Who Do You Think You Are?

Do you court disappointment?

I mean subconsciously, through automatic thought patterns you often don’t realize you even have.

These thoughts are a bit insidious. We don’t really know they are there, because they’ve become such a part of our thinking, silently building up and insinuating themselves into our expectations, our lives and our success.

As I writer I find myself guilty of them far more often than I would like. Usually the first occurs half to three-quarters of the way through a novel. I start doubting myself, my abilities, my talent and my experience. “Wow, you’re writing garbage,” the first thought might go. “Yes, indeedy, you are,” comes the second. Then every word on the page suddenly looks just plain wrong, every scene silly or ineffectual.

The next comes after I finish the book. Creepy little thought gnomes tell me I’ve got a few hundred pieces of paper that could be put to better use building a clambake fire. “That book’ll never sell,” says Creepy Little Thought Gnome One. “You killed a tree for this???” Creepy Little Thought Gnome Two chimes in. And on it goes.

Do you inadvertently do this in your daily life? Subvert your success? Unconsciously look at things from a standpoint of failure? “Oh, I can’t do that,” you might think. “I’ll never got that job because I’m not qualified enough. I’m not as pretty as her or as muscular as him. I never win anything. All that happens to me are bad things.”

Yes, some of that is true, because bad things do happen. Sometimes strings of bad things and they can debilitating—if you don’t laugh in their face. If you let them take hold and become the norm of your thinking pattern.

Too many times these negative thoughts end up becoming self-fulfilling prophesies. We are what we think we are, if we think it often and intensely enough. We achieve what we expect to achieve (discarding uncontrollable factors). Or not achieve.

So the trick becomes catching the Creepy Little Thought Gnomes. Blasting them with double barrels until there’s green creepy gnome guts all over the place. Once you catch those negatives thoughts, you can then set about changing them. Write them down in one column on a piece of paper. In the next column discover why that thought is negative and quite often a lie. Then put the lie in its place and write down a positive thought. Think that thought. Intensely. Believe it. Start seeding “can do” instead of can’t. It’s not easy, but anything good and lasting rarely is.

There’s a cliché that goes Look on the Bright side. Kitschy and simplistic but it works. Personally, I say kick the crap out of your Creepy Thought Gnomes.

Starting today.

A Little Less Real, A Little More Escape...

I like to escape. When I read and when I write.

In these troubled times, and even in good times since the media seems hell-bent on making sure we have our daily dose of depression, I think escaping is important. When you turn on the news, you get an overload of death, dying, swindling, scandal, disasters, and wife-beating—enough to fill even the most optimistic of us with weltschmerz . If you aren’t on Prozac before the press messes with your day, you’ll be poppin’ ‘em like M & Ms after.

Granted, we need to keep up with world events and educate ourselves on the sick people of this world for our and our loved ones’ protection. But do we need a constant bombardment of bad? Is it healthy? I doubt it. If it were, cases of anxiety disorders and depression wouldn’t be sky-rocketing.

Enough, enough, enough.

We need a little adventure, a little fantasy. No, not a little, a lot of it. We need to believe for at least a short time that heroes exist and all our problems are solvable. We need the release a horror novel can provide, a place to contain the monsters. We need the soaring love and happily ever after of a romance tale. We need to best the dragons in our fantasy novels and in our real lives. Reading genre fiction can provide that escape, I believe. I have always loved superheroes, yet by the same token love to be scared with a good ghost story, because I know it isn’t real and I can let out the breath I was holding while reading it, living it in my mind.

In everyday life it seems all too often you can’t let that breath out. You have to hold it until your head pops.

That’s not to say our fiction can’t and shouldn’t deal with real issues. My second Nightmare Club book The Deadly Dragon helps kids confront the anger spawned by spousal abuse…but in a way that entertains and gives them a sense of hope and overcoming.

Of course, some people seem stuck looking at the gloomy side of things and like to read more about it, because it solidifies their worldview, and whatever made them see life through soot-smeared glasses.

I do not. I think my readers don’t either. I have had enough of tragedy and woe. I want, for at least a few hours, to run away to a world where love and hope and good prevail. I like helping my gal Chloe chase down a few supernatural Big Bads and running around chasing ghosts in New Salem with The Nightmare Club. I also like to fly with Superman (don’t try that in real life without a cape, folks).

I like to escape. Anyone want to go with me?

More Magic Moments

My father worked his ass off for more years than I, or he, cares to count. Five days a week, 12 hours a day, plus a half day or more on Saturday. So as a kid I really didn’t get to see as much of him as I would have liked. I understood that for the most part, but admittedly sometimes I also resented it. Kids don’t always understand the responsibilities adults face, and the fact that they have to work that hard at a low-paying job just so we could be kids and have the basics. Even so, we were never wealthy or what might even be called comfortable. Still, we didn’t go without, except maybe for some of that companionship and bonding a boy needs from a father at times.

But I am not complaining about it. Far from it. Because there are memories that came with it I will cherish the whole of my life. Like the comic books he would pick up for me every week and slip into his newspaper so I’d come running to check every night when he walked in the door. Or when he woke me up one night because a local radio station had started playing old episodes of The Shadow (thereby creating a life-long fascination for me with the character.)

And the occasional times he would take me to some movie, though it could be like pulling an arm to get him to go. He was exhausted most days and I didn’t really get that then, but the times he said yes were special.

