Joel Arnold's Blog, page 9
March 28, 2011
Genealogy
Working on some genealogy over the weekend and made some good progress. I found the graves of my g-g-g-g-grandmother Lucy Demar, at Calvary cemetery in St. Paul. My g-g-g-g-grandfather Louis Demar is also buried there, but I think his grave marker was covered with snow, and I couldn’t find it. I found their obituaries in the St. Paul Dispatch (on microfilm at the Minnesota History Center’s library). Louis’ obit made an important connection for me; it confirmed that he was also known as Louis Demarais, which I suspected, but had no proof. (The obit was actually under the name ‘Demarais’ but mentioned that he was known as Louis Demar.)
Also, I found this text that mentions a Xavier Desmarais, who I believe is Louis’ brother. It fits the timeline and location. Anyway, Xavier is apparently the mail-carrier mentioned (and he’s mentioned by name later in the text.) The text is from the reminiscences of the missionary Augustin Ravoux (his Wiki page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Augustin_Ravoux ) and he gets a bit preachy, but it's an interesting snapshot of the time. (The text is from 'Reminiscences, memoirs, and lectures of Monsignor A. Ravoux', which was published in 1890).
“April 3, 1843, the mail-carrier, who carried the mail on his back, and I, (Father Ravoux), left Mendota, and on that day traveled a few miles only. The second day we reached Point Douglas, started early the morning of the 5th, and just at twelve o’clock we were at Red Wing, where we dined, having a good appetite, as we had already traveled twenty-seven or twenty-eight miles afoot. After dinner we resumed our way on the river, went on about a mile, but had to come back to Red Wing; the day being fine and warm, there was too much water on the ice, and we could not proceed any further. We traveled by land the whole afternoon, and it was not without much fatigue that we reached a place on the bank of Lake Pepin, about fifteen miles distant from Red Wing. The next day we arrived at Wabasha.
April 8, before leaving Wabasha, we had been informed that we would find no difficulty in crossing the Desembroi River; but it was not so, the river was high and there was no canoe in which we could pass over. My traveling companion then said to me: “Father, I will have to go back to Wabasha for a canoe; will you return with me to Wabasha, or, if you prefer to stay here, I will make a fire for you, and I hope to be back this afternoon, or to-morrow morning?”
“Well,” said I, “better for me to remain here, I will recite my office, and take care of our little baggage.” He made a fire, started off, and did not return until the afternoon of the following day.
Though alone, time had passed rapidly enough. I had under my eyes two beautiful rivers, a clear sky, a good fire, and nothing to disturb my mind. It is then that the voice of nature is easily heard and understood. …
April 9, at two o’clock in the afternoon, I saw my traveling companion coming down the Mississippi River in a canoe. As soon as he had arrived, the mail and our little baggage were thrown into the canoe, and we resumed our journey by water. We went on a few miles without obstruction, and we were very much pleased with our new mode of traveling; but we soon perceived that all our troubles were not yet over, for a little farther we were stopped by the ice, and it was with much labor that we landed on an island where we passed the whole night without fire. In the morning we crossed on the ice to the bank of the river in Iowa Territory. Before taking our breakfast, we stood on the shore of Mineiska river, and we had ford about three feet of very cold water in order to get across. When we had arrived at Winona, which was then a prairie without inhabitants, we thought we would meet there the mail-carrier from Prairie du Chien; but he had not yet come, and my companion had to bring the mail to Trempeleau where he expected we would arrive before dark. Vain expectation! We passed the night on the bank of the river, and not until the next morning did we dare to attempt to cross. At Trempeleau the two mail-carriers met and exchanged the mails. Two or three families only, lived in that place.
It was impossible, for two days, to travel by land or by water; but on Good Friday, the 14th of April, we started for Prairie du Chien in a canoe, with the expectation that we would arrive there before Easter Sunday. We had scarcely come down the river three or four miles when we were entrapped by floating cakes of ice, which, piling up in great quantity, had become jammed, making the river rise and placing us in dangerous circumstances. As we found that all our endeavors to open a passage for our canoe were useless, we prayed to God for relief. It was during the time of Lent, time of prayer and penance; it was on Good Friday, a day especially consecrated to the meditation of the Passion of Jesus Christ. These thoughts came into my mind, and I manifested them to my companion by words, spoke of the resignation of Jesus to the will of His Father: “He humbled himself, becoming obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. For which cause God hath exalted Him and hath given Him a name which is above every name.” (Phil. ii).
