Apple-Obsessed Author Fella

Category: The Ramble (page 387 of 479)

Yammerings and Babblings

Blackbirds For Best Horror 2012?

So, holy crap. Blackbirds — thanks, I believe, in part to folks who wrote-in votes for the book — is on the opening round list for the Goodreads Choice Awards this year for Best Horror.

I would, of course, be tickled in the pink parts if you went over there and voted for the book — provided, of course, that you liked the book and also that you didn’t find some of the other entrants more worthy (which would not surprise me, as I’m in the company of some incredible storytellers like Seanan McGuire, Jonathan Maberry, Scott Sigler, and one of my own personal writing heroes, Joe Lansdale. Not to mention one of my favoritest novels of last year, Alex Adams’ White Horse).

You can swing over to the Choice Awards voting page by clicking this clicky spot.

I’m also voting like a motherfucker for Saladin Ahmed’s Throne of the Crescent Moon in the fantasy portion, because it’s a helluva book — and a fresh face on the fantasy genre.

Thanks for everybody who supported the book and wrote reviews and said nice things to me — it’s really pretty cool to have a book out there that people are digging on. Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Skywrite your recommendations in the heavens with a plume of toxic contrails! Woooo!

Other News

I’m writing like a motherfucker these days. I’m currently hurtling through The Blue Blazes, my next book with Angry Robot — wherein I smash together the criminal underworld and the mythic and monstrous Underworld in one big crazy urban fantasy book.

That’ll be done by December.

Then I got my edits back on likely-to-be-retitled Popcorn, the first book of my Heartland YA “cornpunk” trilogy — and holy hell, the edits came to me via UPS. Written by hand on a giant bison-bludgeoning print-out of the book. Old-school editorial. Anyway — then I work through those edits (which are fairly light) while also starting the next Dinocalypse book.

Then: The Cormorant, which is the third book in the Miriam Black series.

Then: probably the next Atlanta Burns novel, tentatively titled Harum Scarum.

Then: next Heartland book.

Then: next Dinocalypse book.

Then: final Heartland book.

Then: I have no idea what happens after that. Though I’ve got a cool transmedia project in the wings that’ll take me to Vancouver in December and maybe a few film things percolating. And did I mention that I’m working on a script for a Shotgun Gravy film? True story.

I guess I start writing some new shit. And maybe another Miriam Black or Mookie Pearl book? No idea what the future holds, only that I’m happy and fortunate to have this career as a novelist appear out of the fog to carry me through the next two years or so.

Why Am I Suddenly Excited For Star Wars, Episode VII?

The Disney-Lucasfilm corporate fornication did not reach my ears immediately upon its occurrence, as I was huddling in the dark around a barrel fire, eating charred squirrel during the hurricane.

But, once it did reach my ears, my initial response was an overwhelming…

Mnuh? Guh? Eh. Whatever.

Star Wars? Big part of my youth. As it was a part of the collective youth of many in my age range. The first trilogy was a fundamental narrative marker in our burgeoning personalities, for better or for worse. It left its fingerprint. Indelible and undeniable.

Then, the new trilogy came out — and, for that I was geeked beyond belief. That hearty nerd-wind filled my sails until I finally saw Phantom Menace and… was… excited at first? And then after that, a series of diminishing returns. My mind, affected the same way an addict’s mind is affected: that single dopamine rush never again experienced. The new trilogy could not match the power of the first, and with ever repeated viewing and every new film, the geyser of pleasure lessened until eventually it was just an airy splutter from a gassy garden hose. Splurt. Pbbbt. Dribble.

I’m not one of those people who think that the new trilogy is some kind of betrayal to my childhood. I don’t think they’re the worst films ever put on screen. They have some great stuff. They also have some face-punching, head-scratching storytelling going on. I don’t think Lucas betrayed us. I just think he kinda…

Missed the mark. Hubris and hamartia.

So: new trilogy gets announced, I just wasn’t that excited. I had as much excitement as one would have when, say, hearing an announcement for a new “triple-exxxtreme-ultra-mouth-blaster” flavor of Mountain Dew: I’m happy for those that care, but I won’t be partaking, thanks.

And yet, something’s changed.

I have this feeling —

Effervescent. Bubbly. Like Mountain Dew but without the horrible taste. A giddy, giggly something inside.

You might be saying, “Ahh, it’s because Chuck heard that Lucas isn’t really all that involved.”

Nope.

Maybe it’s that Harrison Ford said he’d be happy to resume the role of Han Solo.

Or that Carrie Fisher wants to play Leia again.

Nope, and nope. (Actually, I’m not sure either of those are a good idea.)

