The Odd Ramblings of AJ Brown

Type AJ Negative

2010-12-18T05:03:00.000-08:00

**Tap, tap, tap**

Is this thing on? It’s kind of dusty in here. I had to chase the mice away. They had eaten all the leftovers from the last time me and my staff was here.

I know the last time I posted here was way back in June, with a little piece titled The Vickie Special. For my few followers, I apologize for not coming around since then. However, I do have an explanation:

In July I created another blog of sorts, one that I thought would better serve my needs and act as both a website and a blog. I call it Type AJ Negative. I have been quite busy over there. Even with Herbie and Crashman Jack running the place it’s still a lot of work. A new interview series began in July as well titled Blood Donors. You can find them at Type AJ Negative.

Yeah, I know—I could have posted this information way back in July when I did this, but really, I had no intentions of abandoning The Odd Ramblings. Actually, I intended to cross blog between the two and My Myspace page (But, really, who looks at MySpace these days?)

At any rate, as time allows, I’m going to use both The Odd Ramblings and Type AJ Negative to cross blog, both for myself and friends. Certain things, like Blood Donors will remain exclusively at Type AJ Negative, but other things will appear here, as they had in the past.

Thank you for your understanding and I apologize for not informing all 14 of you sooner.

Feel free to head on over to Type AJ Negative and see what’s going on:

Type AJ Negative

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out…

The Vickie Special

2010-06-25T05:56:00.000-07:00

There is an office building down on Lady Street in downtown Columbia. It's getting to be an old structure with its brick walls and windows that you can actually open. There are two elevators that hold maybe 6 people at most. In order to get to those elevators you have to go through two glass double doors and stand in a fairly dated foyer and wait for one or the other car to show up for your trip to one of the nine floors above you.

Do you have that image in your head? Okay, good. Now, turn around and look out those double doors and beyond the sidewalk and the small trees that should have grown a little taller in the last twenty years, but haven't. Look beyond the green and red parking meters that still make a whirring sound when you put a dime or nickel in them, that still have little plastic arms that pop up with an arrow on it pointing at lines that represent the minutes a parked vehicle has in that spot before the meter needs to be fed again (and before the dreaded 'meter maids' come by with their little tickets in a box and orange envelopes that tell everyone someone owes the city a couple of bucks). Keep looking across the two lane road and beyond other cars and meters to the cracked sidewalk and a building—much smaller than the one you are standing in. You'll see a gray door almost directly ahead of you. Two your left is the corner of the building, thus the street corner as well with it's myriad of lights and don't walk/walk signs that tick off the seconds you have before the possibility of getting run over grows significantly.

Now, look to the right of that gray door to the small eatery with its black tinted windows and solitary glass entrance. It is within that establishment that I would like to take you. For lack of a better term, it is a mom and pop eatery—not a restaurant, but a cafe dedicated to serving the business people of downtown.

If you step inside, you will see a clean space of not much more than a hundred square feet with a table to the left and one directly in front of the door. Beyond that table by the door is a glass refrigerator like you see in the grocery stores. There are various salads and fruits and the best banana pudding in the world sitting within that little refrigerator. To the far left and in the shape of an L is a counter that stretches maybe ten feet and L's out at about four feet. Behind it are the women—well, most of the time they are women—who work there, preparing orders with smiles and friendly conversation.

It is here, in this little establishment, that I met Vickie and her sister, Evelyn—the owners. Always smiling. Always a good word for people. I was maybe twenty or twenty-one the first time I stepped through the door to get a cup of coffee for my boss at the time. She—my boss, that is—referred to her coffee as if it were a woman. And, honestly, at the time I preferred the same type of women that her coffee was named after.

"How can I help you?" Vickie asked. She was short with light brown hair; a chubby woman with a grandmotherly smile. She was easy to warm up to.

I looked at her, maybe a little leery of what I was supposed to say. "I was told to order a cup of coffee, but to tell you that I want a tall, sweet blond."

Vickie smiled. "This must be for Sheri."

"Yes, Ma'am," I said.

And that was that. My first meeting with Vickie was for a cup of coffee for my boss. Over the next few months I ate there almost everyday. Not really knowing downtown that well, I didn't venture out that much. Besides, the prices were pretty inexpensive.

It was during one of my visits for lunch that I noticed Vickie sitting at one of the two tables. The newspaper was spread out in front of her and, I think, she had been reading the comics section. But, the antics of Garfield and Snoopy and Hagar the Horrible aren't important, just an added detail to the story at hand. In front of her sat an odd looking sandwich, one like I had never seen before. I puzzled over it for a minute, looking at it, but not wanting to get down and inspect the ingredients. After all, how inappropriate would that have been?

"What is that?" I finally asked.

"A Vickie Special," she said, took a bite and chewed. A moment later, she swallowed. "It's my own creation."

"It looks really good."

"Would you like one?" she asked me.

I must have smiled wide. She got up, walked behind the counter and began to prepare me a Vickie Special. She sliced a hoagie down the middle, spread mustard on one half, mayonnaise on the other. She sliced two hotdogs down the center and placed all four pieces on one slice of hoagie. Then came shredded cheese and crumbled bacon, topping it with chilli before putting the other slice of hoagie on top. Honestly, it was nothing more than a hotdog with chili and cheese and sprinkled bacon bits on it. But, in reality, it was so much more. It was a special creation that wasn't on the menu that the creator shared with me, a kid she barely knew.

It also became my favorite sandwich. I only ordered it when no one else was around, mostly because I was being selfish. I wanted the Vickie Special for myself. Over the next couple of years I had it at least three or four times a month. I felt honored that Vickie had allowed me to partake in her own creation, something, as the name of the sandwich implies, was special.

And this is where my story takes a decided turn. Vickie became ill and her trips to the eatery became less and less frequent until she was finally hospitalized. She passed away, Cancer taking her life, her friendliness and her smile away from the world forever. Along with her death went the death of the Vickie Special.

Many folks mourned her passing. As I said, she was a nice woman, a friendly woman, someone anyone could talk to and feel at ease with. Though I still went to the little eatery, I never ordered another Vickie Special. It just didn't feel right.

Eventually, I moved from the office across the street to a building two blocks away. My trips to the little eatery dwindled. I guess that's partly why I am writing this. You see, like most things in life, out of sight, out of mind and I forgot about the Vickie Special.

Until recently.

I was hungry for a hotdog one day and thought to myself, "Self, I think I would like to eat at this place today."

Self said back to me, in his usual dry tone. "You are telling me this, why?"

I shrugged a goofy shrug. It's not like Self really has a say so in this. If I want to go somewhere I do, Self be damned. So I went. Halfway there I remembered… I remembered and my heart kind of sank. Yet, my stomach growled.

Let me stop for a second and explain something to the younger folk out there. I can't expect you to understand how little things trigger memories, but the older you get, the more those little things become apparent and the more the things of your youth come back to you; the more they knock on the doors of your mind and say, "Hey, remember me?"

The little thing that triggered the memory is simple: a woman carrying a tall cup of coffee. There was no lid on the cup and I could see the coffee inside had been creamed down, making it a tall blond (whether it was sweet or not, I'll never know). I stopped on the corner and stared after the woman. Get your minds out of the gutter, she looked nothing like you are thinking and there was no lust involved. Sheesh…

My stomach growled and I immediately thought of Vickie and her special sandwich. My mouth watered. Not that, oh-I can-smell-that-burger type of watering, but that Oh-my-goodness-I-gotta-have-that type of watering.

I made my way passed the gray door and to the black tinted glass one that separated the outside world from the eatery. A woman opened it, stepped out and I grabbed the door before it could close. Inside the temperature was considerably cooler and there were several people in the cramped space that was the patron's side of the counter. The four workers—yes, all ladies—were busy taking orders, making sandwiches and taking money for the meals they served.

Evelyn wasn't there.

The older blond, her cheeks rosy, a smile on her face, spoke. "Hey, it's been a while."

"Yeah. Too long," I responded, taking in the menu on the wall behind her.

"What will you have today?"

"A Vic—" I stopped. We stared at each other for a moment, my mind on shutdown mode until it decided to kick back into gear. "Two chilli-cheese dogs, please. With mustard, if you don't mind."

"Onions?"

"No, thanks," I responded and tried my hand at some witticism, which I am usually quite good at. "I have to drive." Yeah, cheesy, but it was all I could think of at the moment. For those of you who don't get it, well, it just may be an inside joke shared with only a handful of folks.

I paid for my hot dogs and went back to my office, somewhat bummed out. For several minutes, I sat, staring at the deliciousness before me (they had loaded the dog down with chilli and lots of cheese) and thought maybe I should have went ahead and asked for the Vickie Special. Maybe I could have explained it to them and they would have made it. Maybe…

Or maybe I should just let it go.

The next day, I passed by the little café, continued along my way without going inside. My memories tugged at my shirt sleeves, saying to go inside, see if Evelyn was there and talk to her about it. But, the other part of me said to keep going, to just let the Vickie Special fade, to let it die… I stopped, looked back at the entrance, even took a step forward as if I were going to go inside and chat with Evelyn.

"Hey, can you make me a Vickie Special?" I would ask.

And she would cheerfully say, "Sure, I will. Anything for a customer."

Or, maybe, her smile would falter, her eyebrows would raise and she would look at me in shocked disbelief or sadness… or both. And maybe it would bring up old memories of her sister, dead these many years. And how selfish would that be of me?

~sigh~

I turned around, made my way down the block. I haven't been back since.

Some things are better left in the past with only memories to remind you that they were even there to begin with.

Maybe one day I'll go back and have a couple of hot dogs, heavy on the chilli and cheese, please. I may even pick up a coffee, describe it as a tall sweet blond. But, I think the Vickie Special should be just that: special because of who made it and that she shared it with me. And, I think it should remain in the past, buried with its creator…

Zombie Luv Contest: At the End

2010-06-23T07:59:00.000-07:00

We met by the merry-go-round when we were both five, she a month older than I. Her brown hair was in pigtails, white socks rolled down, pink dress that went below her knees. She had rosy cheeks. Tamela had lost her grip when Bill Breathington pushed the merry-go-round just a little too fast. She spun off, her feet connecting with the ground first, breaking both ankles. I remember her scream, even now, so many years later and with many… of life's events long gone. I held her hands as Mrs. Marjorie ran inside and called emergency... and I never let go.

Not even now, as we both rot away, the heat of the summer sun cooking our decaying flesh.

Tamela walked with a limp long before she became a zombie. Even after setting her ankles, the limp was there, her feet pointing inward like a pigeon's. I guess that is one of those things that endeared her to me, that crooked hobble that was more graceful than most could ever know.

Sadly, we died before we could marry, the sickness claiming our bodies, but not our lives, our souls. You see, we zombies still feel, both physically and emotionally. I can still think, can still hurt; I still have memories, like the first time I kissed Tamela under the wisteria in her mom's yard. Those moans, that isn't hunger surfacing, it's our begging for someone to understand that we're trapped in our bodies, no escape, except for maybe a bullet to the head or possibly an axe or bat or…

Through death and resurrection, we remained together, my Tamela and I, two lovers having not been apart for more than a day or two at a time since we… since we met that day when she broke her ankles.

Hunger burns worse than anything. Well, almost and Tamela was hungry. It's not that she meant to attack that kid, but he was there and we could smell the blood flowing through his veins, could sense the fear exuding from his pores. I tried to stop her, but she was quick—faster than the living may have thought us zombies could be—and she latched onto that boy and sunk her yellowing teeth into his cheek before he could react, let alone scream. She tore into him and before he stopped squirming, he had attracted all the wrong type of attention.

I shambled out of the shadows, hands outstretched, not for food, which my stomach grumbled for, but for Tamela, to pull her away before…

The others left the sanctity of shadows—the one thing the living feared more than us were the shadows we could lurk in—and swarmed in on the kid.

Gun shots rang out through the air and I saw Tamela drop. She just crumpled forward, her body landing on the kid's as the other zombies lurched forward. There were so many of us—no way they would be able to save the kid, but they took out as many of us as they could before the resistance gave way to panicked running.

You ever hear a zombie scream? Well, I did… as loud as I could. My stiff joints made it difficult to pull the other undead off of her, their bodies heavy and void of life, just as I knew Tamela's was. At the bottom of the pile lay Tamela and her last meal, still ripe with plenty of flesh for the hungry. My mouth watered and my stomach bellowed, knotted, but Tamela…

The bullet went in just above her right eye, exited behind her ear. It was a neat little hole that left her skull intact while doing enough damage to kill her once and for all. Her once brown eyes stared into nothing. I tried to close them, but the lids just popped open.

It was a struggle, but I bent, and eventually lifted her in my arms, her body less still than before, as if the bullet had rendered the tissues soft again, at least for a while. Then I disappeared back into the shadows, Tamela dead, me heart broken. I cried… I still do, even now…

Just ahead sits a brick school building, the children long gone. Around the back is a playground complete with a slide and swings and monkey bars and… a merry-go-round. The sun is hot and I'm not sure I can make it much further, but I have to.

The merry-go-round comes into view and my heart—yes, it still works, even if it doesn't pump blood—quickens. Thank goodness the gate is still open. Not like anyone would have thought to close it when the world went to hell. I shuffle through and stop near the rusted out merry-go-round, its reds and blues and greens replaced with weather worn metal and rust. Gently, I lay Tamela on its hot surface, her brown hair, though brittle and dirty, forming a halo around her head. Her feet still point inward.

I sit down and heat rises through my tattered pants. Lying back, I place my head next to hers. My feet dangle off the merry-go-round, one of them touching the ground. I try hard to push off with the one foot until finally, the merry-go-round is moving slightly. The sky above us is blue with white cotton ball clouds blowing by with the wind. I fancy one of them to be a heart.

I smell the blood—someone living is near by. I hear the click and long to close my eyes. A shadow falls over me. I reach for Tamela's hand for comfort and await the gunshot that will end this whole mess…

***

Guidelines:

Word count: maximum 1.000

The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like. ;)

Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.

Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this:
Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title

Leave your story title and a link to the story entry post as a comment at mari's randomities: http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com

Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.

Real Life

2010-03-02T17:46:00.000-08:00

I want to talk about real life for a minute, not this game we call writing, this world of make believe that many of us writers live in. I want to talk about real life. Can you bear with me for a few minutes and let me ramble about something that's on my mind?

In his collection, Just After Sunset, Stephen King writes in the story, Rest Stop, these words (and I hope this is not copyright infringement since I am not selling this to a publication or making any money off of it):

"Had he thought there was no place for the Dog out in the big empty of the American heartland? That was narrow thinking wasn't it? Because, under the right circumstances, anyone could end up anywhere, doing anything."

This brings me to reality. I read that Friday evening, after leaving the courthouse where a married couple in their sixties was in a hearing to adopt one of their children's children. Let me see if I can paint a picture for you.

The courtroom was small, with the viewing gallery just as you enter the wooden double doors. The gallery itself was made up of long benches, much like church pews but not as comfortable. The plaintiff's and defendant's tables sat up front, near the judge's chair, or throne, as I like to call it. To the left was a table where the Guardian Ad Litem sat, a nice young woman, blond hair cut short, dressed in one of those nice dress suits that women wear to such gatherings. The court reporter was an elderly woman, who moved a little faster than a turtle but not so much. To her, this was probably a mundane, everyday process, a ho-hum experience, if you will.

At the plaintiff's table sat the grandparents of the children in question, he with the silver hair and worried eyes, she with the dyed brown hair with hints of gray peeking through. She wore nice slacks and a top, maybe a church outfit at one time, which she may not wear again because of the association with the event at hand. An attorney—an older gentleman, who I later found out is blind—sat to their immediate right. Behind those three were three other folks, a woman, who was the attorney's wife and eternal right hand woman, and two other folks, younger, maybe even a couple. I have no idea the relationship between attorney and the couple but I'm gathering they were part of the same practice.

The defendants' seats were empty. The parents weren't there. There was no attorney. There was nobody at all in those seats. If there were ever a chance for tumbleweeds to roll by, this was it.

In the viewing gallery behind the six folks at the plaintiff's table, sat a slew of folks, maybe twelve, maybe fifteen. Maybe less. I was smack dab in the middle of these folks, mostly older church goers, a family of God there to support and bear witness for the grandparents if need be.

The judge, a gray haired gentleman with glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose, sat in his chair (remember, I like to call it his throne). He shuffled some papers and then began with the proceedings, going through the same old same old for him, but every word he said was critical to the plaintiffs, to their case for adoption of their three grandchildren. His voice was easily a southern drawl laced in monotone dryness. He seemed like he was in no hurry, and for all involved, I'm not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I guess it just depends on how you are looking at it. Me, I like to look at things with my eyes open. To the plaintiffs every word probably echoed in their ears, every ticking second probably like minutes.

At one point the judge stated, maybe not so clearly at first, that the parents had signed away their parental rights to the children.

Stop there for a second.

As a person with two kids of my own, this struck me. Hard. My stomach sank. But me, with my writer's mind, could picture the couple, the mom and dad of three children, sitting there, a shark of an attorney by their side, maybe a slick talker with a way with words and an ace up his sleeve. Ah, but again, that was just my writer's imagination working.

At any rate, the parents had signed away their rights. Why? Does it matter, really? Maybe they didn't want the kids any longer. Maybe they owed a ton of money in child support and would have been in a world of trouble if they didn't. Maybe, one or both of the parents realized that the best thing for these three kids, all ten years of age and younger, would be to let someone have them that could take care of them, provide for them, love them. Maybe the father cared about his kids just enough to say, 'this is what is best for them,' and maybe he convinced the mother of the same thing and maybe . . . yeah, I'm hoping here that last part is true. Even if it isn't, it is my hope that it is.

With my stomach suddenly hanging around my thighs (if this were a story, my stomach would have been hanging around something else in the general vicinity), the judge continued on, asking if the plaintiffs were there. They each acknowledged and he acknowledged their attendance, for the record, I guess.

Then he asked if the mother of the three children were there. He looked up, said 'No,' and proceeded to ask the same of the father. Again, he looked up, said, 'No." This time, my heart jumped into my throat, joining my stomach in trying to occupy a place it didn't belong. I bit my bottom lip and stared, not at the judge or the plaintiffs, but at the empty seats where Mom and Dad Defendant should have been, the parents of these three children. I admit now, this saddened me.

Maybe it was just me, but the judge seemed, I don't know, disgusted, maybe. Maybe that's not even the right word. Maybe, he felt disappointed. I know I did, but only briefly. Maybe, and this could be more true than I think it is, maybe the judge was a little disheartened by the lack of the parents being there to defend their actions, to fight for their children. But, then again, they had signed their parental rights away. So, why would they be there? Possibly, to be held accountable for their actions.

Onward.

I listened as the grandmother was called to answer questions on her behalf. The grandfather was next. The Guardian Ad Litem followed, her words rehearsed, as if she had done this a thousand times. I venture to think she has.

I'm paraphrasing here, but I think you'll get the gist of her statements:

"Your honor, I visited the home (I can't recall the date at the moment, but that doesn't matter for this) of Mr. and Mrs. Goodparent and what I found was a spacious home where each child had their own beds, plenty of child appropriate toys and child appropriate clothing. The house was clean and, most importantly, your Honor, I saw three happy children. In my opinion, it is in the best interest for these three children to be awarded custody to Mr. and Mrs. Goodparent."

With that, she sat down, folded her hands one on top of the other.

The judge looked over several more pieces of paper. He spoke some words I didn't catch, but the ones I did were simple and to the point. "I find it is in the best interest for this adoption to be granted." He addressed the grandparents, his eyes noticeably softer than they had been for all of the ten minutes it took to hear the case and he said, "Now, go home and do what you've been doing and take care of those grandbabies."

Court was adjourned, but everyone sat still, quiet, possibly not even sure of what had just happened. Was it finally over for them? Were the children, after several years of living with the grandparents, finally a permanent fixture of their home? Yes and yes.

Outside the courtroom, hugs were given, a tear or two shed, out of relief and sadness all the same.

The grandparents went on their way, going to do what the judge told them to do and go take care of them grandbabies. In their early sixties, the time of their life where it should be he and she and the open road to travel, dreams that were put off for years while they raised their own children realized, yet once again, they were parents to young children.

It was a bittersweet verdict.

I sat at my desk that night, a long day having passed, my children in bed, my feet propped up by the keyboard, the thoughts of the day rumbling, bumbling, stumbling through my head. I had just finished up King's story, Rest Stop, and that passage ran through my head over and over and over again.

"…under the right circumstances, anyone could end up anywhere, doing anything."

My mind also kept coming back to the absentee parents at the courthouse. A quick note here and why this is so personal. I grew up with the father of the three children. He was a bright kid, intelligence beyond intelligence. Girls loved him. He rarely cracked a textbook, simply because he absorbed everything. He was the king of BS also. Someone whose charm could make you believe the most outlandish lie, even if you absolutely knew he wasn't telling you the truth. He should have amounted to just a little more than what he did. I guess, knowing someone for so long, you never see this type of thing coming. And, if you do, you pretend it's not real or you pretend that things will get better, though, deep down inside, you know they never will.

What can you do? Well, you can pray if you have faith in God. If you don't, then you harbor those angered feelings until it becomes resentment and then hate and loathing. Not exactly good for you, if you know what I mean. Or, you just let it go, chalk it up to life getting the best of someone and move on. That's just a little tougher to do.

If this were a story, a work of fiction, we would be nearing what some would consider to be a happy ending. I've left out a lot of this—it's not necessary to dwell on the entirety of this story. Only the plight of the children matters and the resolution to the plot was the adoption by the grandparents. Thus, the story book ending would be the celebration in the courthouse, or maybe the kids running up to the grandparents, jumping in their arms, smiles on their youthful faces. Someone go ahead and stamp The End on the back page for me and close the book.

However, this is no book, but real life. And, in real life, there isn't always a happy ending to the story. No, in real life, there are still struggles and pain and the all too real prospect of time slipping by; slipping through the fingers. The reality of this is simple: In ten, maybe fifteen years when the parents of these three kids are alone, probably no longer together due to their differences, they will want their children to come and see them. Come see your Ma, why don't yah? Come and pay a visit to your old man, please. Do you know what I believe will happen? Do you even want to know? Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. After all, I'm the one telling this story, aren't I?

Harry Chapin once sang about Cats and Cradles and Silver Spoons in a song some years ago about a man too busy to spend time with his son. It's about how the child came into the world and lived his life while the father was away. Each part of the song, one many of you no doubt have heard, is about how the boy grows up while the father is busy tending to his own affairs. In the end, the boy is a man with his own family and he has no time to visit the father… the father who was never around when the boy was a child.

When you comin' home dad?
I don't know when, but we'll get together then son
You know we'll have a good time then
--Harry Chapin
Cats and the Cradle.

Yeah, that's what's going to happen. When you think about real life, that is exactly what's going to happen. This has stayed with me since that day, sitting in the courtroom, a witness for the plaintiffs if needed. My heart sinks, even to this minute, knowing that on down the line—because in real life, there is always an on down the line—the parents are going to be alone, sad and wishing their children wanted to spend time with them, something they weren't willing to do for their children.

They say reality is often stranger than fiction. Reality is often times quite a bit sadder than fiction also. And, here we have come to the end of my story, which is not really a story at all, but real life, a reality check, if you will. But, I don't want to end this on a downer. I truly don't, so I'll end it with another tidbit from another song.

The Beatles sang some years ago about the sun coming, little darling. I tend to think, to hope that part of those lyrics can hold true to even this story of great sadness.

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
It's all right

For now, this is me and I'm out…

Focus . . . errr. . . Refocus

2010-02-13T12:21:00.000-08:00

Focus: a central point, as of attraction, attention, or activity.

I have a hard time focusing sometimes. Okay, okay. A lot of times. It’s always been a problem for me. Focusing, keeping my attention on things. I’ve become better at it over the years, being able to maintain my thoughts on tasks much easier than in the past. The problem, though, is that I often forget about other things that I should be doing because my mind is set on the goal at hand. And, that is just one of the problems.

In the perfect world I could sit at my computer for four hours straight and just write. Since I can pound out a good 2000 to 2500 words in an hour, that would give me between 8 and 10 thousand words in a four-hour period. An hour for lunch and goofing off would be followed by another four hours of disciplined writing, giving me anywhere from 16 to 20 thousands words of writing in a day.

In reality, my mind wanders, more often than not, something like every five or six minutes, I find myself stopping, checking the internet, getting a glass of water or something, anything to get me away from the story for about 2 minutes. If you figure there are 60 minutes in an hour and I stop every five minutes for a two-minute break, that’s about 16 minutes of wasted time, per hour.

But, it gets worse. After an hour of writing, I often find that I am getting up for a good ten or fifteen minutes. Let’s just call it twelve minutes and add it to hour previous total of 16. That puts me at 28 minutes per hour of wasted writing time, which significantly cuts down on productivity.

There’s more, though. Remember earlier when I said my mind tends to wander? When I say that, I am talking about wandering toward other story ideas and characters and settings, not necessarily if I fed the dog that morning or if I made sure the kids were dressed before they went to school. Often times, this mind wandering will lead me to stop the current story and start another one. And, herein lies my biggest problem as a writer.

I think Catherine put it best while we were talking earlier. She said something to the effect of: “I couldn’t write a story with all these other ones running around in my head.”

“Exactly!” I yelled (yes, yelled, but not in an angry tone). “That is exactly my problem. I have all these ideas running through my head and they get jumbled up in there and then I get bored with a longer project, and stop on it so I can write a shorter story.” I even waved my hands over my head in terrific dramatic form.

There you have it, my issue with writing is I cannot focus on any single story at hand before a thousand other, cooler ideas pop up in my head. What do I do when I have a cool idea in your head? That’s right. I stop and write on one of them for a while. It’s a bad, bad habit.

It’s such a bad habit that I pulled out a memory stick that has a bunch of stories on it and slapped it in the computer. Then I opened up a folder labeled, “Unfinished Stories.” I counted the file names and would you like to know what I came up with? A rather large number: 165 unfinished pieces, some of them upwards to 26, 000 words in. One of them, a novel I started, was sitting at just over 50,000 words.

My wife’s eyes grew wide, but that’s not the worse part. That was just on the memory stick. That’s not included stories I have on two different computers that I have started that are NOT on the memory stick. Add those stories together and the 165 number probably quadruples. Chew on that for a minute. 165 times 4 equals how many? In excess of 650 unfinished pieces, which is not as many finished stories as I have, but still, that’s a huge number.

This brings me to a HUGE problem. You know it’s big if I use all capital letters. I have an issue with discipline. If I were disciplined better, then I could focus better. I had this issue in school as well. Funny, it didn’t seem to hinder my ability to learn how to draw or play sports, but when it came time to do my studies, I had the hardest time focusing. It would take me two hours to do a twenty-minute homework assignment. Granted, I would stay with the books in front of me until I was finished, but I often wandered away, my mind and I traipsing through the fields of wars or championship games where, you guessed it, I was the hero.

Can you tell that school was hard for me?

I sit here in front of my computer, typing this, with more words of wisdom spouted from my wife’s mouth dancing through the pea that is my brain. When I said I have a hard time focusing, that I lose interest with stories too easily and start on something else, she just kind of frowned her wife’s frown and shook her head. She held out a story of mine that she had been reading—one that needs significant editing—and said, “If you want to get anywhere at this, then you’re going to have to focus on ONE thing at a time.”

One thing at a time. This is not easy to do with a person whose mind tends to speed up when thoughts enter in and then slow down to a near stop when the thoughts are added to others, making so many things near impossible to decipher.

Sadly, Catherine is right, like she so often is. If I want to get anywhere at writing, whether it’s in the short story market or the world of novels, I’m going to have to put blinders on and seriously focus on the story at hand; to not let my mind wander and take over, leading my hands to open a new document and add a number to the ever growing Unfinished Stories folder.

This is going to hurt. I can just feel the ideas rapping on the inside of my skull, calling to me, begging me to write them next, their little lettered hands raised in the air, their bottoms coming from their seats. “Ooo Ooo. Pick me! Pick Me!”

::Sigh::

As tough as it may be, it is what it is and I have to teach myself to focus, to be disciplined. As I embark on this treacherous road of ignorance and loneliness, I beg the fledgling stories that spin and twirl on the dance floor of my mind, to forgive me, but I must do what I must do, if any of THEM wish to be heard and not just live on my hard drive….

The Vampire Flick

2010-01-23T15:41:00.000-08:00

“The Vampire Flick” is an online story, which will hopefully be written by many authors.

The idea is that you write your contribution based on reading only the preceding part, and at the end we will have an interesting (and strange!) story.

If you are interested in taking up the challenge and want to write the next part, then read Part 6 ONLY below and post the next part on your blog/website with a link to my part (#6). Also, post a comment at the the source (or @necol66 on Twitter, since he seems to know what's going on) if you are taking up the challenge to contribute to this story.

Here is Part 6 (it’s short, but a good set up, I think):

“No, thank you,” Scarlett said. She stood, her legs shaking. A rush of nausea swept through her and the world spun.

“Are you okay?” Sasha asked, steadied Scarlett with a hand gripping her sister’s elbow.

Scarlett nodded, jerked her arm free. “I’m fine. Why don’t you go ahead and get the humiliation over with, okay?”

A laugh tore from Sasha and she threw back her head. She calmed, level her stare at her sister, a smile tracing across her thin lips. “You’re not getting off that easy. I’ve got you right where I want you.”

Scarlett watched as her sister walked off, a hum trailing behind, a song from their younger days, when the animosity wasn’t so strong, the anger wasn’t so damning. Clenching her teeth, Scarlett went the other way, hands balled into fists.

“I need to kill,” she said and sniffed the air. Food stirred in the not so far away distance.

Living With Primary Colors

2010-01-05T11:28:00.000-08:00

Brrrrrrr…

It's cold outside. You know it's so if I say it's so. Cold air doesn't normally bother me. I prefer cooler temperatures over heat any day. Record lows stretch across America and it's no different here in the south, where frigid temperatures have walloped us. And they are calling for possible snow and ice in a few days. I have mixed feelings about this. Snow would be nice—my kids would love it. Ice is a different story. Ice is bad. Bad, I say. I don't want ice.

That is a few days away, so for now I want to talk diets. Uggh… diets. Who came up with this word? It's appropriate: Diet, because you are dying to eat.

Catherine and I started a diet on New Year's Day. Yeah, I know, what was I thinking, right? That maybe it was time I got back into shape and . . . gasps . . . started eating a little healthier. I love cow and chicken and pig—they are just so delicious in all their variables, especially the nugget, finger and burger style. They're just not that healthy for you and I'm 39 so maybe my health should be looked at a little differently now.

Catherine spent the morning figuring out the 'points' I'm allowed to use for food. Wow, points… Seriously? Yeah, seriously. There are a certain number of points I am allowed and I'm not supposed to go over it. Interestingly enough, Diet Coke has zero points and I've seen a lot of women drinking it like it's going out of style. Can that really help your diet?

Imagine Linus Van Pelt saying the word "Doomed" over and over and you have my expression and feelings just before starting this diet. We started the diet and after four days I have done pretty well. Laying in bed last night I started thinking and then I started speaking.

"Hey, Honey, if I don't use up all the points I have for each week, can I roll them over into the next week?"

This is the way the man's mind works. If I had leftover points I could roll them over into the next week and eat more of the stuff I like.

"No," she said sharply. "These are not like rollover minutes—you can't carry them over. Once the day is gone, the points are gone."

"Well, why not?"

"You just can't. It defeats the purpose."

No rollover points. Okay, does that mean I can't splurge on Superbowl Sunday and have a pizza?

[Deep sigh.] It was worth the effort, eh?

Interestingly enough, I haven't really been all that hungry since starting the diet. I've stuck with it, for the most part, and I haven't starved like I thought I would. We'll see how it works out. I'll keep you posted.

On to the main focus of this article. Recently I've been toying with the basics of writing. No, not nouns and verbs and the differences of to, too, and two. The actual basics of writing.

NOTE: Before reading any further, please understand that these thoughts are purely my opinion. Not fact. I have not researched this in any way shape or form. This is just the way I see writing in its most basic form.

Writing, in its simplest form, is like the primary colors and the two neutral colors. Let me see if I can explain this the way I see it in my head. Hold on a second…

"Hey, Charlie, are you up there?"

[Checks watch]

"Charlie?"

"Ummm . . . yeah, whatta yah need?"

"Do you still have that film on primary colors?"

"Uh . . . yeah, right here."

"Can you roll it?"

"Sure."

"Thanks."

Charlie. He's such a good guy, but he often falls asleep on the job.

As you can see, all colors are based on one or more of the three primary colors of Red, Yellow and Blue. Primary colors are your most basic colors and without them you can't make other colors.