I remember a drive-in once. Some double feature I wanted to see. Just me and him. A documentary about the Bermuda Triangle (yeah, all right, I was a weird kid and never really grew out of it). Then a second movie whose title I can’t remember but which for some reason was a big deal to me at the time. I think it might have been a ‘60s movie and involved a crashed flying saucer. There was a scientist guy and a gorgeous blonde Russian scientist girl (see, I wasn’t entirely weird, girls were goooooodddd). It might have been the first time I saw a girl’s naked back. Believe me, at that age it was a BIG deal. It still kinda is…but, ahem...

Anyway, the guy and the girl ended up together, after discovering the flying saucer taking it on a run through the solar system together. For weeks afterward I would go to sleep thinking about being the pilot of that saucer (and having a hot blonde Russian girl with me!) and visiting all the planets. I would make up adventures in my head, a few not repeatable here. Maybe that helped lead me to my eventual career as a writer. Or maybe I just need to up my meds. Who knows?

But memories that are special to us like that you can’t buy or manufacture. So I guess the point is, if you are a dad or mom with a young child at home…make time for them, no matter what you are doing, or have to do. It doesn’t have to be much time, just do something togther, something that will become a memory when that child is an adult. You just never know, perhaps it will help them through something difficult in their life or perhaps it will give them an anchor when they need it most.

Magic moments aren’t manufactured, they’re grown. So plant a seed.

My Dog Has a Blog

Those of you with pets know they are sometimes suspiciously smarter than they let on. Oh, you can catch them if you’re quick enough, out of the corner of your eye. Not that they obviously let the secret out; it’s just in the way they’re looking at you. Like they know things. About you. Naughty things and maybe they’re gonna tell or blackmail you with it someday when it best suits them.

Face it, your dog or cat sees you do things you wouldn’t do in front of most humans. They’ve got an inside track on all your disgusting little habits and they’ve probably seen you naked way too many times. (Note to guys with cats: keep your underwear on. There are places you don’t want scratches and dangling things are way too easily mistaken for cat toys.)

And it’s no secret these days everybody and his mother has a frickin’ blog. I think my nine-year old niece has one, even. Something to do with Hannah Montana and Webkins. Or maybe Hannah Montana is a Webkin. Or Billy Ray is. Whatever.

Anywooo, after you discover your computer mysteriously on and blogspot up on the screen a few times and your cat or dog sitting in your office chair, you start to wonder things. What if my pet has decided to write its own blog? What if there are thousands of other dogs and cats out there just hatin’ and dishin’ on their owners? The Dawg Blawg? Cat Scratch Revealer? Mouse Grouse? The Bird’s the Word?

Maybe they even use Twitter. Especially the minor birds. You just know those guys are talkin’ their beaks off.

I wonder just what they are saying? Can’t be good. You know how catty some felines can be and it’s a dog dis dog world on the petnet. Which reminds me, ignore any rumors about me and electric butt shavers or zucchini-stuffed tube socks. Especially from RoverICU.

One thing’s for certain: our pets know too much. So watch them. Closely. And while you’re at it, keep a real close eye on your cell phone if it takes pictures…

Terror Tots

Do any of you have friends you dread to see coming because you know they are going to bring along their ill-behaved, poop-smelling little snot-monkeys?

Seriously, c’mon, surely you’ve felt that “aw crap” twinge in the pit of your stomach the moment the number pops up on the caller ID. You love your friends, but their offspring? Not so frickin’ much.

It’s not that you don’t like the little reprobates, because you do. It’s just that, well, they’re a pain in the ass. The little booger chimps climb all over stuff and you worry about your insurance rates sky-rocketing, not to mention getting the bloodstains out of the carpet because inevitably somebody’s going to take a tumble. You have to run about hiding the breakables, because they’re, well breakable, and bound to be broken.

Then there’s the screaming. Why is it little kids can shriek loud and high enough to shatter your fine crystal but their hearing mysteriously ceases to work when you tell them to stop doing something? Ever tried shrieking like that as an adult? Assuming you don’t rupture your vocal cords, one of the neighbors calls the cops about a murder. Of course, if the little twerp is the one doing the shrieking there just might be one.

Then there’s chocolate- or booger-coated fingers. With which they simply must touch the drapes, the furniture, the everything-else. Discovering dried booger stuck to your counter is really no fun at all.

Lord forbid you’re trying to cook dinner, because you just know if they aren’t whining for bits of food they are getting those boogers on the silverware.

Then there’s the usual assortment of hair-pulling, kicking, biting, cussing, smashing things and accusing. And sometimes the kids do it too.

I really look forward to having those types of rugrats over to my house. At least, I do since I bought the paintball gun. Though that creates a whole other carpet- and wall-cleaning dilemma.

But we all have to make our sacrifices…

The Devil You Say?

So how long have you been an ax-wielding psycho serial killer?

Well, it all started when I was a little kid and one of the neighbor boys was getting on my nerves. I mean, I had to do something about the little turd, didn’t I?

Ok, so technically I have never been asked the question above, but I have been asked tactless, insulting and often annoying variations of it the moment I mention I write horror novels. Usually these queries come from “well-meaning” (not) fundamental types who appear genuinely shocked an introverted (in person anyway) guy like me would write such…such…depraved material. While I may admit to a bit of depravity—but in a good way for those of you with fur-lined handcuffs—it amazes me the narrow-mindedness that comes with such questions, nay, accusations.

“What do you do for work?” the seemingly innocuous query comes.

“Oh, I write books and stories.”

