Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 230
December 12, 2012
The Real Lesson of 12/12/12
Today is 12/12/12.
You’re probably aware if you’re anywhere near social media.
You may find it a curious footnote.
You may find it cause for confetti and fire-ponies.
You may find it signals for you some kind of… ill-translated Apocalypse.
You may find it demands a cynical dismissive shaking-of-the-fist.
Here’s what I’m taking away from 12/12/12 –
This is the last time that we’ll experience a date like that. The same number repeated thrice.
That, in and of itself, matters not at all. Not one squiggly whit. Nary a blip on the cosmic radar.
What it reminds me, though, is that all of time operates like this. You and I will never experience 12/12/12 again. And we’ll also never experience 12/11/12 again. Or the 10th of November, 2012. Or the 23rd of April, 1999. In fact, this very hour – this very minute — will come and then go and never return. Each increment of time is a spaceship launched into the dark that will never return home. Every moment is a snowflake, a fingerprint, a unique atomic temporal signature whose repeat is guaranteed to be impossible.
What will you do with 12/12/12?
What will you do with this hour?
This minute?
This second?
How will you own each moment of time? How will your fingerprint meet its fingerprint?
How will you remember each day when its ember brightens and turns to ash?
Do something with your time. Because it ain’t coming back.
December 11, 2012
My Favorite Stories Of 2012
As we gallop uncontrollably into and around the holiday season, this seems a good time to talk about the stories I have consumed this year, stories that filled me with a warm and lasting satisfaction. These cross the many narrative thresholds — books, TV, games, music — so, a little something for everyone. Except that guy over there in the corner who really seems to like rubbing himself down with spray cheese. I do not, to his great regret, have any recommendations for spray cheese here on this list.
As they say, you can’t please everyone.
I’m probably missing a bunch of cool things on this list because I have a mouse-chewed brain.
As a sidenote, in the comments feel free to talk about the stories that you dug deeply this year.
Or, if you’re a creator who wants to promote his or her work, you are free to do so in this separate post right here. (But please, not in this post. Thanks!)
Let us begin.
White Horse, by Alex Adams
Back in July, I spoke to Alex here at terribleminds and as a result ended up with a copy of her novel, White Horse, an apocalyptic quest novel that is written with such elegance and with such twisted metaphor — oh, and such great, grave horror — that it may be my favorite read this whole year. Plus, I consider it a kind of weird “sister novel” to Blackbirds.
Throne of the Crescent Moon, by Saladin Ahmed
Before I read this book I wrote a post about how fantasy was too traditional and too medieval and, in that vein, all too familiar. Then this book comes along to smack me in the chops and how me how it’s done. Shapeshifters and ghul hunters! Magic potions and various flavors of ghul! Evil khalifs and sort-of-maybe-noble thief-princes! And an old, cantankerous protagonist with an old, cantankerous love story. Loved it. Want more.
Leviathan Wakes / Caliban’s War, by James S.A. Corey
You put science-fiction in my hand and I’ll probably give you a cocked eyebrow. Sci-fi ain’t really my thing. Wish it were, but usually, I’m just too stupid and impatient for science fiction. I bought Leviathan Wakes because I’d heard good things and because, frankly, it was a cheap Kindle buy that month. I was traveling at the time and here’s how I usually try out a book — I read the first page and figure out if I want to read to the second. This is, I understand, how all people read, but I do this in a very conscious way. When I started Leviathan Wakes, any hope of it being conscious fell through the floor because before I knew it I’d read several dozen pages of this so-called “space opera” (which is also a little bit of hard sci-fi mixed with horror, actually). I quickly gulped down the book and bought the second. Sidenote: James SA Corey is not one person but two: Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck. And maybe a third or fourth person in there we don’t know about, I dunno. But it’s a successful team-up.
The Rook, by Daniel O’ Malley
British spy agency urban fantasy. MI6 meets Monster Squad. Not much to say here except it’s very fun, very exciting, quite tense, and surprisingly funny. (And has a few things in common with Leviathan Wakes, actually.) What else is there? Go read it. I’ll wait here.
