Same as It Ever Was

I feel a bit guilty even though I really have no reason to. I haven’t written a blog entry since roughly Thanksgiving. That’s a long time, but also the busiest time of year for me with my job. The period between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day is usually a blur for me and this year was no exception. It’s put a damper on the holidays for me that I’m not sure I’ll ever get past—even more so than my retail career did. Which got me thinking…

I heard the song “Once in a Lifetime,” by the Talking Heads the other day and the lyrics hit me pretty hard. When I was young, they words were quirky; but when you’re fifty, it’s scary how profound they can be. I found myself asking, “Well, how did I get here?”

I thought I had escaped retail in 2002, and then found myself the co-owner of a store in 2007. I stepped into a silent-partner position with said store in 2013 in search of what I felt would be more stable career with the United States Postal Service. I had always wanted to write, and I felt that a job with regular hours would give me more free time to do so. And what could possibly be more a traditional and stable an institution as the good old USPS?

Well, it’s been three years and I am still a contracted employee—meaning, I can only be promoted based on seniority and not performance. I have memorized and can run fast and efficiently sixteen different routes, consisting of anywhere from 700 to 1000 deliveries per day. I do it well, better than several of the regulars, and yet I get paid less and can be let go from an annual contract at their whim.

That’s the American Dream for you.

I tell myself that the long hours are making me a better writer. I tell myself that when/if I ever do converted to a “regular” I will have more free time and they will not be able to schedule me 7 days a week, 12 hours a day, for six weeks in a row from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Yes, that does happen, and since I am contracted I have no choice but to say, “Yes, master,” and maintain my link in the chain of promotion.

But I am not bitter. No, seriously, I’m not. It’s been a learning experience and I’ve dealt with personalities that run the gamut. You couldn’t ask for more life experience and the character archive runs deep for future writing projects. My husband, Dennis, says that every stereotype begins for a reason. And I’m here to tell you that everything you’ve heard about government work is true.

I’ll spare you the details.

Just hope that before next holiday season I will be a part of the “regular” stereotype. Just kidding—my work ethic and integrity would never allow me to shun what so many there take for granted. But if I do finally grasp that golden ticket, you’ll be hearing a lot more from me and know that everything has paid off.

And, who knows? Maybe Christmas will eventually work its way back into my heart.

Shameless plugs:

The fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of my zombie apocalypse novel, “Will to Live: The Dead Next Door,” are now available for free on Wattpad. For those of you not caught up, the preceding chapters are available there as well. Just click here. Please vote and/or comment on it. Thanks for your support!

Stories available for purchase are on Amazon: click here. Thanks in advance for your purchase and please, please, please write an honest review.

See you soon!

TWS

Music to My Eyes

Sometimes blog entries are my nemesis. At least that’s the way I see them at first. Little enemies, lingering behind my thoughts…

It’s time you write one of us. You’re never going to be a good writer if you keep avoiding us. Come out and play, Timmy. We won’t bite.

Truth be told, I’m hesitant because I don’t usually know what I’m going to write, whether or not it will be interesting, or if I will just stare stupidly at a monitor. The first is almost always true, the second I have little control over, and the third never happens. The words always come. I just don’t know where they will lead me. I find that a little daunting.

Or maybe it’s just an excuse for something I’m really good at: procrastination.

I also don’t want limit myself or, God forbid, bore you with another pining for some old horror movie, or author that you really couldn’t give two shits about. I reserve the right to do so, but my intention is to somehow bring variety into the mix.

I am a music lover, have been since my older brother bought me vinyl records of Cher, Olivia Newton John, and Elton John, at the tender age of 8 (Yes, I am gay too—go figure). Through the last forty years, I can honestly say that not a day goes by without me listening to music. My tastes have grown, immensely since then. Hard rock will always be my go-to, but I also listen to classical and traditional jazz as well. I am completely comfortable playing Barbra Streisand one moment, and Ozzy Osbourne the next. The context may seem strange to you, but I love them equally.

I don’t think I realized it at first, but music plays a large part in my writing. I don’t listen to it while I write, but I do hear rhythm in the words, and if the flow is not right, I will hone it until it is. There is also a broader punctuation in prose, meaning that a sentence, or even a word, can be used as comma, a period, or an exclamation point.

Get it?

Music is also my greatest inspiration. Hearing a combination of great lyrics and a moving melody sends me to heights so dizzying sometimes that I have to compose. Even if I am driving and cannot write, I will still chip away at an idea in my head for later. The sources are varied, but some that always come through are Alice Cooper, The Doors, and—bringing things a little more current—Foo Fighters. 

