I write escapism. I make no bones about it and no apologies for it. If you want literature, my books probably aren’t for you. That’s ok. Because you probably don’t need what I am offering, which is a few hours away from life’s worries and woe. My readers like to escape their everyday hassles and stress, whether it is with the licensed heroic characters I write, such as The Green Hornet, The Lone Ranger and Sherlock Holmes, or my horror and western novels and stories. They enjoy dodging reality for a spell (pun intended, for you Chloephiles and you know who you are!) They take pleasure in following Chloe Everson in The Chloe Files into paranormal trouble and back out again. They crave going on an adventure with a strong, independent, if impulsive, woman to kick Evil’s ass.
And they like being frightened.
What? you ask. Why would anyone enjoy being scared? Are you crazy? Well, ok, you might have me on the last question, but let me ‘xplain it, Lucy.
Fear can be fun, even good fun you. There, I’ve said it. Those of you who question why folks such as myself write, read and love scary stories, tales with heavy elements of the supernatural and “mythical” monsters such as vampires, werewolves. zombies and the occasional politician, those who look a bit askance at those of us with a penchant for year-round Halloween—here’s your answer.
I recollect when I was about seven or eight we lived in a ranch house that had a rather long hallway. Facing down the hallway from the kitchen you’d see a bathroom door to the left, my sister’s bedroom to the right. At the end—two bedrooms, mine and my parents’.
Now, some builder with more hammers than brains got the peculiar idea fart to install the light switch at the far end of the hall instead of up near the kitchen, where any normal person would expect it to be.
So…guess who had to walk down a dark hallway to his bedroom more often than not?
Yes, that would be me, your brave horror scribe.
And guess whose sister, who was more than the teensiest bit like Lucy van Pelt from Peanuts, liked to wait in her dark bedroom doorway and scare the living crap out of me by jumping out and grabbing at me as I scurried past?
Oh, that was usually good for a pee in the pants. Is it any wonder I still sleep with night lights (actually a string of blue Christmas lights I hang on the closet door year round. Darkness and closets, you know…and, yes, I am quite aware of my strangeness, thank you very much.)
I could have killed her many times over, the little b—um, anway...
But you know what? Looking back on it, it was kinda fun—in a poop in your skivvies sort of way.
It’s virtually the same as going to haunted houses at fairs or riding on haunted hayrides. Things in masks--wielding daggers or bloody axes--monsters, whatever, jump out at you and you PAY for the pleasure.
Because fear is fun.
When it can be controlled. And that’s the whole point of reading the spooky genres. When you go with Chloe on one of her supernatural romps, you go for that jump-out-at-you-thrill—and know when it’s over you can close the book and breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn’t real. The same goes for The Nightmare Club, my horror series for kids. The reader goes along on spooky haunted ride with the Nightmare Club kids, lets out a few screams, and cheers when it’s over. Fun fear.
It’s a release. The world is glutted with far too much terror we can’t control, fear from which we can’t really escape. With scary stories (movies, TV shows, etc.) we are in control of fear. We work through it. We know there’s an end. And if it gets to be too much, we can simply slap the book shut (or poke the switch off on your Kindle) and come back later.
Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could do that with real world fear?
So I try to make sure my books have a dose of that “fun fear.” Some escapism. Of course, since it is horror, I do deal with strong important themes, too—grief, loss, honest life issues with a splash of red. Perhaps even more so in my westerns, oddly enough. But those themes are a reflection of the things, both internal and external, that frighten us, and you still know it’s only a story and you are in control, no matter how scary the ride gets. It may make you squirm, think or quiver in revulsion, but it can’t really hurt you.
Perhaps we should spend more time looking at real life that way…
Click the link—Read the book—Escape reality…
Six-hundred years ago Joan of Arc thought she heard voices from Heaven--she was wrong. They came from somewhere else...
The Chloe Files on Kindle & Nook and in paperback
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Hail to the (Stephen) King! Or: $#*! Stephen King Says
You can’t be a horror writer from Maine without being asked the inevitable question: Do you know Stephen King? Since I write paranormal horror novels and stories, most of which, like THE CHLOE FILES and GRIMM, take place in small Maine towns, and since I live in a seaside Maine town myself, folks just assume I know the other two writers living in the state, which at this moment happens to be Tess Gerritsen and Stephen King. Never mind the million other folks and plethora of talented authors residing in the state. We do have more than black bears and lobsters prowling about. I’ve even heard we had a resident Bigfoot creature, but can’t personally verify this, though I do smell things…
But I suppose when you reach the superstar status of those two authors, you deserve to be on the state’s top textile export list or whatever it is.
I did see Tess Gerritsen in a restaurant once, but I guess that doesn’t count. She’s not a writer of the supernatural, so we’ll leave it there. She is kinda hot, however, so if she’s listening, please have my baby…
Ahem, I digress.
Stephen King on the other hand—who isn’t quite so hot, but a fine looking gent in his own right—is another story.
My gym buddy, who, as I have mentioned before, reads some of my books, brought up the Revered One a couple months back.
“How’s Chloe?” he asked, as he always does. Also as I mentioned in a previous blog, he considers Chloe and actual (hot) person. And she is. Or she has become such.
“She’s kicking demon ass,” I said. “Oh, and she asked me to give you a message.”
‘Dude! Really?” His eyes brightened.
I set a dumbbell on the floor and peered at the one I was talking to. “She said if you don’t quit stalking her she’s going to kick YOUR ass.”
“Sweet!” My gym buddy doesn’t always crank on all cylinders, but that’s why I love ‘im—he’s quirky, like my characters and the guy who writes them. “So,” he added after another moment, the look on his face turning serious. “You know Stephen King, right?”
Sigh. “Because I’m a horror writer from Maine?”
