Terror Tuesdays on Dark Bits

Taking a leaf from friend actor/writer Gary Dobb’s highly successful Wild West Monday initiative on his excellent Tainted Archive blog, I have decided to try something of the same sort for horror fans on Dark Bits. I’m calling it Terror Tuesdays. Gary encouraged all western fans to do something to help promote and proliferate the western genre, such as visiting local book stores and requesting a larger western section, buying a western book, or anything else they could think of to bring the genre back into its glory.

I think horror needs something like that, something to regenerate the corpse, bring in fresh blood. Remember the ‘80s? I wish I didn’t, but even so it was a boon for horror writers and horror books were everywhere, mostly thanks to King and Koontz. Sadly the market got saturated with some poor quality stuff slapped with foil hologram covers and ended up as buried as the proverbial zombie. Publishers started calling horror dark fantasy or some such, hoping to make it more palatable. But I write horror and I am not ashamed to say it. I write supernatural mysteries and old school horror and am proud of the fact.

So I am asking horror writers and horror readers, fans of horror movies and TV shows, anyone interested in the genre to do something one Tuesday a month to try to expand the genre. Go to your local bookstores and request more horror on the shelves, then report back here in the comments section and let me know what you did. Do whatever you can to create more interest in the spooky. It worked splendidly for Gary and I would like to hear your ideas and see you implement them. I’d love to hear from other horror writers and give them some space as guest bloggers and maybe do an interview or two and on other Tuesdays I will set aside the day for some sort of blog post on the supernatural, things that go bump in the night and all else horror-related.

So what can you do to resurrect the horror genre of old? Let me hear your opoinions. and let me know the type of things you’d like to see here that feature horror.

And for western fans we’ll be having Western Wednesday starting in about a week or so with a special blog project developed by western writer Joanne Walpole (Terry James) called Wednesday’s Wild Bunch. More on that as soon as details are set.

Lights in the Night

Orbs. Those fuzzy wuzzy wittle glints and glunts that are supposed to represent members of the spirit world working on their auditions for the Lawrence Welk show. They appear on video and film and pirouette, flutter and vanish. The technical term for it is backscatter or near-camera reflection. Legit ghost hunters tend to discount an awful lot of them as moths fluttering by the camera, dust specks on the lens or other perfectly rational explanations.

It’s more common with smaller digital cameras, due to the distance between the lens and built-in flash increasing the likelihood of reflection off usually sub-visible particles in the air. There may be chromatic aberrations associated with it as well, but it is all the result of camera limitations, not a door into the spirit world.

Some paranormal investigators claim such orbs to be light beings, aliens, ghosts, or elemental beings. In the fervor to prove their theories, however, they fail to examine all possible explanations, or simply do not have the background to be able to explain them, if indeed they really want to. After all, light reflection doesn’t sell books, TV shows, etc. Nothing glamorous or spooky about it. There are some unexplained orb cases, apparently, appearing in some cases in clusters in particular areas or places regardless of type of camera or video equipment used. However, I believe there is some perfectly normal explanation for those, likely unusual electrical activity or some other natural phenomena.

As you can tell I am highly skeptical of orbs as so called spirit encounters. I think stuff like this interferes with the genuine studies of ghosts and extraterrestrial phenomena much in the way the spirit mediums of old used to pull cheese cloth out of their mouths and private tunnels and proclaim it was spirit ectoplasm and expect the world to be convinced there was no chicanery involved. Though I can’t ask a ghost personally, my feeling is if they want to manifest themselves they aren’t going to do it as specks of light or poofy particles. Unless of course you are dealing with the spirit of Liberace, then all bets are off.

I tend to look at ghost hunters pushing orbs with a jaundiced eye. It makes me suspect their research, their methods, their scientific qualifications and accuracy. It also makes me think they are more agenda oriented or interested in show, instead of acumen. Don’t get me wrong, as a horror writer I am deeply interested in all things paranormal, but I am also not going to accept just anything as proof. So far I have not seen any evidence I can personally verify, though I would love to. However, orbs are not going to do it for me. I don’t think supernatural phenomena is a matter of faith (discounting things like the Devil and demons, which might fall more into that realm), so if there are things that go bump in the night, I need something that removes personal belief and mind conditioning or filtering from their study. If a ghost is composed of energy we should be able to measure that energy somehow (and I don’t mean using a little electrical meter). Stuff like orbs just muddies the picture, pardon the expression.

Just Beat It

So Chris Brown gets no jail time for beating the crap out of Rihanna. Am I the only one not surprised at this? Or that in other comparable cases the term was anywhere from three months to two years, yet the rich celebrity got what, now? Oh, yeah, nothing.

I would like to pick on California for this, where the case went to court, but hitting another person isn’t taken very serious in any state or by the authorities. Unless you are Perez Hilton, then you can whine your flamboyant little ass off about it and sue. But if you’re a child, who we as adults stress to go “tell someone if something is going on” or a battered husband or wife, well then you are out of luck. Because nobody is going to do a damn thing, especially if the person assaulting you is a celeb or has money. And if it’s just fear tactics and verbal abuse, well, then, suck it up, sister, because it’ll be your fault for provoking the poor schlub by the time you get done telling somebody—assuming you can even get somebody to listen.