I look at writing in its most basic form kind of like the Primary Colors. Without the basics you can't write. The basics, in this case, would be words and putting them into sentences. The See Spot books are a great example of basic writing and a good place to start when learning.

See Spot run.

Basic. Red, blue and yellow.

Keep this in mind.

From the Primary Colors you can form the Secondary Colors of Orange, Purple and Green. I probably don't need to break it down but I will:

Red + Yellow = Orange
Blue + Red = Purple
Yellow + Blue = Green

By mixing primaries you take them out of their most basic form and create a different color. It's basically like expanding on the two colors, or in writing, expanding on a basic sentence.

Spot ran across the yard.

Not only do we see spot run, we now know where he is running. It is no longer a basic sentence, but one that begins to paint a picture. Pun intended.

From the secondary colors you can create Tertiary Colors. These colors are formed when mixing a primary color with a secondary color. They include colors such as Blue-Green and Yellow-Orange. It's a little more complex than just mixing two Primaries together. The same goes for writing. When you start mixing in details, sentences become stronger.

Now, let's change that sentence just a tad, giving it a little more detail as to what Spot is really doing:

Spot chased the ball across the yard.

The original sentence has now morphed from seeing Spot run into not only seeing him run, but also knowing that he is chasing a ball and he is doing it in a yard. We've just given Spot a reason to run. The sentence is morphing, a story is forming.

There's more.

Throw in your two main neutrals of Black and White. By mixing colors with black and white they can become richer or blander. It's really up to you. Add some White to the Red and you have Pink. Go the other way and instead of adding White, add Black and you form more or a Brick Red color. The variations are practically limitless. Writing, in my opinion, is the same way. By adding or taking away from sentences you can strengthen your writing.

Spot chased the soccer ball across the tall grass.

We've just described the ball in its most basic form (a soccer ball) and the yard Spot is running in (grassy). It is still very basic in the sentence structure but slight descriptions have been added and we know what Spot is doing. You can add to this or subtract from it and make the sentence pop or fizzle. Or you could stick with the basics—sometimes that works best.

Don't go away yet. Sit back down. Keep sipping that coffee or water or whatever it is you are drinking.

The basics are important but there is one other thing that takes the basics even further and, in my opinion, is the most important part of the entire Primary Colors Writing Philosophy.

Harmony.

In order to become better writers, we must understand Harmony. In essence, it is a pleasing effect produced by an arrangement of things, parts, or colors, according to the dictionary. In color schemes Harmony produces interest in a piece. It is not bland and it is not 'too busy.' It is visually pleasing to the eye, engaging, gives off a sense of order. Harmony, in art, is easy to view, pleasing to the eyes. It holds your attention longer than a chaotic blend of colors.

We, as writers, need to find the Harmony in our words. It's not just writing the words to a story that counts; it's writing the perfect words and putting them in the perfect spots. An almost perfect word in an almost perfect spot doesn't have the same effect. Finding the right spot for each word creates the Harmony you want when penning a story.

One of my favorite writers is a guy named John Mantooth. I've often thought he is a master of word placement, or word Harmony. If you've never read him, you should look him up. Brilliant writer. Brilliant.

Like colors, there are schemes and contrasts and textures that go with writing. By adding descriptions and emotions you can layer your stories, make them come alive, make the characters believable. But, it all starts with the basics. See Spot run. Go with it. What do you have to lose?

Again, these are just my opinions and I am in no way, shape or form a master at writing. This is what I have used to help me grow as a writer. Maybe it can help you as well.

For now, I'm AJ and I'm out….

A New Beginning

2010-01-01T09:49:00.000-08:00

How about some pimpage? Is that even a word? According to spell check it’s not. It doesn't matter. People make up new words all the time and I think someone else coined the word well before I used it.

Anyway...

First off, Happy New Year. We are eleven hours in and so far, so good. Things are always scheduled to change.

Before we completely say good bye to 2009, I want to say a couple of thing. Well, probably more than a couple. I want to talk, so sit down, grab your coffee and read. Okay? Thanks. Please, don’t read while intoxicated…

2009 GOALS:

I reached one of my goals from last year. I did manage to write 1000 words a day and nearly 400,000 words on the year. I have no clue, yet, as to how many stories I wrote. I’ll figure that out next week some time.

I didn’t reach a few of the goals. Most notably: I wanted to receive 50 acceptances from publications. I came close: 48.

I also wanted to break into the pro markets. Again, I came close, getting short-listed six times but, eventually, not getting in on all six submissions. I did, however, make quite a few semi-pro sales. It’s only the beginning, folks. Only the beginning.

The novel did not get finished. I started it. Actually, a couple of novels were started. I’m just not in full novel writing mode yet. I wrote two novellas, which I think will help me gear up for that novel writing experience and the discipline to stick with it.

So, with writing, I came close…

2010 GOALS:

Do I have to do this again?

Okay, fine. I will stick with one goal that I set for myself every year and I achieved it last year: 1000 words a day, minimum.

The second one is still to break into the pro markets.

I’m not setting my sights on a high number of publications this year—I don’t plan on submitting as much as I did last year: 156 Submissions. 48 acceptances, 11 pending, 6 withdrawals. Instead, I want to focus on something that I really thought hard about last year and worked on, especially in the last half of 2009: To make every story my best story.

I think, as writers, a lot of times we get set in our ways and we just write, either to get the words on paper or get them out of the way so we can start on something else. I am guilty of the latter. That’s not really fair to the readers or to the editors and slush readers, for that matter. Or to myself.

Something along these lines came up recently in a web forum I frequent. I was taking a poll about short stories. Why do you read them? Why do you write them? Questions like that. (For those who don’t know, I want to change the way folks view the short story. For those who write them, you know how hard it can be to come up with a complete story in less the 5000 words. For those who read them, I want to give you an experience you can remember.) Then, this statement was made by John Miller:

I hate that writers try to write a good story and submit it. I think writers should try to write the best story of their life each and every single time.

Yup, that’s right. And then there was this statement:

I don't want another good story; I want a GREAT story. I don't want to read a good hook; I want a GREAT hook. I think writers must try to write each story to be better than their competitors, better than their friends, better, better, better than what they wrote for their last story.

Mmhmmm…

But, wait. There is more:

I think a story should pull the reader in, dragging the reader all the way through. Whether they get straight to the action or use a slow buildup, I don't give a rat's ass. I want to be pulled INTO the story. Whether its plot, language or strong characters, I don't care.

Did you read that last blurb? Read it again. If you are a writer, let it sink in. We should be pulling our readers in and not letting them go. It doesn’t really matter HOW we pull them in as long as we hook ‘em and hold ‘em. This is what you should be doing every time you sit down to pen a story. No, it’s not what you should be doing; it is your DUTY. Your responsibility. You should want to give your readers everything you have with every piece you write.

End of story . . . yeah, pun intended.

So, that is my biggest goal this year. To make every story better than the previous one. It’s only fair, not only for the slush readers, editors and, hopefully the readers who see my story and look at it, but for me, as well. I want you to walk away saying ‘Wow’ or ‘I need a smoke.’

A couple of things before I move on to the pimpage…

There are over 350 shopping days left until Christmas. What? Are you serious? You’re tired of hearing this crap? Me too. I want holidays to go back to being fun. I want there to be Halloween items on the shelf right up until November 1st. I want to see hearts and cupids and boxed candies and conversation hearts on the shelves until after Valentines Day. The same with Easter and St. Patrick’s Day. And, folks, I don’t want to see the first thing about shopping for Christmas until AFTER Thanksgiving. Seriously.

At the rate we are going retailers are going to find a reason to build up every day of the year as a big shopping day. As it stands we have President’s Day Sales and July 4th Sales and Martin Luther King Day Sales. Come on, folks. Do we really want it to come to The 5th Amendment Day Sale? Or having a sale for the day the Redsox finally clinched a world series? I like the Sox, but come on, man…

With Christmas in mind…

This Christmas we did something a little different. My wife’s grandmother wanted to see the parade in early December. For one reason or other she was not able to get there. She told my mom-in-law, Beth, that she wanted to see one more parade before she died. This made us all pause. We don’t think about our loved ones dying, but in truth, it will happen, especially as we grow older.

Beth and her husband, Lon, came up with a wonderful idea. She approached Catherine and I about it. Then several of us approached other members in the family.

What is it we did? Well, we wanted to give her a parade. Sadly, we could only get five cars rounded up and just enough family members so we could put on a mini-parade for them. We met up at the church a couple of blocks from their home on the lake. We decorated our cars with foam snowflakes and lights and posters. My wife dubbed our daughter Junior Miss Snowflake 2009 and she sat on the driver’s side door (with my arm around her) and waved like a princess as we drove by their house.

Trans Siberian Orchestra played loud from Lon’s truck, which had Beth and a few others, my son included, sitting in the bed next to a lit up Christmas tree.

“This is one of the best presents I’ve ever received.” That is what Catherine’s grandmother said.

It’s a memory that those of us who participated will remember for the rest of our lives. It’s something I wouldn’t let my children miss out on.

During the Christmas season so many folks are all about spending money for the best presents and, sadly, many folks like to be recognized for what they give. It’s an ego thing.

Maybe, just maybe, the best present isn’t one you can buy in a store. Maybe, just maybe, the best present can sometimes be the gift of your time. It’s something that you can never get back and it is one of the greatest gifts of all.

For those who participated in this gift of love and time, thank you. Thank you all. I, for one, would like to see this become a family tradition…

Okay, now for one more goal for 2010:

To be better at networking, blogging and putting myself out there. I hate doing it—it sounds so much like bragging. But, truth be told, if I want to make a name for myself, then I need to network better, to reach out more.

How about that for a segue?

Now for the pimpage.

My short story, ‘Dead Characters’ has been picked up by SNM Horror Magazine. It’s in January’s Issue #1. Also, my friend Suzie Bradshaw has a story in there as well. It is the story of the month and appears in Issue 2. It is titled ‘Devil In Cowboy Pajamas.’ After you read ‘Dead Characters,’ take a look at Suzie’s stories (and the others as well). Leave a comment in the guest book, let Steve Marshall know how much you like the new edition.

Dead Characters at SNM Horror Magazine

‘Sarah’s Playground’ is in the anthology Bonded By Blood II: A Romance In Red, put out by SNM Horror Magazine. This is a beautiful book. The cover is amazing and the forward is by Wendy Brewer. Details on purchasing can be found here:

Bonded By Blood II A Romance In Red

Liquid Imagination has just released their first anthology. It is the Static Movement Special Edition Print Volume II. For the most part this is a best of collection of the online magazine, Static Movement, owned and operated by Chris Bartholomew. Along with the best stories, you get quite a few poems. Each story is accompanied by illustrations.

My story, ‘Broken Hearted Savior,’ appears in this special edition collection and is illustrated by Kyle Naden. His illustration captures the story in a unique way. Thank you, Kyle, for the wonderful artwork for ‘Broken Hearted Savior.’

You can pick up the collection at a relatively inexpensive price of $10.00. First off, you can check out Chris’ Static Movement here:

Static Movement

Now, you can order the special edition print collection here:

Static Movement Special Edition Print Volume II

My flash story, ‘The Crimson Spider’ was picked up in December by The New Flesh. It’s a reprint but rewritten completely before I sent it in. You can check it out here:

The Crimson Spider at The New Flesh Magazine

Leave a howl if you will.

Okay, I’m done being longwinded. Please, if you have any questions, feel free to contact me. Feel free, also, to leave comments.

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out…

Static Movement Special Print Edition 2

2009-12-31T07:43:00.000-08:00

Check out the recently released Static Movement Special Print Edition Volume 2. My story, 'Broken Hearted Savior' appears there within. Read on for a blurb and contributors.

I would like to thank Kyle Naden for providing the image for my story—he is a brilliant young artist in his mid-teens. Kyle has inspired several of my short stories and his illustration for 'Broken Hearted Savior' catches the story in a unique light.

Editor Chris Bartholomew created the ezine Static Movement in order to publish stories readers get lost in. The ezine Static Movement has been around for years, a starting point for new writers and a test of mettle for seasoned pros. The stories in this anthology come directly from the ezine, ranging from speculative to literary fiction, written by some of the most well-known up-and-coming writers out there such as Eric S. Brown, John Klawitter and P.S. Gifford. Illustrations and artwork enhance each story. Prices for similar products in bookstores target around $20.00, but you can purchase Static Movement Print Special No. 2 for $10.00.

Stories
Waiting-by Ken Head
Expiry-by Mo Irvine
Down the Corridors of Life Purloined-by Anthony G. Bernstein
See Mouse Fly-by John Klawitter
Me & MB-by John Klawitter
The Collector-by Sarah Frost Mellor
Whispering through the Veil-by J.T. Evans
Hands of Mercy-by John “JAM” Arthur Miller
The Herbs of Andali-by James P. Wagner
Those Left Behind-by Kevin Wallis
Scary Story-by Leonardo “Leo” John Miller
The Nightmare-by Vincent “Vinnie” Logan Miller
The Disappearance of Alice P. Liddell-by Michael Hanson
Stealing Skyward (creative nonfiction)-by Joshua Michael Johnson
The Wikid Pedia: A Reminder, A Warning, A Short History-by James A. Stewart
Falling Away-by T.L. Bodine
Awaken to a Nightmare-by Brian Barnett
Dinnertime-by Rick McQuiston
The Cull-by John Irvine
Earth Bound-Elliot Richard Dorfman
Walking the Winds at Dawn (Falling through the Clouds at Night)-by Justin Curtis
Work at Home Job-James P. Wagner
Broken Hearted Savior-by A.J. Brown
Emotion Eaters-by Scott Wilson
Taedium Mortis-by Louise Norlie
The Call-by John Stanton
At the Seaside , by the Sea-by Florence Stanton
FETCH!-by Ken Goldman
Swan Maiden-by Tala Bar
She-by Shelly Muir
Ill Met in Turquoise Sunset-by Glen Held
The Chest (a tribute to Edgar Allen Poe's “The Gold Bug”)-by S. Copperstone
Static Movement-by John “JAM” Arthur Miller
Silent Delivery-by Jamie K. Schmidt
Behind Closed Doors-by Charlotte Emma Gledson
The Wranglers-by Eric S. Brown
The Dentist Visit-by P.S. Gifford
Poetry by:
Lee Kuruganti
William Wolford
Ken Head
Jonathan Crider
John C. Mannone
Michael H. Hanson
Brandon L. Rucker
Deborah Walker
P.S. Gifford

Illustrators

Shane McKenzie
Lucas Pederson
John Stanton
Jack S. Rogers
Lee Kuruganti
Kyle Naden

You can go here for the purchasing information:

Static Movement

Bonded By Blood II: A Romance In Red

2009-12-29T08:52:00.000-08:00

Welcome, ye dark visceral explorers, to the second-born anthology of SNM Horror Magazine, featuring 20 of the darkest short stories published and brought to you exclusively from SNM Horror Mag. These are the new voices of horror today and our next generation of tomorrow’s pioneers. We finally unleash them back upon the Earth to haunt the sleep of the living and wake the Dead from their slumber. Yes, Bonded by Blood II!

SNM Horror Mag is honored to showcase them in this crypt we call our best of anthology. It features only the SOTM over 18 months. Also included are 2 bonus tracks from the Chief Editor; one of which is a collaborative story with SNM author Joel Peterson. We have built this hallowed Mausoleum from the grave on up and have brought it into daylight by way of darkness. We hope you welcome and embrace it. We have exhumed only the very darkest from our blackened crypt. If you like cerebral, suggestive horror that isn’t afraid to cross new thresholds in shocking the reader and making them think twice, then look no further.

We have finally been rated the #1 Online Horror Magazine of 2009! Thank you for your kind support of the featured writers herein as they are paid royalties for every sale. We really took our time to do this one right and have featured the best 20 stories of over 800 submissions from the last 18 months! We hope it reflects your highest standards. Please recommend us and support our endeavor.

We know you will discover some dark talent and enjoy the featured stories. The best way to show your support to the authors is to buy their books and visit their websites posted at the bottom of each story and in their bios. We have both new male and female horror authors for you to choose from. We hope that you find it disturbing. May it darken your daydreams…and illuminate your nightmares!

Here is the lineup in order for Bonded By Blood II:

James Cheetham - Bumper Shine
Dianna Street - Making Of A Monster
James Woodcock - The Suffering
Jen Conley - Old Hag's Syndrome
Allison Rogers - Gravedigger
Elizadeth Hetherington - Immortal Stone
A.J. Brown - Sarah's Playground
J.C. Lira - A Head Full Of Bad Animals
Jack Burton - The Gambler
Suzie Bradshaw - Wagging Tongues
Steven Marshall - I Dream of Death
A.R. Braun - The Interloper
Brett Graham - Dr. Spindle's House
Daniel Fabiani -Grave Offerings
Adrian Ludens - Cold Feet
Stacy Bolli - Behind Dark Corners
Liz Strange- Night of Stolen Dreams
Kerry Morgan - Blood Brothers
Brian Johnpeer - The Pen
SNM & Joel Peterson - Love Gently Bleeds

20 short stories, 250 pages, 94,000 words. Retail Price: $15.95 + S&H

In closing, we leave you with the foreword written by Wendy Brewer, Copy Editor for Edward Lee and Editor of the Dark Hart anthologies.

“Many years ago, I took on the arduous task of editor for a “For the Luv” horror ezine called The Murder Hole. There was no monetary gratification for myself, for the woman who hosted the website, or for any of the contributors. Yet month after month I was overwhelmed with submissions and I still managed to put forth issues highlighting some of the best dark fiction out there. From well-established writers to semi-established writers working their way to the top, to newbies, I’ve watched over the years as many of the authors I published moved on to become award-winning novelists, mass-market novelists, even publishers and editors. It’s kind of like watching your babies growing up to be successful in doing what they love and do best: writing.

That being said, I completely understand what Steven N. Marshall puts into his ezine each and every month. It takes a lot of dedication. It takes a lot of hard work. It requires enthusiasm and unconstrained loyalty to his chosen path, even in the face of adversity; perseverance overcoming animosity. And Steve manages to pull it off, putting out a new issue every month with style and flair, overwhelmingly denoting the true reasons he continues.

It’s all about “for the love of.”

The authors published by SNM every month demonstrate that same love and dedication. Reading the stories in this anthology, you can’t help but see the love these writers have for their craft of writing. Their best efforts shine through brilliantly in every story, adding new twists to old plots, bending rules, breaking out of the proverbial ‘box’, showing the readers that not only do they love to write, but they write for a simple reason: They want to entertain you, the reader.

This yearly crowning achievement published by SNM is a work of love, devotion and commitment by the authors and editors for those who enjoy and appreciate the efforts put forth by all involved. It is an extraordinary accomplishment, packed with compelling horror and dark fiction that will keep you turning the pages long after you should have turned the lights out and gone to bed.

I was truly honored when Steve had approached me about doing the introduction for this anthology. The anthologies he puts out prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the writing and creating of stories and the genuine objective to entertain isn’t all about money. It’s about literary achievement in the horror community and becoming known. It doesn’t happen overnight!

The editors know this.
The contributors know this.
Now the readers know this.
It’s all about telling a story.
And, most importantly…

It’s all about “for the love of.”

I was very impressed by this anthology. The consistency of quality writing, they way that each story stands apart from one another, the literary prose, the haunting residual in the mind, makes this a perfect masterpiece of fiction. It is comprised of the Stories of the Month for a year and a half, over careful consideration and selection from a top-rated magazine that publishes cerebral, psychological horror; horror that isn’t afraid to cross taboo thresholds, yet suggest something so menacing that the reader is grateful it’s kept offstage. Let these brave pioneers of the next Poe and Lovecraft generation whisper their dark secrets into your soul and haunt you in the most eerie, personal way: through the power of suggestion and the art of horrific eloquence. My favorite type of reading!”

Wendy Brewer, Copy Editor for Edward Lee.

Order your copy of Bonded By Blood II today or die trying!

Thank you for your loyalty and support to SNM Horror Mag.

www.createspace.com/3417084

The SNM Mausoleum is now built…and the Dead have been ripped from the Crypt and exhumed from the Tomb!

Darkest Wishes,
Steven Nicholas Marshall
Senior Editor / Moderator
SNM Horror Magazine
www.snmhorrormag.com

Onward...

2009-12-11T05:36:00.001-08:00

Down the street a truck appears, adorned in reds and greens, its lights shining. The driver honks and waves a meaty hand as he passes through the crowd of onlookers. Three fingers are missing, a pinky and thumb form an odd L shape. "Merry Christmas," he bellows. It comes out "Mare-wee Cwis-moss."

Again, It Continues...

2009-12-10T06:06:00.001-08:00

"Here they come," a kid shouts, others echo his words. Eyes open wide in anticipation and little ones squirm in their seats; blankets come off as they stomp their feet, kicking up clouds of dust.

It continues

2009-12-09T10:05:00.000-08:00

There's no snow this year; streets are covered in dust and dirt, debris from crumbling buildings, worn by time, weather and the passing wars. Few trees have stood the test of bombs and bullets, fewer windows remain intact.

A breeze blows along Main Street, lifting grit and trash into the air. Many cover their faces, kids cry out from the sting of sand in eyes; some adults shake their heads and wonder why others choose not to wear protective goggles.

A Story In Pieces

2009-12-08T08:08:00.000-08:00

So, I decided to do this story on Facebook, posting excerpts with updates. Sadly, I can only post 420 characters at a time, which amounts to about 130-140 words, depending on spaces. The parts will be posted each day starting today and going through Christmas Eve.

But, wait, AJ, I said to myself. What if folks don't use Facebook? Well, then they are out of luck. Ah, but Mr. Self wouldn't allow that. Other egos stepped in, I was beaten 48 times with a wet noodle--that actually hurts, by the way--and finally, the powers that be gave in to the masses and said post the story, in parts, on Blogger and MySpace.

So, here we are, myself and all of my other selves (one of them looking over my shoulder making sure I do this right) bringing you some Christmas cheer.

The story is titled 'Not Like It Use To Be.'

Enjoy and come back tomorrow to read more.

Thank you.

I'm AJ and I'm out and here is the beginning of 'Not Like It Used To Be.'

***

Families line the streets, kids bundled in coats, hats, gloves and blankets. Adults stand or sit in folding chairs, hands in pockets or laps, their excitement matching the children's. A chill hugs each person tight. Teeth clatter, legs shake and dance, trying to stay warm. Hot chocolate and coffee work for a while but fade, leaving shivers along spines.

"How much longer, Momma?" they asks, young eyes and hearts waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elf or reindeer or Santa Clause. Maybe some candy will get tossed their way.

"Not much longer," mothers and fathers announce, some happily, others with a chagrin that sits in their stomachs like heavy rocks. Christmas isn't like it was when they were kids, back when December meant presents and eggnog and feasts, parties and family get-togethers, Christmas lights and holiday specials on television. Snow-filled streets meant sledding and snowmen, snow angels and snow ball fights.

Commitment? Really? Do I Have To?

2009-10-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

It starts at an early age. What's that? What starts at an early age? The fear of commitment starts at an early age with many males.

What are you talking about, AJ? Seriously? Are you on the strawberry Kool-Aid again?

Hold on. Hold on. I can explain this if you have a minute or five.

My son is four years old. He is a fairly well adjusted child who likes Hot Wheels, Lightning McQueen and beating up his daddy. Other hobbies include watching Sid the Science Kid, running really fast and beating up his daddy.

There is a theme here.

Last year Logan went to a three year old pre-kindergarten class three days a week. He was one of only four boys in the class. The other fifteen children were, you guessed it, little girls with ponytails and shiny eyes. One of the boys left a few weeks into the school year, leaving three boys and fifteen girls. It kind of reminds me of that old Jan and Dean song, Surf City. Instead of two girls for every boy, it was more like five girls for every boy.

There was one child among these young ladies that was smitten with my son. She's a cute little child with dark hair and dark eyes. A few weeks into the school year she got up the courage to play with Logan. After that she played with him on a regular basis. Then it happened.

"Logan Brown," she says in all seriousness. "I'm going to marry you."

The blood in my son’s face drained out, leaving a pale mask of his normally cheerful persona. It happened another couple of times with that same little girl. When I asked him about it, he covered his head with his blanket and refused to come out.

That was last year…

Logan is now in four-year-old pre-kindergarten going four days a week. The ratio of boys to girls is no longer five girls to every boy—it's almost even. However, recently, it happened again. My son was minding his own business after school, running and playing with his friends out on the front lawn while parents talked and gossiped.

A little girl with dimples and a ponytail and a year younger than Logan walked up to him.

"Logan," she said. "When I grow up, I'm going to marry you."

Fright.

That is what appeared on my boy's face. Fright. Not because the girl is scary—she's quite adorable. But, because, now, twice in two years, girls have proclaimed their desires to marry him—and they were/are only three years old.

My son now has the pressure of two lasses wanting to marry him. What is he going to do when he gets older and falls in love?

I imagine his girlfriend asking, "Are we ever going to get married?"

A look of terror is going to sweep over my son's face and he is going to run for the hills. He is going to remember these two little girls coming to him at such a young and tender (and impressionable) age, about their desires to marry him, and he is going to freak out. It's too much pressure. Too much anxiety.

How do we avoid this?

Unfortunately, we can't. There will always be the added dread of relationships, both beginning and ending, that will haunt every individual throughout their lives. Sweaty palms, tongues that knot up when the object of our affection is around, stupidity… Yes, we all do stupid things for our loved ones. Don't deny it. Look back and you will find at least one stupid thing you’ve done for a loved one that you wouldn't do for anyone else.

Ahh, I have gotten off course. If any of you women out there have men who are afraid to or don't seem to want to commit, step back. Don't nag him or fuss at him. Don’t give him the ‘or else’ ultimatum. Think about a possible childhood event that has caused him severe trauma, such as a little girl at age three saying "I am going to marry you."

For many men, this is the root of commitment fears…

That will be a nickel please.

***

In the Silence of this Room can be purchased now at The Grey Sparrow Press website. Go here for more details:

In the Silence of this Room

My story, "Walking on Red Brick Road," is within these pages.

***

Being a University of Michigan fan, I was pleased to see Michigan win this weekend and both Ohio State and Notre Dame lose.

It's really the little things that bring me so much joy in life.

***

Cool places worth checking out:

Necrotic Tissue

The Patchwork Project

Microhorror

Dark Recesses

Chizine

***

Paula Ray did an interview with me last week and she has posted it up at her blog page, Back Space Junkie. It's rather lengthy. Read, leave comments. Check it out here:

Back Space Junkie

***

And, one other thing—yeah, I’m on the Strawberry Kool-Aid again.

I'm AJ and I'm out…

Kids . . . Yah Gotta Love 'Em

2009-10-17T06:32:00.001-07:00

It’s been a hectic week, with a sick one in tow and missing several days of work. I did very little writing, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.

In weeks like this I look for little nuggets of laughter to carry me from day to day. I share with you a couple of them now:

My son has been ill most of the week with a fever, cough and ear infection. When little ones are sick they become wimpy lumps of flesh—much like most grown men. My son is NOT like this. Though he was down at times, he was still hyper and active. The two of us sat in the recliner, he on my right, a blanket on his legs, juice in one hand. Sid the Science Kid played on the television. Out of the blue my son makes a statement.

“Daddy,” he said. “I want to beat you up.”

He followed this statement with an elbow to my stomach.

He caught me off guard, to say the least.

“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” I said.

“I’m better. I’m going to beat you up.”

Another elbow followed.

And, this is the way it is when my youngest is sick—ill until he has an opportunity for a sucker punch.

***

My daughter is in love with Nick Jonas. Yes, my eight year old is in love with a “rock star.”

I guess that’s okay. Better than being in love with Manson, eh?

***

As we all know, it is October, and October means Halloween. What better song than ‘This is Halloween’ by Marilyn Manson than to celebrate the coolest ‘holiday’ of the year?

***

Speaking of Halloween, my sister asked my niece and nephews what they wish to be for Halloween.

“I want to be a vampire,” Annemarie, the oldest, said.

Okay, as long as she doesn’t sparkle, I guess that is okay.

John, the four year old said, “Turn on ‘Can’t Stop,’” by Red Hot Chili Peppers. Anna complied. John immediately pointed to John Frusciante, the guitarist. Okay, that’s easy enough.

Then she turned to Ben, the middle child. At seven, Ben is somewhat of a follower and has a hard time making decisions. So, when it came time for him to answer, he was less inclined to give his own thoughts.

“Ben, what do you want to be for Halloween?” my sister asked.

He shrugged. “Annemarie has a good idea, so I’ll do that.”

My sister, ever the patient one, rolled her eyes and knelt down (not that she really needed to kneel down, she is two inches under five feet tall—I don’t care what she says). “Ben, I want to know what YOU want to be for Halloween.”

Ben has an evil smile. He gives her this particular smile, his eyes gleam and he says, “I want to be a whoopee cushion.”

I’m so proud of him. . .

***

The State Fair has arrived here in not so sunny South Carolina. Catherine and I took the kids on this gray, cool day. The corn dogs were great, as were the Fiske Fries. Chloe did the rock climbing, which surprised me. Though she didn’t make it to the top, she did go almost all the way up. She made the mistake of looking down and became scared when she realized how high up she was.

Logan perked up after being sick all week and rode as many rides as he could, some of them half a dozen times. They both rode the children’s roller coasters—several times. As a parent, I get more enjoyment and fulfillment out of watching my children have fun.

***

Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?

***

My dog has Extreme ADD. Seriously. She has no attention span what so ever.

***

Chloe held a book in her hands and read off several jokes. If you know my daughter, you also know that she is matter of fact when she is reading, especially jokes from books.

She read, “What type of phone does the ocean have?”

I confess, most of these types of jokes I don’t know. Kids jokes. They are so simple, they are brilliant.

“I don’t know,” I said and leaned back in my desk chair.

“Shell Phones,” she said, her eyebrows rose, her head swiveling. “Duhhhh… Get it Cell phone, shell phone?”

That’s my daughter.

Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?

***

A free concert series has started on the grounds of the historic Columbia Motor Speedway. One of my favorite local bands played last night in the open field that used to be the racetrack. There was beer for the drinkers and food for the eaters and, well, not much for the children.

I guess it was like Woodstock, but without the weed…

***

I would like to throw out a promotion for Cutting Block Press’ new collection, Butcher Shop Quartet Volume II. For a glimpse of the book, read further:

The Breach, by Greggard Pennance

Jared, one of the few survivors from the crash of flight 319, is visited in his dreams by one of the perished passengers. Needing answers, he is drawn to the site of the wreckage -- 140 feet deep in the Atlantic. What Jared finds there is beyond extraordinary, and it sets him on a path to make choices that will determine much more than his own fate.

Road Rash, by Simon Janus

After a botched bank robbery in which the rest of his team is lost, Straley escapes on foot. Toting the loot, he is desperate for a set of wheels. Then his luck seems to turn his way, as he finds the car he needs, but soon he learns that it has come at a terrible price - in acquiring it, he's contracted an aggressive skin rash, and soon it is ravaging his body. When he receives his diagnosis, a terrible curse, he learns that he must use up the last of his loot in attempt to rid himself of this infliction. He must journey into the depths of Central America, where he will find the answer he needs … or doesn't need.

Bodies Raining, by Rick J. Brown.

As a young boy, Corey is the only witness to an atmospheric miracle that will signal the beginning of the end of civilization. Years later, after a virulent disease has ravaged the Earth, and with no safe way to dispose of the corpses, Corey must leave his wife to work in space as a 'body dropper'. While human corpses pile up on the surface of the moon, he is sent to the surface to unravel a mystery. There Corey finds that even the most unimaginable of events can be natural, up to and including personal vengeance.

Condemned, Written by Vince Churchill, Story by Ray Brown (R. Lenard Brown)

In a blink the world changes, but Quentin is too busy having illicit sex to notice. It isn't long before things in the Midwestern town of Benson become strange. People are different, neighbors violent. He learns that the Rapture has occurred, and that he was mistakenly left behind. As all Hell breaks loose, Quentin finds himself in the race of his life, and he has one chance to reclaim his salvation. Accompanied by two gun-toting preachers, he must reach the Church of the First God before sunrise, and all that stands in his way is a long night and the enraged souls of the damned.

Check it out at:

Butcher Shop Quartet II

***

Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out…

A Tough Week...

2009-10-10T18:08:00.000-07:00

Normally, I do very little writing related work on the weekends, especially with football season here! Florida at LSU tonight, though I won’t see much of that game. Michigan is playing at the same time against ranked Iowa.

I know you aren’t reading this to find out about my love of football. Just wait until I start talking hockey . . .

Anyway . . .

