American Frankenstein

And: Merry Christmas from Nevie Rose!

2011-12-25T10:42:00.000-08:00

Definitely the most stylish member of our household.

Best smile, too.

Frankie's Xmas Surprise

2011-12-24T08:57:00.000-08:00

From me and mine here at American Frankenstein to you and yours out there in Internetland, here's wishing you a great holiday weekend... with plenty of surprises!

While I'm at it, thanks to the great crew who are always close at hand to help me out with this blog. My wife (and best editor) Tia Travis, webslinger Minh Nguyen, ace illustrator Kevin Nordstorm, google guru/madly skilled library bud Sarah Vital, and all the great writers and publishing folk who've dropped in now and again to say howdy. Happy holidays, one and all!

Sunday Paper on a Saturday Night (or: Sunday Supplement 12/18/11)

2011-12-17T19:48:00.001-08:00

Since this movie looks to be a dark twist on the mythic, you can imagine that the guy who wrote Dark Harvest might really want to see it before Christmas rolls around. Netflix is letting me down -- it's been at the top of my queue for three weeks, and it ain't comin'. Amazon, do your stuff.

If there's a rockabilly fan on your Xmas list, check out The Presley Sessions by Reid Jameson. Been playing this one a lot with the new Chris Isaak Sun Records tribute, and Jameson hangs right in there. Love the stripped-down acoustic feel, and his great versions (especially) of "Trying to Get to You" and "Is It So Strange." Uh-huh-huh. Methinks The King would be pleased.

Now it can be told: Rockin' Randy Fox spins the tale of the night Charlie Louvin met Jello Biafra... with auditory evidence included!

Back to Xmas... and just in case you're wondering. Favorite Scrooge: Alastair Sim. Runner up: Patrick Stewart. Weirdest: Jack Palance in Ebeneezer. And no, I'm not kidding. Jack Palance played Scrooge. Really. In a western. With Ebeneezer as a gunslinger. And card cheat.

The Actor Who Should Have Played Scrooge But Didn't: Boris Karloff. But we got him as the Grinch, so we came out ahead.

Talking to some of the college-age guys who work for me at the library, and the subject of Christmas action movies came up. They all knew Die Hard. Two out of three knew Lethal Weapon. But they'd never heard of First Blood, and only one of them had heard of Rambo. Wow. I officially feel old now.

Want some other Christmas movie recs? Check out my post from last year: Stalkin' Around the Christmas Tree. Enjoy!

The Horror in the Library

2011-12-15T13:42:00.000-08:00

A co-worker left a watermelon on his desk last night. Innocent, unsuspecting... all alone in the dark.

This is what happened during the night shift.

Of course, I wouldn't do this for just anyone. But hey, this is Mike Jung, a fellow keyboard rattler and author of the forthcoming Geeks, Girls, and Secret Identities.* Which, if it's as cool as Mike is, will definitely be frosty.

*And, no... Mike's book won't be available in February. It's an October release, but you can go ahead and preorder it now. Why wait?

Test Drive Wildest Dreams

2011-12-13T10:36:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Kevin Nordstrom for a great illo based on the opening scene from Wildest Dreams. Just a reminder that the one-week 99 cent sale on the WD eBook is winding down.

So click on over to Cemetery Dance and order up. And if you'd like to give the novel a test drive, you can check out the "Look Inside" link for the first chapter-and-a-half over on the Amazon page. You'll find out why the little girl in Kevin's illo isn't quite what she appears to be, but you won't find out what the stranger -- who just happens to be a hired killer named Clay Saunders -- has in that backpack. You'll have to order up to do that little trick... and thanks to all of you who've already done the job.

The 99 Cent Dream

2011-12-10T08:11:00.000-08:00

Just wanted to thank everyone who's grabbed a copy of the Wildest Dreams eBook, on sale from Cemetery Dance this week for 99 cents. Yesterday over at Amazon, the book hit into the high 800s on the sales rank and charted at 19 on the Horror Bestsellers List.

Nice. Gracias! I appreciate it!

Most of all, I'm glad Wildest Dreams is getting a chance at a bigger audience. It was originally published as a 500 copy signed limited-edition, and those can disappear pretty fast. I'm glad folks who've been waiting for a less-expensive edition will now have a chance at it, and I hope you all enjoy it -- of the novels I've done, Dark Harvest and Wildest Dreams are my favorites.

Wildest Dreams: 99 Cents!

2011-12-08T22:38:00.000-08:00

For the next week, my novel Wildest Dreams is discounted to just 99 CENTS at the Cemetery Dance Store, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble. This one's usually $4.99, so now's your chance to grab it if you missed the 500-copy limited edition (which is long out of print). Click on over to the CD store and buy direct, or use the links on that page to get to the online merchant of your choice.

Here's the flap-copy-orific scoop on Wildest Dreams, a dark-as-tar novel of hardboiled horror:

A storm is coming to Cliffside, California, and with it comes a killer.

His name is Clay Saunders, and he walks in two worlds. Born with a caul, Saunders sees ghosts. But to him, the world of the dead is very much like the world of the living. It's a realm of eternal pain -- inescapable and relentless -- that cuts as deeply as the razor edge of the hired killer's K-bar knife.

Saunders has spilled blood on Florida sand, and the snow-covered Canadian prairie, and the black lava of Hawaii. His latest target is Diabolos Whistler, leader of a satanic cult. Exiled in Mexico, Whistler is alone when Saunders stabs him just above the first vertebrae... alone, except for the mummies stacked like so much cordwood in his library.

But the living who await the killer's arrival in Cliffside are more frightening than the decayed corpses of the dead. There's Whistler's daughter Circe, a tattooed siren who leads Saunders to a bed of iron and satin... and Circe's bodyguard, a seven foot student of Egyptology whose sarcophagus rests in a redwood pyramid... and Janice Ravenwood, a medium with a startling hidden gift.

And there's a little girl, a ghost held prisoner by vengeful revenants. Only Clay Saunders can save her. To do that, he must bridge the worlds of the living and the dead in an unforgettable climax of darkness and blood.

Another Dance in the Cemetery

2011-12-01T09:39:00.000-08:00

Slippin' into Darkness is this week's featured eBook over at the Cemetery Dance website. Thanks to everyone who grabbed a virtual copy yesterday after the email went out from the good folks in Maryland... judging from the numbers over at Amazon, looks like a bunch of you have done that.

To order the Slippin' eBook from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Sony, Kobo, the Apple iBookstore, or CD directly, just click on this link to visit the product page on the Cemetery Dance website... and thanks. Great to see this novel available again!

Sunday Supplement 11/27/11

2011-11-27T10:07:00.000-08:00

After that Thanksgiving Day Silver Age Marvel-fest with Tom Pic, I pulled down my copy of The Incredible Hulk Omnibus, the big fat hardcover with ol' Greenskin's original six issue run and all the Tales to Astonish Hulk stories. Had a lot of fun rereading those. Of course, the Jack Kirby Hulk is the best, and I especially love issues #4 and #5... but I have to admit I've got a soft spot for the Bill Everett Hulk in TtA, and Marie Severin's version, too (though Severin's is definitely the pretty-boy Hulk -- sometimes he looks like Tony Curtis with muscles).

While we're upgrading my knowledge on the Marvel Universe, can someone explain to me the whole "Red Hulk" deal? I get the Planet: Hulk thing, and enjoyed that series... but I missed the boat on this big red guy.

Fantastic essay on 1) Peter Straub's Ghost Story and 2) becoming a writer over at Christopher Shearer's A Pulp Solemnity blog. This one's got sharp insights into Straub's novel, an engaging personal story, and (for my library compadres) it notches pretty high on the lib-sci serendipity-meter, too. Love it when I read about someone's game getting change because they stumbled across a book in the stacks -- that's happened to me more than once, and just knowing that it does happen is one of the very best parts about working in a library.

More serendipity. Stumbled across this Cruzados tune while listening to an old (wait for it) mix tape. Yes. On my Sony Walkman. Haven't heard it in twenty years or so, and it still resonates (as some ghosts from the eighties do). Shoulda been a hit, too... but then again, I'm a sucker for any song with a guitar break that sounds like it belongs in an old spy movie.

Tom Pic, Thanksgiving Turkeys, and The Mighty Thor

2011-11-26T20:13:00.000-08:00

Well... Thanksgiving has come and gone. One thing I've come to look forward to about the day itself is that somehow or another I always end up trading emails with my good buddy (and ace crime writer) Tom Piccirilli. We kick meal plans (and progress) back and forth, and compare notes (re: who ends up on the couch in a turkey-induced coma sooner). Of course, other banter goes on during the course of the day, too.

This year, Tom and I were reminiscing about the glory days of the Lee/Kirby/Ditko Marvel comics -- what a blast those early world-building stories were to read, and how they still resonate with us today. For my part, I'm lucky that Pic keeps up with the changes in the Marvel Universe better than I do. He and Brian Keene are my go-to guys when it comes to explaining the character reboots that have left me in the dust since I stopped collecting comics in the early eighties. Anyway, Tom tried to explain what's happened to Thor since then, because I didn't quite get the origin tossed our way in the movie. Pic told me that Doctor Don Blake (Thor's secret identity in the early comics) never existed, and the good Doctor was just a card Odin played to humble Thor... and that somewhere along the line in the Ultimates reboot Thor became a little crazy and only thought he was a god.

Go figure. And here I was thinking the frat-boy Thor from that old Hulk movie was out there in the creative stratosphere.

So no wonder I was lost when I popped the new movie into the DVD player. I kept waiting for ol' Doctor Blake to show up with his twisted little cane. Instead I got a CGI-y Asgard and Anthony Hopkins looking like he was wearing a '55 Cadillac. (And, note to Hollywood: Does Anthony Hopkins have to be everyone's dad in movies? He's the Wolfman's dad... he's Thor's dad... if I remember right, he was Zorro's dad, too.)

Anyway, I got what they were trying to do -- give us Thor by way of the Lord of the Rings movies -- and while I dug the battle with the Frost Giants, the humor drove this one off the tracks for me pretty quickly. When the goofy scientist family showed up for the second time, and tBilly Swan's "I Can Help" cranked up on the soundtrack, that was enough for me. I hit eject.

Hey, comic book movies are one thing, but music's music. I like Billy Swan just fine, but not in a Thor movie. At least in the Hulk/Thor TV-movie, Thor got to party to a Dave Alvin tune. That was probably the only reason I made it through the whole thing -- I kept waiting for the flip side.

One last thing about the new version -- Thor and his hammer? Neither of them belong in New Mexico, guys. The Hulk belongs in New Mexico. That's Ol' Greenskin's turf, and no long-haired guy with a hammer should trespass on it.

'Nuff said.

"Attention, Strategic Air Command! Get Me a Ton of Napalm, 500 Chainsaws, and a Whole Helluva Lotta Cranberry Sauce!"

2011-11-24T00:05:00.000-08:00

It came from outer space... to beat the stuffing out of man!

Building Your Resume (w/ a side order of pre-Thanksgiving cheer)

2011-11-22T14:30:00.000-08:00

Here's a fun post over at Brian Freeman's blog, demonstrating that even a guy like Stephen King started out taking shots in the dark with his early submissions.

I remember writing cover letters like King's. Mine were always short and sweet -- I can recall a tip in one of the first Writers' Market books I read that advised young writers against giving a rundown of a plot for a submission; the idea was to let the story speak for itself. Just mention your credits, keep your cover letter short and sweet, and include an SASE with appropriate return postage. That was the professional way to do things. Let the story do the talkin'.

But: Hell, that didn't really leave much for me to say to an editor. In the early days, I'd struggle to find something -- anything -- to say in a cover letter. I used to type something like: "I've enjoyed reading your magazine (i. e. yes, I'm not a dolt -- I've done my homework and I think this story is appropriate for you), and I hope you'll find the enclosed story to your liking (i. e. please read the damn thing). I'm an unpublished writer, but I hope that won't keep you from considering my manuscript. Thanks for your time (i. e. I think I'm cut out for better than the slush pile; you tell me if I'm wrong); enclosed find a SASE (but please, for god's sake don't use it)."

It was a great relief when I had a few years of publishing under my belt. First I graduated to writing cover letters that said: "I've been published in some of the newer magazines, including Cemetery Dance, Noctulpa, and Grue..." Later, I upped the ante with my first professional credits: "I've had stories accepted for Charlie Grant's Final Shadows anthology and Joe Lansdale's Dark at Heart..." A little later, I could mention sales to the various Year's Best anthos, and a few award nominations, too. Even the publication of my first novel.

Of course, none of that was done through email. When I started out, email didn't exist. I'm kind of glad about that. I've still got a filing cabinet filled with old correspondence -- you know, that paper stuff the postman used to deliver to your house. Inside are manila folders full of letters I traded with other young writers, proposals I shot out to editors, guidelines for long-lost anthologies (yes -- the infamous HWA "haunted airport" antho!), letters and postcards from grand old writers like Robert Bloch and Dick Laymon and Karl Edward Wagner... lots of stuff like that. I've even got every rejection slip I ever received.

I've got to admit that it's fun to look through those files every now and then. Seeing the old letterheads of magazines that are no longer with us brings back memories, as do those (sometimes) cryptic signatures at the bottom of the page and (equally cryptic) handwritten comments I still can't decipher twenty years later. It's great to channel some of my early enthusiasm, and (yes) instructive to consider some of my early failures, too. After all, it was all part of learning the writing game, and I wonder if young writers will get that kind of one-stop-shopping glance in the rearview mirror as the years pass -- I mean, does anyone really archive their emails or (even worse) text messages? I don't think so.

Taking a look back myself, I'd say the main thing that's changed for me is my attitude about rejection. Used to be, I'd almost always take it personally. I'd get a rejection slip, and I'd immediately want to prove the editor wrong by selling the story to a better magazine. Or I'd want to write a new story that would knock out the editor who'd rejected me, get me a slot in his or her antho or magazine, and get me a check. Of course, sometimes that happened, and sometimes it didn't. What I can say now is that my attitude was fuel for the fire -- and, hey, if taking rejection personally made me write another story, that was something positive right there. We all can use a blast of creative fire, and that particular brand got me to "The End" of plenty of stories.

Mostly, though, I've learned that rejection is nothing personal at all -- it's simply a business decision. Because writing is business. Oh, it can be art, too, but those battles are fought on another front, when you're alone with the page in your office. The business/rejection/acceptance stuff really does break down in a different way.

Editors want good stories -- that's a given. But beyond that they also want names that sell books, or magazines, or eBooks, or whatever. And they want to get the best writer they can wrangle with the money they have available. So when push comes to shove, commerce is the part of the engine that drives a lot of deals, and (as a result) success or failure in the marketplace. Most of the time editors are looking for writers who can carry the freight, and get the job done, and deliver the goods both creatively and in the marketplace... and there's a lot more to getting yourself in that position besides becoming a good writer.

Still, ask most of us, and you'll find that the "being good" part of the equation carries a lot of weight. Acclaim is nice. Deals are nice. Money is wonderful. But I don't know anyone who doesn't want to think they've done quality work. In other words: Nobody gets excited about thinking they're a hack, no matter how much money they have.

And, really, if you're a working writer, there's an easy way to size things up for yourself. Just take a look at your personal bookshelf, the one where you keep your solo work and contributor copies of anthologies and magazines where your work has appeared. Run your finger along those spines. Take your creative pulse. See if the work bound up in those volumes satisfies you or doesn't. If there are novels on those shelves you wish you hadn't written, think about the ones you should have written instead... and write 'em. Think about the books you'd like to see up there two years from now... and three years past that. Think about the publishers you've worked with and the ones you'd like to work with, and how you can position yourself to make some of those deals a reality. Think about where you've been, and where you're going, and the fiction that's going to get you there.

Make some plans. Kindle yourself some creative fire. Because it's the fire that will get you there. No matter where it comes from. No matter how you make it. It's the one thing that every writer needs to make good work.

So kindle it up, and when those flames deliver you to the keyboard be thankful.

Rattle those keys.

And let that fire burn.

Building the House

2011-11-17T00:10:00.000-08:00

Here's the beginning of a story I'm working on. Actually, it's probably a novella. Whatever the project, I tend to write a piece a section at a time. I'll work on the opening or the first chapter, and I don't move forward until I figure it's set. If you want to use the old house-building metaphor, that's the foundation. The way I see it, you definitely need one of those before you start tossing up staircases, a second floor, all that stuff. So I work from the ground up, section by section, floor by floor. Framing, then putting up the sheet rock and the mud and the paint, then finishing.

That approach cuts down on revision time, at least for me. The story tends to sharpen itself. Working to turn out one final-quality section after another just makes the story better -- direct, unified, solid. Mostly, I try to avoid stuff I don't like as a reader. I don't like false starts, and I don't like side trips that really don't say much, and I don't like fiction that's, well... sloppy. I try to avoid all of the above. (And, yep, I wish more authors would take that approach -- I read too many published stories and novels that read like rough drafts. The way I see it, that's just lazy.)

Of course, I don't plan everything ahead of time. Like I said, I work a section at a time. Usually I'm working a section or two ahead of myself plotwise, but sometimes a full story arc will come to me and hit the paper complete as I first imagined it. The latter happens rarely, though.

Of course, that's what makes some of the magic. I love the process of discovery, love it when things come together, especially when they come together in ways I didn't expect.

And (of course) the process of discovery can sometimes drive you a little mad, too. I've painted myself into plenty of corners over the years. But that's part of a writer's job, and so is learning to cut a trapdoor in the floor so you can find your way out.

Anyway, this hunk of story is a weird western. Right now it's called "The Church at Tierra Dura." I'm working on it along with Oktober Shadows, building them each section by section. Hope you enjoy it.

