The Official Blog of Horror Writer Amber Fallon

Amber's Top Five Books of 2015!

2016-01-11T13:29:00.003-05:00

Hello, Dear Readers! New year, new start! But let's not forget all of the good that came before, and 2015 was indeed a banner year for horror fiction.

I'm doing this post in lieu of my usual year-in-review. While 2015 was full of many awesome things, it was also a difficult year in other ways that I think are best left to lie. So instead of reviewing my accomplishments and whatnot, I've decided to review some of my favorite reads of 2015.

And yes, I know that this is a bit late, especially compared to everyone else's lists... but since you've already read theirs, now you have time for mine! And just in case there are any publishers reading this, I promise I'm great with deadlines! Really!

I'd also like to note that James A. Moore's City of Wonders was a STRONG contender for this list. I absolutely adored the book and the ONLY reason it's here as an honorable mention is because it's the third part in his Seven Forges series and I worry that asking for a 3 book commitment on my recommendations might be a bit much for some of my readers... Although, if you haven't read Seven Forges and The Blasted Lands yet, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!

And now, on to the fun!

#5 Wilted Lilies by Kelli Owen

Kelli Owen, host of the Buttercup of Doom podcast, knocked it out of the park with Wilted Lilies. It's the tale of Lily May Holloway, a troubled teenager with a gift/curse that allows her to speak with the dead. It's been done before in the horror genre, but Kelli's take is refreshingly new and different and Lily herself is the kind of character that sticks with you for a while after the last page. She's tragic and haunted, that's for sure, but she's also sweet and vulnerable, despite her best friend's death and her own kidnapping. The other characters that round out the story are equally as complex and just as fascinating. All in all, this is a terrific tale with a few twists, great characters, and an ending that won't let you go.

#4 Zero Lives Remaining by Adam Cesare

Number four on my list, Adam Cesare's Zero Lives Remaining is cheesy, gory, camp filled fun. It hearkens back to the classic 80s horror romp cinema I grew up with in the very best way. It's the story of Robby Asaro, a ghost who keeps watch over his old stomping grounds, an arcade populated by the kind of kid I was way back when. But when Robby tries to use his ghostly powers for good to protect one of the arcade's regulars, things go very, very wrong. It's a classic tale of the best intentions ending up causing the worst outcomes, filled with horror, thrills, supernatural slayings and even some tongue-in-cheek cheese. Despite the delays (and delays... and delays...) that occurred during production of the collector's edition (none of which were Adam's fault, just to be clear) the finished product was well worth the wait. Even without the cool VHS-style case and trading cards, Zero Lives Remaining would keep it's place on this list. It's that good.

#3 Paradise Sky by Joe R. Lansdale

While not quite horror, Paradise Sky is Joe Lansdale at his very best, telling great stories with passion and drama, full of Texas heart (even though this one is set mostly outside of Texas, Lansdale's trademark style and Texan charm shine through like a bright dime in a mud puddle) and rich characters, the most significant of which is Willie Jackson (soon to become Nat Love) a young black man who had the gall to ogle a white woman and ended up paying a hefty price as a result. This is a great old western tale, peppered with familiar names (like Wild Bill Hickock himself) and Lansdale's trademark knack for engrossing dialogue and likable characters. I read this book on a long flight and was actually kind of sad when the plane landed before I could finish the last chapter.

#2 Dead Ringers by Christopher Golden

What if you had an evil twin you didn't know about? What if that twin was the best possible version of you? Younger? Smarter? More stylish? Thinner? What if they wanted to take over? That's the premise behind this creepy-as-hell novel by Christopher Golden. There are several main characters (and their doubles) but Tess and Lili are the ones that stood out most to me, as strong, brave, capable women dealing with an utterly horrific situation. This story is full of gut punch moments, but none moreso than the ending, that one will leave you breathlessly cursing the author long after you've closed and shelved the book (and maybe taped it shut... just in case...)

#1 The Complex by by Brian Keene

Wow. Yes, that was intentionally bolded, and yes, I meant every damned pixel of it. Wow. That's my one word review of Brian Keene's The Complex (previously available as part of the limited edition Maelstrom set from Thunderstorm Books, hopefully to be re-released as a paperback soon). There's a hint of The Crazies, a breath of 28 Days Later, and a whisper of Keene's Dark Hollow within those pages, but also a whole lot of something else, something undefined, something horrific and wonderful and heartbreaking and thrilling all at the same time. It's the tale of the many varied residents of an apartment complex that comes under siege and how they band together to deal with the invasion... and survive. There's a whole host of characters, but my favorites were a Keene standby named Exit and a widowed crazy cat lady named Mrs. Carlucci. I came to care about the latter far more than I expected and she's a big part of what really drew me into the book. There were several moments where I was left speechless, shocked, angry, saddened, or even amused. This is a book you do NOT want to miss! If you didn't get in on the Maelstrom set before it sold out, you'll have to wait, though. Or borrow it from someone who did.

I hope you've enjoyed this (admittedly short) list and the books therein. Have you read them? If so, don't forget to write a review, share a copy with a friend, and/or tell everyone who will listen how much you enjoyed them or any other books you've loved. Feel free to share some of your favorites from last year in the comments!

Christmas 2015: The Visit

2015-12-23T14:08:00.001-05:00

It's Christmastime, so I'm continuing my semi-annual tradition of posting a Christmas related story, my yuletide gift to you all.

This story was inspired, in part, by a drive I took recently through a good part of Texas. The roads can be lonely and dark, with barely another vehicle in sight. The moonlight is different, the skyline is a landscape of its own. I do some of my best thinking on the road (and my best storytelling) but my experience in Texas was especially powerful.

THE VISIT

11:22 PM

I hugged Becca goodbye in front of The Tamale Plant, one of our old haunts back when I lived here. The restaurant closed at 10:00, but Becca and I stood out front, her smoking a cigarette, me balancing awkwardly on the curb, long after they locked the doors and turned out all the lights, laughing and chatting and reminiscing about the good old days. Only back then, I would've been smoking, too.

It was warm for December, but that's Texas for you. Maybe I'd just gotten more used to the cold of Michigan winters. It was hard to believe I'd been away for 5 whole years. So much had happened since then. The Tamale Plant was still the same, though. Best fish tacos this side of Mexico and margaritas the size of slop buckets. It was strange to be back, comparing the things that hadn't changed a bit with everything that had changed way too much. It's true what they say, you can't go home... not that Nacogdoches was home anymore. My parents had sold their house and moved to Austin not long after I left for college. Becca was my only remaining tie to the old homeplace, but there was this lingering feeling between us, like maybe she resented me for getting out, but maybe that was all in my head. A manifestation of the guilt I felt for moving on and leaving my lifelong friend behind in the Texas dust.

"You really sure you wanna drive back all that way in the dark?" Becca asked for the twentieth time, the cherry of her lit cigarette bouncing as she spoke, "I got a perfectly good sofa bed you can crash on, you know."

"I know." I reply for the twentieth time, "But mom would be pissed if I wasn't there first thing in the morning when she starts baking. You know how she is..." I trail off, shrugging. Becca knows alright. She's always hated my mother.

Becca drops her cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushes it out with her boot. "Ok, then." she says, hugging me. I hug back, even though the smell of tobacco on her clothes and in her hair almost makes me choke. Did I ever really enjoy smoking?

"It was good to see you." she says, reminding me again how seldom I make the trip, or even the effort to keep in touch with my old friend. "You, too." I turn and walk towards my car. Becca stops me by grabbing my wrist.

"Be careful, ok?" she says, "I don't want you hurt, not if you're going to be president or something someday."

"Thanks." I smile, "I will." And then I'm on the road again.

12:07 AM

I hit the scan button on the radio dial again, cursing myself for going cheap and not getting a rental car equipped with satellite radio. The stations blur by, a preacher yells about hell fire and brimstone, a crooner sings a ballad about a lost love, and a girl band belts out a poppy country tune, all interspersed with static as the car moves from one area of coverage to the next. Finally, I settle on a classical music station that seems to be holding strong just outside of Bryan.

The music is strangely calming, almost meditative. I like driving, or at least I don't mind it, but it's especially nice on the long backroads highways of rural Texas. No streetlights, few houses except very close to the cities and towns, and a soft half moon throwing glowing light over the peaceful farmland on either side of the road. I've only seen one other vehicle, a semi, this lonely Christmas Eve morning. I'll probably make it to my parents house before the sun rises, which makes me feel a little sad. I've always loved the sunrises here, which just aren't the same in Michigan.

I'm a little tired, after a flight, a layover, and driving down to see Becca, and our visit at the Tamale Place, but that's alright. I've done it before. Becca and I used to take road trips all the time, to see music in Houston or Dallas and sometimes to the beach. I always drove and I always stayed awake. I've never even gotten a speeding ticket, not that I believe that would be possible in the little Korean compact I rented. I'm almost tempted to floor it just to see how fast it can go, but I resist the urge and in a moment it passes.

The radio station fades in and out with increasing regularity. I hit the scan button again and begin counting mile markers as they appear alongside the road. Every now and then I see cows sleeping in their fields and oil derricks churning in the darkness, moonlight glinting on their backs.

The road seems to stretch on forever, a ribbon of grey in the darkness. I start to slip into road hypnosis as the white dashes dart by and the monotony of the journey errodes my focus.

I'm almost on auto pilot, when the car is suddenly stopped fast and completely dead. I snap to attention. The lights are out, even the clock/radio. I didn't hit anything. There was no impact, the car was just moving at one moment, doing almost 80 miles an hour, and the next, it was still.

I feel my heart begin to race, my blood thundering in my ears as my breath starts hitching in my throat. Did I fall asleep? What happened? I turn the key but it does nothing, not even click. I take a deep beath, trying to force myself calm, and reach for my cellphone. My stomach fills with ice when I see that it's completely dead, just like the car. How can that be? It's still hooked into the charger. Maybe there was an EMP or something. Could that have happened? Could it be a terrorist attack or something? I hold down the power button, feeling desperation begin to creep in. My mouth goes dry when it doesn't respond.

I could try to flag someone down, but it would be a long time before anyone came along. I glance up at the road ahead, and that's when I see them.

Long, pale forms that seem to glow in the moonlight with bottomless empty holes for eyes and mouths emerge from the woods, cloaked in shadow.

Panic. What the fuck are those things? I turn the key in the ignition again, frantic. I twist it so hard it hurts, but nothing. The things are coming closer, reaching too-long fingers towards me, their shapes contorting, stretching, twisting in the moonlight. They move in quick, halting motions, jerky, like someone removed several frames during playback. Tears run down my face. I bite my lip and taste blood.

They come closer. I press the button to lock the doors but it doesn't do anything. I sob even though I can barely breath.

I gasp as one of them appears on the other side of my window, moving several yards in a split second. I try to scream, but I can't. I feel like I'm paralyzed. Warm wetness spreads on the seat beneath me as my bladder lets go.

I shut my eyes, it's all the control I have over my body. I squeeze them so tight it hurts.

I hear the door open and a sound like nothing I've ever heard, like harsh wheezing played backwards, fills the void.

Cold fingers, colder than anything I've ever felt, wrap around me, my entire head in one hand, my shoulders in another. They drag me from the car.

Instinct kicks in and I open my mouth, biting down hard on a finger that feels too soft to hold me and as smooth as glass.

A scream like sirens and all goes silent.

I fall to the ground, my shoulder and my knee take the impact. My mouth is full of hot, stinging fluid that tastes like batteries and fire. I choke and gasp as I roll to the side and throw up. I can feel my lower lip and my tongue beginning to dissolve.

I open my eyes. They sting, but I can see. I cannot hear. Around me, there is no one. Nothing. Only the cows and the derricks and the darkness.

The car jolts to life suddenly, headlights flashing on, the overhead light illuminating above me. I imagine the music on the radio is playing again, but I can't hear it.

Coughing and choking, I feel wet chunks of things that should stay inside me coming out. They splatter on my hands and arms and the pavement, looking black in the pale light of the moon. I am covered in something that glows the color of Christmas lights and makes my skin bubble and blister and ooze.

Christmas lights.

Mom.

Silence.

Hallowed Ween

2015-10-30T08:05:00.003-04:00

I've always loved Halloween, ever since I can remember, but I was a bit worried about it this year, concerned that it would hurt and open up old wounds... Halloween was one of the very few things I had in common with my brother, whom I lost earlier this year.

He and I really weren't close. We didn't see eye-to-eye and we really didn't get along, except for that magical few weeks every autumn leading up to The Big Day. Halloween unified us, created a bond like nothing else could. We decorated together, watched Halloween specials (An old Halloween episode of Martin, any of Roseanne's Halloween specials, Treehouse of Horror, and the classic Garfield special were among our favorites), critiqued the neighborhood decorations, helped each other out with our costumes, and sat together in his room, listening to Halloween themed (and anything you could even stretch to fit that theme loosely) records and 8-track tapes.