It was a rough week for me on the submissions front. Nine rejections, two of which were shortlisted stories at paying publications. The others were also from paying places, yet not shortlisted. It is during weeks like this where the lack of good news can cause a dip in confidence for many writers. I admit that I was a little frustrated with one of the rejections—I REALLY thought the story would get in. All this really means is that I’ll rework the stories and send them back out.

Not too long ago, this type of week would have gotten me down and made me ponder why I even write. I will be honest, this week did make me question certain things about my writing . . . and that is a good thing. Yes, that’s right: a good thing. When I get frustrated like this, I start researching, studying and try to better my abilities. I can smile at this moment because I have discovered that there is a significant flaw within my writing: Often I don’t use my words wisely. Every word should count—and I have a habit of not doing that. This is a chance for me to grow as a writer; a chance to improve on the craft.

This leads me to other writers. If you are a writer and you are reading this, first of all, thank you. Second, a rejection is a stepping-stone. It may feel like a lily pad and you may feel like you are sinking because you are standing on that lily pad. But, rejections are not always bad. If you take the negative and turn it into a positive by working harder and honing your skills as a writer, then the rejection is not just something to paper the wall with.

Rejections can cause a writer to lose confidence in him/herself. Don’t ever doubt yourself or your abilities. My dad has always said, if you don’t believe in yourself, who else will? I believe in myself. I believe I am getting better. I believe I will continue to get better and will finally get into some of those publications I have been pestering over the last couple of years. You publications know who you are—I’m coming, and eventually, you will like something I write . . . I hope . . .

***

On to other news.

In my last post I mentioned Grey Sparrow Press. I am mentioning them again. Yes, they are a literary market but Diane Smith and Dean Lawson have a great thing going over there. The website is beautiful, easy to navigate and enjoyable.

Check them out at: Grey Sparrow Journal

There is another reason I put this plug in here twice within a week: Grey Sparrow Press has released a collection of fiction, poetry and artwork titled, In the Silence of this Room. This book has been in the works for about two years, and well worth the wait. Holy cow. In the Silence of this Room is a beautiful hardback book with glossy pages, color pictures, a smooth dust jacket. Beautiful. That’s the only way I can describe it.

And, then there is one other fact: My story, “Walking on Red Brick Road,” appears within these pages. I’m very proud to be part of this publication and thank Diane Smith for using “Walking on Red Brick Road.”

Check it out here:

In the Silence of this Room

***

And, to add to this, here are the recent stories that have gone up on various publications this month. Check them out if you haven’t already.

Apartment 306 at SNM Horror Magazine

Release at The Monsters Next Door

House of Horror

These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine

These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine

Chapiesky at Flashes In the Dark

Broken Hearted Savior at Static Movement

***

I would like to leave you folks with a video. I saw this last week. Being a parent, I can appreciate it. If you are a parent—and more specifically, a mom—I’m sure you will be able to relate to this. If you are not a parent, well, just remember this song when you become one.

Enjoy.

I’m AJ and I’m out.

Accessibility

2009-10-05T18:20:00.000-07:00

While talking to my friend, Dameion, recently, we came to the conclusion that, as writers, there is something that we should always do or be or make sure happens, in the event that one or both of us become popular, if not famous writers.

What is it, you ask? Oh, you didn't ask? Really? Well, go ahead and ask. I can wait.

Okay, much better.

In order to get a following of any sort, a story must be entertaining. But, that's not the thing we should make sure and do; however, it is a major component of getting that following that all writers want, which leads to the thing we should always do. We are told to follow this rule and that rule and these rules over here and what this person says is gold and we should listen to them. It's aggravating, to be honest. However, even if a person follows all the rules, it doesn't mean the story is great. It just means you have a well-written piece. There is a significant difference between a well-written story and an . . . entertaining one. If a story doesn't entertain the reader, it really doesn't matter how well it is written—it won't keep the reader's interest and, thus, won't get read all the way through.

I put this in here because it was one of the things we discussed at length. We also noted that everyone, including editors, have their favorite types of stories and, though one publication may reject your work, there are others out there who may accept it. Again, it goes back to entertainment, back to keeping the reader reading.

Entertainment: Vital to the success of a writer. I think we writers should take on a new motto: How may I entertain you? And no, I don't mean going the route of a brothel or a street corner hooker. I mean just what it says: as writers, how can we entertain you, the readers? What do you want to see? Yes, I know you want originality, but beyond that, what intrigues you? What do you like to read? What do you dislike? In order to entertain you, we the writers, need to know what you, the readers, like.

Notice, I didn't ask this question of the editors? I did this on purpose. Yes, I know editors are an important piece of the submission pie, and what they like is very important. Editors, like writers, are readers first. However, editors have seen just about everything out there so they tend to be a little more jaded and writing fresh material is sometimes impossible. Unless . . . we know what you readers like.

If we are able to entertain you, then we develop somewhat of a following. I found out, recently, that I have a fan. Yes, just one, but one can lead to two, two to four, four to eight and, as you can see, there is a progression. Having a fan has made me realize that there is a great amount of pressure that comes with someone liking your work. What if something gets published that she doesn't like? What if it takes a few months to get something else published and there is nothing new out there on the market for her to read? More so, what if I stop entertaining this individual? Well, there goes the fan club. Knowing there is someone out there who enjoys my work, other than myself, that is, makes me strive harder to continue trying to get published and trying to entertain everyone. And, if not everyone, I want to continue pleasing the individual who enjoys my work.

With entertainment, hopefully, comes a little bit of popularity. What happens a lot of times when folks become popular or famous? Well, their head swells and hats no longer fit the way they used to. The ego comes to life. Not in everyone, mind you, but in plenty of folks. What happens then? The author becomes less accessible to the readers. And that brings us to the answer of the question. Dear readers what we must make sure to do and always remain to you is: be accessible. Not only should we remain accessible, but our stories should remain accessible as well.

A lot of people love Stephen King. I, myself, am a huge fan of his. Oh yes, even some of you writers out there secretly love him, too, even if you won't admit it. One of the reasons King is so loved is that he is accessible. Maybe not in the, hey let's call Stephen up and chat for an hour kind of way, but in a he's always out there kind of way. Also, his stories are accessible. I don't mean you can go to any bookstore out there and buy one of his novels. I mean that his stories are relatable and the every day person can say about any given character, ‘man, this guy sounds like me.’ People relate to his stories because, for the most part, his characters are every day people with every day problems in any small town around the world—just like, well, everyone else.

Go ahead say I'm wrong. Go ahead. I can wait. Oh, you have to think about this, don't you? Go ahead; ponder on as I finish up. . .

My goal, as a writer, is to entertain you. I may not be the most technically sound author out there—I've never taken any classes on writing outside of public schooling—and I may not have the big name or the backing that others have. And, I am notoriously shy about promoting myself—it all feels like bragging to me. However, I will do my best to entertain you. If, by some stroke of luck, I get somewhere in this business, I plan on staying accessible.

But, wait. There's more. Accessibility includes something else: For me, a lot of non-paying publications have helped me get my name out there. Granted, some of them have published mostly reprints, but I still send non-paying markets stories (especially if they take reprints). I feel like these ‘for the love markets’ are huge stepping-stones for writers and without them, many of us wouldn't have a chance, myself included. So, what do I do if I make a name for myself? I make sure and not forget those markets that helped me along the way.

Yeah, I know, I can make a lot of money selling REPRINTS if I make it in the writing world. But, I honestly feel like part of the reason the horror market has gone south and lots of publications have shut down is simply because once people start making it, they stop paying attention to the nonpaying or low paying markets, which, at one time, were the only places that would accept no name writers.

It’s about accessibility. It’s about remembering what got you there. It’s about entertainment. I think if you can do all three of those, then you will have some sort of success in writing.

As a writer, we put ourselves out there, we write and we bust our butts revising and submitting, getting rejected, revising, submitting again and again and again. There are those times when we want it to be all about us. Understand something: It is NEVER about us. Ever. Period. End of discussion. E.T., don’t bother calling home. Once it becomes about us and not the story and the readers we let ego get in the way and, as we’ve seen with several good writers, the quality of work goes down and so does the fan base.

I’m done rambling, for the most part, but remember: Entertainment. Accessibility. Remember where you came from.

***

A few things of pimpage and I am done for the night.

Have you heard of Grey Sparrow Journal? It’s literary, I know, but the folks that run it are great people. Diane Smith, Dean Lawson, Sue Haigh are all talented individuals and really nice. I know I’m not big on literary markets, but if I hit one, it’s going to be Grey Sparrow Journal. The publication is beautiful, the poetry is magnificent and the stories are great.

Check them out at: Grey Sparrow Journal

Last week when I posted my blog I left off a publication. Check out Dark and Dreary Magazine and my story “These Eyes.”

These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine

Here is another cool site, but not so much for the fiction, though there is good fiction there, but for what it is about. Patchwork Project is about exposing domestic abuse, bringing it more into the light and making folks more aware about the different types of abuse out there. Douglas Churchill started this last Halloween and its year anniversary is drawing near. Go check it out, drop Doug a line. If you have stories that do NOT glorify abuse but is about that particular subject, drop him a story as well. No, it’s not paying, but it’s for a worthy cause.

The Patchwork Project

***

Don’t forget about SNM Horror Magazine. My story ‘Apartment 306’ is up for the month of October.

Apartment 306 at SNM Horror Magazine

Also, currently playing at The Monsters Next Door is my story ‘Release.’ It’s not for the squeamish, but I promise, it is tactful.

Release at The Monsters Next Door

Also, showing at the House of Horror are various stories in issues 1-4. Just click on the covers of each issue and read through the stories in the various rooms.

House of Horror

***

Thank you all for reading. Feel free to leave comments. I don’t bite all the time. Just some of the time.

I’m AJ and I’m out.

Random Ramblings and Shameless Pimping

2009-10-01T18:59:00.000-07:00

It’s October. October. Let me say it again. October.

October is my favorite month of the year. We have fall weather, leaves changing, the state fair and Halloween. We also are treated to nightly horror movies on various cable channels. There is trick-or treating and haunted houses, Halloween parties and candy corn.

Yup, October is a great month.

I’m trying to convince my daughter to be a mummy this year, but I don’t think it’s working. Last year she dressed up as Wednesday Addams and she played the part perfectly. Too perfectly. One of the candy givers asked us if she were okay when she walked off. The thing is, that is the way she normally acts…

I’m not going to say what I’m trying to convince my wife to be this year…J

***

So, how are you all out there?

Seriously, how are you, folks? Has life been treating you right? Let’s hope so.

***

Now, to the nitty gritty.

Some of you may recall some of my goals from the beginning of the year. The thousand words a day goal is still coming along nicely.

The submissions process has come along as well: 132 subs so far this year. That’s a hefty number.

Now, for the one thing I really wanted to accomplish: 50 acceptances within the year. I sit at 34, just 16 off the mark with three months remaining. I still have a little over 30 stories out there in Submission World. Cross your toes, fingers and other parts. I think the ride is just beginning.

***

Liquid Imagination appeared on The Funky Werepig this past weekend. Greg Hall and company gave John Miller and myself a warm welcome and a lot of laughs. Check out the show on podcasts at Talk Radio here:

Liquid Imagination on The Funky Werepig

***

If you would like to read some of my stories you can check them out at the following places:

Apartment 306 at SNM Horror Magazine

A Bone White Hand at House of Horror
(There are several stories up at House of Horror Magazine, including in Issues 1, 2 and 3)

Release at The Monsters Next Door

March of the Trows at Liquid Imagination

Chapiesky at Flashes In the Dark

Broken Hearted Savior at Static Movement

Wild Horses at Static Movement

Look for other stories coming up in Ruthless Peoples Magazine and Necrotic Tissue sometime in a future near you…

Thanks for reading and if you like what you’ve read, spread the word. Please…

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

It's A Struggle

2009-07-13T19:30:00.000-07:00

I sat down tonight to write a story. But nothing wants to come out. My muse is telling me more pressing things need to be written.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Ummm . . . how about talk about all of those struggling publications out there?”

“Why?”

“Because you are a writer and without anywhere to submit to then who is going to publish your work and why would you continue writing?”

“I enjoy it.”

“Come on, AJ, tell the truth. You want to be published.”

“Well, yeah.”

“What if all the zines shut down? Where would you get published?”

My muse should have been a lawyer.

So, here I sit, keyboard in front of me, paper of notes beside the computer for a story I wanted to start on. Instead, I am going to write on something that affects all of us writers: what if there were no markets out there?

Seriously. What if we writers had nowhere to submit our stories? What if we had no one to read our works?

This is no laughing matter, folks.

Right now, the horror genre seems to be losing publication upon publication. There are many reasons why: the inability to finance those publications, under budgeting and over spending or just not being able to get enough quality submissions to fill the pages (even online pages).

It is this last part that I want to talk about.

Writers want to get paid for their work. Am I right? Of course I am. Why give something away for free when you can sell it? The good ol’ American philosophy. It may not even be an American philosophy but a philosophy nonetheless.

So many folks say, “I’m not just going to give my stories away.” And, guess what? You’re right. You shouldn’t just give your stories away. Payment is nice, but does it always have to be in money? What about getting published and receiving free publicity? What about having your story out there so the world can read it?

But, AJ, if I give my stories to a free publication, then I can only sell it as a reprint. Yup, you got me there. This is true. But, sometimes having a story appear in an e-zine where people don’t have to pay for it will get you more reads.

But, AJ, many of these e-zines don’t have much of a following. Yup, you got me there, too. You folks are good. Some places don’t have that big of a following, but hey, what if, say, maybe a story is accepted at one of these free-zines, as I like to call them, and the writers actually advertised that their stories were there?

But, AJ, a lot of folks do that. Yes, they do, but not a lot of folks advertise when they get into a free-zine. It’s a publishing credit; it builds up the resume, but a lot of folks don’t say, “Hey guys/gals, go on over to Choking Chickens dot com and read my new story about choking chickens.” If it’s good enough to submit to, then it’s good enough to advertise that you got in it.

But, wait, I’m not throwing this completely on the writers.

No, part of the blame for these free-zines or small paying markets not getting enough subs falls on the zines themselves. What? How dare I? It’s easy. So many free-zines or small paying markets won’t take reprints and this is where I think they fall down. The best places to sub to aren’t just the places that pay you, but the places that want your story, regardless if it is an unpublished story or a reprint. The point is if it is a good story, then it’s publishable.

The key to the reprints is to make sure that the author has the rights to the story and that the publication that it first appeared in is duly noted. I’m not saying accept stories that came out within the last year, but to be open to accepting reprints. Chances are, if someone thought it was good enough to publish one time it may be good enough to publish again.

But, we want all original content. Yeah, everyone does, but many writers aren’t willing to give up a story for free or for little money. It’s just the facts.

With the state of our genre and so many magazines folding for various reasons, mostly financial, some compromise may need to be given to both the writer and the publisher.

“I don’t give my stories away.” Okay, but what about reprints?

It’s a struggle to get published, especially in the paying markets. It’s a struggle to get good submissions, especially in the non-paying markets. Some of these small zines just need a boost. A name writer or two giving them permission to use a reprint could go a long way to helping the zines and the writers.

For the publications the name of the game is staying in business, getting good stories and showcasing writers. For the writer, it’s about putting one’s self out there. And being rejected over and over again. Sometimes, those free-zines can get one’s name in the light.

We writers and publishers need to compromise a little. If we don’t start compromising then there won’t be many places to submit to. Or maybe none at all. That’s not something I want to see happen.

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

A Letter From My Muse

2009-06-30T19:16:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I received a letter in my mental in box. This is what it said:

Dear AJ,

Have you lost your mind? Seriously. Have you lost your ever-loving mind?

Almost seven weeks ago, we were cruising along writing stories, having a good time. Things couldn’t have gotten much better. Well, you could have gotten a couple more acceptances but other than that, we were doing all right—you and I.

Then you receive this rejection and it was kind of harsh. I’ve never seen you take a rejection so. . . so much to heart. It’s as if it made you actually stop and think. Think. That’s not your job—it’s mine.

So, what did you do? What did you do, man? You kicked me to the curb. ME! What did I ever do but help you create some of the best stories you have ever written? I mean, remember The Woodshed? We sweated and bled and cursed as we wrote that one. Yeah, I know I had a few beers but I work better when I’m a little off kilter. What about Chapiesky? Remember that story? You heard the name but I came up with the story. ME! And how about Sarah’s Playground? Yeah, you didn’t want to write that little piece of semi-erotic horror now did you? Aren’t you glad you listened to me now?

Those were good times, AJ. Good times, I say.

Then you threw it all away and for what? For more technical and fundamental writing? You wanted to try ‘following the rules.’ You have never been a rule follower, why start now? Come on, AJ—when was the last time you listened to even the simplest of rules?

So, tell me, where did it get you? Hmm?

Oh, that’s right. You wrote five stories in almost seven weeks? Really? I’m so proud of you, and if you don’t recognize that—it’s sarcasm.

Five stories? We used to write that many in a week—you and I. Do you remember those days? The days when we sat at the computer taking turns tap-tapping away on the keyboard, discussing characters and settings and emotions and plots and all the other good writerly types of stuff.

AJ, we were meant to be together. Dump your new partner and come back to me. I’ll make you happy. I’ll show you the fun in writing that we used to have—I’m certain all you have done is work at it since you left me at the computer.

Please, come to your senses.

Love,

Your Muse.

Well, my muse was right about a few things. We sure did have a good time together. The stories we created—I can truly say she was my darker side. So, after nearly seven weeks of being away from her, I wrote her back.

Dear Muse,

Can you forgive me for my stupidity? I have missed you and the way we connected. You are so much more fun than my other muse—she is a real witch, always making me work while I am writing. I don’t function that way. I hate the new style she is imposing on me. It’s not working out.

Any way, I have a lot of groveling to do. If you will take me back I will be loyal from hear on out. I promise.

Love,

AJ

Yeah, I know mine was short, but really I am the typical male and my muse knows this. She can call me on any lie and make me feel like crap for even trying.

Just for the record, she and I have gotten back together and have penned two stories in less than a day. It feels good to be back in the saddle and writing with a familiar partner. Sadly, she has obtained a whip since we were last together—and she likes to use it.

***

Over the last few weeks I did try and experiment with following the rules of writing. I will say that I have never wasted so much time in my life. It was horrible. My creativity left me, the words fled, the thoughts vanished and I stared at a blank screen for hours. It was my first significant bout with Writer’s Block.

After starting on a story recently and getting stuck on it, I said screw it and rewrote the piece using my old style, old voice and just let the story live. Talk about the feeling of freedom.

Be wary—AJ is back…

***

In other news, you can catch a couple of my stories online now.

First there is my story, “Broken Hearted Savior,” up at Static Movement. Chris Bartholomew has had this e-zine running for a long time and it just keeps getting better. Check out “Broken Hearted Savior” here:

Broken Hearted Savior at Static Movement

While you are at it, check out the other stories there. Drop Chris a line and tell her AJ sent you. No, I won’t get any money or anything, but hopefully Chris will get a little more traffic to her site.

You can also catch my short zombie story, “Staying Dead,” at The House of Horrors. It’s a new online zine that is run by S. E. Cox. She has worked hard at getting this up and running and it shows a lot of promise. Read “Staying Dead” here:

Staying Dead at The House of Horrors

Have you heard of Sonar 4 Publications? Shells Walter has put together a fine company and she is all about helping writers out. She should be commended for her efforts, which seem tireless. They’ve released a handful of collections recently and are on the rise. One of them, From the Mouth, is a collection of flash fiction. There are some great reads in this collection, the least of which is my story, “Rust.” Other writers in this collection include Kevin Wallis, Dawn Allison, LB Goddard, Cassandra Lee among others. You can order a copy of this anthology and the others in the Sonar 4 lineup by going to their website:

Sonar 4 Publications

***

Other topics of note are:

Check out the folks at Choate Road. Greg Hall runs the 13-block road so be wary of all sorts of things that go bump in the night. There is a cool interview with Louise Bohmer in the Meet the Neighbors section. Check out all of the entertaining pages and catch them on MySpace as well. For their website, go here:

Choate Road

Also, check out the Funky Werepig every Sunday night at 9 EDT on Talk Radio. They constantly have great guests and there is even a chat room where you can party with other listeners. This past Sunday the Sinister Minister himself, Maurice Broaddus showed up as the Werepig’s guest. Don’t worry if you missed previous episodes, you can catch them in the archives. I’ll make it easy for you. Go here for the archives and a listing of the next couple of shows:

The Funky Werepig

That’s all for now, but I’ll be back soon. Hopefully it won’t be six weeks from now but next week. Until next time, be safe.

I’m AJ and I’m out.

Give Them A Chance

2009-05-07T07:54:00.000-07:00

I sat down to write this morning, a story in mind, a character to develop, a plot to work on. I went into the story with an open mind and a fresh attitude. I admit I haven't been in the best of moods lately so many of my stories haven't been coming out the way I want them to. Things just haven't been going the way they should. It shows in my writing. Well, it shows everywhere, but especially in my writing.

Writing isn't something I can just do straight through. I have to have the right mindset. Also, I need breaks. Every few hundred words or so I have to stop and do something else for a minute or two, then start back up. So, that is what I did today. I wrote about four hundred words, stopped for a second and checked my e-mail and looked at a web forum that I frequent (probably too much). A good friend of mine had posted a true story in this forum and I read it. It was about a young special needs boy who wanted to play baseball and the boys who let him play with them and how they aided him in succeeding in the game. The boy was a hero for a day and for the remainder of his short life he didn't forget the events of that afternoon. Sadly, the child died a few months later. The story was heart wrenchingly beautiful.

I leaned back in my chair, thinking of those events, picturing the little boy hitting a weak ground ball back to the pitcher. The pitcher intentionally overthrew first base. The other players followed suit, overthrowing each base and then cheering for him to run home, to score, to hit a game winning grand slam.

Some call it sportsmanship. I call it humanity. It's hard to let someone win at something—we are a competitive lot, us humans. But what these kids did was more than sportsmanship. It was more than humanity. It was all about giving someone a chance.

Do you understand what I'm getting at here?

They gave this kid—this boy who wasn't like them in many ways—an opportunity to do something they were physically gifted to do—something this child was NOT physically gifted to do. They gave him a chance to belong, to feel as if he were just one of the guys out playing ball before supper time.

In our world of money and competition and selfishness, these children put aside winning for the benefit of one person, one not like them. It was one of the greatest things each of these kids will ever do.

Isn't that what life is about? Giving? Helping?

Do you want to achieve greatness?? Do you want to feel good about what you are doing? Then take a page from these kids' books and give of yourself, put someone else ahead of you. Forget winning for a while. Forget being the best for a while. Forget about yourself for a while. Forget about money and fame and whatever else you want or feel you deserve in life. It's hard to do. Even for me, mister highly competitive himself.

Look around you. There's someone in everyone's life that we steer clear of, not because they're mean or snobby or have treated you wrong. No, we steer clear of these people because they are different. They're not like us. Maybe they're significantly overweight and you don't want to be seen with someone of that size for fear of what your friends may say. Wait, maybe the person is not as attractive as your standards would dictate for you to talk to them. Maybe they're too short or too tall or too thin or talk different or have a different skin color. Maybe they walk funny or are missing a limb or in a wheel chair. Maybe they have a disability or maybe they are an elderly person who smells like muscle and joint cream. Maybe it's the new person on the job or at the church or in the neighborhood. Maybe it's a homeless person. Who is it? Maybe it's someone in your own family that you've shunned or that you are not proud to call a family member. Yeah, we all have one of those, don't we?

I have a habit of attracting odd balls. Everywhere I go they seem to flock to me. Odd balls. You get that? Maybe they aren't so odd after all. Maybe, to them, I'm the odd ball? Maybe, to them, I'm the weirdo. You never know, do you?

Let's change gears here for a second but try to stay on the same track. In the everyday world we see all those seminars and pamphlets and television programs and books on self help or how to be successful. Education has a lot to do with it. So does drive and determination. You have to be willing to work at something to be successful at it. I say that all the time about writing. But, there is one thing that these self help/be successful guides leave out. In order to be successful, somewhere along the way, someone has to give you a chance. Someone has to say 'give it a shot.' Kind of like those boys did that day.

I don't care what anyone says, NO ONE gets anywhere without someone else giving them an opportunity to do so. We are given the prospect to succeed or fail every day. At our jobs, at our homes, out and about in everyday life. Success or failure is there for the taking. In order to have either of those you have to take a chance.

Okay, stick with me a little longer here.

I like to believe I am a decent writer—not great, not bad. I like to think that everyone would like my stories. Eh, not so much. For every acceptance letter I receive I get seven or eight rejections. It's the game of percentages and my percentages aren't too good right now. However, there are enough publications out there willing to give a no name like myself an opportunity to showcase my meager abilities. All it takes is the right person reading the right story at the right time. That can only happen when someone is willing to take a chance with someone they've never heard of. It's an endorsement on your abilities when an editor likes something of yours enough that they would publish it.

Even in the world of writing, which really is a cut throat sort of business, the right person at the right time can help create a success story. Or maybe gives the writer encouragement to continue on. For me, that person is Boyd Harris. I've mentioned him numerous times in the past and with good cause. It was his encouragement in a rejection letter that led me to trying harder, joining a workshop and learning the craft of writing. His encouragement came when I was at a crossroads with writing. I wanted to give up since it appeared no one liked anything I wrote at the time. He pointed me in the right direction and I didn't give in and quit like I thought of doing. I'd like to think I am a better writer because of it.

Life is really all about the choices you make. If you choose to do right by others, generally they do right by you. If you choose to do wrong by others, well, it is easier for bad deeds to get noticed and get talked about than good ones and people talk when the talking is juicy.

I've been a bit long winded today and I thank you for sticking with me through it all. Just remember this: You never know when something you do will affect someone in a way that changes them forever. Please, like those children who let the little boy play baseball with them, make sure the affect you have is a positive one.

I'm AJ and I'm out.

A Short Goodnight Story

2009-04-15T19:26:00.000-07:00

Her fingers reach for me but I resist.

"Not right now," I say, but she insists I come to bed.

With a deep sigh, I give into her wishes and make my way to the room. I know I'll feel better when we're done. As I climb into bed, Sleep's sweet arms wrap around me. I close my eyes and she takes me…

(And you thought it would be dirty, didn't you?)

Rambling On and On Like I Tend To Do

2009-04-09T16:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life is funny. Other times it takes a whiz on you. Still other times it plays little jokes and leaves you dazed and very confused. Yet, other times it is just life. We get frustrated, sad and angry during rough times; happy, joyous, elated during good times; apathetic during those times that we’ve taken all we can take and given all we can give but nothing seems to go right. We shrug, we move on.

The sun eventually shines again.

Writing is very much the same. There are moments where we can’t get any words onto paper—at least words that make sense and that would be worth publishing. But, then there’s those times where we can’t type or write fast enough, the story just pours out like water, splashing onto the paper or monitor and forming a tightly woven tale that leaves us exhausted but fulfilled when we are done, kind of like sex. There are moments where we can’t get anyone to accept a submission and the rejections pile up one after the other, making us wonder why we even try. Counter those moments with the ones where you get a handful of acceptances in a row and your name is getting out there.

It’s an ebb and flow.

Our economy is very much the same but during the leaner times things seem dire and a little bleaker. Money is the driving force of this great nation of ours. Greed is a deciding factor for many companies when hiring and (mostly) firing. I’m not certain there’s really a pursuit of happiness anymore. It’s become a pursuit of possessions and monetary things and it is that pursuit that has put America in the hole it is in right now. Less spending by the higher ups, including the government, could save jobs and homes.

The bailout is not a solution, just throwing good money after bad. But that is for another day. I don’t feel like politics on this day.

It’s been a few weeks since my last note and there have been both the dry times of writing and the flourish that comes with the territory. There has been an ebb and a flow.

So, let’s see where we sit with some of the writing goals.

The writing 1,000 words a day thing has come along nicely. So far for the year I sit at a healthy overage of words. The breakdown is simple:

January: 53327
February: 37659
March: 33329

That’s roughly 124,000 words written in three months. I would say that goal is being met so far. April is sitting around 14,000 for the month. The good thing about those 138,000 words is that most of them are completed stories. Some of them are pieces that won’t meet the light of day, while others should get published fairly easily.

The next goal is to work on a novel. Nope, I haven’t even come close to that one yet. However, I did outline one last week and I’m ready to get working on it.

My other goal, the one I want more than any of the other ones and the one that’s a little loftier than any of the other ones is the publication goal. If you’ll recall way back at the beginning of January I stated I would like to get 50 acceptances this year. It’s a tough feat but one I am shooting for.

As of right now I sit at 11 acceptances since January 1st. That puts me at 22% of my goal. Many of those have come in recent days. To put that in perspective, I had 16 acceptances for the 12 months that made up last year.

Right now you can catch “Where Colors Go To Die,” over at SNM Horror Magazine. It’s my second story placed there. It was a third place entry to their April themed contest. I like what Steven Marshall has going on there and it’s going to get better and better.

Since “Where Colors Go To Die” ended up third I’m going to have to try a little harder to get that first place story.

You can find “Where Colors Go To Die” Here

While you are at it check out the other stories too and Lillith’s interviews. You won’t be sorry you did.

Now for a few pieces that won’t come out until later on:

Sinister Tales picked up “I Carved Her Name Upon My Skin.” The print issue is coming out on April 15. If you would like to buy a copy check out their website at:

Sinister Tales

“Losing Grandma” was picked up by Everyday Fiction. It may not pay a lot but they have a large following so the exposure is worth more than the money. You can read Every Day Fiction at their website or subscribe to their e-mail list and receive the story of the day in your inbox EVERY DAY. If this is of interest to you, check them out here:

Every Day Fiction

Allegory picked up an odd piece I wrote last year titled, “Throwin’ Dem Bones.” It was a fun write and I’m sure you will enjoy the read. It is set to debut on May 1.

“The Dead Don’t Like the Sounds of Basketballs” will be appearing in the Tooth Decay Anthology over the summer. The anthology is being put out by Sonar 4 Publications and the closer we get to the publishing date the more information I will give out.

And “Sarah’s Playground” is going to make another appearance, courtesy of the folks at SNM Horror Magazine. They just picked SP up for their Bonded By Blood II Anthology, due out in January of 2010.

I’m stoked. Now, let’s keep that train rolling.

Chris Bartholomew runs a publication titled Static Movement Online. She always has good fiction and interviews up. Recently I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Chris. You can check it out here:

Static Movement Online

I leave you with a simple thank you for reading. I apologize for not having any humor in this installment. Maybe next time.

For all of you out there, have a good day and a safe and happy Easter. For now I’m AJ and I’m out.

I Wonder Sometimes

2009-03-09T18:41:00.000-07:00

Good evening. I like to start things with the word ‘good.’ It is a greeting that doesn’t suggest that all is crap in the world around us. Usually it’s all down hill from there anyway, so why not start off with the best and work my way down?

That’s not exactly true. A lot of folks think that when you see that ‘good’ word at the front it’s time to bend over. Yeah, yeah, I know most of the time that’s true but not all the time and hopefully, not when you encounter me in a dark alley and I’m holding a rubber chicken over my head, wearing platform shoes and singing We Are the Champions. In that case if I use the word ‘good’ in any form, I would advise running.

Anyway . . .

I’m wondering a few things tonight. First off, why does the media insist on telling us every minute detail about every celebrity’s life? Seriously, do I really care if the president finally has a first dog or first cat? No. Do I care what Jen said to whichever girl Brad is with at the time? No. Do I care what color panties Ashley Judd wears? Well . . . Oh, wait. No.

It’s not important to me and I wish the media would just stop. It’s going to get to the point one day where even the most mundane thing the average Joe does is going to be in the tabloids.

JOE SHMOE WASTES ENERGY—HAD A THREE HUNDRED DOLLAR LIGHT BILL . . .

Who cares?

I wonder why most people start counting at one and not zero. It seems to me that zero is the first number. Or am I missing something here?

I also wonder about speculative fiction. Why does it put off so many people? Now, before you answer that question, understand this: Why do people asks why did this happen or that happen in speculative fiction? Shouldn’t we leave something to the imagination or does everyone need their hands held while they read these days?

I think Shaun Ryan asked a pretty simple question when dealing with speculative fiction when he said: If there is no speculation or reflection on the part of the reader after they finish your story, if they don't sit and ponder what you just said and how it might fit into their view of the universe, why bother?

I love this statement, because, in my opinion, it holds a basic truth to it: why bother if you can’t make your reader think? Got yah thinking now, don’t I?

***

Recently I have been debating the state of the short story—especially the flash story. For those of you who have followed me over the recent months (or years if you are a glutton for punishment) you will know that I constantly say that today we live in a world with the McDonald’s Mentality. We’re in that time period where everything has to be done fast and if it takes too long, well then we want nothing to do with it. It’s got to be quick for our on the go lifestyles.