Ready Player One, by Ernest Cline
On the one hand, I expected more from this book — it was widely-praised and I assumed it would be more, well, literary than it was. I’m glad it wasn’t, actually. This is a rollicking fun AAA video game and blockbuster movie packed into a novel that also manages to be a cultural artifact of my youth in the 80s and 90s and be a glimpse forward toward the technological future. It’s not particularly deep, but dammit, it works.
“Paper Menagerie,” by Ken Liu
One of the most affecting short stories I’ve read. Just go read it.
Little Blue Truck, by Alice Schertle and Jill McElmurry
I read a lot to the Tiny Human Known As B-Dub, and to be honest, most toddler-age books are pretty crappy. But, the kid loves trucks. Is obsessed with trucks, actually. So, I saw this board book on sale at B&N and I was like, “Fuck it, it has a truck, it’s a win.” Thing is, it’s also a really great story with a really strong rhythm to it — it’s about helping others and making friends and, at its core, not being a dick. Plus, the art features little animal buttholes. Seriously, they took time to illustrate the buttholes of animals standing backwards. Do with that as you will.
Saga, Brian K Vaughn and Fiona Staples
Saga is a comic book that somehow perfectly marries the space opera of Star Wars with the sheer profanity and fuck-youness of Preacher. Or maybe it’s like what would happen if Joss Whedon and Grant Morrison had some kind of story-baby? I dunno. It’s a weird fucking book, but damnit if it doesn’t completely work. Find it. Shove it in your mind-hole.
Locke & Key, Joe Hill and Gabriel Rodriguez
Locke & Key isn’t new, but it’s new to me (and continued its story in 2012): I nabbed the whole lot in one fell swoop and it’s a jaw-dropper. Grim, twisted, fantastical, funny — it’s a wildly-inventive gut-kick of a story that calls to mind shades of Lovecraft and The Dark Tower. Only a really powerful writer could pair a sense of whimsy and fantasy with this level of splatterpunky horror-flavored goodness and pull it off like it feels effortless. But it does, and it is, and you want it.
Television
This post is already getting longer than I figured, so let’s just sum up what I liked this year: Sherlock (S1, S2), Community, Breaking Bad, Justified, Pocoyo. Let me add that Justified is a show that has become truly excellent out of its modestly okay first season.
Films
I suck at watching movies these days — having a toddler makes it hard, and for me, a lot of the visual storytelling I want comes from television these days. Let’s just say I hit all the big obvious releases – Avengers, Dark Knight Rises, Skyfall — and liked them all quite a lot, though none of them were particularly powerful in terms of narrative. They were “very good,” and “a lot of fun,” and that’s fine by me.
Games
I hate winter, but I adore Skyrim.
Oh, and Mass Effect 3, except, y’know, the blarghy end.
That’s pretty much all you need to know, I guess.
Music
Three albums you want: Fiona Apple’s The Idler Wheel (which has a full name that is, I believe, 4000 words long), which is easily her most raw, potent, and haunting release yet. Metric’s Synthetica — Metric has for me been a band I’ve stayed with since the beginning but I thought the first album was generally better than all those that came after it until this one, which has stayed with me and has also become the soundtrack to many unwritten books and movies in my head. Finally, Amanda Palmer’s Theatre Is Evil, which is worth noting in part for its smashing Kickstarter success but mostly for the fact it’s a kick-ass bonafide rock album that feels like it’s inhabited with the spirit of David Bowie (who is not dead but who I believe can cast his spirit out into the world at will like some kind of Martian warlock).
Promote Thine Creative Wares, Storynauts
We’re wading into the holiday season, folks.
You may be one of them goofy creative-types what wants to get his creative story gibber in the hands of a welcoming and eager audience. You want your work known. Promoted. Discovered.
So, here’s your chance, word-burpers.
In the comments, tell us about one thing you created: a book, a comic, a film, an app, a song, a yarn-beard for dolphins, whatever. Keep it under 100 words (bonus points if you keep it at 140-character Twitter-length) and be sure to offer us a link.
Everybody else: do scan the comments, see if anything sounds spiffy.
Go forth and share.