He loved inflatable skeletons. I briefly debated getting one and hanging it up in front of the house as some sort of memorial, but I couldn't make myself do it. I think perhaps it's because one of the last gifts I ever sent him was one of his favorite brand of inflatable skeletons.

Honestly, it doesn't hurt as much as I feared it would. I do still love Halloween. For a little while in there, I was almost afraid that I wouldn't, that I'd lose something that has been a defining factor in who I am as a person since I was very, very small. But I focused on some of the good Halloween memories I've had, and shared with others. I wanted to share a few of them with you, my friends and readers, as well.

When I was 3 or 4 and made my first Halloween costume all on my own. I was a picture of a vase of flowers, and I thought I was sooooo clever. I'd taken this big old picture frame I found in the trash, taken the glass and the picture out, and drawn flowers in a big vase on the cardboard backing. Then I cut a hole for my face, dressed all in black and put the hanging wire over my shoulders. No one got it. I mean NO ONE. I got progressively more crestfallen as the night went on and I had to keep explaining what I was to people.

When I was 5 or 6 and insisted on being Elvira, Mistress of the Dark for Halloween. I wasn't old enough or worldy enough to really understand why that might not be the best choice for a kid that young and I was absolutely adamant about the accuracy of my costume, right down to the plunging neckline and tiny dagger (which I made out of foil and poster board, colored, and glued glitter to). THANKFULLY it was bitterly cold out that Halloween and I ended up wearing a puffy coat over my hilariously (to look back on it, anyway) inappropriate costume.

When I was 9 and went as the headless horseman and my brother went as a skeleton. One of my happiest memories of him involves that night, when, for effect, he not only lent me but actually SUGGESTED I borrow one of his most prized possessions (an inflatable skull, which was apparently very rare and incredibly precious to him). I knew how much it meant to him and it really touched me that he'd let me carry it around the neighborhood just to add to my costume. Granted, he watched me like a hawk the entire time, but it was incredibly touching nonetheless.

When I was 15 and depressed, not planning on doing anything but hiding in my room, writing and watching whatever spooky thing was on television, and my best friend, Laura, came over and dragged me out. For the first time in recorded history, I didn't have a costume planned and wasn't going to dress up, but she convinced me I had to (and she was right!) So I went outside and gathered some sticks and made a necklace resembling that thing from The Blair Witch Project, which had recently come out, and wore it over my all black outfit, calling myself the Blair Witch, which, I rationalized, was fair as the witch herself is never actually shown in the movie.

Halloween 2013, when I dressed up as a Calavera/Sugar Skull Makeup and enjoyed this interaction with a local kid:

Favorite moment of the night:
Teenage boy wearing a trash bag with arm/neck holes: "You're barefoot. Aren't you cold?"
Me: "The dead don't get cold."
TB: *scoff* "You're not dead."
Me: "Shine that flashlight in my eyes." (My pupils are hyperreactive so I don't blink in bright light, and I'm wearing FX lenses that look like red flowers)
TB: *takes a few steps back, then turns and calmly walks about 5 paces before bolting*

Those are a few of my favorite Halloween memories, now it's your turn. What are some of yours?

Maelstrom Girls

2015-10-15T07:29:00.000-04:00

The sixth installment of Brian Keene's Maelstrom series from Thunderstorm Books goes on sale today, and as excited as I always am for those sets, this one is special... this one includes a novella by myself and 3 other truly fantastic authors.

I chatted with the other Maelstrom girls and asked them some brief questions about their novellas. Check them out and OF COURSE buy the set!

Chesya:

Tell me, in a sentence or two, what your novella is about.

It's about a young black girl in the 1960s who must deal with her everyday life of bussing and forced school integration, while accepting that she is so very different than the other children around her.

What was your inspiration?

The small town that I grew up in, Hopkinsville KY. The family dynamic and small town vibe all remind me of home. I write a lot about small towns because I moved to Atlanta at a young age and always missed Hopkinsville. But I realize it's not really home anymore. You know what they say, you can never go home again...unless you recreate your own version of it, I suppose.

Do you (or have you) intend to write more about these characters or in this universe?

Perhaps.

Rachel:

Tell me, in a sentence or two, what your novella is about.

A soldier returns to his rural Kentucky hometown after a long tour in Afghanistan and has trouble re-integrating into normal society, especially when his post-war symptoms begin to manifest as deadly hallucinations.

What was your inspiration?

I have a friend who came back from Afghanistan with a lot of interesting stories and experiences. Being a writer, I let some of those stories spin out of control in my mind until I came up with a psychologically damaged character with an eerie story of his own. I was born and raised in Kentucky so I knew a lot of storytellers growing up, and I wanted this weird, mental, pseudo-ghost story to be told in that Kentucky front-porch-gathering style, so a lot of the dialogue is pretty heavily southern.

Do you (or have you) intend to write more about these characters or in this universe?

Nope. I have a real creative wanderlust, so I find it tedious to stick with one person or group of people for too long. I guess there might come a day when I run out of stories to tell, or characters to exploit, and I might go back and revisit some folks from the past, but as of now I have no intention of coming back to the characters in this story.

Livia:

Tell me, in a sentence or two, what your novella is about.

I could write a few sentences about the plot, but I don’t think that’s what the novella is really about. I think it’s about an extremely damaged and broken woman – a woman who in a metropolis of Lovecraftian monstrosities is a greater monstrosity by virtue of being actually less monstrous (in the Lovecraftian way) - who is trying to simultaneously make herself better than circumstances and life have made her (as we all do) and discover the origins and purpose of her existence.

What was your inspiration?

Well, I’ve wanted for a number of years to write another long piece set in my colossal Lovecraftian megalopolis of Obsidia, so I decided to combine that with a setting that drew on the many years I’ve spent in the corporate world, in particular the publishing industry. There was an embarrassment of riches to draw on, I have to say.

Do you (or have you) intend to write more about these characters or in this universe?

I do intend to, but I can’t reveal anything more at this point. But, yes, readers will definitely see this protagonist and this world again – a number of times, in fact!

Amber:

Tell me, in a sentence or two, what your novella is about.

A race of alien berserkers invades an airport and tries to take it (and maybe the rest of the world...) over by bloody, brutal force.

What was your inspiration?

A few things. The idea itself came to me on vacation. I was standing in line at the gate, waiting to board a plane, and the woman in front of me was just so incredibly annoying... I imagined a gruesome death for her, and my story started to take shape. I also took some inspiration from the Clickers series (one of my favorites!), action movies, friends, family, and what have you. It's sort of a mash up love story/ode to everything good in my life that just happens to be populated by hungry, carnivorous aliens.

Do you (or have you) intend to write more about these characters or in this universe?

I started a sequel to tell the rest of the story about a week after I finished the first draft. Hopefully, it will see publication someday...

The curator of this phenomenal collection, Mr. Brian Keene himself, also answered a few questions for me:

Daughters of Inanna is a very different project than anything you've worked on in the past. What inspired the idea for the collection?
Each year's Maelstrom set is designed with the same goal in mind -- one of the books is always by an author I enjoy, and that I think my readership would enjoy. It's a good way of convincing buyers to take a chance on that writer. Previous years have included Kelli Owen, Sarah Pinborough, John Urbancik, Geoff Cooper, and others. This year, I wanted to promote four writers instead of one. I thought if we did an anthology--something similar to NIGHT VISIONS or 4X4, that would be a good way to go.

You've selected writers with very diverse styles and approaches, tell me a bit about that decision.

When I started going over my short list of authors I wanted to use, I saw your four names (Chesya, Amber, Rachel, and Livia) and decided to reach out to the four of you. To be honest, once you all said yes, it also provided me a chance to champion diversity -- something which I try to do in my own writing, but here was a chance to do it from the publishing side. Diversity is something that is important to Paul at Thunderstorm, as well, and he happily agreed with the line-up.

Were you hoping for somewhat of a cohesive theme, or is the vast array of topics, styles and themes by design?

All four of you have VERY different voices and styles. You're writing very much in the vein of J.F. Gonzalez, Livia's got a real Clive Barker meets Thomas Ligotti kind of vibe, Chesya's novella is sort of Southern Gothic by way of Joyce Carol Oates, and Rachel is resonating with Jack Ketchum and Richard Laymon. All of which are exactly what I'd hoped four -- to showcase a broad range of voices and styles that will appeal to the widest variety of readers.

(Author's note: I have to admit to getting a little choked up when Brian compared me to J.F. Gonzalez, one of my literary heroes and the very first interview ever posted on my blog)

There you have it! The inside scoop! Now go order it already!

Identity or What's In A Name?

2015-08-08T15:02:00.000-04:00

As many of you are aware, I just got married. With that came many changes. Ok, who am I kidding? Almost nothing has changed. My new husband and I are still stupidly in love. We still hang out with our dogs and play video games and D&D in our spare time. He's still my biggest fan, friend, and advocate. I still cherish every moment we spend together. So what, you may ask, has really changed?
My name.
Yeah, I know, obvious and small, right? Well, obvious sure. But small? Not at all.
While I still have the same initials (in all honesty, only 2 letters in my last name are actually different) everything has changed.
As you may have noticed, I've hung up the old "Alyn Day" cleats. I'd like to take a moment or two to explain why, especially to those of you that knew me only by that name.
I don’t want to spend a lot of time going down the negative path leading back to why I chose to use a pen name to begin with. After all, this is a happy, exciting, wonderful time for me and I really don’t want to dwell on bad experiences or past miseries, but I know that some of you may have questions, so hopefully the next few paragraphs will answer them for you. If not, feel free to poke me onTwitter.
There were a lot of reasons I chose to use a pseudonym even before I began my writing career. I’d been born with a name that wasn’t given to me out of love or pride or anything like that, but more out of obligation. I was never allowed to forget that as a child, either. I knew the man that gave me my last name never wanted me to have it, and in fact, he told me several times over the course of my childhood that I was disgracing it. It’s a pretty unique name, too, so there was no use pretending otherwise. The name made me recognizable as well to people my father had pissed off or owed money to and they didn’t hesitate to vent their displeasure at me, his daughter, even after he’d disowned me and I’d moved to the other side of the country.
I also worried that my father himself would track me down and demand or beg for money. He has the sort of reputation that would lead me to fear something like that. After the way I was raised and the hand he had in that, I’d rather he not be able to locate me, at least without expending some serious effort.
I also had a very traumatizing experience with a stalker. No, not the infamous Tony G situation some of you may recall, this was years before that happened. I was in college. It was bad. The depraved slimeball behind it ended up behind bars. Not because he terrorized me for months on end, but for child pornography and violating the terms of his probation. But my issues with him had brought those transgressions to the attention of the authorities, so in a way I guess I’m to blame for his incarceration. I worried that he’d find me online, through social media or otherwise, once he was released. Whether he wanted to apologize or begin the nightmare anew didn’t matter. I wanted to be hidden from him.
Lastly, I spent many years being told that I’d never be a writer from a number of sources. My father, teachers and professors, friends and romantic partners all discouraged me from pursuing my love of scribery and horror. I can’t tell you how many times my dreams of seeing my name in print were mocked, made fun of, or were flat out disparaged. I never had aspirations of being the next Stephen King, either. While that would be awesome, it wasn’t what I was hoping for. I wasn’t even looking to write for a living, I just wanted something that was mine, that I had penned, with my name on the cover, to hold and to sign and maybe to donate to a library, a dream that tens of thousands of people have realized. It might seem foolish, maybe even pathetic, that I believed them, but after so much time with so much discouragement and so very little in the way of support or belief, you begin to question yourself and your talents. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was being stupid. Maybe I’d try and fail spectacularly. Creating a pen name to write under was a way for me to distance myself from that possibility. It wouldn’t be me putting my name on the line, facing rejections and dealing with the potential for harsh critiques and even death threats from people who didn’t like my work, it would be Alyn. (Which started as A. Lynn, short for Amber Lynn, before I did away with the initial and squashed it into one name).
But now, all of that is behind me. Now I have a new name, one that was given to me by a man who loves me and values me for who I am, who believes in me and supports me and my writing career, who acts as editor, muse, prereader, and sounding board for my ideas, and who has even gone as far as helping me act out scenes from my current WIPs, just so I can be sure I have the angle of the knife swing or the grip on that machete right when I put it down on paper.
I’m proud to carry his name, my new name. I’d like to shout it from the rooftops, but the last time I did something like that, the neighbors got mad. (Kidding!... well, mostly) so instead, I’m sharing it in other ways. Social media, of course, my blog, business cards (for the day job) and now my writing. Everything I do going forward will be under my awesome new name, starting with the novella I wrote for this year’s Maelstrom set from Thunderstorm Books. I’m thrilled to be a part of that project, even moreso because it will be the first thing I have published under the name Amber Fallon.
I hope everyone understands the reasons for the name change, and I hope that all of you will continue to share your friendship, support, and amusing cat videos with me long into my bright, beautiful future. I wouldn’t be here without all of you. I will always cherish the legacy of everything I built as Alyn and I hope to continue to build on that as Amber, finally stepping out as who I really am, who I’ve always wanted to be.