Slow down partner. Why not take a break from the hustle and bustle of the world and read a four thousand-word story? Why not let a story slowly suck you in just before spitting you out? (You men can get your minds out of the gutter now.) I think writing has become a lost art. Yeah, a lot of people are good at it—a lot of people are so much better at it than I am. However, a lot of people use that cookie cutter, it’s got to be this way and not that way format. They want something tried and true and are afraid to step out on a limb, put their neck out there so someone can lop off their head. Yeah, I know the publishing world isn’t too receptive to things that don’t follow the typical rules of writing, but them and you may be missing out on some great stories because of ‘rules.’

Weren’t rules made to be broken?

I’ve been experimenting a lot with my fiction lately, trying not to stay in that old rut that us writers get into. If it ain’t broken don’t fix it. Well, I want to break it and change it and mold it into something different. I want to change the way people view the short story. It isn’t always about what follows the rules the best, but what story is the best story told. That’s what I’m looking for. That’s what I want to do. Change the short story world, one imperfect story at a time.

Wish me luck—I may need it.

***

As of today I sit at 10,601 words written on the month of March, keeping with my thousand words a day goal. I’m still holding strong and looking to continue doing so.

So far for the year I sit at 101,587 words. I think that’s a good number. What do you think?

***

Don’t forget I have an interview up at SNM Horror Magazine. I know many of you will want to read the Romero interview, but if you can read it and then the next two interviews you will see my ugly mug, donning my always there sunglasses and then my interview. It’s a fun read and Kasandora Lilith asked some great questions.

You can find it here: SNM Horror Magazine Interview

***

A couple of other notes and I’ll be off.

I received a couple of acceptances in the last few days. I’m pretty stoked about both of them. The first one is my short story, “I Carved Her Name Upon My Skin,” to Sinister Tales. It’s slated to debut on April 15th. As the date gets closer I’ll keep you updated on where it can be purchased.

The other acceptance is to a place I’ve wanted to get into ever since I heard of them: Every Day Fiction. They accepted my story, Losing Grandma, for publication. As soon as I know the date, I’ll let you all know.

That’s about it for now. I’m tired and have a few other things to do. For now I’m AJ and I’m out.

Snow In South Carolina? Yeah, Right.

2009-03-03T16:02:00.000-08:00

February has come and gone and, just like that we are at the beginning of March.

Here in the heart of South Carolina we have managed to survive the Winter Storm of 2009 getting so much snow that we . . . couldn't even see it. I awoke on Monday morning expecting to see anywhere from three to six inches of snow on the ground and saw exactly . . . none. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

My children were disappointed, as I'm sure most, if not all, the children of Columbia were when they got up to see their yards just as they had been left the day before. We were Snowless in Columbia but still there were inclement weather delays and closings. Are you serious? Closings? Yes, many schools and businesses closed on Monday because of the threat of winter weather.

Amazing. It's going to suck when South Carolina gets some real winter weather. "Shut the state down. Call the president. Declare South Carolina a disaster area and pray for financial relief."

On the news we'll see some redneck, probably from my family, with a beer in her hand, her hair all messed up and stubble on her chin, crying about her coon dogs' tongues being stuck to the bumper of her pick up truck. You know, the one with the shot gun rack in the window and the squirrel tail on the extended antenna.

Snow. In Columbia? Yeah right.

***

Sometimes it's nice to say I told yah so. So, here we go:

I TOLD YAH SO.

***

I think this is going to be a short blog today. I have a lot to do and not near enough time to do it in.

For those keeping track, February was a down month for writing. I still met my thousand words a day goal and ended up with 37659 words on the month.

However, I only received two acceptances for submissions I sent out, bringing my total to just five for the year or only 10% of what I would like to have by the end of the year. I admit I got a little discouraged when one story was rejected—I just KNEW it was going to make it into the publication I sent it to, so when it didn't I got bummed for a couple of hours. Put that in the 'don't count your chickens before they hatch' category and move on. Nothing to see here, folks. It's all under control.

***

A couple of other things:

I was interviewed for SNM Horror Magazine and it is live here:

SNM Interview

You'll need to scroll down and try to make it pass the Romero interview and the two that follow. If you can do that and get over my ugly mug, read the interview. I would appreciate it.

Also, 2M Magazine is not accepting submissions. The short version of the fiction guidelines are as follows:

Stories up to 1500 words. This is a firm word count. 2M will not publish any fiction longer than 1500 words. Stories can be horror, fantasy or action/suspense. They pay 1 cent per word. If you have something you want to send along, send it to:

ajbrown@darkmythproductions.com

Though the website is not currently up, you can find the full guidelines here:

2M Guidelinese

***

That's about it for today. I'm AJ and I'm out.

Aggravating &%^$#* and Other Stuff

2009-02-19T18:22:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I get aggravated. Maybe I shouldn’t, but hey, I’m human. Or at least that’s what they tell me. I’m not so sure I believe them. Most of the time I get aggravated over stupid stuff. I will be the first to admit that my patience meter is never really at a high level of tolerance. Sometimes, however, I believe that my ire is justified.

Example #1:

When we pick my daughter up from school we go through the carpool. We have a number that hangs on the rearview mirror. When we drive around to the side fence a teacher calls Chloe’s name and walks her out to the car. She hops in and we go on our merry way. Today there was an SUV in front of me and when their child was in the vehicle the driver decided not to stay in line and whip out around other cars picking their kids up. The driver almost hit the car that was at the front of the line.

But wait, it gets better.

At the stop sign the driver made a right. There just so happens to be a crossing guard there. While the guard and two children were in the middle of the road, the driver tries to go around them in front of them. The guard, Mr. Wilson (does every school have a Mr. Wilson??), hurried the kids across the street and the SUV sped off.

Needless to say, I got aggravated.

Example #2:

Again, someone in a car. This time it is a woman and she runs right up on my bumper. She whips out in front of a car in the lane beside me and passes by. I glance at her as she is zooming past. She wasn’t even looking at the road but in a bag that was on her lap. It looked as if her KNEE was the only thing steering the vehicle. She zoomed on down the street, swerving back and forth in her lane and right on top of other cars, who eventually got out of her way.

Needless to say, I got aggravated.

Example #3:

I’m an idiot.

Needless to say, I get aggravated at myself.

Example #4:

I was at the pet store with my lovely wife. We were searching for some turtle food for Turquoise O’Malley, our turtle. Yes, I like to state the obvious. The prices are on the shelves just below the items. While we searched for the right foods for O’Malley we looked at the prices and compared the stickers with the items on the containers. NONE OF THEM MATCHED UP.

What?

None of the price tag descriptions matched the items above it (or below it for that matter). We spent several minutes comparing items to tags, not wanting to get up to the cash register and see that something was really five bucks more than the tag said.

Why? Why can’t the stores have the items marked properly? Why? Someone, please tell me why?

Needless to say, I got aggravated.

Example #5:

See example #3.

You get the picture by now, right?

***

On to writing related stuff.

For those of you keeping track, I have a 1000 words a day minimum for writing. That’s minimum. As of this morning I sit at 30052 words for the month of February and a little over 80,000 words for the year. This is a good thing. What makes it even better is most of the stories I have started I have finished. This means I am writing more and finishing more of projects. I’m happy about that.

As for the publishing goal, well, I sit at 5 so far for the year, which is about 10% of my annual goal of 50 pubs in a single year. I know it’s an awfully high number but what good would it do if I set the goal low enough that I knew I could attain it?

Two of them came out in the last two weeks. One of them is a story called “Stupor.” It’s got a little more language in it than I normally use. You can find it at The Flash Fiction Offensive. Follow this link and give it a read:

Stupor at Flash Fiction Offensive

The other one is a story titled “Do You Know Me?” It is a look at the battered victims of abuse. It appears at The Patchwork Project, a site dedicated to bringing awareness of abuse in the world. You can find it here:

Do You Know Me at Patchwork Project

Also, my story “Sarah’s Playground,” Which came in second place for the erotic horror contest held by SNM Horror Magazine can be found here:

Sarahs Playground at SNM Magazine

Scroll down a little bit and read the story. It was chosen as the SNM story of the month, so I’m good with second place.

***

I’m tired now—it’s been a long day. I think I’ll go take a shower and call it Thursday. Night everyone.

I’m AJ and I’m out.

2M--IT'S COMING

2009-02-15T18:17:00.000-08:00

That's right. It's coming.

2M.

Want to know more?

I'll fill you in later.

Just know--2M is coming.

Peace. I'm out.

A Real Value

2009-02-09T17:08:00.000-08:00

Value.

It’s a simple word. The implications of it, however, are not so simple.

This is how Webster defines it:

Noun

1. A numerical quantity measured or assigned or computed; "the value assigned was 16 milliseconds".
2. The quality (positive or negative) that renders something desirable or valuable; "the Shakespearean Shylock is of dubious value in the modern world".
3. The amount (of money or goods or services) that is considered to be a fair equivalent for something else; "he tried to estimate the value of the produce at normal prices".
4. Relative darkness or lightness of a color: "I establish the colors and principal values by organizing the painting into three values--dark, medium...and light"-Joe Hing Lowe.
5. (music) the relative duration of a musical note.
6. An ideal accepted by some individual or group; "he has old-fashioned values".

Verb

1. Fix or determine the value of; assign a value to, as of jewelry or art work.
2. Hold dear; "I prize these old photographs".
3. Regard highly; think much of.
4. Place a value on; judge the worth of something; "I will have the family jewels appraised by a professional".
5. Estimate the value of something.

Hmmm…

How about this one:

Value: the worth of something to any individual (s), regardless of the worth to another individual (s).

Just recently a friend of mine, a very enthusiastic individual, made a statement that struck me. I don’t know why, but the moment he said it a thought came to mind. Here is what he said (used with permission):

I love creating value where previously there was no value!!

Of course he was talking about a publication and I believe he will indeed create value where there is none right now. However, the words went deeper for me.

Let me explain. One of the most valuable things I own is an old—I mean OLD—Black and Decker drill my dad gave to me a couple of years ago. It’s near priceless for me. First of all, I watched my dad use this drill when I was a kid and then when I became a teen he let me use it. It’s big, it’s powerful, it can break your wrists if you are not holding it correctly and the bit catches. Trust me, I know.

I was over at my parents’ house one day and Dad was cleaning out his tool shed. He asked if I wanted an old toolbox, which I said yes. Then he picked up an old sander and a couple of other tools. “Put these in your car, take them home with you.”

I did as Dad said. Then he pulled out the old drill and handed it to me.

“Dad, I can’t take this,” I said.

“Yeah you can. Take it.”

He shoved the drill into my hands and I stared at it. I think I was in shock that he was actually giving it to me. I set it on the front seat—the other tools went in the trunk. When I got home, I put a bit in it and clamped down a piece of wood. I drilled several holes just for the sake of doing so.

The board is hanging in my garage, its many holes in it. I use the drill whenever I work on anything, even putting long screws in things. One time I thought I had broken the drill—my dad taught me how to get bits out when I don’t have a chuck key for it. I gripped the spinning assembly and it stopped, just like always, but then it wouldn’t go back into place.

I was devastated. Seriously. I was upset that I had broken the drill. I finally managed to get it unlocked and let out a deep sigh of relief.

It is one of my most prized possessions. Its value to me is like the MasterCard commercial: PRICELESS. For me, this Black and Decker drill would be worth more than it would be to say, my wife, or a friend who works construction who has three or four drills . . . or, really anyone. The VALUE of that drill can never be replaced with money or another one like it.

This is because of the attachment to it. It was my dad’s. It’s now mine. Hopefully it will still be working when my son gets old enough to use it. It’s as much an heirloom for me as your mother’s fine china.

Go back to the statement for a minute.

I love creating value where previously there was no value!!

That is what happened to that drill the day Dad gave it to me. It may have been only worth a couple of bucks if we tried to sell it in a yard sale, but when it went from his hands to mine, the true value of it soared. We made some value out of something with little value to it anymore.

Do you see where I am going with this? Do you see?

If not, let me clarify.

Each person has something that they cherish. It could be a stuffed animal a loved one gave to them. (I have a little stuffed raccoon that was given to me when I was six and had surgery on my ears. His name is Rocky. I still have him today. My raccoon is 32 years old and a very valued possession). It could be a piece of jewelry. Maybe it’s a ticket to a sporting event or a concert. Who knows?

You do.

That thing that you cherish, think about it for a minute. Now, think about it a little more. How many people would actually say it has any real value? To them it may just be a piece of junk, but to you it’s something far more precious.

My son has a little blanket he got from my work when he was born. It has a dog head and arms and is white with black spots. His first name is embroidered at the bottom of it. Logan simply cause it his ‘Doggie.’ To my four year old this blanket is everything. When he gets a boo boo (yeah I use that word) he wants his Doggie. He will wrap it around the boo boo if he can and hold it there. If he is crying, he usually stops within a few seconds. He lays Doggie on his pillow at night and lays his head on it. He talks to Doggie a lot and we rarely leave the house without him.

We asked Logan what Doggie’s name was and he looked at us with a DUH expression on his face. He said, “Doggie Brown.” The blanket is family to him. That’s value. That’s real value.

It may not mean much to anyone else, but without Doggie, Logan will not go to sleep, no matter how tired he is.

Now, I know this is not what my friend meant when he made his statement, but this is how it struck me. Since he was referring to a publication, let me put it into a more writing oriented perspective.

Think about a publication you want to get into. Think about an award you want. Think about something that you want out of your writing experience. What is it? Popularity? Money? Both? To be a Best Seller? An award winner? What is it?

What if it is just to get your first publication? That’s big, folks. But, say your first publication is an online, non paying market. Does that make the publication less of a big deal? No, it doesn’t. That first publication for the writer means someone somewhere liked what he/she wrote enough to publish it. It may not be a big deal to the writer who has published 200 stories and has made some money off of it, but it is to that writer getting that first publication. That publication is the most valuable one there is—it builds confidence, if not monetary gains.

Now do you get it? What may be worth nothing to you may be worth the world to someone else.

Again, I know this is not what my friend meant—he meant marketing and getting the name of a publication out there; getting folks fired up about it and bringing in revenue and the like. But, for me, the statement stirred other thoughts about the true meaning of the word VALUE as used in every day life.

There are other ways to take that word but, for me, this is my view on it. I’ll say this and then I’m done: If you see something that is insignificant to you but important to someone else, try to find out why it is important, why they cherish something the way you do. There may be a touching story behind it. One that you can take home with you and think about; one that may change your view on the value of things in one’s life.

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

No Rules, She Won and A Cross

2009-02-06T20:18:00.000-08:00

I’ve got a new saying. Sometimes I come up with something that I really like or I play with words or slogans, changing them slightly. A couple of months ago while explaining confidence in one’s ability to write I used sports as an example. Basically, the only way an athlete becomes good is to practice, practice, practice. Then, as they get better at their chosen sport, they gain confidence in their skills.

Writing is much the same way. You have to practice at it, learn from your mistakes and continue to grow as a writer. At the end of this I told the young lady, “No rules, just write.” This is an obvious play on Outback Steakhouse’s “No Rules, Just Right,” slogan. I thought it was cool and it fit the topic. I’ve used it a couple of times since then. I really like it.

I really do.

It reminds me to not worry about the writing but to just do it; keep working at it. One day that hard work and dedication will pay off. Maybe not in a Super Bowl or World Series but maybe in a big publication or something of the like.

The more I say it, the more I think it goes right along with my mindset. I won’t cut a story short so it can fit in a word count. If the story needs to be 12,000 words, then I let the story complete itself. I don’t hold it to that three to five thousand word range. I let the story live.

No Rules, Just Write.

Say it a few times. Think about it. Give it a shot.

No Rules, Just Write.

***

Umm . . . she won.

Yeah, that's right. She won.

Who? What? Who won what?

Oh, yeah, I guess it would help if you knew who won what, right? Say that five times real fast.

Fran Friel, a dear friend of mine, won the Black Quill Reader's Choice Award for her collection of short stories, Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales. This collection, put out around this time last year by Apex Book Company is anchored by the novella, Mama's Boy, a Stoker finalist two years ago.

If you haven't picked this collection up you should. There is something in it for just about everyone who loves good horror stories. There is a pirate story, a story told from a dog's point of view, a deal with the devil type of tale and a delusional yarn with the feel of Psycho to it among others.

Fran is deserving of this award and the fact that the readers chose her makes it very special. For those of you who voted for Fran, I thank you. I'm sure she will do the same when it sinks in.

To go with this award, Fran has made the preliminary ballot for the Stokers. The finalists and winners will be announced in the not too distant future.

If you will, congratulate Fran if you know her. If you don't, well, you don't know what you're missing. She is truly a wonderful person and a great writer. And a true inspiration for folks like me.

So, Fran, big sis, congratulations from your L'il Brother. Here's to future success!

You can find the collection at Apex Book Company here:

Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales

***

In other news of the not so weird:

In my quest for 1000 words a day every day I find myself sitting at 10777 words for the month of February. I’ve written a couple of really cool stories so far this month and I’m excited about editing them. One of them has me really stoked and hopefully in the coming months I can announce it has been published.

Going into today I was a bit concerned. I had received three rejections this month. The two that were not form rejections were nice and one of them very informative on why they weren’t taking the story. I appreciate the comments and thoughts. It’s not every day the editors will tell you why they don’t like a particular story. Especially since many publications get two and three hundred submissions a month and space and time are of limited quantity.

I was 0 for 3 on the month when I received my first acceptance of February. The place is called Flash Fiction Offensive, a fairly new site. The story is called “Stupor.” The editor, Rey Gonzalez, pointed out something that could strengthen the piece and I’m going to work on it tonight and probably tomorrow, but as it stands, “Stupor” is slated to come out next Friday.

You can check out Flash Fiction Offensive here:

Flash Fiction Offensive

Read some of their stories in their archives here: FFO Archives

Also, my story, Sarah’s Playground, is currently up at SNM Horror Magazine. It came in second place in their erotic horror themed contest. Second place. So close. So close.

SNM Horror Magazine Sarah’s Playground

Be warned. Language, nudity, sex. It’s all in there, as well as golfing and dead men. Scroll down the page and give it a read.

***

This is the section where I usually pimp my friends. Since I already pimped out Fran (for those of you speed readers who may have missed it, look up a few paragraphs), I will take a moment to mention John Rowlands.

John has a new short short up at Six Sentences, a website where you can only use six sentences to tell a story. Yeah, I know—kind of obvious, huh?

His story is titled “The Cross.” It’s a good piece, kind of chilling when you think about the topic. Stop by and give it a read, rate the story and leave him a comment. I’m sure John would appreciate it.

The Cross

I guess that’s about it for now, so until next time, I’m AJ and I’m out.

Some Odd Ramblings and Pimping Out Some Friends

2009-02-02T18:28:00.000-08:00

February is upon us, the Super Bowl is over and I throw props out to the Steelers and my friend Jessica, who is a true blue, Pittsburgh born fan. Congratulations Pittsburgh and Jessica. Thanks to Pittsburgh winning I won’t be rewriting that song those kids sang in the video you sent me.

***

My son goes to our church day school. Sometimes Catherine will sub for an absentee teacher and stay after and watch the children during staff meetings. Last Thursday there was a staff meeting and my wife hung out with the staff’s children in the nursery. Logan, my son, made Catherine lunch with the various play foods they had.

“Where’s my drink?” she asked after he served her lunch with no beverage.

A moment later he came back to her ‘table’ and gave her a ketchup bottle.

“Is this Coke?” Catherine asked.

Logan rolled his eyes. “Nooooooo. It’s beer.”

Oh boy.

***

Speaking of my son, tonight it was just he and I for a while. We played Hot Wheels and then we started to wrestle—a favorite past time of his. Somehow during the wrestling he sat on my hand and put both of his feet on my shoulder, putting me in one of those arm locks you see in the fake wrestling on television. I couldn’t help but laugh and then wonder where he learned this trick. We don’t watch wrestling. Not since my daughter was about three.

The next thing I knew we had morphed into cars—more importantly, characters from one of the Hot Wheels movies. I became Torro and he became Bert. We ran through the house, engines revving, tires screeching, racing through the World Race. At one point my son ran from the front room and into the kitchen. He grabbed the doorjamb and headed for the hallway and the bedrooms.

One slight problem.

Logan didn’t let go. As his feet went up in the air and my son went sideways he didn’t miss a beat. He squealed his ‘tires’ while he was airborne and sideways. He looked like a skateboarder without the board. I tried to catch him but somehow or other I missed and he landed on his . . . feet.

I stood there amazed, my engine suddenly idling without so much as a pop-pop-pop. My son, however, took off through the hallway and back into my bedroom where he leapt onto the bed without slowing down.

***

One more thing about ‘the boy’ and I’ll move on to other topics. Just before his bedtime we were watching that same Hot Wheels movie that we had been pretending to be characters from. It was the end of the movie and I stood up and stretched. Logan had his Hot Wheels tracks out—much like the ones in the movie—and had been playing as the movie rolled on.

At the end is a song by Smashmouth called “Hot.” I had my back to Logan but I could hear him singing the words he knew. I glanced down in time to see him dancing to the ‘hot, hot, hot, hot’ part.

He stopped dancing and looked at me. He shrugged and put his arms out by his side.

“What, Daddy?” he asked with a sheepish grin. “What?”

Do you remember those days when your parents would see you dancing or singing or talking to yourself and get all embarrassed when you realized they were watching you? If so, this was one of those moments.

***

This past weekend we all went on a nature walk along the new Cherokee Indian Trail in Cayce, just off Old State Road. The sign at the beginning said it was 2.5 miles long. Umm . . . using a word from my daughter: whatever. I think it may have been twice that length. We ended up carrying Logan halfway through it. That was a LONG walk for his little legs. The good thing is he slept well that night. We all did.

At any rate, we took some cool pictures and had a lot of fun. We found this really heavy chain not too far from a bridge and what looked like an axle of an old vehicle—the closer we got to it we realized it was the wheels and axle of possibly and old semi. How it got all the way back there is beyond me. I got some great story ideas, especially when we saw this log that looked like it could have been an alligator sitting just out of the water with his jaws exposed. No, it wasn’t a gator, just a log. Which is a good thing.

***

The month of January ended with me holding steady to a couple of writing goals.

The first of these is my thousand words a day quota. Yeah, I sound like a big bad cop.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brown, did you reach your quota for the day?”

”Why, yes sir I did.”

“Are you certain?”

“Umm . . . Pick up the phone the call is free. Safe Auto. . .”

Yeah, I know that was cheesy but that commercial played during the Super Bowl last night and I remembered thinking it was near idiotic but still funny. Poor cops.

Anyway, I did hold strong to my thousand words a day goal, surpassing the monthly objective of 31,000 words by a whopping 22,000 words. I ended the month of January with 53,327 words written. That translates to 28 stories, some shorter than others, some longer. I would say that was a good start to the writing portion of the year.

I subbed out 26 stories and heard back from nine of them within that time period. Three accepts and six rejects. Still, that’s not a bad average. That puts me at only 6% of my goal of 50 publications within the year of 2009. Still, it’s a head start and I’m excited about the progress so far.

I’ll start back submitting tomorrow. I have six or seven places I’m looking at right now. If you have any suggestions for places to submit to, pass them along. Don’t be shy. I don’t bite.

***

Just a couple of more things. An acquaintance of mine, John Mantooth, has a story in Shroud Magazine. John is a tremendous writer. I wish I could tell you that you could read it online but you can’t. So, why don’t you head on over to this link and order you a copy:

Shroud Magazine

Chris Perridas, a good friend of mine, recently wrote the introduction to the limited edition of Andersen Prunty’s ‘Market Adjustment.’

As Fran Friel put it, he is too humble of a man to toot his own horn so why don’t we do it for him. You can check out the limited edition of ‘Market Adjustment’ with Chris’ introduction here:

Market Adjustment

Now, for those of you not keeping score at home, my story, Sarah’s Playground, is currently up at SNM Magazine. It came in second place in their erotic horror contest for the February edition of SNM Magazine.

Check it out here:

SNM Horror Magazine

You have to scroll down a little in order to read the story.

Now, can I ask someone a favor? I try and keep a copy of each story I get published in a book. Most of the time I can print out the online stories at work. But, since this is a blocked site at work I can’t do that with this one. And, since I have no printer at home, I can’t print it out here. Would someone mind printing this one out for me and mailing it to me? If so, just send me a message and let me know you can do this. Please?

I would greatly appreciate it.

I think that is about it for now. So, until next time, I’m AJ and I’m out.

So Close, Yet So Far Away

2009-01-31T11:30:00.000-08:00

Yup. That’s right. So close, yet so far away.

I wrote a story last year for a prompt in a writing contest, held with a private group, a members only kind of thing. It was called the Long Write. It’s kind of a Survivor meets King’s ‘The Long Walk.’ It had an immunity challenge and a story challenge, basically giving us two prompts to write on in one week. If you won the immunity—yeah, you guessed it—then it didn’t matter how much your story sucked in the main competition, you were through to the next round.

The competition was stiff, with some pretty good lesser-known writers—like myself—involved. John Lovero, Jamie Sunshine, Shanna Wynne, Michelle Garren Flye, Erik Smetana and several others. There was even a bit of trash talking going on. That’s right Lovero, just keep looking over your shoulder, I’ll be back.

I participated in this competition twice before those involved had to shut it down due to time constraints. I came in second in the first one behind Lovero and third in the second one, behind Lovero and Smetana. Winning the competition would have been cool but competing in it was a blast.

Why?

Simple. The prompts were unique and challenging. And the fact that I am ultra competitive helped. There were the standard prompts like write a story in the style of Poe or Lovecraft. Then there were the not so generic ones like the one where we had to write a humorous piece on a dog having a conversation with his heartworms. Oh and the one where we had to write a bizarro style story. My head hurt after that one.

Then there was the horror golf prompt. Ugh . . . I really do not like golf. I had to research a little bit about the various terms used in the ‘sport,’ as well as other things about it. I started two stories and didn’t like either of them. Then I started my third one. It was an erotic horror story titled “Sarah’s Course of Pleasure and Pain,” where playing only one hole mattered (Yeah, bad pun. Sorry). I don’t remember how I fared in that round—I made it through to the next one and that’s what mattered.

When the round was over I stored the story in my “I Will Never Find A Market For This” folder. Hmmm . . .

It seems I was wrong.

I had read some stories in an e-zine called SNM Horror a couple of months ago. So, I checked out the submissions guidelines and saw that they were running a contest for erotic horror stories for their February issue. I read over the very few erotic themed horror pieces I had and didn’t think they would be good enough. Then I remembered the Long Write story. I found it, opened it, read it and thought that it may have a shot. So, I edited it and sent it off.

To my joyous surprise, it came in 2nd place. Hey, that sounds about right. Second place in the Long Write, second place in the horror erotic category. And second place is money, so there’s an added bonus.

So, for anyone who wants to check it out (subliminal message: ALL OF YOU WANT TO READ THIS), it was released this morning. So, head on over to SNM Horror Magazine and peruse the stories, including ‘Sarah’s Playground,’ the story’s new title. You can find it here:

SNM Horror Magazine

You have to scroll down to find my story, but it’s there in all its glory. Check out the winning story as well, ‘Immortal Stone’ by Elizadeth Hetherington. Yes, that is the right spelling—I had to double check to make sure. Then when you are done, peruse the rest of the stories and the other things the site has to offer.

***

One other note and I’ll leave you for today.

My story ‘Laying Down An Old Friend’ is up at Six Sentences. This is a cool website and I’ve enjoyed the challenge of writing a story in just six sentences.

Check it out here:

Layind Down An Old Friend

Read it, rate it, leave a comment if you will.

For now I am done. I’ll be back tomorrow some time, probably after the Super Bowl with my wrap up of January and a few funny little stories for you all.

Until tomorrow, I am AJ and I’m out.

Random Thoughts, Writing Progress and Other Stuff

2009-01-27T18:32:00.000-08:00

Uggghhhh…

This weekend my lovely wife and I were unfortunate enough to get sick. Yuck. She had it worse on Saturday. I had it worse on Sunday. But, either way, we both had it together. Isn’t that what love is all about?

Sunday evening, sick and doped up, we made our way to Catherine’s company Christmas party. What’s that, you ask? Christmas party? Uh, yeah. Haven’t you ever heard of having Christmas parties in January? Me neither, but my wife works retail and Christmas is their busiest time of the year so there was no taking time out during a money making opportunity.

At any rate, the party was at a bowling alley and had more of a man’s night out feel to it, though mostly women showed up. My wife and I bowled a couple of games with three other people. We had a pretty good time, even at the end when I was feeling worse for the wear and ready to go.

Throughout the evening our lane and the one beside us had all sorts of problems and by the end of the night when the manager at the front desk saw me coming he would say, “Lane 33, ball return?”

“Yup.”

A few minutes later our balls would magically reappear out of the mouth of the ball return and we would all bowl again. The lane beside us was a different story. Several times during their ONE game the lane just shut off, the lights went out and the ball wasn’t returned. Their scores went wacky and they would have to start over. This happened several times. It sucked for them but they made the most of it and had a good time. They even laughed about it quite a bit.

We went home and I readied for bed. It wasn’t even 9:30 when I told my wife whenever she wanted to go to bed was fine with me. I grabbed some stories I had printed out and sat on my bed, cross-legged and leaning against the wall. It didn’t take long for me to fall asleep. I awoke a little while later and tried to move. Everything from hips down had gone asleep and they didn’t wish to be bothered to do their jobs.

The next thing I knew it was morning and I had to pee—really, really bad. Sorry about flooding the house, Honey.

Medicine head went to work with no fever but a little spacey. While sitting at the computer during a down moment I started to write one of the weirdest stories I have ever penned. Even the title is interesting in and of itself. I’m not going into details because when the head is not so foggy I would like to edit it and send it out. It may be one of the better stories I have ever written.

They say drugs is how the rock and rollers do it…

***

Have you ever had a FLURP? You know, that thing that is kind of between a burp and throwing up but you don’t actually throw up. It’s like a little bit of acid comes up in your throat and burns like the dickens. It tastes horrible and leaves you coughing until that burning feeling goes away.

Yeah, I had one of those the other day and it was the most disgusting thing ever. I thought I would throw up after doing that. It was soooooo . . . nauseating. I drank milk for half an hour before the burning sensation went away and the taste finally faded.

Yeah, like you needed to know that, right?

***

The other day I took my family over to my parents’ house for a birthday party for my oldest nephew. He turned seven over the weekend. Happy birthday Ben.

While we were there, my sister pulls out a Nintendo DS and puts in the Super Mario game for that little hand held system. Folks, do me a favor: stay away from the Nintendo DS. That game is like crack. I had the shakes for a while after I put it down.

I played it for a few minutes and handed it over to my son who played it for a few minutes. Logan, my four year old, did better than I did. He gave it to my daughter, the seven year old, and she struggled with it. Enter John-John. He, like my son, is four years old. He sat down beside Chloe and looks over her shoulder.

“Get that,” he says. “Jump.”

My daughter’s man got killed. John gives her this look of utter impatience.

“No, Cho-we, you s’pose to jump. Jump. You know? Jump?”

“I tried,” Chloe says in defense of her lack of skill in the game.

For the next fifteen or so minutes, John sat there and told Chloe what to do. Each time her man got killed he fussed at her. He would throw his hands in the air, shake his head, roll his eyes and complain.

He’s got all the proper tools to be a football coach. Yup. That’s right. I’m going to start training him now so he can be a coach by the time he is ten.

***

My children and I wrestle a lot. Well, let me correct that. My children beat me up a lot. Yeah, that’s more like it. So, if you could help me out by sending bandages and ice packs to my home, I would appreciate it. A new heating pad would be nice, also.

I made the mistake tonight of taking my son’s ‘Doggie’ while we wrestled. He brought it into the fight so I took it from him, teasing him with it and then letting him take it from me. We do this quite often. However, tonight was a little different.

Usually, we wrestle on my bed and tonight that was the same. I had Chloe pinned because she kept going for my belly button—I am ticklish there. Logan comes up with Doggie and I take it from him while holding Chloe down with one leg. I held Doggie so Logan couldn’t get to it.

Chloe grabbed a head full of hair and pulled my head back. Yeah, she’s resourceful. She cracked me square one time before—she says she didn’t mean to but I’m not so sure. Anyway, that is for another time. So, Chloe had me by the hair, having wiggled her way into a position to do so. I had Doggie so Logan couldn’t get to it. The next thing I knew I was rolling off the bed holding my stomach. It seems my son decided to cannon ball me in the gut, knees first.

One thing is for certain: my kids will be able to take care of themselves when they get older.