“Yeah. You guys all hang, right? All you writers. It’s like a writer mafia or something.”
“Sure, I see dad every so often…” I tried not to smirk, but when both his brows hoisted skyward I almost lost it.
“Dude, Stephen King’s your dad?” He knew I was joking, of course, but it makes gym time go faster.
“Well, I’m his illegitimate son.”
“What?” Or maybe he didn’t know.
“I’ve filled out the adoption papers. Just waiting for him to sign them.”
Suspicious eye. “Doesn’t he already have a son who writes?”
“Sure—me!”
“You’re full of $#*!”
I chuckled. “$#*! Stephen King says…”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind.” He’s too easy.
“So he’s not your dad. Duh.”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I’m working on it.”
“Dude, that’s messed up.”
I laughed, harder this time. “No kidding. But in a way he’s Dad to all of us in Maine writing spooky stories. He made horror writing mainstream and accepted. He gave Maine writers something to aspire to and learn from.”
“Does HE know Snooki?” Gym buddy’s biggest question after Chloe is always about Snooki. He’s got a thing for loud-mouthed Oompa Loompas.
“I have no idea, but some terrible experience must have inspired his horror.”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind.”
“So, you know him?” he said.
I wasn’t getting much weight lifting done. “No, I don’t know him. My dentist says he went to college with him, and I have met him a couple times, though he has no idea who I am.”
“Where’d you meet him? What was he like?”
“He came through the Jetport in South Portland back in the early ‘80s, when I worked there as a security guard and had to check carry on baggage before people could board their planes. I checked his. He seemed very personable and friendly. That was right before he got super big. His wife was with him.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said, ‘Don’t throw books.’”
“What?”
“His wife tossed a book to him through the metal detector. He chuckled and told her not to throw books.”
“So he knows you?”
“No, I doubt he’d have any memory of the two-minute meeting and there were two other guards, and we weren’t introduced. I recognized him from his book jacket and from the fact the female guard with me was jumping up and down saying, ‘Oh my God, that’s Stephen King!’”
“Dude, if you had a rack like Snooki’s he’d remember you.”
“If I had a rack like Snooki’s I’d have other things to worry about, though maybe from a promotional angle it couldn’t hurt. Maybe I could get on Dancing with the Stars.”
“You’re weird, Dude.”
“Not news, and you brought it up.”
“So he’s overrated, right?” Gym buddy asked.
“Have you read any of his books?”
He shook his head. “Nah-uh. Too long.”
“He’s not overrated. He got where he got for a reason. All us writers learned a lot from his skill with characters.”
“I hear people trash him all the time. They say he’s lost his mojo.”
“Trust me, he hasn’t. All writers change, or have weaknesses. What he does, he does better than most everyone else writing. When you’re on top there’s a lot of petty jealousy and certain types looking to find fault to make themselves feel superior. In fact, along with Dark Shadows, my novel NIGHT DEMONS shows some Stephen King influence. Guy returns to his small Maine hometown of Dark Harbor, finds demons from his past, both supernatural and personal, waiting for him.”
“I bet he knows Snooki.”
Sigh. “Will you get off Snooki!”
Big laugh. “I’d like to get off—”
“—Uh-uh-uh!” I quickly said.
“He’s a Red Sox fan, you know. You’re a Yankees fan.”
I shrugged. “He’s an excellent writer. I never said anything about his taste in baseball teams.”
“You joking?”
“Mostly.” I grinned. “The team rivalry is part of the fun.”
The conversation drifted to baseball, but I believe the point, when I look back on it, is that there are worse things for a Maine horror writer than getting continually asked if you know Stephen King. And certainly worse things than getting even remotely compared to him in your writing for whatever reason, as has actually happened to me a couple times.
What King has accomplished is nothing short of phenomenal and he’s earned our respect as horror writers, in fact, as writers period. We may not always agree with the things he says—Red Sox who?!—but I for one owe him a tremendous debt for putting Maine and horror writers on the map, and for teaching us scary stories aren’t always all about the scare. They’re about the people involved in the tale.
Many of my books include a strong element of grief and loss—Chloe Everson from THE CHLOE FILES certainly has experienced her share as has Arlo Grimm from GRIMM—and that comes from works such as Pet Sematary and The Dead Zone. What would a scary story be without the character?
Stephen King taught us that.
So hail to the King. Stephen King.
Click the link—Read the book—Escape reality…
Three-hundred years ago, the tragic events that occurred in Salem, Massachusetts set free an Evil that escaped the Witch Trials and cursed the small seaside town of New Salem, Maine. That Evil now claims its due and the dark secrets long buried are rising to the surface. The war has begun. And exotic dancer, demon-ass kicker Chloe Everson is the front line between Hell on Earth and Salvation.
The Chloe Files...$2.99 on Kindle and Nook
The monkey thanks you...
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
But I suppose when you reach the superstar status of those two authors, you deserve to be on the state’s top textile export list or whatever it is.
I did see Tess Gerritsen in a restaurant once, but I guess that doesn’t count. She’s not a writer of the supernatural, so we’ll leave it there. She is kinda hot, however, so if she’s listening, please have my baby…
Ahem, I digress.
Stephen King on the other hand—who isn’t quite so hot, but a fine looking gent in his own right—is another story.
My gym buddy, who, as I have mentioned before, reads some of my books, brought up the Revered One a couple months back.
“How’s Chloe?” he asked, as he always does. Also as I mentioned in a previous blog, he considers Chloe and actual (hot) person. And she is. Or she has become such.
“She’s kicking demon ass,” I said. “Oh, and she asked me to give you a message.”
‘Dude! Really?” His eyes brightened.
I set a dumbbell on the floor and peered at the one I was talking to. “She said if you don’t quit stalking her she’s going to kick YOUR ass.”