Reid

2015-06-19T07:29:00.000-04:00

My little brother died yesterday. He would've been 30 years old on November 18th.

Why was it so easy to write posts about people I'd met a handful of times, and writing about my own brother is so hard?

We weren't very close. I hadn't seen him in about 15 years. There was some bad blood between us. Stuff that seems so meaningless now.

He loved Halloween. He loved music. He loved The Rocky Horror Picture Show, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? and a silly british claymation thing called Foxy Fables. In fact, that was his screen name before he lost internet access so many years ago.

He loved Nancy Sinatra's These Boots Were Made For Walking and tinkering with old projectors and reel to reel tape machines.

He loved a cranky old siamese cat named Mylar (called Meelo) who died when he was 12, I think. Wherever he is, I hope they're together now.

He was a genius with anything electronic. He used to make improvised flashlights from old batteries and strings of broken christmas lights when we didn't have power.

When he was little, he wanted to be a heart surgeon. He used to check out this video about it from the little local library in Zionsville where we grew up. He must've watched it a hundred or more times before we moved away.

Life was really unfair to him. He deserved a lot better than he got.

He wasn't a bad person.

I still can't believe he's gone. I keep catching myself wondering if maybe it was a mistake and he's not really dead and I still have time to tell him that I forgive him and that I knew he was a better person than he thought he was. That I cared about him, even though I didn't think about him as much as I should have.

I wish things could've been different. I wish there was something I could've done.

Goodbye, Reid.

Winter of Zombie Blog Tour: Spotlight on Joe McKinney

2014-11-13T08:31:00.001-05:00

SPOTLIGHT ON:

Your name.

Joe McKinney

Why zombies?

I’m not going to tell you his name, but I know an author who, over the years, has been my friend, my best and most honest critic, and at times, unwillingly, my mentor. He has praised me with patient, good humor during my successes and counseled me with sage advice during my low periods of self-doubt and frustration. I admire and love the man.

But I don’t always agree with him. For example, we were guests at a recent convention and found ourselves sitting next to each other on a zombie panel. The moderator asked a question very similar to what we’re responding to today. My friend, who likes to think of himself as a part-time misanthrope, said, and I’m paraphrasing, that the popularity of the zombie is a symptom of our societal self-loathing, that we so disgust ourselves as a species that we first seek to debase others by turning them into zombies and then punish them for all the things they do to piss us off through a series of zombie kills, each more gruesome and bloody than the last.

I don’t buy that… even though I kind of get where he’s coming from. After all, when you look around, things are pretty bad. The economy is horrible, and more and more young people are finding the job market a barren and hostile environment. It’s easy to feel like you don’t matter when you can’t find a job.

And even if you do find one, it’s easy to feel the life bleeding out of you as you slog through another meaningless shift, or clear out the emails in your inbox, or put caps on bottles, or fold boxes, dunk fries in grease, whatever you do. There is a cyclical monotony to our work lives that is paralleled in the endless parade of zombies in all the various first person shooter video games like Left 4 Dead and Dead Island. Perhaps the greatest example I’ve ever seen of this is in Shaun of the Dead. Remember Mary, the shop girl, the first zombie that Shaun and Ed encounter? She’s also one of the first characters we see, making her appearance as a living person during the opening credits. It’s that moment to which I’m referring. I love that her expression as she’s ringing up a customer is exactly the same expression she wears as a zombie. Life is a non-issue, that look says. It’s the monotony that matters.

But, as I said, I don’t buy it. Perhaps it’s true that zombies tell us a little about why we hate ourselves and the mess in which we find our lives, but I just can’t believe that hate and self-loathing can carry a wave of popularity as wide and as far-reaching as that which the zombie has achieved. Surely there’s more to it than that.

I think what really bothers me about the “zombies as an expression of our self-loathing theory” is that it implies we’re amplifying our nightmares instead of purging them. The best horror fiction, historically speaking, has always been cathartic. It’s always been about stripping our fears of their efficacy by talking about them. (Can there be a greater example of this than Dickens’ “there is more of gravy than the grave” line in A Christmas Carol?) Zombie fiction is no different. It is, for me—and I believe for so many others—a genre that proves we are, at heart, a creative species that needs to tear down the world and create it anew in order to survive in it.

That has certainly been my experience. I started writing zombie fiction back when there were very few entries in the field. (Romero had done three of his zombie movies, and Skipp and Goodfellow had done Mondo Zombie, and Brian Keene had just published his wonderful novel The Rising, but there wasn’t much else.) I had watched Night of the Living Dead as a young teenager, and it was one of the only horror movies that ever actually scared me. I still remember going to bed every night with a baseball bat cradled in my arms. I knew that one day I would go on to write my own zombie story.

But of course life got in the way. I grew up. I went to college, and then grad school, and then got a job as a San Antonio police officer. Every night I was experiencing something new and crazy. Car chases and fistfights and talking people out of setting their babies on fire were normal nights for me. Believe it or not, I was having the time of my life. I even met the woman who would become the love of my life. And in the winter of 2003, she gave me my first child. That was the moment right there: fatherhood. That was the moment the zombies finally got me.

It happened like this. I was standing with my face against a large window, looking in on the nursery where my first-born lay sleeping. I was a young man, a scared young man, a young man finally willing to accept what my dad had been telling me all along: that the world is infinitely more complex than I realized, and that fatherhood carries with it demands no one is ever truly prepared to accept.

Those of you with kids know what I mean. One minute you’re footloose and fancy free. You go out whenever you want. Life is good. You got this. And then—a baby! Suddenly, you’ve got more responsibilities than you ever knew existed. Life is complicated. Life is about diapers and insurance and visits to the pediatrician and wondering how you’re going to afford the groceries. Life is about actually getting to sleep through the night.

That was me in the winter of 2003. I was scared to death. But I had my writing to back me up. Since my early teenage years, writing had been my outlet for my anxieties and concerns. I turned to it again. I started a science fiction novel that really sucked ass and I nearly gave it all up. But then I thought of the horror movies that I’d loved as a kid, and Night of the Living Dead came to mind. I realized that if I was going to do this right, I needed to write what I loved, and what I loved was horror. I figured if I was beset on all sides by responsibilities too big for my kenning, I would write about a character who was beset on all sides by horrors too big for his kenning, horrors he needed to dispatch in the most visceral way possible.

That’s how I started writing zombie fiction.

And that’s why I take exception whenever someone tries to dismiss zombie fiction as meaningless fluff.

Because it’s not.

It’s personal.

It matters.

It matters to me.

What is your latest zombie release?

My latest is Plague of the Undead, released from Kensington Publishing on October 7^th, 2014.

Quick description of it.

A Handful Of Survivors

For thirty years, they have avoided the outbreak of walking death that has consumed America's heartland. They have secured a small compound near the ruins of Little Rock, Arkansas. Isolated from the world. Immune to the horror. Blissfully unaware of what lies outside in the region known as the Dead Lands. Until now. . .

A New Generation Of Explorers

Led by a military vet who's seen better days, the inexperienced offspring of the original survivors form a small expedition to explore the wastelands around them. A biologist, an anthropologist, a cartographer, a salvage expert--all are hoping to build a new future from the rubble, which they call the "Dead Lands." Until all hell breaks loose. . .

A Land Of Death

The infected are still out there. Stalking. Feeding. Spreading like a virus. Wild animals roam the countryside, hunting prey. Small pockets of humanity hide in the shadows: some scared, some mad, all dangerous. This is the New World. If the explorers want it, they'll have to take it. Dead or alive. . .

Something unique about it.

Plague of the Undead is the first book in a new series called The Deadlands. It is at its core a novel of exploration, not only of the post-apocalyptic world in which it’s set, but also of what it takes to survive and the laws that help our communities to survive.

Links for people to buy it.

The book is available in all formats wherever books are sold. If your local Barnes & Noble doesn’t have it, you can always find it through Amazon, right here:

http://www.amazon.com/Plague-Undead-Joe-McKinney/dp/0786033975/ref=la_B001JRZ64I_1_1_title_1_mas?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1413988362&sr=1-1

Your promo links.

Readers can learn more about me and keep up with what’s going on by following me on Facebook, here:

https://www.facebook.com/joe.mckinney.18

Or follow me on Twitter: @JoeMcKinney

Your short Bio.

Joe McKinney has been a patrol officer for the San Antonio Police Department, a homicide detective, a disaster mitigation specialist, a patrol commander, and a successful novelist. His books include the four-part Dead World series, Quarantined, Inheritance, Lost Girl of the Lake, The Savage Dead, St. Rage, Crooked House and Dodging Bullets. His short fiction has been collected in The Red Empire and Other Stories, Speculations, and Dead World Resurrection: The Complete Zombie Short Stories of Joe McKinney. His latest works include the werewolf thriller, Dog Days, set in the summer of 1983 in the little Texas town of Clear Lake, where the author grew up, and Plague of the Undead, Book One in the Deadlands Saga. McKinney is a two-time recipient of the Bram Stoker Award®. For more information go to http://joemckinney.wordpress.com.

* * * * *

The stench of frozen rotted meat is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2014, with 10 of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don't miss an interview, guest post or teaser… and pick up some great swag as well! Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them! #WinterZombie2014

https://www.facebook.com/events/1524813084430035/?ref_notif_type=plan_user_joined&source=1

AND so you don't miss any of the posts in November, here's the complete list, updated daily:

Remembering J.F. Gonzalez

2014-11-11T09:03:00.000-05:00

Yesterday the world lost a great man. I don't just say the world of horror because, while it's true, it's not the whole truth. Jesus F. Gonzalez was, among other things, a fantastic writer and a great asset to the horror community, but he was also a husband and father and a friend.

I didn't know him very well, sadly. But he left a mark on me. I want to take a few minutes to remember him and to honor that memory.

I met Jesus at an event called Horrible Saturday back in the summer of 2010. That event was the real and true start of my horror writing career. It was also the first time I met some of my idols: Brian Keene, Kelli Owen, and of course, Jesus himself.

I'd fallen in love with the B movie gorefest that was the Clickers novels and from there, I'd read and enjoyed Survivor, Fetish, Primitive, and later on, It Drinks Blood. Now I was going to meet the guy who wrote them in person. For the first time in my life, I was going to be in the presence of these people who had inspired and entertained me, who had been there (in literary form, anyway) to help get me through the tough parts of my life. I was understandably pretty nervous going into it. The nerves continued after I'd said my hellos, too. Would I say something stupid? Would I embarrass myself horribly? I am prone to those kinds of things, after all. I was a wound up ball of nerves. And then Jesus said something that made me laugh.

I don't even think he was talking to me. He was probably talking to Brian or making an offhand comment, and for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. What I do remember is laughing and feeling relieved and finally being able to relax a bit.

I chatted with Jesus about Lovecraft and King and some other random horror trivia and was struck by how kind and genuine he was, but also how almost shy he came across. He wasn't the outgoing social butterfly badboy I'd been expecting. He was different. He was sincere. He was something else entirely, something that defies words. He was Jesus.

I spent the day at Horrible Saturday. I bought tons of books, chatted with some of the authors, and watched the hilarious mishmash that was the live collaborative story telling pictured below.

Jesus and I had a few interactions on Twitter. He granted me my very first interview. Me, some no-name nobody he'd met at a signing. That's who he was. Kind, giving, willing to help out some unknown by putting his name on her lowly little blog. It meant worlds to me and I really hope he knew that. Just that small act of answering a few questions, something I'm sure he'd done dozens if not hundreds of times before, made me feel so much more confident, so much more capable.

I only saw Jesus one more time, at Horrorfind 13. From that came one of my all time favorite pictures. It's been my facebook cover photo for years. It's me with some of my all time favorite authors, a title JF Gonzalez has most definitely earned.

My current work in progress is my first attempt at pulp. It goes without saying that Jesus was an inspiration. No one could do the kind of cheesy (in the best possible way!), action filled, B movie nightmare pulp goodness JF Gonzalez could. He wrote the book, literally.

Last night, my fiance and I read some Clickers, both as a way to remember and honor Jesus, but also because I'm working on his horror education and JF Gonzalez is a necessary part of that education. Darling Fiance made it through the prologue, turned to me and said "Clicknado!". I'd like to think Jesus would've appreciated that.

Aftermath: Bright Days Ahead

2014-10-21T15:01:00.000-04:00

Lately, I tend to start every blog post with an apology over how long it's been since I've written. Apparently, I'm doing it again. But that's OK, because it has been a long time. That may or may not change, we'll see. But for now I'm writing and you're reading and that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.

2014 has been a great year for me. It's not quite time for that End-of-Year post, but given all that has gone on, I wanted to put words to what has happened so far, for those of you who don't speak to me regularly, for those of you who don't speak to me at all, and for myself. Because it's good to get it all down and it's nice to have a record of things that I can look back on. For personal reasons, I've never kept a diary. This is the closest thing I've got. Even though it's public. Even though literally anyone can read it, friend or foe. Even though it might not mean much to most. It's mine. And it's yours, too. The words I share here I share in the truest sense of the word. I give them to you as I've given words to many others over the years. Sometimes they are the best gift I can give.

