Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 273

Transmissions From Baby-Town: "Turning Corners"

Let me be your birth control, those without kids: the first six weeks of raising a Tiny Human provide a lesson in small miseries. You have not slept. The pieces of your life — the schedule that holds your sanity together — has been hammered apart like so much peanut brittle and, for added measure, is then thrown into Cookie Monster's crushing maw to finish the job. You feel like a tooth cracked apart, the raw nerve exposed. Everything feels like the blood test from THE THING: a hot wire stuck in a petri dish of blood, then pop, then monsters, then something has to die screeching in fire.

That thing that's dying in a fire is your old life.

The old ways are gone.

The old roads are shut.

It is the dawn of a new day.

These are the poo-dimmed tides.

* * *

Raising a baby might as well qualify you for credits in a class called FECAL MANAGEMENT 101. That's what you're doing a lot of the time: just managing poop, both literally and figuratively. Very early the poo is nasty. You could shingle a roof or fill potholes with the black tarry meconium. Then it gets a little better. Poop from pure breast-milk is nutty, popcorny, not entirely unpleasant. (I won't lie. It made me hungry.) But soon as a drop of formula touches that kid's lips it's like his gut flora turn into teenagers — the innocence of his bowels is lost, and now his intestinal bacteria are all a bunch of hooligans hanging out under lampposts, smoking noxious cigarettes.

Give the kid formula to supplement and his shit starts smelling like shit.

And the wee one blows ass like a champion. You could push a sailboat with the wind that comes out of his bediapered hindquarters. And kill flowers with the smell.

* * *

Everything was going fine down below, but then suddenly: the specter of constipation.

B-Dub hadn't gone for… I think it was four days? I know how I feel if I don't, ahem, take out the biological garbage once a day, so there we are, starting to worry. We think, ye gods, he's probably swelling up with poop. One day he'll be like Violet Beauregarde in the Wonka Factory, blowing up like a blimp — except instead of purple, he'll be the color of caramel sauce. Then he'll rupture. Pbbt.

So we call the doctor and the nurse says, "Give him an infant suppository," except she doesn't tell us that you don't buy infant suppositories, you buy larger suppositories then cut them up into quarter sticks. And nobody else tells us this either, so we run around like assholes for the evening until finally we come upon the truth and my Mother-in-Law thankfully shows up with what we need.

Giving a suppository to a wiggly infant is like trying to punch a moon bounce — your intended attack always returns. It calls to mind giving a pill to our terrier: the medicine ever comes back into your hand.

Finally it worked. The child purged. And what came out was almost disappointing: no epic flush, no apocalyptic explosion, no crap tsunami. It was just… a normal baby bowel movement. And it wasn't even constipation, technically. Not like he was pooping little ball bearings or anything.

* * *

Four more days, same problem.

No poop.

Moderate discomfort.

Awesome.

You look online — i.e. gaze into the doom-eye of the mad oracle — and you find that, as it turns out, Every Baby Is A Different Baby. Some kids poop five times a day. Some kids poop once every five days. Some are efficient little processors and don't need to go all that often — after all, it's not like they're eating cheesesteaks and bran cereal every couple hours. They're on a liquid diet. Most of that can be peed out.

Even still, everybody wants to make you feel like a shitheel because your baby isn't pooping. Like it's our fault. "Oh, am I not supposed to store my wine cork collection in his butthole? Oops! Mea culpa."

The other problem is, apparently you can, Pavlov-style, train your child to poop only with suppositories accidentally. Instead of a dinner bell ringing meaning food, it's the rectal plunging of a glycerin tab to signal unconsciously that, hey, it's totally time to take a crap now, thanks.

It's times like this you suddenly realize, oh my god, this is our lives. We can barely make the time to go to the bathroom ourselves but here we are, obsessing over the effluence of our child.

* * *

For the record, it was just the formula. We cut back and moved him from Enfamil Gentlease to Similac and, ta-da, no more constipation. Stupid razzafrazza formula. Oh, and thank you, doctor, for not recommending this course of action and making sure we figured it out all by our lonesome.

Did I mention we need a new doctor?

* * *

I was eating cottage cheese the other day, holding B-Dub, when he spit up. And I looked at what came out of his mouth, and I looked down at the cottage cheese I was eating, and I was struck by the notion that the cottage cheese companies (aka "Big Dairy") were probably just repackaging Baby Puke and selling it to us as a snack. I mean, I kept eating it. Whaddya gonna do?

* * *

Our standards for cleanliness have dropped. We're basically something out of a National Geographic special these days, like, we're people from one of those tribes only recently discovered. The constant nursing. The origami boulders of spit-up paper towels everywhere. The fact that when I put on a shirt, I examine it not to see if there are any stains but rather, how bad the stains happen to be before I throw it on.

And I inevitably wear it. Because, who's got time for laundry?

We've gone back to some primal state.

* * *

I wear earplugs now when we bathe him. His cries don't really bother me, but there's this special horrific alignment when we get him in the echo chamber of the bathroom — his shrieks of horror turn into this pandemonious cacophony, a sound not unlike all of the souls of the damned being thrust into a cauldron of bubbling pitch. For some reason, this sound doesn't bother my wife as much.

But me? It raises my blood pressure, makes my ears ring, tenses my shoulders into hard bundles.

Only then. Only during bathing.

You'd think he'd like it.

"Oh, hey, I'm being dipped in a gently warm bath and being softly sponged by a beautiful woman whose boobs I see frequently. I think I'll take a special moment to scream as if I'm being covered by a thousand papercuts and washed in a tub full of Sea Breeze and rattlesnake venom. Everybody good with that? Super."

* * *

The other day, two fawns played on our lawn while the mother stood off to the side, chewing on some leaves. I wanted to ask her, "Do your babies explosively poop up their backs?"

Nobody talks about that milestone, do they?

First smile.

First word.

First breach of the fecal containment unit.

I almost wish I could attain the "up the back blow-out." Just to see if I could.

* * *

He won't sleep in his bassinet anymore. Only sleeps on his mother. Which means she has to rig up this whole thing so he stays laying across the Boppy at night. Which means she basically is developing some kind of Mommy-fed scoliosis, some joint-cracking arthritis at a young age, some mad calcification of her bones. All to support the Little Pink Dictator that rules our life.

Once, I was ruled by an entirely different Little Pink Dictator.

But he's staying quiet these days. As well he should be. I won't tolerate any nonsense from him because it's his fault we're in this mess. Don't think I'm not savvy to your games, you little cock-waffle.

* * *

You start to have serious conversations. Conversations that can only happen when you haven't slept and the baby is inconsolable and the air smells of baby powder and burned nerves.

You start to say, "Maybe we just run away. Hawaii, right? Still in the country. No need for a passport. We live on the beach. Leave the baby here with a note. Our parents will handle it. Or the neighbors. Or whatever homeless person moves into our domicile when we vacate. Is there a rescue shelter for babies? Maybe we can just take him there. I mean, pssh, pfft, we'll leave some money. For… toys and… baby things. It'll be fine. Let's just go. It's the dark of night. We can just go. We can just leave. Hurry before he notices!"

But he always notices. Because he's good like that.

* * *

Thing is, it all sounds horrible.

And anybody gazing in from the outside as you are now, anybody who doesn't have kids, probably thinks, man, that sounds awful. And at times, it is. Even still, you get your moments.

Better yet, around the six week mark we turned a corner. He stopped being Herr Doktor Pissypants all day. He's alert, now. He smiles when we smile. He babbles at us. He says A-Goo and Ook and he yips like a coyote and howls like a wolf and he laughs when you mess with him. Moreover, not only is he changing, but we're changing, too. We're figuring stuff out. We know about gripe water. I know about the Magical Daddy Football Hold. I know that if you take him outside he becomes rapt by all that he sees.

We know to just listen.

The other night we had him laying (not sleeping) next to the bed and he was just… yammering away at whatever ghosts and bugs live in our house. Laughing and yelling and oohing and aahing. And it's sweet.

We think he's advanced, of course. Every parent thinks their kid is advanced. They're like, "OMG LOOK AT THE WAY HE SPIT UP ARE THOSE THE FIBONACCI NUMBERS." But the way he tracks objects and smiles and says consonants and kicks his legs and tries to push off and stand up and memorizes the stories of Mark Twain (okay, I might be lying about that last part) makes us sure he's going to be a smart kid. Which is probably more trouble than we're prepared for, but oh well, so it goes.

We think he's cute, too. Every parent thinks they're kid is cute.

But look at that face.

Look at it.

I SAID LOOK AT IT GODDAMNIT — see this gun? Yeah.

Like I said. Cute. Objectively. Shut up.

Point being –

There it goes, that corner we just turned.

We smile and he smiles. I ask him to tell me a story and he burbles and coos. And it all starts to make a weird kind of sense. It all comes together and says, this is why you're here, this is why you do things, this is why I write and why my wife gets scoliosis and why we work and love and live, and it's all for him, all for the ever-adorable and totally-advanced Wriggly Napoleon who governs our lives.

Every day, it seems, is a new corner to turn.

Which is terrifying and beautiful in one weird bundle.

* * *

(Required continued reading: "Sailing Over A Year," and "Dinosaur Vs. Parents," both by Lauren Beukes, both about her experiences as a parent during the first two years. In short: awesome.)

Penmonkey Incitement: Postcard, Unlocked

And, a week after we started, the stars aligned, the ancient gods awoke, the Druids once more rose and fell as a people, the seas did churn blood, and COAFPM scored 50 sales.

Which means, the first incentive is unlocked.

Time to send out a postcard.

Except, whoa-hoa-hoa, I'm feeling generous. I'm going to send out two postcards. Because, dang, I just ordered these shiny new PENMONKEY cards, and I want to show them off to people.