“Sweet!” My gym buddy doesn’t always crank on all cylinders, but that’s why I love ‘im—he’s quirky, like my characters and the guy who writes them. “So,” he added after another moment, the look on his face turning serious. “You know Stephen King, right?”
Sigh. “Because I’m a horror writer from Maine?”
“Yeah. You guys all hang, right? All you writers. It’s like a writer mafia or something.”
“Sure, I see dad every so often…” I tried not to smirk, but when both his brows hoisted skyward I almost lost it.
“Dude, Stephen King’s your dad?” He knew I was joking, of course, but it makes gym time go faster.
“Well, I’m his illegitimate son.”
“What?” Or maybe he didn’t know.
“I’ve filled out the adoption papers. Just waiting for him to sign them.”
Suspicious eye. “Doesn’t he already have a son who writes?”
“Sure—me!”
“You’re full of $#*!”
I chuckled. “$#*! Stephen King says…”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind.” He’s too easy.
“So he’s not your dad. Duh.”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I’m working on it.”
“Dude, that’s messed up.”
I laughed, harder this time. “No kidding. But in a way he’s Dad to all of us in Maine writing spooky stories. He made horror writing mainstream and accepted. He gave Maine writers something to aspire to and learn from.”
“Does HE know Snooki?” Gym buddy’s biggest question after Chloe is always about Snooki. He’s got a thing for loud-mouthed Oompa Loompas.
“I have no idea, but some terrible experience must have inspired his horror.”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind.”
“So, you know him?” he said.
I wasn’t getting much weight lifting done. “No, I don’t know him. My dentist says he went to college with him, and I have met him a couple times, though he has no idea who I am.”
“Where’d you meet him? What was he like?”
“He came through the Jetport in South Portland back in the early ‘80s, when I worked there as a security guard and had to check carry on baggage before people could board their planes. I checked his. He seemed very personable and friendly. That was right before he got super big. His wife was with him.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said, ‘Don’t throw books.’”
“What?”
“His wife tossed a book to him through the metal detector. He chuckled and told her not to throw books.”
“So he knows you?”
“No, I doubt he’d have any memory of the two-minute meeting and there were two other guards, and we weren’t introduced. I recognized him from his book jacket and from the fact the female guard with me was jumping up and down saying, ‘Oh my God, that’s Stephen King!’”
“Dude, if you had a rack like Snooki’s he’d remember you.”
“If I had a rack like Snooki’s I’d have other things to worry about, though maybe from a promotional angle it couldn’t hurt. Maybe I could get on Dancing with the Stars.”
“You’re weird, Dude.”
“Not news, and you brought it up.”
“So he’s overrated, right?” Gym buddy asked.
“Have you read any of his books?”
He shook his head. “Nah-uh. Too long.”
“He’s not overrated. He got where he got for a reason. All us writers learned a lot from his skill with characters.”
“I hear people trash him all the time. They say he’s lost his mojo.”
“Trust me, he hasn’t. All writers change, or have weaknesses. What he does, he does better than most everyone else writing. When you’re on top there’s a lot of petty jealousy and certain types looking to find fault to make themselves feel superior. In fact, along with Dark Shadows, my novel NIGHT DEMONS shows some Stephen King influence. Guy returns to his small Maine hometown of Dark Harbor, finds demons from his past, both supernatural and personal, waiting for him.”
“I bet he knows Snooki.”
Sigh. “Will you get off Snooki!”
Big laugh. “I’d like to get off—”
“—Uh-uh-uh!” I quickly said.
“He’s a Red Sox fan, you know. You’re a Yankees fan.”
I shrugged. “He’s an excellent writer. I never said anything about his taste in baseball teams.”
“You joking?”
“Mostly.” I grinned. “The team rivalry is part of the fun.”
The conversation drifted to baseball, but I believe the point, when I look back on it, is that there are worse things for a Maine horror writer than getting continually asked if you know Stephen King. And certainly worse things than getting even remotely compared to him in your writing for whatever reason, as has actually happened to me a couple times.
What King has accomplished is nothing short of phenomenal and he’s earned our respect as horror writers, in fact, as writers period. We may not always agree with the things he says—Red Sox who?!—but I for one owe him a tremendous debt for putting Maine and horror writers on the map, and for teaching us scary stories aren’t always all about the scare. They’re about the people involved in the tale.
Many of my books include a strong element of grief and loss—Chloe Everson from THE CHLOE FILES certainly has experienced her share as has Arlo Grimm from GRIMM—and that comes from works such as Pet Sematary and The Dead Zone. What would a scary story be without the character?
Stephen King taught us that.
So hail to the King. Stephen King.
Click the link—Read the book—Escape reality…
Three-hundred years ago, the tragic events that occurred in Salem, Massachusetts set free an Evil that escaped the Witch Trials and cursed the small seaside town of New Salem, Maine. That Evil now claims its due and the dark secrets long buried are rising to the surface. The war has begun. And exotic dancer, demon-ass kicker Chloe Everson is the front line between Hell on Earth and Salvation.
The Chloe Files...$2.99 on Kindle and Nook
The monkey thanks you...
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Monday, September 12, 2011
Memories from the Dark Shadows
When I was eight I couldn’t wait for the bus to stop at the end of my street after school.
School got out late in those days, and I didn’t get to my stop until about 3:30.
But that was ok. Because there was still a half hour until 4:00. I could dash down the street, hopefully not being chased by one of the neighborhood bullies that seemed far too prevalent in my town, toss my school books aside and grab a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies from the cupboard before squatting in front of the TV.
What came on at four, you might ask? What made an eight-year-old boy frantically run home from school?