What a beautiful example of resignation! What glory hath the Eternal Father bestowed of His beloved Son for His voluntary sacrifice upon the cross! What powerful encouragement for all those who suffer! How consoling to reflect upon such subjects, to him who is in danger of being buried under the water, or being crushed under a pile of ice on the bank of a river.
In our distress we invoked also Mary, the mother of the afflicted, we recited the Rosary, and Glory be to God! immediately after, a narrow passage was open, just permitting the canoe to reach the shore without difficulty.
We had, however, to wait until Saturday morning before being able to proceed any farther. The night was cold, we had no fire, and I could not sleep. We started early in the morning, and we took our breakfast at Mr. Labathe’s winter trading post, where we had to leave our canoe, and then we traveled until six o’clock, took our supper in a place where Bad Axe River empties into the Mississippi River, borrowed there a bark canoe, and started off again for Prairie du Chien.
The river was high, the current very strong, and we went on very fast, which caused me great pleasure, because I desired very much to celebrate Mass on Easter Sunday. At 11 o’clock, again new anxiety, new trouble and fear. My companion, Mr. Xavier Desmarais, who guided the canoe, was almost overcome by sleep, and gave such shakings to it, that I feared he would upset it, or break it by running it against some floating trees. “Xavier,” said I to him, “what is the matter? What is the cause of such shakings of our canoe?” “I fall asleep.” “Let us land and stop to prevent some accident!” “Oh, Father! let us go a little farther; to-morrow, it will be Easter Sunday. We proceeded a little farther, but when I saw that the danger was more and more imminent I requested him to land, and so he did. We took a rest of two hours on an island, then we started again, and after six or seven hours of navigation we arrived at Prairie du Chien. When I reached the church, the first Mass being over, I said the High Mass, at the request of the Very Rev. Father Cretin, with whom I had the great pleasure of spending one day.”
Also, I found this text that mentions a Xavier Desmarais, who I believe is Louis’ brother. It fits the timeline and location. Anyway, Xavier is apparently the mail-carrier mentioned (and he’s mentioned by name later in the text.) The text is from the reminiscences of the missionary Augustin Ravoux (his Wiki page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Augustin_Ravoux ) and he gets a bit preachy, but it's an interesting snapshot of the time. (The text is from 'Reminiscences, memoirs, and lectures of Monsignor A. Ravoux', which was published in 1890).
“April 3, 1843, the mail-carrier, who carried the mail on his back, and I, (Father Ravoux), left Mendota, and on that day traveled a few miles only. The second day we reached Point Douglas, started early the morning of the 5th, and just at twelve o’clock we were at Red Wing, where we dined, having a good appetite, as we had already traveled twenty-seven or twenty-eight miles afoot. After dinner we resumed our way on the river, went on about a mile, but had to come back to Red Wing; the day being fine and warm, there was too much water on the ice, and we could not proceed any further. We traveled by land the whole afternoon, and it was not without much fatigue that we reached a place on the bank of Lake Pepin, about fifteen miles distant from Red Wing. The next day we arrived at Wabasha.
April 8, before leaving Wabasha, we had been informed that we would find no difficulty in crossing the Desembroi River; but it was not so, the river was high and there was no canoe in which we could pass over. My traveling companion then said to me: “Father, I will have to go back to Wabasha for a canoe; will you return with me to Wabasha, or, if you prefer to stay here, I will make a fire for you, and I hope to be back this afternoon, or to-morrow morning?”
“Well,” said I, “better for me to remain here, I will recite my office, and take care of our little baggage.” He made a fire, started off, and did not return until the afternoon of the following day.
