Western Wednesday: The Black Horse Rides into Bookstores

The Western is dead. Whoa, pardner, jest you stop that there cowflop jawin', because it t'ain't so. Rumors of its demise have, as they say, been greatly exaggerated, and those ready kill off the genre may need to saddle their yaps.

Not only are plans for the publicatoin of my "secret western" (I swear I will have news soon...) well under production, with two covers finished and reportedly awesome, but I just received a missive from writer Martin Gately in England about the expansion pf Black Horse Westerns in particular (you will soon be seeing Martin's excellent Homles/Lawrence of Arabia story in the all new short story anthology, Sherlock Holmes: The Crossovers Casebook, edited by yours truly for Moonstone books). Martin was browsing his local Waterstone's in Nottingham last week and stumbled across a new Western section. Martin reports: "Better yet Black Horse Westerns including one written by you [Howard Hopkins/Lance Howard] are prominently displayed... your book is right above True Grit!"

I have to admit, that's quite a thrill, for a better Western than True Grit would be hard to find. An honor, indeed, to be even shelved next to it. And the fact that a chain bookstore such as Waterstone's would be now carrying Black Horse books, even if it were to be only one store, is encouraging for those of us in their writing corral. Could it be the start of a trend, as BHWs have been mostly the domain of libraries and online sellers?

Who knows, but any new Westerns in stores is good news, though I am sure the naysayers will find negative things to point out. The trail to success begins with a single hoofprint.

There was one bit of oddness Martin also reported to me, which is both amusing and annoying at the same time: Bookstores, of course, are divided into sections and labeled as such. The horror section, he says, had a horror placard, and Sci Fi and Thriller had corresponding labels. The new Western section's placard, you might ask? Well...it was labeled under the title "Yee Haw". Hmmm. I wonder if perhaps that is all the Western needs, a new category listing. No longer will we have to ask readers to read our new Western; we might simply ask them to buy a copy of our Yee Haw. Hey, I write Yee Haws and am damn proud of it! Yeah. Yee Haw, dammit.

Speaking of which, my latest Yee Haw is nearly finished. No horsing around, here. It's time to make sure every bookstore gets a Yee Haw section, and I pledge to do my part...

The Snoop Sisters Return...

After a long wait, The Snoop Sisters finally hit DVD this past week (available from AmazonCA, and in June from AmazonUS) and it was worth the wait. I hadn't seen the series since its short run of five episodes (one TV movie and four 90 minute episodes) on the Wednesday Mystery Movie on NBC back in 1973-74, so I wasn't entirely sure how it would hold up. Pleased to say it was still quite a bit of fun.

The transfer on the DVD is sparkling, crystal clear. However, the discs will not play on some older DVD players. They make a a terrible rumble and simply won't access. On a more recent player they looked pristine and played perfectly. I've had the same trouble with the MacMillan and Wife Season 3 discs and some cheap horror movie sets. Maybe someone reading can tell me why this happens. Guessing it is some kind of weight issue. Fortunately, they are not double-sided discs, as were the first season of Mac and Wife discs, which had an annoying freezing problem in many players.

The show starred Helen Hayes and Mildred Natwick as two elderly sisters, Ernesta and Gwendolyn Snoop, one an author of mysteries, who solved murders. They're lovable and irascible at the same time. The pilot also starred Art Carney, who was unfortunately replaced when the regular rotation with Banacek, Faraday and Company and Tenafly began (replaced with Lou Antonio), and Bert Convy. They drove around in a 1940s Lincoln and rarely listened to their police lieutenant nephew or driver, Barney.

One of the most memorable episodes involved a Devil worshipping cult that guest-starred a very young Alice Cooper (the title said "Introducing Alice Cooper," though pretty sure he was already recording before that.) Another guest-starred Vincent Price as an eccentric and fading horror actor accused of killing his rich wife.

This series preceded Murder, She Wrote by years, and I have to wonder of the latter more successful show didn't owe a lot to this brief yet charming series. Natwick won an Emmy for her role, but it could have easily gone to Hayes, who was perfect in her role.

