Archives (page 452 of 456)

January 28, 2011 / 15 Comments

Painting With Shotguns #65

I know, I know. Didn’t I say something about not doing Painting With Shotguns every week? Well, uhh. Shut up. Who said I’m back to doing it every week? Huh? Who told you that? Was it the dwarf who hangs out at the bottom of my driveway, peddling his dwarf drugs to all the neighborhood kids? He keeps selling them little baggies of elf-cap, of brinestone dust, of brimcrack. That dwarf is causing all kinds of trouble. He’s got all the kids zoned out of their gourds. This neighborhood is going to hell in a handbasket.

Irregular Creatures: Steady As She Goes

IRREGULAR CREATURES — which has a contest going where I give away a flying cat and an Amazon gift certificate — is still jogging along. Now up to 232 sales. We’re still looking at about 2/3rds of those being with Amazon, and the remaining third coming directly from this site.

My sales at Smashwords are, well, statistically insignificant. I have sold — drum roll please — two copies over there. So, that’s nice. Not really excited by my experience there. Actually, not all that excited by their site in general. Kind of ehhh, meh, pbbt, far as a shopping experience goes.

I am also woefully unhappy with the way my ePub version looks. I haven’t seen it on a Nook — some who have it there say it looks fine. I’ve checked it out on the iPad, and to me, it looks kind of like baked ass. Not happy with Smashwords’ conversion. Played with Caliber (Calibre?) — didn’t like that, either. Now toying with Sigil, which is maybe the way to go, but it’s a slow process.

I will say this, though — I am totally digging on the “direct sale” method here at the site. I know this isn’t a long-term big business solution, but let me tell you what I like about it. If you buy the PDF from me? I put your name in a spreadsheet with your email address. And as I do updates to that PDF — which I’ve done once already — I can resend it to the entire list (which I’ve done). I can immediately push the newest version back out. I see a lot of value in selling without a mediator or distributor. Again, you can’t do big numbers that way, but it’s the closest you get to a face-to-face transaction.

Did I mention there’s a contest?

Next week, I think I’ll talk a little more about self-publishing.

I also might just get drunk and fall asleep in a bowl of Captain Crunch. So, there’s that.

A Storytelling Pandemic

This week saw the end of the “Pandemic 1.0” story experience over at Sundance (the film’s still playing). I wouldn’t count this as a post-mortem or anything, but I’m happy to toss off a couple casual thoughts:

First, yeah, I know, the opening day (and some moments throughout) saw some technical goblins and boogaboos. But even still, it was crazy to see the scripted stories and the roleplayed stories come together, and in the middle of those you had people not in Sundance coordinating with people who were at Sundance. Word from Park City was that the event was a blast there — lots of people running around and checking it out. Plus, got great press attention, too. Philly Inquirer, Wall Street Journal, Wired, and so forth. (No, I don’t know the end tallies or results yet.) And also: Kid Koala. I mean, c’mon. Kid Koala rocks.

Second, it was both a storytelling experience and experiment — it comes with an unholy host of challenges. Me, I think it played well. I got lots of comments and compliments, and I’m proud of the way the Pandemic team implemented everything. If you didn’t dig it, I am seriously sorry. But I hope you did. It was fun (if challenging) to put together. And it’s not over. This was, truly, just the opening volley.

Third, speaking of the Pandemic team — kick-ass bunch of people. From the writers (who I listed last week) to people like Zak Forsman, Janine Saunders, Mark Harris, and Nick Childs. And, obviously, Lance Weiler for being the visionary madman storytelling architect behind the whole thing. And Ted Hope (our feature producer) for writing a kick-ass blog post about the whole enchilada.

It was pretty awesome what the team was able to accomplish.

Naked Golden Dudes

So, I guess the Oscars got announced. And, I guess as a movie dude, I should comment.

The Oscars are always kind of a mixed bag, right? On the one hand, I’m excited that it’s a night to celebrate film. It’s my version of the Superbowl. I’ll watch the whole thing. And, like the Superbowl, I’ll marvel that there’s too many goddamn commercials and the whole thing is taking way too long. The night also often opens people’s eyes to films they might not have seen otherwise (like, say, last year’s Hurt Locker).

On the other hand, I also know it’s at least a little bit silly. Lots of great movies won’t ever get the attention they deserve from the Oscars. Little movies and big movies alike will find only ignorance from the Academy and its arcane practices of nominating and voting.