Though alone, time had passed rapidly enough. I had under my eyes two beautiful rivers, a clear sky, a good fire, and nothing to disturb my mind. It is then that the voice of nature is easily heard and understood. …
April 9, at two o’clock in the afternoon, I saw my traveling companion coming down the Mississippi River in a canoe. As soon as he had arrived, the mail and our little baggage were thrown into the canoe, and we resumed our journey by water. We went on a few miles without obstruction, and we were very much pleased with our new mode of traveling; but we soon perceived that all our troubles were not yet over, for a little farther we were stopped by the ice, and it was with much labor that we landed on an island where we passed the whole night without fire. In the morning we crossed on the ice to the bank of the river in Iowa Territory. Before taking our breakfast, we stood on the shore of Mineiska river, and we had ford about three feet of very cold water in order to get across. When we had arrived at Winona, which was then a prairie without inhabitants, we thought we would meet there the mail-carrier from Prairie du Chien; but he had not yet come, and my companion had to bring the mail to Trempeleau where he expected we would arrive before dark. Vain expectation! We passed the night on the bank of the river, and not until the next morning did we dare to attempt to cross. At Trempeleau the two mail-carriers met and exchanged the mails. Two or three families only, lived in that place.
It was impossible, for two days, to travel by land or by water; but on Good Friday, the 14th of April, we started for Prairie du Chien in a canoe, with the expectation that we would arrive there before Easter Sunday. We had scarcely come down the river three or four miles when we were entrapped by floating cakes of ice, which, piling up in great quantity, had become jammed, making the river rise and placing us in dangerous circumstances. As we found that all our endeavors to open a passage for our canoe were useless, we prayed to God for relief. It was during the time of Lent, time of prayer and penance; it was on Good Friday, a day especially consecrated to the meditation of the Passion of Jesus Christ. These thoughts came into my mind, and I manifested them to my companion by words, spoke of the resignation of Jesus to the will of His Father: “He humbled himself, becoming obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. For which cause God hath exalted Him and hath given Him a name which is above every name.” (Phil. ii).
What a beautiful example of resignation! What glory hath the Eternal Father bestowed of His beloved Son for His voluntary sacrifice upon the cross! What powerful encouragement for all those who suffer! How consoling to reflect upon such subjects, to him who is in danger of being buried under the water, or being crushed under a pile of ice on the bank of a river.
In our distress we invoked also Mary, the mother of the afflicted, we recited the Rosary, and Glory be to God! immediately after, a narrow passage was open, just permitting the canoe to reach the shore without difficulty.
We had, however, to wait until Saturday morning before being able to proceed any farther. The night was cold, we had no fire, and I could not sleep. We started early in the morning, and we took our breakfast at Mr. Labathe’s winter trading post, where we had to leave our canoe, and then we traveled until six o’clock, took our supper in a place where Bad Axe River empties into the Mississippi River, borrowed there a bark canoe, and started off again for Prairie du Chien.
The river was high, the current very strong, and we went on very fast, which caused me great pleasure, because I desired very much to celebrate Mass on Easter Sunday. At 11 o’clock, again new anxiety, new trouble and fear. My companion, Mr. Xavier Desmarais, who guided the canoe, was almost overcome by sleep, and gave such shakings to it, that I feared he would upset it, or break it by running it against some floating trees. “Xavier,” said I to him, “what is the matter? What is the cause of such shakings of our canoe?” “I fall asleep.” “Let us land and stop to prevent some accident!” “Oh, Father! let us go a little farther; to-morrow, it will be Easter Sunday. We proceeded a little farther, but when I saw that the danger was more and more imminent I requested him to land, and so he did. We took a rest of two hours on an island, then we started again, and after six or seven hours of navigation we arrived at Prairie du Chien. When I reached the church, the first Mass being over, I said the High Mass, at the request of the Very Rev. Father Cretin, with whom I had the great pleasure of spending one day.”
March 22, 2011
Aliens, Ninjas, and Plasma Canons—"The Bear That Fell From The Stars"
Joel sez: I'd like to introduce you to writer Keith Blackmore. Here's an interview with him about his newest novella:
Keith C Blackmore’s newest novella is a Science Fiction tale of a crew of interstellar scientists who unwittingly abduct a ninja. The shadow warrior escapes and begins to demonstrate to the visitors exactly why they are to be feared throughout the galaxy.
