Aaron Polson's Blog, page 38
December 31, 2010
2010 In Review
Last year, I started with the following "What I can do" goals (along with how I did in bold):
1. Always have at least one story in front of a pro paying market. Mostly a success. Of course I've had a story on "hold" at a pro market for about five months...does that count?
2. Finish my final pass of Loathsome, Dark, and Deep and have it ready to query/submit in February. (Get on this one, eh?) Um, so I win here, right?
3. Write my fifth novel*--a ghost/suspense/YA thing with no title but one hell of a first line:
When I was younger, I imagined numerous ways to kill my sister just to see if she'd come back and haunt me. Written. Sitting unfinished (and unedited in large part). Doing Write 1/Sub 1 this year, I probably won't have time to write another novel, but I can finish this one, right?
4. Write at least one high quality story a month (or 12/year). I've gotten better at letting my stories "age" before editing. I'll do even better this year. I win. "The House was Never a Castle" sat for three months before final edits and revision, eventually selling to Shimmer. Yay!
5. Buy something from the small press every month. And read it. And review it for Skull Salad. More than one would be sweet. Fail. I bought at least twelve small press items (including subscriptions to three mags), but haven't managed to do the reviews. Thank goodness some other good peeps are helping out at Skull Salad.
I would like the following to happen as well, but these items require outside "assistance":
1. Land an agent/sell a book. I sold two books and sent out two query letters to agents. I'm kind of sour on the agenting front, to tell the truth.
2. Sell another story to a pro paying market. Huzzah! I technically sold two: "Wanting It" (forthcoming in Shock Totem) and "Different Strings" which won the Whidbey Writers Workshop Students' Choice Award for October...of course I never received the prize money...hmmmmm.
So where do I go from here? Tune in next week to find out. ;)
And HAPPY NEW YEAR!
December 30, 2010
Fear Before Dying
I wrote "Keeping the Dead" with no real market in mind. It's a strange story, not quite horror, but dark. Very dark. Imagine a world in which loved ones fear the souls of their dearly departed are subject to monsters who leave beyond the lights of the village.Okay, so it sounds like horror. Grab a copy of Fear of the Dark when it's released from Horror Bound and find out. Plenty of good names in the book, including Martin Rose, Christopher Fowler, Paul Kane, and Bram Stoker winner Lisa Mannetti.
And then comes the little anthology that could. The intrepid Jodi Lee of Belfire Press fame came to the rescue of several orphaned stories last year, offering those stories a home in Ante Mortem.
The table of contents includes stories from Jeff Parish, Kelly Hudson, John Grover, David Chrisom, Myrrym Davies, KV Taylor, Benjamin Kane Ethridge, Aaron Polson, Natalie L. Sin, David Dunwoody and Gina Ranalli. Good company, yes indeed. And at $7.99, you can't beat the price.
Fear Before Dying
I wrote "Keeping the Dead" with no real market in mind. It's a strange story, not quite horror, but dark. Very dark. Imagine a world in which loved ones fear the souls of their dearly departed are subject to monsters who leave beyond the lights of the village.Okay, so it sounds like horror. Grab a copy of Fear of the Dark when it's released from Horror Bound and find out. Plenty of good names in the book, including Martin Rose, Christopher Fowler, Paul Kane, and Bram Stoker winner Lisa Mannetti.
And then comes the little anthology that could. The intrepid Jodi Lee of Belfire Press fame came to the rescue of several orphaned stories last year, offering those stories a home in Ante Mortem.
The table of contents includes stories from Jeff Parish, Kelly Hudson, John Grover, David Chrisom, Myrrym Davies, KV Taylor, Benjamin Kane Ethridge, Aaron Polson, Natalie L. Sin, David Dunwoody and Gina Ranalli. Good company, yes indeed. And at $7.99, you can't beat the price.
December 27, 2010
Another Peek Inside My Brain (via AJ Brown)
Thanks, AJ, for taking the time.
I'm still "away" with limited 'net access, but if you haven't read "Night Lights" and you'd like to see the dark places Fred can take you, read on.
Peace.
Another Peek Inside My Brain (via AJ Brown)
Thanks, AJ, for taking the time.
I'm still "away" with limited 'net access, but if you haven't read "Night Lights" and you'd like to see the dark places Fred can take you, read on.
Peace.
December 24, 2010
Night Lights
On the outside, the lights shine brighter than I remember as a kid, but inside the old man is dying. That's what Mom says anyway, that's what she tells me while we drive the boys around town so they can see Christmas lights. She's Grandma to them, and she doesn't say anything about the man dying loud enough for them to hear.