There are no shadows when the horse dies.

The rider heaves out of the saddle as the animal's legs fold up, twisting in ways they shouldn't. Black lips foam as the Texas pony hits the ground dead. The desert drinks that foam, and in the next second the rider's boots cross it, heels grinding sand as dry as powdered bones.

The sun climbs high as the rider bends low. Her left hand hovers over a dead man's pistol holstered against her thigh as she listens for a sound that doesn't belong, but the only noise out here is the sharp whistle of her own breaths. That's good news.

She sucks another breath -- a deep one. Shadows spill from her right hand as she snatches her canteen from the saddle horn. Water splashes tin. Three swallows in that canteen, and six bullets in the Colt. That makes nine, and nine will have to be enough to get her from here to somewhere else.

The woman moves on. Briskly. Her Mexican spurs notch the sand. Sparkling grains fill each slice as she heads west. She leaves no trail behind. Ahead, it's hard going. Water sloshes in the canteen, riding a dark tin curve as she follows the sun over one dune, then another. Another mile and there are only two swallows left. Then more sand, notched by Mexican spurs, filled by gravity. more of the same with her next step, and more of the same with the step after that. She counts each one, adds them to the sloshes of the canteen. The number grows, and she follows it.

Heat broils down from the sky. Soon the buckle of her belt feels like a branding iron. An hour later, the sun drops a notch. Painted shadows begin to stretch from the towering saguaro. Another hour and the black bars of the shadow fall at the woman's feet. Twenty more minutes and there are three feet of shadowed earth to mark her westward trail. Then the shadows lengthen quickly. Four feet... then six. Eight, as the woman with a dead man's gun measures her steps against the coming darkness.

Night comes on. The moon rises. Now the earth is the color of ash. The woman's lips are blistered. The canteen tips back. Only one drink left now. She stoppers the canteen, lets it swing to her side on its leather strap. Hears it slosh: once, twice, that long last drink waiting like a cool lingering kiss.

That's a strange thing to think out here, and now. The woman knows that. She wonders why she thought about a kiss at all. Her left hand brushes the Colt at her side. Only one swallow left in the canteen, but still six bullets in the gun. That makes seven, and seven is lucky. She listens again, again hears no sound. She moves forward. Now the earth is the color of a shadow. The moon goes away, smothered by clouds. The desert cools. The woman has walked another mile. When thunder rolls, she's forgotten that imagined kiss bottled up in her canteen. She doesn't think about kisses anymore, not in a way that matters.

She's thinking about bullets when the first raindrop hits her, spilling over her cheek like a tear. Thunder pounds the night. Lightning flares above. The rain lasts twenty minutes, drenching the woman to the bone. She opens her mouth, and raindrops needle her lips and her tongue. Her sunburned cheeks grow cold. Then the rain stops. The clouds clear off. The moon brightens. The earth is ash again, a cinder as far as the eye can see, and the desert drinks the succor of the sky.

Once more it's quiet. No sound at all.

Then the knocking begins.

Out there, in the distance, like rolling thunder.

Then: closer

Finally: everywhere.

In an eyeblink, the woman draws her pistol and cocks the hammer. The sound is like the click of a door unlocking, and it coils her guts. But it is the only sound in the desert that sings of metal. The other sounds are earth and flesh. Bony fists hammering wood that speaks of nailed doors honed by the undertaker's art. Fists pounding coffinwood, when there is nothing in reach but air, and night, and darkness.

They are only sounds, but they pound the woman to her knees in an instant. Brutal knocking slams her like a splintery wave. She slaps callused palms over her ears. She's in the middle of the desert but it's like she's trapped in a box, a dozen invisible carpenters framing tight walls around her. Dead fists hammer the wood. Needled splinters jab her eardrums. And even as the walls go up, dead fingers scrape and scrabble, trying to get at the live meat boxed up inside. All of them working together, dragging that box across the sand, cutting a long gristled trench as they move toward a place where the box will be opened, a place of brimstone and fire.

And then the knocking stops, as suddenly as it started.

The woman hears the creak of hinges. A door that is not there begins to open.

The night wind matches the whisper of that swinging door.

The woman scrambles to her feet.

The desert surrounds her.

No framed walls, no dead carpenters. No box, no lock, no dead men.

She runs.

* * *

Even in a desert, there are cemeteries.

This one is fifty miles from the patch of bad sand traveled by a frightened woman who carries a dead man's gun. It is a place barred with iron, chained and padlocked. No shovel has touched this earth in months. In that time burying boxes have been stacked near the gates, soaked with kerosene, torched, left smoking until black tendrils smother the desert sky like dirty veils.

But this place, like the dead inside it, endures nonetheless...

Drac's Back! Or: Undead from the Movieland Wax Museum

2011-11-16T00:10:00.000-08:00

Personally, I think The Count picked the wrong blonde. He coulda taken himself a little walk and scored Nancy Sinatra... on a chopper, yet!

Live (well... almost) from the Movieland Wax Museum!

2011-11-14T00:07:00.000-08:00

As a teenager in the mid-seventies, I made a trip with a buddy of mine to the San Diego Comic Con... which, in those days, didn't come anywhere near approaching the amazing colossal con it is today. It was friendly and fun, and small enough that you could pretty much buttonhole anyone you wanted to talk to for at least a minute or two. Mostly, we weren't that brave, though we did attend programming events featuring everyone from Jack Kirby to Ray Bradbury to Chuck Norris, which was quite a treat.

But that's a story for another day. While we were in the neighborhood, we made a side-trip to the Movieland Wax Museum, which was a Southern Cal institution. Looking around online, I see it's closed now. Anyway, I found some old photos from my visit circa 1974 or 1975, and I'll post them in the next couple of weeks. Here's Subject Number One, a gent who needs no introduction to readers of this blog:

Sunday Supplement 11/13/11

2011-11-13T00:03:00.000-08:00

Some songs get stuck in your head... and this is the one that's been in mine all week. I loved the Beat Farmers, and "Riverside" has a halfway spooky vibe that you'd sometimes find in songs by fellow traveler artists like Dave Alvin and Los Lobos. That's the good dark stuff, amigo.

Of course, "Riverside" isn't a Country Dick song, but you can't mention the Farmers without tipping your hat in his direction. Here are Country Dick Montana's Rules of the Road for bands on tour. My favorite: "Do not take souvenirs from the crypt of a voodoo queen -- remember that zombies are even worse drives than drunks."

And speaking of voodoo queens, check out the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry on the tomb of Marie Laveau. Plenty of other interesting articles on this site, too (though some of 'em are as dry as a desiccated voodoo queen).

A few of you have asked me for a book recommendation, re: Joe Frazier. My pick is Ghosts of Manila by Mark Kram. It's not only a great study of Frazier (and Ali), but it's one of the very best books I've ever read about the sweet science (and I have read more than a few).

Smokin' Joe. Philly Soul. You can bet your last money it's a stone gas, honey.

Goodbye, Smokin' Joe

2011-11-10T00:25:00.000-08:00

Of the men who held the heavyweight championship in the seventies, Joe Frazier was my favorite. Fact is, Frazier may be my favorite heavyweight champ, period. I loved the way the guy fought. His signature left hook was a miracle of speed, precision, and devastating power, a punch that made a liar of any math geek who'd try to tell you that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. I loved Frazier's backstory, how he'd come out of nowhere to make himself into a fighter, how he'd torn up his hand in the Olympics and managed to bring home a gold medal anyway, how he'd had to work in a slaughterhouse and bust his ass to become champ even after he had that gold medal around his neck. I loved Frazier's work ethic, and the way he carried himself, and the way he did his business in the ring.

I loved the way Joe Frazier did his business out of the ring, too.

And when it comes to Frazier's life in and out of the ring, you can't talk about Smokin' Joe without talking about Muhammad Ali. While I always respected Ali's skill as a fighter, I lost respect for him as a man because of the way he treated Joe Frazier. What Ali did went far beyond gamesmanship, promotion, or any sense of common decency. Plain and simple, he started off calling Frazier an "Uncle Tom" before their first fight, and ended up calling him a "gorilla" before the third. You can't scrape much lower than that kind of snake-bellied jabber unless you start badmouthing a man's mama.

You can alibi for Ali -- he certainly had a raw deal when his heavyweight title was stripped in the sixties, and he had a lot to be angry about -- but why Joe Frazier became his most frequent target is a mystery. Frazier had done Ali several good turns when Ali's career looked like it was way past gone. But whatever Ali's reason, he wasn't fooling around with the stuff he put on Frazier. He used his words with the same precision and power that he used his fists. Those words were built to hurt Frazier, and wound him in places punches couldn't touch, and I have to think they did their job.

But Joe Frazier did his job, too.

And the thing that always stuck with me is this: Smokin' Joe did his job in the ring.

Looking back, Frazier's first fight with Ali has to stand out as the biggest of all the big fights to come along in my lifetime. I still remember how Ali's trash talk became the focus as the fight built... just as I remember the beating Frazier put on Ali once the bell rang, and the brutal left hook that knocked Ali down that night in New York, sealing the deal and letting the world know who the real heavyweight champ was, for sure and for certain.

Yep. That's what I took from Joe Frazier.

Here was a fighter who did his talking in the ring.

And, man, I'm here to tell you: I liked what he had to say.

The first Ali fight was the top of the mountain for Smokin' Joe. Somehow, I don't think it ever got better than that. To Ali's credit, he took the second fight of the trilogy, nearly putting Frazier out for the count in that one. The third fight is a legend, and much has been made of it. Read what Ali had to say, and it was the closest thing to death a fighter could experience. Read what Frazier had to say and it's a miracle he made it into that ring in Manila, let alone managed to fight the fight he did that night. As the old saying goes, Frazier was blind in one eye and couldn't see too well out of the other by the time he tangled with Ali for the third time. He had cataracts, plus other problems, and still fought one hell of a fight. "I accepted the hurt, and damage, as the price of being the best," Frazier said. "I saw myself as a warrior who was obliged to carry on through thick and thin. I wasn't the best athlete in the world, but I had that fire in my belly. And I was reckless in my determination."

One last memory -- Joe Frazier was one fighter I always wanted to meet, but I never did... though I could have. I was in Vegas when his son Marvis fought Larry Holmes for the title, and I spent a week going to both training camps and watching their workouts. Of course, Smokin' Joe trained Marvis, who was the nicest young guy in the world. But Joe Frazier just didn't seem like the kind of guy you'd walk up to and start a conversation. He didn't give off that vibe. He came into the room (which was actually a big corrugated metal equipment shed behind Caesar's Palace), and he looked like a man who was there to take care of business, not chitchat about it, or talk about his own glory days. He was there to work with his son, and try to help Marvis snatch the belt from Holmes. So I didn't really regret not talking to Frazier. Fact is, watching him work with Marvis that week just cemented the way I'd already come to see the man, so maybe it was better that way.

I'll tell you this, though. Seeing Joe Frazier up close, I was surprised how small he actually was. Mostly, he's listed as 5' 11 1/2", but he sure looked a lot more like five-ten to me. And, really, that just makes the guy all the more amazing.

Anyway, I've linked this before, but if you've never seen Smokin' Joe in action or want another look, check out this clip over on youtube. If you're a fight fan, you'll notice right away that the timeline is a little off, but hey, what can I say -- its heart is in the right place.

So was Joe Frazier's.

Goodbye, Champ. You'll be missed... and remembered.

Slippin' Into the Seventies

2011-11-07T23:45:00.000-08:00

My first novel, Slippin' Into Darkness, is back in print as an Cemetery Dance eBook. That's only fitting, since Slippin' was the first original novel published by Rich Chizmar's legendary little shop of horrors back in the day. To help celebrate the new edition, I thought it would be fun to dig up a little promo essay that ran in The Overlook Connection when the book was first published. So let's backtrack to the nineties and check in on yours truly reminiscing about the seventies... and, hey, that's a double dose of nostalgia all around:

Slippin' Into Darkness is possibly the first -- and probably the last -- novel of what I have come to think of as "disco noir." This is an offhand way of saying that, yes, the book is pretty dark in terms of mood, style, characterization, and nasty plot twists (that's the noir part); but besides that, Slippin' has a lot to do with the decade in which I came of age, the 1970s (that's the disco part).

While deciding what I wanted to do with my first novel, I realized that no one had written much about the days of Jimmy Carter, Donna Summer, The Six Million Dollar Man, mood rings, and the undisputed queen of jiggle television -- Farrah Fawcett-Majors. I already knew that I wanted to write about my hometown -- Vallejo, California --but I was having trouble finding my way home, so to speak. I needed something that would bring the place alive for me.

What better way to do that then revisit the past? One afternoon I got out a stack of old albums put out by K-Tel and Ronco (the same people who brought us the Veg-A-Matic) and made myself a tape of seventies hits. I hadn't heard those songs, literally, since the days when I'd cruised V-Town in a big ol' gas-guzzling '66 Dodge Monaco equipped with an 8-track player (the Dodge took twenty bucks worth of leaded and a quart of oil every week, and you had to wait in line for the privilege of filling up in the days of the energy crisis). I mean, the music on those discs wasn't that old, but it had literally disappeared from the airwaves, and that surprised me. There are oldie stations that feature the hits of the fifties and sixties, and you'll catch plenty of Eagles, Elton John, and Jim Croce on mellow rock stations, but listening to those scratchy records told me that the music of my youth had gone south in a big way.

Hey, I know what you're saying. C'mon, Norm, it was disco music, after all. Good riddance. Thank God for little miracles, right?

Well... I hate to say it, but listening to those songs stuck a chord in me. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I realized that I had somehow stepped over one of life's little lines without noticing, the one where you suddenly discover that you're old enough for nostalgia.

Songs I'd hated when I was seventeen were making me grin ear-to-ear at thirty-four. Even the most jaded among you must admit that "Kung Fu Fighting" actually is pretty entertaining, especially when you realize that little sucker went to number one on the charts back in '74. Like Don King says, "Only in America."

But my interest was fueled by something more than just simple nostalgia -- I began to notice some recurring themes in the tunes of my youth. I was delighted to find that some of the songs on those old albums were... hot damn... pretty dark and nasty all by themselves.

Hearing War's "Slippin' Into Darkness" again not only gave me the title of the book, it sent a chill up my spine that set those creative synapses firing. Pretty soon I picked up on a theme that really started things rolling for me -- a sub-genre of songs about guys who found perfect lovers only in their dreams ("I Like Dreamin'," "Dreamweaver," "Undercover Angel," etc.). Those songs started me thinking about a guy who had never recovered from a high school infatuation, an infatuation that never amounted to much until after high school was over and the girl had become someone else entirely. Along with this, there were several songs about women you'd best be advised not to mess with ("Lady Marmalade," "Evil Woman," "Bad Blood," "Bad Girls"), so I decided to create some bad girls of my own. And if that wasn't enough, running in those worn groves was a trail of wild violence both physical and psychological (the aforementioned and admittedly goofy "Kung Fu Fighting," plus assorted bad-intentioned funky stuff such as James Brown's "The Payback," Curtis Mayfield's "Superfly," and The O'Jays' "Back Stabbers").

So, after letting all this simmer in my brain for a little while, I started writing. I wrote about the past, about a group of characters who graduated from Hogan High School in 1976, the same year I did. I wrote about what happened to them in the intervening years, how they never quite found the lives they'd been looking for when they were eighteen. I wrote about their secrets, and the bad things they did back in '76, and they good things they failed to do, and how the past returned to haunt them in a tense twenty-four hour period, from midnight to midnight on April 8, 1994.

I made use of the tools of noir and suspense fiction, lessons I'd learned from the Gold Medal writers and the dark dreamers who have followed in their wake. Along the way I discovered a few surprises I think you'll enjoy -- a game called graveyard baseball, a haunted drive-in movie theater, and a dog made from the bones of a dream. Still, I think the single thing that influenced every aspect of the book -- plot, mood, theme, characterization -- is the soundtrack.

When I finished Slippin Into Darkness, I was surprised to find that I'd written a ghost story. But it's a ghost story born in the seventies, those comparatively carefree days of sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll.

Carefree -- that's what some of my characters told themselves back then, in the days before AIDS, crack, and (horror of horrors!) rap music.

It's a ghost story you can dance to... if you remember how to do the hustle, that is.

Sunday Paper on a Saturday Night (or: Sunday Supplement 11/6/11, just a little early)

2011-11-05T21:40:00.000-07:00

Forget Vincent Price's rap on Michael Jackson's "Thriller," I wish Uncle Boris had lived long enough to pull this one off.

Just in case you didn't get enough Halloween: Universal Monsters punkins.

Great Ray Harryhausen appreciation at Tor.com.

And courtesy of my buddy Rick Klaw, here's a hilarious Harryhausen quote: "If I had first seen the 1975 (sic) version of King Kong, I would have become a plumber."

My wife says I obsess about coasters, but you'll probably obsess about these, too. Preordered!

From Nashville Public Radio, Rockin' Randy Fox on Sir Cecil Creape: Nashville's Hometown Ghoul.

And I can think of worse ways to close out the Halloween season than this. That's a bigga bigga hunka horror history in seven minutes and nine seconds.

