What soup do you like?

I know, I know. Soup. Courting controversy with that one! I mean, sheesh. If there’s one piece of advice absolutely critical to creative creators of all stripes it’s: Don’t talk about soup on the Internet, but I’m a rebel, an iconoclast, I cannot be pinned down by your digital norms.

Didn’t Amanda Palmer just do a TED Talk about this?

Something about… about soup?

Whatever.

I want to know what your favorite soup is.

Then, second question: I demand some soup recipes.

In the last few weeks I’ve made two damn fine soups — a sausage kale soup and a vegetable soup — and I’m kind of on a soup kick, as it were. So: help me out, won’t you?

Spit in the face of controversy and speak to me of soup.

Favorite soup.

Recipes of soup.

SOUP SOUP SOUP

Last week’s challenge: “They Fight Crime”

I’m going to a random word generator.

*does that*

There. It has chosen ten random words.

Those ten words are:

1. Library
2. Ethereal
3. Dolphin
4. Replay
5. Undertaker
6. Storm
7. Envelope
8. Cube
9. Chisel
10. Satellite

You will choose five of those words.

You will include those five aspects — not just as words but as actual components of the story — in your 1000-word flash fiction this week. As always: post at your blog or online space, then link back here so we can all read it. You’ve got a week. Due by Friday the 29th, noon EST.

Pick words. Write story. Go.

Joseph d’Lacey is a fellow servitor of the Angry Robot, and he’s got a new book out — Black Feathers, which releases 3/26 as part one of the Black Dawn duology:

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

Among other things I’m responsible for MEAT, a dystopian horror novel exploring factory farming and slaughter themes. I write H/SF/F, often inspired by ecological or environmental themes.

GIVE US THE 140-CHARACTER STORY PITCH:

To avert Armageddon, two children must search for a dark messiah, The Crowman. But is he our saviour or the final incarnation of evil?

WHERE DOES THIS STORY COME FROM?

It’s the coalescing of not-necessarily-connected elements over many years.

Its roots go back to my childhood, to a batik I made in art class, aged 14. The subject was three crows in a skeletal tree, silhouetted by a red sunset. I’ve been fascinated by the beauty, intelligence and mystery of corvids ever since.

I’m convinced humans embody a spiritual essence. But I’m appalled at how destructive religion can be. And yet, in all religions, there is wisdom. To me, the stories in ‘holy’ books are metaphors for the human journey; charting the ‘unfolding’ of the individual.

I’ve had many experiences in which the natural world has been my teacher – vision quests in particular – and it stuns me that all this knowledge, about ourselves and how the world works, is right outside the door and yet we’ve become so removed from it.

I wanted to chronicle a messianic life in a secular tale, whilst retaining the idea of spirit through the imagery of crows.

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

Anyone could have written this. In essence, it’s a quest. If you believe in a finite number of story templates or plots, then it’s probably been written many times already.

Of course, it would be almost impossible to tell it in exactly the same way. I just don’t think it’s that original or unique.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST THING ABOUT WRITING BLACK FEATHERS?

I wrote it during a period when publishers everywhere were turning down all my work – even Beautiful Books who did such a great job on MEAT and Garbage Man. They then went out of business, leading to further troubles.

Black Feathers was more ‘from the heart’ than anything else I’ve attempted and yet I wrote it with very little hope. The year it took to write and the two years spent rewriting and trying to find a home for it were quite tough.

WHAT DID YOU LEARN WRITING BLACK FEATHERS?

I learned that when I care about a subject, I overwrite. I learned that the story I most want to tell is the one I should write now. I learned that even though I write my books alone, I never write my books alone.

And all the things I always try to teach in writing classes? I learned about them. Again.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT IT?

Black Feathers is full of mystery about the nature of The Crowman – is he for the good or will he destroy everything? As well as making for an intriguing read, it’s a question we could ask about ourselves.

Although the book deals with the end of the world, it is full of hope for the future. It’s an apocalypse pregnant with possibility for a change.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME?

I’ll never write a book like this again. For start it was too long; over 250K. Angry Robot suggested splitting it and so it became a duology, improving it immeasurably.

I’ll use more structure in future novels and I probably won’t take any part of the process so seriously.

GIVE US YOUR FAVORITE PARAGRAPH FROM THE STORY:

“I do not want to recount it. I do not want to recall the casting out of so much goodness, nor the reaping of so much pain. But, for the sake of all of us, I must and I will. Mark it well. Tell your kin and those you love his story. Tell them this: Satan walks nowhere on this Earth, nor has he ever, save where he treads within the human heart. Tell his story and let us keep the Crowman alive for as long as our kind walks the greening byways of this world. Above all, make them understand one thing: the Crowman is real.”