"He has cancer. The bad kind," she whispers.
I nod, wondering just what the good kind of cancer is.
She continues. "A nurse comes in twice a week, that's what Mary Ann says anyway. Really bad shape."
"How'd he do the lights?"
"The town helped out—some volunteers at the church. Downtown businesses. It'll be too bad when he's gone, an end to an era. Do you remember when we used to drive by here."
My hands tighten on the wheel. "Sure."
The boys are still gawking at the house, their bundled little faces pale and slack as they drink in all the twinkles, the thousands of tiny sparkles. Out, out brief candle, I think, but the candles won't go out. The town won't let them go out. I step on the gas and pull away from house, a little disgusted with myself, a little disgusted with us all.
At the Phillips 66 station three blocks down from the house, I turn onto the highway and head home. In the review mirror, I see the boys yawn. They're up past bedtime, and tomorrow is Christmas. Mom looks at me, and I can tell she's frowning a little from the droop at the corners of her mouth. Probably a response to my scowl. I try to relax, but all I can think about is the old man rotting inside his house.
Liz meets us at the door. "How was everything?"
I shrug. "The boys need to get to bed. Tomorrow's Christmas."
She backs away a little, probably sensing one of my moods. Before helping Nick and Nate into their pajamas, we lay out three sugar cookies—the flaky kind Mom makes with red sprinkles—and set them on the table with a glass of milk. "For Santa," Liz tells the boys.
We tuck them in upstairs, and I crash in the living room, flipping through TV stations trying to find A Christmas Carol. I only like the version with Alastair Sim. In every advertisement, the houses are decorated with little lights. I can't escape the thoughts of the old man. Mom and Liz are talking while I surf; I can hear a little of their mumbles.
"What's eating him?" Liz asks.
"I don't know…we drove by all the places he liked as a kid."
I smash the power button on the remote, and march into the kitchen.
"I'm going to bed," I announce.
On the way to my old bedroom, I pause outside the boys' room and peek in. They're tucked neatly under fat comforters, sleeping peacefully with visions of Santa and the gifts to come in the morning. Nothing is out of order for them, only me.
I've been lying in bed for thirty minutes, staring at the ceiling, before Liz comes upstairs. She undresses, folds over the blankets, and slips inside. She's trying to be quiet, probably sure I'm asleep.
"I'm not asleep," I say.
A pause. "Oh, sorry."
Another pause. I feel the air in the room thicken.
"What's wrong, Bub?"
"Nothing." I close my eyes and wait a few moments. Maybe sleep will come. Maybe not. "We drove by a few houses I remember from when I was a kid."
"Oh."
"Yeah. This one house, well Mom said the owner was dying. Cancer. He's in bad shape."
"That's too bad."
I suck in a lungful of stale air. "The town won't let him die."
"What?"
"They put up lights on the house."
"Who did? I don't understand."
No, Liz, you don't understand. You never will. She's from Chicago and doesn't appreciate traditions in a small town. "The town did it. They won't let him die in peace. He's in that house, dying, alone, and the town won't let him go. He should be in a nursing home or a hospice. Someplace else."
"Maybe he wants to die in his own house." She touches my arm under the blanket. I pull away.
"I'm sorry. Goodnight," she whispers. Within minutes, I hear her breathing slow to a steady rate.
The boys are asleep, dreaming of Santa on the roof, but I can't sleep thinking of how many times I've driven past that house. I don't even know the old guy's name. I'm a leech—the whole town is full of leeches—sucking pleasure from his Christmas display for thirty years, and now he's rotting from the inside and no one seems to care about anything but the lights.
I climb out of bed and slip downstairs as quietly as possible. In the kitchen, I eat one of the cookies. The red sprinkles look like splatters of blood in the dim light. I swallow the milk in three big gulps. The boys will think Santa did it.
In the garage, I rummage through Mom's tools, looking for something to do the job.
I leave the house through the back door and drive away without headlights so they won't see the glare and wake. A fragment of moon hangs limply in the midnight sky; I glance at it, half expecting to see a sleigh pass across its yellow face.
At the Phillips 66 station, I turn and drive three blocks. The lights are still on, even at midnight. I look closer at the house this time and notice peeling paint. The house is rotting outside just like the man is dying on the inside. Volunteers put up the lights, but can't paint the place? All people care about are those goddamn traditions—shitty town. They don't care about his pain, suffering. He's dying for Christ's sake.
