Ask the Author: Clark Hays
Answered Questions (11)
Clark Hays
The case of the missing "guests"
I co-write (and co-live) with Kathleen McFall. Especially before COVID-19 wrecked things, we used to take a lot of road trips in the Pacific Northwest (we live in Portland). These trips took us to some amazing and remote parts of Oregon, like Plush, where sunstones — the state gem — are mined (it shows up in our Cowboy and Vampire series). On one trip to Lakeview, Oregon, we stayed at Hunter Hot Springs “resort.” It was a sanitarium in the olds days, where people would come to take the cure in the mineral waters. After a long day of driving and hiking, we checked in — the only car in the lot — and then went straight to the pool for a soak. The pool had seen better days, with green slime on the edges, a single old garden hose dribbling in hot water and torn sheets of plastic in old window frames, flapping in the wind and revealing endless acres of the empty sage desert beyond. Memorable. It was dark by the time we got to our room, but it seemed fine. We had cocktails and ramen — we’re good at road trips — and settled down for the night. Someone must have left the door open during the day because when the lights went out, we were instantly besieged by an invisible army of bloodsuckers. There were about 10 million mosquitoes inside with us. We spent the good part of an hour swearing and swatting them off the white walls with wet towels, leaving behind little black smears, and a few crimson swipes. After another cocktail to calm our nerves, back to bed only to be rudely awoken little later by people clomping around in the room above us. Talking and banging around and bumping into things. We pounded on the walls and yelled at them to be quiet, and it settled down, but the sequence repeated every half hour or so well into the wee hours. The next morning we awoke, cranky and ill rested and made extra noise ourselves as we packed. When we stepped out into the morning light and looked up to glare at our tormentors, imagine our surprise to see there was no second story above us.
I co-write (and co-live) with Kathleen McFall. Especially before COVID-19 wrecked things, we used to take a lot of road trips in the Pacific Northwest (we live in Portland). These trips took us to some amazing and remote parts of Oregon, like Plush, where sunstones — the state gem — are mined (it shows up in our Cowboy and Vampire series). On one trip to Lakeview, Oregon, we stayed at Hunter Hot Springs “resort.” It was a sanitarium in the olds days, where people would come to take the cure in the mineral waters. After a long day of driving and hiking, we checked in — the only car in the lot — and then went straight to the pool for a soak. The pool had seen better days, with green slime on the edges, a single old garden hose dribbling in hot water and torn sheets of plastic in old window frames, flapping in the wind and revealing endless acres of the empty sage desert beyond. Memorable. It was dark by the time we got to our room, but it seemed fine. We had cocktails and ramen — we’re good at road trips — and settled down for the night. Someone must have left the door open during the day because when the lights went out, we were instantly besieged by an invisible army of bloodsuckers. There were about 10 million mosquitoes inside with us. We spent the good part of an hour swearing and swatting them off the white walls with wet towels, leaving behind little black smears, and a few crimson swipes. After another cocktail to calm our nerves, back to bed only to be rudely awoken little later by people clomping around in the room above us. Talking and banging around and bumping into things. We pounded on the walls and yelled at them to be quiet, and it settled down, but the sequence repeated every half hour or so well into the wee hours. The next morning we awoke, cranky and ill rested and made extra noise ourselves as we packed. When we stepped out into the morning light and looked up to glare at our tormentors, imagine our surprise to see there was no second story above us.
Clark Hays
I wouldn’t mind spending some time on the Greek island of Phraxos from The Magus by Knowles. Beautiful beaches, not that many people, plenty of wine and ouzo, fresh food and of course, psychosexual intrigues. Obviously, it would only be fun if Kathleen was with me and caught up in (or leading!) all the sexy mindgames.
It’s a tougher call if I had the chance to be in the fictional world of our books. The luxury domes on Mars and the devastated Earth in our Halo series would be tough to live in, even though Martian absinthe sounds lovely. And while I like the style and energy of the 40s and 50s featured in our Bonnie and Clyde series, the racism would be tough to stomach. So I think I’d pick tiny LonePine, Wyoming, from the Cowboy and the Vampire series. The vampires aren’t too bad, the mountains are beautiful and Rex, while overly sensitive, is a pretty good dog.