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AS A STORYTELLER?

More fantasy; more tales with adolescent heroes and heroines; more tragedy; more worlds just out of reach; more stories in which the outer journey reveals the inner; and ever more refinement.

I hope.

Joseph d’Lacey: Website

Black Feathers: Amazon / B&N / Indiebound

James Tuck is equal parts bad-ass and bonafide sweetheart, but when it comes to writing, he’s all business — his Deacon Chalk series is already three books deep, and here he’d like to sit in the terribleminds hot seat and answer ten questions about Book 3, Blood and Magick:

Tell Us About Yourself: Who The Hell Are You?

I’m  the big scary guy at the bar who’ll actually talk to you, assuming you aren’t an asshole or trying to puke in my pockets. Hell, I’m a normal guy who just happens to write a series of books about a hyper-violent, die-hard Catholic, death wish havin’ monster fighter and his oddball crew of allies including a Were-rabbit, a Were-spider, a chain-smoking priest, and stripper with murderous ghost spiders straightline jacked into her brain. I’m a husband and a dad and a tattoo artist and a Southern boy and an asshole and a fanboy and a best friend to my dog, and a lover and a fighter.

I’m James R. Tuck, spinner of yarns, teller of tales, and professional maker up of shit.

Give Us The 140-Character Story Pitch:

Witches come to town and all Hell breaks loose.

Where Does This Story Come From?

It’s a logical progression from things that I set up in books 1 and 2 (BLOOD AND BULLETS and BLOOD AND SILVER for those keeping score at home).

But I really wanted to show Deacon’s progression, how his faith really configures in his fight against evil and how an extended, chosen family and love interest might affect his war on monsters. To really put him in a crucible and see what he’s made of. Plus, I got to really go all Hammer movie modernized with the witches. These aren’t wiccans on a bad day, these are real deal daughters of the Devil satanic witches and they are awesome!

How Is This A Story Only You Could’ve Written?

The story only works if it is told portraying both Deacon’s faith in Catholicism AND his propensity for brutal violence as a solution to all situations in an honest light. The juxtaposition of a character who honestly prays the rosary and shoots monsters in the face is something I enjoy. I work hard to get the religion and the weapons right. I busted my ass to give this book a raw honesty with everything the characters go through, no matter how brutal it is. I never pull back, never look away, never soft sell it. You need to see the brain matter on the page and I give you that right next to a tender kiss between lovers, all without a fucking flinch.

What Was The Hardest Thing About Writing BLOOD AND MAGICK?

Because the book is a result of things that happened in book 1 and 2 my biggest struggle was to write in a way that allows new readers to get on board without being lost and still not info dump for the readers who have been on board from the start. NO BACKSTORY IN THE FIRST 50 PAGES! Damn hard advice to follow, but it’s true. I held to it . . . mostly. 🙂  One day the publisher will let me do a PREVIOUSLY ON:  sum up section at the front of the book where I can do a quick couple of paragraphs to get new readers up to date without having to put any of it in the book itself. One day.

What Did You Learn Writing BLOOD AND MAGICK?

I learned a lot about craft. It’s the third book I ever wrote ever and I’m pleased with my progression as a writer. I held onto the things I rocked in the first two books and cut out the things I sucked ass at. I tend to get pretty repeato-James and I think I killed almost all of that this go around.

What Do You Love About BLOOD AND MAGICK?

I love the villains. The witches are both deliciously evil but at the same time have great motives for what they do. One of them will creep you the fuck out, one of them just might make you cry.

I love the new character I created in this book. (read it to find out)

I love the dialog. It’s snappy and funny in a very noir kinda way. I’m pleased.

Finally, I love that I just went THERE. Balls out, 90 MPH into a brick wall, gonzo cross-eyed crazy THERE. From the get with this series I said I wouldn’t hold back and baby in this one I really didn’t hold back. It’s all hanging out there on the page for you to see. All the sex, all the violence, all the creepy, all the tragedy, all the humor . . . everything I could put in this damn book is there.

What Would You Do Differently Next Time?

There is a crucial scene, a powerful scene, that happens. I won’t spoil it, but it is HUGE in the book and huge in the mythology of the series. I would have stayed in that scene just a touch longer, really let what happened stay in our sight as readers for a minute.