Regardless, hey, here’s my thoughts. I’m not going to do one of those Should Win / Will Win breakdowns, because, well, you see those everywhere. Every film blogger does it. Hell, you should go check your own blog right now. You might have, in some kind of catatonic fugue state, done your own insidious list. They’re like roaches, these lists. I saw this homeless guy the other day, and he had a sign that broke down the Should Win / Will Win Oscar predictions. My dogs have their own prognostications. (The big dog wants Pauly Shore to win Best Director. For what, I dunno. He’s a dog. He’s not very smart.)

Instead, here’s a random smattering of Oscar-flavored feelings.

I loved the shit out of Black Swan, so I’m happy that’s getting some love. I would love to see Natalie Portman secure best actress. Her descent into madness (from a starting point of obsession) was superb.

Still, though, if you gave it to Jennifer Lawrence from Winter’s Bone, I wouldn’t fault you. In fact, two of the year’s best crime films — Winter’s Bone and Animal Kingdom — are getting a little love this year. If you’ve not seen either, then you will live a doomed, cursed existence until you rectify that. I’ve just cast a hex on you. A cinematic mojo hex. That shit just happened. You better get to stepping.

John Hawkes. Oscar nomination. Fuck yes.

I agree more or less with Marty Henley (aka MC Henley, aka MC Scat Cat, aka one half of the world’s biggest black man) that Toy Story 3 won’t possibly win Best Picture but it’s a shoe-in for Animated which kind of belabors the reason to even have animated. I’d argue somewhat the opposite, though, where I’d actually like to see Oscar have categories for Best Comedy, Best Drama, etc. to widen the field and allow room for some films that might never make it to the vaunted Best Picture category.

Also, I’ll agree that Toy Story 3 is sometimes really creepy. I liked it, but it’s my least favorite of the three Toy Story films. Gives off a distinct nihilistic Requiem For A Dream vibe. For reals.

How To Train Your Dragon is probably the inferior film. That said, it’s also the one I prefer — like, by a thousand miles. That flick, along with Easy-A, snuck up on me and became a fast favorite.

The lack of Christopher Nolan in the Best Director category stinks of moldy vagina.

I never thought I’d see Trent Reznor get an Oscar nod.

That is all.

Whiskey Fiction

I am, at present, drinking Balvenie Doublewood.

And in my slightly goofy Scotchy haze, I am convinced that if I were to write a series of short stories while drunk on whiskey, it would be the best thing ever and I would sell millions.

This is pure whimsy.

This is the Scotch talking.

Which makes me think that whiskey is a parasite that controls brain chemistry.

A delicious, wonderful, warm and caramelly brain parasite.

Mmmmm. Brain parasites.

And Then There’s This

January 27, 2011 / 46 Comments

Point Me In The Direction Of Self-Published Awesomeness

Let’s not beat around the bush.

I’ve got IRREGULAR CREATURES up at Amazon, and I’ve got it here and at Smashwords and a few other places. And I am, in some cases, amongst some damn good company. Anthony Neil Smith’s CHOKE ON YOUR LIES? Chris Holm’s 8 POUNDS? The TERMINAL DAMAGE collection?

Great stuff. And just the tip of the iceberg.

But c’mon. C’mon.

For every one piece of awesome “indie publishing,” you get ten, twenty, maybe even a hundred pieces of nonsense floating around. For every satchel of diamonds you get ten poop-encrusted toilet seats. For every Geoffrey Chaucer you get a hundred brain-sick spider monkeys.

The ratio isn’t yet what you’d find in traditional publishing.

Further, I’m learning more and more that the self-published author doesn’t have the same vectors of promotion. It is, by and large, up to the author (and the author’s incredibly generous audience) to get the word out about one’s own work. The normal channels of marketing and visibility and promotion (read: whoring) just don’t exist yet for the self-published dude.

Should we continue to call it self-publishing, by the way? Can we just lose the “self?” “Indie” works, I suppose, but for me, maybe “DIY publishing” has a bit more of a workmanlike ethos.

Or maybe “punk publishing.” Pubpunk? Wordpunk? Inkpunk?

Eh, whatever. I’m stumbling off the path, here.

