Last week I asked you about the scariest books you’ve ever read.

This week? It’s time to talk about movies.

So, hit the comments, and let us all know: what are the scariest movies you’ve ever seen? (They don’t have to be horror, explicitly — though certainly we want some of those in there.) Why did it freak you out? Was it just one scene? The whole film? Something deeper and darker?

A film that scared me early on was The Shining, less because of it’s overt fright factor. More because of it’s slow, freaky creep. I had never seen a film like it. And even now, not many horror films are willing to just be slow and strange for their (long) duration. (If I watch it now, I sometimes think it’s a bit funny — “Oh, ha ha, look at that hilarious Blowjob Koala Man! Look, Shelley Duvall runs like an embarrassed sandpiper. Oh, Jack Nicholson, you murderous ghost-talking scamp.) If you want a film that disturbs me these days — look no further than Requiem for a Dream, whose final act is so harrowing even thinking about it gives me the shivering shits.

Let’s hear it from you.

Scary, freaky, disturbing movies.

GO.

I’ll just let Publisher’s Weekly tell the tale:

For Simon & Schuster’s new SF imprint, Saga Press, Joe Monti took world English rights, in a six-book deal, to Chuck Wendig’s Miriam Black series. The books follow the titular heroine, who is cursed with the ability to see the death of every person she touches. Through the deal, Saga will release the three backlist titles in the series—Blackbirds, Mockingbird, and The Cormorant (all originally released by Angry Robot)—first as e-books, then as trade paperbacks. The deal also covers three new titles. The books are currently in development as a TV series with the cable channel Starz. Wendig was represented by Stacia Decker at the Donald Maass agency.

So, yeah, holy crap.

Miriam Black is back.

The first three books, re-released.

And three new books, too.

*flails rapturously*

Needless to say, I’m fucking geeked. Miriam Black is my jam. I adore writing her and while I always intended to continue her story (I know how it ends, after all), I did not know precisely how, when, or where. And now that path is clear.

Angry Robot has been a great publisher for this series and this character but recent situations have left them with an inability to reprint books, and further, they weren’t able to continue the series — so, thankfully we found an eager friend and capable partner in Joe Monti and S&S’s SAGA Press (which, if you missed the news, will be DRM-free).

Watch this space for dates when the backlist re-releases as e-book and then trade paper (I believe it’ll be Q1 2015 or so — I just saw mockups of the early covers and am pretty geeked about ’em, though the Joey Hi-Fi covers will forever live in the dead cankerous grotto I call a ‘heart’). Watch this space too for details on when the next in the series — Thunderbird — will reach shelves and devices. Thanks to Stacia, Joe, and all of you cuckoo kittens for being readers and fans.

This morning, around 1:30AM, my wife woke me up and thrust her iPhone into my face. “Look at this poop,” she actually really said. And there, on the screen — viewed blearily and gauzily through my sleep-shellacked eyes — was indeed a pile of canine diarrhea in the grass.

However, that word — “pile” — is notable here, because up until recently, what came out of our taco terrier’s Other End could best be described as “gray water.” And it’s been going on for months. Tai has IBD/colitis and maybe, just maybe, cancer. (Diagnostics on this are uncertain, and further tests would run us about two grand, and would tell us little as we would have no intention of running this almost-12-year-old dog through the rigors of chemo.) Her lower intestine was severely swollen and any attempts to do an end-run around the IBD with various novel proteins or special foods have failed. Worse, it’s been too little too late as the dog has been losing a lot of weight and vitality.

So much so that today we have, or rather, had, her on the schedule to be put to sleep.

We’ve now changed that appointment.

I know, it’s gross talking about DOG MESS, but last night her, erm, leavings looked genuinely improved after months of nothing. And this morning she went again, and that looked good, too. (“Good” being relative — I mean, it’s not ice cream we’re talking about.) Further, she had a bit more pep in her step today, and even (eagerly, without urging) climbed up the steps to join me in my office for the morning ritual of Both Dogs Conglomerating Around Me As I Work And Occasionally Ruining The Air Quality With A Foulness That Would Gag A Slaughterhouse Worker.

Our pup will not be put to sleep today. We moved the appointment to Tuesday (still at our home) to give her a few more days. Our last ditch effort was something I found online, not something vets had told me (and no, it’s not “collodial silver” or whatever other wizard reagents you might suggest). Some folks reported that the drug Atopica worked wonders with uncontrolled IBD, and curiously, Atopica had been a miracle drug for us and our little pooch before — early in her life, she basically had a list of skin allergies as long as Gandalf’s beard, and she was tearing herself apart. Atopica cut her allergies off at the knees and gave her a fairly normal life as a result — so, we’ve ramped up the Atopica once more. I put her on it last week, and it can take a week to show its effects. Hopefully what we’re seeing here is a glimpse of those effects.