Maybe it’s that Michael Arndt, kick-ass screenwriter and big story-thinker extraordinaire, is tackling the film? Or that they have a number of high-octane directors in line to take control of the franchise?

Nope, but that does inflate the “hope balloon” by several liters of warm, cozy air.

Here’s what it is:

When I saw Star Wars: Episode IV, I was four years old.

And, when Episode VII drops, my son will be four years old.

I’ll be able to take my son to a brand new Star Wars film.

And it’ll be his. It won’t be mine. Maybe I’ll like it. Maybe I’ll love it. But if it’s done right — and I hope that it is — it’ll mark him in a way that it won’t mark me. It’ll be a thing he remembers, a thing that gets him happy and gives him imagination fuel for the next ten, twenty, thirty years.

That’s why I’m excited. Because it’s coming full circle. It’s not about Lucas or Han Solo or any screenwriter or director. It’s about what I can show to and share with my son.

I’m excited because the Force will one day be with him, too.

*lightsaber sound*

*credits roll*

Flash Fiction Challenge: Sub-Genre Mash-Up, With A Twist

Last week’s challenge — “The Body” — exists for your ocular and psychic pleasure.

I love the sub-genre mash-up challenges. Which, if you’re not familiar with them, is when I hand you a list of sub-genres and you take two of those sub-genres and smoosh them together like two different colored blobs of Play-Do, and from the monstrosity you create, a story of 1000 words or less is born.

Moo hoo ha ha.

Ah, but this time, there’s a little twist.

I’m going to give you a theme.

Just one theme. You cannot choose another.

This theme must apply to the story that you write.

(Not familiar with theme? Let me direct you to: 25 Things You Should Know About Theme.)

That theme is:

Love demands sacrifice.

Mmkay? Love demands sacrifice. There you go.

Story must be under 1000 words.

Due by noon EST on Friday, 11/16.

Write at your space. Post a link here.

Now, for your sub-genre mash-up, take two of the following and call me in the m… I mean, and mash them together. Or, if you want to randomly choose, roll a d10 twice or use a random number generator. Enjoy.

Political Satire

Dieselpunk

Alien Invasion

Urban Fantasy

Space Opera

Hardboiled

BDSM Erotica

Ghost Story / Haunted House

Wuxia

Spy Fiction

In Which I Am Interviewed, And Captured On Film Like The Sasquatch

I am interviewed!

On video, no less. Which is always an awkward experiment that I hesitate to punish you with — but there it is, just the same. I assume you’ll forgive me. Just stare into the beard. It makes all things better.

Warmer.

Fuzzier.

Anyway. I talk about all kinds of stuff: traditional publishing versus self-publishing, metaphor, horror, outlining, porn. I round the bases. I cover all the essential elemental elements and essences.

Thanks to Joanna Penn of The Creative Penn for having me.

If you don’t want to watch the video, you can catch a text recap at her site, which also features an audio podcast version. Please to enjoy.

The Key To It All: In Which Pocoyo Explains The Power Of Story And Imagination

 

(Link in case you can’t see the embed.)

The toddler loves this show, Pocoyo.

Oh, fuck it, who am I kidding? We love it. Shut up. That cartoon kid’s cute. The duck’s awesome.

Don’t judge me, Judgey McJudgerson.

Anyway.

The above episode: I want you to watch it. I mean, I’m going to spoil it here anyway, but it’s worth your eyes. It’s like, five minutes long or something — just hunker down and commit the time.

Done?

Done.

If ever there’s been something that explains the mighty power of the imagination, it’s this episode. Pocoyo gets a key with the promise that it will open pirate’s treasure — the chest that he eventually discovers the key will open is in fact just filled with more keys.

More keys that open more treasure.

The key opens treasure and the treasure is MORE KEYS.

Holy crap. That’s it.

That is the endless bounty of the imagination.

That is the power of story. One key that leads to more keys — and each key the promise of a new journey, a new story lived, experienced, and then told. A series of doors and chests and the journey to get to them and get through them. Doors and chests that cannot merely be opened but must be unlocked. And what’s powerful is the story surrounding how we unlock those chests and doors.

Fuck yeah.

That is all. You may now go about your day. I just wanted to point you toward this.

Time To Participate In Democracy, American Humans

We are, as a people, fairly smart folks.

It’s easy to think we’re all stupid — we do, as a whole, some profoundly stupid shit. (We invented the Slanket. We watch Honey Boo-Boo. We drink soda from a 7-11 “Thirst Aborter” cup that holds more liquid than an elephant’s gastrointestinal system. We eat Funions.)

But all in all, we’re pretty fucking snazzy in the smarts department. I mean, uhh, hello — we humans invented the Internet. And cat videos. AND MOTHERFUCKING DEMOCRACY.