The Great Pumpkin Giveth

2011-11-04T22:50:00.000-07:00

Around here, Halloween comes with presents. The bride and I have been exchanging gifts in honor of the dark season since we first got together -- truth be told, my novel Dark Harvest started off as a short story that I was going to give Tia for Halloween one year. And while it was hard to find appropriate wrapping paper when we first started exchanging October-y gifts, it seems to be getting easier these days. Who knows, maybe a couple more flips of the calendar and I'll wander into a store and find Universal Monsters gift wrap. That would be cool. In the meantime, so is the swag I found this year under the twisted branches of the Halloween tree:

Creepy Presents Bernie Wrightson: As a teenager in the seventies, I loved horror comics. Wrightson and Mike Ploog were my favorite horror artists, and I'm proud to say I bought Wrightson's Swamp Thing comics off the rack down at the local bottle shop back in the day. This Dark Horse collection of Wrightson's work for Creepy and Eerie is a bang-up knockout of a book, and what surprised me most is how many of these stories I missed the first time around. While creepy nasties like "Jenifer" and "Country Pie" have long been favorites and sharp examples of the kind of Warren mag story that pushed the sex 'n' horror envelope in ways fifties EC comics rarely managed to touch, it's the stories I never read that have me slowly rationing this collection to my inner monsterkid. In other words, I'm working my way up to Wrightson's adaptation of Lovecraft's "Cool Air," and I'm doing the job slowly. Hey... that's called anticipation, and I'm lovin' it.

Call of Cthulhu (2005): I caught this modern-day silent a few years ago, and I've got to say it's the only Lovecraft adaptation I've ever seen that truly does justice to HPL. Hitting the creative wayback button and reimagining the story as a 1920s feature film was a genius idea. For my $, the gents who made this one pretty much got everything right, and viewers have the added pleasure of watching a film made by folks smart enough to make a dark fantasy fly solely on the power of a (black) wing and a (darker) prayer (i.e. the effects here are driven by imagination and old-school silent-era ingenuity... not an easy trick to manage). I especially enjoyed the bayou scenes, and that ending? Wow. It really sang with a strange magic that was one part Lovecraft Mythos and one part Willis O'Brien's King Kong. If you haven't seen this one, don't miss it.

Island of Lost Souls (1932): I've been waiting years for a reissue of this one -- it's far and away my favorite adaptation of H. G. Wells' Island of Dr. Moreau. As above, there's a little bit of King Kong jungle magic going on here, but it's mixed up with a vibe straight out of Tod Browning's Freaks. Charles Laughton knocks the ball out of the park as Moreau, while Island itself serves as a poster child for everything that made thirties horror great. In other words, you've got 70 minutes, and every one of 'em counts. Plus, you've got BELA LUGOSI as the Sayer of the Law. And finally: no CGI, only shadows, mood, and plenty of style. Need I say more? Anyway, Criterion has served up what I'm sure will be the definitive presentation of this film -- I haven't peeled the shrinkwrap on my copy yet, but I'll make like a vivisectionist and do the job soon. No doubt.

A Sci-Fi Swarm and a Horror Horde by Tom Weaver: This is the kind of book that makes me feel like a sixties kid with a brand new issue of Famous Monsters in my hands... only Weaver's the kind of writer that sinks his fangs much deeper than the gang at that classic mag ever managed. He knows his stuff, and that pays off both for his interview subjects and his audience. This latest volume features 62 interviews, and along the way you'll enjoy listening in on conversations with folks who worked with Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, and Lon Chaney, Jr. (who apparently made great chili but could be kind of a jerk). Great bits on lots of fifties frights, too, including The Undead, The Screaming Skull, and Monster on the Campus. Plus, a cool section focusing on TV's Wild Wild West, with insights from Richard Kiel and stuntman Whitey Hughes. Lots of great stories there. According to Hughes, he and Robert Conrad went toe-to-toe one night in a club on the Sunset Strip, and what the beef boiled down to was an argument over Hughes' brother's Nehru jacket... stirred up by a bunch of Chicago cops who were in town investigating Ramon Navarro's murder (!). Crazy. Anyway, it sounds like there was usually just as much action behind the scenes on WWW as there was onscreen, and I'd love to read more about it. What a wild ride it must have been.

Photo Flashback: World Horror 2006

2011-11-03T00:10:00.000-07:00

Steven "Killer" Shrewsbury, me, and Nate Southard at World Horror San Francisco in 2006. They were young writers; I was not... and what do they feed these guys, anyway? I felt like I was standing between the Giant from the Unknown and the Amazing Colossal Man, and both of 'em were hungry for some bbq'd Partridge.

A Bucketful of Bad Business

2011-11-02T11:53:00.000-07:00

Here's a new horror/noir antho slated for publication later this year that you folks might want to check out. Preorders end this Friday, so now's your chance to grab one (and while you're at it check out the Yellow Rose website, too). Anyway, here's the word from yours truly:

"Take warning, Tales from the Yellow Rose Diner and Fill Station isn't what you'd call popcorn horror. This roadside joint's made of wood and glass, nailed up shadows and curtains of smoke, and the people inside it damn sure aren't the kind you'll find in the latest teen-scream feature. They're the real scuffed-down American deal, and their stories cut both to the bone and the heart. In other words you'll want to keep your eye on these folks as you belly up to the bar. And keep your eye on the writers who created them, too -- Erik Williams, John Mantooth, Kim Despins, Sam W. Anderson, Petra Miller, and Kurt Dinan. They've done good work here, and if you're thirsty for a double-shot of horror and noir you ought to grab this one. I'm glad I did."

...And The October Girl!

2011-10-31T21:09:00.000-07:00

...and Happy Halloween from Nevie Rose who says: "Punkin! Ghoooost! Black kitty! Amercan Fankstein!"

The October Boy 2011...

2011-10-31T21:05:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween from Sawtooth Jack to you and yours!

Sunday Supplement 10/30/11

2011-10-30T11:46:00.000-07:00

Richard Sala is new to me, and I loved The Chuckling Whatsit. Part Old Dark House mystery, part Universal Horror, and the best Halloween surprise I've had this season. If we've got a Charles Addams today, it's gotta be Sala (and I'd like more Mandrill and Septimus A. Crisp now, please).

Nice Bradbury shelf over at Macabre Republic. Hey kids, start your own today and honor Uncle Ray!

Monsterkid commercial #1.

Cool namecheck in a cool piece of work.

Monsterkid commercial #2 (special creepy doll reboot for the grrls).

Just in case you missed it the first time around: check this twisty hunk of darkness from Orrin Grey. Just what you need for an October night.

Speaking of Charles Addams, here's a bigga bigga hunka raveup for monsterkids everywhere. I remember this guy... and Shivaree!

Five Favorite Universal Horrors for Halloween

2011-10-28T10:48:00.000-07:00

First off, "favorite" doesn't necessarily = "best" for me, so this list often favors fun over quality (i.e. if I stuck to "best" I probably wouldn't even make it past the thirties movies). Anyway, here are five Universal classics I always enjoy.

BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN: What a beaut. This is one horror movie where they really got everything right, including the brilliant Franz Waxman score. Plus: Karloff manages to top his initial performance as the Monster, and Ernest Thesiger manages to eclipse Boris in the creepy department. If that ain't enough raving for you, check out my post from last year here.

THE RAVEN: My Karloff/Lugosi pick. I love THE BLACK CAT, too, and it's probably a better movie with great turns by Karloff as a satanic priest and Lugosi as the hero(!), plus it's got that Art Deco creeper of a house and a really twisted plot (Boris stole Bela's wife and keeps her corpse in a glass case in the basement, and worse than that -- he married Lugosi's DAUGHTER, too!). But for my $, THE RAVEN is a lot more fun. Lugosi's completely over-the-top as Poe-obsessed surgeon Richard Vollin. Probably my favorite Lugosi role, with Ygor a close second and WHITE ZOMBIE's Murder Legendre coming in third (and, yep, I know I'm leaving out The Count... sue me). Anyway, forget the scenery and the hidden torture chamber and all that jazz in THE RAVEN... this Vollin cat could chew through granite, and Bela's just the guy to do the job.

FRANKENSTEIN MEETS THE WOLF MAN: Universal really made a mess of this one when they cut the Monster's speaking role, but I do enjoy what's left. Plus, the scene in the cemetery with the grave robbers raiding Larry Talbot's crypt gets the prize for the best opening in any Universal horror movie. Add to that Lon Chaney, Jr. at his angsty-est and you've got a real winner. For me, FMTWF is THE Larry Talbot movie. The poor cursed bastard will do anything to die, and the fates just won't let him. And hey... here's a way to have even more fun with this one. Next time you pop in the DVD, turn on the subtitles and sing along with that song in the wine festival scene. Invite your friends. Get a whole roomful of people to do it. Several glasses of vino from your own private cellar will help. And you can wear your lederhosen, too.

THE OLD DARK HOUSE: James Whale does crazies. A whole houseful of 'em on a dark and stormy night. With Karloff, and Charles Laughton, and Ernest Thesiger (again, the greatest scene-stealer in the Universal canon). Plus Gloria Stewart, looking like a white flame! "That's fine stuff, but it'll rot, too!" WOW! Need I say more?

ABBOTT & COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN: Go ahead. Hate me. But this was the first Universal monster movie I ever saw and I love it still. Chaney and Lugosi play it straight pretty admirably, and Glenn Strange's Monster scared the hell out of me as a kid. Mr. Strange was the murderous dreadnaught of my nightmares, and the way I see it his performances as the Monster are underrated to this day. And while I'm at it I'll just mention that I watch this one every Halloween while I carve my pumpkin. "Oh Chick!"

One more to grow on, i.e. my favorite Universal Horror Movie That Isn't. That would be THE GHOUL, a Gaumont British production. It's got Karloff and Thesiger, and it plays like a James Whale movie. The plot's a combination of THE MUMMY and THE OLD DARK HOUSE, and it's as fine a little rollercoaster ride as an old school monsterfan could hope for on a Halloween night.

Johnny Halloween eBook

2011-10-25T23:26:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to let folks know that Johnny Halloween is the featured eBook of the season over at the Cemetery Dance website. This collection features all my short Halloween fiction to date, including "The Jack o' Lantern," a prequel novella set in the world of Dark Harvest. That one's a real hardboiled horror tale, and it introduces one of the novel's main characters. Besides a half-dozen stories and an original introduction, the book also includes a nonfiction piece called "The Man Who Killed Halloween," in which I share some memories about growing up in Vallejo, California during the Zodiac Killer's bloody spree.

Anyway, the limited hardcover edition of this collection is long out of print, so it's nice to have the eBook out in time for Halloween. Right now you can grab Johnny Halloween for $2.99 from CD. There are links from the CD page for readers with Kindles and Nooks. Just scroll on down... and enjoy!

And while I'm at it: I'm a big fan of Alex McVey, and a big fan of his cover for this collection. It's a fine piece of work (as was the original cover Alex did that we didn't use -- one that will surely find it's way onto another book one of these days). So needless to say, I'd love to work with Alex again... especially if he carries through on his threat to craft a sculpture based on the Johnny Halloween cover.

Just so you know, Alex, I'm saving room on the bookcase for that.

Like, definitely.

FEARnet.com Reviews Dark Harvest

2011-10-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

...and those are some fine words indeed. Thanks to Blu Gilliand for the shout out. And if you haven't checked out Blu's other picks for the scariest night of the year, I'm here to tell you that you can't go wrong with one of those, amigo. Blu's carved you a path to some fine reading... and put yours truly in some fine company while he was at it.

Not Dead... Only Dormant

2011-10-23T22:30:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been a while. Not much blogging in the last few months. Of course, I could give you a bucketful of reasons for that. They'd make sense to me. Hey, they might even make sense to you.

But to tell you the truth, explanations always end up sounding like alibis to me. Let's just say that American Frankenstein is coming back, and these days I'm working hard on an overdue project called Oktober Shadows. The going hasn't been easy with this novella. In fact, some days working on it has seemed a metaphorical exercise in battling burning windmills that'd test the Monster himself (and you can toss in a few bubbling sulphur pits, too). But the story finally feels right, and it's going well, and that is more than okay with me.

After all, this is October. It's the perfect time to be writing this piece. Another long California summer is dying (finally), and it's almost my favorite day of the year. Right now the page I've got minimized down there on my task bar is littered with dead werewolves, and it feels good to be the guy who put them there.

Which is really kind of odd, if you think about it. Getting so wrapped up in a world that only exists on paper. Maybe you have to be a writer to understand something like that. Or maybe not.

Still, when all is said and done, I hope those of you who pre-ordered Oktober Shadows from the fine folks at Cemetery Dance will find it worth the wait. Thanks to Rich Chizmar and Brian Freeman at CD for their patience, and thanks to those of you who ordered the book for the same. Believe me, I appreciate it more than you know... especially you readers who've taken time to drop me a line and tell me how much you're looking forward to the book, regardless of the delay.

Now, time to post this and get back to another dark land.

A place called Oktober.

The werewolves there are dead.

But to the north there are vampires...

Sunday Supplement 7/24/11

2011-07-24T00:05:00.000-07:00

Tom Piccirilli: All My Crushes Are Dead.

That's how it's done, son (i.e. I can't wait for this).

Here's what I'm reading right now. One of the most exciting moments of my comic buying kidhood was buying the first ten issues of this book off the rack at the local liquor store. These days, I'm often surprised when discussions of this character don't even mention the guys who set him shambling down his dark road... but, man. They did fine stuff, and waiting month-to-month for these tales was one of my first real lessons in A-N-T-I-C-P-A-T-I-O-N.

Great piece on the Top Ten Lost Horror Movies... especially if you find silent horror as creepy as I do.

"For Charles Bronson"

Last Call at Vampire Lake

2011-05-28T19:47:00.000-07:00

Just saw that the trade edition of Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 2 is now sold out over at the Subterranean Press website. Looks like copies can still be had over at Amazon... but my Spidey senses are tingling on this one (i.e. if you snooze, you lose, amigos).

My novella "Vampire Lake" is in this anthology, and thanks to all of you who've written to tell me how much you enjoyed it. The San Francisco Book Review just chimed in, calling my tale "a new classic." "Vampire Lake" also earned great reviews from Fantasy Book Critic and Locus, so I'm pleased with the reaction to this one.

And if you'd like to pull up a bucket of water from subterranean depths and have yourself a free taste, just click here.

Johnny Halloween OOP

2011-05-09T00:02:00.000-07:00

Just had word from Brian Freeman at Cemetery Dance that Johnny Halloween: Tales of the Dark Season has gone out of print. You can still grab copies at Amazon and Camelot Books, and probably a few other places out there, but you probably don't want to wait too long to pull the trigger.

And: Thanks to all of you who already dug into your wallets and picked up a copy. I appreciate it!

Horror for Mom

2011-05-08T00:05:00.000-07:00

Mother issues? It all starts here.

Mom is big and green... and flosses with the belts of men.

It's all about motherhood... and things blowing up.

Shop early. I'm sure these will go fast.

A Dark Harvest at Seton Catholic Central High (Part 4)

2011-05-06T00:02:00.000-07:00

Here's the last part of my Dark Harvest interview with Kevin Lucia's Creative Writing students. Enjoy!

Dave: Why didn't anyone question the ritual before Pete?

There were people who did -- Kelly Haines' dad for one. But people like that ran up against the Harvester's Guild. And you can figure out what the Guild did to them. They ended up like Kelly's dad, just another example to everyone in town of the cost of stepping out of line.

Marieke: Why didn't the parents stand up and do anything?

Part of the answer to that one is in the answer above. Another part is human nature, which is something most horror writer's explore. I believe most people cling to a sense of stability, sometimes at a great cost. And the cost of the Run in Dark Harvest may seem extreme at first, but not when you place it within the parameters of human history. Take Nazi Germany, for example. People lived in that society, lived their lives day-to-day, got up and went to jobs and came home and made dinner. Laughed and cried on the weekends. I'm sure some of them didn't know what was going on, and some of them chose to ignore it, and some of them were knee-deep in it but still managed to close their doors at night and sleep like babies. I'm sure others battled nightmares, and some couldn't sleep at all. None of that's pretty, or pleasant, but for me it reflects one of the darker and more frightening truths about the human condition.

John: You don't give much history or background to the rituals. Why?

Good question... and one I get a lot. Again, part of this answer is in the one above. For most people, I think why isn't necessarily the most important question when it comes to day-to-day existence. The important question is how. As in: I don't care why this is happening; I care how I'm going to get through it day-to-day.

That's something I've explored in a lot of my stories, and for me it's a much more interesting question than why. Really, why's are a dime-a-dozen. If I wanted to toss one into Dark Harvest, it could have been as simple as one line or a paragraph: Well, the town was built on an old Indian burial ground, and there was this curse, and the October Boy was part of a ritual to make a deal with the Devil, and... You get the idea.

To tell the truth, I didn't care about any of that. I wasn't concerned with why's. I cared about how people would live within the very dark parameters they faced in that town. I cared about the how's. For me, those were the questions that made things interesting, and those were the questions that shaped the story. Seeing how each character dealt with the situation. The environment. The horror. Seeing how reactions and actions shaped them. For me, that's the real meat of most stories, and that was my focus in Dark Harvest.

New Cemetery Dance Website

2011-05-05T00:02:00.000-07:00

I'm bumping Part 4 of my interview with the students at Seton CC High to Friday to make way for some news that rattles one of the Horror genre's favorite boneyards: Rich Chizmar and Brian Freeman have unveiled a reboot of the Cemetery Dance Website. Poke around the grounds and you'll find a Forum (I just registered), a Norman Partridge page, The Writer's Corner (where you can get some great advice from CD authors, including yours truly), Breaking News, and Interviews with some of your favorite writers.

And hey. What's that? There's even a tab for forthcoming eBooks?

Cue afterburners. These guys are ready to roll.

Big, Bad, and Red

2011-05-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

You can file this one in the Department of You Say It and He Plays It: My artist buddy Kevin Nordstrom couldn't figure out why he had a bunch of emails on Sunday morning asking him to draw the Red Skull. Then he clicked over to American Frankenstein and saw the last installment of the ever-popular Sunday Supplement. And then (lucky for you) he sat down and whipped up the cool piece you see above.

