PORTRAIT OF THE STARVING ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN

by Gar Anthony Haywood

In the years immediately following high school, there was nothing I wanted to do more than write comic books. My best friend Larry Houston was a terrific artist and, along with Don Manuel, another artist friend of ours, we were absolutely certain it was our destiny to become rich and famous comic book publishers, ala Stan Lee at Marvel.

We managed to publish and sell two issues of our own fanzine, THE ENFORCERS, under the Graphics2000 banner, before both our money and youthful innocence ran out. Here’s what the second issue of our mag looked like:

Anyone who’s ever tried to mix friendship with business could have probably predicted how things would work out for Graphics2000. Larry and I found 2000 things to bicker about, mostly dealing with creative control, and one night over coffee I just pulled the plug, telling him I preferred remaining friends to our becoming spiteful enemies. I don’t remember a lot about that parting-of-the-ways conversation, but I do remember this:

We were sitting in Larry’s parked car outside my apartment building, reviewing our reasons for wanting to write and draw comic books in the first place. All along, I’d thought his reasons were the same as mine — because he and I were artists placed on this earth to create. But it seemed I was mistaken. Larry didn’t give a rat’s ass for “art,” he was in this thing for the money. His ability to draw was an asset, not a gift, and only a fool would waste a viable asset doing something strictly for art’s sake.

Wow. You could have blown me down with a feather.

I was precisely the kind of fool Larry was talking about, and I pretty much remain that same fool today. I suppose it’s no coincidence that Larry has gone on to build a successful and lucrative career in animation, leveraging his artistic talents to great economic effect, while I have. . . well, written a dozen critically-acclaimed crime novels that have barely managed to keep my kitchen cupboards stocked with corn flakes.

Needless to say, I never thought my high-minded choice of art over commerce would prove so absolute. I always thought I’d find a way to become both rich and creatively unfettered. Such a parlay is not entirely unprecedented. But writing only what I’ve wanted to write, with an indifference to what publishers will buy that almost borders on contempt, has not served me well by any fiscal form of measurement, and I wouldn’t recommend it to any newbie author as a game plan for success.

Still, I’ve tried my hand at writing with one eye on the marketplace and the other on the page a number of times, and nothing good has ever come of it. I don’t often hate the process of writing, but I’m always at my unhappiest when I’m writing something intended to fill a niche, rather than satisfy an itch. The responsible adults among you with bills to pay and children to feed are right now thinking, “So fucking what if he’s unhappy? Better unhappy than homeless!” But that’s only a reasonable response if you assume I’m capable of doing my most saleable work regardless of my enthusiasm — or lack of same — for the material.

Ever hear the old expression “If it hurts, you must be doing it wrong”? Well, that’s how I feel about writing. Writing’s difficult and, yes, even painful on occasion — but it’s not supposed to be misery. The message I heard most clearly in Stephen’s most recent post here regarding the mixed emotions he’s had while writing his latest book is, “I DON’T WANT TO BE WRITING THIS BOOK. I’M NOT ENJOYING THE PROCESS.” And that, I think, is what we all feel when we put the cart of commerce too far before the horse of our own personal aesthetic. (Which, by the way, I’m not suggesting Stephen has. It may be that what he’s been experiencing is merely the stress that comes with writing the best damn thing one’s ever written. I wouldn’t put it past him.)

I’ll state for the record again that I’m not advocating writing with zero attention paid to profit. That’s no way to keep baby in new shoes, nor your agent answering the phone. I’m simply arguing that you can’t write as well as you’re capable if what you’re writing has too much to do with external demands and not enough with internal ones. That way lies madness, my friends, and I’ve heard enough “successful” authors, having made that devil’s bargain, wail about their conflicted souls to know it.

One final end note: Larry Houston and I are still great friends, more than thirty years after I broke up our Graphics2000 partnership.

Guess we artistes can’t be wrong about everything.

Questions for the Class: Writers, how do you deal with the constant yin-yang pull of commerce versus art? Readers, can you tell when an author is writing more for profit than for love? What are the signs?

My new name: “Marketing Curmudgeon”

by Pari

When I was first published, I remember how hard I marketed. I went to conventions, posted on blogs, wrote thank you notes, sent emails, wrote and sent newsletters, stayed “in touch” with my “fans” . . . worked on creating buzz by having friends post reviews on online sites (and I returned the favor whenever I could), contacted libraries, sent review copies (often at my own expense) to anyone who’d read my books, participated in the American Bookseller Association’s promotions and on and on.

All that marketing yielded a name in the mystery community — albeit a smallish name in the pantheon of great and well-known writers — but many folks did know me. I was nominated for two awards which gave me street cred in certain circles. What all that work didn’t yield was a major audience, a NY publishing contract, or enough money to pursue fiction as my main career.

It also put the emphasis squarely on Marketing/PR. And that, my friends, is bass ackwards. Writers need to write. That’s their job. It’s their expertise. The heavy lifting in marketing and PR belongs to Marketing and Public Relations pros.

I actually think that’s at the heart of much of the trouble in the publishing industry today. People forgot their jobs, tried to cut corners or take on what they oughtn’t’ve and now we have a mess.