Sometimes, it’s not just the music, but the title of a song. I am not going to name any of these, because I am considering a project of short stories inspired by song titles. But you know what I mean. Just think of a musician you admire, and then think of their song titles. Which stand out to you? Why? There’s a story in there, whether you write it or not.

The marriage of music and writing is not a new concept. And there are people that do the same with painting. It’s probably a safe conclusion to say that all of the arts are intertwined somehow, some way. It just depends on the person as to what art form(s) they gravitate to. Creativity stimulates the mind, thus inspires. Inspiration, blossoms within, and often results in creation. It’s a beautiful circle, the joy it brings—limitless.

What inspires you?

Shameless plugs:

The fourth chapter of my zombie apocalypse novel, “Will to Live: The Dead Next Door,” is now available for free on Wattpad. For those of you not caught up, the preceding chapters are available there as well. Just click here. Please vote and/or comment on it. Thanks for your support!

Stories available for purchase are on Amazon: click here. Thanks in advance for your purchase and please, please, please write an honest review.

Happy Thanksgiving!

TWS

The Original

Well, here it is—the day after Halloween, November 1^st, All Saints Day. It’s time to put away the Halloween candy, shelve those scary films and books, and put all spooky thoughts away until next October.

Funny—if I were able to do that, would I? I doubt it. As I wake up this Sunday morning, realizing that I have an extra hour thanks to the government, the first thing I want to do is go on to Amazon and see if Ash vs. The Evil Dead is available (I don’t have Starz, and didn’t get to see it last night). Also, being a lazy Sunday morning, there’s some unread horror—old and new, professional and amateur, calling to me from my tablet.

I am sitting here at my kitchen table, savoring the first cup of coffee and reflecting on why it is that I am so pulled in the direction of the horror genre. I’ve compared it to comfort food in the past, and I’ll always stick with that comparison. I’ve spoken about my sister taunting me at an early age with horrifying ghost stories of maniacs dismembering little children—the same sister who used to make me watch first-run episodes of Dark Shadows (I was 5 or less), and werewolf movies so as not to be alone herself.

The truth is I don’t know why I harken for horror. It has been a constant presence for my entire fifty years of consciousness, so I will leave it at that.

But let me share this little story with you. It’s not a scary one, but one you will appreciate if you follow classic horror movies.

Back in the late 1970s, not quite 1980, a little film began filming less than a mile, and around the corner from my house. A group of students from the University of Michigan were in Morristown, Tennessee, using a later friend of mine’s cabin (either his parent’s, or uncle’s land) to make a movie called The Book of the Dead.

Yes, THAT movie.

We only went down there a couple of times, because we were young and had heard stories that they would have us arrested, or shoot us, or who knows, maybe dismember us (we weren’t even old enough to drive and had no idea what savages film “crews” would employee). I remember specifically going down there one day (they slept during the day, filmed at night), and actually walking around a grave that had been dug (to the left of the cabin), with a primitive cross made of bound sticks at its rim.

What I would give to have that cross today.

You could also see that there were crude holes sawed into the door for when Cheryl later shoves her hands through. Oh, and the blood. Everything was stained with a red Karo-syrup mixture (I know this because two later friends had actually ended up helping with the production).

So, yes, The Evil Dead was literally made around the corner from my house in Quail Hollow subdivision, off of Kidwell’s Ridge Rd. Look it up.

I also attended the premier—at the dinky little Capri movie theater—where they actually flew stars like Bruce Campbell in via helicopter. Big stuff.

Not.

But appropriate.

The movie did scare the snot out of me though, and I will always favor the first over the rest.

The cabin burned down a few years later. I know who did it and—even though he’s dead—I won’t reveal. I’m sure it was drunken foolery, and unfortunate. God knows what a tourist site it would be now had that not happened.

I’m pretty sure I could still take you to the place though—even though I left Morristown 25 years ago. But like most things, it’s probably better in my memories.

You know the rest. Three people—Bruce, Sam, and Rob-- involved with that movie are major Hollywood bigshots now. Good for them. They deserve it.

And now, I think I’m going to go watch Ash vs. The Evil Dead.

Happy All Saints Day!

TWS

They’re Coming to Get You

It’s Halloween—that time of year when I start craving horror films like junk food. Of course, I watch horror movies year round, actually gravitate to them before I do most other films—but something about the seasonal weather change and the holiday, kick the addiction into overdrive.

I’m not talking your average horror movies here. I refuse to risk what little viewing time I have on some BS like Paranormal Activity 19. There are so many new horror movies popping up these days that I have two choices—either wait, and let time dictate their worthiness, or rely solely on an established director’s reputation.