And wow. This just gets me more excited about Captain America: The First Avenger. I loved the trailer for that one, and it's probably my most-anticipated summer movie. First off, it looks like a great thrill ride. Second, I can't believe they actually did it straight-up as a period piece set in World War II. This makes me happy, because (if you ask me) you can't drop Cap into the filmic version of the Marvel Universe without his backstory. Anyway, as a child of the late fifties and a definite First Generation Marvel Maniac, I can't wait to see how it plays.

Now, it's probably no surprise when I tell you that my favorite Marvel characters are the Outsiders. Misfits like The Hulk; semi-misfits like The Thing. But Captain America? Hey, he's Mythic. He's Tortured (w/ a capital "T"). And when you get right down to it, there's just something about a guy who's (literally) spent a chunk of his life frozen in ice.

Man, I can identify with that.

Think about it.

I bet a lot of you can, too.

A Dark Harvest at Seton Catholic Central High (Part 3)

2011-05-03T00:05:00.000-07:00

Here's Part 3 of my Dark Harvest interview with Kevin Lucia's Creative Writing students:

Victoria: Who exactly is the omniscient narrator meant to represent?

That's a question with a few twists and turns I'll have to leave alone for those who haven't read the book... but basically the narrator is the town's Everyman. He's lived there, and died there, and seen it all.

Dave: How did you develop the concept of the October Boy himself?

I've always loved horror stories about scarecrows that come to life. I've been trying to write one for years. In fact, I wrote one novella called "Red Right Hand" several years ago that involved a gang of Depression-era bank robbers who come nose-to-nose with a scarecrow and some bad mojo in a cornfield -- but something else happened when I got to the part of the story where I expected the scarecrow to come down off the pole. And since that something was better for the story, I went in a different direction than I'd originally intended and figured I'd save my scarecrow story for another day.

When I got the idea for Dark Harvest, I knew it would be my scarecrow story. Kind of. Because the other thing every horror writer wants to do is create their very own monster, one that hasn't been seen before. That's what I did with the October Boy, and it's one of the things I liked best about crafting Dark Harvest. Sawtooth Jack is my guy, from his flaming pumpkin head right down to his twisted root feet. Making him up was a lot of fun.

Emily: Why are the boys starved before the Run?

I wanted the night of the Run to be a wild, anything-goes kind of thrill ride. Starving the boys was just a way of amping up their internal hunger -- both in their bellies and their souls. They're desperate. They want the October Boy so bad they can taste him, and since he's packed with candy that's a literal possibility.

* * *

Check back for Part 4 on Thursday, when we'll talk about questions and answers, and a writer's obligation to the reader when it comes to both. On Wednesday we'll have a little intermission and a surprise you may have anticipated if you've been paying attention. Tune on in!

Sunday Supplement 5/1/11

2011-05-01T00:05:00.000-07:00

At Macabre Republic: The Gabriel Monster Machine. Flashback!

Fathers and sons. Life and fiction. Check out "Remaining Strange" at Tom Piccirilli's blog, The Cold Spot.

The libraryguy in me loves this (i.e. Miller Library at McPherson College? Officially too cool for school!).

Kevin Nordstrom testdrives a cover for Wildest Dreams. Now email this guy and tell him to whip up some Red Skull action. With the Captain America movie coming this summer, that's a must.

Can't wait to read this one from James Cooper and PS Publishing.

Smokin' Joe.

* * *

No blog action on Monday... but I'll be back Tuesday with the next segment of my interview with the young writers at Seton CC High.

A Dark Harvest at Seton Catholic Central High (Part 2)

2011-04-29T00:05:00.000-07:00

I'm back with a few more questions about Dark Harvest from Kevin Lucia's Creative Writing students... and thanks to Victoria for the Sawtooth Jack sketch!

Dominick: Is there a direct connection between the October Boy and the candy (stuffed in his guts and pumpkin head)?

Sawtooth Jack is the walking, talking embodiment of Halloween, so I guess the answer to that question is yes. Plus, I'm a third-generation Californian, so a little Mexican influence crept in. In other words, I remember swinging at plenty of pinatas as a kid. Only this pinata is alive... and the October Boy is just as dangerous as those who are stalking him with baseball bats and pitchforks on the night of the Run.

Clarissa: What inspired you to write this story?

Dark Harvest started out as a Halloween present for my wife (writer Tia V. Travis). I thought I'd surprise her with a short story for the holiday. But as soon as I wrote the first few scenes, I knew I had a novel on my hands. And that means it took a little while for Tia to get her present, but I think she'd say it was worth the wait (and, yep, you can insert a virtual wink right ).

Pat: Did an editor/publisher ask you to change any part of the story?

No. One of the great things about working with Richard Chizmar at Cemetery Dance is that he gave me the keys to the car and didn't ask for them back. Rich and I have a long-standing relationship -- he published my first short story in '89 -- and he let me crank up the story and drive it my way. Dark Harvest hit the page just as I wrote it. When Tor picked up the novel for paperback, things were the same way... so it was a great experience for me all around.

* * *

That's it for today's segment. We'll take a little break this weekend, then check in next week for a few more questions.

A Dark Harvest at Seton Catholic Central High (Part 1)

2011-04-27T23:20:00.000-07:00

Kevin Lucia's Creative Writing Class at Seton Catholic Central High School in Binghamton, New York recently finished reading Dark Harvest, and the students shot me a few questions about the novel:

Mariah: Where did you get the idea for the unique structure and changes in POV in Dark Harvest?

The initial spark came from the campfire stories I loved as a kid -- tales of ghosts, vanishing hitchhikers, and hook-handed killers who prowled places that always seemed to be right around the corner... or just down the road. My dad told stories like that, and so did my brother and some of the older kids in the neighborhood. I've always remembered the immediacy of those tales, and how they captivated me on the summer nights when I first heard them. That's what I was aiming for in the opening sections of Dark Harvest. I wanted to grab the reader and pull them into the world I'd created the same way those stories grabbed me when I was a kid.

Once I had the reader, I used some other tricks to move the story along and move it from character to character. Some of the techniques came from film -- there are several tracking shots in the book, and those were a lot of fun to write. The one that carries the reader out of town on an October wind, past Rod Serling in the cornstalks and on toward the October Boy and the gang of teenage hoods stalking him was just a blast. I don't think I've ever had as much fun putting words on a page as I did writing that section of Dark Harvest.

Marieke: Did it take long to work it (structure/POV) out?

Some sections were easy, others were hard. The trickiest one was a little dance between the POV of Dan Shepard and all the fathers who'd come before him who'd sent sons out on the Run. The reader becomes a character in that section as well, so it was a challenge to write.

Pat, John, Marieke: Why black licorice streets?

Just a little Halloween poetry there... and a tip of the hat to a favorite writer of mine (Ray Bradbury).

Marieke: Did you intentionally use so many metaphors?

Yes. My aim was to provide a rhythm for the story, and for the voice I wanted the reader to hear in his or her head. It was also my way of painting a distinct picture of the town and the people in it. I wanted those metaphors to spark images in the reader's mind that were just a little bit different, images that (hopefully) would stick with them and (in some cases) grow stronger with repetition as the story moved forward.

* * *

That's it for today. Next up, more questions concerning inspiration, motivation, and the October Boy himself.

The Fight of the Century

2011-04-22T16:30:00.001-07:00

Day off (actually: night off) from the joe job today. Was sitting on the couch reading a newish book about the first Frazier/Ali fight. Tia came in. Saw me sitting there. Said: "You know, it's not going to turn out any different this time."

I had to laugh. Always good to have a reality check handy (I'm still going to read the book, though: The Fight of the Century by Michael Arkush).

P.S. Just so you know -- In a world of Ali fans, I'm still a Joe Frazier Man. Smokin' Joe. He did his talking in the ring.

Three for Three, Part Deux

2011-04-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the emails on my Year's Best three-for-three with "Lesser Demons." So far the only horror 3-fer a reader has identified is my buddy Laird Barron's "Proboscis," which made it into two horror Year's Bests and one for fantasy. So, not quite a strictly horror 3-fer... but, hey, always great to be shoulder-to-shoulder with Laird, and "Proboscis" is an outstanding piece of work.

Also, editors Ellen Datlow and Paula Guran emailed with a little history of horror's Best ofs. Here's a chunk from Paula's email (i.e. ring the bell, school's in, sucka):

"Prime did a Horror: The Best of the Year: 2006 (Wallace & Betancourt) and for 2007; Stefan Dziemianowicz was supposed to do 2008, but that didn't ever get published. So there were two years that there were three.

"Otherwise: Year’s Best Horror Stories was done by Gerald W. Page from 1976 to 1979, and Karl Edward Wagner from 1980 to 1994. Ellen's (and Terri & then Gavin & Kelly) Year's Best Fantasy and Horror ran 1988-2008, then her Best Horror of the Year started 2009, so this year is her third. Stephen Jones's Mammoth Book of Best New Horror started 1990 (with Ramsey co-editing first six). SO -- there were at least three or four years those three overlapped.

"Yeah, as Ellen said I think there have been stories that went threesies--maybe more... if you count year's best sf and/or f compilations. Of course I don't consider mine "horror"... it really is dark fantasy, but since I include non-supernatural stuff "horror" is in the title, too. Right now Strahan does The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy; Rich Horton does The Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy and, of course, Gardner is still King o' the YBSF. Hartwell & Cramer still do Year's Best SF, and I think they still do YB Fantasy."

Of course, I like Paula's other comment best -- "However you look at it, you are singular." Which I guess puts the rubber stamp to the whole deal (i.e. you can't argue with a lady who's right; not even a little bit).

Halloween, Edited by Paula Guran

2011-04-20T22:04:00.000-07:00

Ace editor Paula Guran came knocking and I dropped a tale ("Three Doors") in her treat bag. P's compiled a great lineup for this forthcoming anthology... and I'm intrigued by the Lovecraft piece. I have no idea what that is.

HALLOWEEN
Edited by Paula Guran.
Prime Books
ISBN: 978-1-60701-283-2
480 pages | trade paperback |$14.95
September 2011

Description
Shivers and spirits . . . the mystical and macabre . . .
our darkest fears and sweetest fantasies . . .
the fun and frivolity of tricks, treats, festivities, and masquerades.

Halloween is a holiday filled with both delight and dread, beloved by youngsters and adults alike.
Celebrate the most magical season of the year with this sensational treasury of seasonal tales—spooky, suspenseful, terrifying, or teasing—harvested from a multitude of master storytellers.

Contents

The October Game, Ray Bradbury
Tessellations, Gary Braunbeck
Memories, Peter Crowther
Auntie Elspeth's Halloween Story (or The Gourd, The Bad, And The Ugly), Esther Friesner
Struwwelpeter, Glen Hirshberg
Pranks, Nina Kiriki Hoffman
By the Book, Nancy Holder
The Sticks, Charlee Jacob
Riding Bitch, K.W. Jeter
At the Reef, Caitlin R. Kiernan
Memories of el Dia de los Muertos, Nancy Kilpatrick
The Great Pumpkin Arrives At Last, Sarah Langan
On a Dark October, Joe R. Lansdale
Conversations in a Dead Language, Thomas Ligotti
Universal Soldier, Charles De Lint
Hallowe’en in a Suburb, HP Lovecraft
Pumpkin Night, Gary McMahon
The Halloween Man, William F. Nolan
Monsters, Stewart O'Nan
Three Doors, Norman Partridge
Hornets, Al Sarrantonio
Night Out, Tina Rath
Mask Game, John Shirley
Pork Pie Hat, Peter Straub
Halloween Street & Tricks and Treats, Steve Rasnic Tem
The November Game, F. Paul Wilson
Sugar Skulls, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird

2011-04-15T19:53:00.000-07:00

I'm pleased to pass on word that "Lesser Demons" will appear in another Lovecraftian anthology, New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird edited by Paula Guran and coming from Prime Books in November. From the description:

“That is not dead which can eternal lie, yet with stranger aeons, even Death may die.”

For more than eighty years H.P. Lovecraft has inspired writers of supernatural fiction, artists, musicians, filmmakers, and gaming. His themes of cosmic indifference, the utter insignificance of humankind, minds invaded by the alien, and the horrors of history — written with a pervasive atmosphere of unexplainable dread — today remain not only viable motifs, but are more relevant than ever as we explore the mysteries of a universe in which our planet is infinitesimal and climatic change is overwhelming it.

In the first decade of the twenty-first century the best supernatural writers no longer imitate Lovecraft, but they are profoundly influenced by the genre and the mythos he created. New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird presents some of the best of this new Lovecraftian fiction — bizarre, subtle, atmospheric, metaphysical, psychological, filled with strange creatures and stranger characters — eldritch, unsettling, evocative, and darkly appealing . . .

“The Crevasse” by Dale Bailey & Nathan Ballingrud
“Old Virginia” by Laird Barron
“Shoggoths in Bloom” by Elizabeth Bear
“Mongoose” by Elizabeth Bear & Sarah Monette
“The Oram County Whoosit” by Steve Duffy
“Study in Emerald” by Neil Gaiman
“Grinding Rock” by Cody Goodfellow
“Pickman’s Other Model (1929)” by Caitlin Kiernan
“The Disciple” by David Barr Kirtley
“The Vicar of R'lyeh” by Marc Laidlaw
“Mr Gaunt” by John Langan
“Take Me to the River” by Paul McAuley
“The Dude Who Collected Lovecraft” by Nick Mamatas & Tim Pratt
“Details” by China Mieville
“Bringing Helena Back” by Sarah Monette
“Another Fish Story” by Kim Newman
“Lesser Demons” by Norman Partridge
“Cold Water Survival” by Holly Phillips
“Head Music” by Lon Prater
“Bad Sushi” by Cherie Priest
“The Fungal Stain” by W.H. Pugmire
“Tsathoggua” by Michael Shea
“Buried in the Sky” by John Shirley
“Fair Exchange” by Michael Marshall Smith
“The Essayist in the Wilderness” by William Browning Spencer
“A Colder War” by Charles Stross
“The Great White Bed” by Don Webb

Fantasy Book Critic on Vampire Lake

2011-04-13T21:25:00.000-07:00

Fantasy Book Critic weighs in on "Vampire Lake," my novella in the forthcoming anthology, Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 2: "One complaint I had about the first Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy was the anthology's lack of horror. As a result, I was pleased to see Norman Partridge in the new volume. After all, the author is considered a master of dark fiction, and after reading "Vampire Lake," it's easy to see why. Combining horror and fantasy within a gritty Western setting -- think Jonah Hex meets Preacher meets John Carpenter -- Norman Partridge's unapologetically dark, violent and bloody tale about a bounty killer, a blacksmith, a dynamite man, a preacher and a boy who possesses the second sight, and their suicidal quest to reach Vampire Lake and the vampire queen that resides there, is wickedly entertaining. Easily my favorite story in the anthology."

Three For Three

2011-04-06T00:02:00.000-07:00

Not only was my novella "Lesser Demons"the title story in my most recent Subpress collection, it was also published in S. T. Joshi's Lovecraftian anthology (Black Wings) pretty much simultaneously. Now comes the good news that my tale of a monster-hunting sheriff trapped in a (definitely) hostile environment has been chosen for all three of the genre's Best of compilations: Ellen Datlow's Best Horror of the Year, Paula Guran's Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, and Stephen Jones' Mammoth Book of Best New Horror.

Don't know if anyone has ever scored this kind of three-fer with the same story in any given year, with these editors or others who've edited Best of Horror anthologies. When I started out, Ellen and Steve each had a series going, and so did Karl Edward Wagner. Now Paula's the new kid on the block.

Anyway, it seems there have always been two or three different series going. Either way, I'm very pleased with this news... and if anyone knows if this is a landmark, shoot me an email and let me know. Or if other writers have done this with the same story, let me know that, too. I'm all about the esoteric knowledge -- send me some.

Yours Truly, Jack The Ripper

2011-04-04T00:02:00.000-07:00

To the left we've got the classic cover from a favorite paperback of mine: Robert Bloch's Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper. I'm pleased to announce that another book of the same title is coming later this year from Subterranean Press (check out the details here). I had the pleasure of writing the introduction for this one, in which I had a chance to share my own tale of encountering Bloch's signature Ripper story for the first time, plus recount my adventure meeting the man himself years later. That was fun. So is the SubPress Yours Truly collection. This one features all of Bloch's Ripper fiction plus a pair of essays by the man himself. And yep -- it's also got Bloch's classic Star Trek script for "Wolf in the Fold," the Original Series episode in which Scotty is suspected of being a futuristic RedJack. Not to mention that the new collection will have a J. K. Potter cover. All that all adds up to a bucketful of cool, if you ask me.

Sunday Supplement 3/27/11

2011-03-27T00:02:00.000-07:00

If you remember the first generation low-tech video game The Oregon Trail, check out The Organ Trail. Forget dysentery, busted wagon wheels, and buffalo meat for breakfast... here there be ZOMBIES.

Looking forward to the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie? While you're waiting, check out the eBook of Cast in Dark Waters by Ed Gorman and Tom Piccirilli. This one's got pirates, zombies, and vampires, and I had a blast reading it one summer afternoon a few years ago. Forget Johnny Depp, Cast in Dark Waters is as much fun as a great old school Maureen O'Hara pirate movie, and my only complaint about it is that it wasn't a couple hundred pages longer.

3o Days of Night returns to comics, with Joe R. Lansdale writing. Oh, yeah.

It's been raining here for weeks. Last week I spotted drowned worms floating in the swamped lawns at work. Then I made the mistake of listening to a podcast of Orrin Grey's "The Worm That Gnaws." Man. That's a double-shot of creepy, right there.