What I’m saying is, since those normal channels don’t really exist for the self-indie-DIY-pubbed penmonkey, it helps if the penmonkey’s audience spreads the word.

So, spread the word. Here, now. Tell me about some high quality indie fiction out there. Digital, if you please. Stuff that’s on par with work that has come out through the traditional system.

And hell, if you are just such an author, and you think your work is of that quality, pimp away.

Give links where appropriate.

January 26, 2011 / 18 Comments

On The Subject Of Writing Advice

I see it from time to time: this sense of flipped-up middle-fingers, this iconoclastic anti-establishment vibe, this sentiment of, “Fuck writing advice, the only way to learn writing is to write, only those who can’t do teach, blah blah blah, suck my butt-pucker, pen-puppet.” I dig it. I get it. Once in a while I feel like gesturing at ideas and notions with my scrotum held firmly in my grip, too. “Grr! Look at my balls. My balls.”

Except, obviously, I spend a lot of time here as the dispenser of dubious writing wisdom. You may find that this practice is some mixture of awe-inspiring, helpful, irritating, or so infuriating you crack your molars gritting your teeth. Regardless, whenever I see an attack on the practice of giving out writing advice, I can’t help it: I find my hackles raised. I get a little twitchy. I taste this coppery taste on the back of my tongue, I hear this high-pitched whine, and next thing I know I wake up in the snow surrounded by 13 bodies. Always 13. No, I don’t know why. I only know that it’s getting troublesome digging all these goddamn graves.

Anywho, I figured I’d talk a little bit about writing advice from a personal perspective. Why do I do it? What does it mean to me? What do I think about it at the end of the day? Why do I keep gesturing at people with my testicles? And so on, and so forth.

I Like Writing Advice

I have long appreciated writing advice.

I don’t like all of it. I’ve never responded much to the hippy-dippy memoir vibe you get from some advisors — I prefer a look at writing and the writer’s life from on the ground. I like the pragmatic, reality-level approach (and presumably that shows in my own dispensed pseudo-wisdom).

However, there’s often a complaint that writing advice is tantamount to masturbation: the giver of advice as well as its receivers are basically just diddling themselves, and accomplishing nothing for it.

I think this can be true. Like Eddy Webb talks about at his site (“My Advice? Stop Listening To Advice“), I know full well you have those writers out there who’d much rather spend time talking about writing than they would spend time actually writing. For them it’s just a hollow intellectual exercise, or worse, a way to feel like a “real” writer without actually putting in the work.

Advice is worthless if you don’t put it into practice.

Me, I always tried to put it into practice. I’ve read a number of writing books over my years as a Rare Bearded Penmonkey — advice from Lawrence Block, Stephen King, Ray Bradbury. Now I read a lot of books on screenwriting (Blake Snyder, Alex Epstein being two favorites).

All of it’s useful. I don’t believe you can just “write your way” into being a good writer. A lot of it is reading (or in terms of film, watching). But it helps to have that information framed by those who practice their craft. You can learn stuff from writing advice. I know I have.

It’s For Me More Than It Is You

I am a selfish jerk.

I write things on this site that interest me. Things I think are funny, or interesting, or most of all, topics that challenge me. I think, “Okay, I want to take a look at this idea or problem and kick its ass.” I only talk about things that have affected me in one way or another. I try to be honest. I try to be forthright.

And I am always selfish. The advice is for me before it’s for you.

This site is a lovely sounding board.

Tools For Your Toolbox

This is how I view writing advice:

Each piece is a tool for your toolbox. You pick each tool up. You hold it in your hand. You implement it or at least imagine its implementation — whanging it against a spaceplane propeller, ratcheting up a unicorn’s horn, neutering a slumbering god — and then you either put it into your toolbox to use again or you discard it with the understanding of, “I will never need a Victorian-era cervical dilator.”

When I sit down read advice from other writers, that’s how I take it. I don’t take every piece of advice and immediately think “I’ve found the answer!” I use some. I throw away the rest. And I become better just by thinking about and tweaking my craft.

No Inviolable “One True Way”

Anybody who tells you they have The One True Oh My God Answer To Writing is full of shit. Not just regular shit, either, but some bizarre equine-cattle hybrid of bullhorseshit or horseybullshit.