A Fistful of Legends Excerpt: BILLY by Howard Hopkins

(Since having had the pleasure of meeting a Down Syndrome boy at my local gym, I'd wanted to include these remarkable people in one of my stories. When the opportunity came up for writing a tale for the excellent A Fistful of Legends Western anthology, I saw it as the perfect time. Please spend some time with these extraordinary folks--you can learn a lot from them. You won't be sorry. Note: Spelling and grammar in this tale are intentional.)

An excerpt from Howard's story from the A Fistful of Legends Western anthology from Express Westerns, on sale at your favorite online retailer.

BILLY by Howard Hopkins (Lance Howard)

“Whatcha got there, Billy?” Bobby Ray Simpson asked, his tone sharp with ridicule. The young man of twenty with the prairie wolf features maneuvered to the front of the stocky boy ambling along the wide main street of Wendell, blocking his path. Cruelty painted Bobby Ray’s face, meanness that bled from within. And with that cruelty, a vicious glint of joy gleamed in his dull gray eyes.

“Yeah, retard, what ya got?” Bobby Ray’s younger brother by a year, Jimmy Bob, echoed in the same provocative manner. Jimmy Bob’s own face mirrored the meanness and lean, caninelike aspect of his brother’s features, but he lacked the vindictive glint of eye. He was a follower, a product of emulation and lack of God-given smarts, to hear some of the townsfolk talk.

Billy didn’t always heared others when they talked at him. In all his nineteen years he’d never heared quite right, anyhow. He reckoned that was just part of the way he was. But he heared others put a name to him, one that made his heart hurt and his almond-shaped eyes with their epicanthic inner skin folds well with tears. He wanted to cry, at the names, at the taunts, but forced himself not to. They would only make funner of him.

But he heared the two this time, saw them step to the front and side of him as he shuffled along, keeping his round face pointed towards the ground, his stubby fingers, drained white, clutching the folded paper object in his hand as if it were something precious. And to him it was. Nothing those boys would wanted, though he knew they planned to taked it from him just the same.

Billy, dressed in over-large canvas pants and a grime-coated heavy shirt, tried to walk to the side of Bobby Ray, but the brother shifted his position to block him and Billy stopped, his heart beginning to pound with fear.

He always feeled a-feared. He had good reason to in this town. Folks hereabouts didn’t liked folks who was different from theirselfs. Miss Molly, the woman who runned the home where he lived, tolded him it was just because they were a-scared of him, that his difference made them think about their ownselves in a way they didn’t like rightly. He didn’t understand that. But there was lots of things Billy didn’t understand. Sometimes he just couldn’t think clear. It was only when he was reading about The White Ranger that he feeled better, feeled like maybe he could do some of the things the Ranger did. But in moments of clarity, he tolded himself that was all a lie. He was a nothing, way them other folks said he was. A nothing, and a retard.

“Look at the retard, Bobby Ray,” Jimmy Bob said, pointing to Billy as the young man’s face lifted. “Got a flat nose, jest like a piggy!”

Bobby Ray laughed, the mean glint in his eye sharpening. “Got himself no neck, neither, and a big ole round head stuck atop it.” Bobby Ray speared Billy with his gaze and Billy’s heart beat a step faster. Why couldn’t they just let him be? He never hurted no one. He just wanted to be left alone with the Ranger. He’d been minding his own business, just walking along the sunlit street and smelling the summer flowers in the air and thinking about his new book.

“His tongue’s sticking out like some kinda dumb ole dog, too.” Jimmy Bob snickered. “Got himself a phys-ee-cal deformity, I heard tell.”

“Some kind of retard syndrome, Doc says,” Bobby Ray put in. “Ain’t fit to be livin’, you ask me.”

“Reckon he can rightly read that there book?” Jimmy Bob ducked his chin at the folded dime novel clenched in Billy’s plump hand.

