Category: The Ramble (page 309 of 462)

And so the pumpkin carving contest is complete.

Six entries total. And I promise you: this is a very hard decision on my part.

Check out the entries, which I’ve named (the name of the entry is above each photo):

“The Uber-Zombie.”

“Cernunnos’ Cage”

“The Zombie Pigman”

“Typewriter Eyes”

“The Penmonkey”

“The Blighted”

(For a bonus version of the Penmonkey one — here’s a shot of it glowing.)

These are all very exciting, obviously. I mean, I want to vote for them all and cover them in kisses (WHAT SHUT UP I CAN MAKE OUT WITH A PUMPKIN IF I WANNA.) Just the same, everybody can’t be winners (unless it’s elementary school), and so I have chosen —

*drum roll*

“Cernunnos’ Cage!”

It’s both a killer pumpkin and a cool-ass photo. (Love the way the light reflects on the book.) And it depicts a whole scene straight out of the book, which is a win.

So, that’s my winner.

It is the pumpkin of Melanie Weisberg, aka Rattify from the Twitters.

Melanie, you win a big ol’ stack of books from me. So: I’ll email you! Congrats!

NOW, it is your turn to vote for a winner.

Drop a comment below and vote for your favorite (excluding Melanie’s “Cernunnos’ Cage,” as she already won once!) — the second prize winner gets three Miriam Black e-books, including a copy of the newest, The Cormorant.

To vote: just put the name of your favorite pumpkin entry in the comments.

Again: do not vote for Cernunnos’ Cage.

The others are fair game.

EDIT: Voting ends at midnight tonight!

VOTE AWAY.

You’re ankle-deep in your NaNoWriMo novel, I’m guessing, by now.

So, this seems like a good time to ask: how goes it? It’s still early. How’s the energy? The vibe? Is it working for you? Anything not working? Be in terms of schedule, story, character, plot, theme, caffeine levels, general pantslessness, heinous fuckery, and the likes?

Give us an update. How goes NaNoWriMo for you so far?

Anything anyone can help with?

These are my ten favorites, with the three winners listed at the bottom. Note: I sent emails to the winners already but if you didn’t get the email (I used the ones attached to your comments), gimme a shout at terribleminds at gmail dot com.

—

The call from her daughter was brief, just a panicked “Mom, he’s” and a truncated scream as the line went dead. The authorities searched for three torturous months, every long day more desperate than the last. A year later she began returning home via UPS, one gift-wrapped organ at a time. — Momdude

—

A little birdy looked at me, and its eyes began to glow–like something possessed, I thought at best, so I said, “It’s time to go!”
I started to leave, and I grabbed my girl, but she stopped and shook her head: “I like it here,” she said with a grin, “Let’s feed the birds instead.”
Her eyes glowed too, so I killed her, quick, though the waste was just absurd; I felt a bit foolish my girlfriend got ghoulish, so I stomped the hell out of the bird. – zer_netmouse

—

I have no explanation for why I dragged a dead man down my stairs and tied him to a chair in my basement. He had my name, my wallet and id; he had my face. I was so sure he was dead until his eyes shot open and he said, “It’s too late to change it now.”
 — Gabriel Ramos

—

“I’m alone. You’re not real.”
“Goodnight, Mommy.”  erincopland

—

At first they bled and twitched beneath her steady hands like newborn hatchlings.

Soon, hundreds of eyes moved in unison as they followed the quivering movement of her thread and needle.

When the task was done, the maid, now a crone let the thousands of hands propel her forward so she could join the quilt of human flesh. – Francesca Carrillo

—

The doctor said, “Just a little spider-bite, son, nothing to worry about.” Then the first new moon came and the worst part wasn’t the segmenting of the limbs I already have, bones cracking and skin thickening under newly coarse hair—it was the four extras that pulled themselves out of my ribcage. This silver rope connecting a tree branch to my neck is here because I got used most of it—to the Thirst; to the pale bodies the next morning; to avoiding mirrors—just never could get used to the way the little ones felt so at home with me, crawling everywhere, even when I had half the legs and the moon was bright. – Paul Hamilton

—

Daddy left yesterday and mummy cried all day. I found her sleeping in the car this morning and curled up next to her. It was easy to fall asleep, even with the engine running. – garethwiscombe

—

It hummed towards me on thousands of impossibly light feet, so immense that the plate-like sections of the millipede’s long body could have served as armor for a warhorse. They creaked like ancient leather as the insect paused to run one antenna over my bound body, and I couldn’t even scream. It appeared to be dinner time. – Aimee Kuzenski

—

I look at the sky, hoping for snow-bringing clouds, while I try hard to ignore all the movement underneath the layers of brown and yellow that cover the ground. The piles of dead leaves are closer again, it seems. With a tremble, I’m beginning to realize that this autumn may never end. – mbizzare

—

The man on the phone says, “Any moron can get into the house, but I’m the only one who can get you out, as long as you haven’t eaten or drunk anything inside.”