Way this works is, I take the emails of everybody who bought the book on PDF and who e-mailed me to show me a receipt from their Kindle or Nook purchase. I line 'em up in a spreadsheet. I use RANDOM.ORG to generate a random number. And that number corresponds to a numbered line on the spreadsheet. Easy-peasy, buttocks-squeezy.

I generated two numbers because, again, I want to send out some motherfucking postcards.

Numbers generated: 25, 102.

Those numbers correspond to:

Gareth Hanrahan (aka "Mytholder!")

and

Theresa Fisher!

I'll be contacting you crazy kids over email. Thereafter, the Doom-Bots will usher you toward your "final reward" in the whirring "pleasure saws" and "laser baths" here at the Penmonkey Spa Camp.

Now, yesterday saw a big jump in Those Who Possess The Penmonkey, so we're already up 62 sales — which means we only have 38 more to go before I start doling out t-shirts. And let me tell you, I got my own CERTIFIED PENMONKEY t-shirt in the mail yesterday? And it's actually a pretty snazzy shirt. (Ordered from ZAZZLE.)

Do recall how the incitement works:

For every 50 sales, I send out a postcard.

For every 100 sales, I send out a t-shirt.

For every 200 sales, I offer an editorial look at 5,000 words of your writing.

For every 500 sales, I will procure for someone a Kindle.

All for a period of 1000 sales, or one year.

That's (in theory) 20 postcards, 10 t-shirts, five edits, and two Kindles.

Right? Right. Now, worth noting: this first pick came from a batch of only 126 people, because that's the number of people who have let me know they procured the book. Those are pretty sweet odds in terms of nabbing the next reward, a t-shirt, but again, remember that it only works if you email me at terribleminds [at] gmail [dot] com and throw for me proof that you procured a copy of COAFPM for your Kindle or Nook (again, if you bought on PDF, I already have you counted).

Now, I'm revising my International policy a leetle teeny bit.

For the postcard, I will send internationally.

For the t-shirt, I will send internationally only if the procurer pays the international shipping. Sorry for that, but I just can't afford the second mortgage to send a shirt to Marquesas or something.

For the edit, I'll look at anybody's work no matter where they live, but I will edit to US standards.

For the Kindle, sorry, international folks are SOL. Er, blame Amazon?

In other news, I'm slowly readying my next e-book release, a book based on my 25 Things series found here at the ol' bloggery-hut.

And I finished the first draft of Shotgun Gravy, my teen-noirish Veronica Mars YA-esque thing starring the "Get-Shit-Done Girl," Atlanta Burns. So, keep your grapes peeled for that, too.

In the meantime, if I sell more copies of PENMONKEY, somebody gets another postcard and a t-shirt.

To procure PENMONKEY:

Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nok, or PDF.

The Trials And Tribulations Of The Modern Day Writer

I'm not here to predict the future for you penmonkeys.

Were I to predict such a future, I would suggest that in the next 10 years, we will all be hunted down by self-aware Verbo-Bots and Publispiders, crass automatons who seek to harvest our brains for the words they contain. The Publispiders pin us to the wall while the Verbo-Bots stomp up and trepan our skulls with a whirring drill. We smell our hair and bone burning. When the hole is complete, the robot penetrates our brain-space with some surgical tubing, then milks our minds of our delicate fictions. Then, just to be an asshole, the Publispider plants its robot babies in our colons.

You can see why I'm not allowed to predict the future.

What I can do, however, is ruminate frothily on the rigors of the present, which is exactly what I'll do now. See, things are different for the writer these days. It's a brave new world full of great reward and buzzsaw peril — step correctly and you'll have laurels heaped upon your head, but step poorly and you'll find your balls cut off with a garden trowel.

Let us then examine the state of affairs for the Penmonkeys Of Today.

Write More, Word Slave

*crack of lash*

Gone are the days when the writer could focus on her novel career and put out one book every year — at least, gone are those days for writers who want to accept "writer" as the day job.

Advances are down. Per-words on freelance and short story markets have dipped. Some markets are outright gone. Takes a while to get published, too. Point being, it's getting tougher to "earn out" as a full-time writer — or, rather, tougher for those only focusing on a single path through the jungley word-tangle.

Sure, you've got self-publishing (and we'll talk about that 800-lb mecha-gorilla in the room in just one sec), but to really succeed at self-publishing it seems right now that your best bet is to paint with a shotgun: you're not served by posting one book and walking away but posting a book or project (or product, if you can stand that word) every couple months.

This makes the writer both honeybee and Great White Shark. First, you gotta be the worker bee and dance for your dinner — you want the honey, you'd better shake that buzzer of yours, buddy. Second, in what is becoming a probably overused metaphor, sharks must swim forward or drown, and so too must the writer be ever moving onto the next thing lest he sink into a fetid morass of bankruptcy.

Actually, let's just hybridize that and say that it makes the writer the Great White Honeyshark.

Agreed? Agreed.

(Mmm. Honeyshark. Sounds like a delicious breakfast cereal. The fin stays crunchy in milk!)

Writers must produce. And produce. And produce. ABW: "Always Be Writing." (PICK. THAT COFFEE. UP. Coffee is for writers only.) One book a year? Psssh. No. Focus only on novels? Not likely. Writers are no longer as free to work in a single sphere of writerly existence. Get used to writing short, long, script, game, non-fiction, etc. Be many-headed. Like the hydra. (The Great White Honey-Hydra?)

Now, this is a double-headed dildo axe. It fucks cuts both ways.

On the one hand, I kinda like it. I like that the writer is a worker. It means the craftsmen, the producers, the truly capable, will survive. Do work. Live to fight another day.

On the other hand, if we assume a slippery slope (and I always do, one lubricated with Astroglide and the tears of my enemies), then we can see where the profession of "writer" is becoming more and more watered down so much so that, in a few years, it's going to earn less respect and fewer shekels than before. And trust me, the last thing we need is less respect. Last week, a homeless guy peed on me.

The Writing Life: Now With Actual Choice!

I don't need to expound too much on this point, but know that the last year has seen an alarmingly fast shift in terms of self-publishing. That shift has been almost uniformly positive — the rise of e-readers and the market dominance of Amazon (who, like its namesake, is now the tallest meanest warrior-queen in the room) has really changed the game. The fact that capable, talented, and serious writers are going in that direction is a telling sign. It's no longer the realm of Pure Uncut Slush (though I assure you, that's still in there) and is now a viable choice for writers.

Writers didn't actually have much of a choice before, after all. Self-publishing before usually meant getting fleeced by some vanity pub. Now you've got real — and awesome — options.

A Septic Tide Of Zealots

Some would have you believe that this choice is a false one. And this is true on all sides of the fence. Over there, you have the Defenders of the Realm, those who carry the flag for the "legacy" publishers, who say that the only legitimate way forth is to stomp that rag-tag army of barbarians into the mud from whence they came — it's get your book with the Big Six or suck a pipe, pal.

On the other side of the fence are the self-publishing zealots, a froth-mouthed cult of author anarchists who believe that the One True Way is to publish yourself — after all, it's easy! You'll get rich! You have control! Damn the man! Burn the gates and their keepers! Anybody else is a chump.

Be not swayed by such false dichotomies. My advice to you is taken straight from my own approach: do both. Traditional publishing and self-publishing (sometimes called "indie" publishing, but damn does that term get people into a froth) each have their own ups and downs. Do both. One for you, one for you. Legacy publishing opens you to getting your book in stores, it gives you a path toward greater visibility and other publishing rights and awards and reviews. Self-publishing puts you in the hands of readers faster, and also lets you earn money (sometimes good money) more quickly.

Don't let anybody tell you your brand new kick-ass choice is not a choice at all.

You smell the sweat-stink of a zealot, call him what he is and shut him down.

The Men Of Many Hats

You're no longer going to survive as "just" a writer. Won't happen. The responsibility falls to you to edit, to find markets, to pimp and promo your work, to know what sells and what doesn't, to network, to do all the sexy dances. This is doubly true of the self-publisher who now takes on all the responsibilities of a micro-pub: design a cover, put the book together, hire anybody who needs to help the book come staggering to life like some rough-shod Frankenstein made only of stitched together nouns and verbs, and so forth.

As a sidenote, I like that term. "Micro-pub." Better than indie, which carries its own debate. Better than self-published, which is a term that sounds about as dismissive and masturbatory as a term can get. ("I just 'self-published' my seed into this Kleenex!") Ahh, but micro-pub! One man publishing. Like micro-brew.

Yeah. I like it.

I will hereby refer to myself as a "micro-pub."

At least until I forget I came up with that term, which is in about — *checks watch* — ten minutes.

The Diminishing Value Of Books

Price versus value is almost like plot versus story, in my mind. The former is the hard definition — price is the cost set by seller, plot is the sequence of events set by the writer. The latter is a softer, hazier thing with ill-defined margins — value is the estimation of the product, story is the overall narrative. Price contributes to value just as plot contributes to story: the lesser a part of the greater.

As writers, we'd better get used to the fact that the value of books — novels in particular — is dropping. Part of this is driven by price: some micro-publishers and even some legacy publishers have significantly reduced the cost of books and e-books. Many haven't — but that's why value is not equal to price. The other part is an assumption — however correct or incorrect — that digital content is cheaper to produce than printed content. (For my opinion: hell yes it's cheaper to produce.) It's why you see so many folks (like me) irritated when an e-book costs the same or more than it's print counterpart. I see that, I get sand up in my swim-trunks. My balls get gritty with rage. Overtime, a pearl of pure anger forms beneath my manly plums.