Q: Where did you come with the idea?
A: I’ve always enjoyed historical mysteries that are demystified--where events can be twisted into a plausible (or fantastical)”what might have happened” kinda story. “The Bear that Fell From The Stars” is my attempt at shedding some light upon a mystery that I’ve thought about for years. I also think it’s time for a good ninja tale, and I hope this meets with approval.
Q: What’s the novella about?
A: It starts off with a silk merchant who wants a local lord in his area dead. He approaches a ninja clan with the task and a man called Kazaka is sent to after the lord. For a short time, Kazaka gathers information on the man he is to kill. Then, on the night the assassination is supposed to take place, the ninja becomes the victim of an alien abduction, and he’s whisked away to an alien mothership to be the subject of horrific scientific experiments. Kazaka escapes captivity, however, and the tables quickly turn upon his otherworld captors. It isn’t long before the hunters become a body count.
Q: What research did you do for the story?
A: Mostly on ninja techniques and weapons. I used to live in Japan, where I met a guy who actually studied the ninjutsu discipline. Because I knew a little of the martial arts in general from my own training, I was able to talk shop and become friends. Some very interesting conversation were had. Ninjas are scary.
Q: Why is it only a novella?
A: Short and sweet, I figured. I could have expanded upon the story a little more, but I like the pace of the piece as it stands. If folks read it and come away wanting more, then I’ll be happy.
Q: What do you like best about the story?
A: Maybe the action scenes. I really enjoy writing action scenes, but I also like the idea of this ninja from feudal Japan, who is placed into an impossible situation, who overcomes his own fear, and makes his abductors rue the day they ever came into contact with him.
Q: Where can people buy the novella?
A: Right now, only on Amazon, at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RVSUL4/
and only .99 cents.
Q: Where can readers find out more about your work?
A: Go to www.keithcblackmore.com and take a look around. There are some free short stories there, some sample chapters, and some guest blogs from some very interesting authors. If I’m up to something, you’ll be able to read about it there.
March 21, 2011
What Scares You?
Before I sat down to write my novel Northwoods Deep, I’d come to the realization that not much scared me anymore, at least in terms of horror fiction. Don’t get me wrong. I love the genre. Always have and always will. But while horror fiction could thrill and excite me, it rarely scared me. I hadn’t experienced that goose-bumps-on-the-arm feeling in a long, long time. Why? Had I grown jaded? Too cynical? Was I just not reading the right things?
So as I plotted my novel, I asked myself what scares me? It wasn’t vampires or werewolves or mutant jackrabbits. Sure, those can be vehicles for good scares when handled correctly, just as they can be vehicles for romance or comedy or angsty-teen novels. It wasn’t gore, even though I appreciate a well-written gore scene as much as the next fella.
What scared me?
I wracked my brain and eventually realized that my biggest fear was loss. Loss of family. Loss of my faculties. Loss of the control of my body, of determining my destiny. And what if I’d been responsible for the loss of someone I loved? How would I deal with it? Could I deal with it? That’s where the character of Jack came from; a man responsible for the loss of his mother in a drunk driving accident.
Jack’s sister Carol also suffers from loss; the loss of control amidst the chaos of an abusive ex-husband who refuses to leave her alone no matter what she does.
And Allen, their father, suffers from the loss of not only his wife at the hands of his son, but also suffers from the loss of his ability to cope with reality.
When this family – the Gunderson family – finds something hidden deep in the woods that hints at a new reality, although one merely hallucinatory – how much are they willing to sacrifice for it?
So…loss scares me. And while there is suspense and gore and even an evil entity in Northwoods Deep, these are not what make it a horror novel – at least not to me. These are not the things that really scare me. The thing that really scares me is that simple universal fear of loss, and of things never again being the same.
What scares you? If you want to write an effective horror novel, try to figure that out. Sure, you can use vampires and werewolves and mutant jackrabbits, but remember that they’re merely vehicles through which we can provide the scares – not the scare themselves.
And okay, I lied. Mutant jackrabbits really do scare the crap out of me.