In regards to Marketing and PR, I have a heightened sensitivity. I’ve worked in the field going on three decades. I can smell tricks and techniques from miles away. Now every writer I know is a marketer. Every single one is trying to hit me with the latest version of marketing know-how. And here’s what happens: the more I’m hit, the more tricks I perceive, the more diluted the message becomes and . . . the less I buy.

Maybe I’m in a subset of audiences that don’t like to feel accosted or badgered. Maybe I just know too many writers. But I’ve become a real curmudgeon.

Some people might claim I’m being a hypocrite. Murderati and my FB pages are Marketing/PR. It’s true they were when I started them, but that’s not what they do for me now. I post blogs because I like the conversations that ensue and that my world includes readers I may never meet but with whom I feel friendships blossoming. The same is true for FB.

This year I plan to self-publish some of my work. You’d think that’d put me back on the Marketing/PR treadmill, that I’d be looking for the latest analytics and techniques to reach the most potential readers.

Nope.

I’m determined to find a new paradigm. I think it’s going to have to do with having a butt-load of product so that if a reader likes one of my works, he or she will look for others — and the works will be there to purchase. If one reader enjoys something, I hope he or she will tell someone else . . .

Simple. No bells or whistles.

And I’ll just keep writing.

My vacation

by Pari

(Hey all, I just noticed that Cornelia posted yesterday; it’s right below this one. It’s a goodbye post. Please don’t miss it.)

Can this really be happening? After nearly one and a half weeks off, I’m going back to work tomorrow? Holy crap!

It seemed like an eternity in the abstract. Hours and hours of only ME time in which I could get so much accomplished . . .

Clean the house — So far, I’ve managed to clear enough space on the floor in my office that I can finally get around the boxes. I also got rid of several bags worth of recyclable paper and plastic. Cleaned a closet or two. Swept up and dusted enough dirt to fill at least one of the raised beds I meant to build during this vacation.

Write — I meant to edit all the work I’ve written since I started this writing-every-day thing more than 18 months ago. While I continued to write daily, I didn’t even look at any of my past work yet. Crapsticks. I’ve got two – three novels, a novella, at least six short stories . . . and I go to work again tomorrow? Crapsticks x 2!

Organize — What the hell is that supposed to mean anyway? Get little pouches and fill them with coupons? Put my bills somewhere where I’ll pay more attention to them? Figure out what to do with the kids’ artwork? Get rid of things I’m not using. Lose some of the things that have been dragging me down?

Speaking of . . .

Lose Weight — yeah, right.

Here’s what I did do:
Had some really wonderful conversations with friends.
Eat all kinds of special foods that I won’t eat again for a year — hard salami w/guyere cheese, sticky pecan holiday bread from my favorite local bakery, pate and cornichons, champagne . . .
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Stay up until one every night streaming foreign films.
Sleep in.
Enjoy being by myself for hours on end.
Think about my life and what I want to do in the coming years . . .

I may not have accomplished even a fraction of what I meant to do, but I certainly did accmomplish a lot.

How about you? What did you do for the holidays? Did you get a vacation? Did you have some down time?

I’d love to know . . . and I’m off today so I can actually respond more than I’ll be able to tomorrow. So send a note my way.

Oh! And Happy New Year! May you be blessed with everything you hope for this year.

So Long, Farewell…

By Cornelia Read

This is my goodbye post for Murderati. I adore you guys, and have had great fun writing here, and everyone in our gang has been lovely to me through some really tough stuff over the last few years: my dad’s suicide, my divorce, my move back to the East Coast, my struggles with writing and winter and all kinds of things. I will miss you all a great deal, and I thank you for your many kindnesses.

But I am really, really tired. I’m so happy to be back in my hometown of Manhattan, but I’ve moved three times since August while doing three extra rewrites on my fourth book (with my genius of an editor, who is a patient, patient woman,) and am just now getting my life back in order in many, many ways that require some better attention from me in real life.

And, hey, all kinds of really good shit has happened too. Like, after several years of this…

I’m hanging out with a really cool man who is great fun and very funny and kind, not to mention pretty damn “easy on the eyes,” as Grandmama Read used to say. And he is also NOT a psycho Republican, which is a huge plus after my last foray into the whole Y-chromosome thing.

So now when I think of The Lone Ranger, I think less of it pertaining to my social life, and more just for basic entertainment purposes:

And I DID finally finish that fourth book, which is called Valley of Ashes and is due out from Grand Central Publishing next August:

Plus my third book comes out in paperback this month, and I love the cover Grand Central did for that, too:

Last June, my kid graduated from Exeter,

and she got into her first-choice college,

and just made the Dean’s list at the end of her first semester, which is pretty fucking cool if you ask me.

Also, she just came out at the Junior Assembly in New York the week before Christmas, which my mom and I also did back in the day.

That was a rather stellar evening…

That’s my kid Grace on the right, and my niece Sasha on the left. I utterly adore both of them, and their escorts were terrific. (Jill Krementz took this photo. She is amazing and so very, very talented, and was very generous to document the evening for us.)