Words are powerful, as a weapon, as a tool, as a gift. Words can convey loss, hope, fear, remorse, sympathy, and any of the other emotions that make up the human condition. These words are given with joy, gratitude, and more optimism than I can ever recall feeling.

I'm engaged to an amazing man. The man of my dreams. I mean that quite literally. I didn't have the best home life growing up. Part of what got me through it was the hours upon hours spent telling myself that someday things would be different. Someday someone would love me, value me for who I was (weirdness, horror fandom, eccentricity and all), want to be with me and me alone. It might seem silly or sad, but that was and always has been my greatest dream.

And it came true. A little over 3 years ago, I met the man I'm going to marry. He's everything I could have ever hoped for and more. He's my partner. My partner in crime. My partner in business. My partner in life. He's my dearest friend, my closest ally, my most enthusiastic supporter. He's also an amazing human being with a fantastic sense of humor, an unending well of kindness and generosity, and one of the most useful people I've ever met. He is, unquestioningly, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. I can't believe I get to marry him. For the first time in my life, I have a home and a family and all the love and support I could ever need. It's just as wonderful as I always dreamed it would be.

Also in 2014, my 4-plus year long legal battle finally came to an end. After years of struggling, throwing thousands of dollars I didn't have at a problem that seemingly wouldn't go away, and being reduced to tears of frustration, I am finally free. I can move on now. I can put the mistakes of my past behind me without any fear that they'll come back to bite me someday. It may have taken more time and money than I would have liked, but in the end it was worth it. There is no price too great to pay for one's freedom.

I'm working on a pretty amazing project, too. I'm having so much fun writing this thing. Even things like writers' block and random plot issues aren't detracting from how thrilled I am to be part of this. I just know it's going to be great and I really hope everyone enjoys reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

Last (but certainly not least), my battle with cancer is at an end. It seems weird to refer to it as a battle, when much of what I did was lying still: for tests, for treatments, for IVs and exams and follow ups and specialist visits. And I was extremely lucky. My experience with cancer hasn't been nearly as horrible, long, or painful as what many people end up with. The last round of test results were good, as were the set before that. I didn't say anything after the first set to anyone outside my immediate circle of friends and family because I was worried that one good result might be a fluke and I didn't want anyone else on that horrible roller coaster of "Hooray I'm cured!" "Oh, wait, not really." But now I can conclusively say that there are no cancer cells remaining in my body. Even better, the rate of recurrence for the types of cancer I had are low, less than 25%.

This isn't my Happy Ending, it's a happy beginning.

Interview with Mike Lombardo

2014-01-11T10:37:00.000-05:00

Mike Lombardo is the sick, sick man behind The Stall, My Friend Lawrence, and plenty of other films from Reel Splatter and Drunken Tentacle Productions. He's kind of twisted, a bit demented, and a lot of fun. He's also a super nice, friendly, and very cool guy in general. Recently, I had a conversation with him. Here's what happened:

Alyn Day: Let's get the cliches out of the way first... What's your favorite scary movie?

Mike Lombardo: I’d have to go with Hellbound: Hellraiser II

AD: Any particular reason?

ML: I’ve had an unhealthy obsession with Hellraiser since I was a kid. The vision of Hell they show is just so damn cool. I love the labyrinth and the all the surreal and grotesque imagery. The baby sewing its own mouth shut and the mime juggling his own eyeballs are particular favorites. Bob Keene’s skinned body make-up is among the greatest FX pieces in cinema history. The scene where skinless Julia emerges from the blood soaked mattress and kills the schizophrenic mental patient still haunts me to this day

AD: If you had to choose a way to die from a movie what would it be?

ML:That’s a tough one. I’d have to go with a Technicolor meltdown ala Street Trash or a good old fashioned Hellraiser or Texas Chainsaw Massacre flensing. I’ve always had this weird thing about skin wearing, probably because of seeing those flicks as a kid.

AD: Favorite horror monster/creature?

ML: Without doubt the Xenomorph and Queen from Aliens. They are the most well designed/executed and terrifying creatures ever put on film. They are a nightmare vision of sex and death and violation. Just as likely to fuck you as they are to kill you. They are absolutely stunning pieces of FX mastery.

AD: What are your inspirations?

ML: I grew up on a steady diet of 70’s and 80’s splatter, Italian exploitation flicks, Troma, 90’s Nickelodeon and weird sketch comedy. The Adventures of Pete and Pete and Ren Stimpy were hugely inspirational to me, as were shows like The Kids in The Hall, The League of Gentleman, and The Upright Citizen’s Brigade. Tales From The Crypt and Are You Afraid of The Dark were playing non stop in my house when I was a kid (hell, I was just watching Are You Afraid of The Dark before I started typing this!). I was also inspired heavily by the films of David Cronenberg, John Waters and George Romero’s original Dead trilogy played a big part too.

AD: What’s your favorite project you’ve worked on?

ML:My favorite project would probably be Womb For Two. It was a gimmick sitcom parody we shot back in 2008. It was about a 16 year old fetus that still lived inside his mother’s womb. It was basically a love letter to Pete and Pete and Ren & Stimpy. It had cartoon logic and I got to build a huge womb set with a working tv and a bed and no joke was too weird to put into the script. We would just make up more and more bizarre shit as we were shooting and it was so freeing to be able to do that. It was definitely the most fun I ever had making a movie. If you’re interested in watching it, it’s on our first dvd, “SuburbanHolocaust: Reel Splatter Volume 1”

AD: Favorite horror prop?

ML: My favorite horror prop that I’ve made is the skinned face mask “Lori”. I took a lifecast of a friend of mine and sculpted it out as a flayed face stitched to a torn off scalp complete with a full head of long blond hair. I entered a costume contest at a horror convention once wearing heels, a bloodsoaked leopard print dress, and that mask and I weirded out the judges big time. I wouldn’t break character until after the show. It was wonderful. I actually got offered a drag modeling gig by a fetish model while I was waiting to go on stage!

As for favorite prop from a movie I didn’t make, I’d have to say the puzzle box from Hellraiser. I would kill to own one of the originals.

AD: Favorite movie effect?

ML: My favorite bit of FX work I’ve done is a tie between the tentacles from my new short, “The Stall” and buzzsaw evisceration I did for a short film that never got finished called “Til Death”. The scene started with a guy drawing a dotted line on a gal’s chest from neck to crotch, donning goggles (safety first!) and buzzsawing her open. There is a really awesome shot that I was particularly proud of where he spreads her chest open and the camera is inside looking up as the edges of her skin part to reveal his blood splattered face.

Favorite FX scene I didn’t do is the Norris Head Spider crab from John Carpenter’s The Thing. That whole sequence is just so fucking disgustingly realistic it almost hypnotizes you. You cannot look away.

AD: Favorite makeup trick?

ML: My favorite make-up trick adding instant coffee to blood. It melts into a dark muddy red and looks like clotted blood. When I’m on set doing FX I always make sure I have a jar of instant coffee with me. I prefer the vanilla flavored stuff because it smells nice and it tastes a little better so the actor’s don’t mind it as much. I also like to add chocolate syrup to my blood to help darken it and cut down on the amount of food coloring I need which saves money and helps the blood not stain as badly. It also tastes great!

AD: Where have you gone that you think would make an excellent movie set?

ML: I spent a month in Rome, and pretty much any given street would look amazing on film. The coolest place though was The Bone Church, it’s a crypt that is decorated entirely with the skeletons of the monks who worshipped there. There was a child’s skeleton on the ceiling wielding a scythe made of pelvic bones and holding an hour glass made of bones. It was equal parts fascinating and disturbing to be in there surrounded by thousands of the dead. It would look absolutely incredible on film.

AD: What skills do you have that would help you survive the zombie apocalypse?

ML: Is owning a shitload of machetes and chainsaws a skill? I think my ability to operate under extreme pressure without losing my cool and leadership skills (both forged by 10 years of indie filmmaking) would be pretty helpful.

AD: What’s something about you that people may not know or would find surprising?

ML: One of my favorite movies is Toy Story. I have it on my shelf next to Cannibal Holocaust. Everyone assumes that all I watch is ultra violent horror films and it’s just not true. I honestly have more affection for comedy and just plain weird stuff than I do for disturbing, straight horror. People assume that because of the stuff I write about and the things I joke about that I’m a homicidal maniac. I’m really just a big kid at heart and I’m one of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet. I still watch cartoons like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (the original 80’s show, not the latest abortion err incarnation of it) and Pinky and The Brain.

You can find Mike on Twitter , Facebook or on Reel Splatter's website.

Review: The Stall

2014-01-11T10:14:00.001-05:00

Reel Splatter Productions The Stall
Running Time: 13 Minutes
Release Date: October 31, 2013
Available from: Reel Splatter Productions

The Stall was, in a word, fun. In several words, it was an all-too-short amusement park ride full of pizza, the monotony of every day life, and Lovecraftian Horrors from Beyond the Stars. In other words, I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Still from The Stall

What really struck me about the film wasn't the acting, the plot, or even the effects (which were pretty cool, by the way), it was the cinematography and lighting. Generally speaking, you don't pop a movie about slimy tentacles invading a bathroom stall into Ye Olde DVD Player expecting artisty and depth... But that's what I got. Right away, I was struck by the director's skill with camera placement, angles, focus, and especially lighting. The beauty of the composure of shots is really something. The first few seconds of the film I sat there wondering if I'd accidentally played the wrong DVD. Not in a bad way, just in a "Wow, this isn't quite what I expected." kind of way.

Still from The Stall

The set design is also very well done. The kind of detail that went into setting up every shot, placing every piece of the set meticulously, yet with the kind of haphazard everyday disregard that makes (most of) our homes look lived in was really something. Reel Splatter clearly cares about producing a quality, detailed film, even if it is about tentacled horrors overtaking a poor guy trying to answer a call of nature.

Still from The Stall

While 13 minutes doesn't seem like a long time comparatively, it was somehow just enough time for Reel Splatter to tell a compelling story, make me care about the characters, give their audience something interesting to chew on (or to chew on them...) and to wrap it up with a pretty over the top yet understated ending. All in all, it left me wanting more in a really good way.

I've seen other things by the deviants over at Reel Splatter before - Check out their short My Friend Lawrence - and while I've enjoyed everything else, The Stall was something different, something more. My favorite Reel Splatter film so far. And I'll tell you one thing: If 78154 is ever made into a short film, I want Mike Lombardo and Reel Splatter behind it.

5 Creepy, disgusting tentacles out of 5.

Christ-Message

2013-12-23T15:53:00.000-05:00

Hello again, Dear Readers...

I know I don't write as often as I'd like to, or even as often as I should... But I'm sort of done making excuses about it, you know? I'd like to think we're adults, you and I, and as such, we know how life goes. Yes. Perhaps in the coming New Year, I'll write more. Perhaps not. Either way, I'm writing now and you're reading now, so let's just enjoy that while we have it, hmmm?

As some of you may know if you follow me on Twitter or have friended me on Facebook, I recently began a new job. So far, it has been pretty awesome. I work with a great group of people, have a fantastic boss, and support a company that does really neat stuff... and there are also some cool perks, like today being a half day from home. YES!

Days from home, especially right before a big holiday, are good for a variety of reasons... Say, the sweet potatoes I'm roasting right now, the pie I made this morning, or the dozens of cookies I'll start on once the potatoes are cooling... Getting a jump on holiday food preparation is always a plus... But another benefit is that it gives me an opportunity to try out quaint local restaurants that my discerning boyfriend wouldn't appreciate. So I decided to work my morning shift, finish all my cold prep, and grab lunch at this little fast casual mexican place up the road. Good plan, right? I thought so...

Now while the weather outside *is* rather frightful, it's not snowing. No, it's more like if snow got angry at people for saying how fluffy and lovely it was and decided to funnel that fury into becoming icy little pellets of doom inside a frigid watery coating... somewhere between sleet and hail, and it was coming down in great cold buckets... But that's OK! I'm not driving a wussy little Civic any longer! I have a big durable SUV! BAM! Weather don't scare me!

So I called in my order (Buffalo Chicken Tacos, extra guac!) and scooted out the door, icy projectiles plinking off my leather jacket and sparkling in my hair like jewels. Nobody out on the roads, really, so I kind of assumed that I'd be in and out of the restaurant with my vittles in minutes flat.

WRONG. I get there, and their not-huge-but-far-from-tiny parking lot is FULL. Completely full. And there's really nothing else in the immediate vicinity with any kind of reasonable parking, either. Ok... That's fine. I'm a patient girl. I can wait for a spot to open up. Surely there are other patrons just picking up their food. Someone should move in a couple minutes, tops.