***

My daughter came into my office after bedtime. She gave me a hug and said, “I love you, Daddy.” No better words to warm the heart. I told her I loved her, too and then I said:

“I’m going to pick you up and hold you upside down over my shoulder.”

“Okaaaaaaay,” she said.

“And then I’m going to drop you on your head.”

She nods and says. “Okay. That may be interesting.”

For those of you who didn’t laugh, there is humor in that. Now, start laughing.

***

On the writing front, I stand at 2 acceptances and 4 rejections so far this year. I’m batting .333, which isn’t too shabby for baseball. I honestly have no problem with that publication rate. That’s one out of every three subs getting accepted. I would like to keep that or better throughout the year.

On my quest to write 1000 words a day every day, I will admit there have been four days this month that I have not met that goal. Twice I did no writing at all. However, I sit at 43565 words for the month.

I’m excited about six or eight stories I have written this year that really have potential. I’ve set them aside for now so I can let my brain forget about them. Then I will edit them in a few weeks and send them out of the orphanage that is my hard drive and out into the world where they will hopefully find homes in publications. If they don’t, they are welcome home but you better believe their chores are going to increase.

***

Okay, for you horror writers out there check out The Haunt over at the Horror Mall. It’s a cool place to network and there are already over 400 folks signed up . . . and this just opened up last week.

Check out The Haunt here:

The Haunt

Also, you can still pick up a copy of Dark Distortions at Scotopia Press. My story, The Woodshed, which received a couple of recommendations for a Stoker (not enough for a preliminary nomination, though), appears within these pages.

Check it out here:

Scotopia Press

***

+The Horror Library+ Anthology Volume III has been out since late last year. It is filled with 30 stories from some very good writers. Gary Braunbeck, Kurt Dinan, Bentley Little, Cullen Bunn, John Everson, Jeff Strand, Lorne Dixon, A.C. Wise and many others appear in this collection.

My personal favorites include John Peters’, ‘Extra Innings,’ Matthew Lee Bain’s, ‘The Orange Mammoth,’ ‘Toll,’ by Blu Gilliand and, my favorite and probably the most disturbing story, in my opinion, is Charles Colyott’s ‘The Steel Church.’

If you haven’t checked it out, then you need to. Head over to Cutting Block Press by going here:

Cutting Block Press

Speaking of +The Horror Library+, if you are a writer and looking for a place to submit a story, they are accepting submissions for +The Horror Library+ Volume IV now. Just click the link above and check out their submissions guidelines.

***

One more thing before I go.

Do you know someone who has been abused? Physically? Emotionally? Mentally? If so, talk to them and try to get them to get out of any abusive relationships. Many of them are deadly for the victims and no one should have to suffer at the hands of someone they love. Especially when there is help out there.

If you are a writer, or even just a reader who would like to help the fight against abuse, please check out The Patchwork Project. It is ran by Douglas Burchill, who is a really cool dude.

If you are a writer there is a place that you can submit stories to The Patchwork Project. Though there is no pay, it is worthwhile to help bring awareness to abuse.

No, I’m not on a soapbox and I’m not preaching. But, if The Patchwork Project can help one person, then it is a success. You may know that person.

Check out The Patchwork Project here:

The Patchwork Project

***

That is all for now. I’ve got to go. Until next time, I’m AJ and I’m out.

Its A Lesson To Me

2009-01-22T19:26:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago came an occasion where I had to talk to a friend of mine about his progression as a writer. He was down, maybe a little depressed with what he perceived was the world passing him by; writers that had been writing as long as or even less than he had been were surpassing him in abilities. Or, so it seemed.

In short, he was frustrated with himself.

So, I sat him down and we discussed where he was, where he wanted to be and some of his ultimate goals as a writer. I shrugged.

"I know what you're problem is," I said.

"What is it?"

"You lack confidence in yourself."

"Nah. I've always been confident, even to a fault."

"That means nothing when it comes to writing."

"Why not?"

I had to think about that for a second or ten. I hadn't expected that question. This was my answer:

"You played sports growing up, right? Writing is like a sport."

He gave me a puzzled look.

"You have to want to play a sport in order to strive to get better at it. You have to want to write in order to strive to get better at it. Then you have to practice, practice, practice to continually better your skills as an athlete. It's the same with writing. You have to practice, write everyday. It's the only real way you can improve.

"Then there is the aspect of different techniques in sports. Take for instance baseball. One pitcher may throw four different pitches: a curve ball, a fast ball, a two seam fastball and a slider. While another pitcher may only throw three pitches: a fast ball, curve and a slow breaking ball. Let's say the pitching coach came in and told his pitchers he wanted to teach them a new pitch, maybe a split finger fast ball or a knuckle ball. They would have to learn how to throw it, learn the technique, how to grip the pitch, where to release it in the pitching motion, find out what type of outs you could get with those pitches (does it induce pop ups or ground outs or can they strike the batter out with it).

"Writing is very much the same. You learn one way of writing and then you expand, step out of your comfort zone and experiment a little. This makes you a well rounded writer. It gives you more styles to play with instead of the same cookie cutter way of writing.

"Like most athletics, there are rules you have to learn. The same with writing. There are dos and don'ts. You have to learn them. In sports, you can't learn all the rules at one time so you tackle them as you go along. You do that with writing as well—you tackle the writing rules one at a time, apply them to your writing and then moving on to the next set of rules. It helps you to build your abilities, albeit slowly."

I paused. My friend looked to be taking all of this in, nodding and so forth. He even asked a few questions, which meant he was actually listening.

I continued.

"You know though, all of this means nothing if you don't have confidence in your abilities."

"But I do have confidence," he argued.

"No, you don't. Its one thing to have confidence while you are writing, but it's another thing altogether to have confidence in someone else viewing what you have put down on paper. You have to view your abilities in a way that makes others believe in you. Without that confidence you can hang it up."

My friend chewed on these thoughts for a while.

You folks out there listen to me for just a second. Writing can be achieved by learning about it, practicing it and then having confidence in it. Will that make you a great writer? Maybe. It depends on the person; the determination of each individual. Pick something out that you absolutely LOVE to do. Not that you like, but that you LOVE. It is the thing that you probably practiced the most at to be good at it. Think about it. Am I right? Yeah, I thought so.

If you want to be a good writer then you have to work at it. Some folks have a gift and it comes naturally to them. I think my friend Dameion is that way—he just has a way with words and I don't know anyone who writes better than he does. Period.

Now, my friend, the one I have been talking about, well, I see him everyday when I look in the mirror. Sometimes he's cocky, but not often. Other times he's bullheaded, yeah very often. However, all of the time he works at it, works at the writing so one day he can be the best writer that he can offer up to the public.

Oh yeah and he's pretty confident in his abilities. Sometimes he actually listens to me.

Now, get to your desks, open up your processor program and get to writing. And, while you are at it, believe in your abilities. Sometimes you are the only one who believes in you. It's up to YOU to make everyone else believe in you.

For now, I'm AJ and I'm out.

It's A Girl Thing and Other Nonsense

2009-01-19T19:14:00.000-08:00

It’s a girl thing. That’s what it is: a girl thing.

Now, before I get into this, understand that I am talking about children here and some things just bother me, as a dad, which I probably wouldn’t think about if I were not a parent. One of those things is the pants with the words right on the butt. You know, words like CUTE, DIVA, BABY and things like that. These articles of clothing are made to bring attention to the female bottom. When that female is six then maybe she shouldn’t be wearing clothes with words on the butt. Just me? I hope not.

The other thing is what I would like to address now. I am constantly telling my niece to pull her pants up, your butt’s showing. Now, not all of her butt would be showing but enough of it so a person could see the booty crack. Too much butt showing for a nine year old, if you ask me. Now, I have to tell my daughter this same thing.

“Chloe, pull your pants up, your butt’s hanging out.”

My daughter has grown tired of me saying this but she still does it from time to time. Catherine bought her a belt to rectify the problem. Yet, still there are times I have to say those words: “Chloe, pull your pants up, your butt’s hanging out.”

Ah, but wait, there is more. You see I just discovered that this is INDEED a girl thing.

Today we took our children to one of the McDonald’s with the indoor play sets. While there, my son called me from atop one of the high landings within the play set. As I walked over to him I noticed two little girls, maybe under the age of five. They were heading up the large platforms in the same direction as my son. And guess what? Both of them had their butts hanging out.

I immediately turned to Catherine and said, “It’s a girl thing. They just like having their butts hang out.”

Catherine laughed at me and I pointed at the play set to the two little girls. “Their butt cracks are showing—I’m telling you it’s a girl thing.”

So, for all you dads out there having problems with your daughters about their butts hanging out don’t blame them. Blame the pants makers. Blame them for having these low rider types of pants.

The reason I think this is that you don’t see boys with pants that hug their waist letting them slide down to their hips and showing off their butts. Besides, boy undies fit differently than girl undies and the undies wouldn’t slide down to their hips unless the boy wasn’t wearing the right size underwear. Boy undies are made to hold, well, their boys in. Girl undies are made to look cute or pretty.

It’s all the clothing manufacturers’ faults. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

***

On another note, Chloe, Logan and myself were wrestling on my bed tonight. They were winning. I called for my wife to help but it did no good. She was in the office and oblivious to my pleas for assistance.

I am extremely ticklish and my daughter knows this. She went straight for my stomach and I flipped her off the bed (gently, mind you). She hopped back up and pounced on me as I tried to pry my son off of my head where he had a vice grip on the top of my skull. As I did so, Chloe darted in, her small hands radaring (is that even a word) in on my stomach. I flipped over, planting my belly on the bed and rolling my son off my head at the same time.

Chloe wasted no time and booty dropped onto my legs.

Whenever I am lazing around like I did most of the day I just wear an old shirt and jeans. The shirt I wore today had a hole in it right about at the right shoulder blade. Logan, hopped onto my back as Chloe tried to work her fingers between the bed and my belly button. He licked my shoulder blade through the hole in my shirt.

“Logan,” Chloe yelled. “Daddy, Logan just licked your hole.”

Of course, I started laughing.

“What?” Chloe asked. “What did I say?”

“Nothing, Sweets,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

***

I received my third rejection of the year yesterday and it was a fairly nice one. It said a few things nice about the story I had submitted, but ultimately, it wasn’t a fit. I’m good with that. It wasn’t a form rejection, so I can live with that.

Currently, my word count for the month of January resides at a little over 31,000 words. I’m happy with that progress. I have three stories I am currently working on, one of which is going to reach that 10K mark. The other two stories I’m not quite sure how long they will be but I know one of them will be at least 6K.

I have no problems with that either, even though there are not many markets out there for longer works. If you have followed me over the past year, then you know that I prefer to let stories breathe and tell themselves. I just come along for the ride.

***

Okay, shameless plug time. My story The Woodshed is in the Dark Distortions anthology that came out last year. You can still get copies of the anthology by visiting Scotopia Press’s website.

Scotopia Press

There are other really good stories in there besides The Woodshed but I’m kind of bias on this one—I love the story I placed there and I’m happy that Scotopia Press accepted it. Molly Feese is a wonderful editor and easy to work with, though my knuckles do hurt from the way she kept smacking them with a ruler whenever I reached for the cookie jar.

Also, my Six Sentences story appeared on Saturday at Six Sentences. You can check it out by going here.

Six Sentences

Leave a comment, rate it if you will.

***

They’re calling for snow here tonight. How about them apples? My son has never seen snow up close and personal so I kind of hope it happens just so he can get a chance to play in it.

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

Fight, Write Or Die and Other Notes

2009-01-16T19:33:00.000-08:00

My children often make me laugh, simply because of things they say or do or reactions they may have to things I say or do. My daughter, whom I write about a lot, often gets that chuckle out of me, even when she is in psycho mode, as she has been in today.

Ah, psycho mode. My daughter really hit it home today and I had to get on her a lot. I felt bad about it but there is only so much lip you can take from anyone, much less a child. But, that is really a story for another day.

The story for today in How My Children Scare Me is as follows:

Catherine and I were standing in the doorway of our bedroom. Well, I was in the doorway. She was in the bedroom. I said something, she remarked back.

“Woman, don’t make me come over there,” I said and pointed, jokingly, mind you.

She put her arms out and said, “Come on over here.”

She went all thug on me with the arm gestures and posturing. I started toward her and then stopped. We stood nose to nose and then it dawned on me: she was trying to provoke me into a wrestling match. Normally I would be all up for this, pun intended. But, there is something you need to know about the whole scenario that was about to play itself out: my two children are my wife’s henchmen.

Yes, you read right. My wife has her henchmen and they are seven and four years of age and vicious.

Catherine could be in the bedroom and I could be in the front room. She could laugh at a comment someone made on the phone and all of a sudden I hear one of my kids say, “Quick, Mommy’s in trouble.” The next thing you know Chloe and Logan run into the room where I am at and start wailing on me. I’m not talking love taps here, folks. I’m talking honest to goodness wailing, as if they were beating up someone their own size.

So as we stood toe to toe and I was about to pick her up and drop her to the bed in one of the Underwriter’s famous moves (inside joke, sorry folks for those who don’t know), it dawned on me. I started to chuckle.

“I know why you can be so confident in yourself right now and why you don’t back down but try to egg me on.”

“Why is that?” she said all innocent-like.

“Because all you have to do is laugh or scream out and they’ll come running.”

She smiled. “That’s right. Don’t forget it.”

Catherine made a fist at me and all I could do is shake my head and walk away.

Now, I’m sure some of you are saying, “what? Walk away?”

Yeah, I walked away. No, I’m not one to shy away from some good old wrestling with the wife. The truth is my children scare the living crap out of me. I am of the firm belief that they really are trying to hurt me when we wrestle. My son, Logan, doesn’t even call it wrestling. He yells out, “I’m gonna beat you up, Daddy,” before he tries to tackle me.

They head butt, folks.

They hit, folks.

They kick, folks.

My daughter even likes to pull hair.

To quote Linus Van Pelt: I’m doomed.

Once the little ones have a hold of me they can be vicious. And all the while, Catherine is usually laughing in the background.

And they say I’m the one who needs to be nicer to folks?

***

In writing news, I received my second rejection yesterday, this one from Shock Totem for a story I really want someone to pick up one day. But, that is okay because today I had a story accepted. This story may end up being the basis to something much longer. It is titled, “The Legend of Hollis Williams,” and I wrote it specifically for the website Six Sentences. What’s even better about this is that it goes live tomorrow!

So, check it out when you get a chance:

Six Sentences

That puts me at two acceptances for a 4% total of where I want to be at the end of the year. Remember, my goal is 50 publications THIS year.

***

On another note I have done pretty good with keeping my 1000 words a day pace going. As of yesterday I was sitting at 26,572 words in the first fifteen days of the year. That’s better than 11,000 words more than what I wanted at this point.

***

Though my story, The Woodshed, may not garner a full Stoker nomination I did receive word today that it got a second recommendation. Obviously, this made me feel good, but since we’re not supposed to lobby HWA members to read and recommend our stories for Stokers, it will more than likely fall short of the amount of recommendations needed to garner an out and out nomination.

At any rate, if you would like to read The Woodshed, you need to purchase Dark Distortions Volume I. It was put out by Scotopia Press and Molly Feese did a wonderful job of editing the story. She is one of those editors you just love to work with.

Check out Scotopia Press and Dark Distortions here:

Scotopia Press

***

And one final thought. When I was writing for NaNoWriMo someone posted a thread in a forum about a neat little website that helped them reach their goal of 1667 words per day, which is the minimum amount in order to reach 50,000 words in one month and consistently write every day.

The website is called Write Or Die.

I had completely forgotten about this website until the other day when I stumbled on it when looking for something else. I had a few minutes so I clicked on the site and then typed in that I wanted to type for 10 minutes. The pressure to write without stopping was intriguing since I like to stop and mess around in the middle of writing. Not for long, mind you, but only for a minute or two. I’ve actually stopped writing this three times since I sat down about fifteen minutes ago.

I typed and typed and then the timer went off and I kept on typing. I ended up typing for about twenty minutes and putting out 884 words. They may not have been the best quality of words but it did what I wanted it to do: forced me to write without stopping. Even though I only did it in the medium mode, I still felt the need to just type. It was like there was a gun pointing at me from inside the computer, warning me to write and not stop, lest I pay for it with a bullet to the brain. A zombie I am not so I don’t really have a reason to want a bullet to the brain, yah know?

If you want to check out Write or Die, look here:

Write or Die

Well, that’s it for now. Until next time, I’m AJ and I’m out.

Questions About the Homeless and An Update

2009-01-13T19:48:00.000-08:00

I have a few questions today. I hope some of you who read this would take the time to answer them.

Something came up in our office yesterday and a story idea came to mind. I've pondered it since then and have been wondering what other people think about certain things dealing with the homeless.

I want HONEST answers. I posed these questions to a writing workshop today and got some pretty interesting replies.

1. When a homeless person approaches you on the street what do you do?

2. What do you think about the people who hold up signs like, Will Work For Food or Homeless, Please Help?

3. Do homeless or street people scare you? If so, why?

Remember, I really would like honest answers on this--it won't help my story if the majority of the answers are politically correct. Uggh, I can’t believe I actually wrote those two words.

***

Yesterday I received my first rejection of the young year. It wasn’t too disheartening since the editors gave some good feedback on it and I can see what they are saying. It is a place I will submit to again in the near future and a story I will be working on to make it better and send it back out.

With a rejection in the hip pocket I awaited other replies for the ten stories I have submitted since the first of the year.

Lo and behold, this evening I check my e-mail and see a second response to a submission. With trepidation, I opened it and read it. Yeah, I’m smiling now. My story, Sarah’s Playground, was accepted for the February edition of SNM Magazine. To quote my good friend, John Miller: YIPPIE.

That’s one down, forty-nine to go. So, that’s what, 2% of the way to my goal?

***

My daily word count has been going well. Here it is, the thirteenth of January and I sit at a little over 21,000 words for the month. That’s 8,000 words over my daily goal. I’m pleased with that but the year is still very early and things tend to change. Hopefully, the enthusiasm won’t wane in the coming months.

***

I want to wish my older brother, Larry, a happy birthday. Tomorrow (January 14) is his fortieth birthday. Congratulations on making it this far.

***

Sorry to say I don’t have any humorous stories of my children tonight. Well, I do, but I’m pretty tired and I am heading to bed shortly. Tune in next time for another episode of How My Children Scare Me.

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

An Old Friend and Hubba Bubba Bubblegum

2009-01-10T19:41:00.000-08:00

On Thursday an old friend from my childhood called me up. His name is Tony and he lives in Raleigh now. He tells me he is coming to town this weekend. Unfortunately, his uncle had passed away and he would be coming to town for the funeral.

“Let’s get together,” he said.

I agreed.

So, tonight I went out to dinner with who I would consider to be one of my life long friends. We ate wings, watched the Ravens beat the Titans (YAY!) and talked. We did some reminiscing but not as much as I thought we might. Instead, we talked about the here and now, our lives as they are today.

It was a good conversation. It felt like old times, sort of. It’s odd, you know, seeing someone you have always been close to and not missing a beat, as if we still lived two houses down from each other. But, really, that’s the way it supposed to be with friends. Time may pass and miles may separate, but that bond has always been there.

Tony and I met when we were around nine or so. I believe he was nine and I was ten at the time. He was the first black kid on our street and we bonded instantly. From that day forth we were rarely apart, on through our high school days.

Tony reminded me of something that I had never forgotten but warmed me to hear it. Neither of our families were what you would consider well off. Not by any standards. I guess that’s what makes these old memories so special.

“Do you remember how we would walk to school and we would stop off and by that bubble gum?”

“Hubba Bubba bubble gum,” I said. “Never forget it.”

He flashed that brilliant smile that made many a female’s heart pitter-patter. “Yeah, Hubba Bubba bubblegum.”

“Even though I didn’t have much money, you always said, I got you, man.”

I chuckled. You know that memory chuckle?

“You remember in high school how we would catch the city bus and we would stop and get biscuits. Sometimes I wouldn’t be able to get one and you would say I got you, man?”

“Yeah, those were great biscuits.”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said and he set a football jersey on the table—a Steve Smith jersey.

Wow. That’s all I could say. Well, that and thank you.

We talked some more, recalling some brief things about our childhood friendship. Then we started talking football. Yeah, two men together eating wings, it’s bound to happen. But, it felt so right.

We talked about Uncle Bulldog and a little about his life. We talked about another friend of ours who died on Tuesday. He was only 38. We talked about my family and his family and I knew when he dropped me off tonight I would miss him dearly.

And I do.

Tomorrow Tony’s family will lay to rest Uncle Bulldog and the he will head back to Raleigh. We will go about our lives as usual. But, I know I will miss him a little more now. You see, time never slows. His dad is seventy and his mother is sixty-three. My parents are both in their early sixties as well. Years have passed and we’ve grown older, had children, pursued dreams. And Tony is still one of my two closest friends. The other one is another friend from school—Keith. He lives three blocks from me and we work together.

I sit here at this computer and I type this meager piece about our friendship and my mind is rushing back to the past recalling the Hubba Bubba bubblegum, the pick-up football and basketball games, taking about girls, riding the bus together; those great biscuits, hanging out at his house with his mom, Pinky Mae and his brothers and sisters, talking trash about his Cowboys and whatever team I happen to be pulling for at the time, music and jokes and just good old times.

Good old times? Yeah, that’s what they were. Yeah, we had our share of rough times. I venture to say, as our parents get older, we will have a few more. I’m not looking forward to that.

This is one of those times I’m not really sure how to end something. There are so many things I could write, but I don’t think there is enough space to put it all. So, I’ll leave by saying these things:

Cherish each day, each person you love. In the blink of an eye time catches up to you and you’re wondering what happened to it.

To Uncle Bulldog and Chico Davis, we will miss you and may God bless you in your journey home.

To Tony, thank you for always being there, always being my friend and I miss you.

To my other family, Pinky Mae, Janice, Shirley, John, Don and Hoghead (don’t ask), may God bless you and keep you.

And, for you, the reader who took the time to read this sentimentality of mine, thank you. For, without you, I would have no real reasons to write, would I?

I’m AJ and I’m going to go see if I can find some Hubba Bubba bubblegum. Until next time, I’m out.

Go Ahead and Smile and Other Thoughts

2009-01-08T19:44:00.000-08:00

I really don’t like to smile that often. It’s been that way for a long time—back since I was in my teens or so. This is a problem. You see, I made that resolution to be a kinder gentler Jeff—even if no one thinks I can do it—and I plan on giving it my best effort.

My friend, Chris Perridas, suggested that I smile more, that it actually can affect my attitude and the folks around me as well. So, I thought about it and decided to give it a go.

I walked down the hall this morning and smiled at one of the ladies as I passed her desk. And, yah know what happened? She frowned. She looked at me like I had lost my mind, like I was just a little on the nuts-o side of things. I felt like Wednesday Adams all of a sudden. You know that scene in the movie, Adams Family Values where she is forced to smile and it scared everyone in the camp? Yup, that’s what I felt like.

I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. If I’m going to scare people when I smile, well maybe I shouldn’t do it that often after all.

The good thing is I’m still not being negative about things and I’m still trying to be . . . gasp . . . nice.

Stay tuned.

***

On to other things.

My son likes to wake me up in the mornings—especially on Saturdays, the only day I get to sleep until it’s daylight. He crawls up in the bed between Catherine and myself.

“Hey, Daddy,” he says and smacks me in the head. “Daddy, I want to get up. Can you get up? Can you play with me? Can I have some drink? Daddy. Daddy, get up.”

I usually open one eye and look at the smiling face that is inches from my head.

“Hey, little buddy, lay down and go back to sleep.”

I usually try to get him to lie down between us but that doesn’t work.

“Daddy, come on. Get up.”

He crawls out the bed and tugs on my foot.

“Logan, wake your momma up.”

“No,” he says and lets go of my foot.

“Why not?”

“I scared to.”

Though I’ve heard this dozens of times it always gets me. “What?”

“I scared to wake Mommy up.”

“Why?”

“She’ll get mad.”

I usually sit up at this. “Are you afraid to wake Daddy up?”

“No,” he says but he doesn’t just say no. He says “Nooooooooooooo.”

Yeah, he drags it out like I’ve just asked him a dumb question. So, what do I do? I get up.

I tell you this because I’m the one who took the initiative to try and become kinder and gentler and my son is afraid to wake up his mother. What’s up with that?

***

On the writing front I have subbed out eight stories since the first and have hopes for each one. Now, just to sit back and wait for the responses. Fingers crossed and all.

The writing is coming along nicely as well. I wanted to write one thousand words a day and so far I sit at 15167 and counting. I should finish up a six thousand word story tomorrow and I have a few other things I want to get started in the next few days.

I haven’t started back on the novel yet, but I’m going to soon.

Okay, I’m done for now—the Bull Crap System game is about to start back and I’m pulling for Florida. Though I’m not a big fan of the Gators, I do like Tim Tebow. I’ve been pulling for the Florida Tebows in this one.

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

The New Year and A Few Resolutions That I Won't Keep

2009-01-05T17:50:00.000-08:00

Let’s start the year off on the right foot: HAPPY NEW YEAR to all you folks out there.

It’s been a while, I know, but a lot has been going on and I haven’t been posting as much as I should. I know. I know. Bad, bad AJ. But, hey, it’s life and it is what it is, right?

Okay, here we go. It is January 5th—the first Monday of the New Year. I’ve set for myself some goals with my writing and would like to share them to all of the three people who read my posts. I set goals every year but these are a bit different. They are a little tougher and will make me work harder if I want to reach them.

Here they are in no specific order:

1) I want to write 1000 words a day. Every day. Yeah, that one might be tough. If you do the math that’s 365,000 words this year. Personally, I think that is attainable. For an update on that: So far this year (all of 5 days), I’ve written 4 flash stories and 2 short stories, which equals a little over 8000 words so far.

Now, just to keep that enthusiasm and pace…

2) I want to publish 50 stories this year. Yeah, that’s a LOT and that may be a little tougher, considering the most stories I’ve ever published in one year is 27. But, I’m thinking positive here and setting the sights kind of high on purpose.

3) I want to get paid more this year than last year for my stories. I have a goal of 500 bucks, which isn’t a lot but when you consider the small press, it’s a bunch.

4) Here is the part that may be toughest of all for me: I want to branch out more. I want to write some things that are not horror related. I’m already breaking a sweat on this one. That nervous tick is coming back and I’m grinding my teeth.

5) Finish the novel I started for NaNoWriMo. I reached the word count easily enough but I haven’t really worked on it since reaching the goal. The story is too good not to finish.

And then there is the final goal for this year: To write more blogs and network a little better than in the past. That includes these little pieces like the one I am writing now.

Okay, if you have read this far, I would like to point out my personal New Year’s resolution, which I almost blew on the first day.

Catherine, my lovely wife, and I were talking and I said to her, “Hey, Babe,” (Yeah, that’s what I call my wife), “I think I’m going to try and be a kinder, gentler Jeff this year.” For those not in the know, the J in AJ stands for Jefferson but I go by Jeff. Don’t call me Jeffery or Jeffy. It might get you—oh wait, I almost blew it again.

“Really? Again?” Catherine said as she stirred her coffee full of creamer that could put hair on your chest, but thankfully, not hers.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, feigning that I was wounded by her two words.

“Didn’t you try to be nice before?”

“Well, yeah, but that was a while back.”

“Okay.”

“What? You don’t think I can do it?”

She didn’t really answer the question, per say, but she did say, “Well, I heard you tell Keith that a couple of years ago and he started laughing at you.” She gave me one of her pretty smiles. I think she was trying not to laugh at me.

“Yeah, but that was a few years ago.”

“Okay, if you think you can do it.”

At this point I am waiting for her to say something like, I will support you or back you up on this, but NO, that never came. Just, “Okay, if you think you can do it.”

“You don’t think I can, do you?”

She glanced at me. It was one of those looks that said everything. No, she doesn’t believe I can do it.

“You see, this is why I can’t do it. No one believes I can be a kinder, gentler Jeff. This is why I don’t make it past the first day.”

After that she was laughing, but I think it was one of those, ‘you’re pathetic’ laughs.

I walked away. And, as I sit here now, my muse on my shoulder whispering in my ear and rubbing his hands together, I have decided to use this disbelief as motivation. It’s bulletin board material, folks, and if I cared to use Facebook I would put it on the bulletin board there. But, I don’t care to use Facebook that often so I’ll just post it on my forehead and look in the mirror each morning.

By the way, I haven’t blown it yet and I’m five days in. I think the excessive writing has a lot to do with that.

Okay, I am finished running my mouth or fingers, depending on how you look at it. Until next time—and there will be a next time—I am AJ and I’m out.

Starting Them Young

2008-11-28T13:21:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving. What a blast. I love the food and the fun. It is, for the most part, a wonderful time each year. But, it is not necessarily Thanksgiving that I wish to talk to you all about today.

Today I would like to talk about the day before Thanksgiving or Thanksgiving Eve. Yeah, it’s lame. I know. More specifically, I want to talk about something that happened this Thanksgiving Eve.

Before I go into that I would like to tell you about one of my daughter’s favorite things to do. She likes to walk through the house talking in an automated-type voice. She says, “I am a robot and I am here to disturb you.” Keep that in mind while you read. That statement, in and of itself, is disturbing.

Now, onto Thanksgiving Eve.

Upon arriving home on Wednesday my children went outside and I went in to the kitchen where my wife, Catherine, was preparing the turkey—her first. I’m sure she’ll remember her first time. Ba-dum-bum. Come on guys. Cut me some slack.

I looked out the kitchen window and what do I see? Guess. Okay, you’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. I saw my seven-year-old daughter digging a hole with my shovel.

“What is she doing?” I asked my wife and then proceeded to head outside. I stopped near my daughter, mindful of how wide she was swinging the shovel as she tossed the dirt around the yard. “Chloe, can you put my shovel up?”

“I’m digging a hole, Daddy.”

“I know that, Sweetheart—I don’t want holes in the middle of the yard. So, let’s put the shovel away.”

She stopped digging long enough to look up at me and say, “Daddy, this is my grave yard and I’m digging graves for my animals.”

I stood silent for a minute as she went back to digging her hole—she actually did a really good job with it, too. Finally, I turned around and walked away, not sure what else to say at that moment. I went inside, no longer interested in the turkey but more preoccupied with staring out the window at my daughter and son.

“So, why is she digging holes?” Catherine asked.

“She’s not digging holes—they’re graves. And have you seen Pouncer?”

“Umm . . . no,” she said.

Pouncer, by the way, is our cat of eight years. I stood at the window as Chloe dug holes and my son, Logan, who is three, stood near her. After each hole was dug Chloe placed an animal shaped sand toy in each one. Logan then covered the animals and patted them down with the shovel while Chloe searched out bricks from a fire pit Catherine had made so we could roast marshmallows outside.

“Our back yard is turning into a toy graveyard,” I said as my wife seasoned the turkey.

Finally, Logan grew tired of planting toys in the ground and he said, “I’m done.” He came inside and my daughter finished the chore at hand. I walked outside and stood near the center of the yard. There were small mounds all over. Bricks sat either on or by the mounds. My daughter was placing her last brick in place.

“Hello, sir,” she said to me. “Would you like to take a tour of my pet cemetery?”

Just for the record, there is a difference between a regular every day tour and a grand tour. As my daughter has informed me, a tour is just where someone shows you things you can’t touch. A grand tour is where you can touch the items and do all sorts of fun things.

“Sure, I’ll take the tour of your pet cemetery.”

She takes me by the hand like a morbid mortician and leads me along a path of blocks and mounds. She told me which animals were in which graves.

“This one is a flamingo. That is a penguin. That is a seahorse. Over there is a lion and her baby. Poor baby.”

We came to the end of the tour and I looked down at my daughter in something that I guess was amazement. It may have been shock, but I am not sure. I do know one thing is certain, if she would have done her robot voice she would have succeeded in disturbing me.

“That is . . . very interesting . . . Sweetheart.” It was all I could think to say at the moment.

Chloe looked up at me with her eyes bright and her smile beaming from ear to ear. “Come back anytime, Sir—I’m always burying something.”

Honey, have you seen Pouncer?

A Miserable Lot of Complainers We Are

2008-10-23T17:47:00.000-07:00

Writers. We're a miserable lot.

It's true. We are. We moan and groan and complain and whine. It's what we do best. Well, other than write, that is.

We complain about the publishing world and form rejects. We complain about why people won't read our stories. We complain about markets going under. We complain about long waits and then complain when we finally hear back from a publication we have so impatiently waited on.

We complain about editing and rewrites. We complain when someone says you should workshop your stories. We complain when an editor actually takes the time to give out constructive criticism instead of sending that aforementioned form rejection. And, why? Because it wasn't what we wanted to hear.