So in the USA, oh, what the hell, in the world, it’s ok, go ahead and hit your husband or wife, beat the living tar right out of them, then wait a few days and do it again. Don’t forget to belittle them in front of others and make them feel like scum when you are alone. Leave bruises. Break some teeth. Why not? We live in a nation of cowards who’ll just chuckle and not get involved. Kick your kids in the face. Break an arm even and tell the doctors the poor lad is clumsy, oh my.

Oh, and make sure you don’t fight back, because then YOU will go to jail. YOU will be charged because YOU violated the poor abuser’s rights.

Screw it all. I don’t know why I bother even talking about it because no one listens but those who have been through it or are already tilting at the system windmills. And half the time even the battered won’t help because they are too conditioned into taking it and accepting it as love or attention. They are already too screwed up to have a normal caring relationship with another and run back to the person they “love”. Aww, ain’t love grand? I mean, really, ain’t it? Love is all about smacking around your best friend, controlling them, putting them in an emotional electric cage.

Warms the heart, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s plain useless to keep talking about it, trying to help. Easier to hide, look the other way. Then we can just send flowers and call it good. Assuage our guilt. It’s just not our problem. It’s someone else’s. Darn, that’s awful, but have a good day.

Sure.

Course, there’s that other choice: grow a set. But in this society I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I just don’t see anyone listening. Much less stopping it.

So why bother?

Unless of course you give a damn…

Pay to Play?

A couple blogs back I talked a bit about speed-dating. I was, of course, being tongue-in-cheek for the most part, but in yesterday’s paper here in Southern Maine I came across an article about a speed-dating style thing for writers with agents. I think I felt a cold chill slither down my spine and instantly knew why I am starting to be turned off by some writer’s organizations (though there are myriad other reasons, but if I go into them I’m likely to piss off a lot of people, and I’m not really in the mood to do so today. At any rate, this one was sponsored by the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance.)

Apparently the victim, er, writer gets seven minutes to pitch book ideas to a group of literary and publishing professionals (I am tempted to use the term loosely after this, but I will refrain). At the end of your seven minutes somebody bangs a gong. Oh, yes, you read that right: a gong. So it’s a combination of Next and The Gong Show.

The entire concept turns me right off. Writers tend to be introverted as a lot, and since I am fairly socially retarded, the idea of trying to sit in front of a bunch of steely-eyed judges upon whom my future might depend just chills my blood. I’d be lucky if I could talk, let alone pitch. This isn’t Hollywood and there’s no Screen Writers Guild for novelists. Had I wanted something so pressure-driven added to my need to create and be read, I might have opted for trying out for American Idol and singing “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts”. I can just see a Simon agent calling my concept “dreadful” or “Your ideas are total rubbish and I could get a better pitch from a fourth grader.” No thanks.

For me, the entire concept has all the appeal of a cold toilet seat. Writers used to be judged on their talent, not their ability to pitch their talent (and believe me those are two totally different things or I’d be selling vacuum cleaners door to door to supplement my income). It’s become sound bite ideas, the encapsulated big concept, and probably not a lot to do with whether the person can truly write. If they like your pitch you get represented. That seems to me to give someone who can sling crap a distinct advantage, even if they can’t back it up. How many times has someone come up to you—as a writer—and said, “I have this great idea about mutant peapods invading the nation’s school lunch programs…” Which is usually that’s followed by, “You should write it and give me half the money.” It’s a long way from germ to fruition, pitch to production.

But the thing that bothers me most is that there is a $175 charge just to sit there for seven minutes. What the hell? I can certainly see how this benefits the agents and publishers, because they are making that much money every seven minutes. Good for them, but I recall the old days when agents made money by getting a percentage of the author’s advance and royalties by doing what the author couldn’t do—pitch to publishers—and when publishers made their money by publishing good stories and paying advances for them. Maybe the authors should just walk into the publishers’ offices in New York and pitch directly, if that’s the case. But charging an author that much money—or any money—to hear a pitch or look at work? Authors make money by SELLING their work. Not by ASKING to sell their work. Not by presenting their work. So asking an as of yet unpaid, unrepresented, unpublished author to cough up $175 for seven minutes really goes against my grain. Hookers are cheaper and you get an hour. Er, so I’m told.

Maybe somebody who plays the violin can tell me, do they charge you to audition for a spot in the symphony? How about American Idol, does it cost to get in front of the judges? A much as I dislike the speed-pitching concept I cringe with every cell of my being over charging unpublished authors for what is basically applying for a job. Imagine if Walmart made you pay 50 bucks just for filling out an application? And in these economically troubled times, I think this practice is shameful.