“Really? That so fascinating! What do you write?” Eager expression, glowing eyes, momentary celebridom.

“I write westerns, comic books and, um, horror…”

“You write what now?” Expression befuddles, eyes narrow.

“Horror. Ghost and goblins and all that sort of thing.”

No words for a moment, just that look of OMG! I’m-talking-to-a-sicko-psycho-baby-killer. Then: “Are you Satanic?”

Huh? Because I must be to write such things, you mean? Like an erotica writer must be a slut? Like a comic book writer must be an emotionally and developmentally challenged retard?

“Um, well, yes, of course. I like to have a sacrifice or two but that doesn’t necessarily make me a bad person, does it?”

Huh, no sale there. The person responds either of two ways: walks away from me like I am spreading the plague or tries to “save” me. I am not particularly fond of either.

It doesn’t matter that I don’t write splattepunk horror, that my stories are more aimed at just being scary and suspenseful and even, as in The Chloe Files, occasionally sprinkled with humor. It only matters my stories have demons and ghosts, naked girls and vampires—that Devil stuff.

I s’pose I could tell them about the westerns, but at that point even the innocent hoss is probably possessed. They are certain I am. They judge the author by the characters and acts within the books, attribute every viewpoint, at least the bad ones, to the writer. Never mind these are works of fiction and telling ghost stories goes back practically to the beginning of man.

Oh, well. Some folks will always have a certain perception of you, label you according to their own life filters or even narrow-minded rationalizations or insecurities. Trying to persuade them otherwise is a dung-up-the hill task. Mostly it doesn’t matter, though some can be troublesome if they are in any kind of power position or coddle a circle of like-minded monkeys and run their mouths. They obviously have no life, so need to usurp others’ lives, control them, mold them, or in the case of nonconformity, ostracize them. The “join me or die” mentality. It’s just a good thing they are pure of heart and deed and have never or will never do anything wrong: like judge.

Such is life, yes?

Busting Out

Those who know me and/or read this blog know I have a thing about busts. I like busts, I can’t help it. I collect them.

No, not THAT kind of bust, though you’re right, I like those too…but I digress.

Got no clue what I’m talking about, right?

Actually I am following up a bit on my previous post about FOOM and things from our childhood that remain special to us and resurrect glowing moments in our memory.

I have a minor collection of superhero busts, at least minor compared to some collectors, because the things aren’t particularly cheap. These are mostly what are called mini busts, and represent many of the characters from DC, Marvel and various other comic book companies, as well as a few non-comic book figures such as Doc Savage and The Shadow (my two favorites.) They are about four inches high and a whole lot easier to have around the house than a classical bust weighing a hundred pounds, and are made of resin or cold cast porcelain. And not surprisingly I favor the women superheroes, for reasons that are probably obvious.

The big problem with these is some are so finely detailed it is easy to break them, and they are great dust collectors and space takers. And kids are tempted to play with them, grrrr. I am not found of sharing my toys. At those toys…

I’ve acquired 30 or 40 of the things—Batman, Superman, Zorro, Wonder Woman, Spider-man, The Flash, Green Lantern, etc. I think they are one of those things that can take you back to a happier time, remind you there’s a kid still alive and kicking somewhere deep inside you wanting to get out.

And I think you should let that kid out more often.

But don’t jump on the furniture. That’ll get you spanked.

Then it’s time for the adult to come out…

Those Magic Moments: FOOM

I’ve talked before about how certain things stick with us as kids, those experiences that evoke once in a lifetime feelings of discovery and joy. Whether those feelings are merely memory glossed, or whether we are just more open to immersing ourselves with all our being as children, is up for debate, but one undeniable truth of them is that as adults we spend a hell of a lot of time trying to recapture our yesterdays.

The things that shape our interests and passions might be little or they might be big, but for certain they are indelible. And perpetually longed for.

One for me was comic books. Superheroes. While I always had an interest in them growing up, that interest became much deeper and lifelong when around age 11 or 12 we moved from my hometown of Old Orchard Beach to another next door. I think some of it was because I went from a neighborhood with friends close by to a more isolated home, where there were no neighbors or other kids; these heroes became my friends, or at least my escape from loneliness, and a bit later an escape from certain events in my life that made my adolescent years an emotional hell.

One such thing was FOOM. Yes, FOOM. Sounds silly now. But at the time it was a salvation of sorts. FOOM was a fanclub inaugurated by Marvel Comics, an acronym that stood for Friends of Ol’ Marvel. I distinctly remember scarping together my allowance—50 cents per week in those days—and clipping the coupon from an issue of Captain America. Then waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. Each day I ran home from the bus stop and yanked open the mailbox…only to feel like Charlie Brown waiting for a Valentine’s Day card.

Then, the miracle happened. Mail Box open, oversized envelope with the Hulk printed upon it tucked—or I should say crammed, because our mail person obviously did not posses the same respect for superhero clubs I did—inside.

My FOOM had arrived.

FOOM came with a brightly colored, multi-heroed poster, which immediately went on my closet door (this was before my hormones kicked in and Olivia Newton-John replaced it), a membership card, fan magazine (four issues) and a handful of stickers. I was in hero heaven. I’m sure my parents thought I was nuts. Oh, hell, they still think that. But I accept it.