“Why, what happens then?” I ask, glancing from the phone to the half-empty glass in my hand.

He pauses a minute, then says, “Well, then you belong to the house.” – nytwriter227

—

So, that’s the bunch that I really liked.

Top three, for me?

nytwriter227 because, hey, I wanna read more.

mbizzarre because who thought eternal autumn would be so creepy?

and

erincopland for not just three sentences, but a mere seven words to get to the horror.

Emails away!

And well-done, you weirdos.

Last week’s challenge: The Sub-Genre Smash-And-Grab

This week is pretty easy.

If you’re doing NaNoWriMo, here’s a place to share your 1,667 words (if you were so inclined).

That’s it. Easy-peasy.

(Every week won’t be devoted to this, but I thought it’d be interesting if folks cared to offer up their first day’s writing on the slab.)

Post at your blog, link back here.

Please to enjoy.

You: *panicked gulps of breath*

Me: You seem a little wibbly.

You: Oh, I’m wibbly. Super-wibbly. Wibbly to the max.

Me: *looks at calendar* Oh.

You: It’s National Novel Writing month.

Me: I see that. So: you’re writing a novel.

You: *vomits in a shoe*

Me: Definitely writing a novel. Also, that was my shoe.

You: Sorry.

Me: I didn’t like that shoe, anyway. A very hateful shoe. So, what’s the prob?

You: I just — I can’t — baaaaaah. *flails and points at the blank screen*

Me: The empty page.

You: *gasping*

Me: Tabula rasa. The blank page is some terrifying business.

You: It’s scaring the shitkittens right out of me.

Me: Understandably. The white page is all cliff, no bottom. It’s an endless pit. A snowy expanse without a single track to follow — and you’re thinking, if I go stomping my boots into this stuff I’m going to ruin it. It’s pristine, now. Untouched. Infinite possibility. The novel you’ve not written will always be more interesting and more vibrant than the one you do. That novel, the imaginary one, the eternal multiplicative one, is like a flawless fucking diamond.

You: It is. So I shouldn’t write it.

Me: *kicks your shin*

You: Jesus, ow.

Me: I guess it wasn’t the shoes that were hateful. It’s my feet. My violent, angry feet. Anyway: shut up about not writing the novel. What are you, an asshole?

You: Maybe. Probably. You said the unwritten novel was perfect.

Me: It is! In your mind. And you can always go and tell people, Oh, I’m writing a novel, and they’ll mmm and ohhh and they might even look impressed and if that’s all you want — the illusion of writing, the acknowledged potential of writing — hey, fuckin’ great, go on and keep pretending to write that novel. But for my mileage, I’d rather have an imperfect story penned in blood and coaldust than the gleaming perfect unicorn fart that lives inside my head.

You: Unicorn farts live inside your head?

Me: I hate you so bad right now.

You: That’s fair. Okay! Fine, I’ll write it, I’ll write it. You’ve convinced me. If only because I’m afraid you’ll kick me again.

Me: An entirely reasonable fear.

You: I have another fear: the fear I’m not good enough.

Me: Well, so what? What the fuck does ‘good enough’ even mean, anyway?

You: Good enough to get published. Or publish myself. Or be read. OR TO EVEN EXIST AT ALL.

Me: This is a first draft. Calm down, Twitchy McGee. May I suggest you care less about your work? You’re not saving babies, okay? And besides, good enough is a made-up metric. It’s not like there exists some kind of checklist. You’re not the one to judge. The audience will judge. And the only way they get to judge is if you’re willing to write this first draft and then edit the unmerciful sin out of it until it’s as good as you can possibly make it. You need to give them that chance, and that means letting go of this absurd horseshit notion of ‘good enough’ and instead grab hold of a far stronger and more applicable one: are you determined enough? Are you disciplined enough? Are you stubborn-as-a-motherfucker enough? That’s the metric. That’s your measure.

You: Okay. Okay! I can maybe do this. Do I need to write to market?

Me: The only market that matters is you. This is your book. Barf your heart onto the page.

You: Uh, ew. Also: that sounds easier said than done.