Side notes and conflict: I love Guillermo del Toro, and I really want to see Crimson Peak at a theater. But there are so many CGI effects in the commercials that it looks as fake as the last Jurassic Park movie. And then there is American Horror Story which uses less CGI, but more in-your-face horror and gore than anything I have ever seen on television. But its excessiveness undermines its credibility, and people like me start growing bored and listing all the proven sources that the series is “paying homage” to—re: Ripping Off.

Yet another side note: I am passionate about The Walking Dead, so much so that I could probably dedicate a blog to nothing but the show. Everything excluding the concept of it is original and expertly executed. But TWD is not what I had in mind for today’s blogpost. No. I am here to talk about the granddaddy of all things zombie: Night of the Living Dead.

I gave up a few Octobers back on trying to catch great horror movies on television. Granted, there are occasional gems broadcasts on channels like TCM, AMC, and the like, but most air closer to the 31^st, and rarely will your schedule line up with the film you really want to see. No—as I said before, this time of year I don’t squander time on lesser performers. I break out my own DVD collection. I’ve had time so far to watch six classics (in my mind, at least), and I started the whole shebang off with George Romero’s seminal film.

I first saw Night of the Living Dead on VHS in the early 1980s. I’m fairly certain I saw it after having seen its sequel, Dawn of the Dead, at a midnight movie showing at the Kingston Four in Knoxville, TN. Videotape was a relatively new market then—movie rental stores privately owned and expensive—and title availability was nowhere near as deep as the selection we have today. I read Fangoria magazine regularly, long anticipating the movie’s iconic black and whites stills to lurch forth from its pages and on to my television screen. I simply had to see the movie that was banned in (pick a number) countries!

It did not live up to its expectations. Not then.

The print was horrible, the acting and dialogue stilted. Nothing was all that shocking—certainly not enough to garner its reputation. The lead female, Judith O’Dea, was so annoying that I wanted Ben to toss her out the front door and feed her to the zombies, sparing us all the melodrama.

But later that night, when the lights were out and I was trying to sleep, the film kept creeping back into my subconscious. While watching shadows dance in the dark cross my ceiling, I couldn’t help but wonder: What if it happened right now? What would I do?

Since then I have seen the film countless times. I own more than one remastered version, pristine prints, juiced-up audio, and extras galore. I became a dedicated fan of Richard Matheson (yet another blog topic), writer of the classic, I Am Legend—a book about a man alone in a world of vampires—which George Romero has often said was the inspiration of the film.

My obsession with Night of the Living Dead has gone so far as that I have written a zombie apocalypse novel myself (Will to Live: The Dead Next Door, to be published in 2016), knowing full-well that the market is inundated with such pulp, and filled to the brim with some of the worst writing ever.

So, why—why has this b-movie concept of cannibal corpses taken root and grown in me for the last 3+ decades? Why has the idea now germinated in the masses, making shows like The Walking Dead immensely popular? What is it about dead folks eating the living that keeps bringing us back for more?

I cannot say for others, but I came to my own answers while writing the aforementioned novel. It is not a new revelation, nor a glamorous one. In fact, it likely hearkens back to the Neanderthals: We are obsessed with our biggest fear—our own mortality. What happens to us when we die? Night of the Living Dead is not only a metaphor for that age-old question, it is the living (ha-ha) embodiment of that confrontation. No, we won’t rise and eat people—but we will wither away and deteriorate like the shambling corpses in pursuit. Death is always chasing us, and it will always catch us in the end.

I don’t want to leave you on such a downer. So, I also have a theory about my obsession with apocalyptic fiction—not necessarily zombie apocalypse, but definitely the collapse of civilization that that particular sub-genre resides in—however, you might not like it either…

Remember when you were a child, and your parents used to nag you about how things were better when they were growing up? Well, that trait is inherent is us as well. Face it. Wouldn’t it be nice if the world were a simpler place, like when we were growing up? Think about it—no constant communication, no Wi-Fi, no computers, no cellphones, and no Facebook.  Do we really need six hundred channels on the TV to choose from, reality TV, and TV on demand? Everything now is at our fingertips—there is no mystery, no anticipation. Have we become spoiled, complacent, perhaps vulnerable?

Wouldn’t it be nice to just read a book without having to worry about the all the current, frivolous interruptions in our daily life? I think so.

…Maybe worth killing zombies for.

Shameless Plugs:

I don’t write poetry often, but I have a creepy-cool Halloween poem for free: click here. Please vote and/or comment on it.