Each night I fell asleep staring at that poster (I’d love to find one now, jut for nostalgia’s sake. Jim Steranko was the artist). Each morning I woke up blearily gazing upon it. In some strange way it helped get me through those days. Not as much perhaps as some other interests that were coming (I’ll leave those for another column), but it’s something I still recollect warmly. A feeling I wish I could experience with such purity today.

But alas, adulthood gets in the way.

Maybe we shouldn’t let it.

How about you? What were your special moments, discoveries? I’ve love to hear them.

Return of The Spider

A little over a year ago I had the honor of contributing a brand new Spider tale to Moonstone Books short story anthology, The Spider Chronicles, which also included such authors as John Jakes and Martin Powell. The story, entitled "Death Reign of the Zombie Queen", was one of twenty stories returning the Master of Men to his pulp glory for a modern audience.

For those of you unfamilair with the Spider, he was a 1930s pulp hero, perhaps the bloodiest of them all. To The Spider, the only good crook was a dead crook. Together with his lovely assistant Nita van Sloan, he stopped criminals dead for better than a hundred novels.

The Spider, besides being bloodthirsty, was compartmentally insane and toted around a hell of a Messiah complex. His adventures occurred on a massive scale. Criminals didn't just kill one or two people and scheme little, they schemed ginormous, devastating entire cities, perhaps even states.

For the time period, it was a gruesome series, frequently one where plot vanished in the heat of scorching action.The Spider Chronicles proved a nice success for Moonstone, so they decided to bring him back in a series of original widescreen graphic novels and comic books.

Widescreen comic books and graphic novels are prose comics with double page illustrations or paintings (see the one above of a two page painting by artist extraordinaire Gary Carbon). The widescreen comics are forthcoming (I'll be contributing one to that line as well, The Strange Case of the Spider and Mr. Hyde) but the series leads off in February with my graphic novel adaptation of Norvell Page's whizbang tale, The Devil's Paymaster, retitled Judgment Knight.

Adapting the novel was pure joy and Moonstone's presentation is top notch. Gary Carbon's artwork is brilliant, lavish noir. I hope readers will enjoy The Spider's return and this series of original adventures from the Master of Men as much as I did writing and adapting them.

Take a hop on over to Moonstone books too. They're doing good stuff over there. If you haven't already, check out The Avenger Chronicles, which I was lucky enough to co-edit and contribute to and look forward to the upcoming Captain Midnight anthology, as well as others.

--Howard
www.howardhopkins.com

10 Questions with Doctor Who's Gary M. Dobbs

Since Welsh actor/writer Gary M. Dobbs is a member of my Black Horse Westerns group, I thought I'd take advantage and twist his arm into doing an interview for Dark Bits. Well, actually it took no arm-twisting at all. Those of us on the BHW group who know him know just how enthusiastic and stand-up a gent he is. British fans are, of course, well familair with his work and US fans can see him regularly on BBC America in Doctor Who and Torchwood. He's also recently climbed on a Black Horse saddle with his upcoming hardcover release. But I'll let him tell y'all about that. Without further ado, Gary M. Dobbs.

(Photo: On the Tardis)


1) First, who is Gary Dobbs?


Gary Dobbs is something of a dreamer - always has been, ever since the days he was born into the dark damp atmosphear of 1960's South Wales. Seriously though I'm a bit part actor and writer and I have ambitions of building my profile on both fronts. I've done a couple of large roles on screen, most notably in the movie The Risen (2006) and Doctor Who (third series) but for the most part I take smaller roles - minor supporting characters or if I'm unlucky just someone walking by in the background. On the writing side - this is something I've always done and have published several short stories, scores of articles, a radio play and a textual computer game over the years. But this upcoming book is my first published novel though there are several failed efforts laying in boxes in my loft. I may revisit a couple of these one day.


2) Can you tell us a bit about your acting work on Doctor Who and Torchwood?


I've done Doctor Who several times. In the second season I was one of the soldiers in the massive war between the Cybermen and DALEKS and I was also one of the mourners in the funeral scene in this year's Christmas special. But my biggest role in Doctor Who was in the third season DALEK two parter set in New York of the great depression. I played an American taken prisoner by the DALEKS and got around twenty minutes of screen time over the two episodes. Thankfully the few lines I had were mostly grunted so I didn't have to show the world how terrible my American accent was. My best Doctor Who anecdote is that we were filming the Cyberman/DALEK war and between takes we had to keep our position so the cameras could be set up. I'm standing there and the guy inside the DALEK next to me suddenly lost control of the eye stalk and whipped me in the face. Then a voice came from within the DALEK - 'Sorry Mate' - that was surreal. Torchwood again I've played a soldier, a mourner at a funeral and a strange alien creature. Both are great fun to work on with a great cast and crew. And I'm proud to have been a part of such well loved shows.

(Photo: As Mr. Stokes in BBC drama Larkrise to Candleford)


3) You have an upcoming western novel from Robert Hale's Black Horse Western line, can you tell us a bit about that?


Tarnished Star is about a sheriff who temporarily loses his nerve when facing down some very bad men. He leaves the town in shame and then goes on a voyage of discovery to reclaim his courage before returning to kick arse in best Clint Eastwood style. I wanted to write a classic western that was both exciting to read but had some depth of character. I hope I achieved that with the main protagonist, Cole Masters. Guess the readers will let me know this June when the story is birthed to the world.


4) What sparked your interests in westerns?