It’s a tougher call if I had the chance to be in the fictional world of our books. The luxury domes on Mars and the devastated Earth in our Halo series would be tough to live in, even though Martian absinthe sounds lovely. And while I like the style and energy of the 40s and 50s featured in our Bonnie and Clyde series, the racism would be tough to stomach. So I think I’d pick tiny LonePine, Wyoming, from the Cowboy and the Vampire series. The vampires aren’t too bad, the mountains are beautiful and Rex, while overly sensitive, is a pretty good dog.
Clark Hays
"You should have received an invitation for a mandatory virtual team meeting. It's on Friday at 4 p.m."
Clark Hays
I like to carve out time for a big, meaty read in the summer. This year, it's Rasputin: Faith, Power, and the Twilight of the Romanovs (Douglas Smith). Kathleen bought be the hardback, and it's a whopper at 850 pages. I've always had a morbid fascination with the "mad monk," and I think this book may well set some of my misconceptions straight.
I'm also looking forward to reading How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (Lisa Barret). I'm a big fan of books that venture into evolutionary cognitive psychology.
Two standouts from last summer were: Roadside Picnic (Arkady and Boris Strugatsky) and Porius (John Cowper Powys), so if anyone has recommendations that line up somewhere between those two, I'd love to hear them.
I'm also looking forward to reading How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (Lisa Barret). I'm a big fan of books that venture into evolutionary cognitive psychology.
Two standouts from last summer were: Roadside Picnic (Arkady and Boris Strugatsky) and Porius (John Cowper Powys), so if anyone has recommendations that line up somewhere between those two, I'd love to hear them.
Clark Hays
I’m a sucker for doomed and tragic romances, which I hope isn’t prophetic. I think it’s because love necessarily contains the seeds of destruction, once you appreciate just how much you have to lose. That's why Quasimodo and Esmerelda (from the Hunchback of Notre Dame), Tristan and Iseult (from the legends of King Arthur) and Lancelot and Guinivere (also from King Arthur) all make the list.
But my favorite couple, the saddest and most moving love story of them all, is Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac and Roxanne. In the first place, he’s a bad ass AND a poet, a rare combination, but mostly it's because he loves her so much and for so long without ever expressing himself (well, not directly anyway). And she loves him, at least she loves his words that move her so deeply and can only come from a pure heart. The ending, where he’s grievously injured and it’s too late, is one of the quietest, most powerful climaxes in literature. As they sit there in the half light as he recites the contents of the letter that broke her heart and sent the to the convent without having to read it, she realizes that she loved the wrong man all those years … well, it never fails to bring a tear to my eye.
Roxane: Yes. What's wrong?
Cyrano: With me? Nothing. It's only... only... (Displaying his bandaged hand, with a little smile.) This fatal wound.”
But my favorite couple, the saddest and most moving love story of them all, is Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac and Roxanne. In the first place, he’s a bad ass AND a poet, a rare combination, but mostly it's because he loves her so much and for so long without ever expressing himself (well, not directly anyway). And she loves him, at least she loves his words that move her so deeply and can only come from a pure heart. The ending, where he’s grievously injured and it’s too late, is one of the quietest, most powerful climaxes in literature. As they sit there in the half light as he recites the contents of the letter that broke her heart and sent the to the convent without having to read it, she realizes that she loved the wrong man all those years … well, it never fails to bring a tear to my eye.
Roxane: Yes. What's wrong?
Cyrano: With me? Nothing. It's only... only... (Displaying his bandaged hand, with a little smile.) This fatal wound.”