But that won’t stop it. Because it makes sense for agents and publishers' bottom line, and because as long as there are people out there dreaming dreams with every fiber of their being, there will be dreamers taken advantage of, and willing to pay whatever it takes for just that one shot at fame, regardless of whether they have any talent for writing. No refunds for wanna-bes or the deluded.

I have to wonder if this isn’t just another nail in mainstreaming publishing’s coffin. I know I have agents and a few publishers reading this who are probably going to disagree with me vehemently, and truthfully I hope they can give me concrete reasons as to just why this is a good idea. I can’t see it myself. It goes against everything creative in me. Am I wrong?

Blue on Blue

Blue is my favorite color. I love its calming nature. Some folks think of it as a bit cold but I see it as warm, tranquil. It’s the color of a summer sky or Caribbean sea.

Blue, however, gets stuck with a bad rep when attached to other things, unlike other colors. Well, maybe red has a few less than pleasant connotations, like red herring, which means a false lead, and “I see red”, which means you’re pissed off. Nobody picks much on yellow, though. Yellow is always the cheery color. Unless your spine has a streak of it. Ok, “green with envy” gives green a little blemish, but orange and white are pretty much home free.

Yet with blue we get Blue Norther, a term for a nasty storm sweeping across the Plains. But that’s not the worst of it. Blue movies anyone? No, I’m not offering you porn, but why must naughty movies get colored blue? They are not filmed in blue. There’s nothing really blue about them. In fact, they should call them red movies because they’re s’posed to be hot. Red equals hot, right?

Turning the air blue means you’re swearing your head off. Poor frickin’ blue. Again, labeled in a negative manner. #$#%$!

Ever threaten to hold your breath until you turned blue? Blue usually means corpse. Dead. Dead-dead-dead. Not a great color for a human being to be, though I have seen some pretty sexy blue aliens on TV shows. I kind of like blue girls, girls with blue hair, girls who wear blue lipstick…whoa, Nellie, getting off subject here…

Then of course you can be beaten black and blue. That’s not really good. And when you are sad folks say you are in a blue mood. Blue equals depression. How nice. Such a terrible thing for such a pretty color.

And maybe worst of all there’s blue balls. Nobody wants those. Ladies, you don’t have to worry about them, but guys you KNOW how uncomfortable those are. Who the hell ever came up with that name, anyway? If you have ever had them there’s sure as heck nothing blue about it. I’m going to go ahead and put those in the red column, because that’s the color your face turns when you have blue balls. Er, red balls. I’d like to blame them on yellow, but yellow balls just doesn’t have the same impact. Anyway, take my word for it, avoid your balls turning any color.

So I figure we need a campaign to remove this blue taint. I think we should partition the Pres for a blue bailout. Maybe start a smear campaign against magenta. I mean, what kind of a name is that for a color, anyway? Magenta. Sounds like a disease. Yeah, caught magenta the other day and my blue balls fell off. Now I’m feeling a little green around the gills and seeing red because that little yellow SOB down the street gave it to me. I’d give him a black eye if he didn’t already have a pink one, and a big purple bruise. Now orange you glad you read this?

From the Shadows

I make no apologies about being old school influenced when it comes to my horror writing and horror influences. I have little interest in slasher/blood gore stuff and the more reality-based type horror, like Saw and Chain Saw Massacre. They don’t scare me. They either sicken me or gross me out, and neither feeling is one I particularly cultivate. I like supernatural horror, spooky stuff, and try to write that, mixed with a bit of mystery, suspense and even western.

Probably a good deal of that influence comes from my growing up in the ‘60s and ‘70s and watching the Hammer Draculas and older horror movies on late night TV. A notorious night owl even as a kid, I just waited for summer vacation to be able to stay up all night, first watching the movies—the local channel in Portland, Maine, played them at 11:30 pm on Fridays—listening to CBS Radio Mystery Theater or reading.

But my earliest interest (aside form the Catspaw episode of Star Trek I got to see on Halloween as a kid) came from the gothic soap Dark Shadows. I was addicted, even at 6 or 7 and probably lucky my parents understood I was capable of handling such fare, considering what went on in it. Still, for a time, they banned me from watching it, wanting me to be more “normal” in my childhood activities: i.e. go outside and play with the other kids or stay in my room. I, of course, chose staying in my room because I could at least hear what was going on, since my mother was also addicted. They soon relented, realizing it was a losing battle.

A lot of the scenes from the show left a lasting impression on my distorted young mind. The scene where Rachel Drummond wakes up to find the ghost of Quentin Collins rocking in a chair in the dead of night in her room scared the crap out of me. Another where a headless body was lying in wait in the woods to grab unsuspecting young gals and whose head, which belonged to the warlock Judah Zachary, resided in a glass case was probably the scariest damn thing I had ever seen at that point. The severed hand of Count Petoffi, despite his candy bar sounding appellation, was pretty darn creepy, too.