You’ve probably guessed it, because if you are reading this blog chances are you did the exact same thing. Felt the same prickle of excitement in the pit of your stomach and shiver of anticipation as the eerie theme song played.
It was time for Dark Shadows.
I’m not exactly sure how, at that age, I got away with watching a program that included overt horror elements, other than the fact my mother was totally hooked on it, too. My parents balked at me watching The Wild Wild West and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea because of their violent aspects.
Dark Shadows, though, was downright scary for its time. And totally addicting. It was vampire and werewolf crack and I was a spook fiend. I got nightmares. Remember the episodes where the headless corpse lay in the woods, waiting to grab unsuspecting young women? Or when said corpse’s greenish ghoul head, the warlock Judah Zachary, opened his eyes in the glass case? The werewolf Quentin Collins (who under some mysterious burden of his curse also shrank six inches when the full moon rose and he sprouted fangs and quaffed fur), he whose sideburns were just too cool—we said “groovy” in those days—to a young boy? The beautiful witch, Angelique?
And of course the resident vampire hero, Barnabas Collins, played to perfection by Jonathan Frid.
Neighborhood kids, who already thought I was weird enough for reading comic books, couldn’t understand why I wasn’t out playing ball or some such after school. My parents were a little concerned about my horror and superhero addictions, too.
So much so, that for a time, they banned me from watching my favorite daily show. It was torture. I was given a choice: go out and play or stay in my room.
I chose my room, because I knew my mom couldn’t stop watching the show and I could hear every scary nugget of dialog through the wall.
After a month or so they relented and I was back in front of the TV. I even got a Barnabas Collins game with glow-in-the-dark skeletons for my birthday that year, though I didn’t tell the neighbor kids. Why ask for trouble? I still have the plastic fangs that came with it.
The day the show went off the air in April of ’71 was one of the saddest days of my young life. There was little reason to run home from school after that, except for the bullies. I got the Dark Shadow comic books by Gold Key and the Viewmaster reels but it wasn’t the same.
Most folks might wonder why I enjoyed scaring myself everyday at four. The answer is easy: Dark Shadows was like a year-round Halloween Haunted House or scary hayride. You know something is going to jump out of the dark and scare the crap out of you, but you also know it’s not real. It’s a tension release, a rush. An escape from the real world fears, worries, a child, or even an adult, can’t process without going nuts, the overwhelming. It made being scared fun, and controllable.
Dark Shadows had a huge influence on me as a kid and is probably the primary reason I love to write supernatural novels and stories like my series THE CHLOE FILES today. The reason I love to scare readers, help them escape. In fact, my horror novels NIGHT DEMONS and GRIMM owe much to the gothic soap and there are a number of references to the show in the books. NIGHT DEMONS, particularly, is an homage. And I even named the witch in GRIMM and THE CHLOE FILES Angelique (Ficatier).
If not for Dark Shadows I doubt I would be writing horror and paranormal today, or perhaps writing at all. Dark Shadows led me to another lifetime love, pulp hero Doc Savage. I never would have picked up a Doc book called Brand of the Werewolf, whose cover featured the Man of Bronze, as he is called, locked in a desperate struggle against a werewolf. Doc Savage inspired my first non-fiction and fiction. But Dark Shadows started it all for me. To this day it tickles the kid inside me who still loves werewolves and vampires, witches and ghosts. It still fills me with spooky wonder and inspires me to give a bit of that back to my readers.
There’ll be a new Dark Shadows movie soon, starring Johnny Depp as Barnabas Collins.(The original Barnabas, Jonathan Frid, along with Lara Parker, Kathryn Lee Scott, David Selby from the soap, and horror icon Christopher Lee will be doing cameos in the film.) It won’t be the same as those old school days, running home to switch on the big cabinet TV. But I’ll be there, hoping to escape to that far away gothic world just for a couple hours, and searching for that shivering thrill I felt as a child.
How ‘bout you?
Click the link—Read the book—Escape reality…
Three-hundred years ago, the tragic events that occurred in Salem, Massachusetts set free an Evil that escaped the Witch Trials and cursed the small seaside town of New Salem, Maine. That Evil now claims its due and the dark secrets long buried are rising to the surface. The war has begun. And exotic dancer, demon-ass kicker Chloe Everson is the front line between Hell on Earth and Salvation.
The Chloe Files...$2.99 on Kindle and Nook
The monkey thanks you...
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
School got out late in those days, and I didn’t get to my stop until about 3:30.
But that was ok. Because there was still a half hour until 4:00. I could dash down the street, hopefully not being chased by one of the neighborhood bullies that seemed far too prevalent in my town, toss my school books aside and grab a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies from the cupboard before squatting in front of the TV.
What came on at four, you might ask? What made an eight-year-old boy frantically run home from school?
You’ve probably guessed it, because if you are reading this blog chances are you did the exact same thing. Felt the same prickle of excitement in the pit of your stomach and shiver of anticipation as the eerie theme song played.
It was time for Dark Shadows.
I’m not exactly sure how, at that age, I got away with watching a program that included overt horror elements, other than the fact my mother was totally hooked on it, too. My parents balked at me watching The Wild Wild West and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea because of their violent aspects.
Dark Shadows, though, was downright scary for its time. And totally addicting. It was vampire and werewolf crack and I was a spook fiend. I got nightmares. Remember the episodes where the headless corpse lay in the woods, waiting to grab unsuspecting young women? Or when said corpse’s greenish ghoul head, the warlock Judah Zachary, opened his eyes in the glass case? The werewolf Quentin Collins (who under some mysterious burden of his curse also shrank six inches when the full moon rose and he sprouted fangs and quaffed fur), he whose sideburns were just too cool—we said “groovy” in those days—to a young boy? The beautiful witch, Angelique?