*** This post originally appeared on Keith Blackmore's blog *** http://keithcblackmore.com/guest-author-joel-arnold
So as I plotted my novel, I asked myself what scares me? It wasn’t vampires or werewolves or mutant jackrabbits. Sure, those can be vehicles for good scares when handled correctly, just as they can be vehicles for romance or comedy or angsty-teen novels. It wasn’t gore, even though I appreciate a well-written gore scene as much as the next fella.
What scared me?
I wracked my brain and eventually realized that my biggest fear was loss. Loss of family. Loss of my faculties. Loss of the control of my body, of determining my destiny. And what if I’d been responsible for the loss of someone I loved? How would I deal with it? Could I deal with it? That’s where the character of Jack came from; a man responsible for the loss of his mother in a drunk driving accident.
Jack’s sister Carol also suffers from loss; the loss of control amidst the chaos of an abusive ex-husband who refuses to leave her alone no matter what she does.
And Allen, their father, suffers from the loss of not only his wife at the hands of his son, but also suffers from the loss of his ability to cope with reality.
When this family – the Gunderson family – finds something hidden deep in the woods that hints at a new reality, although one merely hallucinatory – how much are they willing to sacrifice for it?
So…loss scares me. And while there is suspense and gore and even an evil entity in Northwoods Deep, these are not what make it a horror novel – at least not to me. These are not the things that really scare me. The thing that really scares me is that simple universal fear of loss, and of things never again being the same.
What scares you? If you want to write an effective horror novel, try to figure that out. Sure, you can use vampires and werewolves and mutant jackrabbits, but remember that they’re merely vehicles through which we can provide the scares – not the scare themselves.
And okay, I lied. Mutant jackrabbits really do scare the crap out of me.
*** This post originally appeared on Keith Blackmore's blog *** http://keithcblackmore.com/guest-author-joel-arnold
March 14, 2011
Leave No Wake
I released my short story 'Leave No Wake' in ebook format last month, but I don't believe I mentioned it here.
Here's the description:
'Meet Mr. Varney and Mr. Johnson, two old men who run the Arrow Point Resort in central Minnesota. Situated on a chain of lakes, this quaint resort offers the usual amenities; shuffleboard, night crawlers, cabins for rent, and gas for passing boaters. Best of all, they offer the things that money can't buy; the most beautiful sunsets west of the Mississippi, the smells of campfires and motor boat exhaust, the songs of loons and frogs in the night. Simple, yet charming memories that stick with a person long after they've gone back home.
But the peacefulness of the Arrow Point Resort is broken when stripper Gina Veale checks in and her ex-boyfriend comes looking for her. When Benny, the foul-mouthed turtle boy, finds her body, the two elderly resort owners realize the case may not be as cut and dried as it seems. They want to make sure the right person is put in jail, even if it means risking their lives.
Leave No Wake originally appeared in the Nodin Press anthology RESORT TO MURDER alongside stories by best-selling authors such as William Kent Krueger, Ellen Hart, and David Housewright.
Please join author Joel Arnold as he takes you on a trip up north in this short story where even the prettiest of waters still have a bit of chill left in them.' It's available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Sony, Kobo, the Apple iBook store -- and I hear that if you have your fillings aligned just right, you can download it to your teeth.
http://www.amazon.com/Leave-Wake-Arnold-Quickie-ebook/dp/B004O0U7VE http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Leave-No-Wake/Joel-Arnold/e/2940012642776/?itm=2&USRI=joel+arnold http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42581
Here's the description:
'Meet Mr. Varney and Mr. Johnson, two old men who run the Arrow Point Resort in central Minnesota. Situated on a chain of lakes, this quaint resort offers the usual amenities; shuffleboard, night crawlers, cabins for rent, and gas for passing boaters. Best of all, they offer the things that money can't buy; the most beautiful sunsets west of the Mississippi, the smells of campfires and motor boat exhaust, the songs of loons and frogs in the night. Simple, yet charming memories that stick with a person long after they've gone back home.
But the peacefulness of the Arrow Point Resort is broken when stripper Gina Veale checks in and her ex-boyfriend comes looking for her. When Benny, the foul-mouthed turtle boy, finds her body, the two elderly resort owners realize the case may not be as cut and dried as it seems. They want to make sure the right person is put in jail, even if it means risking their lives.