Recently I watched some of those episodes on DVD, occasionally cringing at things I never noticed as a kid, but some of the moments are still pretty spooky. The ‘90s version of the show, which I also watched on DVD, was exquisitely done. But the old episodes still have a magic to them. That hand is obviously rubber but still gruesome enough to make me wonder why I didn’t have nightmares as a kid or why I am so pleasantly adjusted today (heh, some candy, little girl? Bwa-ha-ha). There are moments of unadulterated spookiness that transcend the genre and a chemistry that brought it all together. Mostly together. For the most part I think seeing it as a child, in that period where things are magic and influence our lives, latent creativity and puerile imagination, is best. I’m not sure if an adult who has never seen it would find it as charming, but besides an interest in the supernatural it led to a chain of events in my life that influences what I do today (it was because of Dark Shadows I picked up my first Doc Savage novel, Brand of the Werewolf—werewolf on the cover, how could I resist?—which led, to writing for fanzines, then fiction).

I owe a lot of my novel Grimm to Dark Shadows, I guess (and Kolchak, The Night Stalker, another Dan Curtis prodcution--he was the master!) in particular, and of course that just happens to be the lead character’s favorite show. And since The Chloe Files spins off of Grimm, I guess I owe her series to it, as well, along with the other old-school supernatural horror shows and movies of my youth.

What do you owe your current writing or life interests and goals to? What ignited your imagination as a kid?

Ghostly Voices?

I have to admit, even before I became a horror writer I was interested in things supernatural and investigating whether they exist. As I’ve mentioned, my uncle was a “psychic minister” and for a short period reigned over the Church of I See Dead People or something or other. He also worked on a number of alien abduction cases as a hypnotherapist and age regression “expert.”

So as much as I would like to state outright this stuff exists I really am not convinced because I haven’t had definitive experiences myself or seen evidence from credible scientific sources that unequivocally makes me believe. I need more if I am going to accept the supernatural as something other than fodder for my stories. I lean towards some, yes, but I haven’t fallen off the fence yet. This is not like religion to me, which falls more into the realm of faith (though I am fascinated by the search for Noah’s Ark and that sort of thing, too and there is an over-lap). This is something I want to experience for myself and see real proof for. And in this day of digital photo altering (Lord knows I do enough of that myself when I create book cover art) and easily faked recordings, I find it even harder to accept what I “see” from some TV shows.

I enjoy Ghost Hunters and some of their evidence looks damn titillating. I want to believe it, but often I wonder about their test parameters and actual scientific accuracy. Now, I have never accompanied them on an investigation to see how they operate without the enhancements for drama the show editors obviously employ (come on, it’s a ratings-driven TV show and just how many ghostly orbs can you debunk as specks of dust or fluttering moths before nobody’s watching?) but I would like to know just how controlled their investigations actually are. I am guessing not very, but don’t get me wrong, I am a fan. The St. Augustine investigation had chills dancing down my spine.

At the same time I have to wonder about some kinds of “proof”, not only presented by them, but by any investigator of the paranormal. In particular, I’m leery of EVPs. Electronic Voice Phenomena. These are sounds electronically captured that resemble or are supposedly voices of the dead. Some are barely audible, and I think what your mind wants to hear. Others are more distinct and make you wonder. Creepy, certainly, but what exactly are they?

Obviously, I don’t have an answer, but I have a hard time accepting they are the voices of the dearly or not so dearly departed. Captured errant TV or radio signals? Glitches in tape or digital equipment that merely mock voice or words? Transmissions through quartz or other conductive substances? Fakes? Subliminal attempts by Britney Spears to take over the world?

Needless to say I have let a tape player run before, hoping to hear something. Nada. And I automatically discount anything heard in the white noise of a TV set, because that’s just too easily explained as signal bleed. Of course, if something reaches out like in Poltergeist I’m running like hell.

I guess I would need to hear a voice in my own house I recognize to accept EVPs. At the moment for me they have only slightly more credibility than orbs, which I will discuss in another blog.

So what about you? Do you believe they are the voices of the dead? Or just natural phenomena mistaken for something otherworldly?

Life in a Drawer

What are your limits? Do you impose those limits, consciously or subconsciously, on yourself? Do you let others put them on you? Do you automatically tell yourself, “I can’t do that”, or convince yourself others are luckier, more skilled or talented?

Self-esteem is a weird thing. Some say it is the result of our environment, an unnurturing parent or bad past. Yet there are those brought up in perfect homes with June Cleaver mothers and Fred MacMurray fathers (and for those of you too young to know who the hell I’m referencing, he was the understanding dad on the 60s TV show, My Three Sons), who have no confidence in themselves. Others say it is chemical. Still others say a combination of the two. Maybe one traumatic event causes the lack of esteem, or perhaps a series of incidents and some synaptic sputtering makes our ego timid.

It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that you can refuse to accept limits put upon you by yourself or by others. I won’t spout a bunch of pop psych bull and tell you it’s easy. Changing any ingrained thought pattern is never a cakewalk. But you can certainly improve the status quo and decide not to accept your limits.