The first two chapters (soon to be a third) of Will to Live: The Dead Next Door are free as well: click here. Please vote and/or comment on it.

Stories available for purchase are on Amazon: click here. Thanks in advance for your purchase and please, please, please write an honest review.

Happy Halloween!

TWS

On Success

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”  

–Ernest Hemingway

I want to be a writer. Actually, I am a writer. I have been writing for a very long time—stretching way back to my high school years in the early 1980s. I got serious about it in the mid-1990s, publishing a few shorts here and there. Then I let it slide until a little over 2 years ago. Now, I write pretty much every day for at least an hour (constraints with my job), and I feel like I am producing quality work consistently.

I believe this to be successful, perhaps in an organic way—considering that I am more concerned with quality than quantity, and don’t stress too much about having new material out there every other week. Would I like to make a living at writing? Certainly. But I think legacy is more important, and I would rather have excellence in the periphery, than slush in the mainstream—especially when I am long gone and unable to defend myself.

The reason I bring this up is that I have been reading several books on e-publishing—the majority consensus being the exact opposite: quantity over quality. Write fast, publish more, market more, and make money. This mindset crosses over into another pet peeve of mine: reality TV culture and social website inundation—people shouting in the dark, begging for attention, pushing buttons… all in the name of fame.

But that’s another can of Alpo. I want to talk about success.

Being successful doesn’t necessarily mean being famous and making lots of money. Being successful, to me, means doing what you love, enjoying it, and learning and growing from that experience. I’m already doing that. The problem is: I want more time for it—and the only way to accomplish this is to develop my passion into a career with compensation, or at least substantial supplemental income. I believe this is where the confusion over the meaning of success lies.

I write slowly. I am a perfectionist and sometimes agonize over the simplest sentence. I finished a draft of a novel over a year ago and I am still in revisions (an hour a day, remember). I was recently told by a professional author that the two sides of my brain were fighting, that my inner-critic was scrutinizing every detail, self-sabotaging myself, and that the first draft was the important part, not to sweat the rewrites. I find this appalling. Publishing a first draft with a light going over is kind of like leaving the house naked, all imperfections for the world to see. No. I disagree... and not respectfully. Funny enough, the same author (in his book on e-publishing successfully), mentioned more than once that there is no correct writing method. Everyone is different. Do what works. Develop your routine. Trust the process, etc.

WTF?

So, now I skip the parts in these books about the writing process. The feedback I get from those I trust is good. I know how to write. I’m just slow. I’m less apt at marketing (loathe it, actually)—so, I pick and choose the sales tips from these books that I feel are relevant without being too intrusive to people who respect me and/or my work. I hope that the combination of the two will one day lead to my having more time for what I love.

Will that make me successful? 

No. It will make me more successful.

TWS

PS: If you’re curious about the novel mentioned above, the first two chapters are up on Wattpad for free. Please vote and/or comment which will result in more people seeing it. Click here.

'Salem's Lot, a Lot

I read 'Salem's Lot in 1977. It was the first Stephen King book I ever read. I might have sampled some stories in Night Shift prior, but he only had a few titles back then, and it was definitely the first novel of his that I took on. My mother had read it and I became intrigued when I witnessed her shriek and hurl the paperback across the room (I later found out that she was at the part when Marjorie Glick sits up on the morgue table). Thus began my longest affair with any writer ever. 

I'm not sure how many times I have perused the book since. I used to think revisiting novels was a waste of time, but now I do it not only for research into the mechanics, but for pure pleasure as well. I've compared great horror—novels and film—to comfort food, and 'Salem's Lot is no exception. Rereading the book, to me, is like slipping into a favorite recliner, or a warm fireplace on a rainy Autumn day, or having a delicious piece of cake... maybe red velvet.

I'm sure I've read the novel at least five times—once for every decade I've been alive—maybe more, though it's difficult to pinpoint the reasons for its magnetism. It was by no means the first book I ever completed. Perhaps it was the first that I ever thoroughly enjoyed. I relish the nostalgia of the small-town setting, in a decade long before technology kept everyone connected. King himself has described the book as Dracula comes to Peyton Place. Maybe its draw is similar to the addiction people have with soap operas, a voyeuristic peek into the secret lives of middle America (or in this case New England).

Several chapters have become nothing short of iconic (some enhanced by Toby Hooper's television miniseries of 1979). Who could forget:

Mike Ryerson's in the open grave of Danny Glick ("Stop staring at me.").

Danny Glick at Mark Petrie's window ("Let me in.").

Ryerson returning to Matt Burke's bedroom ("You'll sleep with the dead, teacher.").