Other than that, nothing. Not a damn thing.

Give Us Your Favorite Paragraph From The Story:

She drove that midnight blade deep through the center of my chest. It slid in slick and sharp. The witch behind it rushed in, pressing close, leaning her weight into it. Her eyes were wild, spinning like loose marbles of basalt. This close I could see things rippling through the inky surface, maggots under the thin skein of a cornea. Her breath was hot on my face, carrion sweet and rotten vegetable musk like compost.

What’s Next For You As A Storyteller?

Holy shit 2013 is busy for me.

I’m finishing an urban fantasy based off the Lovecraft Mythos that is really dark and disturbing and totally kick ass. In some ways it’s even darker than the Deacon books, cutting the urban fantasy with some straight, hard-core, Ed Lee level horror.

I’m editing a Sword and Sorcery anthology from Seventh Star Press and will have a story in that.

Being part of the Outlaws Of Fiction (Me, Brady Allen, Steven Shrewsbury, and D.A. Adams) we’re doing a novella 4-pack of weird westerns.

I’m writing a not-for-public-consuption-yet collaboration with a terrifically talented, NYT Bestselling author friend of mine. It’s an urban fantasy retelling of a classic fantasy story. It is gonna rock. We are a few chapters in and it’s off the chain.

The next 3 Deacon books are proposed and in the inbox of my editor so there should also be some more crazy ass Deacon Chalk from me.

And if I find the time there is a 40,000 word YA faerie love story banging on the inside of my skull next to a post-Biblical apocalypse weird western fantasy epic.

James R. Tuck: Website

Blood and Magick: Amazon / B&N / Indiebound / Books-A-Million

@jamestuckwriter

So, earlier this morning (late at night for him), Richard Kadrey and I talked about writing. And about ninja monkeys and kidnapping writing students and about diapers and whiskey.

You just have to read it.

(Kadrey is, of course, the man behind the kickass Sandman Slim series. Which you should check out. I need to get caught up on the latest two books, but the first three are cracking.)

(I’ve embedded the conversation below. Thanks to Caitlin O’Sullivan for curating!)

*wakes up in puddle of spit and vodka*

*checks watch*

*glances up at calendar*

Wuzza?

Ugh.

Oh, shit.

It’s that time of the year again, isn’t it?

Whoo. Okay. Deep breath. Deep breath. Do some calisthenics — is that how you spell that? “Calisthenics?” Do people even say that word anymore? Whatever. Focus. Focus.

I’ll power-chug a kale smoothie. Do I want it as an enema? *whistles* Okay, we don’t have time for that. Enemas need a lot of tubing, bagging, all that clean-up. And the registered nurse I keep on my Authorial Payroll has gone and fucked off again to Puerto Vallarta, so.

I’m just going to have to do this blind.

Here we go.

Are you sitting down?

Good.

YOU SHOULD QUIT WRITING NOW.

*pant pant pant*

Okay. Okay! There. We’re over the hump. We’re past that part. Like swallowing a horse pill!

Whew.

Let’s see. I think now it’s time to go through all the reasons you should quit, right? I know I have a list around here somewhere. AH YES, it’s tattooed to this hobo’s back. Hold on, let me flip him over (he’s sleeping, the dear). Ah! Ah. Here it is. WHY YOU SHOULD QUIT WRITING.

It’s not 25 reasons, but fuck it, it’ll do.

Hm, okay —

You’re probably not that good.

Sure, sure, that tracks. I mean, who is? So many great writers out there. What are the chances that you’re among them? Eh. Slim. Are you even fit to lick boots? Mmmm. NO.

What’s next?

The publishing industry is a parade of cannibals eating one another.

Truth. It’s just a circle jerk of zombies — the dead who don’t realize they’re dead yet! Stumbling about, eating each other. Soon there won’t be anything left but a foamy blood smear on the sidewalk. Publishers are basically doomed. We’ve smelled the char on the wind for a long time now, haven’t we? I mean, shit, are books even published anymore? I haven’t seen a book since Clinton was president. Hell, there’s only one Barnes & Noble left. It’s way out on old Route 66 — it’s just a ghost, shimmering in the heat haze. You go in, you never come out again. And if you do, you only come out with — *crash of thunder* — BOARD GAMES AND COFFEE DRINKS.

What else?

Your chances are next to nothing.