Leave No Wake originally appeared in the Nodin Press anthology RESORT TO MURDER alongside stories by best-selling authors such as William Kent Krueger, Ellen Hart, and David Housewright.
Please join author Joel Arnold as he takes you on a trip up north in this short story where even the prettiest of waters still have a bit of chill left in them.' It's available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Sony, Kobo, the Apple iBook store -- and I hear that if you have your fillings aligned just right, you can download it to your teeth.
http://www.amazon.com/Leave-Wake-Arnold-Quickie-ebook/dp/B004O0U7VE http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Leave-No-Wake/Joel-Arnold/e/2940012642776/?itm=2&USRI=joel+arnold http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42581
March 11, 2011
Writing time
I've negotiated with my wife for more time to write. Actually, it was her suggestion; I'd been a bit depressed lately, feeling like I wasn't making nearly the progress on my writing like I wanted to, so she thought we should treat it more like a part-time job than a hobby. Now, on my writing nights, we tell the kids, "Daddy's gotta go work." It seems to make it easier to deal with, gives the writing more of a legitimate place in my life, showing that I take it seriously.
I really appreciate that Melissa is helping me with this. I appreciate that she realizes how important it is to me.
And what I realize as I have these longer swaths of time with which to write is that writing is fucking hard. Sure, when you treat it as a hobby, waiting 'til inspiration strikes, writing a bit here and there when you have the time is one thing. But when you sit down with the mindset of producing work whether you feel like it or not - that, I suppose, is what separates the wheat from the chaff.
So here's to my wonderful wife, who gets it.
I really appreciate that Melissa is helping me with this. I appreciate that she realizes how important it is to me.
And what I realize as I have these longer swaths of time with which to write is that writing is fucking hard. Sure, when you treat it as a hobby, waiting 'til inspiration strikes, writing a bit here and there when you have the time is one thing. But when you sit down with the mindset of producing work whether you feel like it or not - that, I suppose, is what separates the wheat from the chaff.
So here's to my wonderful wife, who gets it.
March 10, 2011
You write what???
Sometimes when someone asks me what I write, I feel a bit embarrassed to tell them I write horror. I find myself mumbling at times, and more than once have gotten the response, "Whore? You write whore?"
No. Horror.
See, I have this rather annoying nature of wanting to please everybody. I hate confrontation -- at least in real life. (In fiction, confrontation is king, queen and royal jester!) I hate disappointing people.
Horror? Oooh -- you write horror? Yuck. I don't read horror. Why can't you write something nice for a change?
Well, I have written other things. A few mystery short stories, some travel articles, a YA suspense novel, middle-grade historical fiction. But my first love, and the one I just can't quit, is horror. And I gotta think that at least some of these folks who poo-poo horror are more than happy to use the Bible as their ultimate moral compass. The Good Book. The Holy Bible. They must realize that the Bible contains more horror than an entire shelf of Stephen King novels, right?
When Abraham lifts his knife into the air over his son at the whim of God, and God says hey, dude, just kiddin'... Think of that -- a man ready to kill his son because he believes a voice from outta nowhere tells him to? Now that's horror.
And what about the flood story? A god who's not satisfied with the race of humans he created, so screw 'em - let's just wipe 'em all out, men, women, children...that there is your typical alien invasion scenario.
And Jesus raising the dead - methinks the whole Lazarus thing was the genesis (no pun intended) of the Zombie movement.
And don't even get me started on the Book of Revelations.
So eventually I came to the realization (finally, finally - I admit to being quite a late bloomer) that when someone asks what I write, I can hold my head up high and answer, "Whore! No, I mean, horror!"
Er...I mean...if that's cool with you...
No. Horror.
See, I have this rather annoying nature of wanting to please everybody. I hate confrontation -- at least in real life. (In fiction, confrontation is king, queen and royal jester!) I hate disappointing people.
Horror? Oooh -- you write horror? Yuck. I don't read horror. Why can't you write something nice for a change?