December 10, 2012
25 Gifts For Writers
This is about as obvious an answer as it gets (“What should I buy that starving child for Christmas?” “Um, food?” “Eh.”), but just the same I’m surprised at how rarely I receive books as gifts. The excuse is frequently, “Well, I don’t know your tastes.” Yeah, here are my tastes: I LIKE BOOKS. If it’s a book? I want it. I want it in my hands. I want to shove its information into my eyeholes and into the warm crawlspace around my brain. I want to lick all the stories. And yes, I have too many books shut up I don’t care. *snarls and swipes at you with a stapler*
2. Liquor
Listen, I know, not all writers have livers that look like ruptured kickballs. We’re not all taken with the spirit, as it were. Just the same, it remains an excellent present, and why? Because we can use them for barter! It’s like in jail how cigarettes are currency? For us, booze is currency. You want to get in good with that table of writers over there, bring ‘em a bottle of something fancy. Or maybe just some wood varnish, whatever, WE’RE THIRSTY GIVE IT HERE.
3. Pants
I joke a lot about not wearing pants and how pants are the dutiful oppressors trying to keep us creative types down. Pants, after all, are a symbol of a stable job and common sense, two things writers shall never possess. Just the same, there comes a time when a writer must clothe himself in the guise of a successful human, and so pants (or “trousers” for you lovely scone-munchers on the other side of the ocean) are an occasional necessity. I have encountered many an instance where I’m caught at the last moment searching for pants prior to some… event. (“Honey, do I have pants from this decade?” “We have to leave in five minutes for your uncle’s funeral. You’re asking me this now?”) Think of it as buying them a costume for a Halloween party!
4. A New Pen
I don’t really use pens. Most writers probably don’t. Just the same, it’s nice to have one hanging around. Maybe to write some notes. Maybe to chew on or clean the inside of our ears as we noodle a new story. Maybe to stab a pirate who’s boarded our ship in order to steal our intellectual property! “Have some ink poisoning, you scurvy interloper!” *stab stab stab*
5. Coffee And Other Stimulants
Infallible correlation: when I drink more coffee, I write more words. I do. I get about 2-3k on a single cup of coffee. I can get another 50% boost to the old “verbal dumpage quota” if I guzzle a second cup early enough in the day. I go through a gut-ton lot of coffee, which means I’m ever in need ofreplenishment. (Sidenote about coffee: the lighter-roasted coffee has more caffeine.) Or hell, maybe the writer in your life likes Five-Hour Energy, which reportedly kills people and tastes like the Humbaba’s crotch-sweat. Buy ‘em a case of that, instead. Just stay away from bath salts. I’ve eaten way too many human faces on that stuff. Last week I found an ear in my pocket. It had a bite taken out of it. So embarrassing.
6. A Helper Monkey
You know how often I could use the help of a charming little helper monkey? Uhh, like, always. “Hey, Admiral Monkeyshines, hand me my coffee. And my iPad. And can you scratch my back? No, not there. Over. Over. Left. Now up. Now down. Perfect. Can you brush the old taco meat out of my beard? Will you read me a book in your funny little monkey ooks and eeks? Ooh! No, no! Ride the dog around like you’re a a cowboy! HA HA HA I LOVE YOU, ADMIRAL MONKEYSHINES.” Of course, I’d never get anything written, but maybe I could make the helper monkey do that, too. It’d probably improve the quality of my work, to be honest.
7. Some Sort Of “Lard-Ass Alert”
They have these monitors for cribs that detect when an infant has stopped moving for 20 seconds so you can rush in and — well, I don’t know what happens then, but if you have our son you discover him climbing up your curtains with a pirate dagger in his teeth. Point is, writers need something like this. We need an alarm that reminds us that it’s time to get off our slugabed dumpers and push blood to limbs other than our typing fingers. “ALERT: YOU HAVE NOT MOVED YOUR BODY IN THREE HOURS. YOUR MUSCLES HAVE BEGUN TO ATROPHY. YOUR HEART IS WREATHED IN A SWEATER OF FAT. YOU WILL SOON DIE IF YOU DON’T GET UP AND TAKE A WALK YOU TORPID GRISTLY BLOB. I CAN SMELL YOUR HOAGIE SWEAT.”
8. Healthy Snacks
To go along with the Lard-Ass Alert, you could buy the writer some healthy snacks. If given half a chance you’ll find my desk littered with Haagen-Daaz containers, gnawed-up pork ribs, and empty sugar packets. But foods like that drag our brains down like high-fructose boat anchors — we need healthy snacks. Nuts! Or dried fruits. Or maybe just a desk drawer full of lettuce.
