#terribleminds.com

[thewordriven]

Self-Care For Writers: Some Tips!

Back when I was in elementary school, we used to do that thing on Valentine's Day where you wrote little crummy cardboardy valentines (often from Your Favorite Brand™) to your other class members a...

[huddsmagruder]

The Blue Blazes

This is my second run at reviewing “The Blue Blazes” by Chuck Wendig. 

The first go-around was right after I finished reading it at a breakneck pace. I gushed a bunch of praise juice all over the Amazon.com review section for the book and I’m not sure that ever does anyone any good, though one person has since found it helpful.

Two weeks removed, I wouldn’t take back any of that praise. The book is solid; technically sound writing, excellent pacing and character development and interesting content. I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys fiction.

A few things that struck me (in no particular order):

1. Mookie Pearl, our protagonist, at no time seems like a one-dimensional thug or enforcer, though he is consistently seen as such by other characters in the story. Within the first twenty pages you give a damn about him and his world, as dark and sinister as it is. He also strikes me as a reincarnation of The Butcher from the Diablo series, walking some kind of path of redemption. A monster of a man trying to make his way in a dark reflection of our world.

2. Every character is deeper than they seem to the characters around them and we get little glimpses of how they are under the surface. They develop well throughout the story.

3. The world building is subtle and amazing. The journal entries that open each chapter add to the mythos of the darker New York City where Mookie makes his living off the titular Blue Blazes. Chuck gives you just enough and leaves room for your imagination to fill in the dark corners. Every little inch of city doesn’t need to be defined. Leaving that space gives the reader room to make the world their own, one of the key selling points of books over movies or video games.

4. A lot of people criticize Chuck Wendig regarding his use of profanity in reviews I’ve seen of his work. He’s very creative with it both on the Twitter and over at terribleminds.com, but I didn’t think it was at all gratuitous in The Blue Blazes. In fact, for the setting (mobsters and monsters), I thought it seemed somewhat light on the profanity. I guess I’ll have to dig a little deeper into his body of work before passing a blanket judgement on his average one-star reviewer, but I don’t think it was anywhere near what people make it out to be. Some folks just need something to bitch about and taking at shot at colorful language is an easy target.

All in all this is a fantastic read and I was sorry it ended. Nothing was left hanging so much that the book doesn’t stand well on its own, but there’s enough mystery in Mookie’s world that I can’t wait for the next tale (The Bloody Bride) to spill forth from Chuck’s brain.

Once I clear out a few more things from my to-be-read pile (a pile in only the loosest sense of the term, as they’re mostly digital nowadays) I’ll be picking up Chuck’s “Gods and Monsters: Unclean Spirits”. It looks to be another fun-filled ride.

If you want to give it a read, I've linked The Blue Blazes below. No one is paying me or anything, I'm just making your life a little easier if you want to get the book.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Blue-Blazes-Chuck-Wendig/dp/0857663356/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1386046782&sr=8-1&keywords=the+blue+blazes

[every-day-writer-blog]

Book Expo America or Book-sanity, Day 3: Brooklyn Bound and Beyond

Friday was much the same as Thursday. If this were an Edgar Wright film, it would be snap cuts of: Marty gets out of bed. Turns on shower. Wakes up. Coffee. Button Down Shirt. Drive. Bus. BEA. Pants in there somewhere.

Met with my friends in line again, and felt much more confident as I walked into the open aired bookatorium of the Javits Center. After making the rounds, I immediately got on line for Bill Bryson and his new book, where I met up with my friend Molly, and made some new ones.

Bill was very kind and I hope he enjoyed the baseball game he was headed off to later.

I ran over to see Rick Atkinson and grabbed two copies of his newest book for myself and my Dad. And from that, I just sort of moseyed around, saying hello to folks I'd met earlier, and enjoying the atmosphere.

Had lunch with Molly and Natalie, so that was good. Real food and good company are always wonderful.

And when they went off to get Pinkberry (whatever secret thing that may be), I popped on line for Ellen Datlow's signing of one of her new anthologies. And she remembered me, which was a pleasant surprise! Got a lovely bi-ink signature from Ellen in a beautiful copy of Queen Victoria's Book of Spells. If you haven't checked it out yet, please do. It's a great looking book, packed to the brim with even better stories.

From there, I popped over to a signing with Samantha Shannon, a young author whose first book, The Bone Season, is getting very positive buzz. Hell, she's already got a movie deal from Andy Serkis, so I suppose things are going well.

She was very sweet, if a little shy and jet-lagged, but it was nice meeting an author around my age, giving me that confidence boost/slight jealous motivation/kick in the ass, that we can make it so young. Just gotta keep writing.