Do you see a theme here?

Wait. It gets better.

We complain about a lack of originality but then don't do anything about it in our own writing. We complain about copycat writers but then turn around and copy them.

We complain about writer's block and them bemoan people when they tell us how they get out of that horrid gray area in most writers' lives.

We complain about guidelines. Double space or single space? Justified or ragged or tabbed? Do we have to use William Shunn's template for submitting stories? (No, but I recommend it—it truly has the professional appearance.) Bios or no bios? Contact information with the introductory letter or on the first page of the story? Headers? Funny—we complain about these things but then don't follow the guidelines, get rejected and then complain about why we got rejected.

Nag. Nag. Nag.

You see, writers are a truly miserable lot. And we love the company. So, let's go complain to all of our writer friends. Or anyone who will listen for that matter.

But, wait. There's more.

The biggest complaint I have heard recently is, believe it or not: How did that person get published? I write better than that person. I can't believe he/she got accepted and I didn't.

Oh, my head hurts.

What gives, people? Seriously. What gives?

Here's some advice from your Uncle AJ. Stop complaining. It doesn't get you anywhere and it makes people want to avoid you. Seriously. Stop complaining. To add to that, stop comparing yourselves to other writers. You are YOU—not King, Barker, Ketchum or Wilson. If you want to write like them, by all means, do so, but please, stop complaining when you can't capture their style. You HPL fans—he's hard to emulate, but it can be done. However, if it doesn't add up, don't whine about it. Try again. And KEEP trying, if that is what you wish to do or how you wish to write.

I like to view comparing ourselves to other writers in a similar way that Rick Warren views ministry. Bear with me here for a second and don't turn away.

"There are two reasons why you should never compare your shape, ministry or the results of your ministry with anyone else. First, you will always be able to find someone who seems to be doing a better job than you and you will become discouraged. Or you will always be able to find someone who doesn't seem as effective and you will get full of pride. Either attitude will take you out of service and rob you of your joy."
--Rick Warren
A Purpose Driven Life

Okay, now listen to me for a second. If you take the above quote and apply it to your writing then you may get more out of it than you think. For the longest time I wanted to write like—you guessed it—Stephen King. But, you know, I'm just not King. I am me. I write like me. It's that simple.

A couple of years ago I really sucked. I mean sucked big time. I had great ideas but when I put them to paper the stories were essentially ruined. Getting published was not even close to a reality.

After some long, thoughtful soul searching, I figured out that by trying to be like King I was actually hurting myself. Then I set out to discover if writing was something I wanted to pursue. There are so many great writers, both professional and amateur and I wondered if I even had a prayer in the market world. Again, I was comparing myself with others. No. No. No. No.

When I decided to be me and learn about the craft of writing I started to grow. I started to get that feeling that the stories don't suck half as bad as they used to. Now, the stories only suck about a third as bad as they used to. I'm happy about that.

There is always going to be writers out there that are better than me. Always. There are always going to be writers out there who are better than you. There's no need to get discouraged about that. There is this gentleman I know who is a much better writer than I am and every time I read one of his stories I think, 'Wow, this guy is good.' That gentleman is Ian Rogers. If you haven't heard of him, you are truly missing out. Look him up. But, I don't let that discourage me. In fact, I analyze a lot of his writing and look at the things at which he is very good at. Some of those things I apply to my own writing. It's a way of learning for me. Ian is just one example of someone who I KNOW is a better writer than I am. There are many, many, many more.

Ah . . . but there are those people I feel I write better than they do. But, I never say it or really think about it. Instead, I like to try and help them in the manner that I have been helped. Encouraging them, pointing out things that I have seen in my own writing that I see in theirs. It's amazing to see some of these people blossom right before my eyes. It's amazing to see them take to something and really work it until they get it right. They do NOT complain. As a matter of fact, one of these guys lets out a Yahoo or a Yippee every time he is rejected. His enthusiasm is contagious and his writing has improved ten fold in the less than a year I have known him. And that has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with him, his drive, determination, enthusiasm and willingness to constantly get better and better with each passing story.

Most of those folks are better writers than I am now!

What does it all boil down to? It's simple. Complaining isn't going to get you anywhere in the world of writing. Writing will get you where you want to go. Working on writing will get you where you want to go. An enthusiastic attitude will get you there. Not so much, however, complaining.

As I said before: Writer's are a miserable lot. We really are. But, if we stop complaining about the state of things in the writing community and start doing something about it, then maybe we wouldn't be so darn miserable.

For now, I'm AJ and I'm out.

Liquid Imagination Debuts and a Fran Friel Interview

2008-09-27T05:31:00.000-07:00

Hey. Remember me. I’ve been gone for a short while. I had to take a break—my head was hurting. And, besides, I had to dig up my muse and bring her back to life. I missed her nagging. Oh and what she has me writing these days even disturbs me.

But, that is for another day. Today I am here to bring you some great information about a new publication that hits the online waves on September 26th. Yeah, I know you guys are probably tired of all the new zines popping up here and there and then going bye-bye after a few issues. But, you know, I think this new rag just may have staying power.

What e-zine am I talking about? Liquid Imagination. Just say the name and think about it for a minute. Liquid Imagination. Now that has a great ring to it.

John Miller founded liquid Imagination and he has a staff of really nice folks who have worked hard at getting this debut issue out in a timely manner. I have been fortunate enough to watch this go from a simple conversation to a vision to a reality. I’m very happy for John and his staff of talented people. Let me introduce you to them:

Founder and Publisher: John "JAM" A. Miller
Editor: Kevin Wallis
Poetry Editor: Chrissy Davis
Art Director: Lisa Peaslee
Technical Advisor: Karl Rademacher
Workshopping: Sue Babcock

I’ve been watching these folks work at creating Liquid Imagination. Their ideas are great and the way they work together is refreshing to see.

But, wait, there’s more. I don’t just tell you this to promote Liquid Imagination. I tell you this to also promote a new interview with Fran Friel that debuts at Liquid Imagination. It is my second interview with the delightfully wonderful author of Mama's Boy. We discussed many things including her life since the Stokers, her new collection of short stories and going through a mentorship with Douglas Clegg. Not only that, but take a gander at my story “The Babes of Angels” while you are at it. It was written specifically for Liquid Imagination and it’s not like what I would normally write.

There are other stories and poetry in there as well by the likes of Chris Perrides, Lucas Pederson, Theresa Cecilia Garcia-Newbill, Erik Smetana, Sue Babcock, Tom Beck and several others. Heidi Heimler titles my personal favorite of the stories “The Hairdresser’s Nightmare”. Throw in an interview with Nene Thomas and some vivid artwork and you have a pretty cool debut issue.

Who knows what will happen with Liquid Imagination on down the road? They may go the way of many other zines, but they may end up having some strong staying power as well. The one thing I do know is that there has been a lot of enthusiasm and hard work put into this and I’m hoping they’re here for the long haul.

You know, there is only one way that can happen though: Go visit Liquid Imagination and tell them what you think. Check them out here:

Liquid Imagination

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

I Used To Lover Her...

2008-08-15T06:45:00.000-07:00

I have a problem. Really, I do. No, it's not your normal, mundane, run-of-the-mill problem that every average person has. It is only a problem that we writers have. Seriously, I have a problem.

I know not everyone cares much for the term 'muse' but mine has been nagging me a lot lately. She has been telling me to write a novel. (Yes, my muse is female and she has a way of yammering at me when I am not writing, telling me that I am wasting time and I will never be a good writer if I don't do it with every free moment I have.) Keep this in mind.

Over the last few months I have started, stopped and started a novel or six. The idea would be really good—even cool—but, for the life of me, putting it together has not been an easy process. I seem to have developed a mental block when it comes to the novel writing process. I have even scrapped ideas just because the concept would mean it would be a novel. When I say scrapped, I mean I wrote it in my Great BIG Book of Ideas and have pushed them as far out of my mind as possible.

This got to the point of utter frustration. I have several novels "in progress," but none of them are near complete. Why? Because I almost loathe the novel writing process. If you know me at all, then this is way out of character. I love to write. I write everyday. I breathe it, talk it, dream it. It's what I want to do when I grow up.

But, for now, I'm stuck. Or, I was stuck, but that would be getting ahead of myself here and I do that too much as it is, so I will try to stick with the idea at hand.

I sat at my desk a few weeks ago, my outline for a novel sitting beside me. I read over it, leaned back and tried to envision the story unfolding. That was the easy part. Then I sat down to write. The first 3000 words were a breeze and I started to get all excited. There was a hook right at the beginning. It felt good. It flowed from my mind to my fingers and onto the computer screen.

The next day I started again and got about 5000 words into it. Then it happened. I lost interest. No, I am not ADD—though if I were, it would make sense. I saved the document and went online to one of the many forums out there. There was a prompt for a contest. I read it, wrote the story, read over it and put it aside. The story was just over 3000 words. I felt good, like I had accomplished something that night.

The next day I sat down to write on the novel and my mind drew a blank. So, I closed it and searched that same forum for ideas. I came across one in a discussion thread about things we used to do as children. The comment I got my idea from was . . . oh wait, I can't tell the comment yet because I am in the middle of that story. Now, here is where it gets a little odd. I started a short story with the intent of it being between three and five thousand words. That story has morphed and is now sitting at just over 12K words and there doesn't appear to be an end in sight. It may well end up as a short novella.

After the story reached the 6K word mark I sat back and read over it. It's actually decent. I made notes in a book by my computer on things to make sure and add or clarify or bring back into the story later. While I did that I noticed that the story wasn't going to be no less than about 15K words. Now, sitting at 12K, I don't think it will be less than 20K.

And you know what? I'm fine with that.

I took a break on that story to work back on my novel. I figured with the creative juices flowing, I would write on the novel, get a few thousand words out and make my 'muse' be quiet for a day or two. Ummm . . . no. The thoughts dried up, my hands couldn't seem to hit the right keys and my frustration mounted.

My muse was not happy with me when I shut the program down and got up from my desk. I needed to work on something else or at least go outside and get a breath of fresh air (if there is such a thing as fresh air anymore). I watered my garden and stood in the tranquility of elephant ears, four o'clocks, honeysuckles and wisteria. All the while, my muse complained that I was wasting time again.

"The plants must be watered," I calmly said and pushed her aside.

As I watered the plants it occurred to me just why I have a hard time writing novels. For me it's simple. I like the idea of completing projects. Most of my projects, including story ideas, have short term goals. I write between three and five thousand words a day, excluding weekends, so at a minimum of 15K words a week. I lean more to the maximum of 25K a week, but it's not the amount of words that count right now.

Well then, what is it? For me, it is the completion of the story that counts, that makes me press on and finish short stories so I can get on to the next one. That is my muse's fault—she got me doing flash stories and then working my way up to longer pieces, but she wouldn't let me stop writing for more than a day or two before she fussed at me again.

But, back to the thought at hand. Completing tasks is something that I try to do as quickly as possible. Writing is the same way for me. I start a story, I want to finish it. I can't say that always happens but I can say it happens over three quarters of the time. And what is easier to complete? A short story or a novel?

You guessed it: A short story.

I realized then that if I focus on the novel—the sheer size of it—then the task is daunting for me. It makes my muse happy, but the words are pure crap. However, if I approach it like it is a short story with a lot of information in it, it may work. Kind of like my novella about . . . oh, you almost got it out of me. Nice try. That novella was only going to be a short story, and look what happened. It is constantly growing. I love the character and what he went through and how he overcomes his adversity.

So, I thought I would try to write the novel without thinking about the big picture. I know where I want it to go and I know all of the main characters as well as the scenery and some of the middle story. I know the problem and the resolution. I know how to get there. Now, I just need to write the story. I started that this past Monday.

I took two other steps to try and get this novel process going and, hopefully, complete the book. The first of these things was to enlist some help. I have a few friends who I asked to stay on me about it, every day, excluding weekends. One of them has been totally faithful about it and the others have been on the ball as well. Each day I check in with them and tell them how far along I am. I have made myself become accountable for writing a novel by enlisting these Novel Buddies to nag me in the real world and not just in my mind.

I started the novel on Monday and now, here I am, four full days in and I have over 7000 words under the belt and I can feel the story living, becoming real in my head. I think I am going to be able to do this. I haven't written my minimum of 1000 words yet today but I will soon. I feel confident that I can finish this novel now and I can honestly say I haven't felt that way about writing a novel since I wrote Unbroken Crayons in 2006 for NaNoWriMo.

I'm AJ and I'm . . . what's that? I said I took two steps to get the novel process done and I only mentioned one of them? Well, I guess you are right. What was the other one? Oh. I killed my muse because she wouldn't stop nagging me. :)

I'm AJ and I'm out.

Now, out of good fun, I give you this video, in memory of my muse. May she rest in peace.

Enthusiasm Can Only Carry You So Far

2008-08-01T06:38:00.000-07:00

If you are a writer you want as many venues to submit your stories to. Literary writers seem to have plenty of them. Genre writers, however . . . well our publications are folding by the handfuls.

Before anyone gets all angry with me for saying that, read on and understand my words. There seems to be a wealth of literary magazines out there, both in print and online. Sometimes I feel like there are more literary print magazines than there are total genre magazines both in print and online. That is probably just perception from a guy who likes to write horror stories.

And here is the thing with this perception: it could be accurate. I've noticed that for every literary magazine that pops up it seems a genre magazine shuts down. This is frustrating for me, a horror writer.

Over the last few months several genre publications have folded. I'm not mentioning names right now because I don't think it is fair to those publications. I've heard quite a few writers complaining about it and even bashing some of these publications. I'm not so sure that is fair.

Do you want to know my take on this? No? Tough. This is my blog and if you are reading it, well, you're going to get my take on it.

The way I see it is this: It doesn't take much to fail at something, but it takes a LOT of work to succeed.

Go ahead, read it again.

It doesn't take much to fail at something, but it takes a LOT of work to succeed.

For these publications the work that goes into it to make them successful is unbelievable—especially when you are talking about a print publication. For the moment let's stick with online pubs.

I have a friend that just recently formed an e-zine. His enthusiasm is unbelievable. He got together with a young woman who is pretty good with artistic things and they began hashing it out. The name came to him in a dream. Yeah, that's right. The name came to the founder in a dream. It's a cool name. He sought out an editor with the same enthusiasm as he has. Next came a poetry editor. Again, enthusiasm.

After he had most of his staff onboard they began working on big issues, and little ones, as well. They developed a website, sought out art and stories. They created a forum to discuss things over with other folks who may be able to help them in pursuing the dream of seeing the publication come to life.

Enthusiasm abounded.

Now, it's time for them to get to work, really start doing the hard stuff. They have a base idea, they have a website where they can post the stories and artwork, they are developing submissions guidelines, art guidelines, they have contacted people for advice on how often they should publish, print or online and all the other good stuff that goes with it.

They've done some marketing and research.

None of these folks live in the same area. They are spread out all over the place, so they rely on e-mails, phone conversations, and the forum they have to get things done. I don't know how many publications are done this way, but I venture a guess that many of them do.

But, wait, there's more. All of the people involved with this publication have full time jobs, children to look after, lives to live. Time is of the essence when putting together a publication of any sort. It becomes even more precious when LIFE gets in the way.

They are still very enthusiastic. I think enthusiasm is a huge key to being successful. If you aren't stoked about something, you aren't going to work to make it successful.

Now, say it is a print magazine instead of an online venue. For that you have to have money. Money to pay the printers, money to pay shipping costs, money to pay artist and writers (if you weren't doing that with the online magazine). Deadlines become stricter—you miss a deadline by even a day and it could set you back upwards to a month. The marketing takes on a different meaning. It becomes a necessary evil in order to get subscriptions which help with the costs of the publication. There are ads that must be sought out.

The print magazine is a beast, to say the least. Even when you are full of enthusiasm.

The work is a huge aspect of putting together a publication.

When you do things mostly online you are taking a huge risk, either with submissions being electronic or contact info being all through e-mails or even the magazine on a server that is very reliable. Things can go wrong at any point. Your server could crash. Your e-mail could go kaput. You could get a virus that wipes out your hard drive. Then you are out a LOT of work, your contacts and your submissions. This can be fatal if not addressed immediately. Even then, it can still kill a publication.

Enthusiasm can be drained quickly with such an event.

I don't know why good magazines go under or why other magazines fail to get off the ground. I do know, however, that there is a ton of work that goes into it. Coordinating a magazine of any kind is not easy work, and most of the time the people working on them are not getting paid. They do it because they want to, not because of the money.

If you don't want our markets to go under, support them, read them, pass the word that the publications are worth your time and money. Word of mouth can go along way in the survival of a magazine. With MySpace, Blogger, Linkedin, Facebook and who knows what else out there, we can all help these publications get off the ground and stay up and running.

But, AJ, what if they are not a paying market? I can't answer that question for you. I believe that is an individual decision on whether to support or submit to nonpaying venues. But, just remember what it was like when you were an unpublished writer and you wanted a publishing credit under your belt. Many of us sent stories to these nonpaying venues just so we could get published.

Those folks work just as hard at putting out a publication as the ones who pay you. They can't get anywhere if no one subs to them. Enthusiasm can only carry a publication and those working on it but so far. You never know, maybe one of those nonpaying places could get a Stoker nomination. We can all dream, right?

Now, I mentioned earlier that literary writers have a larger selection of places to submit to. I stand by that, though I have no research to back it up. However, I feel this way because you don't hear of a lot of literary magazines folding, especially before their first issue. Some of these literary magazines get 'token' stories from some of the more established writers in the field just to help them get off the ground. No rewards for the writer in that, except to know they helped someone out.

A lot of our genre magazines are folding, even as you read this right now. Many more will follow. But, please, for the respect of those who have put their love into the product, don't bash them, don't criticize them. If you think it doesn't bother them that they had to shut down or are pondering doing so, well, you're wrong. They are people after all, and a failed venture hurts regardless of what it is.

I'm AJ and I'm out.

A Question of Motivation

2008-07-18T05:32:00.000-07:00

An interesting topic came up in the Horror Library's main office recently. The question was asked, who in that particular setting, would be the next success story. Wow. That is a tough question and one I think some folks were hesitant to answer. Why? Well, if they didn't mention their friends then maybe someone would have some hurt feelings. But, you know, if you asks me, maybe NOT mentioning their friends could be a good thing.

What? I've lost my mind, you all say? No, no, I haven't. Hear me out, I say and if you still disagree with me then feel free to call me insane. It won't be the first time and most certainly won't be the last.

Yes, everyone wants high praise and a pat on the back, especially from their peers. Do you think it wouldn't do my ego good to have one of the name writers out in our genre say that I put out something decent? Of course it would. I would be elated if that happened. But, would that change things? Maybe, a little. I think hearing your work is good and that you have 'it' really stokes the confidence.

However, a question such as who, in your own opinion, will become a success from a group of people you know very well can be daunting to answer. You see enough of these folks and what they can do to kind of gauge them and their abilities, but overlooking someone, even though you do not mean to, could cause those hurt feelings that you don't wish to cause. If you're honest with yourself and with them, you will speak truthfully, but gently in some cases.

I sat back when I read the question and thought for a few minutes before typing up a reply. There are so many folks in there that I can see doing really well for themselves. There are also some folks I left off, simply because of participation—or the lack there of. But, as I sat back and thought about those I left off the list, I wondered what it could do to their psyche, their ego.

Well, let's see, it could have upset them that they were left off and then they would never talk to me again. Or they could shrug it off as it doesn't matter. Or it could make them try harder so someone would believe that they could be the next success story.

Hmmm . . . let's think about that last part for a minute. They could try harder so someone would believe that they could be the next success story.

Think.

Thinking.

Hmmm . . .

I've asked this next question when dealing with people I've trained in various jobs and I think it applies here: What is your motivation? What drives you?

Well?

True story: Not too long ago—maybe a year and a half or so—I was passed up for a position I really wanted. I knew I could do the job but I guess I was a little green under the gills. I didn't get the nod and I was bummed. No, wait, that's not right. I was BUMMED. Yeah, that's more like it.

I could have gotten discouraged, and to be honest, I did, for about ten minutes. Then, I told myself I wasn't quite where I needed to be for that position. I then set out to work harder and get better. About six weeks or so later, the person who had gotten the position I so coveted, abandoned it. Within a short time of his leaving, the position was offered to me. I was elated. Ecstatic. Excited and other E words I can't think of at the moment.

I've since moved on to other things, but I hold that feeling I had when I got bypassed that first time very close to me. It is not a good feeling, but I turned it into motivation. It made me want things more, made me want to work harder to improve myself.

Rejection has a way of doing that, but I'll save that for another time. In this case, being overlooked for something you feel you are capable of doing can be just as bad . . . or good, depending on how you look at it. I chose to use the feeling as a motivator to push myself a little harder. Did it work? Oh yeah, it did.

So, do you see what I am getting at? If you want to be on the list as the next big thing, you have to work at it. But, if you aren't on that list, don't get too discouraged. Instead, turn it around and use it as motivation. A lot of athletes do it. So do business people. And singers. Why not writers? Why not editors? Why not publishers?

Think about what discourages you when it comes to writing. Take that and let it motivate you. But, not just in writing. What discourages you in life? Use it for motivation.

I leave you all with this:

Failure will never overtake me if my determination to succeed is strong enough.
--Og Mandino

I'm AJ and I'm out.

What is Success?

2008-07-13T19:18:00.000-07:00

What is success? Is it making lots and lots of money? Is it name recognition? Is it being able to live comfortably or even have a lavish lifestyle? For us writers, is it getting a story published for the first time or the thousandth time? Is it a book deal that makes you a good bit of money? What is it?

Define success?

In some respects it is defined as the achievement of something desired, planned, or attempted (American Heritage Dictionary). But, is that really a good definition of the word?

I don’t know.

If you ask Stephen King or Gary Braunbeck or Brian Keene if they were successful, what do you think they would say? Well, I think they would say yes, they are. But, what if you asked that same question to someone who only has a handful of publishing credits under their belt? What do you think they would say? Most of them would say no or not yet or I’m getting there or something to that effect.

So, I ask you, what is your definition of success?

Do you want to know mine? First off, I would love to make a living writing. I would. I really, really would. But, if that doesn’t happen, would I consider myself a failure? Not even close. Have any of you seen my wife? She’s beautiful. How about my kids? They’re attractive and smart. My son is a pistol and my daughter is darn near brilliant sometimes. I’m successful already.

I know, I know, I’m stretching what this is all about, but it is important to understand what success really is. Sometimes success isn’t about the dollar sign or how many cars you drive or how big a house you have. Sometimes success isn’t measured by your name and how many people who know who you are. Honestly, right now, how about a show of hands from those who know who I am. Not a lot of you, I see.

I have a firm belief that if you believe that you can do something then you can do it. It may take you a little longer to learn how to do these things, but eventually, you will be able to do them.

For me there is a certain amount of satisfaction when I see improvement in my writing. It may not be something that leaps out at someone, but it is something I notice. And, when I notice the change, I feel like there is a touch of success in that—all the attempts at correcting a flaw or learning how to do something finally coming to fruition. To me, that is a type of success.

I measure success on how satisfied I am with the outcome. If I feel I have done everything to my ability and it still doesn’t work, well, it’s time for me to start over on that and try again. There is a measure of satisfaction in trying and trying again until you get it right. After that, it usually stays right.

I also gain a lot of pleasure from writing a story. Pleasure. Did you read that word? Read it again. Pleasure. I write a lot—sometimes too much, but I love doing it. It is my addiction and not one that I am willing to kick. When I write something that is good and I know it is good, then the pleasure is amplified and that leads to satisfaction of a job well done. Which, hopefully, will lead to getting paid for the stories on a regular basis.

But, if this life of writing never makes me successful money or name wise, then I will always have the pleasure of creating a story, enjoying the ability to do so and being successfully happy. That’s what it’s all about anyway, right? Being happy.

I’m AJ and I’m out

Interview with John Miller of Liquid Imagination

2008-07-10T16:34:00.000-07:00

Liquid: A substance in a condition in which it flows…

Imagination: The ability to form images and ideas in the mind, especially of things never seen or experienced directly.

Hmmm . . . with those definitions one could say that Liquid Imagination is the ability to form images and ideas in a manner in which it flows; fluent thoughts, lucid ideas.

Is it possible to fill the world with yet another e-zine?

Is it needed?

Who cares?

What if we made the world need it?

What if we made the world want it?

These are the questions that abound for the upcoming e-zine Liquid Imagination. Do we need another e-zine? Is it needed? Is it wanted? Well, that answer is really up to you, the reader. For me, the writer, I would like to introduce you to John Arthur Miller, founder of Liquid Imagination. Let's sit down with John for a brief moment and talk with him about his new endeavor.

Tell us a little about yourself, John, and then we'll dive on in.

I’m a single father with three beautiful children, all boys, ages 5-10—they are the source of much inspiration. I’ve had many jobs: police dispatcher (twice), salesman, manager of retail stores, telemarketer, worked in a refinery, and I work in a factory now. I thrive on change. The world is changing. Recession is causing a smaller market for novels and e-zines. We’re living in changing times.

Why another e-zine and what do you think will separate Liquid Imagination from the multitudes of e-zines out there?

Liquid Imagination isn’t just an e-zine devoted to fiction; it is devoted to fantasy in both art forms: the art of the written word (fiction and poetry) and the art of the painter’s brush. The goal is to meld the work of writers along with the work of artists so that, to those perusing Liquid Imagination, there is no distinction between the two. Each story must have at least two pieces of artwork. The artwork will enhance the story, and the story will enhance the artwork. There will be no separation between the artwork and the stories; a blurring of the two forms of art. Our goal is to unite followers of fantasy art and readers of fantasy fiction into one e-zine. Our target is AWE. If we miss our target, we hope to come close.

Liquid Imagination is a unique name. How did you come up with it?

I had two dreams in two nights. I don’t often remember my dreams, so this was unique to say the least. In the first dream I heard a song almost exactly like one by Finger Eleven. I don’t know the name of the song, but the lyrics go like this: "If your body matches what your eyes can do... you'll probably move right through... me on my way to you." It was the background music of the song, but the words were different. I woke with this type of song in my head, but the words were “Liquid Imagination is flowing. . . from me to you.”

The very next night I dreamed of an art exhibit. Beneath one of the paintings was the gold plaque with this title: Liquid Imagination.

What exactly are you looking for in submissions?

Kevin Wallis is the editor, and Lisa Peaslee is the art director. Together Kevin and I are looking for fantasy stories set in today’s world. Think of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files. Mythical creatures such as faeries and centaurs in the modern age. Other worlds coexisting alongside our own. Magical realism, surrealism, but fantasy. Not “high fantasy” like Medieval stories with knights and wizards.

We’re looking for three things:

1) INTENSITY
2) AWE (we’re ALL shooting to awe the reader of fiction and the lover of art)
3) FORCE (we want it written forcefully, with as much clarity as possible)

Artwork is a huge component of Liquid Imagination. Tell us about it.

In the realm of fantasy, artwork has ALWAYS been important. Can you imagine a Conan the Barbarian novel without fantastic artwork on the cover?

We aim to do the same thing, only we hope to cement the two art forms. We want the artistic paintbrush to stroke the words of the writer. We want the writer’s words to build a foundation for the painter’s easel. We want both art forms to bleed into one: liquid imagination. From the reader to the editors; from the artists to the writers; all of us in one collective subconsciousness, something Carl Jung might call Liquid Imagination.

Help us tap into the flow.

Can you tell us anything about issue number one that may entice some folks into submitting to Liquid Imagination?

We’re looking for two interviews with powerful artists. One is, in fact, a traditional artist but we haven’t heard back from him. The other is our “mystery writer.” This person has won the Nebula and World Fantasy Award for fiction. It will be a very powerful interview, in-depth, from an author whose works have sold across America.

Briefly, can you give us some guidelines for submissions?

Fantasy set in the modern world. Surrealism. Magical realism. 12,000 word count. Microsoft word, standard format. No query letter needed or wanted; the stories will speak for themselves. 1st American Rites. We accept reprints as long as it’s fantasy. INTENSITY! AWE! Those willing to workshop at our Zoetrope Office will get additional consideration for their fiction/poetry.

Anything else you want us to know about Liquid Imagination?

The “Best of Liquid Imagination” will go into an anthology book every 1-3 years. We will also be getting into publishing novels, the best of fantasy. I’ve already been playing around with the first book, an experiment, to iron out all the kinks. I’m talking about Liquid Imagination as a publisher of novels and anthologies. Like the e-zine questions, with so many publishers out there, why another one? Because we will likewise meld art into the work of the writers’ novels.

We intend to fly without wings.

Thank you for your time, John and good luck with Liquid Imagination.

Feel free to check out their website here: Liquid Imagination

Stymie Magazine, A New Place To "Putt" Your Stories

2008-06-25T19:03:00.000-07:00

A new publication is emerging from out of nowhere. It is simply called Stymie Magazine. I’m not sure what it is all about yet, but I know it involves golfing.

Hold on a second here. Don’t click off just yet. Hear me out. I’m not big on golf. I’m like most everyone else here, just wondering how Tiger Woods is doing, but all things should get a fair chance, right? That includes this up and coming E-zine, Founded by Erik Smetana.

Like I said, I know little about this publication, so we are all in for a treat as we tee it off with Mr. Smetana. So, let’s get down to business.

Hole 1, Par 4: Mr. Smetana, first off, tell us a little about you.

Let's see if I can do this without referring to myself in the third person. In short I am a writer, having seriously taken it up about four years ago. Since then I have been amazingly fortunate to see some of my stories published in genre magazines, nonfiction venues and in literary journals. Another area I have been lucky in was finding a great community of writers on the web with whom I have had the chance to build friendships and professional relationships. Some of those relationships have landed me editing gigs in the past with several lit zines and more recently assisting in the editing of two anthologies for Cutting Block Press.

Outside of writing I work in the corporate world as an HR executive, am married to an amazing woman (we just had our fourth wedding anniversary) and have a fascination with all things golf -- an affliction if you will since the age of 14.

Hole 7, Par 5: Why did you decide to start up a publication involving Golf?

Like I said above, I love golf. Since picking up an old rusty set of irons my freshman year of high school and subsequently getting my ego handed to me on a silver platter eighteen holes later, I have been hooked. After that first drumming by my high school buddies, I went on to develop a bit of game and nine months after that first outing I made my school's JV team. My senior year, I was captain of the golf team.

Through high school I worked at a golf course shagging range balls, cleaning carts, etc. During college I worked in pro shops of several different courses, interned with the PGA and even considered becoming a club professional before deciding to follow a different career path.

But regardless of what I do nine-to-five, I have continued to love the game. Over the years, I read various how-to books until I stumbled upon a novel titled Golf in the Kingdom. After that I wanted to read more golf related fiction and over time discovered the likes of J. Michael Veron, Turk Pipkin, David Feherty, Troon McAllister, John Coyne, John Updike, Roland Merullo and many others.

When I had finished with all the golf novels my local bookstore carried I became curious about what sort of short fiction was out there. I devoured Golf World's annual fiction issues and Otto Penzler's anthologies, but then the well ran dry. There didn't seem to be any market for golf related short fiction. And Stymie hopes to remedy that.

Hole 13, Par 3: What is Stymie Magazine?

Stymie Magazine is a lit journal of sorts. We hope to publish well-written fiction (including flash), poetry and creative nonfiction. The catch is that we only publish material related in some way to golf. But before anyone gets scared off by that, we are pretty broad in our expectations. A story appearing in our pixilated pages could be a straight golf story like something one of the authors I spoke about before might write. It could be a mystery like Roberta Isleib might pen. It could be about a guy who lives alone and talks to his appliances all day until he discovers a single golf tee lost in his couch cushion, after which he only talks to the tee -- doing its every evil bidding.

In short, we want stories (and poems) that strive to incorporate golf in some way. We love all genres -- literary, humor, science fiction, horror, and on and on.

Hole 17, Par 4: What are the types of things you are looking for as far as submissions are concerned?

We are open to just about anything so long as golf plays a part in some way. We prefer fiction and nonfiction under 3000 words and we have a soft spot for flash fiction. Stymie would love to get some golf poetry, maybe a haiku or two, but like our guidelines state: "We don't hate poetry, it's just that we have never read any really great golf poetry. If you think you are up to task, send it in. We might surprise you if you surprise us."

Hole 18, Par 5: Anything else we need to know?

There is so much more I could say, but I will keep it simple. Our website is located at Stymie Magazine

We have a great editorial team on board including the likes of Todd Banks and Kristi Stokes -- both of which come with wonderful experience. And maybe most importantly, Stymie Magazine is still in need of submissions for the premier issue, so please keep those stories and poems rolling in.