9. A Kind Review
I can’t speak for other writers, but fuck, that’s never stopped me before. So here, let me do it again! What we writers appreciate perhaps most in this world is a kind review of our work. Shimmy-shaking on over to your favorite review site (Amazon, Goodreads, B&N, your blog, Big Dave’s Discount Book Reviews, whatever) and leaving us a nice review will make our day brighter. Or, if you truly must leave a bad review, make it an entertaining one. Misspell a bunch of stuff. Write half the review in all caps. Insult us humorously and insert some random conspiracy theory in the middle. Maybe write the review in a series of poopy handprints.
10. A Major Award!
I don’t know how you would procure for us a major award, but I assume a hefty bribe will do it. Or you could always just make one, sell it on Etsy. I don’t think we’re particularly discerning. Carve our names into a wooden bar stool and swaddle it in Christmas tinsel and hand it over and tell us it’s an award from some blah blah newspaper or blah blah blog. We won’t check. We’ll just hug it to our chests and spin like we’re that girl in the Sound of Music. Don’t worry, we’ll hate ourselves again by morning. But for that one night, we’ll know: somebody really likes us. Even if that somebody is completely imaginary! That’s okay. Imaginary is our wheelhouse.
11. A Room Of One’s Own
Virginia Woolf was famous for — well, okay, she was famous for writing a bunch of really great stuff but she was also famous for that essay, “A Room of One’s Own,” in which she says, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” It’s an essay that all women and all writers should read, and while I am not a woman (though I do look smashing in a sundress!), I am a writer, so, y’know, it’s good stuff. I too believe that writers should have a space to call their own, and so a good gift for a writer is to ensure that they have this territorial bubble in which to operate. If you cannot accommodate an actual room, try buying them four cubicle walls, or a piano crate! Or give them a space next to the rusty boiler in the cellar.
12. A Plant
A plant on our desk serves a powerful purpose: it is a little thumbtack that punctures the creative territorial bubble in which we live, a creative bubble that tells us nobody else matters and nothing else exists but us, this desk, and this story. The plant suddenly becomes a thing outside one’s egosphere (or, perhaps, egosystem) that reminds you that there lurks a real world beyond the pale, a true place beyond the artifice of fiction. And then you accidentally kill the plant and realize that you are the DIVINE MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH HAW HAW HAW.
13. Neil Gaiman’s Magic Gazebo
Speaking of one’s own rooms and territorial bubbles, you could just steal Neil Gaiman’s magic penmonkey gazebo. I like to believe that it is Gaiman’s creative womb — the light-side equivalent of that evil black lacquered egg that Darth Vader hibernates in. I suspect that, whenever he takes a journey into story-land, the gazebo literally leaves this earth and penetrates the dimensional fontanelle and takes Gaiman to magical far-off-lands.
14. Or Maybe Just Neil Gaiman
Or you could just abduct Neil Gaiman. He could be a writer’s authorial spirit animal! A long-limbed Muse-imp gamboling behind the writer as she writes, giving encouragement and drinking tea and saying otherwise smart things (like, say, any of this). How great would that be? Don’t tell him I told you to abduct him. He can’t read this, can he? I’m sure he’s very busy.
15. An Autographed Book By One’s Favorite Author
It is at the end of the day the story that counts, not the author, but to an author, other authors represent a kind of perfect ideal. Our favorite authors are our personal totems, our creative guides hanging out in our minds, helping us realize who we want to be and to what we must aspire. So, an autographed book by a beloved author is a wonderful thing, indeed. I have signed first editions of Christopher Moore’s Lamb and Robert McCammon’s Swan Song, and sometimes I get naked and hold them tight to my pasty flesh while rocking back and forth.
16. A Truly Awful Book
You may think, “What a spectacularly awful gift,” and to that I say, Au contrare, grumpy bear. Buying a hideously rat-fucked book for your writer pal sends a very clear message to that writer: “Sometimes terrible books get published which means, by golly, you can get published too.”
17. A Car Battery And A Pair Of Steel-Toe Boots
The Muse does not simply walk into Mordor. Or something. Whatever. What I mean is, sometimes the Muse needs a short, sharp shock. A car battery hooked up to her fairy wings or a steel-toe boot driven hard up into his fairy nuts will get that Muse jabbering into a writer’s ear, posthaste. And when that fails, the writer can loan the battery and the boots to someone else and they can shock-kick him into finishing his shit.