I pull around to the alley, sure that the loud Christmas music pumped on an endless loop will cover the sound of the back door splintering around the lock. Maybe he wants to die in his own house. I take up the hammer, feel its weight in my hand, and imagine the peace the old man will feel once I've cracked open his skull and ended his misery. That will be a real Christmas gift.
Then, I'll take down the lights.
(originally appeared in Nothing to Dread: a Niteblade Anthology edited by Rhonda Parrish)
Night Lights
On the outside, the lights shine brighter than I remember as a kid, but inside the old man is dying. That's what Mom says anyway, that's what she tells me while we drive the boys around town so they can see Christmas lights. She's Grandma to them, and she doesn't say anything about the man dying loud enough for them to hear.
"He has cancer. The bad kind," she whispers.
I nod, wondering just what the good kind of cancer is.
She continues. "A nurse comes in twice a week, that's what Mary Ann says anyway. Really bad shape."
"How'd he do the lights?"
"The town helped out—some volunteers at the church. Downtown businesses. It'll be too bad when he's gone, an end to an era. Do you remember when we used to drive by here."
My hands tighten on the wheel. "Sure."
The boys are still gawking at the house, their bundled little faces pale and slack as they drink in all the twinkles, the thousands of tiny sparkles. Out, out brief candle, I think, but the candles won't go out. The town won't let them go out. I step on the gas and pull away from house, a little disgusted with myself, a little disgusted with us all.
At the Phillips 66 station three blocks down from the house, I turn onto the highway and head home. In the review mirror, I see the boys yawn. They're up past bedtime, and tomorrow is Christmas. Mom looks at me, and I can tell she's frowning a little from the droop at the corners of her mouth. Probably a response to my scowl. I try to relax, but all I can think about is the old man rotting inside his house.
Liz meets us at the door. "How was everything?"
I shrug. "The boys need to get to bed. Tomorrow's Christmas."
She backs away a little, probably sensing one of my moods. Before helping Nick and Nate into their pajamas, we lay out three sugar cookies—the flaky kind Mom makes with red sprinkles—and set them on the table with a glass of milk. "For Santa," Liz tells the boys.
We tuck them in upstairs, and I crash in the living room, flipping through TV stations trying to find A Christmas Carol. I only like the version with Alastair Sim. In every advertisement, the houses are decorated with little lights. I can't escape the thoughts of the old man. Mom and Liz are talking while I surf; I can hear a little of their mumbles.
"What's eating him?" Liz asks.
"I don't know…we drove by all the places he liked as a kid."
I smash the power button on the remote, and march into the kitchen.
"I'm going to bed," I announce.
On the way to my old bedroom, I pause outside the boys' room and peek in. They're tucked neatly under fat comforters, sleeping peacefully with visions of Santa and the gifts to come in the morning. Nothing is out of order for them, only me.
I've been lying in bed for thirty minutes, staring at the ceiling, before Liz comes upstairs. She undresses, folds over the blankets, and slips inside. She's trying to be quiet, probably sure I'm asleep.
"I'm not asleep," I say.
A pause. "Oh, sorry."
Another pause. I feel the air in the room thicken.
"What's wrong, Bub?"
"Nothing." I close my eyes and wait a few moments. Maybe sleep will come. Maybe not. "We drove by a few houses I remember from when I was a kid."
"Oh."
"Yeah. This one house, well Mom said the owner was dying. Cancer. He's in bad shape."
"That's too bad."
I suck in a lungful of stale air. "The town won't let him die."
"What?"
"They put up lights on the house."
"Who did? I don't understand."
No, Liz, you don't understand. You never will. She's from Chicago and doesn't appreciate traditions in a small town. "The town did it. They won't let him die in peace. He's in that house, dying, alone, and the town won't let him go. He should be in a nursing home or a hospice. Someplace else."
"Maybe he wants to die in his own house." She touches my arm under the blanket. I pull away.
"I'm sorry. Goodnight," she whispers. Within minutes, I hear her breathing slow to a steady rate.
The boys are asleep, dreaming of Santa on the roof, but I can't sleep thinking of how many times I've driven past that house. I don't even know the old guy's name. I'm a leech—the whole town is full of leeches—sucking pleasure from his Christmas display for thirty years, and now he's rotting from the inside and no one seems to care about anything but the lights.