With writers, I see this most often translate to fear of submitting work after it’s been completed. They write a book, then stuff it in a drawer, afraid to send it out to be judged, because they fear that judgment, if negative, reflects upon them personally. Or they convince themselves it is not good enough, or make up excuses such as, well, I am not really intending to be published anyway, just writing it to please myself. But most writers, deep down, want to be read by others. Or more to the point want what they write to be enjoyed by others. Of course, that becomes an impossibility if they leave their masterpiece in a drawer.

You have to take a chance. Not just in writing but in any area of life, if you want to truly live. Of course, if you are satisfied not reaching your potential or simply slaving away hours on something just to know you can do it, then, by all means, choose that path. But if you want to grab life by the balls, send the damn thing out. If your ego is inflated, believe me, somebody will be kind enough to stick a pin in it. And if your ego is suffering, then remind yourself that what select others think really doesn’t justify your belief in yourself or who you are as a person.

You have one life. Don’t shove it in a drawer. Don’t look to others to validate it, either, but certainly don’t let them take it away from you.

There’s a feeling when you are a child that lasts all too brief a time—it’s that moment when you run through the fields of your mind thinking you can do anything, be anything. You can even fly if you want to. You can be Superman or Wonder Woman. Maybe just once in a while you should let yourself try to find that place, be that carefree child again. If only for a moment. And especially in times when the universe seems to crap all over you. People, don’t leave that manuscript in a drawer; don’t let fear stop you from trying. And don’t let rejection or disappointment convince you it wasn’t worth it. Sometimes things don’t work out. Maybe often. But they never will if you don’t take the risk.

THAT choice is, indeed, yours.

Are You a Professional?

Following up a bit on my previous blog on whether one is a writer by writing or by being published, I see another debate rage every so often: When does one go from becoming an amateur writer to being a professional scribe?

Back in the days of the pulp writers (for those of you unfamiliar with the pulps, they were the dime novels of the 1930s and ‘40s, so called because they were printed in magazine form on cheap grainy paper. The mags were designed as disposable entertainment and if they weren’t tossed away after reading they turned to sawdust over the years. They are what particle board floors are to hardwood if you are building a house.) you were a professional at the rate of a penny per word (a penny certainly being worth more in those days than now, because you could get two Mary Janes—that thar peculiar, filling loosening candy, Ellie May—or for five of them catch a Saturday morning serial flick).

I’ve seen arbitrary amounts set on professionalism since then, but some organizations I have been a member of defined professional as three cents per word or a $2000 dollar minimum advance on a book. This was back a few years ago, so it may be more now. I’ve lost track--on purpose.

Why on purpose? Because I think letting some executive on high or organization potentate set a monetary amount on what makes someone a professional is worth about as much as that pulp paper I mentioned earlier. (Yes, I do realize that for some organizations certain standards are necessary; that is not the point this blog, however, and another debate entirely.)

I have seen some professionals make a lot of money writing terrible stories. I have seen some amateurs writing for free write brilliant tales. Which one was the professional when you really ponder it? Does money really make you professional or does skill and the way you conduct yourself?

Everyone has heard of the doctor who accidentally removed a wrong leg in an operation, yes? A “professional” doctor who got paid a lot to make that mistake. Or the ballplayer who gets a million dollars to sit on the bench after being injured for two years but still remains on contractual payroll., He’s a professional. A professional at what? Watching baseball or football games? I don’t get paid for doing that but sure would like a check for a mil or two.

So is a writer a professional suddenly because someone pays them for their work? I don’t think that defines it fully. Certainly you are a PAID writer, which is always nice and what most of us strive for. I recently was paid 20 cents a word for a short story. Technically, that makes me professional, and I did the best job on it I could do. But I also did the very same job on a non-paid story for a western anthology, Express Westerns, called The Ballard of Jesse Barnett. I am proud of that story because it involved an abused woman in the Old West’s decision that she had had enough of her situation. I feel that is one of the most professional stories I have crafted, but not because I got tons of cash for it.

Ego aside, that is what I feel defines the professional—in any walk of life. Not money, but doing your best, using your talent and skills, no matter the circumstances or recompense, to the utmost of your ability. Professional is not a thing defined by pay, but by attitude and application. A professional acts like a professional, characterizes his/herself with a certain work ethic and dependability. A professional writer, to me, is someone who takes his/her passion of writing serious, writes, works to constantly improve their skills, and conducts his/herself in a manner befitting their profession. Being paid appropriately is the result of being professional, or should be. Because as far as I am concerned, the doctor who cut off the wrong leg is not a professional. He’s someone who gets paid too much for a diploma. A writer who may not yet be paid, but who meets deadlines, writes to the top of their skills no matter the remuneration and behaviors with decorum (NOT defined as: letting someone walk all over you, of course), is a professional in my book, pardon the expression. A writer who gets paid oodles of cash but throws fits, turns in unpolished, sub par material and refuses editing is unprofessional (or just damned lucky).

So are you a professional? Do you strive to be? Do you pour your passion onto the paper and hone it to the best of your abilities? Submit it neatly or scrawl it on toilet paper and send it in? Being professional is YOUR choice, not somebody else’s.