“Reckon he must jest lookit the pitchers,” Bobby Ray said, making a grab for the book.

It was on rare occasions Billy exhibited any kind of coordination. He just hadn’t been born that way. Movements came awkward and slow for him, like his speech, his tongue always in the way, as if his mouth were too small to contain it. But this time he managed to hold onto his dime novel. Miss Molly had boughted it for him. He could read enough of it to enjoy the adventure, to be a hero in his own mind for a few hours.

“Looks to me Billy here thinks he’s the White Ranger again, don’t it, Jimmy Bob?” Bobby Ray let out a guffaw and tried to grab the book again. This time he got a piece of it, tearing a section from the cover. He flung it to the ground and Billy made a guttural sound he could not hold back.

Jimmy Bob made a mocking face. “Gaw-damn, Bobby Ray, he’s growlin’ at ya! Told ya he was just some kinda animal.”

“He’s just some kind of mistake,” Bobby Ray said. “His pa should have done took him out and shot him when he came out lookin’ like a gimpy Chinaman.” Bobby Ray speared Billy again with his gaze. “’Cept his pa done seen what he made and rode off for the hills, didn’t he, Billy? Your pa didn’t want nothin’ to do with a retard like you.”

The words hurt his heart. He heared them too well and something inside him wanted to give the boys just what they wanted, his death. He wished he could just die and then maybe the taunts would end.

“What…did…I…do to you?” he asked, his words slow, muffled. His speech worsed the more a-feared he became. Sometimes he could talked almost normal, especially when he was with Miss Molly, but with these boys he could barely speak at all.

Jimmy Bob’s brow narrowed as he looked to his older brother for the answer.

Bobby Ray uttered a nasty little scoff.

“You was done born, Billy. That’s what you done to us. Ain’t no call for your kind in this world. Yore jest a mistake and we can’t stand lookin’ at ya.”

Original Press Release:Ride into the Wild West with A Fistful of Legends

After the success of the Where Legends Ride anthology, Express Westerns returns with A Fistful Of Legends. Discover what it’s like to ride with damaged men and sinister night stalkers, tragic doves, plucky homemakers and gun-toting belles. Experience for yourself the harsh reality of birth and death, love and hate, revenge, retribution and robbery. You'll find it all here, penned by a whole posse-full of Western writers old and new. So what are you waiting for? Saddle up for action and adventure... and grab yourself A Fistful of Legends! Edited by Nik Morton and co-edited by Charles Whipple, A Fistful Of Legends features an introduction by James Reasoner along with a front and back page cover illustration designed by Jennifer Smith-Mayo based on an original painting by David McAllister. The 21 stories in this bumper size book include:

DEAD MAN TALKING by Derek Rutherford
BILLY by Lance Howard
LONIGAN MUST DIE! By Ben Bridges
THE MAN WHO SHOT GARFIELD DELANY by I J Parnham
HALF A PIG by Matthew P Mayo (Nominated for the presitgious Western Writers of America Spur Awar)
BLOODHOUND by C. Courtney Joyner
MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE by Gillian F Taylor
IG ENOUGH by Chuck Tyrell
ONE DAY IN LIBERTY by Jack Giles
SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON by Bobby Nash
ON THE RUN by Alfred Wallon
THE GIMP by Jack Martin
VISITORS by Ross Morton
THE NIGHTHAWK by Michael D George
THE PRIDE OF THE CROCKETTS by Evan Lewis
DARKE JUSTICE by Peter Avarillo
ANGELO AND THE STRONGBOX by Cody Wells
CRIB GIRLS by Kit Churchill
MAN OF IRON by Chuck Tyrell
CASH LARAMIE AND THE MASKED DEVIL by Edward A Grainger
DEAD MAN WALKING by Lee Walker

Action Figures Gone Wild

I can still remember the thrill I felt getting my first action figure as a kid. It was the early ''70s and a toy company called Mego introduced four superhero figures--Batman, Superman, Aquaman and Robin--on sale at a place called Toyworld in my area. Now, this Toyworld was quite a ways from us and the only place carrying them initially. I saw the sale flyer and bugged my mother to bring me out there to get one of them. It was summer vacation and I was so excited I could pee.