Yes. It really is a horror movie.

Best Horror 3 Cover

2011-03-25T00:15:00.000-07:00

Editor Ellen Datlow posted the cover for her forthcoming Night Shade anthology, The Best Horror of the Year, Volume 3. This one includes my novella, "Lesser Demons," and it'll be out this June. As always with Ellen's books, I'm looking forward to this one as a reader (and this time out, as a contributor, too).

Boycott Dorchester

2011-03-24T08:20:00.000-07:00

If you're a horror reader -- and especially if you're a lover of paperback originals -- you need to check out former Leisure author Brian Keene's post here. Many of your favorite writers are currently trudging through this mire, and I'm not stretching the metaphor to say they've got a pack of lagoon creatures clawing their backsides (and apparently their wallets, too).

My advice to you? Let your conscience be your guide.

My advice to the folks at Dorchester? DO THE RIGHT THING.

Crucified Dreams (And Author Bios)

2011-03-24T00:05:00.000-07:00

Just got my contributor's copy of this new Joe Lansdale anthology, featuring my tale "The Mojave Two-Step." Also spotted a new review of same over at Horror World, spotlighting "Mojave" for praise. Nice way to start the morning.

I've got to admit I'm one of those readers who always flips to the author bios before I start reading an antho. I just can't help myself. I'm the same with story notes. Best unknown tidbit in Crucified Dreams so far: Noir master Tom Piccirilli apparently co-authored a book of lit crit called Deconstructing Tolkein... which makes me wonder what other secrets Pic's been hiding from me. C'mon, Tommy. Give 'em up, and while you're at it answer this question for me: Who'd win in a fight between Aragorn and Robert Mitchum?

My own bio takes a little bit of a wrong turn, though. It puts me on the map as a San Francisco guy, but I'm born and bred in the North Bay (Vallejo), now living over the hill from Oakland in Lafayette. In other words, I'm not a big city guy. I need some hills around. We've still got a few of those here. We even have a few cows on 'em. About five miles from my house there's a redwood grove that makes you feel like you're a couple hundred miles up the coast, somewhere between Eureka and Crescent City. And last year I spotted a coyote while out on a walk. All that works for me just fine.

Mr. Gaunt Meets The October Boy

2011-03-22T00:02:00.000-07:00

A couple scans from one of my favorite books in my personal library, John Langan's masterful collection Mr. Gaunt and Other Uneasy Encounters. This drawing just gives me another reason to be jealous of my talented buddy Mr. Langan. I wish I could draw cool cartoons like John, but (as those of you who've bought my signed editions know) I can barely scrawl my name.

In fact, every time Tia hears me at work with my squealing Pentel Sign Pen, she always says: "Are you making the mark of Zorro on the dining room table, or are you signing sig sheets again?"

This Goes Double For Writers (Part 2)

2011-03-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

"Jack [Elam] did a nice piece of work for director Sam Peckinpah in the 1973 Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid. (He gets gunned down by Kris Kristofferson's Bill Bonney.) Peckinpah's drinking was legend around Hollywood. When William Holden died after hitting his head on a coffee table and bled to death in 1982, Peckinpah said, 'It isn't the booze that gets us, it's the goddamned coffee tables. Get rid of the coffee tables.' Sam once said to Lee Marvin, when they were drunk, 'I hate all actors.' To which Lee replied, "All actors do.'"

--Burt Kennedy
Hollywood Trail Boss
Boulevard Books, 1997

This Goes Double For Writers

2011-03-19T09:25:00.000-07:00

Jack Elam had this great bit about the arc of an actor's career:

Who is Jack Elam?
Get me Jack Elam.
Get me a Jack Elam.
Get me a young Jack Elam.
Who is Jack Elam?

The Man With The Barbed-Wire Eye-Patch

2011-03-16T02:00:00.000-07:00

Up here, people come out of nowhere.

That's the way they disappear, too.

And that's the way it was with Patch. He showed up in town one day in a pickup that was more rust than Detroit steel. Stopped at my diner for a piece of Saskatoon berry pie. That's where I met him. Saskatoon berry pie is my specialty. See, I'm a Canuck, misplaced by a border and a thousand miles. Don't like this state. Don't like this town. Don't like this diner. But work is work, so I stick to my pie and my business. Meaning: I stick to the two things I know best, even if all the dollars in this country are as green as raccoon shit and look exactly the same. Me, I like my money with queens on it, and just a little bit of color that might have bled out of a Union Jack.

Anyway, back to pie. Patch ate one slice of Saskatoon, then another. Then one more to grow on. Three cups of coffee to chase down every one of 'em. Regular, not unleaded. Black. Hot. You top off a guy's cup that many times, you notice a few things about him. But the main thing I noticed about this guy was the patch. You couldn't miss that. It was a hunk of black leather with a Special Forces insignia on it, and it was cinched around his skull with what looked like a braid of barbed-wire.

"That rubber?" I asked.

"No," he said.

I shrugged. Couldn't figure why a guy'd walk the earth with a prickly-pear Jesus hatband cinched around his skullcap, but it really wasn't my business one way or another. So I didn't ask, and he didn't tell.

He had other things on his mind. "Any work around here?"

I thought about that (as a businessman), but just for a second. I needed a dishwasher, but not a guy like this. There was more to it than the barbed-wire patch. His other eye bounced around in the socket like the black plug of an exclamation point. Made you wonder what thoughts were firing back there in his brain-pan. Plus, it seemed like the only reason he blinked now and then was that he figured it might be fun to flip that wild iris off his eyeball like a Tiddly-Wink and watch it roll across the counter. As for the rest of him, everything below the eye was kind of squared-off. Like something Jack Kirby would have drawn back in the day. Picture the Thing if he'd never moved out of those sewers where he hung his hat back in Fantastic Four #1. Except this guy wasn't orange and made out of rocks.

"Still with me?" Patch asked. "Any work around here?"

"Nothing much," I said, totaling his check and trading it for the empty coffee cup. "But there's a cannery about ten miles south, roosting out on a little peninsula. You can't miss it. Seems like you might fit in there just fine."

* * *

Scrape the varnish off those words and they were only half a lie. Meaning: No one who could fit in anywhere else came to this particular stretch of nowhere, even if the law was nipping at his ass like a starving Kodiak. But that was exactly the kind of guy who ended up working at the cannery. One kind, anyway. The other was the kind of guy who didn't think or talk much about what happened out on that little finger of land... the kind of guy who'd already lived there all his life, and whose granddaddy had lived and worked at the cannery same way as his granddaddy before him.

Turn off what passed for the main road and you'd end up on couple miles of two-lane blacktop that led out to the place, jutting a little bit south along that peninsula so that the stretch of road had about as much twist as the wrung neck of a chicken. Along the way there were trailers, some occupied by the old-timers, some by stragglers like Patch who'd ducked in for a buck and a breather in a corner of the world where no one was likely to find them.

That's the way the place worked a hundred years ago, and that's the way it worked until the end. About halfway down the two-lane you ran into a gate, and a guy with hammerhead eyes would give you a look and either wave you through or tell you to hit the bricks. Hey, it was quicker than filling out a job application. Seemed to work just as well, too.

The guard must have waved Patch through when he showed up. Past the gates. Past the security cams someone had mounted way back when in the eighties, snaked with coaxial cables that connected to not so state of the art Toshiba VHS decks manufactured when a guy named Reagan was still in the White House.

Not that I cared about any of that. I didn't think about the cannery or Patch for damn near a month after he paid for his coffee and shambled out of the diner.

Then, one night, he showed up again.

I'll never forget the look of him.

I'll never forget the things he said, either.

* * *

You probably never worked in a cannery. You do that for any amount of time, you learn one thing quick -- everything cinched up inside a fish is already dead. Couldn't stink so bad if it wasn't. You breathe that smell day in and day out, you cut it up and gut it and stick your fingers in what's left, you work double-shifts and fifteen-day stretches, and it puts your mind in a different place. A pink, meaty place. A place where the only thing you hear is the soft whisper of a blade, and a hundred black fins cutting water somewhere south of Davey Jones' locker.

Over the years, I'd seen plenty of guys walk into the diner who had nothing much left in their heads but those sounds. Every one of them looked a month past dead. Only words that would pass their lips was their order. Then they'd sit alone with those whispers, and eat, and pay, and leave.

As bad as any of them looked, Patch looked worse on the night he showed up for the last time. He came in and sat down at the counter. It was way past late. He was the only customer. Sweat on his brow, and little flecks of blood around that barbed-wire strap. He ordered a piece of Saskatoon berry pie but just picked at it with his fork. He looked kind of sick, in places that couldn't get better.

"That thing was full of eggs," he said finally, picking at his pie. "They looked just like these berries."

"What thing?"

"The thing they brought in on the black trawler."

"What are you talking about?"

He just sat there, staring at me with that Tiddly-Wink eyeball of his. Looking at me like I was stupid, like he wanted to flip his eye right over my head.

I don't mind telling you: It made me a little nervous.

A couple minutes later, Patch set down his fork without taking a single bite.

"They had gills," he said. "The people who worked at the cannery."

I didn't say a word, just slid the plate away from him.

"Most of them did, anyway."

He smiled, the fork in his hand again, digging the tines into the empty counter between us.

It scratched across the surface, carving little trenches.

"Gills," he said. "That's what they had. And that's why I killed them all."

* * *

Of course, I figured Patch was crazy. Watched him stumble out the door, into the night. Heard his rustbucket truck start up. Figured he'd pile himself into a tree before he made it a mile down the road. And maybe that would have been the best thing that could have happened to him.

Maybe.

Because it wasn't long before I started hearing the stories. Folks talking about a black trawler they'd seen cruising past the docks at night, heading for the cannery with nets slung low and heavy like they were heaped with dead babies. That got under my skin, dug in down there and curled up with Patch and his scraping fork. And one afternoon I mentioned the whole thing to a State Trooper, who decided to head out to the cannery and ask some questions about Patch.

What he found there... well, he found plenty. Dead bodies. Blood on the floor. The remains of something that stunk worse than a million dead salmon. Something that was filled with eggs.

Of course, no one believes much of that. I wouldn't, either. Except that Trooper was a friend of mine. He got hold of those VHS tapes from the surveillance system at the cannery. Shoved them in one night when we were sharing a bottle. And that made it one night where one bottle was not enough.

Because Patch did his work, all right. We saw it all on those tapes. He worked on those gill-men who'd run the cannery for generations. And he worked on the thing they unloaded from the black trawler -- the thing that made those misfits drop to their knees and cough up a bunch of words that seemed like they'd be right at home in the mouth of a fish, the thing that was full of eggs as dark and shiny as jellied blood.

Patch did his work and then some. With knife, with gun, with hands that might as well have been claws. I saw it on television. I know it happened. But that wasn't the end of it.

Because when he was done, Patch got busy. He worked beneath the soft whisper of a blade, and the sound of a hundred black fins cutting water somewhere south of Davey Jones' locker. He worked on man and monster and things that lay between. He worked from night until morning and back again.

And everything he'd killed, he canned.

* * *

And who knows what happened to Patch after that? I don't. Not for sure, anyway, but I've heard stories. The one I like best came from my State Trooper buddy. A friend of his had a hookup with some colonel in Special Forces who heard a story about a guy with a barbed-wire eye-patch who ended up in Arizona. Guy said he'd never leave the desert. Said he didn't want to be anywhere near the ocean ever again. The way my buddy told the story, the guy would yank a pistol if he so much as heard a toilet flush.

Maybe that was Patch and maybe it wasn't. Either way, I think about him sometimes. Early mornings, late at night... mostly when I'm spooning a filling of dark berries into a raw crust. I think of those black eggs in the belly of that dead thing I saw on television, and I imagine Patch out there somewhere in the desert. Under a moon, sitting in the back of that rusty pickup, a dry wind blowing up from Mexico whistling through the pockmarked bumper. He's got a can in one hand and a grapefruit spoon in the other, and a hundred empty cans are scattered in the sand dunes behind him from a hundred nights that came before, and there isn't a lake or a puddle anywhere within a hundred miles. He's staring up at the stars as the serrated tip of that spoon does its work, cutting the tightly packed meat inside, sliding it bite by bite into his mouth.

Chewing. Remembering. Then chewing some more.

For more tales from The Secret Life of Laird Barron... click here.

The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror 2011

2011-03-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Paula Guran has slapped a Cthulhu-sized bear-trap on "Lesser Demons,"grabbing the tale for The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror 2011. In my book that's good news times two, because Ellen Datlow chose the same novella for her own Best Horror of the Year compilation just a few weeks ago.

Conclusion? I guess I should write stories about monster-killing sociopathic sheriffs more often.

Here's the complete TOC for Ms. G's anthology:

How Bria Died, Michael Aronovitz (Weird Tales #356)
Frumpy Little Beat Girl, Peter Atkins (Rolling Darkness Revue 2010)
The Broadsword, Laird Barron (Black Wings)
Thimbleriggery and Fledglings, Steve Berman (The Beastly Bride)
The Dog King, Holly Black (The Poison Eaters and Other Stories)
Tragic Life Stories, Steve Duffy (Tragic Life Stories)
The Thing About Cassandra, Neil Gaiman (Songs Of Love And Death, Tales Of Star-Crossed Love)
He Said, Laughing, Simon R. Green (Living Dead 2)
Hurt Me, M.L.N. Hanover (Songs Of Love And Death, Tales Of Star-Crossed Love)
Oaks Park, M.K. Hobson (Haunted Legends)
Crawlspace, Stephen Graham Jones (The Ones That Got Away)
Red as Red, Caitlín R. Kiernan (Haunted Legends)
Mother Urban’s Booke of Dayes, Jay Lake (Dark Faith)
A Thousand Flowers, Margo Lanagan (Zombies vs. Unicorns)
Are You Trying To Tell Me This Is Heaven? Sarah Langan (Living Dead 2)
The Stars Are Falling, Joe R. Lansdale (Stories)
Sea Warg, Tanith Lee (Full Moon City)
The Mystery Knight, George R.R. Martin (Warriors)
The Naturalist, Maureen McHugh (Subterranean Magazine, Spring 2010)
Raise Your Hand If You’re Dead, John Shirley (Dark Discoveries #17)
Lesser Demons, Norman Partridge (Black Wings/Lesser Demons)
Parallel Lines, Tim Powers (Stories)
The Moon Will Look Strange, Lynda E. Rucker (Black Static #16)
You Dream, Ekaterina Sedia (Dark Faith)
Red Blues, Michael Skeet (Evolve)
Brisneyland at Night, Angela Slatter (Sprawl)
Malleus, Incus, Stapes, Sarah Totton (Fantasy Magazine, 20 December 2010)
The Return, S.D. Tullis (Null Immortalis)
The Dire Wolf, Genevieve Valentine (Running With the Pack)
The Things, Peter Watts (Clarkesworld, January 2010)
Bloodsport, Gene Wolfe (Swords & Dark Magic)

Sunday Supplement 3/13/11

2011-03-13T00:05:00.000-08:00

Special Frozen North Edition:

Stephen King does the Wendigo, or: I'd completely forgotten this passage from Pet Sematary. Great stuff, courtesy of Macabre Republic.

My own take on the Wendigo... or something else? You be the judge.

Six -- Laird Barron.

Nine -- again, Laird.

Ten. Honesty, economy, heart -- three things that make great writing, folks.

Last up, a blast from the past, with a double-dose of Old School grit. Too bad they don't make actors like this anymore:

The Fishing Expedition

2011-03-11T00:55:00.000-08:00

Was trading emails with my buddy Tom Piccirilli late last night about Hollywood. Most of the time, it's a real longshot proposition for writers, and if you develop any kind of career you end up getting lots of nibbles that don't go anywhere. Especially if you get a good review in a high-profile venue -- say a starred review in Publishers Weekly -- you're going to hear from people. Of course, most of the time nothing happens. It's just a fishing expedition, or (to mix my metaphors) Hollywood's way of checking your literary pulse.

Still, it's hard not to get excited. Or amused. I remember the first nibble I ever got, for my novel Slippin' Into Darkness. It came from Dick Clark Productions, and I'm sure the only reason they wrote me was because they figured they'd be able to clock a whole bunch of seventies hits into a movie with that title and ramp it up. But man, when I heard from them I slapped a copy of Slippin' in a FedEx envelope and sent it off double-quick. God knows what they made of it when they ripped open the envelope and took a look... though every once in awhile I like to imagine Mr. American Bandstand himself sitting there reading my tale of dead cheerleaders, grave-robbers, insomniac cops, and ghosts. Now there's a picture to contemplate.

Needless to say, I never heard another word from Dick. Oh, and the FedEx thing? That was a lesson learned too. Ed Gorman taught me that one. He told me: "Every time you hear from someone in Hollywood, they'll want you to FedEx them a book. Just tell them you'll be happy to do that, and ask for their account number. Or send 'em to Amazon. Even better."

On Dangerous Ground

2011-03-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

This anthology of western noir is coming soon from editors Ed Gorman, Dave Zeltserman, and Martin H. Greenberg courtesy of the fine folks at Cemetery Dance. My story "Durston" is included, and it's in dangerous company. You can check out the full Table of Contents over at the Cemetery Dance site.

A few words about the tale itself: On rare occasions, lightning strikes. This was one of them. Ace writer/editor Ed Gorman asked me for a hardboiled western with a brutal, noirish bent, and the opening of "Durston" came to me as soon as I sat down at the computer. From there it was a race to type fast enough to tell the story without forgetting any of it. Even better, "Durston" was one of those stories that hit the page at final-draft quality. I wish every story went like that. I'd wear out a lot more keyboards if they did.