5 minutes of driving around aimlessly later, a woman emerges with two little kids and begins the process of battening down their little hatches. I suavely pull over behind her (being careful to give her plenty of space for her withdrawal from my parking spot) and flip on my blinker - what I thought was the universal sign for "Dibs on this spot." She pulls out and before I can even shift into gear, an asswad in a black Mercedes sweeps in, honking loudly (In warning? An attempt to threaten me? Some kind of bizarre mating ritual?). He cuts me off and steals my parking spot. Nice, eh? I sat there for a moment, shaking my head in wonder. Did that really just happen? Even Ye Olde Soccer Momme looks stunned as she drives away. I back up to begin the slow drive around the lot once more as a greaseball in a business suit and an expensive coat gets out of the Mercedes and makes his way for the door, pausing only to open an umbrella for the 10 foot walk. Yep. What'd I tell ya? Jackass.

A short time later, someone else vacates a spot and I, at last, make my way inside. By now, my food has been waiting for me for at least 15 minutes. My cheese is probably congealing. Who CARES that I like it that way? That's beside the point. Anyways.

I walk up to the counter and see Captain Asshole in line behind some other chick. He's wearing an expensive mohair trench coat. His shoes could pay my rent. He has enough product in his hair to drown no less than nine seagulls and perhaps a pair of ducks as well. I stride up behind him and get in line for my food, noting that he smells like someone dropped a few bottles on the floor at an aftershave factory and forgot to clean up afterwards. The chick grabs her food and leaves, and DJ McJerkington steps up to the plate.

He collects his vegan grilled seitan burrito with extra salsa verde and goes to pay. He swipes his card like he was born with it in his hands, only to have the young counter girl in her perky orange visor smile apologetically at him. "I'm sorry, sir." she says meekly, "But your card is declined. Do you have another form of payment?"

As you may have guessed, Jerkwater does NOT have another form of payment. He angrily demands the poor young waif run his card again to the same result. He raises his voice another few decibals and I'm pretty sure he's going to start demanding managers and free food and first born children, when I intervene.

"It's OK." I say to the wide eyed teenager behind the register, handing her my own credit card. "I'll get this." Sultan Shitweasel turns to smile at me, no doubt to thank me for my generosity, when his plastered on grin dies on his face. He swallows. "You're the girl from the parking lot." he says, looking just a bit stricken. My smile doesn't falter. "Yes," I say, "I am. And I refuse to let the actions of others dictate my own." He stands there, eyeing me suspiciously, as the clerk hands me my receipt. Then he snatches his food and bolts out the door. "Merry Christmas!" I call after his mohair clad back.

"What was that all about?" The young counter woman asks as she rings up my food. "Oh, nothing." I smile, "He just cut me off in the parking lot and took my space." Her eyes get big. "And you STILL paid for his food?" she asks, nearly as gape jawed as he had been. "Yep." She taps a few keys and hands me a receipt before I can give her my card. "This one's on me." She smiles warmly, genuinely.

"Thank you! And have a wonderful holiday!" I say as I empty what meager change I have into the tip jar.

Now here's the thing... Could I have stood there, reveling in the glory of karmic justice, as Jackass got embarrassed by not being able to pay for his food? Hell to the yes. Part of me wanted to. But doing so would have done me a disservice twofold... First, it would have meant that asshole would've won, and here's why...

I like to think of myself as a nice person. I'm the kind of girl that leaves cough drops and Emergen-C on a sick coworker's desk, even if he's a dick. I always have change for the Salvation Army guys (and sometimes hot coffee or cocoa if it's especially cold out) and, in general, I try to make the world a better place where and when I can. If it had been someone else getting their card declined on Christmas Eve Eve (say the Soccer Mom, perhaps), I would've paid without thinking twice about it. If I change my behavior because someone else did something rude, what does that say about me? How strong are my convictions if one petty, self important man can change them with one jerky act? Not very strong, I'd say... and that isn't who I am. That jerk doesn't get to control me or to change the way I act or think or behave just because he's a jerk. That would mean he'd won, and there is no way in hell that man is winning anything over me. I'll buy a Mercedes of my own first.

Secondly, do you really think he would've been as impacted as, say, the poor girl manning the cash register, had he been allowed to continue his ridiculous outburst? No. I think not. People like that tend to carry their self importance and self righteousness around them like luggage, clutching it to their chests as if it were precious beyond measure. If he'd continued, a manager would've been called and he or she would probably have ended up just giving him his food to get him to leave peacefully, and what kind of a message does that teach ANYONE? Be a bitch, yell, make a fuss, and people will give you things for free? These are NOT the kinds of lessons kids, like the few still in the restaurant, need to be learning. They aren't the kinds of things anyone should deal with, on any side of the equation. Instead, I hope that someone, maybe even the trenchcoated slimebucket, will repay my kindness sometime. Maybe they'll hold a door open for someone, or even just share a smile or a kind word with a total stranger, because someone did something nice for them, and they remember how it made them feel, and how good it feels to do good things for others. Because that's what being kind is all about. Doing good things because it makes you and others feel good. The world needs more kindness, more smiles, more people feeling good and doing good. That's why I bought that jackass his lunch.

And so, self important Mercedes driver, wherever you may be... I hope you enjoyed your vegan burrito.

Goals and Aspirations

2013-07-10T12:09:00.001-04:00

Hello Dear Readers,

It's been a while, I know. I'm sorry for my absence. Things have been going on and I'm sure you know how that is. Stuff piling up, everything just sort of accumulates and you tell yourself there's time. You'll do it later! Only you look up and somehow six months has flown by and you've got nothing to show for it.

I haven't been writing much fiction lately, either... And, as those of you follow me on Twitter or have friended me on Facebook are aware, I haven't been posting nearly as much as of late.

I've been gone, but hopefully not forgotten...

But now it's time for me to get my head back in the game, so to speak. In order for me to do that, I took some time to really think about what I hoped to achieve with my writing career in mind. It helps to have clear goals and a clear vision of what you're working for, after all.

So I broke it down by topic. I asked myself, honestly, how I felt about each of the below topics. For some of them, my answers were instantaneous, for others, I had to do some serious soul searching.

Fame:

Do I want to be famous? No, not really. I mean, sure it would be cool to be at a convention 5, 10, maybe 15 years from now, be it as a guest or an attendee, and someone comes up to me with a battered copy of So Long And Thanks For All The Brains or Here Be Clowns and asks me to sign it with shaking hands... But I am not seeking to be the next Anne Rice.

Fortune:

Do I want to be rich? Honestly, no. I don't. Don't get me wrong, like everyone else I've had daydreams about ditching the day job forever and doing what I want with my time, but rarely do those day dreams feature mansions, maids, butlers, or any other such finery. My dream car is a 2 door 1998 RAV4 convertible, for chrissakes. I don't exactly have expensive tastes. Well, unless you count books or sushi... But even then, no. I have no real desire to be wealthy. My real greatest desire in regards to money is to be comfortable, debt free, and able to provide for my family in case of emergency. Other than that, it's all cake.

Accolades:

Do I want to win awards? Sure, as long as I've earned them. I think it's far more important that my writing meet my standards, that myself and my fans enjoy it, and that it's something I want to do, and want to keep doing. I won't turn down any Stoker nominations, but I won't go kissing anyone's ass to get one, either. I'll do my best to turn out enjoyable, well written works and hope that they speak for themselves.

Career:

Do I want to write as a full time job? Well, now. This is the question I labored over the most. At the end of all that churning, roiling thought, my answer has to be no. No, I do not want to write as a full time job. The primary reason for that is that I do not ever want writing to be something I do because someone else tells me I have to. The moment that happens, the joy of it has been diminished. I want to write because I feel inspired, because something caught my eye and made me think, because I need to let the demons in my head come out and play for a while, but not because some publisher has me by the short and curlies. I do hope to finish at least one novel as well as another novella or two and a plethora of short stories, but I want to do it according to my own schedule and my own motivation.

So I guess at the end of the day, I'm going to keep doing what I've been doing: Writing, dreaming, and hoping for the best. And I hope you'll be there with me. Reading.

Death

2013-03-22T07:59:00.000-04:00

It's very sad, that this and the preceding post are all about death and loss and the pain of missing someone, but sometimes that's the way things go.

This has been a tragic span of days for the Horror Community. On March 13th, the world lost David B. Silva, of Hellnotes and The Horror Show fame. Mr. Silva was immensely talented and a longstanding pillar of the horror community. He will be sorely missed.

Only a short week later on March 20th, James Herbert, writer of The Fog and The Rats among others, passed away as well. Mr. Herbert was also a brilliant writer, one whose vision, talent, and proliferation won him many awards, including World Horror Convention Grand Master in 2010. Mr. Herbert will be greatly missed as well.

Only a day after that, we lost the amazing Rick Hautala. The incredibly gifted Mr. Huatala passed away on March 21st. Mr. Huatala's works are numerous, and I haven't read nearly all of them, but his novels Twilight Time, Dead Voices, and The Mountain King are among my favorites and his short story, Knocking, featured in the anthology 999 made my flesh crawl in the very best way. By all accounts, Mr. Huatala was a wonderful man, friend, writer, and husband. He as well will be deeply missed.

Farewell

2013-01-16T08:02:00.001-05:00

Last night I took a drive. It was different than most other drives in that one passenger didn't make the return trip with us.

It wasn't a long drive, but it somehow managed to feel both like an eternity and a millisecond. I guess some things are like that.

As I manuevered the vehicle, I recited the periodic table in my head. Sort of the emotional equivalent of "thinking about baseball".

Hydrogen, helium, lithium...

I won't cry. I have to be strong. He's hurting and I have to be strong for him.

Beryllium... Boron... Carbon...

We will get through this. It's for the best.

Nitrogen... Oxygen...

I will miss her so much.

Flourine...

Last night, I said my final farewell to a friend. I hadn't known her very long, only about a year and a half, but she had a way about her of making people love her instantly. Anyone who met her fell in love, it was just the way she was. She was sweet and affectionate, warm, and playful. Her name was Lady and she was a beautiful white and brown pitbull/greyhound mix. She was always happy to see me, wagging her tail and coming to greet me when I got home, even if I was just returning from a 15 minute run to the grocery store, even towards the end, when getting up was hard for her and walking wasn't much easier. She cuddled beside me and shared the warmth of my laptop on the days I worked from home. She shared meals, a home, and a bed... she shared my heart.

Rest well, darling girl.

You are missed more than words can say.

The Next Big Thing

2012-11-28T10:46:00.000-05:00

Hello, people.

It's been a while since we've spoken. I know, I know, but I haven't forgotten about you. I've just been dealing with the OTHER Big Thing in my life right now. Yeah, the one that starts with a C the size of Wisconsin. That one. But I'm still writing, though not as much as I'd like. And I'm still around if you ever feel like [email protected]" target="_blank">shooting me an email, friending me on Facebook, or tweeting @me. I've gone off the grid a little bit, and I'm not as easy to talk to these days, but I do appreicate every kind word, email, and tweet I've received. They mean worlds to me. Knowing that people still think of me and wish me well is an enormous gift, one I only hope I can repay someday. But enough of this sappy garbage. Onto the post in question. My friend Lincoln Crisler tagged me in his Next Big Thing post last week. So I am left with no choice but to pick up and carry the torch. I hope you enjoy my responses.

1) What is the working title of your next book?

Six Feet Underwater

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

I've been dealing with a lot of heavy emotional stuff lately. Not just the cancer thing, but also worries over what treatment will do to my body and my ability to have children in the future, as well as a bunch of crap relating to my ex/the current legal battle I am embroiled in with him. I've been reading nonfiction and some metafiction recently, and somewhere along the line it sort of congealed in my brain that a good way to sort through all of that junk was to sort of put it on someone else. So I created a fictional woman going through some of the same struggles I did/am. It became kind of a repository for my feelings and a way to look at them objectively and figure out where to go from there. Over time, it has evolved into, I think, an interesting almost/barely true narrative.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

That's tough. It's not exactly fiction, but it's not really autobiographical, either. Sure, there are some parts that are suspenseful, thrilling, and even horrific, but they aren't the kind of suspenses, thrills, or horrors people are used to from those genres, more the every day kind that everyone is exposed to at one point or another. So, I'm not really sure where it would fit, to tell the truth.

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Gracie, my main character and pseudo self, would best be played by someone sweet and innocent, as that's more the point of view she takes in the work itself. I'm picturing Isla Fisher or Amanda Seyfried. I see Zachary Quinto as the antagonist. Gracie's best friend would be harder to cast. Someone with a good sense of comedic timing, but also the ability to come off as naive and supporting. Perhaps Jenna Fischer, Mary Lynn Rajskub, or Kristen Schaal.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Love, loss, betrayal and the horrors of everyday life.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

Well, considering I'm not exactly done yet...

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Oooh, again, tough. A smattering of Brian Keene's Hail Saten, a touch of Jen Lancaster, even a bit of Doctor Phil.

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Me, I guess. The best way I can sum it up is that it's the book I needed to write. It may honestly never see the light of day, making this whole thing somewhat irrelevant, but it has helped me tremendously to work on it, to sort things out in my head, to address things I left unresolved. So I did it for me, for my sanity, for my future and my own personal sense of self.