Westerns are very important to me. As a kid I was very close to my grandfather, Jack Martin and he was a western nut. He'd watch all the westerns on TV and read at least two novels a week. He would also tell me wild stories about his own adventures in the wild west, when in truth the furthest West he ever went was Tonypandy. In these stories he'd be partnered with John Wayne or Randolph Scott and as a kid I believed every word. So when I came to write westerns myself it seemed natural to adopt Jack Martin as my pen-name. It's a tribute to that man that I loved and still miss dearly. In fact Tarnished Star is dedicated to his memory. I'm also in love with the American West - the landscapes, the people. One day I'd like to relocate to the states and grow old beneath western skies.

(Photo: The original Jack Martin with Gary's nan and mother.)

5) For those of us in the US, what is Moonmonkeys?

Moonmonkeys was a sitcom pilot that never turned into a series. I was gutted because my character was to be in every episode. It was set in an all night garage/service station and I was the local police officer. I believe the episode is often downloaded on some of the dodgy file sharing sites.



6) Writing or acting? How do they differ for you?


Writing and acting - on the surface they are totally different beasts. But they're not really - it's all creative and comes from some inner place that I don't really understand. I feel a character in my head the same way when I'm acting as when I'm writing but writing definately gives you more control and the finished product better reflects your original vision. I love them both though - hey, they both beat digging ditches for a living.

7) For Dr. Who fans, any secrets from the set?


I could get in trouble here. I will tell you that when I was first on set and I saw the TARDIS I was starstruck and I had to peek inside, you know to see if it really was bigger on the inside than out. So I waited until no one was looking and snook across and opened the door and.....nuff said.


8) Any other genres you'd like to write in?


I'm working on a historical crime novel set in South Wales but then Buffalo Bill's in there so it's half a western. But I do like hardboiled crime and horror. I think I probably will produce a hardboiled noirish novel somewhere along the way but westerns will always be my favourite genre. It's the freedom the genre gives that I love - within its confines you can tell any type of story - crime, horror, romance. Whatever takes the fancy. With the western I adore the sense of freedom and wide open spaces, of a land not yet fully tamed. I know that the Old West, the way we think of it, is largely a myth but then most of the great novels have some mythical elements to them. I'm also a serious student of the Billy the Kid myth and one day plan to write a non-fiction book on the Kid just because I feel there can never be too many books on this most famous of American outlaws.

(Three of the supporting cast enjoying a cup of coffee on the 2008 Doctor Who xmas special.)

9) How would you feel about acting in a movie based on your own Western novel?


Now this would be a dream come true. I'd love to be in a western - to wear the clothes, walk the walk, talk the talk and so on but there's not much chance of that over here in the UK. However if I was lucky enough for someone to want to film a western of mine I'd insist I get a part in it. I can just see myself walking into a saloon and looking the bar keep straight in the eye and saying, in my thick Welsh accent - 'Give me a whiskey in a dirty glass, boyo.'


10) Now's your chance to plug: Any blogs, upcoming projects websites our readers would be interested in?


Obviously I'd love to plug The Tainted Archive, my blog. I kind of think of this as an online magazine and I try to make the contents varied and interesting. I also mostly post daily - doing features, reviews, interviews and sometimes just sharing something that's caught my eye on my travels around the web. In fact I think from now on I'll drop the word blog and call it a blogozine. Over the next week I've got interviews with Max Allan Colling, Patricia Gott and Mark Billingham and I'm using the blog to promote Wild West Monday which I hope will gain much support and get the western back to the prominance it so rightly deserves. And of course Tarnished Star comes out in June this year from those lovely people at Robert Hale LTD, a publisher you (Howard Hopkins/Lance Howard) also share. I'm almost finished on a second western about a character called Arkansas Smith but I've not as yet signed a contract for this one. Though I see no reason for it not to follow on the heels of Tarnished Star.

Much thanks to Gary for taking the time out of his busy schedule to talk to Dark Bits. His western can be pre-ordered from AmazonUK and directly from www.halebooks.com

Snow Monkeys

I haven’t done a monkey bit in quite a spell so today’s your lucky day, or unlucky if you have monkophobia. Or is that fear of robed guys chanting? Meh.

Monkeys don’t care much for snow. Our monkey Teekee was no exception. He liked to stare at it certainly. He’d climb up onto the window sill and watch it fall, a dazed or maybe slightly annoyed look in his beady little eyes. Occasionally, he’d make a swipe at a flake drifting close to the window and we’d hear a resounding thwack on the glass, then an equally resounding pissed-off monkey sound. It was kind of like the screek a hooker makes upon discovering she forgot her contraception. Not that I would know anything about that.

Er, anyhoo…Teekee seemed so curious about that falling white stuff, one day we buckled on his harness—which was about as easy as getting a chastity belt on one of my friendlier cousins—hitched up the leash and took him out onto the back porch after about six inches of fluffy white stuff had fallen.

I recollect an instant dislike for the cold and a “what-the-hell?” expression on his face. But that was mild compared to the reaction we got upon setting him down in the snow.

I never knew monkeys could jump quite so high. Or shriek quite so loud. He went up and rebounded when the leash pulled him instantly back like one of those paddle and ball toys. At that point we had no neighbors and that probably saved us from some sort of misdemeanor conviction. After the hop there was some monkey break-dancing, a couple of nips to my father and what I am pretty sure was a monkey mafia pledge to get even.

He never got in the window to look at the snow after that, which saved the cost of replacing the pane, because the way he’d been thwacking it sooner or later it would have cracked.

