R.A. Evans's Blog, page 23
January 17, 2011
Asylum Lake Book Discussion
I always thought it would be cool to discuss a book with the author. I can only imagine the frustration of good 'ole Steve King as I rattled on and on about Salem's Lot; probing for answers to every little question I could think of. Yeah, sure sounds like a good time.
So here's my plan – I'm launching an Asylum Lake book discussion and you're invited! There are only two simple rules. First – you must be a member of GoodReads (it's a free site where authors and readers connect and share their favorite books). Second – you have to have read Asylum Lake (if you haven;t bought your copy yet I am offering free shipping through the end of the month).
So take some time to read what The Lansing State Journal calls, "A taut tale liable to raise significant goosebumps" and then participate in the book discussion with yours truly.
Brady Tanner is blogging!
I stumbled across Brady Tanner's online diary. Apparently he thinks writing about his experiences will help him "process" what is happening. He's even added some cool photo's of the asylum. Something tells me this could get interesting!
Click to Read Brady's Blog
January 16, 2011
More Readers Have Spoken
- PuppyGuy, via Amazon.com
Move over Dean Koontz! R.A. Evans' spooky thriller Asylum Lake will have you checking to make sure all your doors are locked! A stellar cast of characters that all but leap out of the pages, scenarios that put you in the middle of the action, and a string of unexpected plot twists and turns that weave together for an unforgettable experience. This one will leave you hungry…for his next book as the fright continues.
Puppy Guy's rating: Two dew claws up!
"Asylum Lake is a twisted, riveting read."
Stacy, via Amazon.com
With the escalating darkness broken by the appealing and very real Brady Tanner, everything grows more disturbing as the tale unravels the truth. Behind the small towns and their residents tangled, merging threads of lives twist until the reader is riveted by the secrets that refuse to go unacknowledged any longer. It's a great curl up and don't-plan-to-move until you're finished, but take the time to enjoy every page. Human, supernatural, sensational.
P.S. Don't worry that it says "out of stock," they're shipping quickly.
January 14, 2011
January 11, 2011
January 10, 2011
Would you rather…
Ever played the would you rather game? A former co-worker and I would play it all the time by thinking up the grossest things imaginable and then offering them as our would you rather. There was always one simple rule – you had to choose between the options. I am proud to say that I quickly became known as the man you never want to play this game with.
So why do I mention would you rather? The short answer is because I dreamed about it last night. And if you have figured out anything about me by now you can probably guess that my dreams, much like my daytime thoughts, tend to go off in very dark and sinister tangents.
So now you can add my latest creation to the long list of projects I have in my brain.
January 7, 2011
Short stories and other projects
I created a place for you to read some of the short stories I have written over the years but never shared. The first selection is Awful Beautiful Life. It's been knocking around my head for some time and has been both painful and cathartic to write. I've included the prologue for you to view. Please let me know your thoughts.
Choose your fate…
I used to love those "choose your fate" books as a child. You know, the one's where you get to choose from three options at important plot points in the story and then turn to that specific page to find out what happens next. It was one of my earliest lessons in consequence.
As a writer, I like to give the readers of my stories a similar experience. No, I don't let them choose what happens next, but I do try to bring them into the story and characters as much as possible – in hopes that their emotional investment will make them feel the fate of those they are reading about in a very real and tangible way. I want the readers to gain a lesson in consequence through the choices made by the characters in my stories.
A very good friend asked me yesterday if I will ever write about anything happy. At first, I didn't know how to respond. I never considered myself a depressing writer – just dark.
After a few brief seconds passed I smiled and responded, "All of my stories have happy endings."
My friend laughed aloud, "Bullshit!"
I let the smile fall from my face and started into his eyes. "You've read my stuff. Asylum Lake and most of the short stories I have written and never published, right?"
He nodded, unsure of exactly how I was proving my point.
"Then you know better than anyone how happy you feel at the end of every story I have ever written that all those dark and terrible things are happening to some fictional character — and not you."