The first pick was Batman. Mego action figures were eight inches high and posable, not like the superhero bendies I'd gotten at a younger age. The Mego corporation had been around since the 1950s, but really exploded with the introduction of their superhero line. They also followed with a very nice Planet of the Apes line and classic monster line, all of which I eventually ended up owning and stupidly gave to a cousin when I thought I was too old for them. The early models were released in a nice square collectible box, and the Batman came with a cowl you could remove to reveal Bruce Wayne. Unfortunately, this was changed to straight molded heads a short time later for all the figures.

When I got Batman home I was pretty stoked but it only took a couple days before I figured he was lonely with no villains to fight and no superfriends to chum with. Somehow I managed to wrangle another trip to the store and a Superman and Robin figure. A few days later, my grandparents arrived from the South to stay with us a month and my grandmother got me Aquaman, the last figure. My grandfather was not entirely happy or encouraged to see me playing with dolls. I recognized the what's-wrong-with-that-kid look, though he didn't say anything, because he actually liked me, and didn't like my sister. So me flying Superman around outside was tolerated but frowned upon. Good thing it wasn't a Barbie, I guess.

Over the next year or so Mego really geared up their lines, releasing both Marvel and DC superheros, along with the Apes and Monster figures. I snagged a rare Captain America, though some moron had opened the box at the store and lost the shield. It was the only one around, so I bought it. Shazam, Spider-man, Joker, Riddler and probably fifty other figures came next. I got GI Joe action accessories sets to go with them, like the treasure chest, and filled it with plastic jewels and colored tinfoil I made into gold and silver coins. I had tried the foil-covered chocolate coins, but I always ended up eating them before my heroes found the treasure. A few girl figures came out a short time later--Batgirl, Zira, I think Catwoman. I think my parents wondered about those purchases a bit. And I certainly did check them for anatomical correctness. For years I thought only men had nipples...action figures are of no use for sex ed.

It was a fun time, an imaginative time. There were no neighbors where I lived and I was a loner anyway, reading comic books, Doc Savage and Avenger novels and concocting fantastic adventures and a few weird hero trysts with my Megos.

Mego went bankrupt in the early eighties and action figures shrunk in size and got much better molded, but with that they lost the something special those of us who collected the early Megos enjoyed. I wish I had held onto them because some of them are worth a lot. The sad thing of it is, you are not, as the saying goes, only a kid once. You just forget how to be a kid during your teenage years, and rediscover it later on in life, if you let yourself. And fortunately we can now get our action figures in comic shops, where we're amongst fellow nerds and geeks who won't look at you askance for buying the latest figure...but you should probably stay away from the Lady Gaga one just in case...

Western Wednesday: How to Write a Western?

I was struck recently when writing a top secret Western novel/project (hope to have news on it soon and a cover) how writing the Western could differ from book to book.

THIS is how you write a Western, somebody once told me emphatically. Well, if anyone tells you that, they are talking out their saddle, because there is no one way for all writers or all books. There is the way that works best for YOU and for the STORY. The special Western I just completed brought that point home to me about halfway through the plot, when I discovered some of the things I normally did in my Westerns did not apply.

With this project, which involves brand name characters with established personalities and milieu, I could not work with things that weren't already grounded somewhere in the lore, though I had plenty of room to bend it, add to it, just not to disrespect or significantly alter it (and those restrictions I placed primarily on myself, because I respect and love the characters so much I wanted to keep them recognizable). In the Western I am finishing at the moment, my main character could do whatever he wanted, and he told me so. That is normally what drives story for me, the character and what that character tells me he/she wants to do, what direction he/she wants to take. With the special Western, the plot had to rely on other things, some of which I was not quite as used to. The resulting journey was one of discovery and pulled skills and techniques out of me I didn't know I had. And I think after I finished, it was one of the best Westerns I have done. In fact, I am a bit proud of it, whereas I usually can't stand to read my own stuff after it is finished.