Nothing I tell you here at terribleminds will be the One True Way. Hell, I won’t even suggest that it’s the One True Way for me. I change up my game from time to time. I never outlined before — I am a “pantser” at heart (which also translates to: I do not like to be constrained by pants). But, once I incorporated outlining (because I had to, not because I wanted to), it became a change-up in the way I do things.

Now, I outline. It made my job easier, and my output stronger.

Still — you don’t outline? You don’t write queries like I do? You make sweet public love to adverbs? Awesome. That’s your business. Plenty of very successful writers violate supposedly inviolable rules.

So, no, there exists no One True Way.

Ahhh, but here’s the caveat: that’s a two-way street, hombre. Many of those who loudly exclaim that there is no One True Way then cling white-knuckled to their own personal One True Way. And to that, I say: loosen your grip. Let go! Just a little. Just as the guy giving advice doesn’t have The Divine Answer, accept that you don’t have it, either. Accept that your way could always be improved. Always. Always! Nobody has a perfect process. Nobody is the best writer on the block. You can always up your game.

You don’t up your game by doing more of the same.

I don’t have the One True Way.

But that also means: nobody else does, either.

Writing Advice Is Neither Good Nor Bad

You’ll often see comments — “This is good advice,” or, “This advice sucks.”

No. Nope, nuh-uh, nichts, nah, nooooo. Well, okay, fine, you’ll probably find some truly terrible advice (“When submitting to an agent, don’t forget to prematurely insult her for rejecting your glorious manuscript. Also, use lots of misplaced commas. It’s considered ‘arty’ and will ensure that they know you are a serious auteur“). But for the most part, writing doesn’t break down into “good” or “bad.”

It breaks down to: “works for me” and “doesn’t work for me.”

Like I said earlier: every tool has its purpose. You may just not find that a given tool suits you. And that’s okay. But it may suit someone else. And that’s not only okay: that’s pretty awesome.

Duh, It’s All Bullshit

Of course it’s all bullshit. Writing advice is always YMMV. Writing advice is just like writing itself: it’s speculative, it’s fictional, it’s made-up, it’s squawking into the void. Hell, I look back at advice I gave last year and some of it sounds great. Other parts? Not so much. Opinions change. Styles change. Advice shifts. The more we know, the more we change, and the more we change, the less we know.

Which makes no sense. Shut up. No, you’re stupidfaced! What?

Writing advice is all just made-up.

But that doesn’t mean it’s useless. And it doesn’t mean you should take a dump on the practice, either — don’t like it? No problem. Don’t read it. Avoid it. Nobody would be upset with you for that. I don’t find much value in reading yarn blogs, so I don’t go and visit yarn blogs or even think twice about them. It doesn’t mean I’m going to write an angry froth-mouthed fecal screed titled, “Fuck Yarn.”

…but now I just might.

Yeah. Fuck Yarn. Right in its Yarn Hole!

*middle fingers*

*gestures with scrotum*

*urine everywhere*

January 25, 2011 / 49 Comments

Whatever, Screw That Jerk, You Totally Want To Be A Writer

Man, last week? I read this post written by some guy? And it was all like, “Blah blah blah, seriously, you don’t want to be a writer because it sucks and I whine a lot.”

What a jerk, am I right? And by “jerk,” I really mean, “cock-waffle.”

You can borrow that, if you like. “Cock-waffle.” It’s all yours. I just made that up. I just wrote that. You know why? Because I’m a writer. And you know what? Being a writer is awesome. Hell, it’s not just awesome. It’s the tits. That’s what all the cool kids are saying, right? “The tits?” Like, “Dang, this McRib sandwich is the tits,” or, “Hoo boy, those Castilian Band poets — in particular, Patrick Hume of Polwarth — were the tits!” I dunno. Sounds right to me.

See, you’re over there thinking that being a writer is one big giant sack of squirming misery. That you’d be better off sticking your pink parts in a rat-trap. That the only way to be a writer is to be a starving, broke, syphilitic lunatic whose flesh is branded with the countless rejections he hath received.

No. Bzzt. Hell no. That guy who wrote that post? He’s just trying to rub out the competition. As someone said, he’s hoping to thin the herd. But don’t you listen to him. Let me invite you into the warm, nougaty embrace of the writer’s life. We will dance on mushroom tops. We will ride giant butterflies across rivers formed of spilling ink. We’ll tickle dragons until they vomit up words of encouragement and wisdom!