We parted ways without another word. I was busy running errands and he was in a hurry to get home to his wife and kids. This morning, waiting for me when I awoke, was an email from my friend. It read simply.
"I re-read Harvest Moon ( a short story I wrote years ago and have never had the courage to share with anyone but the aforementioned friend). before bed last night. You were right, I slept like a baby afterward. Damn you and your happy endings."
So the next time you find yourself bemoaning the fate you have been handed and wishing you could choose another, remember that yours is a happy life – comparably speaking, of course. Just read some of my stories and you'll see.
January 5, 2011
An Asylum Lake bonus cut…
I meant to share this at Halloween but life happened and I was never able to. For those of you who have read Asylum Lake, enjoy this snapshot into how Lionel spent his final Halloween before visiting the Reed Family. For those who have yet to read Asylum Lake, this gives away no real secrets, yet provides insight into what you can expect. I hope you enjoy!
October 31, 1971
Bedlam Falls, MI
The boy's hand felt awkward and small holding the heavy wooden handle of the oversized kitchen knife; yet his delicate fingers carried a strength and dexterity far beyond his young age. The blade easily pierced the exposed flesh, deftly carving meaty chucks that collected in moist piles at his feet. The pungent odor of his handiwork filled the otherwise tidy kitchen.
He went about his work seemingly without thought, the faintest trace of a sly smile curving his thin lips. The last warming rays of late afternoon sun filtered through the window over the sink, stretching long shadows across the soiled countertop. Eventually, the blade ceased its mindless dance and the boy relaxed his boney fist from the stained wooden handle — letting the knife fall into the discolored sink.
He paused to reflect upon his creation – softly tracing his fingers across the carved flesh, probing the gouges and holes which he had so deftly whittled away.
Walking from the kitchen, his hands and arms sticky and soiled, Lionel Collins made his way through the vacant house and up the stairs to his bedroom. There, he would prepare for his evening, the soothing voice inside his head providing ample instruction, and strength, to complete the tasks ahead.
Small towns are notoriously quirky, and Bedlam Falls' quirkiness started from the moment of its founding. As Oliver Bryant Bedlam stepped from his horse-drawn carriage to survey the tree-swept fields of the as-yet unsettled acreage he had just purchased, his booted foot slid from the carriage step. His fall to the ground, although relatively short in distance, ended with a fractured skull courtesy of a rock hidden within the grassy plain. Bedlam died from his injuries two days later, and as word of the accident spread beneath headlines and over telegraph proclaiming "Bedlam Falls", the small northern Michigan town's name was sealed.
More than a century later, Oliver Bedlam's grave, marked precisely at the spot where he had fallen from his carriage, remained one of the most visited sites in all of Bedlam County. Of course, the majority of visitors were of the drunken teenage variety; Falls' Rest Cemetery had become the chosen location for late night teenage debauchery.
Deputy Frank Griggs was recently enough removed from his teenage years to still understand the lure of the secluded gardens of earth and stone. It was for this reason alone that he "patrolled" the area. Nothing was ever amiss in the cemetery, but the kids did keep him fully stocked with beer and on more than one occasion he was able to catch a brief glimpse of a nipple or two. Yeah, between the beer and the breasts, a slow drive through the cemetery was better than anything playing at the drive-in.
Tonight, however, the stone garden was eerily quiet. Griggs' had expected to hear Rod Stewart's Maggie May wafting from car stereos, but instead was greeted with an ominous stillness; the feeling of a calm before a great storm. The shadows played tricks with the young deputy's nervous eyes as he drove slowly through the winding dirt road toward the massive iron gates that marked the only entrance/exit from the cemetery.
A pained wail broke the silence, echoing through the night and sending a chill through Griggs' thick body. "Ho-ly shit," the shaken deputy exclaimed to the empty cruiser. "What the fuck was that?"