18. A Giftcard To An Office Supply Store
If you’re anything like me, an office supply store is like a vista of efficiency-porn. Pens and papers and hole-punches! Desk calendars! Helper monkeys! Really nice pens! Laser printers. Dildos! Wait, I might be mixing up “office porn” and “real porn.” Anyway. Point is, a giftcard to an office supply store is a very happy thing, indeed. It gives us an excuse to frolic.
19. A Really Nice Keyboard
A worker is only as good as his tools. A soldier with his gun. A chef with her knife. A robot with its DOOM LASER and BUZZSAW HANDS. And so a writer must have the proper tools, too. A really great keyboard — er, the kind on which you type, not the kind that says ‘Casio’ on it — is an essential tool. Plus, our keys are probably stuck together with moistened Cheeto dust.
20. A Hollowed-Out Book
We need a place to keep our secret things. Keys to demonic doors. Syringes filled with milky muse-juice. Handguns with the serial numbers filed off. Weird Canadian weed. As such, I recommend a hollowed-out book safe, like these. Where else are you going to keep your powdered unicorn horn? You… do have powdered unicorn horn, right? (Amateur.)
21. A Weird Old Gigantic-Ass Dictionary
I have a dictionary that is almost a foot thick. This is a dictionary so big you could drop it on a rhino’s back and it would shatter its spine. You could use it to choke a blue whale. It is a book that requires many men to carry it, like the Ark of the Covenant. It is an artifact of language, an obelisk of wordography. Sometimes I love to just flip through it and find weird words I’ve never heard of before. Thus: crazy-big dictionary makes for great writerly present.
22. Any Random Reference Book
In my experience, penmonkeys love bizarre reference books. Any book referencing any subject (the gods of India, English language homophones, typewriters throughout the ages, a dictionary of slang spoken by Ukrainian lamp-makers) is like fucking gold for us and our writing. And when our next book features use of some weird Babylonian sex toy (“THE FIST OF HAMMURABI”), you’ll know that you were the one responsible for bringing it into our lives.
23. A Reason To Leave The House
Writers sit so long at our desks our ass-fat starts to merge with the pleather of our chairs. Give us an excuse to get up and go outside. Invite us for a walk. For dinner. For drinks. FOR A ROLLER DERBY GANG WAR IN THE MIDDLE OF CENTRAL PARK. Travel with us. Provide us with a reason to escape the gravity of our offices. You may need to force us out, but we’ll appreciate it.
24. Anything But A Blank Goddamn Notebook
Listen, I get it — you think, Ah, he’s a writer, and so he must write a lot inside little notebooks. It’s not entirely inaccurate. But you know how some gift-givers get caught on that one thing you theoretically like and give it to you every year (“You once said you liked ceramic wombats, so now every year I will buy you a new ceramic wombat”)? Yeah, lots of people seem to think writers need blank notebooks. We probably don’t. Not because we don’t use them or don’t like them. But we have computers. And smartphones. I have a small vault now of notebooks, and every once in a while I pull one out and scrawl a couple pages of notes and then marvel at just how improbably bad my handwriting is. I’m not saying that writers don’t need notebooks. We just don’t need hundreds of them from dozens of people. Authors should select one person who is allowed to give them notebooks. (Mine is Rob Donoghue, who has impeccable taste.)
25. Terribleminds Merch Oh My God I’m A Shameless Trollop
HOLY ATOMIC TITTY TWIRLERS — did I say “Terribleminds merchandise?” By the blessings of Sweet Saint Fuck, I sure did. Art Harder, Motherfucker? Certified Penmonkey? Oh my stars and garters! Ahem. Okay, fine, fine, you don’t actually have to buy that merch for the authors in your life — and yes, yes, I’m utterly shameless. (The shame centers of my brain were destroyed in the war. What war, you ask? The war on Christmas. How dare you judge a veteran!)