So, let’s all just take a moment and high-five ourselves.

Done? Good.

Let’s also admit that, though we are smart, we’re also selfish. We tend to our own needs first — and, to a point, those needs extend to our self-identified tribes, which may be a unit as small as a marriage, or a family, or a town, state, country, religion, geek clique, whatever.

And yet. For selfish people, I notice that quite frequently, we vote against our own best interests. Which actually seems to defy the notion that we are selfish, but aye, here’s the rub: we are often convinced that our own best interests are something other than they are.

We are, in a sense, seduced.

Seduced by a kind of fantasy.

That fantasy is, quite frequently, that we are one day going to be the kings of the castle. That we will be wealthy-ass motherfuckers rolling on a gooshy-wooshy waterbed filled with Goldschlager and covered in cash. We will one day live in the big house on the hill. We’ll have investments out the pee-hole. Simply put —

We vote like we’re one day gonna be rich.

It’s not impossible, after all. Class mobility is a very real thing. We don’t have castes. Our economic status is flexible. We’ve heard countless stories of someone pulling themselves up by the bootstraps, even though nobody’s boots have fucking straps anymore and if they did we’re probably look at them like, “What the fuck is wrong with your boots? OH MY GOD TIME TRAVELER GET ME MY GUN.”

Funny enough, nobody ever seems to acknowledge that class mobility is a two-way street.

So, a suggestion:

Maybe it’s time to stop voting like you’re going to one day be rich.

Instead:

Vote as if one day you might be poor.

Get shut of the myth that being poor is automatically the fault of the person suffering. I’m not so naive as to say that our fortunes are never our own doing — I’ve known plenty of people who have shot themselves in the ass again and again, earning and owning their many misfortunes. But I’m also not so daft as to suggest that sometimes? Shit happens. A tree falls on your house. The company that has employed you for 20 years suddenly shits the bed and dies, leaving you without work. A loved one dies. Car crash. Identity theft.

Bad luck. Get fucked.

Tell me: do you want to vote for a candidate who only takes care of you in the boom times? Who is there when things are good? Who doesn’t offer you a hand up so much as a pat on the back for being successful? Or is it better instead to vote for a candidate who will help you stand up when you’ve fallen? Who tries to put in place a safety net for before you fall? Who recognizes that sometimes awful things happen to not-awful people and that we need to take care of those who cannot take care of themselves?

Vote like you’re one day going to be poor.

Vote like one day you might lose your health insurance and then get sick.

Vote like one day you might get hit by an earthquake. Or a tidal wave.

Or, I dunno, I’m spitballing here — a hurricane.

Because it can happen to you. And it can happen to your friends. And family. And neighbors. And strangers.

It can happen to any of us.

Needless to say, I’m voting to re-elect President Obama. Because I think out of the two candidates, he’s the guy who’s going to help this country when it’s down. And that’s where we were four years ago. We were tumbling down, down, down the rabbit hole of recession and, at the bottom, depression. Things are, by my eyes and by most metrics, better now than they were four years ago. More to the point: our country didn’t crash into the wall and leave a trail of smoking economic wreckage littering the ground.

I’m not some Big Government guy — but I recognize that government has its place. And I believe that place is to help us when we need it — it’s easy to bemoan socialism or government programs and hand-outs when you’re not a person who can benefit from them. It’s easy to say the government should stay out of our way — but then one day you need Medicare for our aging parents, or unemployment, or ten gallons of free gasoline from FEMA so you can keep generators on for just one more night.

I’m also in favor of Obamacare. I’m a writer and a freelancer. I look forward to having real choice and cost control when it comes to my health care and health decisions.

Has Obama been the perfect president? Did he make good on all that Hopey Changey goodness? Maybe not. Certainly our president has fallen down on the job a number of times. But I still think he answered more of his campaign promises than anyone ever expected. And I don’t think he should be punished for not taking this country from zero to 60 in terms of the economy — any improvement is good improvement. Four years ago we were hurting. Four years later we shouldn’t expect everything to be an economic boomtown.

Now: if you feel that the one who will help you when the chips are down is Mitt Romney, more power to you. Message is still the same: go out and vote. Let democracy have its place. As wildly imperfect as it may be.

Oh, and do read up on your local elections, too. The economy may not trickle down as many once said — but politics sure as hell trickle up. And yes, I know, things don’t technically trickle up but let’s pretend there’s no gravity. SHUT UP WITH YOUR ACCURSED WITCH SCIENCE. We’re playing with metaphors over here.

What I’m trying to say is —

Get out and vote.

(Thanks to my wife for helping crystallize some of these thoughts.)