The cruiser eased to a stop as Griggs scanned the moonlit graveyard. Nothing seemed out of place, at least not from the relative safety of the car. Frank had little time to consider his options as a second cry erupted from the darkness; this one, definitely animal in nature.
"Fucking dogs," Frank groaned in relief. Earl Stubbs had served as cemetery caretaker for more than 30 years. It was the half-wit's job to keep the riff-raff out, maintain the grounds, and basically keep the dead tucked safely into their beds. The job didn't pay much, but it came with one nice perk; free rent in the small house on the northern edge of the cemetery. Earl kept to himself and did a fair job of maintaining the landscaping, but it seemed every stray dog in town somehow made it into his care. Griggs could only imagine what trouble the beasts were getting into with all of the noise.
Griggs exited the cruiser clutching his flashlight and exhaling a plume of vapor into the chilly air. The pale beam sliced through the darkness, revealing a maze of tombstones amidst a tangle of brush. "Here poochy, poochy, poochy."
Griggs' calls were met with more silence. He stepped carefully between the stone monuments and markers, allowing the beam from his flashlight to trace over the inscribed names and dates of the deceased. This area of the cemetery, tucked away in the southeast corner, was relatively new, with plots used only within the last half dozen or so years. The oldest plots, dating back to the late 1800′s when Oliver Bedlam slipped from his carriage, rested neatly in the center of the vast field.
After several minutes Frank neared the edge of the cemetery's grounds. Here, as the open field gave way to the thick Michigan woods, the young deputy finally found the source of the recent commotion. The sight made his stomach clench with knots of fear.
Sweeping the light across the lone tombstone before him, Griggs could barely discern the etched name beneath the years of weather and what appeared to be fresh blood.
Rylan Walters
1920 – 1960
Loving Husband & Father
Griggs' had met the former sheriff on a single occasion – and once was more than enough for him to take measure of the man; a thick-headed blow hard and not nearly the law man that the current Sheriff Buck Tanner was. Even still, Frank admitted to himself, the bastard's grave didn't deserve this kind of treatment.
Strewn about the area were bits of what the deputy could only assume had recently been a dog – perhaps multiple dogs. His suspicion was quickly confirmed as he moved his light from the carnage on the ground to the blood-soaked wooden handle of a shovel sticking up from the freshly turned earth near the headstone. Placed atop the handle, eyes bulging from their sockets, rested the head of a German Sherperd. Frank's knees buckled as his stomach emptied onto the soiled ground before him.
Shaken, the deputy's mind raced with a myriad of thoughts. Turning from his grisly discovery, Deputy Frank Griggs made his way back through the garden of stone to his cruiser. There, in the safety of the car, he contemplated his next move. Surely, he would call it in to the station. The Sheriff would know what to do. But Frank wanted to be the one to notify next of kin. He had shared several classes with her during high school, and although they ran in different circles, he thought the news may best be received from someone she knew.
"Maddie," Frank said anxiously into the radio, "Get the Sheriff out to Falls' Rest." It took only moments to relay the gory details to dispatch. "Let him know that I want to notify next of kin," he paused before continuing. "And Maddie, one more thing, can you get me an address on Joanna Walters…I mean Reed; Ken Reed's wife? I'll drive by once the sheriff arrives."
January 3, 2011
YouTube anyone?
I have this list of things I need to accomplish to realize my goal of world domination. It's a long list and I only have a handful of things checked off, but I can now officially count "Create My Own YouTube Channel" as completed.
In addition to the teaser videos I have created for my upcoming projects, will be uploading videos from my events, special footage of me reading excerpts of Asylum Lake last Halloween, and, of course, links to the music that inspires me to write.
I hope you sign up and follow me on YouTube. And, tell your friends to do the same. At the end of the day I need to sell books to write books (and dominate the world).
Visit the RAEVANSWRITES channel on YouTube and leave me a comment or two.
Peace out from snowy Grand Rapids!
R.A. Evans's Blog
- R.A. Evans's profile
- 104 followers