Truthfully, this is probably still going where it’s always been going. And we wrestled with the decision of whether or not to prolong this for her — there comes a point when this gets cruel for the poor little dog. (And if she really takes a hard dip, we have an emergency vet nearby which can handle the very unpleasant task.) But at the same time, she seems a bit happier this morning, and she ate food last night (a miracle unto itself), and it feels like we can afford a few more days to see if this down-to-the-last-seconds-Hail-Mary actually does something. If it doesn’t, then Tuesday comes and she still goes, and that will be a very hard, very sad day.

But for this day, at least, our little taco terrier is still with us.

Last week’s challenge: Picking Uncommon Apples.

So, I’ve been getting some weird spam comments and emails these days.

They are vaguely tinged with horror.

Goofy horror. Worthless, not-scary horror. Poorly-written horror.

But horror.

For instance, a strong vampire theme runs through, as in this one:

My name is Clavin.,am an agent of vampire,am here to introduce our new world trend to you,a world of vampire where life get easier,we have made so many persons vampires and have turned them rich,you will be assured long life and prosperity,you shall be made to be very sensitive to mental alertness,stronger and also very fast,you will not be restricted to walking at night only even at the very middle of broad day light you will be made to walk.In case you are wildly oppressed by some unscrupulous persons we can still help you fight them.Your protection is assured immediately you join.Just contact the bellow email if you are interested we are here to attend to you anytime you want us. Contact the bellow email for more details. Email: [redacted] or phone number +[redacted]

No, I have no idea.

What I do know is that I enjoy when you can take one mode of communication and turn it to use in storytelling. (Example: HORRORSTOR, a recent horror novel that is framed as — no, really — a catalog from an IKEA-esque store. Or! HELP FUND MY ROBOT ARMY, an anthology of stories written as crowdfunding campaigns — which, not coincidentally, features a story of mine.)

So, what I want to see from you is:

A horror story framed as a spam email.

Right?

Take that assignment, run with it as you see fit.

How scary can you make a spam mail? That’s the challenge.

I’d keep it to the shorter side — 500 words or so.

Post at your online space.

Link back here.

Due by next Friday, noon EST.

I’ll pick three entrants randomly to get some free e-books from YOURS TRULY. (Though as I’m gone next Thurs – Tues at the Surrey Writer’s Conference in Vancouver, I won’t pick the random winners until Wednesday or so.)

With acerbic wit and a hilarious voice, Shane Burcaw’s Laughing at My Nightmare describes the challenges he faces as a twenty-one-year-old with spinal muscular atrophy. From awkward handshakes to having a girlfriend and everything in between, Shane handles his situation with humor and a “you-only-live-once” perspective on life. While he does talk about everyday issues that are relatable to teens, he also offers an eye-opening perspective on what it is like to have a life threatening disease.

Last year, as my blog began to grow into the hundreds of thousands of followers, I decided to write a book. Life was surreal as I queried agents, selected an agent, and sold the rights to my memoir to Macmillan. After the initial euphoria of my first book deal wore off, it was time to write. The process was unlike anything I had ever done before, and I learned some things.

[edit — I met Shane at Moravian college some time back when he wanted to talk about publishing and agents with me and fellow area author Paul Acampora, and frankly, Shane already had his shit together, had realistic expectations, and was already more ahead as a writer than I would be for ten years after — and then, when I was down in Florida doing research for The Cormorant, I went to a restaurant and saw a woman wearing a Shane Burcaw ‘Laughing at My Nightmare’ t-shirt and I went up and talked to her and — this long before he had a book — she was a huge fan. — cw]

1. Writing a memoir at 21 is weird.

When I think of a memoir, I imagine an old person lying on her deathbed, recounting stories of surfing with beluga whales and playing blackjack with Michael Jordan. There’s probably a reason I have that image in my head. I think it’s because memoirs are typically written after a person has accomplished great things, or lived an amazing life. Now, not to discredit my own awesomeness (I’m super fucking awesome), but at 21 years old, I still had a lot of life left to live.

The purpose of my memoir is to show how I use humor to cope with the muscular disease that’s slowly killing me. Obviously, there are reasons my story had to be told now, rather than later (i.e. I could croak tomorrow). But sharing my story with the world at such a young age has created some awkwardness because of the details I included.

I wrote about getting a blowjob for the first time, and I still have to look my grandparents in the eye at least once a week. I wrote about an intimate relationship that was alive and thriving at the time of writing, and I made claims about that relationship that one should NEVER make in book format. We are no longer together, as I swore would never happen in my book. I wrote honestly about people who upset me throughout my life. Those people are going to read it, and I have to deal with their reactions.

The whole thing was a balancing act of wanting to give the reader a deeply personal experience, and not wanting to say things that would come back to bite in real life.