Locus on "Vampire Lake"

2011-03-07T00:15:00.000-08:00

"Vampire Lake" has snagged Lois Tilton's Good Story Award in her latest Short Fiction column over at Locus. In part, Tilton says of my forthcoming novella in Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 2: "This is it. In many anthologies there is a standout story, one that readers will always recall when the book comes to mind. ["Vampire Lake"] is the longest, darkest tale in the book, a dark dark fantasy in the Western mode... There is more than spatter here, there is hemorrhage. There is horror."

Tilton also makes an interesting point about the Weird Western, writing that it's a subgenre which "not only tolerates but encourages hyperbole and highly-colored language." Which, in truth, is one of the major attractions for me. Stories like "Vampire Lake," "Durston" (in Lesser Demons), and "The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse" were flatout fun to write, allowing me to bust off the cinches more than a little bit and go for it.

I like that... and it's just one reason I'll be writing more Weird Westerns.

Sunday Supplement 3/6/11

2011-03-06T00:20:00.000-08:00

Peter Bogdanovich on Kiss Me Deadly (and, yes, I'm a huge Robert Aldrich fan).

Simon Wood on Five Things Readers Can Do To Help Their Favorite Writers.

Rockin' Randy Fox riffs on Swiss hotel clerks and the great cosmic whack-a-mole game of sevenities UFO sightings (Part Deux!)

Props for Pic.

Horror's Big Dawg is back.

Laird Barron weighs in on writers to watch. And, yep -- based on that Warren Oates line, I'll have to hunt up some Scott Nicolay.

The Last Man on Earth... with back problems.

Happy Birthday, Frankie!

2011-03-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today is American Frankenstein's first birthday... and all I can say is, "Wow. Time really does fly when you're having fun."

Thanks to Kevin Nordstrom for (yet another) boss illo, and thanks to all of you for tuning in to the blog. Here's hoping you'll keep on clicking over in the year to come. After all, that's what puts the jolt to this particular monster... so thanks for the lightning, one and all.

A Man's Got To Know His Limitations

2011-03-04T00:18:00.000-08:00

I've often wished I was a faster writer. Oh, sometimes I have been. One of my best writing memories is finishing my first novel in a one-day marathon. Yep. I wrote the last several chapters of Slippin' Into Darkness in a blur, as close to a feeling of automatic writing as I've ever come. Seems to me it was about 50 pages, but that number may have been inflated by time and distance from the event itself. Memory has a way of doing that -- especially memories of the pleasant variety. Still, that one day at the computer left me with an amazing feeling that has endured... as did the novel I managed to write in six weeks (The Ten-Ounce Siesta).

But mostly, I'm not fast. I suppose I'd rather get a story right than get it done half-assed, and more often than not that takes time. Plus life and job and commitments have a way of bucking you out of the saddle at the worst moments. Still, I always think I can get things done faster than I can, and I'm always disappointed when I fall short. You'd think I'd learn the simple lesson Dirty Harry laid out in Magnum Force a long time ago: "A man's got to know his limitations."

Or maybe (with me, anyway) it goes like this: I know my limitations; the problem is I always think I can defy them.

Damn. I wish I was faster.

The Promise

2011-03-02T00:11:00.000-08:00

"I'd been out of the recording scene for three years, I was in my mid-twenties and already trying to prove I wasn't a 'flash in the pan', a 'one-hit wonder', a creation of the record-company star-making machine. I knew who I was (well, I was pretty sure) and who I wanted to be. I knew the stakes I wanted to play for, so I picked the hardest of what I had, music that would leave no room to be misunderstood about what I felt was at risk and what might be attained over the American airwaves of popular radio in 1978. Power, directness and austerity were my goals. Tough music for folks in tough circumstances."

--Bruce Springsteen
Liner Notes
The Promise

Chilling Tales

2011-03-01T00:05:00.000-08:00

Checking in today with some news for fans of my bride's fiction -- you can find a new Tia Travis story in Chilling Tales, an anthology edited by Michael Kelly and published by Edge. Tia's tale is called "The Weight of Stones," and it's the closer in this all-Canadian compilation of dark fiction.

Chilling Tales has a street date of March 1, so grab a copy soon (Amazon is taking preorders). Tia received her copy today, and it's a sharp little package. I'm looking forward to reading new fiction from Gemma Files (always a fave), my buddies Ian Rogers and Jason Ridler, and a host of Canuck talent whose names are familiar but whose work I've yet to sample. In his introduction, Mike Kelly promises "...a distinctly Canadian worldview, a disquieting solitude, perhaps, or a tangible loneliness, that permeates all these stories and makes them truly chilling tales."

For those who'd like a sample of Tia's story, check out the opening below:

She sleeps beneath ninety million tons of limestone.

A sigh that might be the wind siphons through the Pass. Gustiest corridor in the territory, a convergence of plates where mountains break loose from the sky, where violence is measured both in moments and eras, where sunlight splinters through crevices and flowers live and die in darkness. If you listen, you might hear a grain of sand sift through the labyrinth of boulders.

If you listen, you might hear her breathing.

I hold my own breath and map the movements of her heart... the rise and fall of her lungs. I held that last breath for her until I passed beyond the need for it. The desire for it.

Lie still. I will find you...

The United Monster Talent Agency

2011-02-24T00:10:00.000-08:00

Great short from FX guru Greg Nicotero -- I always wondered how Universal kept those monsters in line. (And bonus points if you can spot David J. Schow in this one!)

Creatures!

2011-02-22T00:11:00.000-08:00

Editors John Langan and Paul Tremblay have popped the cork on a forthcoming anthology, releasing the Table of Contents for Creatures! Thirty Years of Monster Stories. The nitty gritty runs like this: twenty-six tales, 150,000 words, coming at you in trade paperback from Prime Books ($14.95). I don't have a release date yet, but will let you know when I get word.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to this one. Hey, it's got a Jeff Ford story I haven't read (an Island of Dr. Moreau piece, at that), plus a Creature from the Black lagoon tale. That's enough to get me to dig in, right there.

IT CAME AND WE KNEW IT
Godzilla's Twelve-Step Program Joe R. Lansdale
The Creature from the Black Lagoon Jim Shepard
After Moreau Jeffrey Ford
Among Their Bright Eyes Alaya Dawn Johnson
Under Cover of Night Christopher Golden
The Kraken Mike Kelly
Underneath Me, Steady Air Carrie Laben

IT CAME AND WE COULD NOT STOP IT
Rawhead Rex Clive Barker
Wishbones Cherie Priest
The Hollow Man Norman Partridge
Not from Around Here David J. Schow
The Ropy Thing Al Sarrantonio
The Third Bear Jeff Vandermeer

IT CAME FOR US
Monster Kelly Link
Keep Calm and Carillon Genevieve Valentine
The Deep End Robert R. McCammon
The Serpent and the Hatchet Gang F. Brett Cox
Blood Makes Noise Gemma Files
The Machine Is Perfect, the Engineer Is Nobody Brett Alexander Savory
Proboscis Laird Barron

IT CAME FROM US
Familiar China Mieville
Replacements Lisa Tuttle
Little Monsters Stephen Graham Jones
The Changeling Sarah Langan
The Monsters of Heaven Nathan Ballingrud
Absolute Zero Nadia Bulkin

At The Only Diner In Hell...

2011-02-21T00:07:00.000-08:00

You'll find one of these in every booth.*

And a jukebox that always plays Jerry Wallace's "If You Leave Me Tonight, I Will Cry."**

And a Vietnam vet sitting at the counter whose dead buddies are just outside, closing in...***

* Mystic Seer from Richard Matheson's classic Twilight Zone episode, "Nick of Time."

**"The Tune in Dan's Cafe" from Night Gallery.

***Dead soldiers courtesy of Robert R. McCammon's masterful short story "Nightcrawlers," adapted for the eighties Twilight Zone reboot. (Bonus points: Exene Cervenka is your waitress!)

Sunday Supplement 1

2011-02-20T00:05:00.000-08:00

Or, some stuff worth reading out there in the blogosphere:

Laird Barron writes of hell and dreams.

Rockin' Randy Fox riffs on Swiss hotel clerks and the great cosmic whack-a-mole game of seventies UFO sightings.

David J. Schow explores a mystery filed just this side of The Outer Limits.

Brian Keene kicks into gear on the whole Borders situation (and bookstore customers who don't buy books).

Enjoy!

Hold Your Horses

2011-02-19T00:04:00.000-08:00

After I accidentally hung up on my five-year-old niece and apologized to her dad about it (see last Sunday's post), I traded some emails with my brother-in-law Blaise. In one of them Blaise sent me a link to a cowboy song of his own making (sung by the Mysterious and Talented Elaine). I love cowboy songs, especially spooky ones, so I was moved to write Blaise a fan letter, which I think is even better than the apology I wrote last week:

Dear Blaise:

"Hold Your Horses" is my new favorite song. I like the singing. I like the Western guitar. In fact, this song makes me want to polish my Colt revolver and ride into Tombstone wearing black. I would bring a sawed-off shotgun with me, of course, and a Bowie knife, too.

If you were there, playing "Hold Your Horses" in a saloon, I would listen to the song and applaud.

Then I would yank my Bowie knife and carve the scalp from your skull, so it would be just as clean and white as a fresh-laid egg.

Your fan,
Norm

We Are Controlling Transmission

2011-02-18T00:07:00.000-08:00

My buddies John Scoleri and Peter Enfantino are the guys who brought you A Thriller A Day, the great blog celebrating Boris Karloff's Thriller series. Now they have a new blog that gives the same treatment to the classic Outer Limits TV show, and you can click on over and join the fun at We Are Controlling Transmission.

Anyway, John and Pete know everything (and what they don't know they can ask David Schow about), which is another way of saying that the blog is definitely a keeper. I'm backtracking through it, as the official debut slipped off my radar. And since I'll be contributing a piece about one of the second-season episodes, I'd better grab control of the horizontal and vertical and kick things into gear... because I've gotta date with a Megasoid!

Portents

2011-02-17T10:13:00.000-08:00

When I started out as a writer, Charles Grant's Shadows anthologies were textbooks for me. Like Grant's own work, the stories in Shadows showed how to do quiet horror right, and it was in his anthologies that I encountered the work of some very fine writers for the first time -- Ramsey Campbell, Avram Davidson, T. E. D. Klein, Steve Rasnic Tem, and Al Sarrantonio to name a few.

Sarrantonio's short stories have long been favorites of mine (i. e. if you don't have a copy of his masterful collection Toybox in your library, you're missing some essential reading, pard). Al's also gone on since the Shadows days to become one of the premiere anthology editors in the business, and now he's introducing his own compilation of horror tales on the quiet side: Portents.

And what a lineup of writers he's got: Gene Wolfe, Joyce Carol Oates, Ramsey Campbell, Joe R. Lansdale, Brian Keene, Kit Reed, Melanie Tem, Steve Rasnic Tem, Kealan Patrick Burke, Neal Barret, Jr., Elizabeth Massie, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Kim Newman, Michael Laimo, Jeffrey Ford, Tom Piccirilli, and Alan M. Clark. Plus, I'm proud to say that the lead story in Portents is a new piece by my talented bride, Tia V. Travis. "Still" is a Canadian ghost story with the hard bite of a prairie wind, and you won't want to miss it.

Portents won't be available in stores. You can't grab it on Amazon. Copies of the 1,000 copy limited edition are only available from Al himself. It's $30 (plus $5 shipping and handling), and you can pre-order it now from Al by contacting him at Flyingfoxpub @ aol dot com. From all reports it looks like the book should be shipping soon, so don't snooze if you want a copy. With the roster of talent above, my bet is they'll go fast.

Mako and McGavin: Made-for-TV

2011-02-16T00:04:00.000-08:00

Been trading emails with a buddy about my Best of The Green Hornet post, and "The Preying Mantis" episode with Mako duking it out with Bruce Lee (as Kato). That reminded me of a Made-for-TV movie with Mako and Darren McGavin called The Challenge, a great slice of early seventies Cold War paranoia in which two superpowers each send a single soldier to an island in order to avert a nuclear war (i.e. last man standing wins).

God knows who they'd stick in a movie like that these days, but they wouldn't look like the two guys above. And Mako and McGavin were just the top of the cast list for The Challenge. You also had a couple of TV stalwarts in Broderick Crawford and James Whitmore, plus a young actor named Sam Elliott. Anyway, I loved the movie as a kid -- even though I knew (like a lot of TV Movies) that it was really just a budget-conscious riff off a big-screen idea (in this case, Hell in the Pacific, in which Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune fight WWII all by their lonesome while stranded on a jungle island). But any way you figure it The Challenge was a pretty dark slice for Network Prime Time -- hey, the U.S. was still knee-deep in the Vietnam war when it was first broadcast -- and like a lot of Made-for-TV movies, it shouldn't be forgotten today. I wish I could see it again.

McGavin was in more than a few TV movies. Most notably: The Night Stalker as Carl Kolchak, a wise-guy reporter hunting a vampire in seventies Vegas. While I loved McGavin as Kolchak in that movie and the inevitable sequel, the eventual Kolchak series stretched the reporter vs. monster concept too far for me, and it too often slipped into comedy. Still, the first two movies were gold, and I can still remember going to school the day after The Night Stalker first aired and finding that everyone was talking about it -- even the teachers and the blue-haired ladies at the lunch counter. That was something. And it was the same with a lot of other TV Movies (stuff like Duel, with harried commuter Dennis Weaver dodging a homicidal truck driver for an unbelievably tense ninety minutes courtesy of writer Richard Matheson and a young hotshot director named Steven Spielberg).

Yeah. Those little movies were something special (and nope -- they sure weren't Megasaurus vs. Crocozilla, starring your basic discarded pop stars). Those were different days, with three big networks beaming into most households each night. While America didn't quite have a hive mind, we certainly had a kind of universal consciousness going. It made for some universal excitement on a slow weeknight. It also made for some interesting conversations the next day.

And I miss that. Sparking up ideas with guys who loved the kind of stories I loved, and guys who were only thinking about them because a story got to them on TV the night before and they weren't even sure why. Talking about what you'd do if you found out there was a vampire sucking Las Vegas dry, or how two guys would settle a war on an island, or how you'd survive if a crazy truck driver chased you down a deserted strip of desert highway.

Saying, "Wow! That movie was something, wasn't it?"

And knowing that yep, damn straight it was.

Writing Advice

2011-02-15T08:31:00.000-08:00

I've had some emails from folks asking for links to my recent posts on writing and marketing a first novel. Glad to oblige:

First Novels and Micro-Runs, Part 1

First Novels and Micro-Runs, Part 2

Putting Your First Novel To Work

The Magic Bullet

If you found those articles useful and would like to check out some other writing tips, try these older posts:

Young Writers, Young Publishers

A Town Without Pity

The Roller Coaster's Heartbeat

Early Influences: Frank Frazetta, Creepy, and the Cover Story

And, yeah. I really should learn to use the tags feature on this blog. Now that American Frankenstein has been around (almost) a year, that'd help sort things out. Or, as Rod Serling might have said: "Doesn't hurt to have a signpost up ahead when you're sending pilgrims into The Twilight Zone, buddy."

Happy Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T00:05:00.000-08:00

From a girl who's a little bit Sinead O'Connor and a little bit Audrey Hepburn and a whole lotta Nevie Rose. Our little girl hopes you and yours have a great holiday... with chocolate, of course.

Nice Guys Finish Last

2011-02-13T00:05:00.000-08:00

So... last Saturday was my little girl's first birthday. That morning, I hung up on my five-year-old niece. I didn't know it was her. Really. Everyone in Calgary thought it would be cute if Miette called her American cousin to wish Nevie many happy returns. Only we were on the way out the door, and I thought I was talking to a Munchkin when I picked up the phone. Or an old lady who was sucking on a helium tank. One who was asking for someone named "Denise."

"No Denise here," I said. Click.

Oh, well. Who knew?

Once we figured out what happened, Tia said I had better apologize to my brother-in-law right away. For me, right away is in the same ballpark as next Sunday. And just so you know, my brother-in-law's name is Blaise. Blaise is the only guy I know who has a space station in his basement. He's also an artist and filmmaker. Buy his stuff. He begs you. It's crazy, and financed in part by the Canadian government, so you know it has to be good.

Anyway, here is my apology:

Dear Blaise:

I eat old corncob pipes for breakfast. In a cereal bowl. With no milk.

Everywhere I go, I carry a grapefruit spoon. I keep the serrated edges very sharp. The leaves on citrus trees quiver when I pass by. They sound like castanets played by dead men.

I take out the garbage every Wednesday night. Sometimes it's so late there's not even a moon. You can't see anything out there. But somehow that cat you gave us always gets back in the house.

I hang up on at least one little girl a week. Especially if they call long distance. Like from another country. Long distance costs a lot of money. Especially in Canadian dollars. What's the point of Canadian money, anyway? I mean, why do you guys bother?

Peace and love,
Norm

P.S. Who's Denise, anyway?

The Magic Bullet

2011-02-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

My conversations with first novelists almost always run the same way. They've got lots of questions. Before the sale, they want to know how to find a publisher and snag a book deal. Once they've got a deal, they want to know the best way to market their book -- how to get reviews, attention, and (ultimately) sales. And, hey, that's no surprise. Every writer wants his or her first novel to be success, and every one of them is looking for a way to guarantee just that.

What they're after is a diagram of a sure thing, or a career blueprint with an express elevator to the penthouse level. What they want is your basic All-Purpose Dirty Harry Magnum Force-Sized Magic Bullet.

Look at the problem one way, I'll tell you that there's no such thing. Simply put, there are no shortcuts or sure things in writing. Sure, there are a thousand ways to improve your odds of commercial success... and if you do your homework you'll figure them out. I'm a big fan of doing your homework. But there are no magic bullets.