Here’s Grace in the Pierre Hotel ballroom, with her escort Dan:

Though I did miss having Lester Lanin there…

Especially since the new band didn’t throw beanies out onto the dance floor…

(Yeah, I just put Woody Guthrie and Lester Lanin in the same blog post. That’s how I roll. Because it is entirely possible to be a deb and anti-fascist. Just ask Eleanor Roosevelt.)

And I finally live in the neighborhood I’ve been wanting to hang out in for about the last year and a half: Inwood, on the far norther tip of Manhattan, just above the Cloisters:

It’s really beautiful here, and everyone is nice, and what with my apartment being a fifth-floor walkup, my ass is looking rather splendid these days. Which is pretty good, especially coupled with the cheap rent…

I mean, seriously… you look at this, and you don’t think “New York City,” right? It’s a very nice place to come home to on the A Train.

Okay, Duke Ellington is not actually ON the A Train in that video (because, hello, the A Train is a SUBWAY,) and I live way the hell above Sugar Hill in Harlem, but still, it’s a pretty nice tune to hum to yourself when you’re going express from 59th to 125th on your way home, you know?

Also, I think I have FINALLY relearned how to get off the 59th Street Bridge and onto the Long Island Expressway, which is the free way to get to the island and a pretty fine time to sing “The 59th Street Bridge Song” to oneself…

So, no worries about me, if you’re inclined to worry. I’m happy, I’m just exhausted.

I wish everyone a most wonderful 2012, and happy trails, and all good things… thank you for everything, you guys rock.

MOTIVATION

by Stephen Jay Schwartz

I got a great opportunity recently when the film I wrote this year, GRINDER, attracted a quality actor. The screenplay came to me as a rewrite assignment almost exactly a year ago. I worked with a group of producers and the film’s director to produce a new outline, treatment, two full drafts, and two polishes. The result was an intriguing action film with intense, zombie-like creatures and a structure similar to the film “Momento.” The final draft got the film its financing as well as a number of exceptional crew attachments. The lead actor came to us and made his attachment contingent upon an additional rewrite to satisfy his notes.

The actor looked at the script through the eyes of an actor. And thank God he did. He pointed out the fact that the central characters lacked motivation. He noticed that the clever, intricate plot actually disguised the fact that the characters had not been properly developed. The plot served as eye-candy to keep the viewer (or reader) turning pages, offering no additional dimension, no “soul.” It was Story 101 stuff, and I should have caught it earlier. But the development process is complicated and a great many perspectives need to be considered along the way. We could have moved forward with the script we had, parting ways with the actor who had so generously given his time and feedback, or we could have taken his notes and worked to give the film the depth it deserves. We decided to do the rewrite, and I’ve spent the last two weeks writing a new treatment for the film. I’ll have about two weeks now to write the draft. Eleventh-hour stuff, but exciting as hell.

Motivation. Why our characters do the things they do. The challenge with the script is that it’s non-linear, so it’s very difficult to mark the “scene before” moments that guide each character’s motivation through the story. I had to pull the story apart, create a linear time-line, then restructure the puzzle in a way that made sense. In the process, I had to give the protagonist a reason to do the things he does. The actor asked a few crucial questions about his character – “Who is he now? What was he? What does he want to be?” Simple stuff. Sacrificed by a complicated plot. What motivates him to do the things he does?

The questions got me thinking about my own motivation and how it has changed over the years. I’ve noticed that I don’t have the same kind of passion I used to for writing novels. Why is this? What happened to me?

When I was writing BOULEVARD I wrote every single night after my day job. After a ten-hour day I’d go to the cafe and spend another five or six hours writing the book. I spent all my weekends, holiday and vacation time writing the book. I did this for three and a half years. What was my motivation?

I think the big motivator was a decision to change my life. The novel represented my last opportunity to prove that I had something more going for me than selling lighting products to support myself and my family. It was my ticket out. I had already spent what felt like a lifetime in and out of the film business and it left a bitter taste in my mouth. The novel seemed like the perfect way to fulfill my creative aspirations.

When I got my book deal, I was motivated to please my editor and write the best book I could. It was a two-book deal, so the motivation to write my second book, Beat, was wrapped right into the first. I expected all that hard work to pay off. I expected to support myself as a writer from that point on.

But I learned it could be a long, long road to that goal. I quit the day job a year ago, determined to write my third book without the stress and frustration I experienced while writing the first two. I had a screenwriting assignment, a little bit of cash from the books, and some savings.

I’ve been writing the book, but the motivation hasn’t been there. Why? Well, there’s no book deal, for one. I’m writing on spec with the hope that it’ll sell when I’m done. But that’s how I wrote the first book, so why was I motivated then and not now?

I think it’s because, in the beginning, the possibilities seemed wide and endless. I didn’t know anything about the publishing industry. I figured a two-book deal would net me, what, two million dollars? Seemed about right. Now I’m educated and depressed. I tend to think, “What’s the point?” All this hard work, all the sacrifice. I made a big deal of spending a lot of time with my family this year, to make up for all the time I didn’t spend with them when I had a full-time job, writing those first two books. I didn’t want to resent my writing for taking me away from my family, so I quit the day job in order to balance it all. But now I resent the writing for all that it requires of me, while not providing me with the kind of income necessary to support a family. I get tired of the dream that says, “after I finish this screenplay/novel/film/whatever, I’ll sell it and everything will be all right.” I’ve been living that dream for twenty-five years.