Writing the Western should, in my opinion, be about discovery, not only of your story, its characters and events, but of your own abilities as a writer. You don't have to do it "that guy's" way, because otherwise it is wrong--you find your own way. Experiment. Read the How To books, like Matt Braun's How to Write a Western, but don't take every piece of advice as a sacred blueprint and limit yourself. You can learn a huge amount from professionals such as Braun, who is an excellent writer, but I'm sure he would not want you to copy him, just learn from what worked for him and incorporate it as a possible tool in your own talent belt. Get on your writing horse and kick it into a creative gallop. The West was all about expansion and discovery, and with it often came difficulty and hardship. That is a fine analogy for the writer. So ride your own horse, while occasionally borrowing someone else's. Writing is flexible, creativity is ever-evolving. Don't rein yourself in.

Writing a Bike

I never really think about being a writer. Or, I should say, more accurately, the process of writing. What makes it tick. Over the years it has become such a natural part of me, like after you learn to ride your bike without training wheels. You never really think about balancing on that bike past that point, it just becomes part of you. Until the first time you hit a pothole and fly over the handlebars, anyway.

Writing is a lot like that. Once you learn the mechanics, things just bubble up from your subconscious and plop onto the page. I feel that if you really start thinking about what makes your writing work, you risk getting bound up, over-thinking it and possibly robbing it of its life. Sometimes if you over-edit your work it loses something vital and living. If you squeeze blood out of the rock, you're just left with the rock.

Since I don't think much about the process (unlike plotting, which I do spend lots of time thinking about), I am always a little hesitant when someone asks me to dissect something I have written and why I wrote it. If something works in your story, why spend too much time taking apart why it works? I find if that happens I start to question myself, doubt myself. Writers can "feel" when something clicks. It's a type of sixth sense, I think. Write Sense. Like with horror stories; I know what scares me. I don't really need to determine why it scares me, only that it does, and chances are it will scare someone else, too. Except for those weird baby pictures where the baby is sitting in a flower or teacup or something. Those frighten me, but don't seem to bother anyone else. Shiver.

There's another drawback to analyzing your writing too much. Many people I have met who endlessly discuss and dissect their story, never end up actually writing it. They talk about it so much, the energy dissipates and two years later they are still telling everyone about the grand novel they are planning, but have never, and likely will never, write. I knew a guy like that once. Each time I ran into him he tell me some new aspect of his planned novel. Have you started writing it? I would ask. Well, no, I'm making sure I work out the kinks first. Really? Two years to work out kinks without having ever written a word? Sit your ass in the damn chair and start typing, I feel like saying. I don't, because that would be rude, and maybe some people just prefer to talk about their dream, rather than live it, or risk not living it, as the case may be.

Then there are the one who actually do write something. Say, a novel. But they won't submit it because they have beta readers going over it and making suggestions--which they rarely take anyway--not once, not twice--but for YEARS. I am not sure if this translates to a fear of failure thing, or what. They appear to want a sure thing. Newsflash--in writing there is NEVER a sure thing. Start trusting yourself and your talent if you truly want to be a writer. If you want the sure million seller, the sure gold brick in your bank account, stock up on Viagra and try porn.

So learn everything you can about writing, or course, absorb it and others' works, then trust yourself and just let go. Take off your training wheels and pedal. You'll hit a pothole occasionally, and learn from it, but don't be so afraid of them you never get back on the bike and let balancing become natural again.

I Killed Smokey the Bear

I did. I can admit it, now. The statute of limitations has run out. I hope.

It all started back in the 1960s. I was just a child, one about to create a sordid past of inflatable murder. Do you remember when gas stations had premiums? Neat things for kids, usually glasses with superheroes or other characters on them. Various neato mosquito toys.