Except one. And (surprisingly) that bullet isn't something that comes up in most conversations with first-time novelists. It seems like it should be the first thing that comes up, but it very rarely does. Fact is, sometimes it's barely mentioned at all.

That thing is the novel itself. And it's the only thing that counts, really. It's also the only thing you really have control over. After all, it's your book. What your first novel amounts to is completely up to you. How high you set the bar is up to you. How hard you work on your novel, and push yourself through the rewrites, and bust your ass to make it as good as it can be is up to you. The rest of it -- the sale to a publisher, the promotion, the book as a finished product ready for market -- that's all another battle... and an important one. But none of that will matter if you haven't done the hardest work of all to front-load your odds for success and set them in your favor.

That's your biggest battle, and you fight it on the page. Not glad-handing at a convention, not on Twitter or Facebook, not texting with that editor who bought you a beer. No. You fight that battle alone, at your desk, writing. As I've said before: a keyboard is built for one. That's how the real work of writing gets done. It's the misery of the job, and the joy. And it's how your novel gets to be as good as you can possibly make it... which is as close to a guarantee as you'll ever get.

So there you have it. Your novel is your magic bullet.

What it turns out to be is completely up to you.

So close the door, turn off the phone, and shut down your email.

Now you're ready.

Fire away.

Putting Your First Novel To Work

2011-02-09T23:20:00.000-08:00

So, last week we were talking about selling your first novel, and some things you'll want to look for from your publisher (and some things you might want to avoid). Either way, if you're ready to go into the trenches with your firstborn, there's a lot you'll want to think about. And once the dust settles with the writing and the rewriting, one of the things you want to kick around in your brainpan is the idea of how to make your first novel work for you.

And, really, whether you're working in the small press or with a NY publisher, your basic approach to that question isn't going to be that different. Neither is the publisher's, surprisingly. Because the truth is that most first novels don't get a whole lot of support from their publishers when it comes to advertising, or a push from the sales reps, or any kind of real-deal game plan as far as publicity goes. In most cases first novels are more like sacrifices to some pagan god. Think King Kong, for example. A whole lot of books get marched outside the gates of Skull Island and roped up on that platform facing the jungle primeval. And not to be too graphic, but just around 95% of them don't have anything approaching a happy ending no matter what the author puts down on the page. Nope. They're just offerings to a king-sized remorseless god, which means they make a quick trip down a hungry monkey's gullet and torpedo their way through his lower intestines on their way to oblivion. Sorry, Charlie, but that's the way of the publishing world.

So you can count yourself lucky if your first novel turns out to be the literary equivalent of Fay Wray, the kind of book that can tame a monster, bring him to his knees, and be the beauty that slays the beast. There are a lot of variables to that kind of success, and it's a wide spectrum that stretches all the way from dumb luck to jaw-dropping talent. Of course, expecting that your first novel will be a huge success is, well... kind of like expecting that you can slay a giant mythical gorilla without so much as a .22 in your hand and look like a million bucks while you're doing it. It's probably not going to happen. Really. I'm not kidding. (Don't give up on the dream, though.)

To kick the extended metaphor aside, what I'm saying is that there's not much you can bank on with your first book. But that doesn't mean there isn't plenty you can work toward. Your novel is the tool you're going to use to do the job. Here are a few ways you can use that hammer:

1. Get your book out there. I mean pre-pub. Push your publisher to do Advance Reader's Copies, and get them into as many hands as you can. Traditional review markets, high-profile bloggers, genre websites... all are good. Of course, there are no sure things and it's a mistake to attach any expectations to the ARCs you send out. By this point you have to trust in your work and let the chips fall where they may.

2. Get out there yourself. If you do the social network thing, get busy. Facebook, Twitter, blog. Do some interviews. Let people know about your book... and you.

3. I'm not much on writers' conventions myself, but jump in if you're comfortable. You may just end up blowing a grand flying off to some city and seeing notmuchofit but some Marriott by the airport, but depending on your personality you just might do well -- making connections, meeting editors, moving forward. (Of course, you could always end up sitting in your room and watching cable, too. Fact is, I've been to a couple of cons where that was the best-case scenario.)

4. If you've met editors who have expressed interest in your work (or, even better, bought it), give them a copy of your novel. Don't shove it at them at a convention, unless they ask you for it. Offer to mail them a copy. Odds are better they'll actually look at it, and not leave it in a hotel room to terrify the maid.

5. Once the book is out, put your author copies to work. Send them to writers you admire and professionals you've met (or the editors mentioned above). If you have a nice first-class hardcover, show it off. Hey, it'll make a better impression than an ARC will (on first glance, anyway -- what really counts is what's on the page).

6. Lastly (and this may be the most important advice of all): BE PROFESSIONAL. Don't be an annoying, pushy jerk. If you're smart, you probably already know the difference. If you're not, I could write a dozen posts about how to conduct yourself as a pro and you wouldn't figure it out. I'm figuring you're smart, so I'll leave it at that.

Beyond that... well, there are always new whistles and bells. There's always some flashy new form of ePromotion, or networking, or whatever. But my advice is to trust in the tried and the true methods -- especially #1 and #2 above. You get your work out there, you act like a professional, you trust in your book, and (as I said above) you wait for the chips to fall where they may.

In other words, when it comes to marketing your first novel there is no magic bullet.

Well, maybe there's one.

Tune in Friday and I'll tell you about it.

If You Don't Care About Football...

2011-02-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

...you can always spend the day reading John Saul's Creature, the most amazing "I can't believe he wrote this straight up" tale of a genetically engineered high school football team going mutant that ever hit the paperback racks back in the booming days of the horror glut. Forget steroids... watch out for these guys (and their evil coach with the unlikely name of Phil Collins!).

Otherwise, you can do what I'm going to do, and watch NFL great Jim Brown make the best grenade-tossing, Nazi-killing run for glory ever seen on the screen in The Dirty Dozen.

Either way, enjoy the day... and enjoy the game if you're a football fan. And go Pittsburgh (my dad was an Ellwood City boy, and he liked the Steelers).

First Novels and Micro-Runs, Part 2

2011-02-03T20:22:00.000-08:00

If you want the whole Slippin' Into Darkness story, click on over to my website and check out my essay, "The Care and Feeding of First Novels." For our purposes here, let's just stick to the short version of the tale -- the limited CD run of Slippin' sold out in just under three weeks, which was a lightning-quick sell-through in the pre-Internet days of 1994.

So what accounted for Slippin's success? There were a few reasons.

First, Rich Chizmar didn't confine Slippin' to the usual small-press audience. Instead, he broadened his sales approach and sold it just the way a New York publisher would. He printed a boatload of ARCs (Advance Reader Copies) and sent them out to mainstream review markets. As a result, we scored great reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, even a handful of major newspapers. That earned a lot of sales -- in fact, Slippin' was already sold out by the time the orders rolled in from major distributors. We could have easily sold double the run, but we didn't have the books. All publishers and writers should have that problem.

Second, in addition to hitting the mainstream review markets, Rich used the Cemetery Dance mailing list, focusing a niche marketing approach aimed at Cemetery Dance/Norm Partridge readers. These days Rich's list is the size of a small European country, but back then it was still in the early growth stages, mostly built from his subscriber list for the magazine. Still, a lot of the orders for Slippin' came to Rich direct from customers, so that cut out the middleman and made it a better deal financially for him. Also, it helped build an audience for both the CD book line and myself. The price was low enough that readers of the magazine took a chance on Slippin', and fortunately for both Rich and myself they liked what they got for their money.

Third, I wrote a pretty good first novel. I like to think so, anyway (and, yes, you can insert a virtual wink right here).

Anyway, that's what we did to sell the book. Fast-forward fifteen years, add in some bells-and-whistles thanks to the Internet, and this is still the basic approach most small publishers are taking now to first novels... only they're a much tougher sell in today's market.

Why? Again, I've got a few reasons.

First, the market is more crowded today than it was in 1994. Like: mucho crowded. For publishers, it's easier to produce a book (or eBook), so more people do. For writer's, it's easier to get published, so more people do. To paraphrase one Southern gentleman: There's a whole lotta shakin' goin' on. To grab a phrase from another... well, you know what Mr. Faulkner had to say about sound and fury signifying nothing. Shake that up in a bag and it doesn't equal an easy sale for anyone. What it equals is a very solid chance that your book will get lost in the shuffle if you don't watch yourself (and your publisher).

Second, many small press publishers have given up on a broad-based sales approach. They ignore the old school review markets; some don't even issue ARCs. Instead, they focus on the niche approach to sales, aiming at the small pond of horror collectors and readers. Which is fine in some respects -- hey, it's great to have an audience of rabid readers. On the other hand, when you take this approach in publishing a first novel the phrase "preaching to the choir" comes to mind. That's one reason I don't like it. The way I see it you don't want your first novel locked up with the usual suspects; instead, you want to give it the best chance possible to expand your audience and your career horizons. That's not going to happen with a publisher who only wants to print a hundred copies of your book and sell it to the same hundred folks who've bought all his other books. Or, as my first generation Weird Tales reading granddad might have said: "Publishing a hundred copies of a horror novel is like serving up seafood to the Royal Order of Dagon, and it's a lead-pipe cinch that those boys have already eaten a whole helluva lot of squid."

Third: Forget mining a niche market for customers, we're now entering the realm of the micro-run limited and what I like to think of as "stranglehold publishing." This the land of small print runs and high prices. Some publishers like this approach because 1) they won't get stuck with extra copies they can't sell, and 2) they hope to fan the collector's market flames and earn themselves a quick pre-publication sell-through (i.e. "I have to buy this now! Stranglehold Press is only publishing 100 copies! I don't care if it cost me two weeks' groceries! I'm sure I'll be able to sell this puppy on eBay for big bucks in five years!"). This means Stranglehold Press will publish runs as low as 100 - 150 copies, which (you guessed it) instantly jacks up the cover price into the $60.00 - $75.00 range (and that's the low end). Forget the author signature and production values, that's a lot of money to shell out for a first novel -- even one by a writer who looks like a comer. And even if you're an established writer, doing a short-run limited can be a gamble. After all, your fan base may resent it if a collectible edition has a limitation so low that it prevents a good portion of them from buying one of your books. But if you're a first novelist, you're a couple miles down the road and across the state line from that kind of problem. What you need now is readers, not collectors, and I can almost guarantee that Joe Average Horror Fan isn't going to take a chance on your novel if it's wearing a $75.00 price tag... unless he's also your cousin or something. Add that to my comments about seafood and the Royal Order of Dagon above, and you'll see why you should avoid a micro-run on your first novel if you possibly can.

Remember: As a first novelist you're after readers, not collectors.

Plus: You want to give your book the best chance possible to do you some good.

Next Wednesday, I'll have some tips about how you can do just that.

First Novels and Micro-Runs, Part 1

2011-02-01T20:42:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned last week, I get email from young writers looking for advice. Some of them have even done their homework. Meaning, they know that back in 1994 I published my first novel, Slippin' Into Darkness, in the small press with a fairly new outfit called Cemetery Dance.

Of course, I was a pretty new writer back then, too. By '94, I'd been publishing short fiction for five years, with my first story appearing in a magazine called (you guessed it) Cemetery Dance. CD publisher Richard Chizmar and I had built our resumes on parallel tracks, Rich moving from doing a dot-matrix magazine to slick hardcovers by the likes of Joe R. Lansdale and Ed Gorman, me graduating from publishing my stories in small press magazines to cracking anthologies out of New York and scoring a few sales to Year's Best compilations while I was at it.

For me, the next step on the ladder was publishing a novel. For Rich, the next step was publishing a book that wasn't a reprint, and he had his eye on a few young guns he'd been working with looking for an original project. (And just so you know -- I had already taken my own advice from last week's entry and tried to market Slippin' in New York; I had more than a few rejections from agents and publishers; most of them mystified concerning the prospects of marketing a very dark novel that mixed noir and horror. I'm sure on his side of the fence, Rich had been trying to get an original novel from an established name, which would have been a surer thing for him -- at that point, he probably just couldn't quite afford it yet. So it was time for both of us to do a little thinking outside the box.)

Anyway, doing Slippin' Into Darkness with CD seemed like a natural. Rich liked the novel a lot -- it was exactly the kind of "dark suspense" story his magazine was becoming known for. Plus, CD had already built a solid mailing list of customers (in those pre-internet days), and a lot of folks who followed Cemetery Dance followed me, too -- my stories made regular appearances in the mag and were popular. We figured we had a good shot at selling out a limited run, which in those days meant doing 500 copies. Doing a run that size, Rich figured we could keep the price at $35.00 for a slipcased hardcover, plus toss in some extras -- the book would be signed by myself and artist Alan Clark, who'd also do interior illustrations. Not a bad deal, even in those days.

Of course, we both had our worries. Rich had to front the production and printing bills -- not a small investment, and a risk considering I was a first novelist who hadn't proven myself in the limited market. From my side of the fence, I had to worry that the limited market would put a straight jacket on my novel -- no one would notice it outside the small pond of horror fans, and (if those fans didn't like it) it could easily tank... meaning I'd probably have a much harder time selling my second novel than I had selling my first.

So, going in it was a toss-up. There were more than a few unknowns, but we did our best to make sure we'd have at least a shot of making Slippin' work for both of us. Of course, we had to hold our collective breath a little bit, too... which is what I'm going to ask you to do right now. But tune in tomorrow, and I'll let you know how we made Slippin' Into Darkness work, and how we sold out the print run in just under three weeks.

I'll also let you know why you probably won't see something like that happen today.

Best of The Green Hornet

2011-02-01T00:02:00.000-08:00

Next to the original Wild Wild West, The Green Hornet was probably my favorite TV show as a kid. It didn't last long, but boy did it make an impression on yours truly. As with Walt Disney's Scarecrow of Romney Marsh, I loved the fact that Van Williams' Hornet played the bad guy to do good... and it didn't hurt that a young actor named Bruce Lee was along for the ride as his sidekick, Kato.

Several years ago, Hollywood churned out a misguided Wild Wild West movie. I doubt anyone much remembers it now. Anyway, I avoided it like the plague. Nothing against Will Smith -- who I thought was great in I Am Legend -- but there was only one James West for me, and only one Artemus Gordon. So I stuck with Robert Conrad and Ross Martin when that movie came out, and I'm sticking to Van Williams and Bruce Lee at present. To tell the truth, I haven't even seen the trailer for the new Green Hornet movie. I'm avoiding that the same way I'd avoid a bucket of smallpox. If other folks enjoy the movie, fine. For me, I just don't want it messing up the memory of a show I really loved.

Recently, I had the chance to reconnect with the original episodes. That was great fun for me, and my opinion hasn't changed about the series... or about the episodes where the Hornet plays the stone-cold badguy to get those who've done wrong. Lately the series has turned up on SyFy for a couple of marathons, and you may be able to catch it that way. Or, like me, you can join the long-suffering crowd waiting for a spiffed-up off boxed DVD set from official sources, and (as the Hornet would probably do) gaffle your action and enjoy 'em where you can find 'em in the meantime.

And while I'm at it, here are six of my favorite episodes. Watch for 'em!

BAD BET ON A 459 -- SILENT: Crooked cops plug the Hornet; he's in bad shape. He and Kato have to fake a hit on newspaper editor Britt Reid (the Hornet's secret identity) to cover up the gunshot, then catch the bad guys while the Hornet's bleeding like a stuck pig! Probably my favorite episode, and the scene where Kato appears with a pistol in the offices of the Daily Sentinel is definitely a series high point.

THE RAY IS FOR KILLING: For my money, this is the best episode featuring the Black Beauty. It pits the Hornet's rolling arsenal against a laser beam. Lucky for the Hornet, the Sentinel's science editor is up on the latest NASA technology... it ain't quite bug repellent, but rather a kind of Laser Beam Off backed by throwaway science so flimsy you'd only buy if you were nine when you saw this episode. Which I was. In fact, I still remember sitting there as a kid with my jaw hanging in my lap as the Hornet and Kato raced into the storm drains under LA with the Black Beauty smoking, its hood melting... and a fistful of bad guys dead ahead behind a murderous laser beam, all of it playing out in living 26" Magnavox color with Al Hirt's great Hornet theme song blaring across a tinny speaker the size of a teacup.

TROUBLE FOR PRINCE CHARMING: This episode moves like a bullet -- a fun story with a little bit of a sixties Princess Grace riff going on and the usual court intrigue double-crosses. In short, it's an episode with a lot of kick... and the last two by Lee are definitely one his best moments in the series.

THE HUNTERS AND THE HUNTED: Native spears, poison darts, jungle snares... the baddest big game hunters ever outfitted by Banana Republic are after the biggest game of all -- the Green Hornet and Kato. Yep, it's "The Most Dangerous Game" in less than thirty minutes... with the best Fred Flintstone wannabe gangster ever along for the ride!

THE PREYING MANTIS: The famous martial arts episode. Kato vs. Mako in a Chinatown rumble! Kato's darts! Iron fans! Three-section staffs! The Hornet calls out Mako with an old school smackdown that puts a nail in the all the talk, and then Kato steps in and goes to work as only Bruce Lee can.

INVASION FROM OUTER SPACE: Cheeziest episode EVER, but fun. Watch out for Jiffy Pop aliens, especially if they're after an H-Bomb!

Hollywood Smackdown: Robert Bloch vs. Jack Webb!

2011-01-31T00:05:00.000-08:00

"When I brought my revised version to the studio I was directed to [Jack] Webb's office to deliver the script. The reception area was imposing, and several personable secretaries labored within its confines. But its chief attraction was a series of huge glass-fronted display cabinets which featured an impressive array of literally scores of framed citations, medals, gold and silver trophies and awards presented to Webb for Dragnet.