It's why I applaud the efforts of my publisher, Angry Robot, who has their e-books offered for around five bucks a pop. That gets me to buy those books. But when I see an e-book that goes higher than eight, it better damn well be an author whose children I would bear and push out of my urethra. See, but even here, a degradation of value: last year, I didn't feel the same way.

For the most part, I'm all for the reduction in value — and, subsequently, the reduction in price. I think books should be cheaper. I want books to be accessible. If books are precious (and as a result, expensive), then publishers win, readers lose, and by proxy, writers lose, too. Further, I want books to compete with other media. (I'm waiting for the day a Netflix-esque online "library card" hits the 'Net — that day will awesome in the truest sense of the word.)

Of course, once again it's not hard to see the slippery slope slick with guts and lube: go too low with our prices consistently and that value dips. I've said in the past (to some scorn) that the ninety-nine cent price point (for novels in particular) helps winnow down the value of books, and I still feel that's true — that said, it's worth mentioning first that any price point below standard publisher price has this effect and further, and second, this reduction in value is healthy (up to a point).

Ultimately, what it means for the modern writer of 2011 is: best get used to being better business people as well as better writers.

The Death And Rebirth Of The Short Story

I see the short story market as if it were Schroedinger's Cat: both dead and alive at the same time.

On the one hand, the short story market — as in, I send in a story, you publish it — is maybe not doing so well, at least in terms of writers getting paid. I've seen in the last ten years what markets will pay for short stories either flatline or go down — meanwhile, the cost of living (especially for a writer without a steady day-job) has gone (duh) up. Not the ideal financial direction.

You send a story out there, you open yourself to readership and in some cases awards, but a lot of times it's not financially sustainable to do all your short fiction like that.

Where the short story is gaining life, however, is in the self-publishing arena. Collections and individual shorts for sale seem to be gaining traction, and that's pretty great. This is where that dollar price point maybe has more traction.  A buck for a short story is a price I'll pay and a value I like.

(Again, the advice of "do both" rings true here — take some stories to market, take others to Amazon.)

Lawrence Block has a number of short stories out there for a dollar, and they're all worth it. So too with the short fiction of Tobias Buckell. Know others? Tell us about 'em.

My God, It's Full Of Distractions

Sad fact: one of the perils of modern life is that we are deeply distracted. We are bombarded by options. And that's true of readers as it is of writers. That means as writers are are in danger from distractions on two fronts: on the first front, our audience has an unholy host of entertainment avenues, and so we're competing less with other writers and more with Every Goddamn Cat Video On The Internet. It also means that our own time can easily be flushed down the ol' terlet if we spend our time, ohhh, say, watching Goddamn Cat Videos instead of writing.

I've also seen comments that suggest that self-publishing has not generated a Tsunami of Crap and that quality work floats. Which is a poo-poo stinky-faced lie. Self-publishing has generated a lot of crap just as it has generated a lot of awesome work, and I assure you that, having downloaded a number of self-published titles, I've seen a lot of shit work do well and a lot of brilliant work do poorly. You're naive if you think that quality is a magical unicorn who will carry your wonderful work aloft in a saddle made of adorable, squirming human babies. Shit floats, folks. The trick is, this is true outside self-publishing, too. Again, you're competing with Snooki's book. You're competing with Goddamn Cat Videos. You're competing with this blog that you're reading right now, which is a sure sign that poop is woefully buoyant.

Amiright?

Your Turn

As always, everything I say here is just the opinion of one penmonkey ook-ooking into the grave abyss that is the Internet. I'm only half-convinced of my own opinions on any given day, so I'm always happy to hear dissenting ones. Further, feel free to jump in with your own opinions on The State Of The Union as it relates to writers. What new opportunities and new dangers await in 2011?

Of Google-Plus And Circle Jerks

I remember Myspace.

We speak of it now like it died in a war, but it's actually still out there if you care to gaze upon it. It was and remains the social media equivalent of a GeoCities website: everything is blink tags and glitter fonts, tropical vomit and chrome skulls. Like Metallica rode in on a pack of My Little Ponies and got thrown into a wood chipper, and the chipper sprayed the guts up onto our screens.

Then? Facebook came around. Facebook was all clean lines and blue cubicles. Though it came from the realm of the collegiate, it appeared as the buttoned-up office worker of the social media work, tsk-tsk-tsking on all the blown-out margins and half-naked goblins of Myspace.

And for a while, Facebook held it all together. But before long, chaos crept in at the edges. Eroded those clean blue margins. Pissed on the cubicle walls. Next thing you knew, it was all HELP ME KILL THIS FILIPINO BOOKIE IN MAFIA WARS and DALE NEEDS HELP INSEMINATING DONKEYS IN FARMVILLE and people were tagging you with photos you weren't even in ("Is that a cat throwing up on a parakeet?") and people could add you to groups you didn't sign up for ("Why am I suddenly getting email from "The Sparkly Bieberwhores?"). It never fell into the Las Vegas ayahuasca dream-vomit of Myspace, but the madness remained, endemic to a once-clean system.

And now, Google+ (or Google-Plus or G+ or GP or GooPloo or Guh-Pluh or whatever it is we'll eventually call it) is here, once more stepping into the arena as the master of order, as the scion of sanity, clean and white and elegant as an Apple store.

I am here to say: Lo, I am underwhelmed.

And more than a little confused.

Both fairly default states for me, to tell the truth, so this isn't all that new. Even still, my experiences with The Googlecrucians has been surprisingly gutless and without mirth. I figure, hell, let's talk about it.

Though, quick caveats: first, this is not a review. I've seriously hardly used this thing. Don't trust me to tell you what to think about it — go splash around in the Googley Waters thine ownself.

Second, if you like it? Then I am happy for you. I may like it too one day. Soon, even. In fact, if you would be so kind as to drop into the comments and say why you like it and how you use it, I would reward you mightily. And by "reward you," I mean, I'll give you a wink and a thumbs-up and a high-five and that shall be your glorious prize. Get excited.

It's Like Facebook, Only Less So!

When "new" social media hits, to me it should feel like something new. Not merely an improvement but rather, a whole muhfuckin' redesign. Facebook wasn't like Myspace. It had that sense that I was dipping my toes in the lifestreams of others rather than actively hopping over to your "page" where you, I dunno, talked about how much you love the goddamn Thundercats or auto-play music that sets fire to my ears. Then Twitter came out of left-field and it dialed down complexity and dialed up that frequency to the point where it became this constant signal of conversation ever burbling in the background, and all you had to do was tune the knob to make it louder, or clearer, or more meaningful.

Twitter encouraged brevity. It embraced simplicity.

Now, Google-Double-Plus-Good has hit and it's less a redesign and more a re-skin. In the MMO-gaming space you'd say, "it's not a World-of-Warcraft killer so much as it is a clone." The feeling I get from people is that "It's like Facebook, but without all that… Facebook all up in your face!" Which is fine. Certainly Facebook has earned the ire of many for its constant application messages and its privacy settings. And Gee+ has thrown in one of the great things from Twitter: the loss of enforced reciprocality. I follow you. You don't need to follow me. Huzzah. It's a nice touch.

Even still, this horse is still a horse. When Twitter came around, the Internet didn't show me a horse. It showed me a chimera shooting lasers from its eyes and pooping Faberge eggs. It was like, "Whoa, I have never seen this before." When I logged onto Googolplex, I just saw another horse. Painted white, admittedly, and maybe given a nice currying, but still a horse.

This isn't a home run. It's a bunt. That can't be enough, can it? To get millions to switch?

As Intuitive As Putting Together Ikea Furniture

Goddamn Allen wrenches.

To Hell with your Sknarng coffee table or your Fnorbsbjar S&M spinfuck chair, Ikea.

Anyway. What was I saying? Right.

The first thing that happens when I get into Googley-Poo is that it tells me that people have added me to circles even though I'd never before been on the service (leading me to believe that the site is a psychic social media version of SkyNet), and yet when I look at my list of who had me in circles, some of those people weren't there. Further, I'm then asked to delineate people into circles of my own. Friends or acquaintances, which seems arbitrary, cruel, and actually not all that meaningful. (It's not until later that I realize I can do whatever the fuck I want with circles, but initially, that's not all that clear.) Why not just force me to pick enemies? My initial plan was to separate people into Byzantine Masonic Circles ("You have taken the trials and can join the 35th Echelon Of The Grandmaster Of Fez-Wearing Hula-Hoopery") but I eventually discover that nobody can actually see the awesome circle names you've used to classify them.

Then I'm supposed to figure out exactly how circles work in terms of both broadcasting signal and receiving it from others. I grok the reception: I can say, "I only want to see posts from people in my Those Marked For Eradication By Doom-Bots circle." But the broadcasting portion is a little weirder. A circle indicates a group — like, if I create a circle and we're all in it, we should all be, I dunno, talking to one another. A circle of jerks, if you will. (And I do wonder how long it'll be before "Circle Jerk" enters the G+ parlance.) But that's not quite the case. This dude's blog post takes a look at How Circles Work, but what I read in his blog is not necessarily how I understood it upon entering the circle. Even still, I'm not sure who I'm even talking to. Or yelling at. Or who can talk to me.

Or where my pants went.

Speaking Of Pantslessness

No, I do not want to hangout with you on a webcam. Or, more specifically, you don't want to hang out with me on webcam. Listen, in the great Venn diagram of my computing life, the circle of "Am Using The Internet" and the circle of "Am Shirtless And Covered In Baby Puke And Dorito Pollen" have a near perfect overlap. I'm also afraid that if I somehow turn on my webcam, the first thing I'm going to see is someone masturbating at me. Which is why I am prepared instead to masturbate at somebody. Fight fire with fire. Fight Onanism with Onanism. I have a very clear "first strike" policy on webcam jerkoffery. Once again, the need for "Circle Jerk" to enter the Goo-Plus parlance is dire. Dire.