There is, of course, a different kind of motivation to write, and it has nothing to do with paying the bills. There’s writing for writing’s sake. I’m all for that, but it means a complete restructuring of my life. It means I write for myself and if it sells, all the better. It means I should have a real job, something I love, something that I want to do for the rest of my years. All of my day jobs have been just that–day jobs. Designed only to get me to the next film or writing assignment. Because all I ever really wanted to do was write and make films. What else do I love? I mean, love enough to do forty hours a week? The only thing I can think of involves animals. I could work at a zoo forty hours a week. Or a gorilla reserve in Uganda. Or I could do ocean animal rescue. Maybe I could work at Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah. I could do these things, for the rest of my life. However, they wouldn’t pay the bills.

I’m told I’m only a couple years away from really “making it.” Hmmm. It does seem plausible now, for the first time in my life, providing the film gets made and it becomes a success, and that the TV option I recently sold for Boulevard and Beat actually goes to series. And that I finish my third novel and sell it.

But where’s my motivation to finish that third novel? Why does it feel so much like work?

I have to find my motivation. Story 101. Without it, my life is just a clever, sometimes intriguing, oddly non-linear ride toward a zombie-like climax. But the soul, man, where’s the soul?

The Great Book-Buying Debate: Redux

Zoë Sharp

We’re halfway through the Holiday Season between the excesses of Christmas and the promises of New Year. For many of us this means clinging to a few more days of indulgence before we have to shake off our sloth and get back to work.

The weather outside, not to burst into song, is frightful. We’ve had gales and rain and biting cold without the pleasures of actual snowfall. What better time to curl up in the warm with a good book?

Many of you will have received books as gifts. I did myself. I gave a few, too. Some were the silly kind of book that you often end up buying for people at this time of year. Others were more serious bits of reading that I knew – or hoped – the recipient would enjoy.

Book buying in the holiday season tends to be somewhat different from the rest of the year, but it still got me thinking about a topic covered by own very own former ‘Rati, JD Rhoades, more than two years ago. Dusty asked what influences you as a reader to buy a book by an author you’ve never heard of before?

The comments were highly illuminating. But time moves on and buying habits do the same. With the sudden explosion in e-books, I wondered, what influences readers NOW in the choices they make?

So, with Dusty’s original questions firmly in mind, I devised a few of my own.

1. Where do you do most of your book browsing these days?

a) on line?

b) local indie store?

c) big chain or supermarket?

d) local library?

2. How much of your reading is

a) in print?

b) in digital format?

3. Where do you hear about most of your new books?

a) bookstore display?

b) bookstore recommendation?

c) discussion group? (If so, where/what kind?)

4. What makes you decide to try a book by a new (to you) author?

a) word of mouth?

b) advertising?

c) personal appearance by the author at a store or convention?

d) on-line buzz or reviews?

e) book trailer?

5. How big a role does social media play? Have you ever decided to try an author because you’ve seen them posting on line and been intrigued or amused by what they have to say?

Equally:

6. If you’re on Twitter or Facebook or any of the other social networking sites, does it put you off if an author constantly plugs their own work or does the repetition actually make you decide to give them a try?

7. How influenced are you by reviews? Not just reviews from respected blog sites or publications, but reader reviews on Amazon. Does the total number of times a book has been reviewed, or the number of five-star reviews influence your choice at all? Do you ever read the reviews?

8. If you’re buying a book on line, do you use the facility to read a free sample before you buy? And has this ever put you off the book?

9. How important is price, whether for an e-book or a print version?

And finally:

10. Did you give or receive a book this Christmas? If so, what was it? And any suggestions for how you nicely wrap and gift an e-book?

This week’s Word of the Week is toxic, which means of poison, but comes from the Greek toxon, a bow and apparently has its roots from the practice of dipping arrows in poison. From this we also get toxophilite, meaning a lover of archery, which is not to be confused with toxicomania, a morbid craving for poisons.

Obviously, this is my last post of 2011. A very Happy New Year to all my fellow ‘Rati. Wishing you health, luck and happiness for 2012.

Tits on the Radio—Or the Art of Reinvention

By David Corbett

I saw the film The Artist last week. If you’ve been shackled to a rock inside a cave on the moon, feel consumed with holiday madness, have better things to do, or for some other reason have yet to hear about this picture, here’s the trailer:

I love it for all the obvious reasons—it’s beautiful, smart, innovative, romantic, with stunning performances, beautiful music, fabulous costumes, the cutest terrier since Asta, the whole schmeer—but what has stuck with me is the theme: The need to reinvent oneself at a time of cataclysmic change.

Or, as we writers are apt to say at one point or another: Change or Die.

Publishing is going through a metamorphosis every bit as profound as what occurred in the film industry when talkies left the silents behind, or what happened in the music business a decade or more ago, when major labels jettisoned “mid-list” bands, and those bands had to find new ways to reach their audiences.