Me: It is. But it’s worth doing just the same. Listen: put one word after the other. Approximately 2000 of these a day. Throw in periods and commas where appropriate. Make sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into chapters. Put characters on the page and in those chapters that interest you. Have them do things that scare you and delight you in equal measure. Commit them to plots and ideas that compel you and that have no easy answers. You’re the first audience. Entertain yourself. Challenge yourself. Let the story lead. Let your own desires for the story lead. Fuck what anybody else thinks right now. This isn’t for them. This is for you. This is a test. This is the Tough Mudder of novel-writing. This is mud and electric shocks and rabid badgers and Sarlacc pits and homeless doomsday preppers with knives made of glass and electrical tape —

You: You’ve never run the Tough Mudder, have you?

Me: No, but I’m pretty sure that visual is accurate.

You: It’s not.

Me: Shut up, Captain Howdy. Daddy’s talking. Listen: anybody can be a writer. No writer wants to admit that — because we want to feel like special precious spacemen who are breathing rarified space air with all our particular and peculiar writernaut training. But writing is a mechanical act. It’s just plonking words down onto a page. Storyteller is more than mechanical — that’s where the art really lives, in the storytelling, but even there, storytelling is an act that’s twisted around our DNA. Everybody tells stories. We tell stories about that guy we saw at the bank, about that car accident, that night at the High School Prom, that time we did that thing with the double-dildos at the shopping mall. Half our lives are remembered as and communicated via story. So this is just that: you utilizing the mechanical act of writing to impart the intuitive act of storytelling.

You: You make it sound so simple.

Me: It isn’t. And it is. And then it isn’t again. Nobody said you’re going to be a good writer. Or a paid or successful writer. But that’s not the point of National Novel Writing Month. It might become that, later on. But for now: it’s the act of doing. The act of commanding dreams down from the ether and staple-gunning them to the fabric of reality. This is you stomping your footprints across the artistic landscape.

You: *stares at the blank page again, vomits*

Me: At least you missed my shoe this time.

You: *wipes chin* I’M SO NOT READY

Me: No, you’re not. I’ve written way too many novels in the last two years alone and I’ve written screenplays and games and short stories and nope, I’m never really ready. Sometimes I think I am. Sometimes I realize I’m not. And it doesn’t matter. Because being really truly ready would ruin the fun. You know how you get ready? How you get good enough? By doing exactly this. By writing. By finishing. By editing. And by going back and doing it all again and again.

You: I’m going to do this.

Me: Yes, you are.

You: I’m going to write a book.

Me: And it will be one of the coolest, weirdest things you’ve ever done.

You: Awesome. I’m gonna go write now.

Me: You wanna make out first?

You: I just threw up.

Me: That’s okay. I brought Altoids.

You: Sure, okay.

Me: *hands you an Altoid*

Wesley Chu is a dangerous deviant and should be apprehended immedia — *checks notes* — nope, that’s the wrong page, sorry. Wesley Chu is a fellow Angry Robot author whose first book, The Lives of Tao, kicked all kinds of ass up and down the charts, and now he’s back with the second in the series:

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

Hello, my name is Wesley Chu and I’m on Terribleminds Ten Questions for the second time this year which completely blows my mind. For those of you who are like “Wesley who?” (Which I’m pretty sure is most of you), I’m the author of The Lives of Tao and the upcoming The Deaths of Tao, both published by the almighty and magnificent automatons at Angry Robot Books.

On top of that, I’m a member of the Screen Actors Guild, I work at the Death Star, and I practice a form of Kung Fu where I walk in circles for hours. I also have an Airedale Terrier named Eva who talks to me in a Marge Simpson voice, and I used to be able to touch my toes to my chin without bending my knees. I’ll give you a sec to think that over.

GIVE US THE 140-CHARACTER STORY PITCH FOR THE DEATHS OF TAO:

After LoT, all Hell has broken loose and shit just got real. Genjix busting out the super soldiers. Roen can’t keep it together #stinkytofu

WHERE DOES THIS STORY COME FROM?

My brain wants to take credit for it, but I’m going to have to say this story came from my gut and my butt-clenching fear of not making my second book deadline.

Business writerly stuff aside, I spent the entire The Lives of Tao building Roen Tan up into a somewhat competent agent. In The Deaths of Tao, I wanted to take him for a spin and see what mettle he’s made of. Basically, I let loose the dogs of war on his ass, throwing everything at him, including gangsters, eugenic super-soldiers, and a really pissed off wife.

HOW IS THIS A STORY ONLY YOU COULD’VE WRITTEN?