What The Who Now Is A Spark?

Then there's something called a spark? Which is really just an chosen topic that accumulates random links about my chosen topic? This feels a little "stapled on." Like, does this relate at all to my friends? Er? Circles? Er, what's the term? Circlemates? Google-Pals? Plus-Buddies? (Again: Circle Jerks. I'm just saying. Let us all adopt this new lingo.) Who filters Sparks? Isn't the power of social media the ability to have word-of-mouth fuel your filtering abilities? Has Google hired a guy just to figure out what Sparks I should like? What's happening? What are all these flashing lights? Why am I being anally probed?

The Department Of Redundancy Department

I already have Twitter and Facebook. The former, I'm very happy with. The latter, I could mostly give a shit about but I've got tons of family and classmates there. So, I do an update to Twitter and/or Facebook, I now have, what, a third social media axis to choose from? And I'm going to do what? Say the same thing there that I said everywhere else? That's fine, I guess, but the thought of having to track posts and replies across three axes (not to mention the blog or Goodreads or Tumblr or other blogs or reality) just makes me want to take a goddamn nap.

Even worse, Googly-Eyes over there wants me to get all handsy with organizing my social existence. You know what sounds excruciating? Organizing my social existence. Putting everybody in little boxes. Arranging people like pewter figurines in their little drawers and cubby-holes. Are you a friend? Or a worker? What if you're a worker-friend? What if you're part of my Beekeeping Club but you might also inadvertently find interest in my posts about Coffee Beans Run Through The Intestinal Tract Of Sugar Gliders? I already have enough busy-work in my life — balancing checkbooks, washing dishes, obsessively going over my "locks of hair stolen from all the red-headed hookers I've murdered." Do I really want to micro-manage my online cohorts? Is micro-managing stuff ever fun (except for obsessives)?

As a writer, is this just another place for writer wankery? Don't I do that enough? (Answer: duh, yes.)

I'm reaching a state of social media ennui. Tedium with such pablum.

The whole thing feels a little bit redundant.

A Mote Of Promise In SkyNet's Eye

That's not to say you won't enjoy Fraggle Rock Google Plus. You very well might. As a Facebook replacement, it's aces, I suppose. (Though I'm a bit puzzled by those who are apeshit gonzo about OMG GEE PLUS IS A BILLION TIMES BETTER THAN FACEBOOK, which to me is like saying, OMG FRUITY PEBBLES IS A BILLION TIMES BETTER THAN FROOT LOOPS.) Further, when the digital winds blow right I occasionally catch the briny scent of sheer potential in the service, a potential that maybe harkens back to what Google wanted with services like Buzz and Wave.

For now, I can't see myself hanging out too much at the Gee-Willikers Gee-Whiz Gee-Plus Zero-G G-Unit G-Love G Money — I occasionally pull back the tent flap and see if anything good is going on, but so far, it's mostly just a bunch of carnies sitting around smoking cigarettes and looking a little bored. That said, if you can find me on there, feel free. Entrap me in one of your jerking circles.

Otherwise I shall remain firmly ensconced in the Twitters, where I am allowed to stand on a soapbox, yell all kinds of crap into the air, and you can decide if it's worth hearing.

As always: YMMV, IMHO, etc.

In other news: get off my lawn, you damn kids. With your Google+. And your hair. And your clothes.

Flash Fiction Challenge: "The Lady And The Swordsman"

It's another photo-based flash fiction challenge.

Look at that photo above.

Write 1000 words based off whatever that picture calls to mind inside the crazy teacup that is your skull.

Any genre will do.

As always: you've one week to complete this. Friday, 7/15, by noon EST.

Post at your blog.

Drop a link below.

Link back here if you're so inclined.

And that's that.

Get to writing.

Oh — wait.

One more thing.

Everybody still enjoying these challenges? Want to make sure that you're all into them. Further, if you've any requests or suggestions, you know my ears are peeled back, the earholes ready to receive your wisdom.

(Further, I'll add that above, "Swordsman" may be inaccurate — that masked individual looks to be wearing a woman's blouse, so excuse any sexism implicit in the title. I just thought it had a nice flow. You don't even need to cling to either of those ideas — just use the picture as your springboard toward awesome fiction.)

Go write, gods-damnit.

Will Hindmarch: The Terribleminds Interview

I think I can be upfront and say that Will Hindmarch, though he describes himself as a "mooncalf," is pretty farking awesome and I'm happy to call him friend and cohort. He's a freelance penmonkey such as myself, crawling through the trenches, chucking word grenades and getting blood on his face as good as anybody, except it's worth noting that the guy's prose has a forthright, yet poetic air to it. Anyway. You can read more about him HERE. Read his latest Escapist article: "Truth In Fiction." And purchase the Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities. Please enjoy this, the first of (hopefully) many terribleminds storyteller interviews. Feel free to ask Will questions and taunt him into answering.

This is a blog about writing and storytelling, so before we do anything else, I'd like you to tell me – and, of course, the fine miscreants and deviants that read this site – a story. As short or long as you care to make it, as true or false as you see it.

Alas, I don't tell stories lightly. I can't just launch into one on command. I need time to fret and ogle, to weigh and measure, to test and retest the tale. The last time, I think it was, that I tried to just tell a story on the fly, it was a story from memory that I augmented to make more compelling for the audience. But it wasn't my story, it was a story I'd heard on the Internet. ("Heard," I say—I'd read it.) It was a story about how William Gibson forms his novels, about how he does research and what he reads when he's writing, that sort of thing.

Anyway, I was speaking at a convention seminar in Atlanta. I was talking about writing and diligence and discipline, which is hilarious of me, and like an idiot asshole I'm telling someone else's story about someone else's deadlines and someone else's method. I start off by invoking William Gibson. "William Gibson once said," I said and then paraphrased a quote of his about reality and the muse. (And I say "paraphrased" generously—I may have made up a bunch of the quote, but the gist was there.)

I keep going. I mention William Gibson again, this time talking about deadlines and inspiration and how a novel (I've never written a novel) knows when it is finished. The audience is real quiet.

I keep on going. I cite William Gibson a third time, saying how I once read an interview with him where he used to struggle with how to get characters to cross rooms—to handle blocking and staging—and how he'd avoid the problem and just leave it to the reader and how if William Gibson could do it, then dammit, so could we.

A hand goes up near the back of the room. There's maybe forty, fifty people in attendance. "Yes?" I say, pointing at the hand.

Heads turn and lean out of the way. I see the spectacles and the face. My imagination flashes to the back-cover author photo of, I don't know, IDORU. The black-and-white windswept author photo overlays on the man across the crowd from me. It's him. William Gibson is among us. I'd invoked his name three times and now he was here.

"Yeah," he says. "I never said that."

I stay real still. Then I die. I die dead. Right there. Dead.

Now, that story's not true. The only time I've ever seen Gibson in the flesh was when he signed my copy of PATTERN RECOGNITION in a suburban bookshop outside Minneapolis. But this is why I try not to tell stories on the spot.

How would you describe your writing style?

I figure that's for other people to do. I change voices and styles a lot, depending on the needs of the assignment I'm working on. I haven't had a lot of time to write my own material lately, so my style has sort of been developing into a melange and what, from all of those different styles and voices, is mine? I don't know.

Here's something that's true, though: my style is certainly developing still. Maybe it'll always be developing. I aim for honesty in my own writing, but beyond that, the voice and approach I take to getting that honesty out is always in motion. This is good, I think, right? I don't want to be one of those writers whose stories are all the same.

In high school, I once had my writing style compared to Mark Twain's. I've been carrying that around with pride ever since. Earlier this year, my business partner, Jeff Tidball, who is a stunningly great writer, compared my voice to Michael Chabon's. I'm going to keep that on my keychain and thumb it whenever I get the serious doubts.

What's awesome about being a writer, and conversely, what sucks about it?

The work is awesome. It genuinely awes me. My imagination is probably my strongest muscle and I have a job that lets me use it. That's pretty great.

Of course, I'm almost never not working. The pay is shit and the hours suck. I sort of love that, too, though. I always know what I should be doing—I should be working. When I'm not working, I should be. When I am, I should be. I should be working.

What's awesome is that I'm doing the only thing I'm good at—writing. What sucks is that I'll probably never be happy with my skill level—I always need to be getting better. That sucks, but that's sort of awesome, too. Always something to do.

I should be working.

Deliver unto us a single-serving dollop of writing or storytelling advice that you yourself follow as a critical tip without which you might starve and die atop a glacier somewhere:

I once saw this written on a 3×5 note card on my brother's bedroom wall, over his desk. He's a writer, too:

The cardinal sins of storytelling:

1. Boredom

2. Confusion

Favorite word? And then, the follow up: Favorite curse word?

I don't play favorites. Today I tell you that my favorite word is that old writerly chestnut, _defenestrate_, and tomorrow I say to myself, "Come on, man! That's a pretty obvious choice, isn't it?" So I say, "I put the word _mooncalf_ in my biography for a reason," and then I find out that somebody is offended by that word. Or I go, "Let's just say _zeppelin_ and be done with it," but then you think I'm some kind of obsessive, when really I'm just fascinated by dirigibles. No way to win this game. So, yeah, I don't know.

Favorite curse word, though, has got to be that classic: _fuck_. I like its versatility. Excuse me, its fucking versatility, you fuck. I like fuckery and motherfucker and fucktastic and their many kin. It's like an atomic cuss, from which many vulgar molecules can be wrought. I mean, fuck.

Favorite alcoholic beverage? (If cocktail: provide recipe. If you don't drink alcohol, fine, fine, a non-alcoholic beverage will do.)