And inflatable Smokey the Bears. About two feet tall. I wanted one. I wanted one bad. But for whatever reason lost to the bowels of my memory, my parents would not buy me one. Major bummer and totally ungroovy, as far as I was concerned. Was it that much to ask for one measly Smokey blow up doll? I mean, really. It wasn't like the kind of blow up dolls adults could have fun with.

Anyhoo...the neighbor kid had one. Oh, yeah. That whiny stinky little turd whose richey rich parents bought him whatever the hell he wanted, had a blow up Smokey. I rarely did anything wrong as a kid...well, not too often...OK, sometimes...but I had to have that damn Smokey. It was right there in front of me, beckoning, begging to be honored and cherished. That damn stinker kid just left the poor thing lying around outside, anyway.

Somehow I, um, appropriated it. I was six, so I can't recall how. But he came home with me. I recall deflating him to commit the heinous act. Perhaps I snuck him under my shirt, risking all to save his poor little plastic hide.

But I killed him. Apparently purloined Smokeys don't travel well. Because he somehow developed a pinhole and every time I blew him up, Smokey withered away. Very sad.

Not being the consummate criminal, I neglected to think of a reason why this deflated Smokey should be in my room. Oh, yeah, I should have thought that out better and if only I'd known of duct tape...but my parents caught me. Took me to the gas station to buy a brand spanking new Smokey. I was overjoyed...until we got it home and they made me march over to the neighbor's and present it to little stinky pants and apologize for kidnapping Smokey in the first place. How humiliating. I never got a Smokey after that. I did get a spanking. My criminal life ended with a bang--on my ass.

I feel so much better getting this off my conscience. It's been a terrible burden. So any of you parents out there with inflatable Smokeys...watch them closely. Don't let the tragedy occur again. Remember, only you can prevent Smokeycide.

And if anyone out there does know where I can get an inflatable...er, nevermind. Perhaps that's one area I need not revisit...

The Shadow's 80th Anniversary

Eighty years ago, on March 6, 1931, the famous cloaked avenger of crime made his debut on newsstands across America. The first of 325 pulp novels, The Living Shadow, written by newspaperman/magician Walter B. Gibson under the house name of Maxwell Grant, brought the mysterious crime fighter to life on a bridge in New York, saving the life of a young suicidal man named Harry Vincent, who would become The Shadow's first aide in his never-ending fight against crime. Based on a the voice of an eerie radio announcer for Detective Story Magazine Hour, The Shadow quickly took on a life of his own under Gibson's often ingenious plots. The Shadow novels, published bi-weekly, ran the gamut from mystery to horror and he soon became the most popular "dark" hero of the 1930s. And unlike many other characters, he transcended his media to become an enormously popular radio show running from 1937 to 1954, embedding the phase, The Shadow knows! into the public lexicon. In the radio version, The Shadow was millionaire man-about-town Lamont Cranston with the "mysterious ability to cloud men's minds so they cannot see him," but in the novels his identify was not quite so concrete, and in fact later was revealed to be somebody other than Cranston, plus he did not become invisible, but blended with the shadows. And carried a brace of .45s and a chilling laugh that sent terror into the heart of the underworld.

The Shadow pretty much rescued the hero pulp genre from obscurity, soon spawning a slew of imitators such as The Spider and Phantom Detective, as well as paving the way for Doc Savage and The Avenger and every other pulp hero. Sanctum Books, who are currently reprinting the entire run of Shadow novels in double novel volumes each month is issuing a special restored version of The Living Shadow this month, #47, teaming it with one of his best adventures, The Black Hush, and its iconic original cover.

So remember, the weed of crime bears bitter fruit...crime does not pay...The Shadow knows...

Back on the Trail

So after writing Hell of Hoofs, my 33rd Lance Howard Western, I took a bit of time to write two special project novels. Both of those are top classified at the moment but I hope to have an announcement on them fairly soon. They are both finished, one a "special" Western and the other...not.