I climb out of bed and slip downstairs as quietly as possible. In the kitchen, I eat one of the cookies. The red sprinkles look like splatters of blood in the dim light. I swallow the milk in three big gulps. The boys will think Santa did it.
In the garage, I rummage through Mom's tools, looking for something to do the job.
I leave the house through the back door and drive away without headlights so they won't see the glare and wake. A fragment of moon hangs limply in the midnight sky; I glance at it, half expecting to see a sleigh pass across its yellow face.
At the Phillips 66 station, I turn and drive three blocks. The lights are still on, even at midnight. I look closer at the house this time and notice peeling paint. The house is rotting outside just like the man is dying on the inside. Volunteers put up the lights, but can't paint the place? All people care about are those goddamn traditions—shitty town. They don't care about his pain, suffering. He's dying for Christ's sake.
I pull around to the alley, sure that the loud Christmas music pumped on an endless loop will cover the sound of the back door splintering around the lock. Maybe he wants to die in his own house. I take up the hammer, feel its weight in my hand, and imagine the peace the old man will feel once I've cracked open his skull and ended his misery. That will be a real Christmas gift.
Then, I'll take down the lights.
(originally appeared in Nothing to Dread: a Niteblade Anthology edited by Rhonda Parrish)
December 22, 2010
WIP Wednesday Thanks You
It isn't hard because I'm ungrateful...it's hard because I know I always forget someone. Consider this an incomplete list.
Thanks to Jodi Lee and the Belfire crew for releasing my first novel to the wild. Loathsome, Dark and Deep started as an experiment in story telling, and now it is paper and ink. Huzzah!
Thanks to all the editors who have published my work this year and those who have taken a chance on my strange little stories.
Thanks to the brave souls who signed on to Skull Salad Reviews. I, the ultimate slacker, haven't posted my first review since I gave the call a little over a month ago, but C.D. Brinker, Gef Fox, Cate Gardner, Brady Golden, T.J. McIntyre, and Deborah Walker have all stepped up to the plate. Awesome.
Speaking of reviews, and reading in general, thanks to anyone who read my words this year. I don't really do this alone, and without readers, I might as well spend my days replaying the Resident Evil series. Not that playing Resident Evil is wrong. Oh no. It's not wrong at all.
Thanks to my family, of course, the close physical relations who live under my roof and all of those around the world who've treated me with kindness.
All right...enough of this sappy crap. I have a story to finish, and my MC is dropping a million tons of explosives on a distant planet.
The trigger must carry the weight of the faceless dead, so we do not become them.
I'll be "away" until next week, but be sure to stop by on Christmas Day (or shortly thereafter) for a special short story "present".
Thank you all, and enjoy the season.
WIP Wednesday Thanks You
It isn't hard because I'm ungrateful...it's hard because I know I always forget someone. Consider this an incomplete list.
Thanks to Jodi Lee and the Belfire crew for releasing my first novel to the wild. Loathsome, Dark and Deep started as an experiment in story telling, and now it is paper and ink. Huzzah!
Thanks to all the editors who have published my work this year and those who have taken a chance on my strange little stories.
Thanks to the brave souls who signed on to Skull Salad Reviews. I, the ultimate slacker, haven't posted my first review since I gave the call a little over a month ago, but C.D. Brinker, Gef Fox, Cate Gardner, Brady Golden, T.J. McIntyre, and Deborah Walker have all stepped up to the plate. Awesome.
Speaking of reviews, and reading in general, thanks to anyone who read my words this year. I don't really do this alone, and without readers, I might as well spend my days replaying the Resident Evil series. Not that playing Resident Evil is wrong. Oh no. It's not wrong at all.
Thanks to my family, of course, the close physical relations who live under my roof and all of those around the world who've treated me with kindness.
All right...enough of this sappy crap. I have a story to finish, and my MC is dropping a million tons of explosives on a distant planet.
The trigger must carry the weight of the faceless dead, so we do not become them.
I'll be "away" until next week, but be sure to stop by on Christmas Day (or shortly thereafter) for a special short story "present".
Thank you all, and enjoy the season.
December 21, 2010
Reading for the Bradbury Year #write1sub1
In addition to writing and submitting 52 stories next year (crazy much?), I want to read a collection of short fiction each month. Santa's helpers have suggested I might receive Full Dark, No Stars by Stephen King for Christmas. That will be first in the queue. But then what?
I'm looking for single author collections but anthologies will do, too. I find I'm most motivated to write when I'm reading great work. Any horror, fantasy, or science fiction book is welcome.
What should I feed my brain?