10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

This story is a lot more raw and real than anything else I've ever written. Instead of giant, throbbing space slugs taking over 1920s street urchins or zombie hordes clamoring for their next meal, it involves more real horror, dealing with things that most people have probably experienced in their own lives, or may be experiencing now. In a way, that's a lot harder to tackle. The big things, the scary boogey men, the vampires, monsters, aliens, and beasts, they go away when you turn on the lights. The real horrors are sometimes the things that remain once the darkness has retreated.

So that's it. That's what I'm working on. Sort of an update, I guess. At any rate, I was tagged and thus I must tag in return. I've chosen my friend and fellow NEHW member Patrick Rahall. Look for his entry on his blog next Wednesday.

The Terrible C Word (And it doesn't rhyme with 'hunt')

2012-10-02T13:41:00.000-04:00

In late 2010, I had a headache. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking: Big whoop, take some aspirin and GTFO, right? But this wasn't just any headache. It was a supermegahyperawful headache. One so bad, I've referred to it as the "Cataclysmic Headache Event" ever after. Now, I am no pansy when it comes to pain. I've been high fived by bikers for giggling while being tattooed over my ribs/spine, I've broken and/or dislocated more bones than some mammals possess, and I tend to be, over all, pretty much of the "glue it back on, use duct tape to stop the bleeding, and suck it up" mentality. But this was different. This was a pain that stopped me, quite solidly, in my tracks. Now me being me, as soon as the pain let up I dismissed it as being an isolated incident. I'd just moved to a brand new city in a brand new state. I was starting my life over from scratch and working more than was healthy besides. That had to be adding up, right? That headache was the combined stress taking its toll, my body's way of telling me to take a day off and get some rest, which I did.
Fast forward a few weeks. I'm at work, doing my regular afternoon thing, when suddenly it's BACK! Like that monster movie slasher they should've decapitated before throwing into a wood chipper, the Headageddon has leaped from its hiding place and careened to the forefront of my consciousness. And just like said slasher, all I want to do is kill it with fire. And dynamite. And an entire fleet of battle ships. And the cast of The Walking Dead (Hey, Daryl is pretty badass...). But at any rate...
A friend of mine at work said that I should probably see a doctor about it, since it had happened more than once. I set aside my rampant dislike of all things medical and went to the walk in clinic down the road from the office. The diagnosis? A sinus infection. Yay? I took some antibiotics and bought decongestants like they were going out of style. That seemed to solve the problem, at least for a little while. Six weeks or so later, the headache came back. Again. It's hard to keep a good pain down, right? Or at least one that makes it feel like rabid wildebeests with adamantium claws who've had too much caffeine are careening around inside your skull and playing whirligig with your optic nerves. This time I said screw it, and I made an appointment with an actual doctor.
Doc said I had migraines, which was not at all surprising, as I had a few friends who'd suffered with migraines and that seemed to be their general consensus, too. But the medication they wanted me to take had lots of risks for nasty side effects and I wasn't too keen on the idea of taking medication every single day to prevent something that happened only once every couple of weeks. So I declined the prescription, read up on migraines, and did everything I could to avoid my supposed triggers. La la la, everything was super happypants and I pretty much forgot the entire thing had ever happened. I had so much going on it was easy to dismiss. A budding writing career, an active social life (read as: Swimming the shark and douchefish infested waters that are the Boston Dating Scene and having actual real life human friends to hang out with), two jobs and the life I was building for myself... Why worry about something that had been "fixed", right?
Hit that >> button on your remotes again, kiddos. Or, if you prefer, set your DeLorean to early summer 2012. I'd been living with my boyfriend for a few months. Life was good. I was beginning to settle in to a home, a life, something long term and stable. Happy. Generally, people who intend to reside in a place for a while have things like dentists and doctors. As I had played nomad for pretty much the entirety of my existence, this was a new concept for me. I was used to going to hospitals or clinics only when I was in dire straights, and relying on a combination of WebMD, Google, and the Whole Body department of Whole Foods whenever I was in minor discomfort. Check ups? Physical examinations? What was I, some sort of science experiment that needed to be monitored constantly lest I blow up and take out half of China?
As it turns out, yes.
I developed an unrelated, but unpleasant, persistent hacking cough. I went to an actual doctor in the actual town in which I actually lived to check out said cough. And the actual doctor, in feeling my throat for enlarged glands, found something. Nothing. Of course it was nothing. Just a lump. Thousands of people have lumps on their thyroids. Thyroid nodules are very common and increasing in numbers all the time. It was nothing to be worried about, despite the fact that I was a tad on the young side, because an overwhelming majority of those nodules (Upwards of 90%, I was told) are completely benign and require no treatment whatsoever. But, you know. Better safe than sorry, let's check it out. She talked me into an ultrasound of my thyroid "Just to rule it out". Sure. Fine. Whatever you want, Doc. At this point I wasn't even slightly worried. So they'd found a lump. That was nothing, right? The chances that it was actually something malignant were extremely low, minimal really, especially in someone my age with absolutely no family history of cancer, thyroid or otherwise.
Ultrasounds are kind of unpleasant. Someone who pretty much refuses to meet your eyes lubes up some area of your body and rubs a cold metal device over it in order to obtain a picture of whatever is inside, be it a baby, a nodule, a tumor, the second coming of The Great Old Ones, your secret twin half brother from outer space... you know, the usual. The pictures get sent to someone else in a far away land for analysis and then sent back to your doctor, who then calls to tell you that yeah, good to have gotten it checked out, but it was totally benign and not even a little bit weird. Only that's not what happened in the version of this tale that resides in some approximation of reality. As it turns out, that megaheadpain in 2010 was the result of a tumor pressing up against my carotid artery, which impeded blood flow whenever my blood pressure spiked... which it did when I was stressed... which didn't really happen all that often... so it was easy to ignore...
The doc called me into the office for a conversation that went something like this:

"I received the results of your ultrasound this morning."
"Ok?"
"They're... well, they're inconclusive. Irregular, but not really indicative of anything specific."
"Ok..."
"We'd like to run more tests. You know, to rule things out. The chances of it being anything worth worrying about are very low, but we need to be sure."
"Ok."

And thus began a nightmare period of ultrasounds, CAT scans, and MRIs. They just kept coming back irregular but inconclusive. So my doctor made the decision to get A Specialist involved. I had a meeting with the specialist that went something like this:

"I looked at your ultrasound results myself before you arrived."
"Ok?"
"They're irregular."
"So I've been told."
"That doesn't mean anything bad. Chances of it being malignant are very, very low. You don't have any risk factors and you're very young."
"I've heard that before, too."
"So, just to be safe, I'd like to do a biopsy."
"Ok."

BIOPSIES ARE FUN!
Not.
They suck, like a wrathful vortex spawned by an unliving god from hell, they suck big time.
A man you've never met before in a white coat comes in and stabs you in the neck with a local anesthetic. Then, while waiting for said shot to kick in, he proceeds to tell you how you have nothing to worry about, that he's done thousands of these and they almost always come back as nothing. (It's amazing to me how many times the words "nothing" and "nothing to worry about" were thrown around, but no one had said The Terrible C Word yet at all). You mutter something in response, being careful not to move your head because you've been positioned in such a way as to maximize exposure to your throat to the Big Scary Overhead Lights that remind you of alien autopsies, the X Files, and every other horrible dissection you've ever seen. After a few minutes, he pokes your neck again and asks if you can feel it. You mumble something dismissive that you don't really remember because right now all you're thinking about is how much you'd like to have this over and it wouldn't matter if they wanted to disembowel you with a rusty rake if they'd just do it already and let you out of this room. The guy in the coat holds your head down while he sticks a needle that's about 7" long into your neck and pokes around until he manages to spear the irregular looking mass, then he fiddles with it for a while, presumably to scrape cells into the end of the Giant Spearlike Needle Of Doom, while you try your best not to stare at the ultrasound screen behind your head, like some kind of window into your own guts, but it's really all there is for you to look at, and you can't bring yourself to look away cause the only other option is to close your eyes, and without the distraction of visual stimulus, you might be forced to think about what "irregular" really means, and why none of these doctors have been able to tell you anything conclusive after all these tests.
After Coaty McStabberson removes the needle, his assistant presses a swatch of gauze against your throat, checking it every few seconds to see whether or not it's still oozing blood. When she's satisfied that you aren't going to bleed out in the hallway once she removes her hand, she cleans off the area, slaps on a bandage, and releases you out into the world. To wait.
While you're waiting, your neck will swell up and bruise so that you look like someone finally had enough and tried to choke the life out of you. People WILL ask about it, so invest in scarves... either that or practice your autoerotic asphyxiation jokes.
So I had a biopsy. But that's not really a big deal, right? It was just to rule something out. Everything was fine.
Except it wasn't fine.
It was irregular.
Again.
Let's do another biopsy! Sing it, folks! Second verse, same as the first... only this time we want to be super duper sure we get oodles of tissue, so we've got a pathologist standing by! That means you have to hold still after we take the needle out, while the short guy in the corner looks at a slide of your very own tissue to be sure we have plenty of cells. Also, we're going to approach the mass from the OTHER side of your neck, just so we can be sure we've got a good angle on it. Oh, yeah, we're going to be working very close to your carotid artery this time, so be real careful not to move, mmmkay? And we have to press down on your windpipe for a minute, if that's alright? Just raise your hand if you start to feel faint.
I wasn't thrilled with the procedure the first time, the silver lining being that at least it was over and done with and I wouldn't have to go through it again. Surprise.
And so I waited.
And waited.
And on the third day, a phone call.
I really shouldn't have been surprised, I suppose. It's not like it was anything new. After all, I'd heard the word "Irregular" so many times I was starting to think I was judging a 4th grade spelling bee. So, once more, I had no answers. But this time, a question:

"So what now?"
"Well, the only way to be really sure is to get in there. Physically. Remove it."
"Remove what?"
"Half of your thyroid."
Half of my thyroid.
"Only half? Why only half?"
"Well, you have more nodules on the left side. The risks of surgery are much lower if we only take half. You might not even need replacement hormones."
"But what if you find something bad? What if it's cancer?"
"The chances of that are very, very low."
"But what if?"
"Then we'd need to go back in and remove the other half."
"And if it comes back fine, I'm done with this?"
"Well, no. There are nodules on both sides. We'd have to monitor them."
"Monitor them?"
"Biopsies every 6 months."
"Why not just take it all now and be done with it?"
"There are major risks involved."
"The way I see it, there are major risks either way, but taking the whole thing means it's done, right?"

And thus, on September 18th, 2012 I bid farewell to my thyroid, a gland that had been with me since birth and had served me fairly well for lo these many years, until it decided to get all lumpy and irregular. I'd have a scar. I'd have to take pills every day for the rest of my life. But the nightmare would be over, at least. No more worrying about what irregular meant, if every time it was a little hard to swallow or I coughed and my throat felt funny if it was cancer sinking its fangs into my neck. The scar would probably be minimal, and on someone as fair skinned as I am, maybe not even noticeable at all. From a distance. At night. If I wore a turtleneck. And a parka.
But that was OK, because it would all be well and good and after a week to 10 days of recovery time, I could get back to living my life as normally as I ever had, just with a few minor changes.
Almost.
They still had to cut into the thyroid itself and poke around with their creepy little pathologist fingers to determine what the heck had gone wrong in the first place. But what did I care, right? The thing was out of me. I was free.
But I wasn't, you see.
I'm not.
That terrible C word has reared its ugly head for real this time.
Yes, I had thyroid cancer. Papillary Carcinoma, to be exact. And yes, it was removed in entirety along with my thyroid. I was cured. Completely free of cancer.
Well, free of THAT cancer.
There was another one.
Yeah.
What are the chances, right?
Pretty fucking astronomical, it turns out.
In addition to the PapCar, I also have Follicular Thyroid Cancer. That's right. Have. As in still there, still in me. Waiting and growing and spreading. How far, I don't know yet. My medical team has opted to wait until I've been deemed healed from surgery before taking any further diagnostic or exploratory measures. How ironic is that? I have thyroid cancer still and I don't even have a thyroid anymore!

Thoughts and Feelings

2012-10-02T11:58:00.001-04:00

I thought long and hard about what to say here. I still don't know for sure, but I decided to just start typing and see what happens, so here goes.

I drafted this blog post maybe 50 times. I've struggled with how much to make public vs how much to keep private, how personal I want to make this, whether or not I should give in to my impulse to hide away from the world and isolate myself completely or share everything and reach out to the friends/fans/supporters who are, by now, probably either wondering what happened to me or have moved on entirely.

I ranted a lot in previous drafts, venting my ire about how unfair it is that I have cancer and I'm not even 29 yet (That happens on Sunday. Happy Birthday.), how scary and awful and painful biopsies are, and how it feels to know that a part of your own body has gone rogue and executed strikes against you, then I shifted the other way and wrote about how strong I am, how I've always been strong, and how I won't let cancer change who I am as a person, but that's a load of mushy self affirming bullshit, regardless of whether or not it's true... and on top of it all, none of that felt quite right, so I scrapped it and started over.