And it’s not just the turn to eBooks that heralds change. The very nature of the book itself in digital format opens up new possibilities—and requirements—that are mind-boggling. The ability to embed photos, sound, even video into a digital book means that all too soon mere text will not be enough—not just in non-fiction.

Or, put otherwise, in the immortal words of he band Scissors Sisters: You can’t see tits on the radio.

If a heightened experience is out there, demand will shift that direction like iron filings to a magnet. The mere book, with its beautiful prose its only singularity, will become an artifact, a luxury, a boutique item.

I know, I know, you’ve heard this all before. “There’s something unique to the written word,” I hear you say, “that can’t be duplicated in any other medium. One way or another, the book will survive.” Well, I’m no longer drinking that particular batch of KoolAid. Stories will survive, sure. But call it intuition, call it midnight dread, but I’ve met the ghost of writing future, and he’s not a patient man.

The book will evolve into something more like a digital version of graphic novels, TV episodes, films, or even games, and writers will need to team up with artists from other media just to remain competitive.

Games are of course the great narrative frontier, and once computerized characterization evolves to where game avatars can assume real personalities that players can meaningfully affect or even change, the whole notion of what storytelling means will utterly transform. Stories will no longer be something a storyteller dreams up, then shares with an audience. They will be interactive narratives storytellers and audiences mutually create.

I find this exhilarating and terrifying. A generally solitary soul, writing suits me not just professionally but personally. I’m not quite at the Hell-Is-Other-People end of the bar, but I spend a lot of days largely by my lonesome. There’s no way around it, that ain’t gonna cut it no mo. I’m going to have to adapt to the notion of working with a crew, in one form or another. And pronto. If I can find one.

Alexandra has written about how hard everyone she knows is working just to remain artistically viable. Stephen and Gar have also posted about the intense, scattershot demands they face professionally. Pari just this Monday talked about the need to reframe these new demands so they’re seen as adventurous opportunities, not terrifying or numbing obligations. Zoë has written about her whole shift to eBooks, and Phillipa and Alexandra have chimed in on that front as well.

Oh, and I haven’t even mentioned the tectonic shifts in the world economy—don’t worry I’ll restrain myself.

The new annum dawns and the message is not just clear but loud, louder than ever: Change, Buckwheat, or die.

The Artist reminds us we’ve been here before, and some made it through the transition, others didn’t.

So Murderateros: I wonder—what have you changed this year, in order to remain in the game?

How confident do you feel you’ll survive, make the transition, land on your feet?

What new or secondary talents have you brought to the fore? Which others do you need to develop?

Do you feel like you’re keeping up, or are you slipping behind?

What scares you more: changing or dying?

* * * * *

Jukebox Heroes of the Week: I’m going to do a repeat, here, the live version of “Tits on the Radio.” I have a serious crush on Ana Matronic of Scissor Sisters, and I hope I can muster half the energy in my work as she does in this number:

Happy New Year everyone! Boogie on, to Babylon and Beyond.

Best wishes for a grand, transformative 2012!

Men of Mystery/ Rage Against the Night

by Alexandra Sokoloff

I wouldn’t call myself a connoisseur of men, exactly, or a gourmet, or heaven forbid, a gourmand.

But I do, well, notice them.

One of the not-so-often-talked-about perks of the author life is that you are thrown in with some of the most fascinating, charismatic and fun males on the planet.

The variety is staggering. Just consider our own men of Murderati.

The oh-so-cool and oh-so-soulful Steve Schwartz. Well, who wouldn’t melt at the Kerouac/Cassady beat aura, the rhythm of a musician, that leather jacket?

Dusty Rhoades, an earthy, sexy bear of a man who calls himself a redneck when no redneck was ever so smart or so freaking liberal – but who you can see strangling a man with one hand if he ever even THOUGHT of messing with one of Dusty’s friends.

David Corbett, so scary smart you want to whack him, but he’s carried noir elegance into present day and has the street cred to back it all up. And loyal as the day is long.

Gar Haywood, the sophisticated chameleon, who does “urban” noir and heartwarming cozy with equal skill – always the coolest man in the room but OH, you would not want to cross him and get caught in the fire. (Or would you?)

Jonathan Hayes, who you KNOW could introduce you to a spectrum of sensual delights usually reserved for Arab men in patriarchal cultures who die gloriously in battle and get 100 virgins and the world’s best chefs working around the clock for them or something like that.

Ken Bruen, the Irish poet. I don’t know how any of the rest of us even have souls of our own: it seems to me that Ken has the keeping of the universal soul. There is no harshness in this man, he is beautifully, truly himself to the core.

Expanding into the greater community. . .

Lee Child, every woman’s fantasy of James Bond but OH so much more interesting. As radical as the day is long, and people call him shy but HAH. I’ve never met a man more capable of making any woman feel she is the most fabulous thing on the planet. Reacher is a pale copy of the creator. Plus he has that dreamy brother, the dreamy Andrew Grant, who has his own sleek spy thriller cred. Lee or Andrew? Andrew or Lee? Or . . . well, that kind of speculating could keep a girl busy for a long, long time.