Again with your favorites. Lately I've been drinking Hendricks gin and tonics (a large pour of Hendricks gin and an eyeballed dose of tonic) and white russians (one part vodka, one part Kahlua, one part cream). Also, I like scotch neat or with one ice cube. If you've got port, I'll drink a lot of it.

Recommend a book, comic book, film, game: something with great story. Go!

How about a game that surprised me with its storytelling? Months and months ago, a game came out called ENSLAVED: ODYSSEY TO THE WEST that was written by Alex Garland (28 DAYS LATER, NEVER LET ME GO) and co-directed by Andy Serkis. Serkis also acts in this game, doing dialogue and motion-capture work. It features some of the best, most nuanced performances I've ever seen in a video game and all of it was sadly overlooked by the gaming public. The gameplay is solid running-and-jumping adventure-type stuff in an overgrown post-apocalyptic world (the game's especially lovely in the early levels) and it's all loaded up with ongoing character-building dialogue a la PRINCE OF PERSIA: SANDS OF TIME. It's not a perfect game, but it was overlooked for sure and now you can get it cheap, new or used. Well worth the time you'll spend in that world.

Where are my pants?

Not until I get my $240 in small, non-sequential bills, Wendig.

Got anything to pimp? Now's the time!

My new book is THE THACKERY T. LAMBSHEAD CABINET OF CURIOSITIES, which I share with a crazily wonderful contributor roster that I'm just going to list here, because when you list all these names together they make some kind of harmonic resonance pulse: Holly Black, Greg Broadmore, Ted Chiang, John Coulthart, Rikki Ducornet, Amal El-Mohtar, Minister Faust, Jeffrey Ford, Lev Grossman, N.K. Jemisin, Caitlin R. Kiernan, China Mieville, Mike Mignola, Michael Moorcock, Alan Moore, Garth Nix, Naomi Novik, James A. Owen, Helen Oyeyemi, J.K. Potter, Cherie Priest, Ekaterina Sedia, Jan Svankmajer, Rachel Swirsky, Carrie Vaughn, Jake von Slatt, Tad Williams, Charles Yu, and many more.

This is a vast, multi-author, multi-artist anthology exploring the fascinating collection of artifacts and doodads gathered by the sadly deceased Dr. Lambshead during his remarkable life. Inside you'll find stories, essays, and art galore. It's really a hell of a book, envisioned and assembled by the cunning and imaginative intelligences of Ann and Jeff VanderMeer.

How did you get involved with the Cabinet of Curiosities?

I've long been fascinated by collectors like Dr. Lambshead. My family is full of avid collectors and I married a museum professional, so my fascination is nearly utter, really. Dr. Lambshead, perhaps best known as a medical pioneer and adventurer, also amassed something approaching a museum of his own—the "cabinet" of curiosities is not so much a cabinet at all—and it's one of those iconic storehouses of occult and esoteric lore that I dreamt about visiting.

I work with Jeff VanderMeer at a creative-writing summer camp called Shared Worlds (http://shareworlds.wofford.edu), which he co-founded, and when I heard that he was working on a new book about Dr. Lambshead, I pestered him and bought his cigars until he let me do some research and write about an item from the collection all on my own. In the end, Jeff gave me the task of writing about the Auble Gun, because I have some (modest) experience with antique firearms.

Some of that is even true.

Care to tell us about your story, "The Auble Gun?"

"The Auble Gun" began with an illustration by Greg Broadmore of a tuxedoed gentleman with a spectacular, steaming Gatling-style gun on his shoulder. I added a faux-academic exhibit writeup, drawing a bit on my own feelings of inadequacy and my own limited experience with archaic firearms, and created a familial legacy of ambition, desperation, and failure that I probably think is funnier than it actually is. And, of course, we get to see how Dr. Lambshead's own history intersects with that of the Auble Gun.

The truth is, "The Auble Gun" has a lot of pathos in it for me, all hidden under a layer of stiff academia. It's a dynastic tale about reaching beyond one's grasp, dedicating one's self to someone else's obsession, and always coming in second place. While it's about the Auble family, it's also about my experiences, to some degree. But I don't want to say much more than that—I want to keep the focus on Dr. Lambshead and the Aubles, if I can. It's their story, really.

You're also a game designer. Tell us how playing and designing games helps you — or hinders you — in the act of writing prose fiction.

This is something I wrestle with and have written about a bit at my blog, actually. The short version is that storytelling games like table-top roleplaying titles (your Dungeons & Dragons and your Trail of Cthulhus) have helped me internalize and gain valuable traction in thinking about storytelling on the fly. I'm much more comfortable with story structure and characterization thanks to these games than I would be otherwise. Four hours spent running a great story game are solid experience for dealing with questions of boredom and confusion, for learning how to quickly get characters across, and for learning how to set a scene. They hone instincts.

The downside is that I sometimes get decision paralysis while writing straight-up prose fiction now. Without players, as living agents and audience, making decisions in the moment, I sometimes find it difficult to decide just which way a story should unfold. As a game writer, I'm usually writing options and consequences for exploring various options. As a story writer, I'm writing one option, one outcome. What if the better story lies through the door not taken? What if I force a character into an uncharacteristic decision? What if, what if, what if?

So, while I think story games are great practice for a lot of skills, they're no substitute for hours logged making mistakes and correcting them at the keyboard, writing actual fiction or actual script pages. These two skill sets overlap, and that part of the Venn diagram is where I'm strongest, but the rest of those circles are their own things. Got to log hours doing both if you want to be good at both.

You're a big fan of soundtracks — both as inspiration for writing and just for good old-fashioned ear massage. Recommend a soundtrack that most people wouldn't think to seek out.

Hmm. Tricky. I'm often surprised by the soundtracks and film scores that people actually have heard of or sought out. Bear McCreary's had rollicking concerts for his BATTLESTAR GALACTICA musical scores, for example, so I'd say people have thought to seek them out. I used to recommend Michael Giacchino's early scores for the MEDAL OF HONOR games, but he's got an Oscar now and is pretty well established, so I imagine that you've sought those out if you wanted to. I often tell people that the John Powell scores for the BOURNE films are excellent writing music—you'll feel like you're accomplishing something even when you're not—and the BOURNE ULTIMATUM score is an easy recommendation, but maybe that's too obvious, too? David Holmes' score for OCEAN'S TWELVE is the best in that series, in my opinion, and has a great energy and style to it, too. It really depends what mood you're trying to get in.

What are you working on now? Can you give us a hint? Whet our appetites?

Right now, I'm wrapping up development on the MISTBORN ADVENTURE GAME for Crafty Games, based on the novels by Brandon Sanderson. I'm editing Jeremy Keller's hard-boiled cyberpunk game, TECHNOIR. I'm also developing a couple of original RPGs for outfits like Pelgrane Press and, don't tell anyone, Evil Hat Productions. The first of them, for Pelgrane, is called RAZED, and it's an apocalyptic investigative survival RPG with a highly malleable setting. The other is so new that I don't think I can really talk about it, but it's grim and exciting and finally lets me play with a subject I've been wanting to tackle for years. I also have a couple of independent games in development, including a stealth-action title called DARK, which I'm hoping to launch on Kickstarter in the coming months.

All of that doesn't include a collection of short stories that I'll be publishing later this year, I hope, or the progress by agonizing inches that I make on my novel. I have to keep busy to keep the checks coming in and I frequently get distracted off of my own projects by projects for other people, 'cause I need to eat and my own projects are all gambles on future monies, rather than contract-driven certainties (well, "certainties"). You know how it is.

What Separates Man From Penmonkey

I've kicked your ass so many times, it's a wonder you can poop with all those shoes of mine crammed up into your colonic cubby-hole. If anything, you're probably shitting shoelaces by now. I feel like I come back here and I say the same thing over and over. It's the same hard-ass, hard-nose advice. Endlessly reiterative. I froth. I spit. I kick sand. I make the face that my son makes when he's trying to figure out how to belch or fill his diaper. I have an aneurism. I collapse in a puddle of my own blood and saliva. I lay there and wait until someone picks me back up and I forget I ranted and raved and then here I am, doing it all again.

Froth, spit, sand, diaper, aneurism, rant, rave, again, again, again.

You must be tired of me by now. Lord knows I'm tired of me.

And yet, I persevere. As I must. For you. For you.

…

HA HA HA HA! Who am I kidding? I love to froth! I'm happy to lose the occasional shoe to your grasping sphincter. I am addicted to punching you in the face meat with my dubious truth-making nonsense.

Even still, consider this my last official ass-kicking for a while, at least as an ass-kicking that comprises these core conceits. Let this be my final gospel to you, faithful readers. Let this be an exploration of the line that separates the common man — the guy who "has a book in him" but never manages to puke it up — from the hard-working, trench-crawling penmonkey.

We are separated by a line of shattered excuses and incomplete narrative.

On this side, action.

On that side, passivity.

Time to pound the lectern.

Penmonkeys Don't Have Time, They Make Time

I have 24 hours in my day.

You have 24 hours in your day.

That guy? Twenty-four hours. That lady? She has 25 hours, but she sucked the Devil's hell-wang and cut herself a deal. You don't want that deal. It involves Justin Bieber.

Life fills idle time. It's like water moving to empty spaces. It's why the phrase "free time" is a fucking joke. Adults don't have free time. Because when you're an adult, shit gets real. It's all mortgages and diapers and spreadsheets and shopping lists and cake recipes and suburban methamphetamine dealers just so you can have the energy to vacuum one more room, just one, just one.