Upon finishing those I began work on a new Lance Howard novel and completed the first draft on Friday. This one is not the bleak vista Hell of Hoofs was, though there are some harrowing moments involved. This one carries a more upbeat message embedded in the tragic events that propel the hero, Teel Barsom, to his final confrontation with an outlaw who took everything from him.

Oddly enough, the plot to this one came fairly easily--plot normally being my bete noir. However, I got hung up on the actual execution of it, because it involved deeper emotion and only one body until the last chapter. Teel's journey was a difficult one, and writers ride with their characters.

Granted, it was not the same difficult ride it was while I was swimming around in Jack the Ripper's head recently on another project, but I hope readers will identify a lot better with a man who's down and out, than a serial killer!

More Toy Nostalgia

I think some of the best toys ever produced came out in the 1960s. Before everything became electronicized and kids no longer had to use their imaginations, only their fingers to press buttons or handle a joystick. Licensed toys were more imaginative, too, just plain fun, and if you got a bit of lead poisoning, well, who cared? That was part of the charm.

When I was real young I got a King Kong playset for my birthday. I spent a lot of time with that set, being a fan of Mighty Joe Young at the time (more than Kong, I liked Young because he survived and turned into a big monkey hero at the end of the movie.) This was a sort of Rankin Bass type plastic Kong with a magnet embedded in his hand. The plastic people had little round metal plates on their back, so Kong could lift them into the air and fling them into the radiator, which was not so much a hit with the parents. There was no anatomically correct Fay Wray, either, bummer.

Playsets must have been big then, because I had a pretty cool Disneykins one that included nearly every Disney character at the time, plastic, about an inch high. There were some fruit people, too...but we won't go into them. And a pretty neat Noah's Ark playset that came with a bunch of little plastic animals and plastic ark that served double duty as a box to keep the figures in.

Of course, there were the Bendys, too. I had a lot of fun with those. I had the Green Hornet and Captain America Bendys. The only problem with Bendys was after a bit of playtime their internal wires broke and punched through the rubber. Then limbs dangled and kids got tetanus shots. Oh, and they did not survive dehumidifier experiences well, either. Trust me on this.

Remember the Lost in Space Robot? Danger, Danger. Mine, with batteries, would run the length of the hall, bulb head lighting up. I wish I had kept that damn thing.

There were a slew of other classic toys that made their debut in the '60s, some of them still around today. What were your favorite toys growing up? Hot Wheels? Easy Bakes? Lite Brite? Those metal plates you poured goop into and made creepy crawlers? Let's hear it!

The Western is Dead, Blah, Blah...

I have to admit, I get really tired of the doom and gloomers everywhere, especially on the Internet, proclaiming the Western, or for that matter any other genre of fiction, is dead. Sales and tastes in genres are cyclical. In the '60s, spy books were all the rage. In the '70s & '80s horror held sway. Then it was mystery. But it was mystery in '40s and '50s, too. And Westerns. Or adventure. Romance. Whatever. And usually during these periods of popularity, the market gets a bit glutted as publishers and writers jump on the bandwagon. Then sales dip, sometimes because some substandard or imitative material packs the shelves, or because world events or trends change for a while. Or because a flavor of the month or fad falls faster than a Hula hoop on a straight-hipped girl.

Yet there are those, sometimes writers with marginal ability or publishers trying to push a certain type of book, who proclaim a genre dead. I contest, no genre is ever dead. It retracts, sure, then comes back--because what isn't dead and is never dead is good storytelling. An engaging story well-told in any genre will spark interest in that genre. Then new authors and backstock authors find new life.

But these incessant whiners who sit behind their magical screens pronouncing the end of the fiction world appear to find more solace in proclaiming the sky is falling than in actually motivating themselves to come up with interesting stories or promotional strategies. They might muck and muddle through their online rants, perhaps even turn out some indecipherable self-indulgent rambling fiction that of course meets with less than enthusiastic response, all the while screaming they are god's gift to the literary world. But in the end they are like those in all walks of life, literary or otherwise, pessimists who wallow in the self-importance of their ability to forecast doom and bring others down to their level. They poo-poo new ideas, find fault with nascent endeavors in new territories, and as one of my favorite fictional series characters, Monk Mayfair, says, "look for bones in animal crackers."