Harlan Coben. The ultimate family man with bad boy written all over him. He will drive you insane by telling you the absolute truth about why you are not where you should be as a writer, and then tell you the exact thing you need to know to get to the next level, driving you even more insane, because he’s right. I love his passionate meltdowns on panels, they’re worth the price of admission to any conference.

Joe Konrath. If you can keep from killing him on first contact (or tenth), the most fun anyone can have standing up. Brilliant, visionary mind, nail-biting writer, and a sense of humor that will keep you young if you have the ovaries to survive it. An earthy life force, and one of the only men who understands that all a woman wants on the dance floor is for you to be out there on it with her. He would deny he is a good guy but I know better, and if you don’t, you’re missing out.

F. Paul Wilson. There is nothing this man does not know or cannot do. A practicing doctor AND genre-bending bestselling author AND serious drummer and wonderful actor; the sweetest man on the planet, as well as the most wickedly funny. You can rock out with him to ass-kicking Cajun music in a down-and-dirty Zydeco club on Bourbon Street, and talk to him about Deism while the band is taking a break. A prince among men, and that’s no lie.

Barry Eisler. Well, what can I say – that hair! No, there’s so much more to Barry. So much gorgeous and talented in one package would be insufferable if he weren’t so passionately political. Get your mind out of the gutter and take a look. Barry has a moral compass that could lead us all. If there were a zombie apocalypse, I’d want him rebuilding the world.

Speaking of Hollywood gorgeous – Marcus Sakey. All right, I always had a thing for Starsky, so sue me. But Marcus you can’t hate either, he’s the real deal. Uber-talented, doesn’t miss a trick, and a great guy – I’d love it if they’d just clone him.

Blake Crouch – hmm, can’t say anything here, I’m practically certain I could get arrested. But someone so talented (writing AND music), so sweet, so fun, so loving, and so YOUNG, is going to rule the world any second now. And I’d be happy to have him do it.

We have men in this community who can turn you into a puddle just with their voices (Reed Farrel Coleman and and Gary Phillips) There are brilliant soulful poets you want to save, while the more conscious half of your brain is saying they will destroy you if you stay a second longer at the bar (fill in the blank…)

I could go on and on and ON. But there’s one man you might not be as familiar with as the others, while I, being the cross-genre slut—uh, wench—that I am, have had a little more exposure. And this is one you NEED to know.

Rocky Wood is the current president of the Horror Writers Association, and the author of Stephen King: Uncollected, Unpublished (Softcover), Stephen King: The Non-Fiction, Stephen King: A Literary Companion, Horrors: Great Stories of Fear and Their Creators

Rocky is a born New Zealander, current Australian, and believe me, Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe have nothing on him. They so very seldom make men like this anymore, it’s tragic. If there’s any point of cloning at all it should be to make more of these.

First of all, there’s that accent. But that’s just window dressing, really.

He is charming in the way that the most charismatic movie stars I’ve met are charming. He is totally present and focused in exactly the moment he is in, and on the person or group he is with. He has an aura that is sexy and smart and just beyond what you see in the real world.

You are drawn to the accent and his intensity, first, and the charisma, and then you very quickly start to realize that this is a wonderful person. An exceptional person. That whatever you thought you were rushing off to do can wait, possibly forever, because you really need to be right here and just find out who this person is.

A purely good person.

They say about certain gurus and great spiritual leaders, like the Dalai Lama and Mother Teresa, that you feel uplifted just as they walk in the room. That their physical presence changes your own auric vibration. Well, that’s Rocky.

All right, here comes the hard part. And if you’re not sitting down, maybe you should, because when I say hard, I mean hard.

Rocky has ALS, otherwise known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, or Motor Neurone disease. It is an evil, insidious thing. It turns the muscles to soup. There is no cure.

The news of this, this year, made me want to take whatever pills that would get me out of this life as fast as I could exit it. It made me wonder what was the point of anything at all.

Horrible things happen to good people all the time. No one can tell me that there is not actual evil in the world.

But this is one of those – THE PERSON WHO LEAST DESERVES THIS SCOURGE – events.

So what is anyone to make of something like this?

Believe it or not, I’m not going to be dark about it. I had that phase a while ago. I’ve moved on, to two basic thoughts. Which actually might be in opposition, but here they are anyway.

1. The perfect cure can happen instantly, tomorrow, this afternoon, this second. Miracles happen. Not consistently, but they happen. As I wrote in THE PRICE, and as I believe (on good days): “If one miracle has ever happened in the world, why not this one, for you?”

2. Another, and possibly the more important point is that: this world is only illusion. What you feel, what you can touch, right now, it’s only illusion. There is a better state we pass on to, which to me is—pure energy. Without the heaviness of a body. Without the agony of what people do to each other on the earth plane.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my body, it gives me great pleasure, and I’m happy to know that it gives other people great pleasure. But it’s so very heavy. I have to think that there is a lighter kind of existence, and that it’s a much better existence. I do enough yoga to believe that, with every cell and neuron in me.

And if this is true, it is not such a hard or horrible thing to have a fatal disease. Anything that is what the Hindus call Moksha: liberation, release from the earth plane, is a blessing.

(So I’ve gone from the ridiculously sensual to liberation from the physical body. How’s that for a blog post?)