December 9, 2012
In Which I Am Contacted By The “FBI”
The other day, I received this in my inbox:
Dear Sir/Madam
I am Ronald T. Hosko,the personal secretary to the FBI Director; Roberts Mueller III. After proper investigations, we discovered that your pending payment which has been withheld by imposters for a very long time and they have been claiming to be who they are not, But with the Help of FBI we have been able to trace them. Our Investigation revealed that you have spent a lot of money just to conclude the successful transfer of your funds by obtaining transfer documents as requested by the impostors, but to no avail.
With the help of some of the best Internet investigators attached to the FBI, we got your e-mail address from the Internet as the beneficiary of this Inheritance Funds. Series of meeting have been held over the past 7 months with the secretary general of the United Nations Organization. This ended 3 days ago. It is obvious that you have not received your fund which is to the tune of $9.5million due to past corrupt Governmental Officials who almost held the fund to themselves for their selfish reason and some individuals who have taken advantage of your fund all in an attempt to swindle your fund which has led to so many losses from your end and unnecessary delay in the receipt of your fund. Therefore you are advise to re-confirm your delivery information as stated below.
DELIVERY INFORMATION:
FULL NAME:
HOME ADDRESS/COUNTRY:
OCCUPATION:
AGE:
CELL PHONE NUMBER:
Note: You are to forward any email received from those Scammer to my email address ( mr.ronaldthosko2@yahoo.com ) so we can be able to trace them and eradicate them from cheating innocent people.
Mr.Ronald T.Hosko
Mr.Robert S. Mueller III
FBI DIRECTOR
So, y’know.
CLEARLY IT’S ALL REAL AND I’M GOING TO RECEIVE MILLIONS OF DOLLARS.
I feel like this very important e-mail deserves dissection.
“I am Ronald T. Hosko,the personal secretary to the FBI Director…”
Wow, must’ve been quite a demotion, Ronnie-boy. Since the last time I checked, you were assistant director of CID at the FBI, not some go-fer who runs and fetches coffee and scrubs the calluses on Mueller’s gnarly feet. Sorry to hear about the downgrade. It’s tough out there for everyone, I guess.
“After proper investigations, we discovered that your pending payment which has been withheld by imposters for a very long time and they have been claiming to be who they are not, But with the Help of FBI we have been able to trace them.”
That is possibly the worst sentence I have ever read. My pending payment? What? Withheld by… imposters? Who are they, uhh, “imposting” as? Me? Why didn’t they just take the money and run?
Why are they “withholding” it? Those dummies.
And “But with the help of the FBI…” — dude, you are the FBI. You don’t need their help. YOU ARE THEM. You used to be assistant director of CID until you blew the wrong field agent or lost your iPhone in a Tuscon meth trailer and ended up getting dropped down to being a personal secretary.
Be proud of who you are, Doc Hosko!
“Our Investigation revealed that you have spent a lot of money just to conclude the successful transfer of your funds by obtaining transfer documents as requested by the impostors, but to no avail.”
No, I have not. I have not spent any money trying to transfer money. I spend a lot of money at Target. Is that what you mean? I love Target. Hell, my toddler loves Target. Any time we tell him we’re going somewhere in the car, he makes the car noise – b-r-r-r-r-r — and then says, “Tar-uh? Tar-uh!” and then we have to tell him we’re not going to Target today and he gives us a look like he’s going to fill his diaper with pure anger.
I don’t know who these imposters are, by the way, but they sound very ineffective.
“With the help of some of the best Internet investigators attached to the FBI…”
HOLY SHIT THE BEST INTERNET INVESTIGATORS? Like Earl “The Cyber-Hawk” Dingowhistle? Or Mary-Alice Krebs, the so-called “Mata Hari of Reddit?” Or what about that robot detective, 110100101 Jones? I feel so fucking lucky to have them on my case!
And apparently they’re attached to the FBI.
One assumes with zip-ties or Velcro.
“…we got your e-mail address from the Internet as the beneficiary of this Inheritance Funds.”
Yeah, I don’t know what that means.
I assume you got my email off the Internet. I mean, it’s not on billboards or cool enough to be some celebrity’s tattoo. Or wait, is the Internet a dude? Like, did you meet him somewhere and he gave you my address? I always thought the Internet might be a person.
“Series of meeting have been held over the past 7 months with the secretary general of the United Nations Organization.”