I tried weaving the tale of how this whole mess began, starting with headaches in 2010 that were misdiagnosed as a sinus infection and migraines, all the way through this past summer when the true cause was revealed to be a large, cancerous tumor pressing against my carotid artery. I described the biopsy process, the countless MRIs, CAT scans and ultrasounds, the hell of waiting for results each and every time, and the crushing fear that came with each "irregular but inconclusive" result.

I talked about my surgery and how it ended up taking nearly 3 times as long as expected, how I suffered severe calcium deficiency right afterwards, and how I ended up with an infection (which happens in less than 2% of patients! Aren't I lucky?) which will probably result in an even uglier scar.

I described that fateful phone call, which came around 8:00 at night as I played Guild Wars 2 with my gaming buddies... the way it felt when my doctor told me I had not one, but two cancers and that one of them had spread beyond my thyroid. The way it crushed me to have my feelings of safety and relief (Thyroid's gone, that's the end of it!) ripped away and replaced with uncertainty and fear.

I tried all of these things and more, but none of them felt like the right thing to say.

I find myself fighting the urge to push people away, people I care about, people I trust, people I need to help me get through this, just because I don't want to make them worry and fret and stress. I've gone radio silent on Facebook and Twitter, and not just because I wasn't really feeling up to posting. I guess this blog post is a step towards trying to thwart that, a way of reaching out and letting people know what has been going on so I don't feel so alone. Although I fully admit the seclusion is of my own making and I still don't know if it's what I truly want or not. Part of me fears actually publishing this, because I'm not looking for attention or pity or for anyone to pat me on the head and go "There, there." But I'm not exactly sure of what it is I do want. I just know that I don't want to alienate people or leave those that might care in the dark.

So I guess that's all. Anyone who wants to contact me has the means to do so. I'm around.

And I'll be ok.

Really.

Review: Brian Keene's Sundancing

2012-09-04T12:00:00.000-04:00

Sundancing by Brian Keene
65 Pages
Release Date: 8/15/2012

Available from Thunderstorm Books

Sundancing is part of Thunderstorm Books' third and latest Maelstrom set, an annual collection Keene himself oversees. This novella is exclusive to the collection and, according to the man himself, is the only edition of this particular work that will ever be published.
I'm a big fan of Brian Keene. You'll note that I didn't say I was a fan of his work, I said I was a fan of him. There's a difference. It's possible to appreciate the talent and artistry behind a volume of writing, a photograph, a song, but not really like its creator as a person. That isn't the case here, which is why I especially enjoyed this work of meta fiction.
I've read most of Brian's work, from the historical-esque worlds of Tequilla's Sunrise and Death Comes For All (Cowritten with author Steven L. Shrewsbury) to the gripping modern horror of Urban Gothic and Jack's Magic Beans, and the tales I've enjoyed the most are almost always the ones in which pieces of the author shine through like rays of sunlight through a dusty windowpane.
Ghoul (which was adapted for the small screen and aired earlier this year on Chiller and is also the focus of Sundancing) remains one of my favorite of his works due to how much of him is smeared, dripped, and sliced onto those pages. Portions of his childhood, things that developed him as a person and an author, veins that unite many of his works exist throughout Ghoul especially, but bits and pieces of these same themes are evident in several of his other tales and that's a big part of what really makes them special and what makes Sundance even moreso. It's a snapshot, a glimpse into the life of someone who is good to his fans, his freinds, his family. An author who knows where his heart is, and he pays tribute to that heart with every word of this 65 page novella. The way he describes and discusses Mary SanGiovanni, Keene's partner and fellow writer, made me smile. The love and admiration he feels for her glows on the page, you could almost see the smile on his face as he described her as "beautiful". But fear not, the book isn't all mushy lovey dovey stuff, there's a good deal of humor, excitement, adventure, and intrigue (And even a bit of Hollywood Glam) in these pages. I nearly cheered outloud when Keene taught a lesson to a pair of wannabe marketing all stars, and the geeky comic nerd in me smirked at his putting them in their place over Batman characters.
Keene relates to many other characters in the story in similar, but different ways. His friends are important to him. His fans mean more to him than just another tick on his list of books sold. He's the kind of guy I'd like to hang out with and have a chat over a platter of sushi and a glass of Wild Turkey (Rocks, of course. What's wrong with kids these days and their "twist" nonsense?), the kind of guy I imagine liking just as much if he weren't The Great Brian Keene and was instead Brian From Down The Street.

All in all, Sundancing is an excellent, quick read and highly worth picking up. And should you miss your chance to own it or need more incentive to shell out the dough, Mr. Keene has kindly put the first chapter up on his official website for everyone to enjoy.

Five Stars on The Walk of Fame out of Five.

Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Contest Entry

2012-06-01T11:25:00.001-04:00

So Chuck Wendig, author of Blackbirds and 500 Ways To Be A Better Writer, had a little flash fiction contest on his website. Well, I like websites, and I love contests, so here is my entry. Enjoy!

She Will Live On

I felt like I was a little overdressed, and maybe I was. I could feel the eyes of the crowd on me, panning over my blue sequined miniskirt that had seemed so edgy and cool at my apartment and so over the top beneath the spotlights. I wondered if it really was too much under my ruffled satin shirt and cropped leather jacket, or if it was just nerves. This was my first night with the band, after all. I wondered what the crowd saw when they looked at me.

I took a deep breath and tried to swallow the butterflies that had made themselves at home in my guts. Was my hair too big? Maybe I'd gone a bit too far with the hairspray. What was it Nanny Fran used to say? The bigger the hair, the smaller your hips looked. Maybe I should’ve taken a shorter bath. Did my skin look a little pruny? Suddenly it didn't matter anymore. Johnny was tapping his drumsticks, our cue to intro.

I tapped my black leather ankle boots in time with the rhythm of Johnny's ivory wands. The chain harness swung against the hard sole, almost an instrument of its own.

One... two... three...four...

Tap...tap...tap...tap...

Tom came in with his guitar, playing cords as clear and sharp as shards of crystal. I could feel the beat pulsing in my chest, the vibe of the music was taking over. I shook my hair out as Drake stepped in on bass, thrumming deep notes I could feel in my bones. I nodded my head, red curls bouncing in time with Tara's tambourine, pretty little percussion with a purple rose on the drum head. Before I even knew I'd opened my mouth, the words of the song erupted over the worn wood of the stage, reaching beyond me into the sea of shadows that filled the bar like animals in a zoo, a half seen menagerie. I was electric. I was on fire.

Oh it's not the same, I've got no one to blame...

I was omnipotent, I was ablaze. I was grinning from ear to ear, not at all out of place on stage with my band mates behind me, figures in black with glints of silver in their eyes. Tara couldn't even compete, elegant wonder she was, clad in a slinky black cocktail dress, dark mane shining in the light. The contrast between her creamy, milkshake pale skin and dark hair and clothing made her look like she'd stepped out of an old black and white movie. Her tambourine sparkled. Tom's guitar reflected the light, a red so deep it looked black, save for where the light hit it and made it look like pools of blood on asphalt. His stark white pick was a startling contrast.

All I feel is pain; I'm beginning to change...

The air hummed around us, I've never felt so alive. The music flowed through my veins, I was only a conduit, my voice completing a circuit from somewhere far beyond.

And it's all I can do not to return to you... to you...

The crowd is an ocean of darkness, murky pools of shadow around pairs of sparkling eyes. They move with the ebb and flow of the song, it's a melody we've all become a part of.

I just wanna be let loose!

The song swells to a triumphant end, Tom's guitar solo is a wonderful dessert, a perfect finale. Sweat sparkles on my skin like diamonds. I am bliss.

The owner of the bar comes over the sound system, his voice deep and throaty, wafting out of the darkness.

"Let's hear it for The Berettas, everybody! Performing tonight with for the very first time with their new lead singer, Cherilee Tanner!" The roar of applause is like thunder, the ocean in a storm. I'm smiling so wide my face feels like it might split. I take a bow with the rest of the band, my hair flipping over my head in front of me. I stand up so quickly I get light headed. Tom and Tara steady me with hands on my arms. They lead me back to the dressing room.

We all sit down on a shabby leather couch. I'm giddy. I see stars. There's a smile on my face as I look around the room at the other members of the band. I am so elated. I feel euphoric. After a while, that high wears off. Maybe it was all the booze, maybe I was just getting used to being a star.

I hug the others goodbye, Tom and Drake and Johnny and Tara. They all want me to stay a little longer, have a few more drinks, but I'm not feeling it. I was too tired, it was a very intense set.

I wind my way down the hallway at the back of the bar, towards the rear entrance where my car is parked. My little blue Datsun had never seemed so small. The walls were black with red trim. There were posters and pictures from other acts hung at odd intervals. Some were signed, some weren't. Near the end of the hall was a framed photo of The Berettas, Tom and Drake and Johnny and Tara were looking somber and dark, in front of them a girl with short blonde hair smiled over her shoulder. A purple rose stood out on her pale skin.

The Doctors: Flash Story

2012-05-31T12:08:00.002-04:00

Topic "Competitive Vivisection" as suggested by Garrett Cook.

The Doctors

Doctor James Vander scrubbed his hands vigorously, working the creamy pink soap into a rich lather over his skilled hands. Behind him, the door swung open, swooshing almost soundlessly on its oiled hinges. Jim glanced over his shoulder to see who had entered the clean room outside of the O.R. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, producing a sort of lopsided half grin on his thin face.

“How’re you, Kyle?” he asked, turning from the sink with his arms raised, hands held out in front of him as droplets of water gathered on his fingertips before falling to the green tiled floor. The newly entered doctor shrugged. “Same old, same old.” He said, stepping towards the great metal sink. “Marcy’s on my case about Kyle Junior’s behavior again. That kid has a bit of the devil in him, I swear!” Kyle shook his head, depressing the plastic pump on the bottle of soap with his wrist. Dr. Vander nodded sympathetically. “Kids’re tough.” He said. “Do you remember what you were like at that age?” Doctor Kyle Jennings snorted. “Heh, yeah. Marcy doesn’t know how good she’s got it! I was a hell raiser back then!” “Me, too!” Jim laughed heartily, fingers splayed like a shadow puppeteer getting ready for a show.

“How is Marcy?” James asked, holding his hands out as a nurse placed a surgical mask over his ears and nose, tying the ribbons in back into little white bows behind his head. Kyle finished lathering his hands. Streams of warm water cascaded over them, rinsing the suds into the sink and whisking them down the drain. “She’s well. She’s been volunteering over at the library the past few weeks. It’s good for her, I think. Gets her out of the house. Say, you and Robin should come over for drinks sometime. Maybe next week?”

Jim Vander shook his head. “Can’t do next week.” He said, “Taking the wife down to Cabo. Maybe when we get back.” Jim pulled on a pair of sterile blue latex gloves, snapping them as he released the stretchy material. Bits of white powder briefly clouded the air around his hands before dissipating. The nurse had finished tying Dr. Jennings’ mask on. He donned his own pair of gloves before he and Jim turned and pressed their backs into the large double doors, pushing them open while preserving the sanctity of their gloves and face masks.

Two wide eyed teenage girls were strapped to twin exam tables in the center of the spotless operating room, thick bands of plastic wrapped tightly over their mouths. At the doctors’ entrance, they began to struggle anew, straining at the leather bonds that bound them to their respective tables. Next to each of the girls stood an instrument tray displaying a variety of sharp looking surgical equipment, sparkling under the bright lights that had come on overhead. Jim looked sideways at Kyle, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned. “Race ya!” he said, picking up a scalpel.

Review: Black Bubbles by Kelli Owen

2012-05-24T13:09:00.000-04:00

Black Bubbles by Kelli Owen
187 Pages
Release Date: 4/10/2012

Available from Thunderstorm Books and Amazon Kindle

It's no secret that I'm a fan of Kelli Owen's work. It all started back when I was a scared little girl in a Big New City who wandered into a little used book store while waiting for her take out sushi order to be ready. I happened upon a copy of Kelli's novel, Six Days, as I browsed the heavily stocked shelves of the tiny shop. I was drawn to it in part thanks to Russell Dickerson's awesome cover. Figuring it was worth the $5 investment (and boy was I ever right! I later found out that it was part of an extremely limited run from Thunderstorm Books' Maelstrom set and has since sold on ebay for over $200.00!) I paid for my prize and left. Back at the sushi bar, I sat down with my purchase (which I carried in a recycled shopping bag from a defunct home goods store) and began reading. I was instantly engrossed. Kelli has a way with words that few people are lucky enough to possess. As I've said before, she has a really remarkable talent for setting the scene, and the opening of Six Days completely drew me in, so much so that I actually sat there until I had finished the first three chapters despite the fact that my sushi was ready... and for those of you who don't know me, it takes something pretty remarkable to keep me away from sushi.

After I had read and thoroughly enjoyed Six Days, I was hungry for more. I hopped on to amazon.com to check out what else she had available, and I highly recommend that you do the same, starting with the collection I'm reviewing (though it has taken me a bit to get to that, heh.), Black Bubbles.