I think I handled it okay-ly, but it was still weird.

2. Editing is a strenuous process.

After sending off the first draft to my editor, I naively expected her to come back with a few suggestions and then we’d move on to copy editing.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

No. I’m pretty sure our editing process took longer than the initial writing time.

It was one of the coolest experiences of my life to see the level of editing needed to make a book magic. My editor pushed me to give everything I could to this memoir, and I’m so thankful she did because it made the book about a thousand times better.

3. I can be productive (when I need to be).

I had six months to write my first draft. Piece of cake. At the time I was reading some of Chuck’s writing guides, and I had all these grand illusions of writing for a few hours each day. I will be done in a month, I thought.

Well, I’m an idiot. It turns out that I struggle with being productive when I’m not under the gun. I can say that a majority of my memoir was written in the final month before it was due, while also trying to complete my senior year of college. In the Acknowledgements I thank my family for dealing with moody me during the writing process. That acknowledgement is a wild understatement.

4. Publishing is like crack.

Now that I’ve been through it once, I need more. I’m done writing about my own life for a while, but I’m so excited to get started on fiction. I’ve fallen madly in love with writing over the past few years, and now it’s all I think about. Give me more. Shoot it into my veins.

WE NEED TO COOK, WALTER.

5. My iPhone is a gift from God.

Say what you will about Apple, but the devices they make made writing my memoir possible. I can’t move my arms much anymore because of my disease. I can’t type on my laptop or rummage through printed copies when editing my work.

Over the years I’ve found apps that allow me to use my iPhone as a keyboard and mouse for my laptop. I’ve used organization apps to help myself keep track of the big picture while writing. Apple’s voice dictation allowed me to write even on days when using my phone was tough. It’s incredible what technology has helped me accomplish.

Apple, you should strongly consider giving me a sponsorship of some sort. The U2 album was a nice gesture, but you can do more. I’m thinking a commercial deal with me lying completely naked on a bed of MacBook Airs, with only the iPhone 6 covering my manhood. Actually, better make it the 6 Plus.

And those are some of the things I have learned while writing! It has been a crazy experience, and I’ve loved every minute of it.

Yes.

You.

*waggles accusing finger*

Shut up and write.

No, no, I know. You just wrote me an email and in this email — like in so many other emails by so many other ‘aspiring’ writers — you informed me that you really want to be a writer, but. No, it doesn’t matter what follows after the but. Something about time. Or family. Or fear. Or lack of knowledge. Or lack of practice. Or bees. Or facebees. Or how your hands were gnawed off by winged, mutated piranha leaving you with those lumpy fish-chewed stumps.

I don’t care.

I’m writing.

You’re not.

End of story.

Shut up.

Shut up shut up shut up.

And write.

Sure, yeah, some days it is fucking hard. Some days it feels like performing rectal surgery on a cantankerous bridge troll. Some days writing is running blindfolded through a maze made of pricker bushes. Writing is an act of creation, and creation is hard. It’s volcanic. Tumultuous. These creative atoms smash together clumsily, violently, destructively. You give something to get something with writing.

But also, it’s not that fucking hard.

C’mon, son. Really? Really? I mean, nobody’s asking you to send a man to Mars. You’re not tasked with desalinating an ocean or training a komodo dragon to cure ebola. Shit, I’m not even asking you to mop up some kid’s puke or wait tables at a five-star restaurant. Or a three-star. Or a fucking Hardee’s off the turnpike.

I’m saying, sludge yourself into the ass receptacle and peck keyboard keys like a hungry chicken until it makes words. Tap tap tap. Click click click. Or pick up one of the tools used by our distant ancestors — it is a tube filled with the liquid black souls of all the animals we’ve made extinct — and use this “pen” as a scribe would to etch scribbly heretical word-shapes onto dead tree pulp.

In other words: shut up and write.

Don’t talk about writing. Stop reading about writing. Don’t even come here. This place will be here later. When you’ve done the work. This blog isn’t meant to be your distraction — a warm pool in which to wade so you never have to swim out to the big bad scary ocean. It’s not here so you can feel productive and seem like a writer. Fuck that. No no no no no. You go write. Then you come back here. You gotta start first. Everything else is just masturbation. It’s fuck or walk time, hondo.

Shut up and write.

I really want to be a writer, but…

But.

But what?

But nothing.

It’s on you. You wanna be a writer?

Easy! Write.

Ta-da! Zing! Bing! Bang! Boom.

The writer writes. The writer writes! THE WRITER WRITES.

Hell with aspiring.

To aspire is to expire.

But it’s scaaaaary, you say. Sure, sure, yes, it can be. That sacrificial component can be terrifying. It feels like exposing yourself — some kind of intellectual, creative nudity, like running through somebody else’s mind, naked. Stripped bare. To the skin. Maybe to the bone. What might you say? What might you reveal? Who are you? Who will read you?