And of course the resident vampire hero, Barnabas Collins, played to perfection by Jonathan Frid.
Neighborhood kids, who already thought I was weird enough for reading comic books, couldn’t understand why I wasn’t out playing ball or some such after school. My parents were a little concerned about my horror and superhero addictions, too.
So much so, that for a time, they banned me from watching my favorite daily show. It was torture. I was given a choice: go out and play or stay in my room.
I chose my room, because I knew my mom couldn’t stop watching the show and I could hear every scary nugget of dialog through the wall.
After a month or so they relented and I was back in front of the TV. I even got a Barnabas Collins game with glow-in-the-dark skeletons for my birthday that year, though I didn’t tell the neighbor kids. Why ask for trouble? I still have the plastic fangs that came with it.
The day the show went off the air in April of ’71 was one of the saddest days of my young life. There was little reason to run home from school after that, except for the bullies. I got the Dark Shadow comic books by Gold Key and the Viewmaster reels but it wasn’t the same.
Most folks might wonder why I enjoyed scaring myself everyday at four. The answer is easy: Dark Shadows was like a year-round Halloween Haunted House or scary hayride. You know something is going to jump out of the dark and scare the crap out of you, but you also know it’s not real. It’s a tension release, a rush. An escape from the real world fears, worries, a child, or even an adult, can’t process without going nuts, the overwhelming. It made being scared fun, and controllable.
Dark Shadows had a huge influence on me as a kid and is probably the primary reason I love to write supernatural novels and stories like my series THE CHLOE FILES today. The reason I love to scare readers, help them escape. In fact, my horror novels NIGHT DEMONS and GRIMM owe much to the gothic soap and there are a number of references to the show in the books. NIGHT DEMONS, particularly, is an homage. And I even named the witch in GRIMM and THE CHLOE FILES Angelique (Ficatier).
If not for Dark Shadows I doubt I would be writing horror and paranormal today, or perhaps writing at all. Dark Shadows led me to another lifetime love, pulp hero Doc Savage. I never would have picked up a Doc book called Brand of the Werewolf, whose cover featured the Man of Bronze, as he is called, locked in a desperate struggle against a werewolf. Doc Savage inspired my first non-fiction and fiction. But Dark Shadows started it all for me. To this day it tickles the kid inside me who still loves werewolves and vampires, witches and ghosts. It still fills me with spooky wonder and inspires me to give a bit of that back to my readers.
There’ll be a new Dark Shadows movie soon, starring Johnny Depp as Barnabas Collins.(The original Barnabas, Jonathan Frid, along with Lara Parker, Kathryn Lee Scott, David Selby from the soap, and horror icon Christopher Lee will be doing cameos in the film.) It won’t be the same as those old school days, running home to switch on the big cabinet TV. But I’ll be there, hoping to escape to that far away gothic world just for a couple hours, and searching for that shivering thrill I felt as a child.
How ‘bout you?
Click the link—Read the book—Escape reality…
Three-hundred years ago, the tragic events that occurred in Salem, Massachusetts set free an Evil that escaped the Witch Trials and cursed the small seaside town of New Salem, Maine. That Evil now claims its due and the dark secrets long buried are rising to the surface. The war has begun. And exotic dancer, demon-ass kicker Chloe Everson is the front line between Hell on Earth and Salvation.
The Chloe Files...$2.99 on Kindle and Nook
The monkey thanks you...
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Friday, September 09, 2011
9/11 In Memory of Heroes and the Fallen
In my novels and short stories I like to write about ordinary people thrust into bizarre situations, people who rise above and become heroes against tremendous personal and/or paranormal events. But in the end, they are just characters on a page; the horrific events they face and often overcome are nothing compared to the real horrors of which some lunatics are capable. And far too often the everyday heroes do not survive, though their passing in no way diminishes their extraordinary courage and bravery. In fact, it only serves to make it more poignant, more meaningful, more purposeful.
I clearly recall that day ten years ago. I wish I didn’t. I’d pried myself out of a late morning sleep after an all-night writing stint, and before heading off to my desk to resume work on whichever novel I was writing at the time, I switched on the news to the utterly shocking sight of a plane crashing into one of the Twin Towers. I stared at the TV screen with a sense of stunned horror, of numbed denial. What I was seeing simply could not be happening. What I was witnessing could not be real. It was impossible, a commercial with some scene from an upcoming disaster movie.
But the commercial never ended. Because it was no movie special effects and ludicrous plot; no Hollywood-concocted scenario so fantastically ghastly it could never occur in real life.
Oh. My. God.
It was real. It was ten years ago. It was 9/11.
And it was stained in blood upon the minds of every American and on those of many others throughout the world community. More than 3000 innocent people of all races, creeds and beliefs perished that day while the rest of us stood helplessly frozen as it happened. People thrust into an occurrence of such monumentally tragic proportions, who, unlike the characters in my books, could not overcome. Could not…survive.
And unlike those within my stories, the monsters responsible for such a heinous act were all too real, too perversely deranged, too ideologically twisted to realize the folks they were murdering were husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers. They were people, goddammit! People who did not deserve to be punished for some zealot’s bizarre envy and insane vision.
They were human beings and they were unwitting heroes. Fallen heroes. They left behind family and friends, and they left a legacy. On this ten-year anniversary of their senseless deaths we recall them with tears and grief, yet also with reverence.
There were other heroes that day, some of whom did survive—the uniformed men and women of our police and fire forces who responded to the scenes of tragedy, the dogs who accompanied them, and those citizens who helped their fellow man, despite the risk to themselves.
The man responsible for this heinous act has been brought to well-deserved justice, but in a way it seems small consolation, because we cannot bring back all the innocent lives lost.