"As I stood goggling at this overwhelming evidence of success, the door to the inner office opened and Webb himself emerged. He may or may not have recalled my name and used it in his greeting; this I can't recollect. What I do remember is the perverse impulse which came over me.

"Nodding at the staggering display of prizes and trophies, I said, 'Gee, Mr. Webb -- you must have done a lot of bowling!'"

--Robert Bloch
Once Around the Bloch

Young Writers/Young Publishers

2011-01-26T21:07:00.000-08:00

I get emails from young writers asking for advice. Unfortunately, I don't always get a chance to answer them. To tell the truth, I'm probably one of the world's worst correspondents when it comes to email.

Of course, that doesn't mean I lack for advice. I've got a bucketful, and I'm willing to dish it up. For those of you who are climbing the ladder and looking to sell your first book (or second, or third, or even your fourth or fifth) in the small press or to a newer publisher, here are some basic tips:

Have you tried New York? I mean, really tried? Do it. Aim high. Especially if you're trying to sell a novel. Start at the top, or as high as you can reach with any connections you've managed to make. If it's not happening there, then go the Indie route.
If you work with a new publisher, you're taking a chance. Some chances pay off and others don't. Myself, the "new" publishers I worked with were Cemetery Dance, Subterranean Press, and Night Shade. Things turned out just fine for me, but they don't always work that way. You have to watch yourself. You have to protect your book. You have to be very careful.
If publishers don't keep their promises, do your best to hold them accountable. Of course, this is not an easy thing to do. You may have to ride them like Zorro to get results. But if they stop responding to your emails and phone calls that means Zorro can't even find his horse, let alone lead it to water. This why you should always have an exit route in mind that will protect you and your reputation (even if you don't quite have one yet).
The first putuporshutup moment in a writer/publisher relationship is the contract and the check. If those obligations aren't fulfilled in a timely manner, you're probably in trouble. My advice is: don't stick around.
Insist on a Reversion Clause in your contract. This means that you're setting a time frame for the publication of your work. With small press projects, I generally work with a 12 - 18 month window. If the work isn't published in that time, the rights revert to me and I keep the advance. Don't be afraid to use this clause as a negotiating tool. Don't be afraid to enforce it if you have to. I've never had to. I've been lucky.
Covers sell books. Make sure to get a good one. You probably won't get anything in the contract about that, but you can try. Otherwise, make the cover part of the discussion before you sign your contract. Have a good idea of the publisher's intentions in this regard, and make sure they're something you can live with.
When working with an unproven publisher, it's best to do one project at a time. Wait for them to prove themselves before you line up more work. Of course, if they're waving a good check in your face and you can trust that it will soon be in your hand and putting food on your table, that's another story. Charge ahead.
If a publisher is taking money based on the value of your name, this will ultimately be a reflection on you. That may not seem fair if things go south, but its something to keep in mind, and another reason to be careful about working with someone who has yet to develop a track record.
If you're a first novelist and a publisher waves a contract in your face for a micro print-run book, my tip is to avoid it. If you want to know why, tune in next Wednesday and I'll clue you in...

Writer's Detention Hall, Episode 33 (Day 2)

2011-01-25T15:35:00.000-08:00

Book: Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 2 edited by William K. Schafer (SubPress)
Volume: 250+ signature sheets
Instrument: Pentel Sign Pen
Movie: Gladiator
Verdict: "Are you not entertained?"

The Best Horror of the Year, Volume 3

2011-01-24T15:32:00.000-08:00

Just had word from ace editor Ellen Datlow that "Lesser Demons" (the title story from my last SubPress collection) is included in this compilation. This latest volume of Ellen's Best Horror reboot series clocks in at 140,000 words (a little more robust than the previous two), and it will be coming at you later this year from Night Shade Books. Anyway, great to be shoulder-to-shoulder with so many talented writers, some of whom (I'm lucky to say) I also count as friends. Not that I'll name names -- you can check out the complete Table of Contents below, and make your own guesses on that score.

Only a couple comments now: Langan in there twice? What a literary brute that guy is. And Cody Goodfellow leading the pack? Nice going, pard... but no resting on your laurels, Cody -- slap leather, and go write another!

At the Riding School Cody Goodfellow
Mr. Pigsny Reggie Oliver
City of the Dog John Langan
Just Outside Our Windows, Deep Inside Our Walls Brian Hodge
Lesser Demons Norman Partridge
When the Zombies Win Karina Sumner-Smith
-30- Laird Barron
Fallen Boys Mark Morris
Was She Wicked? Was She Good? M. Rickert
The Fear Richard Harland
Till the Morning Comes Stephen Graham Jones
Shomer Glen Hirshberg
Oh I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside Christopher Fowler
The Obscure Bird Nicholas Royle
Transfiguration Richard Christian Matheson
The Days of Flaming Motorcycles Catherynne M. Valente
The Folding Man Joe R. Lansdale
Just Another Desert Night With Blood Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.
Black and White Sky Tanith Lee
At Night When the Demons Come Ray Cluley
The Revel John Langan

Are You Hep to the Jive?

2011-01-23T06:05:00.000-08:00

You bet you are... as long as you've got these five CDs to shuffle up a Hep-Cat Holiday both reet and poteet...

Why I Still Like Two-Gun Bob

2011-01-21T00:04:00.000-08:00

"And Solomon Kane shuddered, for he had looked on Life that was not Life as he knew it, and had dealt and witnessed Death that was not Death as he knew it. Again the realization swept over him, as it had in the dust-haunted halls of Atlantean Negari, as it had in the abhorrent Hills of the Dead, as it had in Akaana -- that human life was but one of a myriad forms of existence, that worlds existed spun on through the untold ages, Kane realized, and as it spun it spawned Life, and living things which wriggled about it as maggots are spawned in rot and corruption. Man was the dominant maggot now -- why should he in his pride suppose that he and his adjuncts were the first maggots -- or the last to rule a planet quick with unguessed life?"

Robert E. Howard
"The Footfalls Within"
The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane

Thursdays

2011-01-20T00:02:00.000-08:00

"Stimulation? Thursdays. Motivation? Thursdays. Paydays. That's it. It's important not to think too much about what you do. You see, with my way of thinking there are always Thursdays -- no matter how the picture turns out."

--Lee Marvin

American Actor

The Original Mr. Fox

2011-01-19T14:45:00.000-08:00

Just discovered that my old buddy Rockin' Randy Fox has whomped himself up a blog. If you're in the mood for some real-deal monsterkid memories, click on over to A Schmuck With an Underwood and check out Randy's essay, "The Communal Deadly Mantis, or 'Movie Good, Piano Bad!'" It's hilarious, even if you're not old enough to remember the excitement that could set a young movie lover's heart beating pitter-pat when the new issue of the TV Guide arrived in the mail. And, yep, I'll admit it -- as a kid I used to attack the TV Guide with a red felt pen to mark shows I wanted to see as soon as it showed up, and I often set my alarm clock for truly ungodly hours to catch movies in those pre-VCR days. (Not that I caught them all -- while Randy always seemed to miss Bride of Frankenstein, my tales of woe were missing first-run TV shows like Kolchak and Planet of the Apes because football games fell on Friday night [and nope, I wasn't a jock... I was in the band]).

Anyway, click on over and tune in. I'm sure Mr. Fox will keep things interesting. After all, Randy knows his stuff when it comes to movies, music, comics, and all the cool marginalia that falls in between. I mean, this is the guy who cooked up a Gene Vincent/Allison Hayes story for my B-Movie antho, It Came From the Drive-In. If you read that one, you'll remember that Mr. Fox shook, rattled, and rolled that wild pair straight into The Twilight Zone.

With Elvis as the bad guy.

And Vic Morrow along for the ride, too.

Now, that was a bucketful of rockin' good.

'Nuff said.

Crucified Dreams

2011-01-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

Comin' at ya this February, a new anthology from Joe R. Lansdale and Tachyon Books. Crucified Dreams looks like another great compilation from Hisownself, and I'm proud to be part of it.

Introduction Joe R. Lansdale
The Whimper of Whipped Dogs Harlan Ellison ®
The Monster Joe Haldeman
The Mojave Two-Step Norman Partridge
Front Man David Morrell
Interrogation B Charlie Huston
The Quickening Michael Bishop
The Evening and the Morning and the Night Octavia E. Butler
Love in Vain Lewis Shiner
Beast of the Heartland Lucius Shepard
Coffins on the River Jeffrey Ford
Game Night at the Fox and Goose Karen Joy Fowler
Copping Squid Michael Shea
Access Fantasy Jonathan Lethem
Singing on a Star Ellen Klages
Quitters, Inc. Stephen King
Nightbeat Neal Barrett, Jr.
Window Bob Leman
The Pit Joe R. Lansdale
Loss Tom Piccirilli

The Flat Zantis

2011-01-17T00:05:00.000-08:00

Lock the doors.

Hide the children.

They're here!

Your Basic New Year's BANG!

2011-01-04T18:30:00.000-08:00

Work by yours truly turned up on a couple of "best of the year" lists. First off, Stomping On Yeti chose Lesser Demons as a noteworthy short story collection, comparing my work to my buddy Laird Barron's thusly: "The yin to Barron's yang, Norman Partridge's horror is less literary and more raw. If Barron is the football player who studies the finest QBs and demonstrates text book mechanics, Partridge is the pure gamer, the kind that learned the game in the vacant lot, the kid that beats the odds time after time. His fiction is pulpy and raw, full of overambitious simile and metaphor that shouldn't work but always does. He writes about sheriffs and soldiers, the kind of hard-nosed men who do what needs to be done because, hell, someone has to do it."

To top that off, Blu Gilliand of Examiner.com fame chose Lesser Demons as his favorite book of the year, while my Cemetery Dance collection, Johnny Halloween, clocked in at number five on his Top Ten list. Even better than that is the fine company of writers I'm rubbing shoulders with on Blu's list: Stephen King, Joe Lansdale, Tim Lebbon, and my good buddy Tom Piccirilli.

But wait, there's more: Blu's also started what promises to be a great blog on all things horror called The October Country. Click on over and check it out. You'll be glad you did.

Bullets Can't Stop Them

2010-12-30T17:21:00.000-08:00

Here's a little reprint news on a couple of stories that just won't die. The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told just hit the porch here at Casa Partridge courtesy of editors Marty Greenberg and John Helfers. This one includes my novella, "Road Dogs," a bad patch of desert noir with a werewolf in there among the cactus. So load up your silver bullets and come along for the ride, pardner.

Also, "The Hollow Man" has been picked up by John Langan and Paul Tremblay for the forthcoming Creature! Thirty Years of Monster Stories from Prime Books. This one will include tales from Joe Lansdale, Kelly Link, China Mieville, and David forkin' Schow (!). In other words, I'm really looking forward to reading it, and I hope you feel the same.

Happy Holidays...

2010-12-24T06:05:00.000-08:00

...from the littlest Partridge in a pear tree. Nevie Rose hopes yours are merry and bright!

Stalkin' Around the Christmas Tree

2010-12-23T12:27:00.000-08:00

Forget that last-minute shopping. Here are some last-minute holiday movie recs, submitted for your approval:

IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE (1946): Boil it down and this classic tale of redemption and hope is a two-hour-plus Twilight Zone episode. Though I've never seen the connection made in anything I've read about Rod Serling, Frank Capra's movie certainly must have inspired Mr. S and then some. Just give it a look and I'll bet you'll agree with me.

Only one false note in the whole thing, and it starts me laughing every year. I'm talking about the scene with Donna Reed in the dark alternate world of Pottersville. Horror of horrors, instead of becoming Jimmy Stewart's wife, poor Donna became THE TOWN LIBRARIAN! Which gets me on a couple of scores. First, why would a pitstop for floozies and gin guzzlers like Pottersville even have a library? Second, I've worked in libraries for more than twenty years, and the stereotype of the mousy librarian? Uh-uh. Fold that one up like a paper airplane and kamikaze it into a blazing fireplace. In my experience that breed of librarian is as rare as hen's teeth, though everyone seems to believe in it... just like Santa Claus.

MARCH OF THE WOODEN SOLDIERS (1934): Laurel and Hardy in Toyland. Life-size wooden soldiers. Boogeymen on the loose from a cavernous purgatory. Besides that, one of the Three Little Pigs is pignapped, and there's an episode of medieval torture by Old King Cole as a result (well, I'm exaggerating just a little there). There's even a Mickey Mouse ripoff character played by a capuchin monkey who throws explosives from a zeppelin, and lots of weird little gnomes in a dream sequence that will give you nightmares. So, yes -- this is definitely the kind of movie that can warp small children. And I ask you: What more could you want at Christmas time? (NOTE: Beware the musical numbers which, under the proper circumstances, could quite possibly force you to drive icepicks into your ears.)

HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS (1966): No. Not the Jim Carrey flick. I mean THE ORIGINAL ANIMATED VERSION! One of Dr. Seuss' finest (half) hours. First shown in 1966 on a December night when Boris Karloff forevermore became "Uncle Boris" to an entire generation. BONUS: Thurl Ravenscroft singing "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch." That's the real deal. I mean, where else are you going to find lyrics about a guy whose brain is full of spiders and has garlic in his soul sung by a gent whose vocal range bottoms out a couple thousand miles south of hell's own basement? Plus, the ending of this one always makes me hungry for roast beast. Barbecued... and rare.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL (1951): Charles Dickens' brilliant ghost story done as a classic Universal horror movie... or as close as anyone has ever come, with maybe just a little bit of Val Lewton thrown in for good measure by director Brian Desmond Hurst. Watch the opening scenes and you'll catch the tone right away, especially when ol' Ebeneezer makes the long trudge from his counting-house to his lonely quarters. In most movie versions Scrooge makes the journey through bustling Victorian streets, but in this one he makes the trip alone, with nothing but shadows and whispering snow for company... and that sets the perfect mood of the piece. Plus, Alastair Sim is great -- definitely my favorite Scrooge (with Patrick Stewart a close second). One last thing: don't miss Ernest Thesiger -- Dr. Pretorius from The Bride of Frankenstein -- as The Undertaker.

1941 (1979): Some people think this one is Steven Spielberg's greatest train wreck. I think it's hilarious. The Japanese attack California during World War II, but we've got John Belushi as Wild Bill Kelso to protect us. And Slim Pickens, a Christmas tree lumberjack who's held captive on Toshiro Mifune's submarine. And Warren Oates. And Ned Beatty, armed with government issue ordnance. And Eddie Deezen, armed with the most annoying ventriloquist dummy ever seen on film. And most of the cast of Second City TV. There's even a Jaws riff at the beginning of the movie, a young Mickey Rourke if you don't blink at the wrong moment, and Christopher Lee as a Nazi. I had the Belushi poster on my wall in college. I've still got it around here somewhere.

LETHAL WEAPON (1987): When it comes to Christmas action movies most people choose Die Hard, but let me switch up and pick this Richard Donner/Mel Gibson flick. Of course, Donner's best Christmas movie is probably Scrooged with Bill Murray, and Gibson has hit the skids of late, but don't let that stop you from slotting this one in the DVD player. Shane Black's script doesn't just tip its hat at Christmas. Black has something to say about the holidays, and family. Detective Murtaugh (Danny Glover) has one; he's getting ready for an All-American Christmas. Detective Riggs (Gibson) doesn't; his wife is dead, and he's tempted to suck on his .45. The two are thrown together, guns start blazing, and in the midst of all the sound and fury they get a glimpse of each other's lives. Of course, this means we're plunging headlong into buddy movie territory, but it's the chemistry between Glover and Gibson that makes it all work, two very different guys who understand what's important at the right time of the year. Toss in Gary Busey as Mr. Joshua -- one of my all-time favorite heavies -- and Lethal Weapon just flatout cooks.

Not Dead... Only Dormant

2010-12-22T14:08:00.000-08:00

Yep. The Monster has been resting... and writing. But the good doctor has sent a jolt of juice sizzling between the stitches and rivets, and it's way past time to kick this blog back in gear.

Of course, Christmas week may not be the time to do that, but what the hey. Shoot the crimson to me, Jimson, and let's get some dark holly hung on that tree before the big day arrives.

So tune in tomorrow. We'll do some stalkin' around the Christmas tree, and shoot some holiday movie recommendations your way.

"Tales of Hard Knocks Redemption"

2010-11-19T00:05:00.000-08:00

There's a great new review of my short story collection Lesser Demons over at the Cemetery Dance website. In part, Jason Ridler has this to say: "...Partridge is free range writer of fiction, a mercenary of genre stories that range from the gentle and atmospheric to the true grit of the fiction he's best known for, hard-boiled horror. With an equal love of horror and rugged literature, the influences etched on his sleeve range from Ray Bradbury to Lee Marvin, Poe to Peckinpah, and his body of work, from novels, to short stories, should sit comfortably on the shelf of any fan of Joe Lansdale, Richard Matheson, or John Skipp."

Of course, that's the kind of review that's a definite day-maker, but apart from that it's got me wondering what would have happened if Mssrs. Poe and Peckinpah had managed to get together and uncork a bottle or two...

Uh-Oh...

2010-11-17T14:32:00.000-08:00

Got this illo today from my buddy Kevin Nordstrom. It's inspired by "The Iron Dead" from my last SubPress short story collection, Lesser Demons, and I hope it gives you a grin (of the sardonic variety).

I Got a Rocket in My Pocket...

2010-11-13T06:17:00.000-08:00

...and a roll in my walk, so baby don't fuss me with that North Forty talk (unless it's about a really cool rockabilly CD shuffle play with a couple of boxed sets guaranteed to get your Saturday morning rockin').