As someone who works a day job, writes whenever she can, and somehow manages to squeeze in a social life including a boyfriend and two adorable dogs, I appreciate short story collections. I like being able to read a story from start to finish on my lunch break, before bed, or whenever I can grab a few minutes of spare time. Part of the price so often paid for this convenience is filler stories - not the author's best work, but included to pad the rest of the collection and satisfy whatever length requirements were set forth by the publisher. You won't find any of that here. Nosiree, Black Bubbles is 100% USDA Prime story telling. Every single story included in this volume is fantastic, diverse, and remarkably enjoyable. As much as I admire the awesome glittery toed gypsy that is Kelli Owen, I was not expecting the range of themes she was able to expertly pin to the page. I was blown away by how radically different, yet somehow wholly cohesive, this collection is. It runs the gamut from gory zombie stories to black humor, ghost stories, tales of serial killer depravity, and the horrors that can be found in every day life. Among my favorites (although it was really, really tough to pick just a few) were Spell (based on a Nick Cave song of the same name) which is an utterly heartbreaking story that does the song justice in a truly horrifying way, The Rabbit, which, though brief, is fascinating and dark, and the title story, Black Bubbles, which is utterly unique and completely terrifying. This is a collection you definitely don't want to miss. I can't give it high enough marks. Oh, hell, this is my blog, I can break my own rating system if I want to, and this is a book/ebook that most definitely warrants it.

6 Black Bubbles out of 5.

Epilogue

2012-05-23T11:21:00.000-04:00

It's been 10 days since my initial post about my experiences with Undead Press. Other authors such as Mandy DeGeit and Lincoln Crisler shared their experiences as well, with Mandy's post going viral and thus drawing tons of attention to Anthony Giangregorio and the way he operates. Things got rather out of hand when good ol' Tony G. sent me a veiled threat via Facebook. I won't lie, it was scary. I felt incredibly naive for having given him all of my information on both the cover letter I sent with my submissions and the contract I signed for both anthologies. I have since gotten a P.O. Box and will be using that for all professional correspondance. While I know that the issues I experienced with Tony were one case, one isolated incident, I plan to be a lot more cautious going forward, not only in regards to being far more selective about who I send personal information to, but also in regards to where I send it, as well as my work.
I'd like to say that if I had done my homework and googled Giangregorio, Undead Press, or Open Casket that it might've prevented me from sending in my stories, but in all honesty, I doubt it. I was (and yes, I still am) a hungry young writer. A publisher, albeit a small, local one (local for me, anyway... which made that threat all the scarier) actually went out of his way to ask ME to submit something. There really wasn't much thought required. I jumped at the chance, as I know far too many young writers are willing to do. I know that hunger well. I experience it daily. That burning, powerful desire to see your name in print can overwhelm all else, including common sense, if you let it. It's so very easy to succumb to that bitter temptress, the one that whispers things like "Sure he screwed around with other people's work... but that was them! I'm sure you'll be fine!" and "It doesn't matter what happens, it's YOUR NAME IN PRINT!" But I'm here to tell you not to listen. Pay attention to the reputations of the markets you're submitting to. We live in a wonderful age of free information that is readily available at all of our fingertips 24/7. There is absolutely no reason NOT to research a publisher before sending something in. Don't fall victim to your own desire to be published. It's like anything else, if you're patient and persistent, and if you practice your art until you've honed your skills, you'll find a home for your labors. More importantly, it'll be the right home, hopefully with an editor who knows what editing means, one who respects you and the effort you put into those words and will work with you to clean up any rough edges or awkward phrases. It's worth the wait, I promise. Yes, I had one negative experience, sure, but I've also had positive ones.
Matt Nord at Collaboration Of The Dead is just one example. They published my very first printed work, 78154, in the anthology So Long And Thanks For All The Brains. Matt was a consummate professional. He kept in touch with all of the authors during the process, provided updates and proofs, and edited the works involved without changing the authors' words. He was a pleasure to work with and I do hope one day to work with him again.
Good publishers/editors/human beings are out there, you just have to be willing to work to get to them, and not to sell yourself short for a shot at seeing your name on a TOC. As a friend of mine once said, Make sure the publisher is worthy of your talent.

As a post script, the amazing Mandy DeGeit has published the story that started it all, She Makes Me Smile (this time without the unnecessary apostrophe) as originally written. It's available on Amazon. She intends to use the profits to pay the authors associated with Cavalcade Of Terror as well as hiring a lawyer here in Mass to help with legal issues stemming from Undead Press's treatment of its authors. Please make a purchase. Not only is it for a good cause, but it's from a great new author who is sure to go places.

Suffering in Silence

2012-05-14T14:11:00.000-04:00

A few months back, I wrote a two part short zombie-esque story entitled "Rejuvenation/Rejuvenated". I liked the story from the moment I got the idea. I thought it would be cool to show what the scenario looked like from multiple perspectives without retelling the same thing. I finished the story and began looking for a market for it.

I had previously placed a different short story of mine, Finishing Last, with Open Casket Press in an anthology called Women Of The Living Dead. I hadn't gotten galleys or been allowed to review my work before it went to print, but I didn't think much of it. After all, I was (and am) still pretty new to the publishing world, what did I know? I read my story after the book was sent to me (I didn't even know when it went to print, let alone when it would be available) as my payment for that story had been a contributor's copy. There were a few sentences that had been rewritten, but on the whole it seemed fine. I added the story to my bibliography after tracking down the link on amazon.com by myself.

Later on, publisher/editor of that anthology posted on facebook about another book he was working on, a project tenatively titled "Zombie A Day". I sent him one story I'd done a while back entitled "Blind". He accepted and asked if I had anything else. I mentioned the two part story I'd finished and he said he'd like to read it. I sent it to him, hope shining in my eyes like the eager little writer worm I was. He liked it, and wanted to print it, but not as I had intended. There was a bit of back and forth between he and I about combining the stories into one, which I didn't want to do, as I liked the idea of keeping them separate but related.
A short time later, he announced that he hadn't gotten enough material for the proposed Zombie A Day collection, but would be printing my stories in another anthology called Zombie Tales. I was thrilled, as I had found a home for not one, not two, but three stories... Or so I thought.

The anthology was released under the name of a different publisher, Undead Press, and my story was no longer my story. It had been butchered. I sat in my livingroom with one of the 6 copies I had purchased, flipping through the pages, eager to see my words in print... only they weren't my words. It wasn't even my TITLE. Parts of my story had been cut out, names and details had been changed, things I was never made aware of and had never agreed to. I sat there in numb shock. Here was my name, attached to a story I no longer felt connected to. People were going to read this, it might be their first, possibly only, exposure to my work and what they were going to find were the words the editor had ascribed to me, which were very different from my own. My heart sank. I threw the book at the wall. What the hell was I going to do?

In the end... I did nothing. I bit my tongue and kept silent about my interactions with Anthony Giangregorio and Undead Press/Open Casket. I was afraid that he, as a publisher, would somehow blackball me within the industry if I spoke up or opened my mouth in any way. So I didn't say a word to anyone other than my close friends and family. And I'm sorry for that, because the very same thing happened to a friend of mine just recently. Mandy DeGeit had a story published in Undead Press's Cavalcade of Terror, which was similarly mistreated. I learned my lesson about being quiet. If someone does you an injustice, murders your artistic creation and sews the pieces back together in some sort of Frankenstein's Monster parody of your original work, speak up. SHOUT. Tell everyone you know and ask them to tell everyone THEY know. Get the word out. Don't let this kind of thing happen to others. The industry as a whole suffers when tainted by the warped vision of one so-called "Editor" who thinks he has the right to make changes to your vision without consulting you.

Lost In Translation: A practical guide to bleeding on the page

2012-03-28T10:21:00.000-04:00

I can't tell you how many times, both as a writer and as a reader, I've come across the phrase "Bleed on the page". I know what it means... it means using your emotions to help you build richer, more detailed, more engrossing characters. But how? I've struggled with this myself, so I decided to share what I've learned with all of you.

Firstly: You & Your Emotional Well: Get to know yourself. Believe it or not, this will not only help you become a better writer, but a better person in general and that's not a bad goal to strive for. Get in touch with who you are and be HONEST with yourself about it. I'm going to admit, right here on a public forum, that I am overly sensitive, I dwell on things, I haven't developed a very thick skin, and maybe I never will. But that's OK. It may not be great, but it's part of who I am as a person and as a writer. That doesn't mean that I won't stop working on those things, but it does mean that I'm acknowledging and accepting them as they are right now and what's more important, I'm developing ways to use those attributes to my advantage. It means that I have a very deep emotional well from which to draw, whereas someone who doesn't let things affect them as much might have to dig a little deeper to bring those feelings forth. That's fine, those people have their advantages as well. In my case, the main drawback is that because I am so very sensitive, I tend to lose sight of what it is I'm trying to do (namely, experience certain feelings to help surround myself with the right mentality to write a certain character in a certain way) and I tend to get stuck in circles of beating myself up over whatever the issue was in the first place. Pay attention to how you react to things, get a feel for how you will likely respond to certain situations, and learn from that.

Secondly: Taking the You out of Using Your Emotions: As I mentioned above, I have a tendency to beat myself up. A lot. It sucks, because quite frankly, it's a waste of time, it's not at all productive, and all it does do is end up making me feel bad, which has the sort of ripple effect I'm sure you've all experienced. One of my characters just made a horribly insensitive comment she meant as a joke, but someone took offense. Ok, that's happened to me before, how did it make me feel? Like hell, in a word (Ok, that's actually two words). But let's dig deeper than that... let's get to the root of it... and along the way, let's remind ourselves that this is about OUR CHARACTER, NOT US. Yes, we had those experiences, and yes they were unpleasant, but rather than getting caught up in that mess and remembering exactly how that coworker/friend/guy on the street looked at us and how it made us feel like Hannibal Lector crossed with Ted Bundy's evil(er) twin, remove yourself from the equation. Sometimes it helps me to visualize someone else entirely taking my spot in that particular interaction, usually it's my character. I push my brain into replacing things in the scene, slowly rewriting it to make it my own. Instead of me standing there with my foot in my mouth like some sort of contortionist, it's the character. Instead of my boss/pal/cute boy, it's a character from a movie or TV show. Instead of a conference room, it takes place in a pool, or a circus, or some other ridiculous, silly backdrop. The reason for this is that it sort of tricks my brain into seeing the situation in a new light, one that falls outside of me and my emotions and helps me look at the situation more objectively and shift the focus onto the feelings and reactions in general, and thus apply them to my character without getting caught up in that whirlwind of negativity. As an aside, and sort of a self help-y thing that I've found beneficial in general, I may spend a minute or two reflecting on the situation, what I've learned from it, and how I could have handled it better or would handle it now that I'm beyond it. I know that hindsight is 20/20, but it does sometimes help me put the issue to bed, at least for a little while.

Thirdly: Real experience is gained through trial and error, and I find that I learn more from my failures than my successes. It's this experience that takes your characters from one dimensional, flat lifeless things and helps you transform them into realistic, three dimensional, beings that show all the emotional qualities of a living breathing person. This vastly improves the believability of your work, that "suspension of disbelief" thing we're always striving for as writers. How many times have you been reading and stopped to say something along the lines of "Pffft, people don't act like that!" or "That's not realistic..."? It interrupts the flow of the story, doesn't it? You don't want that. Ideally, what you should be striving for is a story that holds your readers engrossed from beginning to end. When people call things into question, not only does it lend a bit of negativity to the atmosphere in general, but it causes them to be sucked out of the world you've created and be simultaneously thrust back into the one in which we all dwell. Not good. Essentially, there's more to a good story than just plot, characters, and conflict. What takes a piece of writing from good to great has a lot to do with how easy it is to lose yourself in the world the author has created for you. Bringing your own experiences to your writing helps make that possible. I'm convinced that the whole "Write what you know thing" relates to this concept. Being able to give depth to your environments, your characters, your situations is a skill that comes with time and practice, honed by translating things you know and things you've experienced into things your characters do and say and how they react. It's just that simple. Your own emotions and experiences become the paint by which to color your world and all of the creatures in it.

Lastly: This one has more to do with you as a person than as a writer... It's OK to let stuff go, alright? Easier said than done BELIEVE me, I know... but all told, definitely worth working on. Not everyone is going to love you, like you, or even tolerate you, not even your friends and family will 100% of the time (Unless they're robots, in which case why are you reading this instead of taking over the world with your robot army?) but that doesn't mean they don't like you, and it doesn't mean you suck. It may mean that you have conflicting opinions, it may mean that they don't see where you're coming from or you don't see where they are, or it may just be that one of you is in a shitty mood (Remember in the "Secondly" portion when I talked about that ripple effect?) Try not to take things personally, ok? Learn from your mistakes and try to be the best person you can, and in the end, be proud of yourself for what you've done well and forgive yourself for the things you haven't. As I'm struggling to get through my own thick skull, no one is perfect, and those that are close weren't born that way.

Do you have tips/hints/suggestions on any of this? What strategies have worked for you? Leave comments in the section below.

As always, thanks for reading!