It's lonely at the dark bottom, flopping about in the mud of impending disaster. It's narcissistic. It's me, me, me, listen because I know all and see all and you damn well better get down here in the doompot with me. It's bitterness, the constant need to be right, and the more of their peers they can convert to their philosophy, show how wronged they have been and how the future of the genre hinges on their egregious talent, the better.

If only they could spend half as much of their talent working towards positive solutions instead of denigrating...

But, alas, they are never ever wrong, so why listen to others? Far easier to insulate themselves with a few believers and other sky fallers. A pity. And a waste. Oh, and of course I will get letters or petty little snipes injected into their conversations or fiction, because they will just KNOW I am talking about THEM here. And, really, I mean, who else is there to talk about? Could not be general because they are the focus of everyone's jibes for daring to speak the truth. Their truth. Er, somebody's truth. Or not.

So to those writers who find all that talk discouraging, chin up. You genre is NOT dead. It might be snoozing, but you have the talent to wake it up. Believe in yourself. Don't let the doomers bring you down.Be realistic, of course, study and keep perfecting your ability, but don't let them pull you into their sordid little doomworld. Get up on your horse and ride. You might be the next Louis L'Amour, Stephen King or Stephanie Meyer.

Oh, and by the way, the vampire genre is dead. I'm pretty sure. That bites, right? ;)

The Green Hornet Casefiles short story anthology, which includes the return of Laura Cavendish in my tale, Sting of the Yellowjacket, is now available for preorder from Amazon.

http://www.amazon.com/Green-Hornet-Casefiles-Joe-McKinney/dp/1933076941/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1299122115&sr=1-1

It's a May release from Moonstone Books. Laura is back and badder than ever and she's got a rampaging Black Beauty at her disposal. A brief excerpt from Sting of the Yellowjacket...

***

Someone was in the house.

From within his room, Kato had not heard a sound, but the intruder had set off a green-blinking light on a panel concealed in his nightstand. It was one of the many new precautions he and Britt had installed since criminals—one in particular—gained access to the home and certain secrets hidden within.

Whoever it was moved with the stealth of a ghost and had to be good to bypass the original alarm system.

Kato, still dressed in a white jacket and black bowtie, awaiting Britt Reid’s return from the awards banquet, slipped off the bed, setting aside a book on advanced Gung Fu techniques he had been studying. He switched off the bedside light, plunging the room into darkness.

After waiting a moment to let his eyes adjust to the blackness, he eased towards the door. Opening it without a sound, he peered out into the hall. Yellow-amber moonlight arcing through an end window fell across the dark-green carpet in a serrated pattern, giving the impression of a giant stinger from some prehistorically large bee. The impression sent a foreboding ripple of unease through him. This was no ordinary break-in—it could not be, since older alarms had been bypassed. This was someone with skill and little or no fear. Someone who knew more than any run-of-the-mill burglar should.

The thought gave him pause. Perhaps he should signal Britt at the banquet, alert him to the threat. But that would mean returning to the room, and possibly some small sound as he activated the transmitter that would set off a warning buzz in Britt’s wrist watch. He would not risk it. Every moment’s delay meant whoever was below gained more access to devices that had as much potential for destruction as they did for good.

Kato moved like a wraith along the hall to the top of the stairs. Perhaps he could not see or hear who was below, but his years of experience in martial arts stealth made him practically invisible, as well.

He glided down the first few steps, eyes scanning, every sense alert.

Nothing. Not a whisper of cloth or the scuff of a shoe on carpet. Almost as if someone were wait—

Something hit him square in the temple just as he reached the halfway point on the stairs. It made a thin popping sound and he breathed in reflexively before realizing what the object was.

A gas dart! One of their own.