Well, I have written other things. A few mystery short stories, some travel articles, a YA suspense novel, middle-grade historical fiction. But my first love, and the one I just can't quit, is horror. And I gotta think that at least some of these folks who poo-poo horror are more than happy to use the Bible as their ultimate moral compass. The Good Book. The Holy Bible. They must realize that the Bible contains more horror than an entire shelf of Stephen King novels, right?
When Abraham lifts his knife into the air over his son at the whim of God, and God says hey, dude, just kiddin'... Think of that -- a man ready to kill his son because he believes a voice from outta nowhere tells him to? Now that's horror.
And what about the flood story? A god who's not satisfied with the race of humans he created, so screw 'em - let's just wipe 'em all out, men, women, children...that there is your typical alien invasion scenario.
And Jesus raising the dead - methinks the whole Lazarus thing was the genesis (no pun intended) of the Zombie movement.
And don't even get me started on the Book of Revelations.
So eventually I came to the realization (finally, finally - I admit to being quite a late bloomer) that when someone asks what I write, I can hold my head up high and answer, "Whore! No, I mean, horror!"
Er...I mean...if that's cool with you...
March 8, 2011
My Confession
I have a vested interest in ebooks. I make money, albeit a small amount, by selling them. I want to promote ebooks and convert people into buying ebooks because the more people who buy them, the more money I can potentially make, thus fulfilling my dream to take over the world and enslave the masses make a living as a full-time writer.
But I also have a bunch of books left in my eternal too-be-read pile; ones I bought before getting my Kindle (I swear, baby, I swear!) One of these is a hardcover edition of Dan Simmons’ Black Hills. So one night I picked it up and sat down to read.
Here’s my confession: I soon found myself caressing that mound of cool, smooth pages beneath my fingers. I’d forgotten that tactile sensation – so smooth, so substantial, so satisfying. I felt naughty, like I was being unfaithful to the new technology, to the ebook revolution, to my Kindle…
I’m sorry, baby. I try to be faithful to you. You’ve been good to me, instantly showing me the meaning of words I didn’t know before. You remember where I left off without the need of inserting a square of toilet paper between the pages. You complete me, you really do, in the way that only an ereader can.
But sometimes…sometimes I admit I may stray. Sometimes the lust for the heft and feel of a flesh and blood physical book may just overwhelm me. I could’ve kept this secret from you, but I love you too much. I could’ve visited my contraband to-be-read pile on the down-low, but then I’d fear your suspicious glances. “Is that ink on your collar?” you’d ask me. “Do I smell musty pages on your fingers?”
No. I love you too much for that. Those books – those paper and glue books…I just read those. But it’s you baby – you my dear ereader – I love you.
But I also have a bunch of books left in my eternal too-be-read pile; ones I bought before getting my Kindle (I swear, baby, I swear!) One of these is a hardcover edition of Dan Simmons’ Black Hills. So one night I picked it up and sat down to read.
Here’s my confession: I soon found myself caressing that mound of cool, smooth pages beneath my fingers. I’d forgotten that tactile sensation – so smooth, so substantial, so satisfying. I felt naughty, like I was being unfaithful to the new technology, to the ebook revolution, to my Kindle…
I’m sorry, baby. I try to be faithful to you. You’ve been good to me, instantly showing me the meaning of words I didn’t know before. You remember where I left off without the need of inserting a square of toilet paper between the pages. You complete me, you really do, in the way that only an ereader can.
But sometimes…sometimes I admit I may stray. Sometimes the lust for the heft and feel of a flesh and blood physical book may just overwhelm me. I could’ve kept this secret from you, but I love you too much. I could’ve visited my contraband to-be-read pile on the down-low, but then I’d fear your suspicious glances. “Is that ink on your collar?” you’d ask me. “Do I smell musty pages on your fingers?”
No. I love you too much for that. Those books – those paper and glue books…I just read those. But it’s you baby – you my dear ereader – I love you.
March 3, 2011
One Way I Envision Conflict When Writing
As writers, we've heard many different metaphors for adding conflict in our stories - obstacles in the path of our protagonist as she reaches her goal. I've heard it described as sticking your character in a tree and throwing rocks at him, sticking your foot out and tripping him when things are going too smoothly, putting roadblocks, mountains and raging rivers in their paths.