Sudden Death: One last question: What’s your handicap?

I'm going to have to sandbag you a bit on this one, let's just say I play to about a 15. Wink, wink.

Stymie Magazine, coming to an online golf course near you. Stay tuned and have your scorecards handy. Time for me to sign my card and get to the clubhouse.

I’m AJ and I’m out.

"Chapiesky" Reviewed at the Fix

2008-06-24T18:52:00.000-07:00

Cool Review at the fix of "Chapiesky." This appeared in Hub #54.

A.J. Brown’s “Chapiesky” in Hub #54 is a brief but well wrought ghost story, the sort that could be told by children in a darkened bedroom with no more assistance than a flashlight and a creepy voice. The standard elements are present: an unsolved multiple murder, a child who sees things adults will see only too late, and of course the requisite ghosts. Everything gets wrapped up in a not-too-surprising ending. Brown’s tale breaks no new ground, but the technique gleams, and the result is an entertaining diversion.

Here's the link if you want to check out more of their reviews.

The Fix

Passion

2008-06-20T06:29:00.000-07:00

Have you ever met someone and within ten minutes or so of talking to them you knew what they enjoy doing the most? I have, several times. When you have the gift of gab sometimes you can bring stuff out of people and you don’t have to try very hard. These things that you find out about someone in that first ten minutes are their passions—or better put, it is what they are passionate about.

Take a moment and think about what you are passionate about. Okay, okay, other than sex. Think about something else for a moment here. What is it that you are drawn to the most? What is it that you have loved since you were a child and still love now? What is it that you find time to do no matter what is on your plate?

Do you have one thing in your mind, yet? Okay, that one thing is your passion. It is the one thing that you will do with your free time—or the one thing you will make free time for. What is it? Working on cars? Playing basketball? Drawing? Knitting? Photography? Writing?

Writing?

Hmmm . . . yeah, that is where my passion is. I love to write. I write more than I probably should in most people’s eyes and not enough in my own. For me, finding the time to write is not an issue. Is there a television show that my wife is watching after the kids go to bed on the nights she doesn’t work? Well, there’s an hour right there. How about on the nights she does work? There is anywhere from one to three hours, depending on when the children go to sleep.

I'm fortunate to have a job where I can write during the day on my down time. It is truly a blessing and is one of the things I really love about my job. There is usually no less than two hours or so for me to write. Then there's my lunch hour. So I have, potentially, six hours of a day to spend writing. Realistically, I don't spend six hours a day writing—I have other responsibilities that I must fulfill and these things take part of that time away, but they are things related to, you guessed it, writing.

Fran touched on finding the time to write, even when you work from home when time seems to be at an optimum for someone to write. Unlike a lot of writers, I have to have some sort of distraction throughout the process. This is not a joke—I am serious here. If I write for three hours, I stop and check my e-mail or go to online forums or get up and get a drink or something, but it is very important for me to move around a little or shut the brain off for a minute or two in order for me to complete a story. It's kind of a refreshing or recharging of the mental batteries.

Just in the last fifteen minutes I have goofed off on Youtube twice, looking up Video Killed the Radio Star and found this really cool version of the song by a group called The Wrong Trousers.

The other thing about my passion is this: It's not a job for me. Even when I have a deadline to meet or some sort of time crunch, it still doesn't feel like a job. I write because I want to, I desire to, I need to. Not because someone wants me to have them a story by tomorrow morning at eight a.m.

No, it's not a job. It's more like an addiction. I have to write. I have to get all of these words out of my head and onto paper or the computer. If I don't, I fear my head will explode. Well, not really, but I wrote a story once about that very thing. However, I do get cranky when I don't write. It is my drug of choice—words and putting them together.

So, back to this passion thing. It is described one way as an intense enthusiasm, a strong liking for a subject or activity. Yeah, that really sums up my feelings for writing. But, what about you? Where does your passion lie? What is the one thing you find yourself drawn to (other than sex—come on folks)? If it is writing, you will find the time to do it. After the kids go to bed or when the spouse is on the phone or outside working in the yard or whenever.

Passion equals time—if you're passionate enough for something you WILL find the time to do it. If you were to walk up to me right now and start talking, asking me about my life, you will come away knowing that writing is my passion.

For now, I'm AJ and I'm out.

Like Father Like Daughter

2008-06-16T19:44:00.000-07:00

There are moments in a parents life that make you wonder about your children. They either say or do something that make you question whether you really are the parent of that child of if they are some alien from another planet, not just another country. They make you want to look at your spouse and asks, “Whose kid is this?”

Well, this is not one of those moments.

A couple of nights ago I was playing with play dough with my daughter and son. I looked down at what my daughter was making and I frowned.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A bed,” she responds.

“It’s really small,” I say. “Are you going to make a really small person and put on it?”

”No,” she says: "I am making a girl whose head spins around and she throws up."

After taking this in for a few seconds I asked my daughter, "What did you say?"

"I am making a girl whose head spins around and she throws up."

I shake my head, not sure I have heard correctly and asked her, "Sweets, where did you hear that?"

"On Ace of Cakes. A woman made a cake where a girl's head spins around and she throws up." This just happens to be a show where people bake cakes according to a theme and the winner takes home a lot of money.

"But, how did you know that?"

"I asked Mommy and she told me it was a movie about a demon who was inside this girl and made her head spin around and throw up. Do you know what the movie is called?"

"Yes, honey."

"What?"

"The Exorcist."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Chloe--I've seen the movie several times. The girl's name is Linda Blair."

My daughter looked up at me, eyes wide and says, "YOU mean she’s REAL?"

I couldn't help but laugh out loud at that comment. Leave it to my daughter to pick the vomiting Linda Blair to make a play dough figure out of. She’s just like her daddy. It makes me so proud . . .

Old School and Competition, What A Combo

2008-06-13T07:55:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I wrote about the old school writers, about how their writings were so much more elegant than that of today's stories. The evolution of writing has created our McDonald's Mentality to the point to where we have to devour a quick story so we can get back to the tasks of our lives. I complained about not seeing more stories written with the scenery and mood of the story being set like back in the 'good ole days.'

Part of me will digress a little here. Not all of me, and no, I'm not saying I want the quicker stories. What I want is the stories that go from beginning to middle to end and where it is not just useless nonsensical drivel in between 'Once upon a time' and 'The end.' I want stories that are going to teach me something. Again, I go back to the classics for this one.

Just recently I read Phillip K. Dick's The Father Thing. I found it entertaining, short and every word had a purpose. The setting was complete but not overly done—just enough words to get his point across. The story was straight forward and had that Invasion of the Body Snatchers feel to it. Which is even more interesting—I could be wrong here, but I think The Father Thing was written before Body Snatchers.

At any rate, the story was short, yet complete with few wasted words and extremely enjoyable. Just the way our McDonald's population likes it.

Ah, but wait, there's more. I then turned around and read a couple of H.P. Lovecraft stories. The one that sticks out was The Nameless City, which was also the basis of a prompt for a writing challenge I've been involved in recently. I had never read this story before and even with Lovecraft's love of words which I have know idea what they mean, I found the story very engaging and I couldn't put it down. The setting was there, the mood was there, the slow descent of the main character losing his mind was there. I could picture what was going on, even if I had to look up a couple of the words for good measure. It was another complete story—a classic in every way, shape and form.

Wait, still more to come.

I had never read I Am Legend by Richard Matheson until a couple of months ago. I also read the other short stories in the collection that I had borrowed from a friend of mine. I found most of them delightful to read and I Am Legend left me breathless and maybe even speechless for several moments. Those of you who know me personally know that I am NEVER speechless and sometimes you probably wish I would just close my mouth. The detail given in I Am Legend was vital to the story, to the main character and how he managed to survive through everything that had happened.

What I found most revealing about the story was when Robert Neville's old friend turned vampire, Cortman, is killed near the end. (I hear in the movie it is not like this) Cortman was really Neville's last link to the previous world, to the way things had been and the heart felt sadness he goes through when seeing Cortman die gave the story so much more impact in my eyes.

So, having read several of the classics, I still find myself longing for more of this, even a little Lovecraftian style wouldn't hurt so much.

Speaking of Lovecraft, I think it is interesting that so many writers try to emulate his style, which, to me, is hard to do, but not emulate the styles of other great writers who today would be considered wordy.

Now, this week, as per the challenge I am involved in with several friends of mine, our prompt was, as I mentioned above, an H.P. Lovecraft prompt. It was an homage to The Nameless City. So, what did I do? I had to come up with a story in order to stay in the competition. I plotted and planned and wracked my brain for several hours before almost giving up. Then, a song by System of a Down and a thought I had had a couple of weeks earlier kind of merged at the same time.

The idea began formulating and I took out several sheets of paper and started jotting notes down. By the time I was done, I had a two page outline of a short story titled Where Angels Fear to Tread.

Then came the daunting task: write the story in the vein of Lovecraft. Oh, this is not going to be easy—I'm not all that smart and I don't know a lot of really big words. Well, I have to say I steered clear of a lot of the big words, but I did use a couple and had to look up quite a bit of them.

I sat at my desk and began writing. The first line flowed into the second and then the third. I thought the story out as if I was talking to someone about it and before I knew it, I had pounded out 2200 words. The next day I typed on it again and typed out another 3500 words putting me near 6000. I finally finished the story up at just under 7300 words. When I was done, I was exhausted but elated—I had written a story somewhat in the vein of Lovecraft but probably more so in the vein of other old school writers.

Two friends of mine helped me with translating a sentence into Latin and another friend gave me points on Lovecraft's style and how he wrote at which stages of his life—things that I found vital in writing the story. A little research can go a long way in good story telling.

Now that my story is submitted and I can look back at it, I see a few flaws in it that need to be fixed and a couple of other places where I left things out on purpose to try and not overburden the judges with such a long story. But, even with its flaws, I look at the story as a triumph for me.

Why?

Well, I admit that I am not a great scholar of the classics, but by reading them over the last six or so months, I have found that they are such wonderful works of art that everyone should try and read at some point in their lives. I've also found that by trying to emulate the old school styles I am becoming a better writer. And that's what it's all about, right?

Now, I think I am going to go back over The Yellow Wallpaper—I have a story I started a couple of months ago using Charlotte Perkins Gilman's style and never finished it. I think it will be a good one when I am done. I will write and await the judges to either vote me off the island or let me into the final round of competition. But, for now, I'm AJ and I'm out.

The Woodshed Reviewed...

2008-06-12T07:45:00.000-07:00

Good morning folks. Time for a little review madness . . . or in this case, goodness.

As many of you may know my story, The Woodshed, appears in the anthology Dark Distortions, put out by Scotopia Press. Just recently the anthology has received two new reviews. The Woodshed was mentioned in both of them.

The first of these was in The Fix and done by Michele Lee. She reviewed the entire book, which was cool and she gave props to several really good writers that appeared in the anthology, including some close friends of mine: Erik Smetana, Petra Miller, Brandy Schwan, C.D. Allen, Dan Naden and Kim Despins.

Her words on The Woodshed delighted me and I couldn't help but smile and let out a whoop.

Okay, before I go much further, you must understand that The Woodshed was eight years in the making and I don't know how many revisions before it even got to Molly Feese. Then she and I edited it a couple of more times. So, this is a big deal to a small time southern boy trying to get out there in the daunting world of writing.

This is the blurbage from Michele Lee's review which you can check out in its entirety here: The Fix Reviews Dark Distortions

The Woodshed" by AJ Brown is one of the best stories of this anthology. Brown delves beyond the mere surface in this tale of a childhood survivor of abuse haunted by his abusers and presents an unflinching look at domestic violence. He refuses to shy away from the worst but also layers deeper effects, making the characters more sympathetic and believable.

So, that's pretty cool and I admit I'm just a little stoked.

Then yesterday, Jeff Cercone of Down In the Cellar reviewed Dark Distortions and, though it isn't much on the story, it is still a positive mention:

Other standouts include The Woodshed, by A.J. Brown, a haunting and unflinching look at child abuse.

Cercone also mentioned Pick by Erik Smetana and his comments are some of the best ones I've heard referring to the story:

You might want to take a muscle-relaxer before reading this one, because you’ll be cringing through most of it. But you won’t be able to stop reading.

I was fortunate enough to read Pick in its earliest stages of development and in Dark Distortions and I find Cercone's words are spot on.

You can read the full review at Down in the Cellar here: Down In the Cellar Reviews Dark Distortions

Okay, now for those of you folks who would like to read Dark Distortions all you have to do is go to Scotopia Press' website and order it. Scotopia Press Just follow the link. At 591 pages, I'm pretty certain you'll get your money's worth out of it. There is a story for just about every tastes in the collection.

Thank you for reading and letting me be joyful for a moment. For now, I'm AJ and I'm out.

Comedians and Writers Alike

2008-06-06T18:28:00.000-07:00

I had a nice little article written up about Common Courtesy and how we should practice using it. It's a lost art form, you know?

Instead of posting it, I decided on something not as long and maybe that could hit home with a lot of folks. Writing, whether it is a hobby or a profession, is a personal endeavor. Much like being a stand up comedian, it can be sink or swim.

Here's the thing: You can be a good comedian and never get out of your home state. You can be the next George Carlin, but nobody other than the locals know your name. You can have the energy and imagination of Robin Williams and the delivery of Bill Cosby, but that guarantees you nothing.

Word of mouth can take you somewhere. But, more often than not, the right person at the right time has to be there when you are bringing the house down and people are doubled over in stitches from laughter. It's the Big Break Theory.

You could toil in the bars and the local theaters for years before someone of merit stumbles upon you. It's happened liked this many times for comedians (and musicians as well). It just takes that one moment in time when all the planets seem to be lined up and the stars are their brightest and the pretty blond in the first row REALLY is making eyes at you.

Just like that, you can become an overnight sensation.

But, what about all the work you've put into it; what about the many nights of sleeping in a hotel where the roaches may as well be paying guests; what about those nights of sitting up, writing jokes, hoping one day one of them will be your calling card, your 'Get er done'? Is the time spent honing your ability to write and tell jokes worth it? Is the time spent learning new ways to deliver the punch lines worth the wait?

I'm sure they are.

But, wait, I'm not done. What about those times when no one laughed at your jokes and your ten or twenty minute set feels like it takes a year? What about when you hear someone heckle you because they don't think you are funny? Is it worth it? Is it worth those near crushing blows to keep doing it, one gig after another?

Many successful comedians will tell you it is well worth it, even when no one thought they were any good. Pay your dues—that's what they'll say.

Writers, well that's different, right?

Nah, I don't think so. There are so many similarities to writers and comedians.

Comedians tell jokes, writers write and somewhere along the way, someone told them they could be good at it, that they should try to make it in the business, that they should do amateur night or submit a story to a small e-zine.

So, they did. Maybe someone thought they were funny enough to ask him or her back for another appearance. Just maybe someone thought that story you wrote was worthy enough to be placed in his or her magazine, even if it is a For the Love market, where you didn't get paid.

See the comparisons?

Let me take it a little further. Maybe you spent many nights staying up, writing that story in hopes that it will be the next big thing only to be rejected time and time again. It's like playing the clubs and not getting into the big auditoriums. It's kind of frustrating and disheartening. Yet, the people who came to the shows or read your stories liked it. But, how much can fanfare take you if the big time backers weren't willing to take a chance on them or you?

How many years and rejections are spent following the dream of being a well-known writer, if not well paid? How many frustrations and thoughts of quitting cycled through your mind after yet another 'no' on the resume?

But, then it happened. Someone somewhere read your story at just the right time and it was what he or she was looking for. Much like the comedian on stage caught the eye of someone a little more prominent in the business, some editor or publisher saw something in your story, in you, to give you a shot.

The next thing you know, you're a published writer and folks begin to ask you for stories. You may have even made some money at it.

Now, was it worth it? Was it worth the brain racking, the rejections (after rejections, after rejections), the editing, the re-writing, the staying up until four in the morning working on something because you don’t want to lose the groove you were in? Was it worth the folks saying you might want to give it up and try something else? Was it worth it all?

I can’t answer those questions for you, but if you want to find out, then put the pen to paper or put your fingers on those ASDFJKL; keys and get to typing. But, no matter what happens, promise yourself one thing for me. If someone says you can’t do it, don’t give up. If someone says that your story is utter crap, don’t give up. If someone says they wish they had two copies of your story so they could do some rather unholy things to the paper it was printed on, just smile and let it go.

Learn from your mistakes and move on, but never give up. Do you think Robin Williams gave up? What about Larry The Cable Guy? Eddie Murphy?

How about folks more to our liking? Do you think Stephen King gave up? Gary Braunbeck? Jack Ketchum?

I think you get the picture. It’s hard work and sometimes you need to laugh about it to keep from crying about it. But, if you persevere, you just may get somewhere.

I’m AJ and I’m out.

Children and Memories

2008-05-29T19:39:00.000-07:00

Over the course of my life I have often paid attention to things that are interesting and odd. But, now that I am a father to two children, ages seven and three, I notice things a little different. Sure, the odd things stand out to me, but now, the things about their childhoods and my childhood and the comparisons stand out even more.

For the record, this article is not about horror or writing or promoting anything or anyone. It is just a dad watching his kids grow up and remembering his childhood in the process.

My dad taught me how to do a lot of things. How to be tough through rough times; how to laugh and joke around; how to play sports; how to work hard. With those lessons came some hard knocks. My dad, after all, is from the mountains of North Carolina and, though the boy may leave the mountain, the mountain doesn’t leave the boy. One of the things Dad taught me was how to play basketball and be a good sport.

First the lesson in basketball. I learned how to dribble by bouncing a ball against the wall and stepping back further and further until I could not catch the ball with one hand or it hit the ground. It was good for teaching me how to pass as well. But, that's not what this is about. It is about that my dad instilled in me not to be arrogant and to always respect your opponent.

The first time I picked up a basketball I was near 10 years old and my dad showed me how to shoot. After a few days of just shooting the ball and dribbling, Dad taught me the actual game.

“Okay, son, I want you to dribble this ball and try to get by me. If you get by me, shoot the ball into the hoop.”

“Man, that’s easy, OLD MAN.”

Yeah, that’s right—I called my dad an old man.

I dribbled the ball and continued to talk trash and then I tried to go around him. He elbowed me with his thick elbow. I hit the ground. He picked up the ball, shot it, scored.

“Two points for me. Try again.”

I dusted myself up, picked up the ball and still talked smack to my dad.

“You got lucky, OLD MAN.”

Then I tried to go around him. Elbow met shoulder, butt met ground, Dad scored again.

“Two points for me. Try again.”

The next time I didn’t talk at all. I was very wary of his elbow so I put my arm out and went around him. He let me pass, I shot, made it and learned quickly that talking smack to your opponent is a NO NO in Dad’s book. I never talked trash—ever after that.

I told you that story to tell you this one. I took my children to the park earlier this week and, lo and behold, they had put up a basketball goal. All we brought with us was a soccer ball. So, I walked out there and started shooting the soccer ball into the basket. I walked away and a moment later my seven-year-old daughter, Chloe, walked over, picked up the ball and started tossing it at the basket.

I watched her for a moment and then walked over and told her an easier way of shooting the basket toward the goal. For the next little while, my son played on the play set and my daughter and I shot baskets. Well, she shot the ball, I caught it and tossed it back to her. She took well over 100 shots. She hit the rim 3 times, the net countless times, but the ball never went in. I felt sad for her and my heart ached—Chloe had tried so hard and she said she couldn’t do it.

“Keep trying, Sweets,” I told her. “You’ll get it one day. You’re too small now but soon you’ll be able to make it on this goal and any other one.”

Encouragement. That’s what I was trying to do—be encouraging. I was proud of her, even though she didn’t make a shot, she tried her hardest, and that is all I asks of my children. Always try your best.

Growing up, I slept with my basketball. Not a joke. It sat by my pillow most nights (until my dad cut it in half and I had to get a new one later, but that is for another day). Rarely did my basketball end up on the floor. It always had a seat, whether on the couch or a chair or on my bed, it was treated well.

My three-year-old son, Logan, carries a baseball I gave him around. He doesn’t haul it everywhere like he does his Hot Wheels cars but he carries it around the house and often times you see it near him when he is playing, even if it is not with the baseball itself.

Tonight, my wife and I were putting our kids to bed and my wife told me:

“Lean down and look past Logan’s pillow.”

I did so.

In the corner of his bed, sat the baseball. I smiled. My wife smiled. I thought of my old basketball, long since gone some years ago.

I leave you now, my story told for today. I’m AJ and I’m out.

It's All About Commitment

2008-05-23T08:03:00.001-07:00

It's all about commitment.

Bear with me today folks. I have a couple of stories to tell but I will get to those in a moment, but did you catch that first sentence? It is important that you do.

It's all about commitment.

Stick with me. You began reading this for some reason, right? You committed to reading it, just like I've committed myself to writing it. So, read on until the end. I hope you get something from it.

Last year I went through a spell where I didn't feel too well. It was right about the same time of the year as it is now and me and my body were not getting along. I was tired—extremely tired—a lot and getting home from work and resting was my only goal during that several month period. I slowed down on writing and stepped away from a few things I had made a commitment to. Then, one day I sat down with my wife and talked to her about . . . giving up on writing. Not that I was throwing my hands in the air and saying 'I'll never make it' type of thing, but more of a 'I'm tired and I'm thinking about quitting' type of thing.

I pondered it, prayed about it (yes, I am a praying man, though sometimes I don't pray as much as I should :( ), talked about it with my lovely wife, Catherine. Finally, she told me that I was starting to get somewhere and asked me if I would be happy without writing. Ummm, no, I would not be happy without it. We talked several times about it until I finally told myself I had made a commitment to a couple of projects and I aimed to keep those commitments.

I committed myself to writing and trying to take it seriously in 2004. Yes, I know, I wrote stuff long before then, but in 2004 I started really trying to get my work out there. One thing led to another and here I am, etching out a little name for myself (hopefully a good one). I made a commitment, much like a marriage, to my writing and the community I became part of.

Now that I am done with story number one, I will go to story number two and since I mentioned marriage in there, let's get to a bigger commitment.

I married my wife nearly eleven years ago. When I proposed to her I was willing to make a commitment to her. She said yes, so she was willing to do the same. We got married and, like most couples, we've had our ups and downs and our level playing fields. We committed to having a family when we had our daughter and then committed to a bigger family when we had our son.

I've never met anyone quite like my wife. She IS commitment. She puts her mind to something and she follows through on it. Often times I am amazed by her dedication to her job, to her hobbies, to her children, to me.

Often times it is her commitment that drives me. I probably don't tell her that as often as I should. Now, remember when I was tired and not doing so well, she encouraged me to keep going, to not give up and keep pursuing my dream. She's also committed to being a writer's wife. How lucky am I? :)

Over half of the marriages that take place this year will end in divorce. That's not an exact number but a fairly accurate one. A good chunk of them will split because they are really not committed to one another.

Like I said in the beginning, it is all about commitment.

What's marriage have to do with any of this? Several things.

1) As writers we commit ourselves to our readers. We tell them, hey here is this story, read it and I promise I will get you to a satisfying ending. We give them characters to hold onto, plots to devour, words to marry. It is our commitment to the reader to make sure they don't feel like they've wasted their time reading our words. It's our 'I do.'

2) As writers, when we start networking and becoming friends with other writers, we take on a different type of commitment. I've often said that our little niche in writing, our genre, is like one big family. When you meet someone they become like a brother, sister, mother, father, cousins, or maybe the uncle you don't want anyone to know about. A couple of examples for you: Fran Friel is definitely like the Big Sister I never had. We call each other brother and sister and it fits. I look up to her like I would a smarter, wiser sibling. Bailey Hunter and Boyd Harris are like the cousins you only get to see in summer time or on holidays but you always look forward to talking with them. Erik Smetana is like the adventurous brother who creates the diversions so you can get in and steal the apples off of Mr. Grover's farm. Chris Perridas is the wise uncle who can point you in the right direction when you are heading down the wrong path. Estaban Silvani, well he's that uncle, but it's okay if people know him and his sister, Hazel McHarlot. There are others, but you get the point.

Being a part of the writing community is like being part of a family. You are committed to each other even if you don't get along from time to time. Most things are reparable within a family—it is our jobs as writers within that family to fix things between each other. Again, it is a lot like a marriage. Talking things out and working together will carry you a lot further than going at it alone.

3) As publishers and editors you are committed to putting out the best work possible for the readers (remember you are committed to them, as well) who take the time to browse your publications. Our editors and publishers are much like our parents. They tell you when you do good (good stories) and when you do bad (not so good stories). They are committed to both the readers and the writers.

Yes, the writers. You see, if an editor or publisher is kind with their rejections there is a good chance they will get more submissions from writers who remember how they were informed that their story would not be accepted. Now I'm not talking about giving full out critiques of why a story wasn't accepted but more of an honest feedback of what wasn't liked about a story. Not a lot of detail but nothing too vague either. The problem with that is it takes a lot of time to do this sort of thing. And, we all know that sometimes parents don't have that type of time. But, it is a commitment.

One more story and I'll leave for the day. Lately, I've mentioned my story, The Woodshed, a lot. Part of that is because of the experience I had with dealing with the editor in chief of Dark Distortions, Molly Feese (who wrote a wonderful article on Rhetoric just yesterday). After submitting the story and receiving their acceptance, she and I worked diligently on it, whipping it into proper shape until we both were happy with the outcome. We had a commitment to each other and we both worked hard on it. I don't know about everybody else's experience but mine was wonderful.

When Dark Distortions came out and I received my contributor's copy I was surprised to see a card in the package with the book. It was a thank you note. A thank you note. Let me say that again: a thank you note. Through the entire process of creating Dark Distortions, going through the submissions, dwindling it down to the acceptances, getting it ready for print, printing it, shipping it out and the whole nine yards, Molly also made thank you notes that went to the authors. Now, that's commitment. And that is certainly not something I will forget anytime soon.

Here lately I've noticed a decrease in the efforts and output of a lot of my friends in my writing circles. Things have stepped in the way of writing, editing, publishing or what have you. People have grown tired in some respects. Other folks have become frustrated. Still, others have had life step in the way. That brings me to my final point and I promise I will wrap it up.

Life is a commitment. Whether at your job or with your children or your spouse, life is a commitment. It is a 24/7 commitment. There are planes to catch and bills to pay as Harry Chapin put it. The song is kind of sad, but the commitment for Harry in this song was not to his kid and before he knew it, the kid was grown and just like him. My final point is, yes life is a commitment, but don't forget to take the time out of your busy schedule to enjoy part of life, enjoy your family, make a commitment to enjoying life as well.

For us writers juggling writing and work and family can be difficult but if the commitment is there then it is possible. It's all about commitment.

For now, I'm AJ and I'm out.

Dark Distortions and The Woodshed

2008-05-17T18:41:00.000-07:00

Hello?

Hello out there . . .

Well, where did everyone get off to? They were all here earlier. Oh well, I think I'll just place this poster up on the wall and go ahead and leave.

Well, hello there. Someone stuck around for the nightcap. I'm glad to hear that. I was afraid I was going to leave without having to perform.

What's that? What am I hanging? It's a poster. Oh, you know that. Yeah, I guess so. Umm . . . well, it's a poster for Dark Distortions, an anthology put out by Scotopia Press.

Why would I do that? Simple--there are a lot of good stories in there. Dan Naden's Last Word, Petra Miller's Shade, Pick, by Erik Smetana, Onus by Kim Despins, 18 Wheels of Hell by Mark Deloy and the list goes on and on and on.

That's it? Oh no. There are so many more that I haven't mentioned.

But, why advertise for this book, you ask? Well, I have a story in it as well. It is called The Woodshed and it was eight years in the making. Don't look at me like that. Yeah, it took a while but when I wrote it, I really didn't know anything about writing. But, in all honesty it is a really good story.

What's it about? Hmmm . . . well, I would tell you to buy the book but then that would just be rude. How about this:

In the backwoods of the North Carolina hills two brothers live in fear of a rundown woodshed at the end of their path.

Sheltering fuels to darker fires, their father awaits.

Years later they return to extinguish a smoldering pain.

What they find . . .

. . . could be the end of them both.

So, yeah, I guess I have a personal stake in this as well. What? Where do you buy the book? Oh that is easy. Just go to Scotopia Press and you can order the book. It's 591 pages chock full of great stories.

Will you like it? Well, there is something in there for just about everyone. The only way you'll know is if you buy one and read it.

Okay, well I'll be going on shortly, so if you want to sit back and grab a drink I've got a couple of more of these posters to hang up. Thanks for stopping by.

AJ

Some Fran Friel Goodness AJ Brown

2008-05-02T07:20:00.001-07:00

Good morning, class. Put the books away, the pencils down. No need to worry about any tests today.

On this early May morning we are not going to discuss hard work or determination; we're not going to delve into keeping the creative juices flowing or following guidelines; we're not going to discuss any of my normal topics, so for you folks in the back, don't worry about falling asleep from the mundane yada yada that I normally do.

Class, today we will talk about one thing, err, person. She is one of my closest and dearest friends within the writing community. She calls me Little Bro and I call her Big Sis. Though we are not related, our friendship is very much like a close brother/sister relationship.

Her name is Fran Friel and I'm sure she needs no introduction to the class.

I first learned of Fran less than three years ago when I joined the Horror Library workshop. I went to their website and saw some wonderfully delicious stories by the crew there. I happened upon a story titled Wings With Hot Sauce. Wings With Hot Sauce. I was amused by the story but there was something else, something intriguing. I read another story by her, though I am not sure what it was. That is when it dawned on me. There was so much confidence that went into her writing. Whether she was confident or not in her stories doesn't matter, they gave the appearance of confidence.

It gave me some renewed desire to really write with a little more confidence than what I had at the time. It's one of the main reasons I'm still around.

Then Mama's Boy came out. Though I didn't get to read it right away—it sold out before I had a chance to get my grubby little hands on it—when I finally got to read the story, I was blown away by it. As were quite a few people. Enough folks, in fact, loved the story to garner Fran a Bram Stoker nomination.

When I finally got to correspond with Fran, her words were gentle and encouraging, her thoughts provoking and her attitude infectious. Then when I joined the Horror Library as a contributing writer she asked me if I would consider writing for the HLBOR.

I loved the idea and I have been doing it ever since. To be honest with you, at that point, Fran could have asked me to rewrite the Canterbury Tales and I would have probably tried really hard to do it.

When Fran asked me to do the HLBOR I found it an honor coming from her. It instilled in me another level of confidence. The HLBOR was kind of her baby (I believe Chris Perridas had a lot to do with it, as well) but she trusted me to write on a regular basis and attach the HL name to it.

Confidence. The one thing every writer needs. She gave me a lot of that. Little did I know at that time that we would grow close and become like brother and sister.

Fran is like no other writer I have met. She has a kind and sweet demeanor about her. Her voice is soothing and calm and she has a wickedly good sense of humor. She also has a good head atop her shoulders. To talk to her, to listen to her speaking, you would never imagine this woman would write Mama's Boy.

Why am I telling you all of this? Simple: Big Sis has a short story collection coming out. It is titled, Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales. It is being put out by The Apex Book Company. By the title, it is clear that the collection will be anchored by the Stoker nominated Mama's Boy, a story that you want to read if you haven't already. The collection guarantees to be a wicked ride to the nether regions of your soul. And you might make it back, but you will never be the same.

Fran Friel has a genuine gift for storytelling. Her highly adaptable prose boils over with emotion: love, guilt, fear, and the myriad shades between. Mama’s Boy and Other Dark Tales marks the arrival of a stunning new talent.
– Michael McBride, author of the God’s End trilogy and Bloodletting

Would you buy a collection of stories based on that blurb? I most certainly would.

How about this quote from Jason Sizemore of Apex:

Fran Friel has a sweet, unassuming demeanor. People like talking to her. Her voice is soothing and expresses a sense of peace that is hard to describe.

Having read that, you would think she writes children's stories or romance novels. Ah, but you would assume wrong. But, Jason is absolutely correct in his assessment of Fran—the words ring true to her personality. But, you see I left off part of that quote intentionally. Here is the rest of it:

Knowing this makes reading something like Mama’s Boy all the more horrific.

Now, are you intrigued a little more?

Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales is scheduled for release at Hypericon in Nashville at the end of June. Pre-orders can be made soon. There are limited signed editions as well. It is very early May now. June is next month. Don't miss out on what I believe is going to be one of the greatest collections of the year. If you're especially daring, read it with the lights off under your cover with a small pin flashlight. Then, try to go to sleep.

And, to Fran, Big Sis, I'm so very proud of you and honored to call you friend and Big Sister.

For now, I'm AJ and I'm out.