Or course, being paid for your writing is another’s choice in many cases, but if you are professional (and persistent) you can influence that option a whole lot more than by being nonprofessional.

Are You Published?

One of the first questions folks will ask someone after they say “I’m a writer” (right after the “Where do you get your ideas?” query) is: “Are you published?” With many of those folks an implied slight comes with that question. And oddly enough I tend to get this question far more from highly educated, Type A success persons. Basically what they are asking is: “Are you a REAL writer”, as though the very act of somebody else in some company publishing your work makes it somehow suddenly legitimate. Makes YOU legitimate.

A few writers I know feel that way too. They refuse to acknowledge other writers if they are not published and/or published by a big New York company (forget about the fact that some of the truly great and most successful writers were self-published—Mark twain, anyone?) there’s a snobbery even amongst some authors. And as far as I am concerned it’s ugly.

It’s ugly because as far as I am concerned if somebody has written a book, published or not, that somebody has the right to call themselves a writer. If it doesn’t sell to a publisher then they are still a writer, though, of course, an unpaid writer. And if they have self-published it then they are an entrepreneur and risk-taker as well as a writer (and willing to do a whole lot more work than just writing the damn thing). It may be an awful book. It may be the next DaVinci Code. But I do not feel being published or accepted by someone else (and that is greatly a matter of luck, timing and subjectivity) is needed to legitimize a person’s passion. Or their self-worth.

It takes a hell of a lot of work and drive to finish writing a book, bad or good, experienced or neophyte. Why can’t some folks just accept when somebody says they are a writer that they are, indeed, a writer, instead of trying qualify it? Or, worse, tamp them down? Is there a weird jealousy involved?

I was asked this question just a couple weeks ago by a traveling salesman. It was almost funny. He didn’t end up selling me what he intended but I did end up promoting my books. Perhaps I should have asked him whether he had ever built one of the products he was trying to sell…

I don’t know. I don’t care much for any kind of snobbery. I don’t like jockeying for positions or putting down others, even subtly, who don’t deserve it. Being published feels great, I have to admit. However it does not make me any better than somebody who has poured their heart and soul into a novel and have not been published. In fact, many unpublished writers are probably ten times the author I am but simply haven’t gotten the breaks, the timing or luck. Some writers, like Poe, who are superb, don’t get the recognition they deserve until their death (a feat I am hoping not to emulate.)

I think things are changing in the publishing world. New technology and innovative authors are breaking down barriers many monopolistic companies would prefer to keep raised. The playing field will become more even. And some folks won’t like it. Don’t like it. They won’t feel justified and their egos will reject anything but the status quo.

My hope is that that “Are you published?” question will become irrelevant, or at least asked with a more curious edge, as opposed to one of validation.

Mouse Mania

Well, of course there’s never just one mouse, especially when that mouse turns out to be a ma’am instead of a mister. So Miss Muggles is relocated but apparently had a litter of pups somewhere as yet undetermined (and believe me I’ve looked and pulled out everything) but that is now a moot point. Because yesterday when I was walking into the living room I spotted a tiny gray something on the rug. At first I thought it was a big dust bunny. But the dust bunnies around my house don’t normally have four little legs and a tail. Well, ok, some do, and I leave those alone because they are just plain scary.

This turned out to be a baby mouse. Fully furred but eyes still closed. I picked up the little critter and put it in a little container with some grass and a peanut. Of course it’s too young to eat the peanut but it did drink a drop of water.

Bit later, apparently little baby mouse—now named Peanut courtesy of my niece—sent out invites to its brothers. Or sisters. Hard to tell. Because I found two more. Into the box they went. This morning before leaving for the gym, two more. So now I have five baby mice I am hand feeding formula to with an eyedropper. They are so small I fear hurting them when I pick them up to feed them but so far so good. One doesn’t look like it will make it but the other four gobble the formula then climb all over each other and poop on each other’s heads. I have given them some bits of cut up cloth and grass and now am warming the formula a bit before feeding them. I feel like such a dad. Except my kids just happen to have tails. Guess you can’t choose what your kids look like. I just hope I don’t have to put them through college.

As an addendum: Apparently it’s wildlife week around my house. The other night it was a baby raccoon sitting on the front porch and today while walking back from the mail box a large gray fox runs out from behind my house and across the street right in front of me. I guess it’s a good thing I am an animal lover.

Addendum 2: Make that six mice...Yup, just found another.

You’ve Got a Date—Er, Not…

I really do not understand speed dating. It seems kind of crass to me. I realize we live in a drive-through world, instant gratification and all that. But should that really apply to something like love that takes time to grow, to nurture?

Of course, there’s instant attraction, or repulsion. Some folks you meet make your knees wobble while others make your belly seek the quickest exist. Most of us aren’t like monkeys who’ll hop on the nearest pop. Note I said, most, because I do know a couple…er, no, I don’t. Really. I mean it. Forget I even mentioned…

Anyhoo…in speed dating you get a buzzer pad like those things on Family Feud and five minutes to sell your, um, package, in this case yourself. If you don’t like what you are hearing, or not hearing, you bang the buzzer instead of your potential date.