Might as well be zero. Nobody gets published anymore. I’m not even published. Oh, I know, I know, you think you’ve read my books, but HA HA HA it’s all an elaborate ruse. I just sell bundles of index cards laced with high-test hallucinogens. DMT, ayahuasca, some kind of LSD you have to cook in an E-Z-Bake oven with that little fucking lightbulb. You get this shit on your hands, you’ll believe any of the lies that come tumbling out of my mouth like horse apples.

*goes down the list*

There’s no money in it.

Virtually none. I mean, this guy made it to the Amazon bestseller list and he made nothing. Nothing at all! And by “nothing,” he of course means $12,000 dollars, but that kind of money won’t buy you a sweet-ass hovercraft or a diamond-encrusted poodle, so what the shit is the point? ALL WRITERS USED TO BE RICH and now it’s just, you know, the rain of caviar and supermodels has dried up. The gravy train has turned to a curdled milk wagon. Sure, you might think that $12k on a book put out by a small publisher across a single distribution medium that made the bestseller list for a short week based on some dubious media attention is a good number. NOPE. Dude should be raking in fat cash. What happened to the world?

See? So far, SO QUIT.

*keeps poking the list*

Takes too much time.

Takes like, 10,000 hours to get good, then ten years to write a book, another ten to get published, then another ten to start collecting royalties. Who the hell am I, Yoda? Fuck that.

It’s hard.

Super-tough. It’s like, putting one word after the other — ? And then making them make sense? And then using those words and that sense to invent some story about some blah blah blah fake people who blah blah blah get into some imaginary predicament — oof. I’d rather be shoveling animal feces. Or taking fire in a hot zone. Is that what they call it? A “hot zone?” Whatever. I’m just saying, tangoing with terrorists would be HELLA EASIER.

Rejection.

Yep, you’ll be rejected. IN THE FACE AND GENITALS AND SOUL.

Hearbreak.

Your heart won’t just be broken, it’ll be run through the irritable bowels of a literary agent.

*flips through the rest of the list*

I mean, you know all this, right? It sucks. It’s hard. It takes fucking forever. Low advances. Zero respect. Self-publishing is for shlubs. Traditional publishing is for slaves. Amazon is eating everybody and everything. You’re probably getting worse, not better. You’re sad. You’re old. Best days are behind you. Or you’re young and you’ve got no shot. You’ve got nothing to say and no one to say it to. It’s hopeless. Who cares? *poop noise*

This is where I sum up, right? I tie it all together? Say something pithy? Offer you some kind of choice as if that’s meaningful? That sounds right. It’s been a while and I’ve been drinking.

Here goes.

Like I said, you should probably just quit.

If you read that and there’s some part of you that’s nodding along, great. Hey, listen, go be happy doing something else. Writing isn’t here to make you miserable. Why do that to yourself? Why do that to the rest of the world? Not everybody gets to be everything they want to be. I once thought I could be a radio DJ, a rock drummer, a cartoonist, a sex god, whatever. But as it turns out, my general sluggishness combined with an overly active imagination and paired with a propensity to a) drink and b) avoid pants seemed to add up on the Aptitude Test that is my life to one thing: writer. It may not add up like that for you. Maybe you’ll be a sex god. Or a monkey wrangler. Or the owner of the world’s only cat rodeo. Hell, maybe you just want to stay home and sit on your couch-imprinted ass and play video games all goddamn day.

Find your fucking bliss, dudes and dudettes.

If, on the other hand, this post fills you with a magma spout of rage that sears the back of your throat, good. Maybe you really are a writer. If your response to this is to shut down the browser, punch social media right between the 1s and 0s and open up your word processor and write the best fucking thing you’ve ever committed to paper, awesome. Hell, even if you open it up and write a relatively mediocre piece of crap that can be improved with effort, that too earns you a freeze-frame high-five because that proves that this is a thing worth doing. It’s not about talent. It’s about possessing the desire to do it and then the discipline and diligence to back it all up. You’re not born a penmonkey. You choose to be one.

So, make your choice.

Whatever happens, stop blaming other people for your failures. Stop complaining. Stop dicking around. Start doing that thing you want to do and do it with all the love you can fling into it.

If you’re a writer, you’ll write.

If you’re a quitter, you’ll quit.

And if you’re some other thing, find that other thing and be that.

Follow your path. Know your truth. Ride your spirit animal into the supernova or some shit.

*checks the hobo’s back*

I think that about covers it.

*looks back at the hobo list*

Oh, wait, goddamnit, I did do 25 reasons on why you should quit writing!

Never mind. Go read that instead.