After all the snow we have been having lately, I can understand his position, though. Nice to look at, not so fun to be tossed in naked. Unless of course you are with the Swedish snowbunny team, but I digress…

There’s Evil out there…waiting...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.bn.com
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com

The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes

My name is Chloe Everson. I'm a dancer at the Red Lagoon in New Salem, Maine. The things I'm going to tell you may seem impossible, unreal, but they're true. I've seen them with my own eyes. All I can say is be careful...there's evil out there...waiting...

A silver locket said to have belonged to Joan of Arc and a children's nursery rhyme...

A 600-year-old monkey with an attitude and a mysterious supernatural symbol on a Caller ID box...

A deadly plague reemerging in the seaside town of New Salem, Maine, and the manifestation of a little girl's ghost...

How do these tie in with the sudden disappearance of Chloe's fiancé, Detective Sergeant Arlo Grimm, while on a routine search for a lead to her twin sister, who vanished thirty years earlier?

When the answer points to an Evil she'd thought vanquished Chloe knows she's in over her pretty blonde head and this time she'll have nothing to rely on except her own wits and courage.But will that be enough to save her and the life of the man she loves?

From Golden Perils Press and Barnes & Noble

ONE

Where in the World is Arlo Grimm?

I need help.

Wait, I should back up a little and introduce myself before I start telling my story. Arly always says I’m too impetuous.

My name is Chloe Everson. I’m blonde, 5’6” and, um, thirty-something. Oh, and please don’t judge me, but I’m also a stripper at the Red Lagoon, at least I was until a few weeks ago before...well, that’s a story I can get into later. Most of the other girls call them­selves exotic dancers, like it makes taking off your clothes in front of a bunch of drunken idiots classier somehow. But I am a stripper. There’s an art to it, like those burlesque girls in the old days.
I never had a lot of control over what happened in my life. In fact, most of the time I just felt like everything was sweeping me along in a rush of black water. But stripping gives me some sense of control. I know exactly what I am doing and what I can make my audience do. Anyone who gets out of line, well, Arly takes care of them.

And I know what you’re thinking: I’m one of “those” girls. Well, I’m not. It goes no farther than the dancing and never has. I have never crossed that line and I wouldn’t. I just spend a lot of time naked and I don’t mind that. Guys don’t seem to mind, either, but it’s strictly look, don’t touch.

I hope what I’ve told you won’t make you think less of me. I ended up on my own early, and had to survive somehow. I had no real skills other than dancing and I made enough money to give me some sense of power over the things in my life I might not have had otherwise.

I’ve been through a lot over the past few months, especially back around Christmas when that whole Sisters of the Snake thing was go­ing on. You can read about that in GRIMM. It’s now a matter of re­cord since Arly decided to hire that author to report the things we’ve seen and experienced. I mean, who would believe it if we didn’t make sure the public was able to read about it? Arly didn’t even believe in the supernatural before Angelique Ficatier and her witches came into our lives.

Me, I just write things down in my journal. I’m doing that now, sit­ting here in my condo, with the boxes I’ve packed piled all around me (I had plans, you know, ones that now...) I was hoping maybe someday I would be able to show it to my children, let them see what a fire­cracker their mother was in her day. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Like one of those old movies I like to watch. The kind where the heroes always win and the guy gets the girl and everything turns out happily ever af­ter.

But life is not always like that and I’m afraid maybe this time I’ve lost again, lost someone who means more to me than anything in the world. I’ve lost a lot in my life. My parents were killed when I was seven and I was sent to various foster homes. My sister...I lost her, too. I haven’t been able to find her since the day I saw a couple drive off with her and leave me behind. Arly was helping me look for her, but I already tried everything I could think of. Still, I cling to a little hope that someday...

Well, anyway, I guess that’s enough about me for now, because what’s more important is that I am worried. Sorry, no, I’m not just worried. I’m scared out of my wits. Because after what happened with the Sisters of the Snake I know there are things in this world that crawl out of the darkness and into our lives. Terrible things. Inhuman things. And I’m afraid something like that has happened again. To Arly.

He disappeared about a week ago. I’ve been looking everywhere, trying everything I could think of. But I’m not the detective. Arly is. He’s the one who knows how to find people. I talked to his friend, Detective Sturdevant, about it and he’s helping but hasn’t come up with any leads yet. I can tell he’s worried too, because before Angelique Ficatier he didn’t believe in any of that ghost and demon stuff, either. I think he does now, but he’s afraid to admit it. I can’t say I blame him.
Oh, dammit, it’s starting to rain. I can see the water streaking down the slider doors that lead to the patio. I hate rain. It just makes every­thing more depressing right now. Makes me more afraid and more lonely and I feel like I’m just going to come apart if I don’t do some­thing, find some clue to what happened to him.

Even though it’s raining I am thinking of driving over to Arly’s cottage to look around. I’ve been there already a few times and found nothing, but just being in his house makes me feel a little bit closer to him, so maybe I’ll try again.

What else can I do?

Featured Author Days at Black Horse Westerns

The Black Horse Westerns Yahoo! Group will be holding Featured Author Days throughout 2009. Join guest Black Horse Western authors on the message board for bios, excerpts, chat and all things Black Horse Western. These are all day events and you're welcome to stop by at any time during the day to leave messages and questions for the featured author.

This is a new venture for the group and we'd all like it to be a success, so if you want to get to know more about your favourite authors and books, meet new authors like Terry James and Jack Martin, or just stop by for a chat and maybe read some of the excerpts, you'll be more than welcome. We're a very friendly bunch. If you're not already a member of the group, you know what to do...