But since we’re still on this plane, a bunch of Rocky’s friends, who happen to be pretty incredibly great writers, have contributed a passel of short stories to a collection called RAGE AGAINST THE NIGHT, edited by Shane Jiraiya Cummings, with short stories by Stephen King, Ramsey Campbell, Peter Straub, F. Paul Wilson, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Sarah Langan, Scott Nicholson, and many more. My short story, The Edge of Seventeen, is reprinted in the book, too. You may be especially interested in a story by Stephen King, which details a deal with the devil that Rocky would never make: passing this kind of illness on to another human being. But the book is also packed with tales from rising stars in the horror genre you may not be as familiar with.

The price is $3.99, and all proceeds go to buying Rocky an eye gaze machine, a miraculous device that allows which allows the severely physically impaired to communicate via eye movements.

Rocky has already made arrangements to pass the machine on to another family that needs it, because that’s the kind of man he is.

No one knows what will happen tomorrow. I may drop dead long before Rocky does. Any one of us could. What I do know is that anyone who has not known this man is the poorer for it. I hope this post will go a small way toward correcting that.

Thank you for reading.

– Alex

RAGE AGAINST THE NIGHT:

E book now available for $3.99 from:

– Amazon (Kindle)

– Smashwords (multi-format ebook)

In the coming weeks, the anthology should be available at all good online retailers, and the print version will be available in January.

Synopsis:

Under the onslaught of supernatural evil, the acts of good people can seem insignificant, but a courageous few stand apart. These brave men and women stand up to the darkness, stare it right in the eye, and give it the finger. These are the stories of those who rage against the night, stories of triumph, sacrifice, and bravery in the face of overwhelming evil.

– Edited by Shane Jiraiya Cummings.

Reframing

by Pari

Yesterday, after I took the kids to their father’s house, I spent the first Christmas in 19 years alone. It was a good day . . . contemplative. On a long walk, under the kind of blue sky that stings it’s so gorgeous and clear, I realized that much of my life has been ruled by obligation.

How much of yours is too?

It’s easy to see how this happens. Our various life roles come with obligations: parent, spouse, partner, child, writer, friend, worker, manager and so forth — each is at least moderately defined by the social circles and cultures within which we live. Yesterday, while staring at the bare winter branches against that stunning sky, I wondered what it would be like if I could transform at least ¼ of the should themes in my life into want-to themes. What if I framed my daily writing requirement into a privilege? What if I looked at exercise as a time for joy? What if the deep emotional work I’m doing isn’t so much a shedding of the old as an exploration of the unknown?

I first studied reframing intensely in graduate school. There, while training to be a therapist, I saw how powerful it could be. Indeed, much of therapy depends on reframing to be successful for without viewing things anew, a person stays mired in his or her uncomfortable present. In more recent years, my practice of daily gratitude forces me, on occasion, to apply the technique when I most want to pity myself . . . or when I want to blame others for something in my life.

As happens frequently with my walks, I had a small epiphany. I realized that many of my New Year’s resolutions also stemmed from a center of obligation. (Do you see how insidious shoulds can be?) So how could I reframe my heavy sense of have-to around this time of year into can’t-wait-to?

Here is the beginning of what will probably take me most of the week to settle into, but I thought I’d share my resolutions so far . . .

In 2012, I can’t wait to

reward myself for trying something new without any thought to success or failure
dance as often as I can
look for an adventure and take it
eat dessert first
relish days when I don’t have to do anything
play as much as I think while writing
embrace . . .

So what about you? What New Year’s resolution do you want to stand on its head?

The Walking Dead

by Alexandra Sokoloff

That would be me, after two weeks of something that never quite turned into flu but wasn’t much fun anyway.

I don’t really watch television, no time and very little tolerance, but I do occasionally binge on it.

And I don’t know whether it’s my way of avoiding the traditional Christmas chocolate binge, or the fact that I’ve been sick for a lot longer than I figured on being, but I have been having a mother of a TV binge this week.

In the past I have become obsessed with shows like DEADWOOD (still the best of all), THE WIRE (excruciatingly close second), ROME, and MAD MEN. Obsessed means that I watch every episode as soon as I can get it, which can present a time management problem when I discover a show that has actually been on the air for several seasons already.

I may be able to blame this current one on Our Steve, because it actually started when I was feverish and I guess I needed to see people sicker than I was or something, so I watched Outbreak (a movie Steve helped develop) on Netflix. I’ll see Dustin Hoffman and Kevin Spacey in anything, and this is them together, and I’ve been kind of wanting to see it again after seeing one of what must be one of the year’s most excruciatingly dull movies—CONTAGION.

I don’t know what it is about the plague that is so hard to get right in a feature film. At least I didn’t until I discovered the AMC TV series THE WALKING DEAD. And now I know what has been missing from these plague movies.

Zombies.

Now you have to understand this. I like apocalypse stuff but I am NOT a zombie girl. Couldn’t care less. Mystified by the popularity (plus, that wave has l o n g passed, hasn’t it?) I read THE PASSAGE (good book) and some of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES (cute, but you get it after a few chapters and don’t have to keep reading. ZOMBIELAND was funny and 28 DAYS LATER was scary but has one of the worst endings I’ve ever seen from a talent like Danny Boyle.