Nobody "has" time. We don't bank it like cell phone minutes. You can't buy a gift card from Target. Writers are ever under the assumption that the rest of their lives comes first. Which it will, if you let it. And that's true of anything. If you wait for time to magically free yourself, then you'll be 80 and will have forgotten what you wanted to do anyway. Time must be managed. Time must be carved off, separated, crafted and shaped. You don't have time. You make it. You pull a little bit from here and a little bit from there and you lump them together until you have a glorious hour of writing time.

You don't wait for it to happen. Because if you do, you're going to be waiting a long time. Because here's the other secret? Time? It flows like a river, friend. Unless you dam it up, it moves on into the ocean.

And there you are raped and eaten by sharks.

True story.

Penmonkeys Have Heads Like Concrete Drain Boxes

Writing is a career that is endlessly reiterative. Talent matters, but it matters only in equal proportion to how much patience and perseverance you possess. You gotta be stubborn as a brain-damaged mule. Said for the many-th time: writing is about putting a bucket on your head and trying to knock down a brick wall. It's either you or the wall. You're either stubborn and pissed off enough to break on through, or eventually, the wall puts you on your ass. Up to you to conjure the fortitude.

The successful writers, the ones who work day in and day out, are usually ones who can tell you about the brick wall. And the long road to get to that brick wall. It won't happen overnight. It won't happen over the course of a single year. Took me over 12 years to get where I am, and I'm not even anywhere all that special, yet. A penmonkey career is a long con, not a short swindle.

You're either in for the long haul or you'll be hauled out before long.

Penmonkeys Are Not Stopped By Your Earthly "Writer's Block"

"Writer's Block."

"The Muse."

Two sides of the same coin. A coin made of lies. And sadness. And babies.

Yes, yes, writers get blocked. And writers can be inspired. The first: a sad state. The second: a glorious boon. But neither have power beyond what you give them. You don't need inspiration to work. Same as you don't need to give in to whatever's blocking you. Neither are made of anything real. They're just imaginary. Hallucinatory. Best of all: transitory.

What, you're sad? Of course you're sad. You're a writer. Bad day at the day job? Painful bunion? Kid won't stop crying? Besieged by ninjas? Mind a gray gruel-like mush?

You have to move past it. You have to shut that out. Even just writing down a string of pages-long nonsense may help jar loose the scree and debris. If you can't get shut of it, can't tune out the nega-frequency, then I'm truly sorry. But know that the working penmonkeys out there hammering away in the word mines don't want to hear about your writer's block. They've got shit to do. And if you're a tough cookie, you'll join 'em.

Your mental state cannot stop you. If it does, know that it has a better name than "writer's block."

You might want to call it "self-sabotage."

Penmonkeys, Like Honey Badgers, Don't Give A Shit

Three words. Practice them with me now: "I don't care."

Or, even better: "It's all good."

Bad review? Hard rejection? Someone tells you your "dream" of being a writer is bullshit? Mean person on the Internet? Self-doubt? Plague of uncertainty nibbling at your brain-stem like a passel of vampire hamsters? Fear of failure? Fear of success? Is your idea original? Will your book get published? What will the cover look like? Will anybody read it? Are you just a fraud? When will they discover you? When will they see that you're just wearing the costume of a writer?

Fuck it! Fuck all of it. Fuck it all right in the galactic dickhole.

No, I don't know what a galactic dickhole is. I've been drinking. Just, shhh. Shhhh.

Find clarity in what you do. Remove noise and zero in on pure signal. All that matters is what you do. Put differently: don't care so much. I know that runs counter to what you think, which is to care deeply, care strongly, care without reservation or reason. Note that I'm not saying to not have passion: but eventually you need to throw up your hands (er, not puke them up because, ew — why did you eat your hands?) and say, "Fuck it." You should care only about the thing that you're doing, which is writing the perfect novel, script, manifesto, whatever. Any outside noise? Shut it out.

Penmonkeys Do Not Find Better Things To Do

You always have the option to do something other than write. Clean your office. Run some errands. Walk the dog. See a movie. Hang out on Twitter. Digest porn. Sacrifice albino mammals to dark gods.

Life presents you with an endless menu of options. Writing is merely one choice amongst an infinity.

And penmonkeys make that choice every time.

Penmonkeys Know Their Craft

Being a writer actually features two primary tiers of craft (with lots of niggling little sub-tiers and micro-strata): writing, and storytelling. Storytelling is the larger scope, the idea of conveying a narrative and making it count. Writing is the smaller, more technical craft: you must find a way to convey the story you hope to tell. You need both of these skills.

My father was a great storyteller. And yet, I have a strong feeling he wasn't a capable writer. Now, to be clear, he didn't need to be: he was an engineer, a plant facilities manager, a gunsmith, at no point did he need to sit down and be a writer. Meaning, he didn't want to be a penmonkey.

You do. So learn how to write. And learn how to tell stories.

And keep learning, too. You don't stop just because you've written one thing. This isn't a simple discipline. It doesn't have easy margins. Penmonkeys always have more they can learn.

But Also, Penmonkeys Have Permission To Suck

You are not born a writer. Penmonkeys are made. Challenged by the fires of their own self-doubt, and pickled in a brine of gin, vinegar, salt, bourbon, and straight-up word sauce.

(For the record, word sauce is actually just steak sauce.)

Sometimes, what you do isn't going to be great. Don't get mopey. Don't succumb to the Penmonkey Blues. You need to leave yourself that margin-of-error, that force field of occasional suckitude. Not everything you do is going to have that new car, new baby smell. Some of what you do is going to smell like the ruptured bile-sac of a sick possum. Penmonkeys don't let this get them down. They move on. They fix what they fucked up or they write something new, something better, something that takes the lessons learned and puts them fast into play. Learn this phrase: "That's okay, I can fix it in post."

Penmonkeys Write Till It's Right

You don't write till it's "Ehh, shrug, pbbt, poop noise," you write till it's right. Too many authors go off half-cocked. They jump in and jump out too fast — "Here's my completed work!" — and then they submit a "final product" that has the shape and definition of a quivering blob of Ambrosia Salad.

With raisins in it.

With raisins.

Once, while in a bathroom in college, I saw that someone had written on the wall in black marker:

WORK THE CLIT.

Not bad advice in general, and for penmonkeys, this is good as metaphor. You gotta work the clit till the cookies pop. Work the story until it's right. Not until it's done. It's easy to finish something. It's hard to finish something and do it well. You need to bring that story to climax. Until it explodes its juices all over your chin, over your cordoruys, over that weird apparatus you're wearing. Work the clit. Write till it's right.

Penmonkeys Love To Write, Not To Get Published

This is easy enough: the writer's goal should be to get published, but the writer's love should be of writing. Too many writers are in love with the idea of writing-to-be-published and too few are in love with the act of writing. But tried-and-true penmonkeys love the craft, the act, the actual telling-of-stories.

They care about publishing. But they love to be writing.

Penmonkeys Do Work — And Don't Quit

Penmonkeys work. Penmonkeys don't fuck around.

Write every day. And finish what you started. And with each day of writing, learn something new about who you are and what you do. Penmonkeys don't merely talk about writing (though, plainly, they do that quite a lot — I can't tell you how many times I see writers pooh-pooh on writing advice and then lo and behold they leap to their own blogs to do what now? Offer writing advice). They actually also do the writing.

They aren't hamstrung by fear. They don't find better things to do. They don't watch day in and day out as time fritters away. They don't let others dissuade them from this path.

They write. Endlessly anon.

They don't write because they "have to" — that's an endearing writer's myth, but a myth just the same. Penmonkeys write because they want to. They write because if they don't, drum roll please, then nothing gets written. Writing is a difficult act of mountain climbing or cave spelunking: it's work, hombre. But climb to the top or crawl down into the deepest dark and you'd be amazed at what you find there: rolling clouds, glowing bacteria, the cleanest air, the cleanest water, the Buddha under the Bodhi tree, cave crickets with human faces, gods and monsters and goblins and unicorns and Lady Gaga.

On the worst day of writing, the work is instructive. On the best day, the act is transcendent.

The work is purifying and perfect even when it's not.

This is a beautiful, if you let it be beautiful.

Above all else: writers write.

* * *

If you dig on the apeshit crazy-face no-holds-barred profanity-soaked writing advice found here at terribleminds, then you may want to take a wee bitty gander-peek at: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY, which is available now! Buy for Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF. Don't forget to work the clit.

25 Things You Should Know About Dialogue

Time for another iteration of the 25 Things series. This, I suspect, may be my last one here on the blog for awhile, but I'm contemplating putting together a small e-book of these lists with some new ones thrown in for good measure (already written part of 25 Things You Should Know About Publishing and Writing A Fucking Sentence). In the meantime, enjoy this one, and don't hesitate to add your own in the comments.

Previous iterations of the "25 Things" series:

25 Things Every Writer Should Know

25 Things You Should Know About Storytelling

25 Things You Should Know About Character

25 Things You Should Know About Plot

25 Things You Should Know About Writing A Novel

25 Things You Should Know About Revisions

1. Dialogue Is Easy Like Sunday Morning

Our eyes flow over dialogue like butter on the hood of a hot car. This is true when reading fiction. This is true when reading scripts. What does this tell you? It tells you: you should be using a lot of dialogue.

2. Easy Isn't The Same As Uncomplicated

We like to read dialogue is because it's easy, not because it's stupid. Dialogue has a fast flow. We respond to it as humans because, duh, humans make talky-talky. Easy does not translate to uncomplicated or unchallenging. Dialogue isn't, "I like hot dogs," "I think hot dogs are stupid," "I think you're stupid," "I think your Mom's stupid," "I think your Mom's vagina is stupid." Dialogue is a carrier for all aspects of the narrative experience. Put differently: it's the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down. I think I'm supposed to add "motherfucker" to that. I'll let you do it. I trust you.