HOLY SHIT, THAT GUY IS INVOLVED NOW? Man, my case must rate like right up there to bring in the secretary general of the UNO. (I love their deep-dish pizza, by the way! It’s like cake! With cheese and sauce and meat! It’s cholesterol cake! I ate some last year and it’s still inside my heart! Literally!)
You know, you can tell me — are my impostors Al Qaeda agents?
I bet they are.
Oh, by the way, “meeting” should be pluralized there. I guess I’m just happy you didn’t pluralize with a possessive. That kind of thing will cause a writer to fill his diaper with pure anger.
“It is obvious that you have not received your fund which is to the tune of $9.5million due to past corrupt Governmental Officials who almost held the fund to themselves for their selfish reason and some individuals who have taken advantage of your fund all in an attempt to swindle your fund which has led to so many losses from your end and unnecessary delay in the receipt of your fund.”
First, can we just be honest here? You need to learn the art of shorter sentences. I took a short nap in the middle of this one, hope that’s okay! Anyway, let’s see here –
I have not received my $9.5 million, that’s true.
And past Government Officials? Who almost held the fund to themselves for their one collective selfish reason? OH FUCK NO. I wonder what that selfish reason was? Maybe they were going to buy a speedboat. Like, I figure, if you have a shit-ton of money, a really flashy speedboat is a pretty good way to blow some illicit cash. Or like, the world’s biggest warehouse of styrofoam peanuts. It’d be like swimming in packing peanuts. You could have such adventures! You could recreate the hunt for the White Whale! “ARRR CALL ME ISHMAEL. THERE I SEE ME THE ALABASTER WHALE, AHAB.” Or whatever.
I never actually read Moby Dick.
Anyway.
Those selfish impostor assholes! Maybe they just wanted to buy everything inside Target. Lord knows I do!
I will say that them trying to “swindle” and “take advantage of” my fund makes it sound like the fund is also a person. Are the Internet and the Fund two dudes having crazy cyborg adventures in the American desert? Some sci-fi version of Fear and Loathing? *eyes go wide*
*begins taking notes*
I call dibs on that idea, by the way. Dibs! DIBS. Hands-off. *points gun*
In the meantime, let me just give you all my so-called “delivery information”…
There we go. I assume that such an epic amount of money will have to arrive via like, UPS? Or maybe you’ll back up a truck. OR A SPEEDBOAT OMG. Maybe you’ll air-drop it onto my lawn? That’d be pretty sweet. The last thing I had airdropped onto my lawn was a chunk of human waste frozen to the underside of a 747 like a frosty dingleberry. It crushed my treehouse. And my heart.
What will I do if the impostors keep, er, imposting?
“Note: You are to forward any email received from those Scammer to my email address ( mr.ronaldthosko2@yahoo.com ) so we can be able to trace them and eradicate them from cheating innocent people.”
THOSE DAMN SCAMMER.
I will email you, Ronaldo, old boy. That way we can — as you say – eradicate them.
Fuck yeah, we’ll trace the shit out of them.
And then eradicate even more shit out of them.
FUCK YEAH.
I appreciate it, Ronbo. Kick-ass.
I look forward to my air-drop of money.
Oh, and hey — thanks for helping out here. Tell Mueller and the sec-gen of PIZZERIA UNO that I appreciate them looking out for me like this. And I’m sorry to hear about your demotion.
*sits on lawn, waits for cash*
*dreams of speedboats and Target shopping*
December 7, 2012
Mockingbird (Miriam Black #2)
Miriam is trying. Really, she is.
But this whole “settling down thing” that Louis has going for her just isn’t working out. She lives on Long Beach Island all year around. Her home is a run-down double-wide trailer. She works at a grocery store as a check-out girl. And her relationship with Louis–who’s on the road half the time in his truck–is subject to the piss and vinegar Miriam brings to everything she does.
It just isn’t going well. Still, she’s keeping her psychic ability–to see when and how someone is going to die just by touching them–in check. But even that feels wrong somehow. Like she’s keeping a tornado stoppered up in a tiny bottle.
Then comes one bad day that turns it all on her ear.
Available for in print and e-book at:
You can read the first 50+ pages right here, for free:
Open publication – Free publishing – More chuck wendig
Praise For Blackbirds (Miriam Black #1)
“Blackbirds is a horror story, a traveling story, a story of loss and what it takes to make things right. It’s a story about fate and how sometimes, if we wrestle with it hard enough, maybe we can change it. Blackbirds is the kind of book that doesn’t let go even after you’ve put it down and nobody else could have made it shine like Chuck Wendig.”