I don’t know about normal people but for a social ‘tard such as myself it usually takes me a good half hour to even calm down to a point where I might say something a tenth witty. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? That never happens. That’s why I write. But under that kind of pressure the odds of me saying something decidedly unwitty, nay, retarded, increase tenfold. Maybe a hundredfold. I’d be sweating and constantly looking at the buzzer anyway.

It just doesn’t seem right. Some connections take a little time, getting to know someone, and that opportunity would be missed in speed dating. I can see it working ok if the first questions are: “How much money do you make?” “Have you ever been of the opposite gender?” and “If my hand were a jock strap would the cup size need to be large, extra large or half a Silly Putty egg?” But then of course you might not want to date someone who was asking those type questions anyway.

Maybe they should just skip speed dating and go right to speed marrying. Or speed divorcing. That would save a lot of time. I’m pretty sure speed sex is already frowned upon, at least by half the human species. Five minutes NEVER works there.

Perhaps some things you just need to do the old-fashioned way. Like across a crowded room with stars and secret glances and all that. Or a lot of alcohol and an accidental marriage in Vegas…

Time!

Nightmares for Children

Most reading this blog know I write a horror series for children called THE NIGHTMARE CLUB. So far, three books in the series have been released--The Headless Paperboy, The Deadly Dragon and The Willow Witch. I wanted this series to harken back to things like Alvin Fernald and Scooby Doo, plus deliver a message modern children could relate to as well as entertain them. I decided to pick a number relevant issues—racism, grief and abuse—and present them in an age appropriate manner. When I was young I discovered Doc Savage and comic books, and these spurred my interesting in reading, and, later, writing, so I also wanted something that would get kids to read early and drag them away from the TV and video games for a few hours.

After writing them, however, I wasn’t sure how to reach the audience for which they were intended. I was used to marketing westerns and horror for adults, along with my pulp and comic book related material, not kids’ books.

I happened onto a bit of luck when my niece mentioned her class had had an author come into her class and that they had read aloud time everyday. She’s in fourth grade, which is a perfect age for my books, so I handed her the first book and asked her to give it to her teacher, along with some Nightmare Club membership cards I had made up and a few postcards.

The project turned out to be a great success and the kids loved the book. One little girl even had my niece tell me how much she enjoyed it. Whether it will have a lasting effect on their reading journey, I can’t say, but it’s a good feeling to know you can bring some enjoyment to a class of children in this instant gratification world.

I was also lucky enough to meet a teacher online, Mrs. Lambert, who works with kids who come from underprivileged backgrounds where one parent might be incarcerated or abusive. These kids already endured more hardships on an everyday basis than many adults face. Since this was the exact audience the books were meant for, especially the second installment, The Deadly Dragon, which dealt with a child coming from an abusive situation dealing with anger issues, I sent Mrs. Lambert a copy of the book along with the membership cards. She laminated them and passed them out and read the book aloud to the class (5th grade). The kids enjoyed the book, started discussions and debates.

I like writing for children. I can never repay the authors who gave me so much as a child, but I hope by bringing a little joy to some kids it helps me give something back. Beyond the marketing, the smile on a kid’s face makes all the work well worth it. If you’d like to know more about The Nightmare Club, please visit their page at http://www.howardhopkins.com/nightmareclub.htm

Return of the Mousketeer

Those reading my blog might have seen my bit on Mr. Muggles about a week back. In it, I promised updates so here’s the latest. Mr. Muggles has been thumbing his little gray paw at me the entire week. He runs out from behind the washer, peeps into my office late at night, then scurries back to whence he came. I think I hear a squeaky laugh but that might be just my imagination. But he does seem to think it’s pretty funny. A few nights back he even had a little piece of paper in his mouth and stopped by the door to mock me. I got up and went after him but he vanished, leaving the paper behind, which turned out to be a piece of a sticker from one of my niece’s coloring books.

Well, I’m pleased to report Mr. Muggles, after a month or more of taunting me, boarded the large steel transport vehicle at precisely 3.15pm and was promptly entered in the mousy witness protection program. He was relocated to a nice big field, provided a ration of peanuts and sent along his merry way. This time I was the one laughing. He didn’t look the least bit happy, but you win some you lose some, even when you’re the Six Million Dollar Mouse.

He was a big sucker. He was sticking his little gray nose through the air holes on the hotel trap and didn’t appear to be the least bit intimidated. More like pissed off. Now I am crossing my fingers he doesn’t have GPS. Or a mouse posse…

Is it Live or is it Silicone?

As much as I appreciate certain parts of the female anatomy, I have never really understood implants. Oh, yes, I understand why in a cleavage-oriented world (in my opinion a goooood thing) somebody might want more of what the Good Lord gave them, or didn’t give them, as the case might be. I understand it’s an esteem thing, or a feeling inadequate thing—we men get it, too, only a bit lower—or maybe just a bigger is better thing. You want a Hummer and DNA stuck you with a Yugo. Two Yugos.