Clark Hays
We hashed out the idea for our fourth book -- The Cowboy and the Vampire: The Last Sunset -- while hiking the Mt. Scott trail in Crater Lake National Park. Mt. Scott is the highest point in the park with amazing views, including Crater Lake (if you've never been, put it on your bucket list). A long, sunny hike through the Oregon wilderness, apparently, is the perfect place to dream up an ancient undead death cult with designs on quirky LonePine, Wyoming. Book four will hit the shelves summer 2016.
Clark Hays
I think the real question for any serious writer (and by “serious,” I mean someone who takes the creative impulse seriously; it has nothing to do with credentials or commercial success) is how do you deal with the demands of life that keep you from writing all the time. I’m inspired to write when I first wake up and until the minute I go to sleep, but all the great ideas rattling around and desperately searching for my notebook are in constant battle with a thousand other competing claims on my time: work (which, luckily, also entails writing, just not creatively), a house in dire need of cleaning, basic personal hygiene, hunger, NetFlix (seriously, Jessica Jones, stop being so good) and a jealous, needy Kindle with about a hundred samples begging me to turn them into purchases. Inspiration is never a problem for me, just lack of time.
Clark Hays
Hi Lucy, thanks so much for taking the time to write! I’m glad to learn you are enjoying the books and are moved by the lives and decisions of our characters. You’ll be happy to know Kathleen and I hard at work on book four and hope to have it available by the end of the summer. You can stay up-to-date by liking our Facebook page (www.facebook.com/cowboyandvampire). If you are willing, please share your reading experience by reviewing the books on Goodreads and Amazon and in return, we’d be delighted to send you an advanced copy of book four ASAP. Just stay in touch!
Clark Hays
We (Kathleen and I) are starting book four in The Cowboy and the Vampire Collection. It's still early in the process, so we don’t even have a title yet, but thanks to a recent road trip to some of the best places in Oregon (here’s photographic proof: http://tinyurl.com/q2eaq66) we do have a plot line. I don’t want to give anything away yet, but there will be a death cult, plenty of heartbreak, vampire intrigues and cowboy humor and, of course, everybody's favorite cowdog, Rex.
Clark Hays
Brenda, rest assured, there will be a book four! We’re just now starting the process of plotting it out so we’re hunkering down for many months of creative intensity, hard work and lots of fights.
I have to say, I’m pleased you found book three so moving and hope you will check out book four when it hits the shelves.
I have to say, I’m pleased you found book three so moving and hope you will check out book four when it hits the shelves.
Clark Hays
I’ll probably jinx myself, but I’ve never had writer’s block. I’ve had lots of other things that keep me from writing: crippling debt, too much beer, a great new book to read, exhaustion (for the record, exhaustion can be a tremendous source of creativity — the tired brain, and mine is always tired, makes some odd and memorable connections). But those aren’t really blocks, they are just lack of discipline.
My problem is really on the opposite end of the spectrum — writers flood. I usually have too much rattling around in my brain and I have to fight the urge to sit down with a notebook or a computer and crank away to the point I forget to feed and bathe myself.
When it’s good, when the ideas are flowing and everything in my brain firing in the same direction, it’s timeless and narcotic and dizzying, but it burns out fast. Sometimes after 5 minutes. The important thing is recognizing when the good stuff is depleted … and then not stopping. Years of deadline writing have destroyed all the romantic notions of writing I once held.
In the end, I know I’m responsible for my output and not dependent upon some muse or outside source of inspiration when it comes to the creative process.
I guess that makes me a cre-athiest.
My problem is really on the opposite end of the spectrum — writers flood. I usually have too much rattling around in my brain and I have to fight the urge to sit down with a notebook or a computer and crank away to the point I forget to feed and bathe myself.
When it’s good, when the ideas are flowing and everything in my brain firing in the same direction, it’s timeless and narcotic and dizzying, but it burns out fast. Sometimes after 5 minutes. The important thing is recognizing when the good stuff is depleted … and then not stopping. Years of deadline writing have destroyed all the romantic notions of writing I once held.
In the end, I know I’m responsible for my output and not dependent upon some muse or outside source of inspiration when it comes to the creative process.
I guess that makes me a cre-athiest.
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