On this anniversary we recall those people. And know not all heroes wear capes and leap tall buildings in a single bound. No, many heroes are just like you and me, just plain folk who give up, often without choice, the most treasured thing we as human beings have—our life. And who remind us in their sacrifice what we truly stand for, what we are made of. Remind us that life is a gift and the disturbed dreams of a madman are never to be allowed. Remind us of what Freedom truly is and how huge a price has been and will be paid to allow the rest of us to enjoy it.
I salute and grieve for those fallen, express my heartfelt sympathies to the family and friends they left behind. If this world one day is a world without war, without hate, without fear—it is because of them and the precious gift of life they were forced to surrender.
Heroes all.
I clearly recall that day ten years ago. I wish I didn’t. I’d pried myself out of a late morning sleep after an all-night writing stint, and before heading off to my desk to resume work on whichever novel I was writing at the time, I switched on the news to the utterly shocking sight of a plane crashing into one of the Twin Towers. I stared at the TV screen with a sense of stunned horror, of numbed denial. What I was seeing simply could not be happening. What I was witnessing could not be real. It was impossible, a commercial with some scene from an upcoming disaster movie.
But the commercial never ended. Because it was no movie special effects and ludicrous plot; no Hollywood-concocted scenario so fantastically ghastly it could never occur in real life.
Oh. My. God.
It was real. It was ten years ago. It was 9/11.
And it was stained in blood upon the minds of every American and on those of many others throughout the world community. More than 3000 innocent people of all races, creeds and beliefs perished that day while the rest of us stood helplessly frozen as it happened. People thrust into an occurrence of such monumentally tragic proportions, who, unlike the characters in my books, could not overcome. Could not…survive.
And unlike those within my stories, the monsters responsible for such a heinous act were all too real, too perversely deranged, too ideologically twisted to realize the folks they were murdering were husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers. They were people, goddammit! People who did not deserve to be punished for some zealot’s bizarre envy and insane vision.
They were human beings and they were unwitting heroes. Fallen heroes. They left behind family and friends, and they left a legacy. On this ten-year anniversary of their senseless deaths we recall them with tears and grief, yet also with reverence.
There were other heroes that day, some of whom did survive—the uniformed men and women of our police and fire forces who responded to the scenes of tragedy, the dogs who accompanied them, and those citizens who helped their fellow man, despite the risk to themselves.
The man responsible for this heinous act has been brought to well-deserved justice, but in a way it seems small consolation, because we cannot bring back all the innocent lives lost.
On this anniversary we recall those people. And know not all heroes wear capes and leap tall buildings in a single bound. No, many heroes are just like you and me, just plain folk who give up, often without choice, the most treasured thing we as human beings have—our life. And who remind us in their sacrifice what we truly stand for, what we are made of. Remind us that life is a gift and the disturbed dreams of a madman are never to be allowed. Remind us of what Freedom truly is and how huge a price has been and will be paid to allow the rest of us to enjoy it.
I salute and grieve for those fallen, express my heartfelt sympathies to the family and friends they left behind. If this world one day is a world without war, without hate, without fear—it is because of them and the precious gift of life they were forced to surrender.
Heroes all.
Monday, September 05, 2011
John Locke is My New Hero
I’ve never met or spoken with John Locke, but I do believe he’s my new hero.
I follow him on Twitter, but, as if this writing, he does not follow me back. That’s ok. Why should he? He has no idea who I am or what I write, and I’m sure he’s a super busy guy. I have not read one of his Westerns or Creed novels (solely because I don’t yet own a Kindle or Nook, a situation I hope to remedy after I replace my dino dial-up computer first). To my knowledge, he has not read my paranormal series The Chloe Files or any of my other horror, western or licensed character adventure novels or stories.
That makes no difference. Because he quickly has become someone I admire and respect for his accomplishments. He talks about his heroes in his blogs, but probably does not realize how he is a hero to indie, small press and self-published authors who struggle daily to be noticed. He appears a humble person.
I mentioned this to my gym buddy the other day, while resting after a near miss between a dumbbell and my foot (which normally I like to keep in my mouth to avoid such mishaps. I have no desire to be tagged with the nickname “Stumpy.” It’s bad enough I endured “Spike” as a kid because my middle name is Lance and my Pepe had a weird sense of humor.)
“How’s Chloe?” my gym buddy asks when he sees me sitting there making sure all six, er, five toes are intact. He always asks that. He thinks she’s real (and of course we know she is; I only transcribe her journal notes, and with that chick’s handwriting that’s not always easy, lemme tell you.) He likes Chloe’s covers, because she’s, well, hot. Ok, I’ll cede him that point.
“Chloe’s a strong, independent woman,” I say. “She’d kick your ass.”
“I like strong women,” he says with a straight face.
“You like women who acquiesce.”
“Dude, I don’t care if they know how to swim.”
Oy. “Right. And you like women whose close relations end up victims of the supernatural and have deep dark secrets waiting to screw up their lives?”
He shrugs. “Dude, no relationship’s perfect. She’s my hero. She saved her boyfriend.”
I know he’s pulling my leg. At least, I think he’s pulling my leg. He’s a bit eccentric, but, of course, look who’s talking. How many folks do you meet like me whose characters start in their head and become real to the point of having casual plot conversations? But that’s normal, right?
I digress.
And try to shift the subject before it deteriorates into an triple X rating, which, with him, it often does.
“I just found a new hero,” I say, eyeing a rack of dumbbells with little enthusiasm. I am too eager to get home and start plotting a Green Hornet tale I’ve been contracted to write.
“Snooki?” he says with a dumb grin.
“Uh, yeah, because I’m a big fan of loud-mouthed little lushes who look like Oompa Loompas and get handed million dollar book contracts when there are starving authors desperately needing them.