I know! I do! And I still don’t jolly well fucking care! Shut up! It’s not like I’m shaking a box of wasps at you. The act of writing isn’t a bedroom closet stuffed full of eyeless clowns — the stink of greasepaint, the honking noses. We can slap whatever metaphors we want on the act: writing feels like jumping out of a plane, oh my oh my, and while that metaphor holds water, it still isn’t actually you jumping out of a plane, is it?

Nobody’s jumping out at you.

No sharks or animated scarecrows with pointy knives.

Write.

Write now, right now.

Shut up.

What’s that? You don’t have time?

Well, who fucking does? Everybody thinks writing is some happy horseshit anyway, and life does not automagically provide you with an allotment of hours in which to creatively dick around, so — welcome to the club. We’re all snatching minutes from the mouth of the beast.

Oh, oh, you’re afraid of rejection. Of course you are. I am too. I hate rejection. Who wants that? Who wants to be told no, this isn’t right, this isn’t good, this isn’t all there. But rejection is how you know you’re doing the work. Rejection means you’re putting words to paper and you’re throwing them out there for all the world to see. Rejection is your battle scars: proof of your fight in the arena. Nobody wants to fall down and go boom but falling down and going boom is how you learn not to fall next time. Or at least fall differently.

Or, is it that nobody respects that you wanna be a writer? Yeah, get used to that. You’d get more respect as a juggler hired out for children’s birthday parties. Who cares? Get shut of it. You’re not doing this for the glory. If this is just some fantasy, pinch off that artery right now. The fantasy of writing isn’t that glamorous, trust me. (If I turned on my webcam, you’d flinch and ask yourself, WHAT KIND OF MONSTER IS THAT HUNCHED OVER IN THE SICKLY GLOW OF A COMPUTER MONITOR OH MY GOD IT’S LIKE A FURRY BAG OF TRASH CAME ALIVE AND DECIDED TO BLOG — JESUS, GOD, THE EYES ARE HAUNTING, THE MOUTH IS HANGING OPEN, I CAN IMAGINE THE SMELL OF DEATH AND COFFEE.)

I want to be a writer, but.

Stop.

Stop there.

And start writing.

You’re either writing, or you’re not. Stop obsessing over all the things that come later. Fuck publishing, marketing, audience, writing advice, writing blogs, tweets, reviews, book covers. This is a pure, untainted time between you and the manuscript. This is unfucked snow. So go, fuck that snow up. Write! Write. Create! Tell stories. Put it down. Carve something out of nothing — you’re given a wide and briny sea of pure imagination, so draw upon it.

I can do nothing for you if you’re not writing.

I can’t make you write.

I can’t puppet your indolent, inactive hands.

I can yell and kick and flail and flounce.

But all this is on you.

Shut up and write. Right now. Literally. Leave this page, go and open a notebook or a word processing program or grab a Sharpie and turn the pale flesh of your left arm skyward and start writing. Write 100 words, bare fucking minimum. No, I don’t care what, though it’s probably better if you aim for something, if you have a purpose in mind — but even if you don’t? Who cares. Pluck those words out of the dark like catching fireflies — fling them into your jar and admire their glow. And then, if you can manage it, write 100 more. And 100 more after that. As many as you can write today and then some. Push! Bite the belt. Swig the whiskey. Grit your teeth so hard you can feel the enamel crack. You’re not lifting a car off somebody.

Point your fingers downward and fling words into reality.

HACK IT OUT.

Then: stop and be proud.

Crush doubt beneath your boot-heel because you’re doing it. You’re writing.

Cackle. Go ahead: cackle. Like a supervillain.

I SAID CACKLE, GODDAMNIT.

And then tomorrow?

Do the same thing.

Don’t tweet about writing. Don’t read this blog. Don’t opine about writing or give writing advice or worry about who will publish your book or oh god will you self-publish or will you find an agent and how will you weather all that rejection and will your book cover just be some girl in leather pants with half-a-buttock turned toward the reader no — stop, quit that shit, stomp that roach, cut those thoughts and those actions right off at the knees.

Tomorrow, write more words until you can write words no more.

Then the next day.

Then the day after that.

Until you’ve finished something. Until you’ve completed the first pass. It’ll be an ugly baby, probably. It’ll be some squalling thing full of slugs and grease, moaning in the mulch. That’s okay. No mad scientist creates the perfect monster on the first go-round.

You’re doing it.

And once you do it long enough, you can say that you did it.

Shut up.

SHUT UP.

Shuuuuuut uuuuuuup.

Halt den mund.

Užsičiaupti!

¡cállate!

And write.

Then you can email me.

Then we can talk.