One of the prizes I lucked on at BEA was this, my next mission:

I waited in line for about 40 minutes and managed to get a copy of Neil Gaiman's new kids book. It looks fantastic, and Skottie Young's artwork is fun as hell.

From there, I went and said hello to Jim Hines at the SFWA booth, and then packed it up, for I had adventures in Brooklyn to get to!

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Navigating the cobblestones and hipsterbricks of Brooklyn, I finally stumbled upon Singularity and Co., a cozy little store-in-the-wall, of used and vintage scifi/fantasy books. Chuck Wendig, he of Terribleminds fame, was having a book signing for his new book, The Blue Blazes.

It was a very nice group of people. I got to meet and chat with many talented and awesome folks, among them: Michael Underwood (in his awesome blue-blazes-esque tie) from Angry Robot and author of Geekomancy, the very lovely Joelle Charbonneau (whose new YA book, The Testing just came out, go read it!), the ever gentleman-ly John Hornor Jacobs, he of Southern Gods and Twelve-Fingered Boy fame, acclaimed crime writer Hilary Davidson, who had managed to sneak out from edits, the very kind and intelligent agent Stacia Decker, who represented many of the people there, and of course, Mr. Terribleminds himself, Chuck Wendig!

He and I have emailed a bit, I let him know about my story in Fireside Magazine and he was incredibly supportive of me. His writing and his blog have been some of the biggest inspirations to me, so it was really great getting a chance to meet him in the flesh.

Not only did he sign some of my books, hell, he gave me a candy bar since it was my birthday. What a stand up guy, even if it did turn out to be a giant bar of Bolivian Black Tar Heroin, (his words, not mine). Thanks again, Chuck!

(We are two snazzy, bearded fellows.)

And once the wine was gone, and the charcuterie plate devoured, we all went our separate ways, and I headed back home, very tired but very happy.

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It was a really great time that week, meeting so many wonderful authors, agents, editors, and other folks who work in the industry. They were all incredibly kind and supportive and happy to talk about their work and anything else I might bug them about.

So, thanks everyone, from all moments of the expo. You're all beautiful and talented and have great hair.

[oldmansneakers]

The Farmhouse

Photo from interfacelift.com

The boy sat in the old cast iron tub with hot water up to his chest, yet he shuddered when an icy chill danced across his neck. He put his hand up to the adjacent window that was slightly cracked, but noticed no breeze. He thought perhaps that the lights above the sink flickered, just barely, moments before. “It’s just my imagination. It’s just my imagination. It’s just my imagination,” he began to whisper to himself. He wasn’t sure he believed it, but it was what his mother often told him. 

All that seemed to change for the boy when they arrived at the old farmhouse. From a glance, the old place appeared warm and inviting in the late summer sun, with its broad covered porch and sweeping steps that reached out like open arms for a welcome embrace. While the parents went inside to make arrangements for their night's stay, the boy and his two cousins went off to explore the property with the hope of finding something cool to play with like the stack of hay bales at the last inn that played havoc with their allergies.

The boy, however, felt something different in the air. It wasn't so much an off smell, but something altogether indescribable. He noticed a feeling of emptiness in his stomach and an intense awareness of his surroundings. It was the sensations a gazelle might feel just before they see the lion pride; an eerie calm with a pounding heart.

He heard his cousins call for him from somewhere behind the house and decided to try and shake the weird feeling and check things out. The various buildings out back were nothing like the charming house in front. Most were in various states of disrepair, with several seeming to have either fallen, or burned many decades before. There was small sty attached to one roofless barn with a couple of filthy pigs rooting about in their own waste. Back here, the stench was overwhelming. Again, his cousins called for him, and when he found them on the opposite side of the largest barn, roof still intact, his heart sank. There, in a narrow doorway, stood an emaciated horse staring hopefully at the three boys. The poor thing appeared hardly strong enough to stand, much less walk, and the boy’s eyes began to wet with tears. 

Inside the house, the boy found his mother and told her about the things that he had seen out back. She brought this to the attention of the innkeeper, and the boy listened as the innkeeper explained to them that the land behind the house now belonged to the neighboring farm and that he has already issued a complaint that week to the appropriate office in town. He assured them both that he would take a few apples and carrots out to the poor creatures that very evening.

The boy was sent to wash up before bed. Comforted by the innkeeper’s generosity, the strange feeling the boy felt outside hadn’t returned until he was taking his bath. There, in that bathroom, the sensation was overpowering. It was like hearing a soft call your name from the dark room in a house one knew to be empty. Unwilling to let his imagination get the best of him, he quickly climbed out of the tub, toweled off, and returned only slightly cleaner to the room he was sharing with his mother.