But to go under anesthetic and have something surgically crammed into one’s ta-ta territory? Risk the infection, the myriad potential other health issues equated with surgery? No thanks.

They don’t always look quite right anyway. There’s a girl at the gym I go to…she makes sure you know she got her ta-tas at the plastic surgery store and paid a hell of a lot for them. She displays them proudly and mammerously. You can see them coming quite a ways off. But they kind of look like beach balls made out of skin. With blow up nipples. They don’t move when she lays on a bench, but they go up and down, sometimes one at a time, when she does lat pull downs (for those of you who don’t go to the gym and use weights your lats are those flaring muscles in your back and a pull down consists of a metal bar overhead you grip and pull towards your chest while in a sitting position.) They look solid, but I’m not about to check if her cantaloupes are indeed fresh.

Some of them of course look very nice, but none of them can quite imitate that jiggly quality we men so love…oh, whoops, went off on a tangent…back to program…

Anyway, I don’t really get plastic surgery and the emphasis placed on looking young and perfect anyway. Unless you have a second head growing out of your neck, why take the risk? For maybe a few years of keeping things gravity intended to tug down up? I guess to each his/her own but I like natural aging and natural, er, peaks. Self-esteem comes from within. We all have things we don’t like about ourselves. This or that isn’t big enough, shaped well enough or whatever. I’d like all that nice full thick hair I used to have back. But I am not about to sit there getting latch-hooked in a surgeon’s office. And I won’t have any surgery I don’t absolutely need…though I do hear men can now get butt implants. And bicep and calf implants. THAT would sure save a lot of time in the gym…

Modern Horror Movies--Why Bother?

Being a horror writer (though I am technically probably more of a supernatural writer), there are a number of things that really tick me off in horror movies. Most of them are cheap moves to illicit some sort of audience response—fear, gross out, character empathy or whatever—and rarely do they work. I can tolerate a somewhat clichéd storyline as long as the writer/director brings something new to it, or the human drama and acting are sufficient enough to involve me. I guess the same could be said for horror novels nowadays as well. Rosemary’s Baby wasn’t a particularly new concept overall, a young woman having the Devil’s son, but it was done so well that didn’t matter. There are only a certain number of situations and plot devices anyway; it’s how you employ them.

But the cheap stuff, the go for the jolt stuff, just doesn’t cut it for me. At the top of the list is introducing a family pet, who you know is going to meet with some grisly fate a sort while into the film. Nothing makes me want to walk right out of movie faster, and I can see it the moment it’s set up. Being an animal lover this almost always just ruins it for me and it’s old. (To be fair I have seen the dead animal device used in comedies way too much and don’t find it the least bit funny. Maybe the same could be said for corpses, though there was an episode of Fawlty Towers that managed to pull that off exceptionally well). It’s not scary, it’s not funny and it just gives me a sick feeling.

Which brings me to the second thing on my list: I don’t like horror movies that simply sicken me. That isn’t what I like about horror, which is why I tend to enjoy the classic or older stuff more. I like being scared, knowing when I walk out of the theater I can shut the door on the monster in the closet. Phantasm, as cheesy and bloody as it was at times, still had an extremely scary element—the Tall Man. I wasn’t sickened by him, but boy I wanted to shut that closet fast. The Saw type movies on the other hand just revolt me. They are too close to the sickos in everyday life, and I like the spooky stuff to take me away from that, contain it.

Then there’s the gore for gore’s sake or goop for goop’s sake stuff. I don’t much care for limbs or heads coming off or body fluids spewing from every orifice just for the sake of getting an “eeew” reaction out a theater full of teens and some adults who never got much past that adolescent maturity level. Eyeballs popping out aren’t high on my list either.

All this comes in the absence of decent storyline, or lack of suspense and character build up. And usually has an ending pulled out of somebody’s Hollywood ass.

I would, however, leave the shower scenes in. I can see their value…ahem…

I would really like to see the supernatural come back into horror films, that dark foreboding atmosphere and suspense build up. The gypsy curse worked fine in The Wolfman, because there was a tension and a genuine feeling of dread for the poor guy afflicted. It worked in Dark Shadows because there was a creepy hand to go along with it that became animated (creepy animated crawling hands always freak me out anyway. I recall a 50s movies with one crawling up the back seat in a car towards a woman in the front—now that was freakin’ scary!) But a gypsy spewing her teeth and various types of goop for no other reason than cheap gross out does not.

I’m not sure a masterful horror movie can be made in today’s market. Studios aim for that young audience, who can’t seem to sit still for true creepiness. They want is fast and gruesome and gross. Story doesn’t seem to matter much and people are no more than ducks on a shooting range for the ax-wielding psycho. Special effects are more important than suspense.

Perhaps someday we’ll return to something more worthy of the genre. And while they’re at it, some decent westerns would be nice too.