You can join this yahoogroups on Howard's western page at http://www.howardhopkins.com/western-books.htm (There is a sign up box on the page.)

In the meantime, here are a few dates for your diary.

7 February...Howard Hopkins
14 February...Jack Giles
25 April...Chuck Tyrell
30 May...Terry James
26 June...Jack Martin

More dates coming soon.
If you write for Black Horse Westerns and would like to be a featured author, please contact Joanne at: planetwriter@yahoo.co.uk for more information.

Drive-by Twittering

As authors in this new age of fictioneering and corporate publisher amalgamation, we’ve been saddled with the responsibility of handling the majority of our own promotion. Many of us, tending to be introverts, cringe at the thought of doing so, but the present clime leaves us little choice.

Social interaction is tough for those uncomfortable with it, and nearly impossible for those reticent about tooting their own horn. We’ve basically been forced to become word whores.

For those who fall into this category, which certainly includes yours truly, social media sites such as Twitter, Myspace, Facebook and the like have become a lesser of evils, or even a godsend. We plant our fannies in our little chairs in front of the screen and not actually have to stammer and stutter our way through trying to sell a book in public.

It is no secret social media has expanded tremendously over the past few years, allowing us an opportunity to reach a far greater audience than we would have going out into the cold cruel world locally.

But, and this is a big but, that doesn’t mean you can hit and run and expect your sales or fanbase to take a huge jump; or any jump, for that matter.

Writers need to build relationships with people. That doesn’t mean simply trying to cram your product down their throat. I can’t count the times I have been a fan of some author or singer or what have you and gotten the brush off or nose jack from them, along with the obligatory ad for their next project. It did little to make me want to buy their next book or CD. Until one singer I particularly admire sent me an email and talked to me like I was a real person, not just a sales figure. I never forgot that, because I’m sure he had a thousand other fans writing, expecting answers. Yet, still, he took the time to send me a personal note and even extended a write anytime invitation.

This, I believe for authors, is the crucial responsibility. Our readers and fans are our extended family (and, what the heck, I have enough odd relatives anyway, so a few hundred more won’t matter!) and need to be treated as such, with respect and genuine interest. Socially retarded or no, if we expect our readers to care about our books, we damn well better care about them.

One of the best ways to connect with them is through Twitter, a social micro-blogging site where we can keep them update on our day to day lives and become part of theirs. Twitter allows you 140 characters to say it succinctly. It’s fast, it’s fun and it’s connecting, but it is not for what I call Drive-by Twittering. Which means you go on there to meet and interact with folks, not to machine gun them with promo. Take time to read and respond to readers and fans, get to know them a bit. As an author you may be doing them a service, entertaining them and taking them away, at least briefly, from the troubles of life, but they are doing you a service, too. They are justifying your reason for story-telling. No author I know personally tells stories to entertain themselves. They tell stories to entertain others. Without readers, authors might as well sit in a rubber room babbling tales (and as attractive as that notion might be, no, no, no…)

Setting up a Twitter account is fairly straightforward. Just go to http://www.twitter.com and sign up, upload a snapshot and you’re good to go. Once you join, please feel free to follow me at http://www.twitter.com/yingko2 and start joining in the fun. Hope to see you there.

A Little More Magic

Why does it seem each new discovery, the ones that shape our interests and life-long loves, shines brighter when we are kids? We discover new hobbies or intense joys as adults, but somehow it is never the same. Perhaps it is merely because we are looking back at them and memory adds that extra glow; perhaps it is because we allow ourselves, as children, the luxury of experiencing each moment with all our being, holding nothing back in fear we might be judged or running each new sensation through years of personal and encumbering mental filters. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

Many times I wish I could go back to being a child, not merely to escape the stresses and obligations, responsibilities of everyday adulthood, but to recapture that “magic” things used to have. At least the magic I recollect. To live life through the eyes of a child and not simply the memory of one. But that magic proves elusive now. A ghost in a misty morning.

I think these nostalgic moments increase during the holiday season; at least for me they do. I get flashes of little things, such as traveling to my aunt’s house and the aroma of roasting turkey upon walking in the door. Then shucking my winter garments and running to the huge living room, dark except for the Christmas tree with its sparkling variegated lights. I would sit there just gazing at those lights for long moments, transported to another place, another world. Letting the colors flow through me, letting the magic just happen. Maybe the seeds of the writer I would become, because in many aspects that’s what writers do, lose themselves in magic, and hope their readers will be transported along. Sharing the fantasy, the warmth.

I think in this world we’d be far better off with a little more magic. Well, a lot more magic. Give yourself a few moments to just stop and sit and try to imagine things through the eyes of the child you once were. Your problems will still be waiting for you later. Oh, will they still be waiting. But with any luck they will seem maybe just the tiniest bit less important, less burdening.

There’s still magic in the world. Really. You just have to let yourself see it.

The Nightmare Club #2: The Deadly Dragon

Orville “Ace T” Turner has a hard time staying out of trouble but after moving to the spooky seaside town of New Salem, Maine, he soon discovers his troubles are only just beginning. Because on the day he walks past the deserted old mansion on Tuttle Street, he sees a mysterious and terrifying sight—the ghost of the Dragon Boy!