Fran Friel's Yada Feast

Fran Friel's Yada Feast MySpace

NiNe QuestioNs with FraN Friel

The Horror Of Women By Jason Sizemore

Apex Book Company

The Horror Library

The Horror Library Blog-O-Rama: My Personal Soundtrack by Erik Smetana

2008-04-30T11:20:00.000-07:00

My buddy, Erik Smetana has something on his mind. I think it is coincidental that the most recent installment of Theater of Nightmare has one of the characters thinking along the same lines.

Catch Erik's Blog here:

The Horror Library Blog-O-Rama: My Personal Soundtrack by Erik Smetana

It's In All Of Us

2008-04-25T19:25:00.000-07:00

Clyde watched as Chamberlain died, his last breath squeezing through parched lips and bloodied nostrils.

This is actually the introduction to a story I’ve recently started. It probably won’t stay that way, getting tweaked a couple of times before I am finally happy with it. As it stands, one would think that Chamberlain is the one breathing his last breath, but others may think that it is Clyde doing this by the way the sentence is worded. For now, I will leave the sentence the way it is to make a point.

What’s the point?

Don’t you all love it when I asks questions, hoping someone will guess before I speak . . . err . . . type the answers?

Blank stares from the masses. Nice. Okay, on with the point.

By the time this story is finished it will probably be longer than I intended for it to be, simply because I have a desire to let stories play themselves out. Also, Clyde and Chamberlain, my two main characters should have developed some qualities about them. A plot should unfold and a reason given to why Chamberlain is the one that died and not Clyde.

Maybe—just maybe—someone will have grown to like Clyde or Chamberlain or both of them. Maybe someone will get mad because I killed one of them off and left the other one standing.

Ahh . . . but who is to say that Clyde will actually live through the end of the story? Remember, that sentence above is the opening to my tale, not the ending. Maybe Chamberlain gets some sort of supernatural revenge on Clyde. Okay, no that will not happen, so why BS you folks? But, I think you get the idea—the sentence is only beginning for Clyde and Chamberlain, even though one of them dies right off the bat.

This opening sentence is a product of someone mentioning serial killers to me this past week. Though I haven’t had much time to read or write in the last ten or so days, the thought has been in the back of my mind ever since the topic was mentioned.

So, do you think that Clyde is a serial killer now? What about Chamberlain? Is he/she a victim in this story, or maybe the killer?

No, neither in this case.

Yes, Clyde watches Chamberlain die, the latter breathing his last breath and winking out before him. But, Clyde is not the killer in this story. No, the killer is . . .

Me.

Huh? What? Huh?

Okay, think for a minute. I am a writer, right? I write horror stories, right? Hmmm . . . Still don’t get it?

Okay, simplified deductions here (more for me than for you). I create characters and scenarios and scenes and what have you. I give my characters life by penning their actions and having them move from place to place, interact with each other, get put in bad situations to either get out of or get killed. Many of my stories have the main character getting offed in the end or close to it. In some stories a LOT of folks end up with closed eyes and a lack of breath.

Now, do you see it? There goes that light bulb.

A lot of folks say that writing horror isn’t all that hard. They could be right. But, then to quote Billy Joel, “I may be crazy. But it just may be a lunatic you’re looking for.” I honestly think it takes special people to be horror writers. We delve into the depths of humanity; into the taboo areas of witchcraft, demonology and religious figures gone bad; into the minds of killers; into the eyes of monsters. Not a lot of people are willing to do that—to dive into the dark recesses of the soul and squeeze a character’s head until their eyeballs pop out and their skull shatters.

For each story a horror author writes, he or she puts themselves into a situation where they have to think of a way to either kill off a person or a way for them to get away, though by the skin of their teeth. Most of us choose to off the character and move onto the next scene or story. We put ourselves in the shoes of the killer. We become the killers and we don’t just do it for one or two stories.

Stephen King does it through entire books. Have you read Regulators or Desperation or IT? Lots of dead folks in those stories. I’m not saying King puts himself into a killer’s mindset, but he had to think of ways of killing so many people off in so many different ways. The same with Clive Barker. Or, really any horror writer of note. Anne Rice? Yup—she killed lots of folks.

So, at the end of the story, after Chamberlain has died and Clyde has watched it, I will have killed off one or both of my main characters. And, not for the first time, either. I will have watched as the letters appear on the computer screen, the events unfolding with each word. I will have written the scene and then moved onto the next one.

For horror writers, it’s in all of us. That innate vision to watch a character we create die; to kill them mercilessly. Yes, it takes a special person to write horror. It’s not as easy as you may think it is.

For now, I am AJ and Clyde is calling.

You Went Where?

2008-04-21T17:46:00.000-07:00

So, I took this trip at the end of last week. My wife and I drove 503 miles from South Carolina to Louisville, Kentucky. Though the drive there took us about nine hours, it really didn’t feel like that long—four hours was more like it.

We talked, we laughed, I said stupid stuff, which is not too uncommon. My wife drove most of the way there (to her surprise—most of the time I drive) and I drove the final two and a half hours. As my wife drove I was able to have a little fun sight seeing.

Some things I saw on the way to Louisville:

A newer looking school bus pulling a Jeep behind it. There were no kids on it but I got the feeling that there probably was at some point during the day.

A phone booth in the middle of an open field in Tennessee. I’m still trying to figure that one out. I know there is a Twilight Zone story in there somewhere.

Animals. Lots of animals. It didn’t matter what they were. Cows. Horses. Sheep. Goats. I yelled out the window at each of them: Eat More Chicken. My wife rolled her eyes, like she does when I hit stupid mode. But, it does get better. We got behind a semi loaded down with cows. My guess is they were off to be slaughtered. As we passed them I rolled down the window and yelled out: You should have eaten more chicken. Again, another roll of the eyes. But, this time she laughed.

A place called Stinking Creek Road. Umm . . . no thanks.

Signs in the mountains that read Falling Rock Zone. Hey thanks for letting me know, but what good is it going to do me if I am driving and can’t look to see if the rocks are falling on my head?

There was a Ferris wheel jutting out of one mountainside and right down the road from it was this HUGE cross. There was no church anywhere, just a beautiful cross towering into the sky, easily seen from down the interstate.

There is more—much more—but for now I will stop with the sights and get to why we went to Kentucky in the first place. My wife and I went to Waverly Hills Sanatorium. Yes, that place—the haunted sanatorium where 63,000 people died of tuberculosis. Most of the people I mentioned it to said we were nuts, but then, I guess they don’t know us that well.

And for all of you people thinking that I dragged my wife along with me against her will, well think again: she set the whole thing up. The hotel room, getting the tickets to Waverly, getting all the maps together and finding someone to keep the kids for the four day trip. So, don’t feel sorry for her—it was her idea.

On the way there I got a LOT of story ideas, which I jotted down, in my little notebook. I also managed to do short outlines for four chapters of a novel.

We had a saving grace before we even got started on the trip. You see, I hate maps and don’t read them very well. My sister, Anna, just so happened to have a GPS and asked us if we wanted to borrow it. Ummm . . . yes. The GPS was used religiously and we never got lost. We drove around Kentucky as if we were still in South Carolina, thanks to Mandy. Who? Mandy. That is the name that was assigned to the voice of my sister’s GPS. At some points, when Mandy was especially quiet, I found myself wanting to break into Total Eclipse of the Heart.

I am off on another tangent, aren’t I?

At any rate, we made a trip to the Louisville Zoo and took a lot of pictures. We even took several pictures with my wife’s favorite stuffed animal. His name is Santa Dog and I gave him to Catherine on our first Christmas together. She has kept him with her everywhere since then, including trips, two birthings and one surgery. The folks in Kentucky thought us a little odd. But who cares? We’ll never see most of them again anyway.

We caught a picture of three fruit bats that looked like they were See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil.

There was also the Cave Hill Cemetery where Harland Sanders is buried—you know the guy who founded Kentucky Fried Chicken. The neatest thing about this cemetery that had a map to it and lots of roads to travel on was the small cave near a “lake” within the cemetery. Though you couldn’t go inside, it was still creepy looking and gave me a wicked idea for a story.

I met my friend, Chris Perridas. He’s a really cool dude and very intelligent. We talked about writing for a while and ghosts for another while.

Finally, midnight Friday night came and we were in Waverly, walking the halls of one really creepy place. We went into the morgue and they still had a few of the body trays in there. Climbing into it wasn’t as spooky as I thought it would be, but sitting in the dark, even after my eyes had adjusted and all I could see was blackness around me—yeah that was eerie.

We had a few “personal experiences” and I hope I caught the shadows on the video I took. There is more to Waverly than just the ghosts. The history is amazing. The sheer size of the building is daunting and the many rooms where people died or where experimental surgeries took place or electroshock therapy could send chills up and down your spine just thinking about it.

At any rate, the morning came and the tour was over. We had seen the entire building and the body chute and it didn’t feel like four in the morning. Needless to say, we didn’t want to leave.

We’ve been going through the photos and it is a painstakingly slow process, but hopefully we have caught a few things.

There will be more on being inside of Waverly later this week, but all-in-all, I would say the trip was a great one and even with just three hours sleep from early Friday morning until late Saturday evening.

More on the trip and Waverly later, for now, I’m exhausted and the kids just went to bed. I think there is a hockey game on and I would like to veg out for a little while.

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

Why Not This One? AJ Brown

2008-04-11T18:56:00.001-07:00

Over the last few days I have done something I have never done before. What you ask? Base jump? Parachute? Sky diving? Nah. None of those. I have sat down at the computer and tried to write a story for an anthology I would like to get in. What’s that you say? Haven’t I written for a specific anthology before?

Well, yes, but not for this one. It’s one that I never really had the confidence in my ability to write for. Yes, I have submitted to this place in the past (and no, I am not telling where it is) and I have been rejected, but it’s not like I actually sat down and wrote a story for this publication. The stories I had submitted in the past had been previously written, so I didn’t write them with the publication specifically in mind.

I tried for two days to come up with a story worthy enough to be considered. My mind shut down. I couldn’t come up with anything. For me that is unheard of. Mr. Fountain of Creativity had nothing.

I was worried at first.

Then I sat down yesterday morning for a short while and pounded out the first line to the story. I pondered it, played with it in my head, looked at it, turned the words around. Then it happened. The story took shape and I wrote. Words came together; sentences formed; a plot and ending became a little clearer.

When I finished the piece this afternoon I asked six or so of my friends to read it. I also asked questions about the story. I have gotten replies back from most of them but one of them said something that made me think. And, really the words weren’t all that profound, but they held a deeper meaning for me.

My opinions, hope they are okay.

This made me sit back and think. Thus my reply is as follows:

Thanks (name withheld to protect the guilty)--the readers’ opinions are the ones that mean the most to me. Editors are paid to tear your stuff apart. Readers are who I want to impress with this one.

With this one? With this one?

Hello, AJ, did you catch what you wrote?

With this one?

Why only this one? Why not EVERY story I write?

Here is what I am getting at folks: As writers most of us want to get published. Often times we write stories that we think the editors or publishers would like. But, what about the readers? What if a reader likes a story that an editor wouldn’t? What if a reader thinks something is awesome and a publisher doesn’t? Does that make the story any less good in the reader’s eye?

I don’t think so.

This is the thing I had forgotten through all of this learning how to write and trying to pen stories that I think an editor may like and want to publish. I, like so many of us, have forgotten about the reader.

Sure, we say if you write a compelling story and you do it well, then someone will pick it up and pay you for it. But, why only write to please an editor, one who may be fickle on what he/she likes?

We must focus on who we are trying to impress and that, in my opinion, should be the reader.

My good friend, Petra, told me something last year that I have kept in mind every time I read someone else’s work. She said, “We are readers before we are writers.”

So, why forget the readers that we are trying to reach? Why not write for them; write with them in mind?

I think to an extent we all write with a little bit of the reader in mind, but how much do we do that? How often do you sit back and say ‘I wonder if Joe Blow down the street would like this story.’

Just a thought and a rambling.

For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.

The McDonald's Mentality

2008-04-03T17:46:00.000-07:00

Patience. Not a word many folks like, myself included. No, patience is not a popular word, even though it is a virtue.

In our push button, fast food world we have become a society of got have it now and you’re holding up my progress. If we don’t get it now, we go somewhere else where we can. I like to call it the McDonald’s Mentality. Or, maybe it’s a Burger King Mentality—your way, right away at Burger King NOW.

If you walk too slowly, people push by you. If you drive to slow, they get over, buzz by you and give you a dirty look or the finger in the process. If you don’t answer a question fast enough it will be asked again and again until you answer it.

Hurry up. Come on. You’re moving too slow. Get the lead out. You’re slower than molasses. How about a quickie?

Doesn’t anybody make long lasting slow love anymore?

So, what is my point to all of this? Let me see. Oh, yeah, as writers we tend to want that instant success. Where is mine? Why can’t I get published right away? I’m just as good as that guy, how come he gets all the notoriety? What about me?

Patience, grasshopper. Patience.

Do you see what I am getting to here or are you growing bored already?

What it boils down to is that so often we want things now and we are not willing to wait for them or work at it. Writing is tough; writing is work. That’s the easy part, folks. It’s the getting published that is so hard. It’s getting published that we have to be patient with.

We write, we edit, we rewrite, we edit some more, then we make out our cover letter, send the stories out and then. . . wait. For what? A lot of times a rejection, and most of those are form rejects. Then we say something like, “I just wasted the last three months waiting for a . . . REJECTION?”

Folks, it’s part of the business. Writing takes time. Writing takes work. Writing takes patience. I’m like anyone else: I want to get published. But, you know, I believe it will come in time. If I don’t get published tomorrow or the next day or next year, I know that it will come in time. I have to be patient and continue to work at it, get better at writing.

I’m one of those people that believe when everything is handed to you, you don’t appreciate what you have. But, if you work for it, then when rewards come, you appreciate it all the more because you accomplished something worthwhile. You were patient and let it come.

Don’t be in such a hurry to get recognized. Don’t be in such a hurry to get your work out there—a lot of times it may get out there but it may not be all that great and then what are you stuck with? Something out there with your name on it; something that you may not be proud of a year or two from now; something you will wish you waited on.

Nothing in life has ever come easy for me. Nothing. I have had to work for everything and every accomplishment. I can’t say that I am the most patient person in the world but I can say I appreciate the things I have because of the effort put into them.

I don’t like the McDonald’s Mentality. I don’t care much for the quickie attitude of our society.

I leave you with this: though the hare was faster, quicker on his feet, the turtle won the race. Slow and steady . . . and a lot of patience pay off in the long run.

I’m AJ and I’m out.

Desire and Positive Reinforcements

2008-03-27T19:57:00.000-07:00

Do you know what one of the advantages of hosting the Friday edition of the Blog-O-Rama is? I get to see what everyone else wrote about during the week. Yeah, I know it is kind of cheap, but I do get to see what the others are writing about and if something strikes me while reading the other posts, then I can ponder on it for a while. Sometimes my mind really takes hold of something that one of the others has written and I can’t let it go. Kind of like an old dog gnawing on a bone—just try to take it from him.

Earlier this week Erik Smetana brought up a friend of ours laying down the pen and pursuing other avenues. That friend has taken an editorial position with a respected publication and his time is going to be put to good use—and probably some abuse as well.

But, it’s a good move for him and he will learn a lot about the other side of the business and when he is ready to come back to writing, then he’ll be better equipped with the knowledge of what editors are looking for. That is gold in this business.

Now the question comes to mind and I think it is something we have all pondered at one time or other. Erik asked it in his post.

As he asked: Was I cut out to be a writer? Did I have what it takes to achieve some semblance of success? What would finally constitute success for me? Would I ever be able to realistically turn my avocation into my occupation? Am I choosing my writing projects wisely? Am I taking on too much? Not enough?

Come on, be honest with me, now. How many of you out there have thought this about your writing, or about anything in general in life? Come on, a show of hands. Be honest. Nobody? Wow. You mean I am alone on this?

Well, I would have never thought that, but it is what it is, right?

I have come to realize there is one thing about life, not just writing, that can help improve your chances of being successful. Do you want to know what it is? Really? You do? Sweeeettt.

Okay, it is simple. How many times have you heard someone say something like:

Oh, he’ll never amount to anything.
I’m fat.
I can’t do that.
I’ll never be good at that.
You suck at that.

Do you notice a theme here? They are all negative comments. If someone is told enough times they won’t amount to anything there is a good chance that is going to happen. If you tell yourself you are fat all the time there is a good chance you’re going to eat more, work out less and get bigger. If you say you can’t do something enough, guess what? You won’t be able to do it. If you say you’ll never be good at something then you are right—you never will be good at it because you won’t try as hard to succeed. If someone tells you that you suck enough, you’ll start believing it.

It’s those negative statements that are part of the problem—a significant part of the problem. Now, think about the opposite type of statements, those that encourage, that don’t tear a person down.

I can do this.
I want to learn how to do this.
There’s nothing I can’t do if I try hard enough.
I don’t suck, I’m just not there yet.
I’m not fat, I’m just big boned.

Okay, the last one is a Cartman reference and I should be ashamed of myself for that, but you get the idea. If you tell yourself you can’t do something then you won’t be able to. But, if you tell yourself you can do it then your effort changes, your mindset changes, your attitude changes. And it is that attitude that goes with you and helps drive you to be better.

I can write. I tell myself these three words every day. It’s true, whether I write good or bad is inconsequential. I can write.

I can get better. Again, a true statement. I think you can get better at anything you do with a little bit of luck, some hard work and a solid belief in yourself.

I want to learn how to be a better writer. Another truth. This is one of my primary goals.

My mindset is on the positive, not the negative. It is that mindset that I think—I know—will eventually help me be successful at whatever I choose to take on. I choose writing and one of these days you’ll know who I am. And, no, that is not arrogance. That is confidence.

Am I there yet? No. Not close. But I will be.

I asked three questions in response to Erik’s post. Those three questions I ask myself on a regular basis. Think about them as I asks them and then answer them.

Do I enjoy writing? Yes. Emphatically, YES.

What do I get from it? The satisfaction of completing something from beginning to end by pouring myself into it and working on it until I reach the conclusion I want. Sometimes I get published. Sometimes people like my stories. Sometimes I get paid. Sometimes I don't get any of these.

If I never get published or become 'successful' will I still be happy doing it? That is easy for me: Yes. I love to write. It is like air to me. It is my addiction (other than my wife). I can’t go more than a couple of days without writing and stay in a good mood. I get cranky when I am not penning something. My family doesn’t like me when I don’t write. Writing is as much a part of me as my skin is.

And, when I write I have that positive mindset that I will succeed at it. It does make a difference.

Back to our friend who announced he is putting down the pen. I think he is doing the best thing for him. I think his attitude toward it is the right one. I also think he’ll be back to writing one day. For now, though, I think he chose the right path. His attitude could make him successful at it.

I’m AJ and I’m out.

Flash Fiction and the Reader

2008-03-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

As many of you who follow these little articles that we write for you may know that I like to write about topics that come up in +The Horror Library+ workshop over at the Zoetrope Virtual Studios. Some of the topics are really not all that great, but others are. Take for instance, Erik Smetana's latest post on voice and style. One and the same or different? I teased Erik for taking my idea for this week's blog and we even thought about having a good old Rock, Paper, Scissors fight to decide who would get to write that piece. I relented. Erik throws a mean rock.

However, another topic sprung up just as quickly as the voice/style topic died down. It was based on a rejection thread and quickly turned to how to write effective flash fiction. A lot of thoughts were given throughout this discussion and I would like to include some of them hear. The most important one I will save for last.

So, here we go.

First things first, let's think about flash fiction. Most folks define it as a story under a thousand words—a complete story. This is a hard feat to accomplish but it can be done. As stated by one individual:

The hard thing about flash. . . is telling a complete story in so few words, managing to hook the reader and give them some sort of ending/resolution that sticks.

Pretty much the concept in a nutshell. Flash is writing complete stories in few words with a good hook and a resolution that works. That should also be the thought process behind writing stories other than flash fiction. Not a lot of readers today care much for the padded descriptions and the long drawn out sequences. Conservation of words has become a necessity in this day and age of attention challenged individuals or people who have just enough time to read about a thousand words and that is all.

Another gentleman put it quite nicely:

Set up. Lead In and Execution.

In flash fiction the set up has to be quick, almost instant. Without that immediate hook a lot of times the story falls flat. The lead in has to be effective, make sense and fit with the rest of the story. The execution has to be concise—no dilly-dallying or extra words. Just kind of tell it like it is.

Cullen Bunn gave a great example on one of his blog's, and as he puts it, with apologies to the Monster Squad.

Dear Army,
There are zombies.
Please come.
***
Dear kid,
We are zombies.
Signed, the Army.

Set up, lead in, execution in 15 words. Wow.

Another example of this I steal from my good friend, Molly Feese. She used the tree that Mr. Bunn set before us.

Dear God,
There are demons under my bed.
Please send angels.
***
Dear Kid,
We are the demons under your bed
Regards,
The Angels

The letter format works quite well for pieces like this.

Hemingway probably wrote the most effective piece of flash or micro fiction in just six words:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Talk about set up, lead in and execution.

Onward we go. Another great point that was brought forward during this discussion is this:

Flash Fiction has always been an exercise in showing instead of telling, which a lot of people struggle with in long fiction, much less with less than 1K words.

How true of a statement is that? I know that I've often been told I am telling instead of showing, but when I write flash fiction I show more than tell. My longer works, I am sad to say, often tells the story without showing it. I hang my head in shame.

I have learned over the last couple of years that flash fiction can be great for learning how to lop off those extra words and write more concisely, thus showing more of your story than telling it. That makes it a true exercise of show versus tell.

The author then goes onto provide a link to a story he wrote titled 'Insect.' It's a great example of flash fiction so check this story out here:

Insect

Another golden nugget from this conversation:

In flash fiction, you're pared down to the most basic pieces of information...the main thread of writing necessary to constructs the story in the reader's mind. It's hard to do because as a writer, you have to discard the stuff that's really not important to the tale. . .

As you can see there is a common theme to flash fiction: Telling a quick story in as few words as possible and conveying it properly. Not an easy task.

There are a lot of venues out there for Flash Fiction. Some of them take only stories up to a thousand words, while others vary on word count. The Black Box e-anthology had a max word count of 120 words. Talk about your concise writing. I wrote four pieces for this anthology and my brain hurt when I was done. But, it was worth it—the fourth one got snatched up for Black Box and I learned a little more on writing micro fiction.

But wait, there's more. Did you catch what I wrote in that last paragraph? I wrote four stories for the Black Box e-anthology. I wrote them based on an editor's guidelines. The editor was really cool about taking more than one submission but keep this in mind: I wrote the stories for an editor. This leads me to what I think is the most important part of the discussion. It doesn't necessarily mean what is important for writing flash fiction but what is important for writing. PERIOD.

I've noticed that a lot of readers (especially horror readers), want to be wowed. That, in my opinion, is a fact. . . Here's the hardest thing about writing I think most writers have trouble with, though: giving readers what they want. Not other "writer-readers," but readers.

Horror writers are so worried about how to tell their story, I don't think many of them look at their work (or other's writer's work) as readers and say, "Now, if I was just a reader, would I like this? Does it have the impact I would be looking for in other people's work?" Maybe a lot of us don't even know how to view a story from a reader's POV anymore.

Readers are our intended audience, but are we writing for them? Well, we're supposed to be. And I know a lot of readers, have been in book clubs and I know that one thing that disappointed a reader more than anything was "seen this, been there, oh my God, this was a good idea, but I'm so tired of the 'meh'."

Chew on that for a minute while I go refresh my coffee.

Okay, I'm back. Now, to add to that last statement was this partial response from someone I really admire in this business of writing:

I think we absolutely have to think about our readers. Your point here is fantastic (and seldom discussed, I agree). But at the same time I think we need to step back and realize that writing is a means of communication. It's a two-way process. Even if it seems like we're just giving them something to consume and that the writer-reader relationships ends on the printed page (or the hypertexted screen).

Are we writing for the readers or are we writing for the writers? Or are we writing for editors? How about for ourselves? Are we building that relationship between writer and reader? Are we communicating what we really want them to know? In order for us to get anywhere in this business, we have to have readers who want to read what we write.

In this day and age, it is much easier to get published and the time between submitting a story and publication has been drastically reduced, thanks to the internet and e-mail. People in the genre (or in writing in general) who came before us and set the bar as high as it is didn't have it as easy as we do. And, often times we complain when our submission hasn't received a response in the month to three months the editors say the turn around time is.

We learn things about writing as we work at it and we get better at it, but what about the craft of story telling to your audience. My granddaddy was a great story teller. He could mesmerize you with a half an hour long tale or astound you in just thirty words, but either way, you would want to sit through the entire length of the story he was telling. Do we convey our stories in a way that our readers will stay hooked and enthralled in every word we write?

As writers we often lose touch with readers because we study the craft, the ins and outs, do's and don'ts of writing. Some of us have a hard time getting lost in stories and find ourselves critiquing novels while we read them.

My final quote from this thread is the following, which kind of hammers home the idea of writing and reading and partially why I think that us writers often don't reach the readers.

Becoming a writer and studying the tricks of the trade has absolutely ruined reading for me. I still love to read, of course, but I very rarely get lost in the illusion anymore because I recognize what the writer was trying to do in certain places. I notice plotting "plants" and "red Herrings" more now than I ever did.

There's good and bad to that, I guess. But a lot of books I might've loved ten years ago, are the same books I wouldn't be able to finish today.

Definitely my loss.

One friend of mine always puts it so nicely when she reviews a story: We were readers long before we became writers.

Now, to close up shop for today, I would like to go back to the flash fiction aspect of writing. Yes, it is hard to write especially stories under a thousand words, but it is a great practicing tool for learning to be more direct and concise in story telling. However, no matter how great some of us may become or have already become, we have to remember, we have an audience we are trying to reach. That is what is the most important. As I've often stated and I believe firmly:

The real horror for any writer is not having an audience to write for.

I'm AJ and I'm out.

***

Quotes used from this conversation are from the following folks: C.D. Allen, Molly Feese, Eric Stark, Erik Smetana, D.X. Williams, Petra Miller, Dan Naden and myself.

The Cullen Bunn excerpt was used as an example and in no way is meant to steal from him.

Dark Distortions

2008-03-18T19:21:00.001-07:00

It is I once again, talking about Dark Distortions. Why? Why not? It's a killer anthology with a lot of really good stories in it. You are bound to find something in this TOMB of a book that you will love. With great authors contributing to this anthology the stories are strong, the poems beautifully rendered.

Check out the list of names in this book:

Daniel L. Naden
Sarah Deckard
Scott Craw
David W. Landrum
Mark E. Deloy
Theresa Cecilia Newbill
Robert Brian Newbill
Jamie Brindle
Eric R. Lowther
Chris Morrow
Trevor Price
Gerald C. Matics
Ralph Robert Moore
Frank Sullivan
C.D. Allen
Ken Goldman
Brandy Leah Schwan
Lorne Dixon
Kim Despins
Michael Anthony
Erik Smetana
John Logan
Jeffrey Buford
Rick McQuiston
Petra Miller
D.C. Sowders
Tom Miller
Sophia Ahnikalish Schwan
Ashley Hughes
and me.

With Molly S. Feese and C.D. Allen editing this baby it turned out to be one of the best looking, best reading anthologies I've sat down and read.

Go ahead, asks me which story is my favorite. You won't get just one answer.

Check it out for yourselves.

Scotopia Press

Dark Distortions Review at Bookgasm

2008-03-17T18:50:00.000-07:00

Bookgasm has reviewed the new Scotopia Press release, Dark Distortions. All-in-all it's a good review.

Check it out here:

Dark Distortions Review

CD Allen's story, The Rector House, drew the most praise and deservingly so.

Thanks for reading and stop by Scotopia Press and pick up a copy of Dark Distortions. You won't be sorry you did.

You can check out Scotopia Press here:

Scotopia Press

AJ

Half the Battle

2008-03-13T19:11:00.000-07:00

Half the battle.

Knowing is half the battle. Accepting things the way they are is half the battle. Trying is half the battle. Getting up when you fall down is half the battle.

I’ve heard these things my entire life. Everything is always half the battle. Getting a date is half the battle.

Recently, I was chit chatting with a friend of mine. He was talking about a story I wrote. His words were encouraging, which for a writer, is a good thing. So often we get so many discouraging rejections and thoughts about what we’ve written that giving up sometimes becomes an option. When you get to that point of thinking, you are losing the battle.

In talking to my friend, John, I got to see something that you don’t see often enough in the writing world: Enthusiasm. He reminds me a lot of, well, me.

I guess you want an explanation, right? Okay, here we go. A little over two years ago I decided to try and pursue the ‘writing thing’ as people around me call it. When I jumped into it, I was very enthusiastic, asking questions, researching, reading everything that I could get my hands on to see how the big dogs do it.

Then I tried to apply that to my own writing. But, I really didn’t get anywhere for a while. However, I kept on plugging away, finally got a couple of acceptances and then really got excited.

That enthusiasm carried over into +The Horror Library+ and the HL Blog-O-Rama. I love to advertise for people—even though sometimes I don’t think I’m all that good at it. NiNe QuestioNs is a direct result of my excitement and dedication to writing and the people involved in it.

I have other things I am excited about, Dark Recesses Press being right at the top of that list. Followed closely by my new project, Theater of Nightmares, a deviation from the normal rules of writing.

But enough about that, back to my friend, John. He is what every writer needs to be, especially starting out: Energetic, enthusiastic, excited. He is halfway there, in my opinion.

Here is why: how many times have you been rejected and gotten down about it? How many times have you thought your writing sucks? How many times have you been told you don’t have what it takes to do this or that or the other? Without enthusiasm (and really thick skin) you would have given in. Throw in some determination and you got yourself a recipe for success.

This is what I see in John. Excitement. Enthusiasm. High Energy. Determination. These things are all half the battle.

I don’t believe in the theory that you have to be talented to be good at something. I believe if you try hard enough, long enough, you can be successful. Those four traits I just mentioned in the previous paragraph are all part of trying and working. It doesn’t mean you’re the most talented person, but it means you are willing to do what it takes to succeed.

I know several writers, who at the moment are better at the craft than my friend, but they are not nearly as dedicated to it, or enthusiastic about it. Some of them tend to give up easily on projects when it isn’t going the way they want to. No, you’re not going to get anywhere like that. A few rejections and some of them are ready to call it quits. Nope, not going anywhere that way, either.

In the last couple of months I’ve read 8 or so stories written by John. He has good ideas and good storytelling abilities. His enthusiasm at becoming better at it is refreshing. I, for one, have that same feeling when I pen a story—I want to get better at it and I want to get published on a regular basis.

So, after all of this rambling on, what have we learned? Not much? Gee, thanks. No, we have learned that enthusiasm really is half the battle. Everything else will fall in line if you just believe in yourself and get excited about what you are doing. That is half the battle. . . along with all those other halves. You’re bound to go right with that positive attitude.

Okay, I’m done taking up your time. I’m AJ and I’m out.

Life Suspended By Mark E. Deloy

2008-03-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

That's right. The new novel by Mark E. Deloy is going to be out very, very soon. Dark Recesses Press is slated to release this killer novel (pun intended) in April and it promises not to leave you hanging.

**Shakes head.**

Okay, enough with the puns.

Check out the trailer--it's a great read and with DRP backing it, you know it is going to be good.

I'm out.

AJ

What's In The Box?

2008-03-06T08:48:00.001-08:00

+Dark Distortions+

2008-03-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

So, I went out to the mailbox today to see what bills have collected there, when, to my surprise, there was a brown wrapped package with my name on it sitting amongst the junk mail and the lone bill. No, it’s not what some of you are thinking. It was something so much better.

After breaking into the well sealed package using my knife and a pair of very dull scissors, I was treated to the crispest cover I have ever seen on a book. Holy cow, pictures don't do this book justice.

Dark Distortions stared back at me. I showed it to my wife who immediately took the book and just looked at the cover for about a minute. For my wife, that is a long time.She smiled, a sure sign that she liked it.Then I flipped through the brilliantly white pages. It truly is a sight to behold.

I was left in utter awe of the magnificent work Scotopia Press, and more specifically, Molly Feese and C.D. Allen, put into this anthology. I can honestly say it is not like anything I have ever seen before.

They really outdid themselves.

Now, I must order a couple of more--I'm afraid to touch the one I have for fear of damaging it in some way.

Let’s see, where can you find this. Well, how about here:

Scotopia Press

And, here is the thing--this is near 600 pages of book with a lot of really good authors in it. Mark Deloy, Petra Miller, Kim Despins, Dan Naden, DC Sowders, John Logan, Erik Smetena, Chris Morrow, Brandy Leah Schwan, to name a few.

So, check them out--you won't regret it.

Sign me out, Corn.

AJ