One image that keeps coming to my mind whenever I write something comes from a mini-golf course I played at a long time ago. This mini-golf course (or putt-putt as my wife likes to call it) was one of the old school ones - not a beautifully landscaped Pirates Cove, nor an indoor course with fluorescent pinks and limes glowing under a black light. No, it was one where those propeller-like seeds from maple trees littered the tattered and faded greens no matter how often they were cleared away. Where there was the weather-worn windmill, which you had to reach inside if your ball entered at just the right (or wrong) angle - and you hoped you weren't bitten by anything rabid or poisonous. These are the mini-golf courses inside a chain-link fence, and the colored balls are no longer as bright as they once were. You get the idea. Anyway, one of the holes in this particular mini-golf course was a straight-on level shot, except...
Except up from the middle of the green grew maple trees. Real, live maple trees, about fifteen/twenty years old, ones you could barely wrap both hands around. And they grew on the path in such a way that you really had to work the ball around them to get to this hole which otherwise would've been a simple shot.
This is the metaphor that pops into my mind whenever I write a story and realize I need to throw in some conflict, some obstacles to make the story a bit more interesting; gnarly, water-starved maple trees growing up through faded, stained and torn green carpet, blocking my shot in a game of mini-golf.
One image that keeps coming to my mind whenever I write something comes from a mini-golf course I played at a long time ago. This mini-golf course (or putt-putt as my wife likes to call it) was one of the old school ones - not a beautifully landscaped Pirates Cove, nor an indoor course with fluorescent pinks and limes glowing under a black light. No, it was one where those propeller-like seeds from maple trees littered the tattered and faded greens no matter how often they were cleared away. Where there was the weather-worn windmill, which you had to reach inside if your ball entered at just the right (or wrong) angle - and you hoped you weren't bitten by anything rabid or poisonous. These are the mini-golf courses inside a chain-link fence, and the colored balls are no longer as bright as they once were. You get the idea. Anyway, one of the holes in this particular mini-golf course was a straight-on level shot, except...
Except up from the middle of the green grew maple trees. Real, live maple trees, about fifteen/twenty years old, ones you could barely wrap both hands around. And they grew on the path in such a way that you really had to work the ball around them to get to this hole which otherwise would've been a simple shot.
This is the metaphor that pops into my mind whenever I write a story and realize I need to throw in some conflict, some obstacles to make the story a bit more interesting; gnarly, water-starved maple trees growing up through faded, stained and torn green carpet, blocking my shot in a game of mini-golf.
February 28, 2011
True Grit
I really loved the current version of True Grit. Everything about it seemed spot on. I saw it a second time and liked it even more. The acting, the dialog, the cinematography -- everything was wonderful. Now I want to read the book by Charles Portis. Have any of you read it?
Haven't seen the John Wayne version. I'd like to, though, just to compare. But I really doubt I'd enjoy it any more than the Coen brothers' version. I wonder what those guys have next up their sleeve?
(okay - after reading the above, I realize it sounds sort of like a Larry King movie review. But c'est la vie.)
Haven't seen the John Wayne version. I'd like to, though, just to compare. But I really doubt I'd enjoy it any more than the Coen brothers' version. I wonder what those guys have next up their sleeve?
(okay - after reading the above, I realize it sounds sort of like a Larry King movie review. But c'est la vie.)
February 24, 2011
Inundated
Every day I get at least one email or phone call from an organization who is in desperate need of funds or support, whether it's something of a political nature or a humanitarian nature. While perhaps they all pretty much deserve support/funds, it gets so damn overwhelming. It makes me just want to pull my head into my turtle shell and whimper. It's easy to feel helpless. Even when I can throw my support at a cause, a hundred other causes pop up. It's so easy to grow numb to all the plights and problems out there. I don't want to disassociate with it all, but at the same time, I don't want to lose myself in all the need out there.
I think it's important to remain passionate about causes, but I guess I need to pick one or two and focus my passion on those if I don't want to end up curled in a fetal position sucking my thumb.
I think it's important to remain passionate about causes, but I guess I need to pick one or two and focus my passion on those if I don't want to end up curled in a fetal position sucking my thumb.