Here is why you should really be a writer. Sit back as I fill your head with dreams.

Because You Make Shit Up, And Then People Give You Money

You know what I did today? I wrote about a vampire. And that vampire was being chased by zombies. And someone is going to give me money for it. That is totally absurd. In the world? People are out there doing real work. They’re fitting pipes and jiggering transmissions and manipulating the stock market from secret underwater bunkers. But me? I sit here. I make up insane bullshit. And then someone sends me a check. It’s like getting paid to eat ice cream or invent Rube Goldberg machines. This should be illegal.

Because My House Is My Motherfucking Office

You work in a cubicle farm where they grow gray fuzzy walls. Did you know the fuzz on those walls is not only a sound-dampener, but also a soul-dampener? Pieces of your fleeing soul catch on the fuzzy bits — like clothing caught on rose-thorn — never to return. True scientific fact, that.

I do not work amongst cubicle walls. I have an office where I look out a pair of windows and I see deer frolicking, foxes hunting, and titmice eating. That’s right. I said titmice. Which is not, despite the name, a mouse with human breasts. (But just you wait. Now that Obama loosed stem cells upon the world, we’ll see titted-up mice overrunning our homes and schools before you know it. He’s like Hitler, that Obama.) When I take a break, I don’t go down to the break room. I don’t have to leave the house to eat a shitty fast food lunch. I go into my kitchen. I make eggs. Or get a salad. I play with the dogs. I take an hour to do some exercise. I drink some almond milk (which is so delicious and given half a chance I would have sex with it and hope to have its little milk-babies). I’m a free agent in my own life.

You get “casual day” at work. Where you get to “dress down.”

I get “pantsless day” at work. Which is all day, every day, baby.

Beat that.

Because You’re In Amazing Company

Becoming a writer — like, a hot-dang-I-got-something-published-writer — is joining a club full of kick-ass dudes and ladies. Everywhere you turn, you’re like, “Wow, I met Favorite Writer X,” and “By the milky sweat of Athena’s butt-dimples, is that Favorite Writer Y?” And nine times out of ten, they’re just crazy nice folks. They’ll buy you a drink. You can share a meal. Or some horse tranquilizers.

The small corner of my real-life and social-media world is filled with people that slacken my jaw at every moment. And I am mysteriously allowed in their company.

Like this guy! Or this lady! Or this dude! Or what about him? And what about her? Don’t forget this fella. Or this lass. And that’s just a tiny fraction of the awesome that surrounds me any given day. Sweet Crispy Christ on a Combination Lunch Platter, how is that not exciting?

Because, Did I Mention They’ll Give You Money? And It Doesn’t Suck?

Get this:

If you can write 1000 words an hour, and you can make five cents per word (a relatively low amount), you make — drum roll please as I quick do some math in my head (carry the one, calculate Pi to the thirty-seventh decimal, get out the Enigma machine) —

Fifty bucks an hour.

Not a lot of jobs:

a) Let you make shit up

b) Let you work without pants

c) Pay you fifty bucks an hour.

I’m sorry, why wouldn’t you want to be a writer again?

Because You Have More Options Now Than You’ve Ever Had

The Internet has changed everything.

I mean, more than just making sure that we have access to the freakiest, dag-nastiest porn available to any member of history across any civilization ever.

Information is truly democratized. It takes nothing to get your story into the hands of an agent or an editor. Or, if you want, skip ’em. You can cut to the chase and get right to an audience with blogs, with Twitter, with Amazon, with Smashwords, etc.etc.

Your writing will reach the gatekeepers faster, or if you so choose, it can kick the gatekeepers in the snacks and run right into the warm embrace of your readership. Your work doesn’t even have to be all that good anymore. It can just — poof! — exist in the world with nary a thought on your part!

Fly free, crappy words! Fly free!

Hell, if you’re a genuinely good writer, you can get out there easy-breezy lemon-squeezy.

Because “Cock-Waffle”

Seriously. “Cock-waffle.”

Cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle.

Because The Fucking Snooki Book, That’s Why

Listen. Snooki got a book deal.

And Snooki is, what, some kind of subterranean homunculus that crawled up out of a burbling sewer hole somewhere? Ye gods, if that nuclear CHUD can manage to get a book deal, I’d say you have a pretty good shot. It’s clear they let any mule-kicked chimp write a book, so all you have to do is meet that barest of requirements. I’d put money that you’re a better writer than that big-haired donkey.