“So not Snooki?” he says, tongue in cheek
“No, not Snooki. John Locke.”
“Who?” Puzzled look.
“John Locke.” I repeat.
“The black smoke monster on Lost?” he asks.
Well, he’s got me there, because that was the character’s name and author John Locke is a bit bald, but as far as I know he doesn’t turn into a soot snake and chomp on people.
“No, the author.”
“Does he hang with Jacob?” I think my gym buddy enjoys screwing with me.
“You know, sometimes it’s hard to have a normal conversation with you.”
He spreads his hands. “Dude, you get what you pay for. Does your John Locke know Snooki?”
“Who cares if he knows Snooki?” Annoyed now.
“She’s got a decent rack, Dude.”
“And that’s the only thing she’s got going on upstairs. But my John Locke—well, he’s not MY John Locke, but I mean the John Locke I’m referring to is the author of Westerns and adventure novels, not the guy on Lost.”
“So? If he doesn’t know Snooki, what good is he?”
“You’re just busting my chops.”
Big chuckle. “You’re too easy.”
I’ve heard that more than once, but what happens in High School stays in High School, right?
“Anyway, he’s my new hero.”
“Uh, why? What’s he done? You know plenty of authors. They aren’t your heroes.”
“I don’t know him.”
He shakes his head and starts to look like he’s losing interest, which, considering Snooki and Chloe are not involved and author stuff is shop talk, is understandable.
“Then why’s he such a big-assed deal?”
“Because he accomplished something every author dreams about,” I say.
“What did he do?”
“He’s the first self-published author to sell a million Kindle books. Probably closer to a million and a half by now. He’s also the first to hit Number One on Amazon’s Kindle best-seller list. And he did it in five months.”
“So you want him to adopt you?” It’s plain to see the facts mean little to gym buddy, but I can’t blame him. The accomplishment looks like an “author thing” but there’s a bigger picture I’ll get to in a moment.
“God…No, of course not…well, maybe…”
“I don’t get what you’re takin’ about, Dude. So this guy sold a lot of books and has the same name as the evil dude on a TV show. How does that affect you or make him a hero? Seems like he’s competition…”
“Not at all. And it doesn’t affect me, or just me. It inspires all authors who are striving to get their books noticed. It gives us all hope. Sometimes trying to find an audience and continue writing in solitude, when the economy is bad, and no one notices your work short of leaking a sex tape first, is horribly discouraging. Everyone tells you it can’t be done. Many discourage you for trying or consider it a pipe dream. Do you know how many times I’ve heard, “So what’s your real job? Writing’s a hobby, right?”
He shakes his head. “So he’s a hero ‘cause he sold a lot of books and got rich?”
“He’s a hero because he doesn’t say, “You can’t do it.” In fact, he says we can do it and encourages us to try harder. In his blog and book on how he achieved his fame, he talks about not letting the naysayers beat you down, that everyone told him his books wouldn’t sell and even after trying all the traditional ways they didn’t, but he didn’t give up. He persevered and found a way. Now he’s a success story.”
“Maybe Jacob helped him.”
“Jacob didn’t help him. He developed his own system. He gives all authors hope. He also says to do it with honesty and truth.”
“That won’t get you anywhere.” He’s joking again. I think.
The conversation drifted elsewhere after that. Too much actual writing talk makes gym buddy’s eyes glaze over. Hard to understand why THAT happens…
But what I didn’t relate to him was the bigger meaning to Locke’s success. After reading John Locke’s book on how he did it, I have to admit I’ve developed a huge admiration and respect for the man. He gives us struggling chaps hope, encouragement and inspiration, and does it with integrity. But the bigger picture is this type thing transcends the writing world. It relates to every area of our lives, any dream we care to dream.
Don’t let the naysayers and pessimists stop you from giving it your all. Don’t let petty jealousy and envy from others make you doubt your talent or your dream. Find a way. Do what John Locke did, in whatever endeavor you choose.
Oh, and pay no attention to the black snake thingy…I’m sure it’s nothing…
(PS: Note to self: Remember to leak sex tape…)
Three-hundred years ago, the tragic events that occurred in Salem, Massachusetts set free an Evil that escaped the Witch Trials and cursed the small seaside town of New Salem, Maine. That Evil now claims its due and the dark secrets long buried are rising to the surface. The war has begun. And exotic dancer, demon-ass kicker Chloe Everson is the front line between Hell on Earth and Salvation.
The Chloe Files...$2.99 on Kindle and Nook
The monkey thanks you...
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
I follow him on Twitter, but, as if this writing, he does not follow me back. That’s ok. Why should he? He has no idea who I am or what I write, and I’m sure he’s a super busy guy. I have not read one of his Westerns or Creed novels (solely because I don’t yet own a Kindle or Nook, a situation I hope to remedy after I replace my dino dial-up computer first). To my knowledge, he has not read my paranormal series The Chloe Files or any of my other horror, western or licensed character adventure novels or stories.
That makes no difference. Because he quickly has become someone I admire and respect for his accomplishments. He talks about his heroes in his blogs, but probably does not realize how he is a hero to indie, small press and self-published authors who struggle daily to be noticed. He appears a humble person.
I mentioned this to my gym buddy the other day, while resting after a near miss between a dumbbell and my foot (which normally I like to keep in my mouth to avoid such mishaps. I have no desire to be tagged with the nickname “Stumpy.” It’s bad enough I endured “Spike” as a kid because my middle name is Lance and my Pepe had a weird sense of humor.)
“How’s Chloe?” my gym buddy asks when he sees me sitting there making sure all six, er, five toes are intact. He always asks that. He thinks she’s real (and of course we know she is; I only transcribe her journal notes, and with that chick’s handwriting that’s not always easy, lemme tell you.) He likes Chloe’s covers, because she’s, well, hot. Ok, I’ll cede him that point.