3. Sweet Minimalism

Let's get this out of the way: don't hang a bunch of gaudy ornaments upon your dialogue. In fiction, use the dialogue tags "said" and "asked" 90% of the time. Edge cases you might use "hissed," "called," "stammered," etc. These are strong spices; use minimally. Also, adverbs nuzzled up against dialogue tags are an affront to all things and make Baby Jesus pee out the side of his diaper, and when he does that, people die. In scripts, you don't have this problem but you can still clog the pipes with crap if you overuse stage directions. Oh, heavy dialect and sland? Just more ornamentation that'll break the back of your dialogue.

4. Uh, You Do Know The Rules, Right?

Learn the structure of dialogue. If a screenplay, know the format. Capitalized name, centered above parenthetical stage direction and the line of dialogue. VO, OC, OS, contd:

SCOOTER (VO)

(shouting)

I always said that life was like a box of marmots. You

never know which one's gonna nibble off your privates.

In fiction, know when to use a comma, when to use a period, know where the punctuation goes in relation to quotation marks, know that a physical gesture (nodded, f'rex) is not a dialogue tag.

"Fuck that monkey," John said.

"But," Betty said, "I love that dumb chimp."

John nodded. "I know, Betty. But he's a bad news bonobo, baby. A bad news bonobo."

5. Use It To Set Pace

You want a pig to run faster, you grease him up with Astroglide and stick a NASA rocket booster up his ass. You want your story to read faster, you use dialogue to move it along. Like I said: dialogue reads easy. Dialogue's like a waterslide: a reader gets to it, they zip forth fast, fancy and free. Want to slow things down? Pull away from the dialogue. Speed things up? More dialogue. Throttle. Brake. Throttle. Brake.

6. Shape Determines Speed

Short, sharp dialogue is a prison shiv: moves fast 'cause it's gotta, because T-Bone only has three seconds in the lunch line with Johnny the Fish to stitch a shank all up in Johnny's kidneys. Longer dialogue moves more slowly. Wanting to create tension? Fast, short dialogue. Want to create mystery? Longer, slightly more ponderous dialogue. Want to bog your audience in word treacle? Let one character take a lecturing info-dump all over their heads.

7. Expository Dialogue Is A Pair Of Cement Shoes

One of dialogue's functions is to convey information within the story (to other characters) and outside the story (to the audience). An info-dump is the clumsiest way to make this happen. Might as well bludgeon your audience with a piece of rebar. And yet, you still gotta convey info. You have ways to pull this off without dropping an expository turd in the word-bowl. Don't let one character lecture; let it be a conversation. Question. Answer. Limit the information learned; pull puzzle pieces out and take them away to create mystery. Let characters be reluctant to give any info, much less dump it over someone's head.

8. Showing Through Telling

And yet, you have to do it. Dialogue is a better way of conveying information than you, the storyteller, just straight up telling the audience. The curious nature of dialogue, however, is that it would seem to rectally violate that most sacred of writing chestnuts — show, don't tell. I don't open my mouth and project fucking holograms. I tell you shit. And yet, the trick with dialogue is to show through telling. You reveal things through dialogue without a character saying them. This means it's paramount to avoid…

9. The Wart On The End Of The Nose

"On-the-nose" dialogue is dialogue where a character says exactly what he feels and what he wants for purposes of telling the audience what they need to know. When a villain spoils his own sinister plan, that's on-the-nose. When a protagonist says, "I cannot love you, elf-lady, because an elf once touched me in my no-no hole," that's on-the-nose. Trust me, we'd live in a better, happier world if real world dialogue was all on-the-nose. On the other side, we'd experience duller, shittier fiction. Characters — and, frankly, real people — reveal things without saying them.

10. The Words Beneath The Words

Text versus sub-text. On-the-nose dialogue versus dialogue that is deliciously sub rosa. Meaning exists beneath what's said. The best real world example of this is the dreaded phrase spoken by men and women the world around: "I'm fine." Said with jaw tight. Said with averted eyes. Said in sharp, clipped tongue. Never before have two words so clearly meant something entirely different: "I'm fine" is code. It's code for, "Yes, something is fucking wrong, but I don't want to talk about it, but actually, I do want to talk about it but I want you to already know what's wrong, and what's wrong is that you had sex with my mother in a New Jersey rest-stop and put it on Youtube you giant unmerciful cock-waffle."

11. Pay No Attention To The Dead Man Behind The Curtain

Put differently: pretend that dialogue is more about hiding than it is about revealing. The things we the audience want to know most — who killed his wife, why did he rob that bank, did he really have a romantic dalliance with that insane dancing robot — are the things the character doesn't want to discuss. Dialogue is negotiating that revelation, and it's a revelation that should come as easy as pulling the teeth out of a coked-up Doberman. Meaning, not easy at all.

12. Where Tension, Suspense And Mystery Have A Big Crazy Gang-Bang

The fact that characters lie, cheat, conceal, mislead and betray all in dialogue tells you that dialogue is a critical way of building tension and suspense and conveying mystery. Characters are always prime movers.

13. Quid Pro Quo, Clarice

Hannibal Lecter susses out the truth through dialogue. (Oh, and he also eats people.) But he's also performing meta-work for the audience by sussing out character through dialogue. Clarice Starling is painted in part by Lecter's own strokes. A character's blood, sweat, tears, ball-hair and breast-milk lives inside their dialogue. How they speak and what they say reveals who they are, though only obliquely. After writing a conversation, ask yourself, "What does this say about the characters? Is this true to who they are?"

14. Let The Character Sign Their Own Work

Each line of dialogue from a character is that character's signature. It contains their voice and personality. One speaks in gruff, clipped phrasing. The other goes on at length. One character is ponderous and poetic, another is meaner than two rattlesnakes fucking in a dirty boot. Don't let a character's voice be defined by dialect, slang, or other trickery. It's not just how they speak. It's also what they say when they do.

15. Dialogue Is A Theme Park

Theme is one of those things you as the author don't really speak out loud — but sometimes characters do. They might orbit the theme. They might challenge it. They might speak it outright. Not often, and never out of nowhere. But it's okay once in awhile to let a character be a momentary avatar of theme. It's doubly okay if that character is played by Morgan Freeman. God, that guy's voice. He could say anything — "Beans are a musical fruit" — and I'm like, "There it is! Such gravitas! Such power. It's the theme. It's the theme!"

16. Dialogue Is Action

We expect that dialogue and action are separate, but they are not. Speak is a verb. So's talk. So's discuss, talk, argue, yell, banter, rant, rave. Verb means action. That means, duh, dialogue is action, not separate from it. Further, dialogue works best when treated this way. Don't stand two characters across from one another and have them talk at each other like it's a ping-pong game. Characters act while speaking. They walk. Kick stones. Clean dishes. Load rifles. Pleasure themselves. Build thermonuclear penile implants. Eat messy sandwiches. This creates a sense of dynamism. Of an authentic world. Adds variety and interest.

17. The Real World Is Not Your Friend

I'm not talking about the MTV reality show, though one supposes there the lesson is the same (so not your friend). What I mean is, if you want to ruin good dialogue, the fastest path to that is by mimicking dialogue you hear in the real world. Dialogue in the real world is dull. It's herky-jerky. Lots of um, mmm, hmm, uhhh, like, y'know. If you listen really hard to how people speak to one another, it's amazing anybody communicates anything at all.

18. For The Record, You're Not David Mamet

Yes, yes, I know. David Mamet writes "realistic" dialogue. Everyone interrupts everyone. They say inexplicable shit. They barely manage to communicate. Subtextapalooza. It's great. It works. You're also not David Mamet. I mean, unless you are, in which case, thanks for stopping by. Would you sign my copy of Glengarry Glen Ross? All that being said…

19. Again: Not A Ping-Pong Match

Characters don't stand nose to nose and take turns speaking. People are selfish. So too are characters. Characters want to talk. They want to be heard. They don't wait their turn like polite automatons. They can interrupt each other. Finish one another's sentences. Derail conversations. Pursue agendas. Dialogue is a little bit jazz, a little bit hand-to-hand combat. It's a battle of energy, wits, and dominance.

20. Conversation Is Conflict

Dialogue can represent a pure and potent form of conflict. Two or more characters want something, and they're using words to get it. Before you write conversation, ask: what does each participant want? Set a goal. One character wants money. Another wants affirmation to justify her self-righteousness. A third just needs a fucking hug. Find motive. Purpose. Conscious or not. Let the conversation reflect this battle.

21. Authenticity Trumps Reality

"But it really happened," is never an excuse for something to exist in fiction. Weird shit happens all the time in reality. Ever have something happen where you say, "Gosh, that was really convenient?" You put that in your story, the audience is going to kick you in the gut and spit in your cereal. Dialogue suffers from similar pitfalls. Just because you hear it in reality doesn't mean it works in the context of story. Story has its own secret laws. You can make dialogue sound real without mimicking reality. One might term this "natural" dialogue; authenticity is about feeling real, not about being real.

22. Sometimes, You Just Gotta Babble That Shit Out

Writing dialogue sometimes means you just let two characters babble for awhile. Small talk, big talk, crazy talk. Let 'em circumvent the real topic. Give them voices. Open the floodgates to your sub-conscious mind. And let the conversation flow. Write big, write messy, write long. Cut later in comfort.

23. Nothing Wrong With Banter

You might write two characters just sitting down and shooting the shit and think, "I'll cut this down later." But don't be so sure. Sometimes characters just need to chat, babble, mouth off. Who they are can be revealed in two people just fucking around, seeing what comes out of their heads. That can work if it's interesting, if it puts the character on the map in terms of the audience's mental picture, and if it eventually focuses up to be something bigger than how it began. Oh, and did I mention it has to be interesting?