Marjorie Glick sitting up on the morgue table ("Danny, are you there?...").

And the list goes on. I don't know why these scenes stay with me. King was young when he wrote them—good, but nowhere near the writer he has matured into. Yet this is the book that immediately comes to my mind when he's mentioned. It's magic.

After rereading the novel last month, I decided to watch both television adaptions again—the Tobe Hooper version from 1979, and the 2004 version starring Rob Lowe (skipping the unofficial, un-watchable Cohen sequel, A Return to Salem's Lot (1987). Neither of these two versions capture the overall magic, but both have their charms. 

Hooper's Lot does a good job creating the close-knit feel of the community, but sacrifices substance for scares by turning Barlow into an unintelligible knockoff of Murnau's Nosferatu. The Rob Lowe version has an excellent cast (Donald Sutherland, Rutger Hauer, Samantha Mathis, Andre Braugher), exposes more of the darker underbelly of the community, but manages somehow to mangle the story through modernization—as if the writer is saying, the book is great, but I can do better by changing it—a ridiculous Hollywood paradox (territorial pissing is what I call it—a term I borrow from the late, great Kurt Cobain).

Horrible movie adaptions and Stephen King are in most cases synonymous, and when inevitably admonished by a reader that a movie version has "ruined his book," King simply answers—and I paraphrase:

No it didn't. See. There they all are, lined up on the shelf.

And so, as always, I return to the book because the essence remains unchanged within the binding. And with this recent reading—coupling, again, his lush prose with my mind's eye, I found the answer: 

The magic is in the collaboration.

TWS

The List

One of my regrets in life is not taking time to speak with Karl Edward Wagner.

In the early 1990s, I used to be a member of the HWA (Horror Writers Association). Through their annual conventions I got to meet many of the writers I admire, including heavy-hitters like Richard Matheson, Harlan Ellison, and Robert Bloch. I was once in a huckster room, picking up a paperback copy of In A Lonely Place, when someone said, "You ought to have him sign it. He's right over there," and pointed to a intimidating, biker-esque, bearded man standing alone. "Maybe I will," I answered, and did not. He died a few years later.

KEW was known primarily for his character, Kane, a dark fantasy anti-hero of short stories and novels. Though this is not my genre of choice, I have read a collection of Kane short stories and thoroughly enjoyed it. But he also wrote several award-winning horror stories, originally published in now defunct (and sorely missed) magazines, like Twilight Zone and The Horror Show.   

I won't rattle on about the plots of these stories, but the imagery, subject matter, and prose, have stayed with me for three decades--not unlike other established masters (Poe, Lovecraft, Blackwood, immediately come to mind). There are two collections containing the stories: In a Lonely Place, and Why Not You and I? I believe both are out of print currently, but used copies are out there. I have a couple of the former in well-worn 1983 paperbacks, and the latter in a beautiful Dark Harvest edition, 1987.

Mr. Wagner and I have East Tennessee in common, and I suspect that this is part of my strong connection with his writing. He was born there; I grew up there. Many of the stories are set in and around Knoxville, and the Great Smokey Mountains. I have fond memories of walking slightly off campus while attending the University of Tennessee, and wondering if I was treading the same sidewalks as in Where the Summer Ends. 

Recently, having reacquainted myself with the two collections, I got curious as to Wagner's influences. I started with his website, discovering that he has a cited list of what he considered to be the 39 best horror novels (divided into 3 groups of 13--supernatural, science fiction, and non-supernatural). I found a complete copy of this list on the Miskatonic Books Blog here.

Treasure maps are not that easy to come by. When you do happen upon one such as this, the level of excitement is difficult to define. For me--an avid reader who prides himself on being fairly knowledgeable of the genre of my choice--I was simultaneously mystified, unnerved, and giddy. There were several authors and titles on that list that I had never read or--for that matter--even heard of! I am only familiar with five. FIVE! That means there are at least thirty-four titles out there that I am now curious to read.

Of course, many of these are old, out-of-print, expensive, forbidden, or cursed... but that makes it all the more exciting to track them down. I have already pre-ordered Echo of a Curse by R.R.Ryan, being reissued in a brand new edition next month with a forward by none other than Stephen King himself. Happy Halloween!  

So, even 20+ years after his death, Wagner is the author that keeps on giving... to me, at least. Thank you, Karl. I wish had told you in person how much you mean to me.

Before I go, I want to let you know that I now have some free stories up on Wattpad, as well as the first chapter of my novel in progress (see, I don't spend all of my time reading!). Check them out and, if you do, please leave comments. I'm always interested in what you think.

TWS