In The Lives of Tao, Roen was an unhappy out-of-shape loser who found his inner beast mode by the end of the book. I was an unhappy corporate drone who worked a soul-sucking career. In a way, Roen and I grew up together with the debut. The story continues after the epilogue though. Roen had new challenges to face in The Deaths of Tao, and I had the same in writing it.

In The Deaths of Tao, after Roen had achieved his goals of being a confident agent, he became deeper embroiled in the Quasing war. For me, after the whole “look ma, I wrote a book!” and shiny bits of being published wore off, I had to start writing The Deaths of Tao right away and learn the business of being a contracted author and treating it like a job as opposed to a hobby. Once a writer makes that transition, it’s a whole different ball game then. I’d like to think that Roen and I grew into our new roles together.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST THING ABOUT WRITING THE DEATHS OF TAO?

Sequels are tough. I like to compare it to a band’s second album. The first album is great. After all, it’s what got you signed with a record label. Your band probably spent years polishing it up and putting the best tracks in it

“Now,” the record producer says after the first album’s out, “make another album. Now!”

Suddenly, your band is contractually obligated to be creative on demand. It’s a whole different beast and a lot more stress. That transition from being a first time author to a professional was tough. Thank God for my writing support group, and scotch. Actually, it was mostly just scotch.

WHAT DID YOU LEARN WRITING THE DEATHS OF TAO?

A book is a snapshot, and things you’ve already published earlier in the series are set in stone, laminated, basically part of the Ten Commandments of your series. It’s too late to change anything, so the little tidbits you didn’t think carefully through in the first book? Well, they’re front and center now. Suck it up.

For example, remember those characters you absolutely loved and killed in Lives, Wes? Don’t you wish you could have some of them back right now to play with? Well, they’re still dead, and you’re not operating in the Marvel universe, so deal with it!

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT THE DEATHS OF TAO?

I love that in The Lives of Tao, I leveled Roen up. In The Deaths of Tao, I took him raiding. Yeah, I just used a World of Warcraft reference. High-five!

But really, that’s how I view his transition from the first book to the second. Roen used the skills he learned in Lives and applied them to his missions in Deaths. Seeing his growth over the course of the series makes me feel like a proud parent. My boy’s all grown up! Let me shed a tear while I throw him off the side of a tower and see if he survives.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME?

I would get to know my characters a lot better before putting them down on paper. I introduced a new main character, Enzo, in The Deaths of Tao and he continued to shock me again and again. So much so at that at one point, I had to pull back and think, “ok, you little crazy psychopath. I gotta rein you in.” There’s nothing wrong with giving your fictional creations a little decision making leeway, but just like kids and the Internet, give them a mile and they’ll hang you with it.

GIVE US YOUR FAVORITE PARAGRAPH FROM THE STORY:

Hutch, standing next to Roen, coughed and fidgeted with his jacket. Thirty-six gangsters, dressed to the nines, surrounded the small table, drawn guns half pointing at them and half at each other. Roen poked Hutch and gave him the don’t-get-us-shot glare. The gangsters were already on edge. The last thing they needed was to see an anxious foreigner making sudden moves.

Sixteen behind you. Ten on both sides. All armed and probably awful shots. Four bosses in front. Oh, and you have Hutch, the narcoleptic guard. You got a plan to get out of this?

Roen swiveled his head to his left and counted the number of armed thugs wielding bats, machetes, and guns, and then he counted the ones to his right.

He shrugged. “I got nothing.”

I find it ironic that you had a plan to fight your way out of Prophus Command, but not out of a triad warehouse. I am starting to doubt your loyalties.

“Or intelligence.”

Or will to live.

“Or delusions of invincibility.”

Okay. You win this one.

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AS A STORYTELLER?

I recently signed a deal with Tor Books and hope to have my current work-in-progress, Time Salvager, out on book shelves by 2015. The book follows a time traveler named James who scavenges technologies and resources from a more prosperous past.

Time traveling is strictly regulated. Salvagers can only scavenge from dead end timelines—events preceding an immediate disaster, explosion, or accident—where the resources salvaged will not affect the present. The problem with this job is that the salvager experiences the last few tragic moments of the victims before the disaster. That tends to mess with a person’s head.

Also, assuming the robot overlords give the green light, I’ll start on the third and (maybe, maybe not) final book of the Tao trilogy, tentatively called The Rebirth of Tao. The synopsis has been planned out and any silly distractions such as friends and family have been put to the side. Let’s roll!

Wes Chu: Website / Twitter

Deaths of Tao: Amazon / B&N