- Stephen Blackmoore, author, City of the Lost and Dead Things
“Mean, moody and mysterious, Blackbirds is a noir joyride peppered with black humour, wry observation, and visceral action. Fans of Chuck Wendig will not be disappointed.”
- Adam Christopher, author of Empire State
“A gleefully dark, twisted road trip for everyone who thought Fight Club was too warm and fuzzy. If you enjoy this book, you’re probably deeply wrong in the head. I loved it, and will be seeking professional help as soon as Chuck lets me out of his basement.”
- James Moran, Severance, Doctor Who and Torchwood screenwriter
“A deliciously morbid road movie waiting to happen, Blackbirds takes an ingenious central concept and riffs on it like some souped-up mutant conglomeration of Angus Young, James Hetfield and Keith Richards. Chuck Wendig should be both delighted and thoroughly ashamed of himself>”
- Jason Arnopp, scriptwriter of Stormhouse and Doctor Who: The Gemini Contagion.
“Enchanting and drowned in blood, Blackbirds is a meaty piece of fiction, a non-stop mind-job where the first hit hurts and you keep going back for more. It’s the kind of gritty, unapologetic story that grips you long after the book’s done; dark, intense, utterly without mercy. Chuck Wendig spins one hell of a tale.”
– Karina Cooper, author of the Dark Mission series
“Truly the dark fantastic. Blackbirds is one of the most amazing, gritty, gruesome, witty, terrifying, wonderful books I’ve been lucky enough to read this year.”
- Kat Richardson, author of the Greywalker Chronicles
“Gritty and raw, Blackbirds sports a unique heroine in the form of Miriam. Both sympathetic and pitiable, she dances through Chuck’s brilliant turns of phrase and crisp writing to an illuminating ending which begs the question: Are we truly masters of our own fate?”
- Allison Pang, author of A Brush of Darkness
“Balls-to-the-wall, take-no-prisoners storytelling at its best.”
-Bill Cameron, author of County Line.
“Chuck Wendig unloads with both barrels and Blackbirds hits you like a shotgun blast to the torso at close range.”
- Matthew McBride, author of Frank Sinatra in a Blender
“Wendig’s lean, muscular prose powers through a twisty page turner without wasting a word. His take on the classic prophesy tale is clever, fun and drops a new surprise on you every few pages, making it very hard to put down. A deliciously entertaining read.”
- C. Robert Cargill (AKA Massawyrm of Ain’t It Cool News and co-writer of Sinister)
“The writing is absolutely outstanding, it’s 100% my kind of narrative, there’s just not a single ounce of fat, it’s all muscle, that’s the best way I can describe it. Not a single word is wasted, every one of them packs a punch.”
- Fantasy Nibbles
“Chuck Wendig has raised the bar of the urban fantasy genre and introduced a dynamic new character who, if left to her own devices, will most likely steal more than just your heart.”
- New York Journal of Books
“… the characterisation is without a doubt the real highlight of the novel, managing to create living breathing people with a few deft strokes of a pen.”
- Anthony Jones, SFBook.com
“[Blackbirds is] the kind of book that has the potential to put Wendig on the map as a ‘must-read’ author – I know he’s made my list. Highly recommended.”
- SQT, Fantasy & SciFi Lovin’ News & Reviews
“Everyone dies eventually and the way it happens isn’t fair; the way you check out is the way you check out. Wendig appeals to the slightly nasty part of us that we don’t want to admit to but know is there. Who amongst us doesn’t secretly want to know how it all ends for us? And who amongst us doesn’t want to know how others die so that we can hope for something a little easier for ourselves?”
- Graeme Flory, Graeme’s Fantasy Book Review
“Blackbirds is a high energy, whisky-fuelled ride, that will pull you along for the journey and have you questioning whether we can change destiny. A must-read book by an author that is worth watching.”
- Hannah Mariska, Fantasy Faction
“This is urban fantasy, but done in a fresh, bloody, broody, exciting and exhilarating new way.Blackbirds is one of the best books of the year so far, and a real must read.”
- I Wish I Was a Book