24. The Greatest Crime Against Humanity Is Writing Boring Dialogue

Like I said, dialogue is easy to read. Or, it's supposed to be. Anybody who writes dialogue that's dull, that doesn't flow like water and pop like popcorn, needs to be taken out back and shaken like a baby. Find the boring parts. The unnecessary stuff. The junk. Anything that doesn't feel a) necessary and b) interesting. Stick it in a bag and set it on fire. Want to read great dialogue? Sharp, fast, entertaining, witty-as-fuck, with a lot going on? Go watch the TV show GILMORE GIRLS. No, I'm not kidding. Stop making that face.

25. Double-Duty Dialogueing

Heh, "duty." Heh, "log." Shut up. If you take one thing away from these 25 nonsense nuggets gems of wisdom, it's this: let dialogue do the heavy lifting and perform double- or even triple-duty. Dialogue isn't just dialogue. It's a vehicle for character, theme, mood, plot, conflict, mystery, tension, horror. Dialogue does a lot of work in very short space: it's the goddamn Swiss Army knife of storytelling. Or Macgyver. Or Trojan Horse. Or Macgyver hiding in a Trojan Horse carrying a Swiss Army knife. Didn't I tell you to shut up already? Where's Morgan Freeman when you need him? He'll tell you to shut up and you'll listen.

Corollary: "Everything Is Dialogue"

Part of why dialogue reads so easy is because it's conversational, and conversation is how we interact with other humans and, in our heads, with the world. We talk to inanimate objects, for fuck's sake. (What, you've never yelled at a stubborn jar of jelly? SHUT UP HAVE TOO.) There's a secret, here, and that is to treat all your writing like it's dialogue. Write things conversationally. Like you're talking to the audience. Like you and the audience? Real BFFs. You can abuse this, of course, but the point is that in conversation you'll use straightforward, uncomplicated language to convey your point — no value in being stodgy and academic when you're just talking. So too is it with writing, whether it's description in a screenplay or in fiction, you'll find value in straightforward, uncomplicated, even talky language. Talk with the audience, don't lecture at them. Everything is dialogue. Some of it's just one-sided, is all.

So. How about you?

What are your rules of writing dialogue?

* * *

Did you enjoy this post? Guess what? Chuck has a book chock full of the same kind of booze-soaked, profanity-laden writing advice you found here. Look for CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY. Buy fo r Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF.

The Penmonkey Incitement

Wow. THE PENMONKEY INCITEMENT sounds like a lost Robert Ludlum novel.

Never mind.

I would like to sell more copies of CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY.

I have, at this exact moment, sold 328 copies over the last six weeks.

For the record, I'm not unhappy with that number. It actually makes me giddy. I see that number, I do a little dance. In my pants. Hah, just kidding, I don't wear your oppressive Earth pants. PENMONKEY is actually poised to out-earn IRREGULAR CREATURES despite the latter being on sale since January and having sold twice as many copies. So, hey: thumbs up.

Even still, I want more copies of PENMONKEY in the world.

I seek nothing short of total dominance of the "writing advice" market, where me and my hunter-killer robots storm across the barren wasteland of the publishing industry, eradicating bad writing left and right with our laser beams and pinching claws. I want a throne built of slushy manuscripts and lined with the teeth of those writers who had sense knocked into them (and molars knocked out of them) by my book.

I also want a Lamborghini. I mean, c'mon. I had the poster as a kid. Lamborghini. Hot bikini chick. Maybe a python or some shit. And I suspect that my little bloggery-book on writing advice is the way toward such fame and fortune. And toward a chick with a constrictor snake inside a hot late 80′s sports car.

Okay, I kid. But I would still like to get more PENMONKEY out there, regardless of my lack of Lamborghinis or doom-bots. Right? Right.

To do so, I thought, okay, maybe an incentive program. Maybe, if I don't sell 100 copies every week, I would do something horrible. "You don't buy my book, I'll shoot this unicorn."

Except then I figured, ohh, ohhh, nobody's going to buy the book because everybody's going to want to see the unicorn shooting. And they're going to wanna see how I dispose of all those unicorn carcasses.

So, I went back to the wise words of my Kung Fu mentor, Wily Cheung Dragon, who said:

"Be a fountain, not a drain."

Which, it turns out, was just advice on how to pee, but hell with him, he was old and smelled like wet dog.

Point is, incentives should be positive.

So, here then, are the incentives for CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY. Ready?

Every 50 Copies Sold: Did Somebody Say "Postcard?"

I sell 50 copies, I will mail you a postcard. In the real mail. In the corporeal world. This postcard will be — well, I don't know what the hell it'll be. Maybe a PENMONKEY postcard, I dunno. But I do know what the postcard will say, and that's a postcard-sized piece of single-serving writing advice. I will not duplicate this advice across any postcards. It will be handwritten, which means you get to gaze upon my calligraphy, which is about as legible as if you cut off a chicken's head and stuck a fountain pen in the stump and then let him flop around on a piece of paper. Still: free postcard.

Every 100 Copies Sold: Free Motherfucking T-Shirt

Folks have been clamoring for a PENMONKEY t-shirt. Well, I'm not selling one. What am I, a t-shirt shop?

No.

I am, however, giving one away.

That shirt will probably be this shirt:

Since I'm only giving away these shirts, that means it will be rare and worth millions of dollars. Okay, maybe not that last part. But rare! Definitely rare. Yeah.

That said, I reserve the right to change the t-shirt at any time. I probably won't, because I'm lazy, but I'm also unpredictable. Like a homeless guy with a knife and a drinking problem.

I only promise that the t-shirt will contain the word: PENMONKEY.

(That shirt also says terribleminds on the back, by the way. I did it with Zazzle.)

Every 200 Copies Sold: I Edit Your Shit

For every 200 copies, I will pick someone at random and offer them the chance to get a single editing pass on 5000 words of their content or 50 script pages of a screenplay from yours truly. I will give it a robust single pass of copy, content and context, and further, I will always be tactful but make no aims to be nice. Know that going in (then again, if you read this blog, you know I'm a tough-love type — I love you, sure, but my love comes stapled to the end of a Louisville slugger).

You may say, what are my qualifications beyond being just some fuckface with an author's blog and a book containing dubious NSFW writing advice? I've been writing professionally now for over 13 years, and further, I've done quite a bit of editing and developing work. For example, I hired writers, developed content, and edited the writing across the entire Hunter: The Vigil game-line. Those writers I hired will likely tell you that they hated me and envisioned my death, but I also believe they'll tell you that I improved their work. (If any of those writers are here now, feel free to pop in and say so. Or, tell me you still hate me.)

Every 500 Copies Sold: Some Awesome Fucker Gets A Kindle

Yep. For every half-a-thousand sold, I'll pick someone at random and give them a Kindle. I'm not made of wampum over here, so it'll be the "regular" Kindle that comes bundled with special offers (THIS GUY right here). If you already have a Kindle, then feel free to either say, "Send it to [insert person's name here]" or "No, thank you, please pick the next person on the list, as I am one magnanimous muhfucka."

The Deets

Here, then, is the 411, the deets, the down-low.

This, er, "incentive program" is only open to those in the United States of America. I can't pay international shipping, and further, may not be able to give international work a good proper edit. [EDIT: That said, if you're international and you want me to edit your work, so be it, I will.]

I will run this for the next 1000 sales of PENMONKEY (starting with sale #329) or for the next year, whichever comes first. After that, I may continue, discontinue, or change the parameters and have my doom-bots add new "incitement protocols."

I will keep a running tally somewhere on this site, soon as I figure out where that goes best. Sidebar? Maybe.

Any "incentives" will be received within 60 days of notification, though I have little doubt it'll get to you a lot sooner. (The only tricky one is the edit, which may take time, so I want that 60-day cushion.)

This program is open to those who have already procured PENMONKEY (i.e. those first 328 purchasers) provided they live in the United States.

If you bought a PDF, I already have your email address and you don't need to do anything at all.

If you bought a copy via Amazon or B&N, I need proof of sale and and e-mail address. Proof of sale can be a screen cap of a receipt or a photo of the book on your e-reader device. I reserve the right to be a jerk and test you and quiz you. Because that's just how I roll. (Though recall: I also roll lazy. So I probably won't.)

You can send proof of purchase to a special address I've got set-up for the whole shebang:

terribleminds at gmail dot com.

"Incitement Recipients" will be chosen at random via spreadsheet + random number generator.

If you have any questions, use the comment box below.

To procure PENMONKEY:

Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF.

I politely request that you spread the word on this, as it doesn't work unless… well, people know about it.

Let the doom-bots begin their incitement.

I look forward to my hot-chick-in-a-Lamborghini.

Flash Fiction Challenge: The Fourth Of July

Check out last week's players in the "Sub-Genre Mash-Up."

Monday's the Fourth of July. In this country, that means grilled meats, flag-waving, fire-crackers, humidity, parades, patriotism, picnics, baseball, families, and so on, and so forth.

It's a day of celebration.

But fiction, well. Fiction likes a taste of the dark stuff. Fiction seeks to subvert happiness with a foul tincture of darkness. That, then, is your task for this week. Take the Fourth of July and muddy it up.

The flash fiction must be set on the Fourth of July.

This is a good challenge for horror or crime fiction, I think. Less so for fantasy and sci-fi, but if you think you can make it work, do it. Just be sure you show how long the shadows are on this hot summer holiday.

Once again: 1000 words.

Post it on your blog, and link back here, then make sure to let us know in the comments where to look for the fiction. You've got a week. Closing up shop Friday, July 8th, at 12 noon EST.

Load up them bottle rockets.

Jump into the pool.

Tell the grillmaster how you like your burger.

And be sure to hide the bodies.