speaking abilities have served Him in the past year in remarkable ways. He has used my skills to work miracles and has let me see it. I am doubly blessed. He is probably less than thrilled about my fiction writing, but I try not to go out on too far of a limb there. A time may come when He leads me to work only for His Kingdom. If that's what He wants from me, He'll get it. I learned long ago that my arms are just too short to box with Him.
7. My faith. As a convert, I have a profound love for my Catholic faith and sometimes suffer persecutions for it. I try to suffer them as Jesus did, as a lamb led to the slaughter, silent and always praying for my enemies. My faith is the foundation of my life. There was a time when I didn't believe in God and I honestly don't know how I made it out of that deep well of despair, but I'm glad I did.
8. My family. Scattered and dysfunctional as we are, I recognize that they shaped me into what I am today and I'm grateful for their presence in my life.  
9. My saints. My intercessors and protectors who have watched over me this past year and have saved my life a few times by keeping me from bad car accidents (narrowly missed serious crashes at least twice that I know of). St. Michael the Archangel, for lessons in spiritual warfare. St. John of the Cross for teaching me self-emptying love of God and neighbor. St. Therese of Lisieux for showing me the "Little Way" to God by the virtue of humility. 
10. The Little Miracles. I am eternally grateful that God has opened my eyes to the wonders of His world. I always have appreciated weather and nature. I love them all the more dearly now since I am able to see His hand in all things. Even the tragic. I had a non-believer friend ask me, "How can you believe in God, after seeing the death and destruction an EF5 tornado does?" My answer was this: "God's purpose is not clear. I do know I've seen people who were once enemies reconciled and complete strangers helping one another. But, I've also seen people come apart. I don't know. I'm just hopeful that one day it will all make sense." Sure, God brings the tornadoes and hurricanes. I believe He also brings the rainbow, the cool breeze on a hot day and a much-needed rain on dry lands. I always try to look for the Little Miracles in everyday life. They are everywhere, for anyone who wants to see them. Just open your eyes and look around you.

My prayer for all of you reading this is that this Thanksgiving Day you will examine your lives from this past year and reflect on some of the ways the Lord  has blessed you. You may not be able to find ten of them, but I'd be willing to bet that you have many blessings that perhaps you are not even aware of.

Ask God to reveal them to you.

And then thank Him for them.

May God continue to bless you in the coming year.