January 24, 2011 / 17 Comments

Irregular Creatures: The Contest

See that cat? The one with the wings? C’mon. You can’t miss it.

You can win that cat.

That’s right. I’m giving away that winged cat figurine. My wife pointed it out the other day. I nabbed it. And I said, “Someone will have this cat. I will foist it upon them whether they like it or not.”

I mean, c’mon. How apropos. Irregular Creatures is home to… well, at a rough guess, hundreds of flying cats. And some cats that don’t fly, to boot. And one pussy, but we won’t talk about that.

So, here’s your chance to win that very flying cat figurine (value, $15.00) and a $10.00 Amazon gift certificate (value: $10.00, duh). Wanna know how?

You need to do two things:

a) Buy IRREGULAR CREATURES and give me some proof that you bought it. If you procure a PDF or ePub from me directly, that’s easy. Because, hey, I’ve got the proof right there. If you buy from Amazon, then ideally you’ll show me a glimpse of a receipt or you’ll snap a photo of you reading the e-book on your das crazy Kindlemaschine. Proof of purchase goes to: chuckwendig [at] terribleminds [dot] com. [EDIT: You don’t have to show me a receipt or a picture if you don’t want. Email me, and I’ll ask you a question about one of the stories, and you can toss me the answer. Dig?]

Then:

b) You’ll leave an IRREGULAR CREATURES review up at Amazon.com. It doesn’t have to be a positive review. Hey, you hated it the book, you hated it. I won’t make you give it a kick-ass review (though I’d certainly appreciate it). Obviously, I also want you to have read the collection before leaving a review.

That’s it.

You have one week to do this. This contest ends next Monday, January 31st, at 7:00AM.

I’ll pick one of you crazy cats and kittens at random. That person will receive the flying cat and the Amazon gift certificate (I’ll pay for shipping). I’ll ship the cat to you and probably just email you the certificate (unless you’d rather that be printed out and sent along).

This contest is only open to those who currently live in the United States. Not that I don’t love you fine feathered international peeps, but I can’t afford the $786.23 necessary to ship the little cat to, say, Shanghai.

If you have already procured the book and left a review, great. Just make sure I know you’re in the running by emailing me at the above address and flashing a little proof.

If I don’t get an email, I won’t know you’re in the contest. So: be sure to email me.

That’s it, kids. It’s that easy.

Buy the book.

Leave an Amazon.com review for it.

Then tell me that you did so I don’t have to use my psychic powers to discern your involvement.

Good luck.

You can buy IRREGULAR CREATURES…

Here (PDF, ePub).

Amazon (Kindle).

Smashwords (ePub, PDF, etc.).

If you require a final sales pitch, well, here it is.

January 23, 2011 / 6 Comments

Join The Story, Save The Infected: Pandemic at Sundance

Did you hear the news? There’s a new flu bug going around.

It’s probably nothing to worry about.

Or is it?

People aren’t feeling well. Coughing, sneezing, stuffy noses, low-grade fevers.

They want to sleep. During the day, at least.

At night, the sickness changes form.

Those in its thrall might be seen sleep-walking. Or sleep-eating. Some hoard objects. Others wander the streets unaware. And this is only the beginning.

Rumor: Is it true that the flu only affects adults? What is it that makes an adult, anyway?

Park City is the nexus of the outbreak, but it’s happening everywhere.

And it’s only the second day.

You have 120 hours to become part of the story.

Tweet with the hashtag #pandemic11. Whether from your own account or another of your creation.

Follow the stories of our characters — characters like Anna, like Billy, like Bree. Or like the others. Look for the Twitter accounts with the yellow backgrounds and black numbers.

Tell your tale. Whether it’s one tweet or 100, maybe what you tell the world can save it from the spreading sickness. Or maybe it’ll be a record left behind by the next generation.

If they’re still alive. And if they’re still sane.

What do you see? Are you sick? Are your parents sick? Follow the story. Then tell your own.

Don’t forget to check the Hope Is Missing YouTube channel.

Or the Facebook page (check out the faces of the 50).

And if you’re on the ground at Park City: head to Mission Control at Sundance: New Frontier to see how you can make a difference. Maybe you even want to request a scare…

Chuck Wendig: Terribleminds