“Wow, that was fast,” said the boy’s mother, grinning. “That might even be your best time yet.”

“Mom, there’s something strange about this place. It gives me the creeps,” said the boy.

“That’s just because it’s so old. This place was built over two hundred years ago.”

“But something weird happened in the bathroom, and I think the lights flickered.”

“Like I said…old house. Don’t worry, it’s just your imagination. Try and get some sleep. As Bill and Ted might say, we have a most excellent day planned tomorrow,” she said reassuringly.

The following morning, after breakfast, the boy returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth and have a pee while the rest of the family finished packing up. Despite the morning sun beaming through the window, the bathroom was just as eerie as the night before. Quietly urging himself to make it quick, he unzipped his shorts and began to pee when he felt something go horribly, yet intangibly wrong. If it wasn’t for the sound of splashing water, he would have thought he had suddenly gone deaf. There was nothing beyond the sound of his own breathing. Deafening silence.

The back of his neck tingled with fear as the boy walked back to his room. There, he saw that his mother and their luggage were gone. Back in the hall, still achingly quiet, he found all of the rooms empty. Terrified, he ran downstairs, hoping to find them all milling about, waiting to leave. No one. He frantically searched for what felt like hours, and though the van remained, the house was empty. He found the water still running in the kitchen sink, as though someone was just washing up after breakfast, but not one person. In the still hours that followed, the boy understood that they were simply gone, forever.

[literallycait]

Great and entertaining read about the current state of publishing, as it pertains to writers.  In particular check out #17.  People keep asking me why I'm leery of the RH/Penguin merger.  I don't know why this should even be a question. 

"In five years, there shall be but two publishers: RANGUIN SCHUSTER PENGDOMHAUS and HARPER MCHATCHET INCORPORATED. They will battle. We will lose."

[every-day-writer-blog]

This Friday, I'm linking to Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds blog, with his latest list of 25 Writer Resolutions for 2013.

Those of you who follow me should know I'm no stranger to Chuck's work. I've linked to several of these lists before, and have done an appreciation of him as well. (And there's much to appreciate: Blackbirds, Mockingbird, Atlanta Burns, his Penmonkey Advice, his constant blogging by way of intravenous mental internet techtyping, his slightly insane twittering, and have you seen that beard? Me-Ow, Batman).

So today, take some time to look these over and see if you can't apply it to your writing lifestyle for the new year. And as a sneak peak, one of my favorite quotes from this:

"21. WRITE FICTION RED IN TOOTH AND CLAW

Punch. Kick. Grab. Bite. Fuck passivity. We don’t get to be paid penmonkeys and crackerjack creators by lying on the ocean floor like a bloated sea cucumber letting food glom onto his turd-blob body. You’re not a morbidly obese shut-in who can order opportunity and creativity from Amazon (delivered with Prime Shipping to your double-wide trailer!). You are shark. You are wolf. You are shark-wolf hybrid with machete-flippers and fire-eyes and a deep and unabiding creative hunger. Creators must take aim at their goals. They must sniff out opportunity and stab it with their steely knives. You want that pound of flesh? You want your novel on shelves, your script on a screen? Move, motherfucker. Or get out the way."

You heard the man. Go become a sharkwolf.

[every-day-writer-blog]

Chuck Wendig once again comes to the heart of the matter.

A part of his, "25 Things," series, which he's been doing for years now, Chuck outlines ways for an artist to not only survive as a creative person, but thrive as well. I don't know how he always manages to do it, but like many of these posts, this is a fun, succinct, hilarious and poignant look at what it takes to keep going when the world gets you down.

It is not just for writers, but for all who use their creativity to impact the world. Go check it out, it's worth the read I promise you.

As someone who is assaulted on all sides to just, "do something," and, "pick a direction already," this quote means a lot to me.

Thanks Chuck.

"Final note: don’t let the bastards get you down. The world is chockablock with bastards. They’re like jungle vines, these bastards. Go at ‘em with a machete. A rusted one, at that, so maybe they can get tetanus. You’ll encounter bastards who say you can’t do this. Who want you to do something else. Who failed at it themselves and cannot abide the success of others. Who want to tear you apart, drag you down, make you feel like what you do isn’t yours, isn’t special, doesn’t matter. Mmmnope. Don’t let ‘em in your house or your head. At the end of the day it’s you and your creations and the audience outside. Just hammer up a sign that says: NO NAYSAYING RUBBERNECKING FUCKSTICKS ALLOWED. Then get back to work." 

[honeybadgertactics]