Then when bullies from school start disappearing, Orville quickly finds himself right in the middle of a ghostly mystery. Together with a band of misfit ghost hunters who call themselves the Nightmare Club, a strange girl named Alliecat who wants to shove her way into the group and a potbellied pig named Barnabas, he must solve the riddle of the Dragon Boy’s ghost before it claims its final victim and vanishes into the night forever!

The Nightmare Club#2: The Deadly Dragon by Howard Hopkins

Trade paperback from Golden Perils Press

(1)


Twelve-year-old Orville Turner had only been going to New Salem Middle School a week and already he had gotten his second detention. His mom was going to kill him. Why couldn’t he just stop getting into fights with other kids? Why was he so angry all the time?

He walked along the train tracks that ran parallel to the deserted street that was a short cut to his own, two streets over. The street, Tuttle Street, was mostly woods and had only one house, a rambling old mansion in which no one lived. He’d missed the bus and hadn’t dared call his mom at work to have her come pick him up. It was bad enough she was going to let him have it when she got home, why get punished any sooner? He kicked a pebble and frowned, not looking forward to the speech she was going to give him tonight.

The air in New Salem, Maine, smelled liked clams, the breeze sweeping in off the sea, and he hated the odor. He hated everything about this town. Since they’d moved here from Colorado only two weeks ago, he had made no friends, but on the plus side at least he didn’t have to listen to the yelling anymore. His dad liked to yell, mostly at his mom, but sometimes at him, too. Orville had spent a lot of time wondering just what he had done to make his dad hate him so much, and what made his dad act so mean to his mom. He’d never been able to come up with a good answer.

Dead leaves skittered along the street, making weird scratchy sounds, like skeletons dragging their feet. Shucks, why couldn’t mom have picked a nice warm place to move to? The leaves stank, too, like something dead, and he’d heard weird rumors about this town, something about it being haunted.

Haunted, ha! That was so stupid. There were no such things as ghosts, anyway. People got scared of the dumbest things. Didn’t they know life had too many real things to be afraid of, like dads who came home mean and took out their tempers on their wives and kids because something had gone wrong at work or in traffic or at the store? Or just for no reason at all?

Orville hoped he never became like his dad, but he was worried that was exactly what was happening. He just kept getting mad at things and getting into fights all the time. He was worried his mother might send him away to a special school for problem kids. He had heard her mention it.

He stopped, shifted his backpack on his shoulder, then kicked an empty soda can lying beside the tracks, anger swelling inside him again. He wasn’t even sure what he was mad at, but he worried that was how his dad felt when he came home from work everyday. Angry at nothing, yet everything. Maybe anger and meanness were a disease, like a cold, and he had caught it.

A weird sound made him stop thinking about his anger and he glanced at the dark mansion across the street from the railroad tracks. The sound was like some sort of high-pitched shriek, like maybe a large bird would make if it got frightened. But he didn’t see any big birds, not even in the huge dead tree in the front yard of the house. The tree was a tangle of gray bare branches, some of them lying on the ground at the bottom of the trunk. A hazy autumn sun glared through the branches. A chilly breeze ruffled his tousled blond-brown hair and cut through his Colorado Rockies jacket.

His gaze settled on the place. What a creepy old house, he thought. He didn’t believe in ghosts and stupid things like that, but if such things as ghosts existed that place would have one. It was huge and maybe a hundred years old. Grass had grown as high as his waist and weeds choked the unclipped hedges. Up-heaved slate stones from the walkway leading up to the porch were cracked, a few sticking up in jagged shards.

Orville’s brow scrunched and he walked across the street to the sidewalk in front of the house. He wasn’t in any hurry to get home and sit in the house alone, anyway.

Orville was a wiry boy, with blue eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. His knuckles were skinned, and besides his Rockies jacket he wore baggy jeans that hung too low on his hips, so the top of his boxers stuck out two inches. He liked to call himself Ace T, pretend his name wasn’t really Orville—he’d been named after his father, so he was really Orville, the second, and he hated the name.

Going up to the long porch that ran along the entire front of the house, he noticed the stairs leading to it were full of rotted boards; one of them was missing entirely. He tested the bottom step to make sure it wouldn’t break when he put his weight on it. Mom would be mad enough over him getting detention again but she’d be even more upset if he broke a leg.
The stair creaked but held his weight, so he went up onto the porch. Shadows clogged every corner and the whole porch seemed gloomy. He shivered, wondering why he felt suddenly kind of…

Scared? But he never got scared. At least not of things he couldn’t see. Just of his dad whenever he yelled at him or his mom.

The weird shrieking sound came again and he almost jumped out of his skin.

“Sheesh,” he said, forcing his heart to stop pounding. He looked around, but saw nothing that could have made such a noise.

It must be somewhere in the woods that ran behind the house, he thought. To the left side of the house, he had noticed a path leading into the forest. Maybe some animal had made its home there.

He looked back at the house, wondering who could have ever lived in such a gloomy place. He could imagine his dad living in it, like some monster from a horror movie.

The doors were two huge old wooden ones, with a brass dragon knocker and a row of grimy, amber-colored sidelight windows running along either side. He went to a window, which had been partially busted out, porch boards creaking beneath his sneakers. He noticed most of the windows were broken, and old boards had been nailed across some of them, probably to keep out kids and vandals.

Squinting, he leaned forward and tried to see inside the house. He peered into a dirty old room, maybe a living room, with furniture covered with old sheets and tons of spider webs hanging in every corner.

“It’s as creepy inside as it is outside,” he muttered, then let out a scream!