“Chloe’s a strong, independent woman,” I say. “She’d kick your ass.”
“I like strong women,” he says with a straight face.
“You like women who acquiesce.”
“Dude, I don’t care if they know how to swim.”
Oy. “Right. And you like women whose close relations end up victims of the supernatural and have deep dark secrets waiting to screw up their lives?”
He shrugs. “Dude, no relationship’s perfect. She’s my hero. She saved her boyfriend.”
I know he’s pulling my leg. At least, I think he’s pulling my leg. He’s a bit eccentric, but, of course, look who’s talking. How many folks do you meet like me whose characters start in their head and become real to the point of having casual plot conversations? But that’s normal, right?
I digress.
And try to shift the subject before it deteriorates into an triple X rating, which, with him, it often does.
“I just found a new hero,” I say, eyeing a rack of dumbbells with little enthusiasm. I am too eager to get home and start plotting a Green Hornet tale I’ve been contracted to write.
“Snooki?” he says with a dumb grin.
“Uh, yeah, because I’m a big fan of loud-mouthed little lushes who look like Oompa Loompas and get handed million dollar book contracts when there are starving authors desperately needing them.
“So not Snooki?” he says, tongue in cheek
“No, not Snooki. John Locke.”
“Who?” Puzzled look.
“John Locke.” I repeat.
“The black smoke monster on Lost?” he asks.
Well, he’s got me there, because that was the character’s name and author John Locke is a bit bald, but as far as I know he doesn’t turn into a soot snake and chomp on people.
“No, the author.”
“Does he hang with Jacob?” I think my gym buddy enjoys screwing with me.
“You know, sometimes it’s hard to have a normal conversation with you.”
He spreads his hands. “Dude, you get what you pay for. Does your John Locke know Snooki?”
“Who cares if he knows Snooki?” Annoyed now.
“She’s got a decent rack, Dude.”
“And that’s the only thing she’s got going on upstairs. But my John Locke—well, he’s not MY John Locke, but I mean the John Locke I’m referring to is the author of Westerns and adventure novels, not the guy on Lost.”
“So? If he doesn’t know Snooki, what good is he?”
“You’re just busting my chops.”
Big chuckle. “You’re too easy.”
I’ve heard that more than once, but what happens in High School stays in High School, right?
“Anyway, he’s my new hero.”
“Uh, why? What’s he done? You know plenty of authors. They aren’t your heroes.”
“I don’t know him.”
He shakes his head and starts to look like he’s losing interest, which, considering Snooki and Chloe are not involved and author stuff is shop talk, is understandable.
“Then why’s he such a big-assed deal?”
“Because he accomplished something every author dreams about,” I say.
“What did he do?”
“He’s the first self-published author to sell a million Kindle books. Probably closer to a million and a half by now. He’s also the first to hit Number One on Amazon’s Kindle best-seller list. And he did it in five months.”
“So you want him to adopt you?” It’s plain to see the facts mean little to gym buddy, but I can’t blame him. The accomplishment looks like an “author thing” but there’s a bigger picture I’ll get to in a moment.
“God…No, of course not…well, maybe…”
“I don’t get what you’re takin’ about, Dude. So this guy sold a lot of books and has the same name as the evil dude on a TV show. How does that affect you or make him a hero? Seems like he’s competition…”
“Not at all. And it doesn’t affect me, or just me. It inspires all authors who are striving to get their books noticed. It gives us all hope. Sometimes trying to find an audience and continue writing in solitude, when the economy is bad, and no one notices your work short of leaking a sex tape first, is horribly discouraging. Everyone tells you it can’t be done. Many discourage you for trying or consider it a pipe dream. Do you know how many times I’ve heard, “So what’s your real job? Writing’s a hobby, right?”
He shakes his head. “So he’s a hero ‘cause he sold a lot of books and got rich?”
“He’s a hero because he doesn’t say, “You can’t do it.” In fact, he says we can do it and encourages us to try harder. In his blog and book on how he achieved his fame, he talks about not letting the naysayers beat you down, that everyone told him his books wouldn’t sell and even after trying all the traditional ways they didn’t, but he didn’t give up. He persevered and found a way. Now he’s a success story.”
“Maybe Jacob helped him.”
“Jacob didn’t help him. He developed his own system. He gives all authors hope. He also says to do it with honesty and truth.”
“That won’t get you anywhere.” He’s joking again. I think.
The conversation drifted elsewhere after that. Too much actual writing talk makes gym buddy’s eyes glaze over. Hard to understand why THAT happens…
But what I didn’t relate to him was the bigger meaning to Locke’s success. After reading John Locke’s book on how he did it, I have to admit I’ve developed a huge admiration and respect for the man. He gives us struggling chaps hope, encouragement and inspiration, and does it with integrity. But the bigger picture is this type thing transcends the writing world. It relates to every area of our lives, any dream we care to dream.
Don’t let the naysayers and pessimists stop you from giving it your all. Don’t let petty jealousy and envy from others make you doubt your talent or your dream. Find a way. Do what John Locke did, in whatever endeavor you choose.
Oh, and pay no attention to the black snake thingy…I’m sure it’s nothing…
(PS: Note to self: Remember to leak sex tape…)
Three-hundred years ago, the tragic events that occurred in Salem, Massachusetts set free an Evil that escaped the Witch Trials and cursed the small seaside town of New Salem, Maine. That Evil now claims its due and the dark secrets long buried are rising to the surface. The war has begun. And exotic dancer, demon-ass kicker Chloe Everson is the front line between Hell on Earth and Salvation.
The Chloe Files...$2.99 on Kindle and Nook
The monkey thanks you...
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