But WALKING DEAD – well, it’s created by Frank Darabont, based on the graphic novel series by Robert Kirkman, Tony Moore and Charlie Adlard. Darabont is one of my favorite filmmakers. Only person who’s every pulled off a Stephen King novel on film (besides Cronenberg with DEAD ZONE. I love Kubrick’s THE SHINING but it’s not King’s THE SHINING. And yes, STAND BY ME is great but it’s not a King NOVEL.).

The first episode of WD is so scary I had to turn it off periodically and calm myself down. I am beyond stunned that it didn’t give me nightmares.

It’s cinematic and riveting, often heartbreaking, purely wonderful storytelling.

Well, only the first 13 episodes are available so far and I went through that in a day. (When I say binge, I mean binge.).

Which meant that I could actually resume writing the next day, which is the good news.

The bad news was I was jonesing for more apocalypse. So I did some searching and discovered the BBC series SURVIVORS (the recent remake, or revision), which is post-flu apocalyptic.

Watching both series back to back was a seriously interesting exercise. I’m not entirely sure in what – British vs. American TV, British vs. American gun culture, British vs. American people. . . zombies vs. flu. . .

Here’s the thing. I’m not a particularly violent person or writer; I avoid gore in my reading and my own writing. But after 13 episodes of WALKING DEAD, I am seriously craving bloodshed on SURIVIVORS. Sure, everyone but a dozen people died in the first episode (shown through tasteful shots of the soles of tennis shoes and limp manicured hands).

But once the human encounters started again, there were some people who needed to be dead. And the British characters in SURVIVORS just refuse to kill people. Also, I know this series aired on the BBC, but I have to think that in actuality there are more than two guns in Britain. I’m sure Zoe has at least that many. Okay, I’ve actually seen four guns on the show so far, but only two in play at once.

Now come on, Brits, in case of an apocalypse, even without zombies—wouldn’t guns be one of the FIRST things you’d be looking for? Like, after water, but before food? That seems to me basic survival. I know that you don’t have gun shops at every random strip mall, but you do have a military, and in the world of the show, the military is just as dead as the rest of the world. So there would be guns to be had, right?

I’m sorry, but tire irons aren’t going to cut it.

That’s me being logical, there. But there’s another aspect to it, not logical at all. I have to confess, thatcompared to WD, where zombies are shot, arrowed, pickaxed… skulls crushed with shovels, bodies torn apart by ropes (and by other zombies) – gruesome casualties by the dozens almost every episode . . .

Well, it sounds terrible to say it, but after all the excruciating tension of WD I just was not sure SURVIVORS was going to be violent enough for me. Even with all those British accents, I wasn’t getting into it. It was, no big surprise, sex that kept me with it for the first two episodes. There are two pretty fine leading men in this show, Max Beesley and Paterson Joseph; I’m happy to see the producers realized they should be shirtless more often. The other characters grew on me and the lead actress I disliked in the first episode turned out to be a villain, so that was okay. The lead actress I like best got to kick some serious ass a few episodes in, which was a pleasant—or maybe I mean gratifying—surprise. And I like the conceit of the show, which is that, at least so far, the Odyssey-like encounters the main group has with other survivors are modeled around famous stories from literature, like Peter Pan and Oliver Twist. It could have been corny but it works.

I am having one continuing problem with it, on the morality front.

With zombies of course you don’t have to have debates about morality, you can just break skulls—although THE WALKING DEAD does pretty well finding moral dilemmas, with some zombie killing anyway.

But I’m starting to wonder if my own morality got a little warped by the show, as with SURIVORS I am getting TIRED of the good guys letting the bad guys go. Especially in the case of two would-be rapists, who should have been put permanently out of commission. The good guys could have talked about it, argued it, but someone should AT LEAST have brought up the idea. Instead of turning them loose to attack other women. Or children, if there don’t happen to be any women handy.

There’s another weasel I’m sure the writers are just keeping around to keep people’s blood boiling, but it makes me long for the take-no-prisoners skull-crushing of WD.

I bet you’re all starting to wonder what my point is. I’m not sure, actually. My questions are not so much about zombies, but if you’d like to talk about them, have at it. Give us some classics. But what I was really wondering was – have other people started to experience holiday meltdowns? How did or do they show up for you?

There’s also a question for the Brits. Do you have more than two guns in the entire country? (Sorry, kidding.) But I can’t say that I’ve seen a lot of gunplay in my favorite British series. Am I just missing the gory ones, or do you all look aghast at the level of violence in American cable TV, especially?

And I’m up for any recommendations of apocalyptic favorites. I only have five more episodes of SURVIVORS to go . . .

The very happiest holidays to all (with or without zombies), and hoping all wonderful things for everyone in the new year.

– Alex

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P.S. If I have not responded to anyone who requested review copies of THE HARROWING, THE PRICE or BOOK OF SHADOWS, please re-mail me at alex AT alexandrasokoloff DOT com. I was late getting to my webmail on this because of my bout with plague, and may have deleted a few e mails along with the deluge of spam.

(And Reine – your e mail is not working for me….)

Alex