Aaron Polson's Blog, page 4

Hey Writers. Yeah, YOU.

So I'm thinking about starting a publication...

I've always been a "pay it forward" guy. As a writer, where would I be without publications to which I submit my work? Where would I be without awesome editors who took the time to glance at my stuff, sometimes read it, and in some rare instances publish that work?

With all this in mind, I'm considering another publication. This is all groundwork and nothing is chiseled into a Lovecraftian stone monolith at the bottom of the ocean. If you have a few moments, please take my survey and feel free to share it with other writers. 

Publish This! (a survey for writers)

I'll collect surveys for the next month and share the results on the other side. Rumor has it flying monkeys might bring you a cookie.

Black Ribbons: "The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft

Black Ribbon: (noun) an award for stories which inspire me and make me say "Damn, I wish I had written that."

H.P. Lovecraft is better known for Cthulhu and cosmic horror, but my favorite tale of his "The Rat in the Walls". Yes, it begins with his trademark penchant for just a little too much exposition, but I think it works here. The ending--despite being told in the 1st person--chilled me the first time I read it. I literally shuddered and then lost myself in awe of an author being able to conjure that chill with words.

On 16 July 1923, I moved into Exham Priory after the last workman had finished his labours. The restoration had been a stupendous task, for little had remained of the deserted pile but a shell-like ruin; yet because it had been the seat of my ancestors, I let no expense deter me. The place had not been inhabited since the reign of James the First, when a tragedy of intensely hideous, though largely unexplained, nature had struck down the master, five of his children, and several servants; and driven forth under a cloud of suspicion and terror the third son, my lineal progenitor and the only survivor of the abhorred line...

"The Rats in the Walls" is readily available to read online and a free audio version can be found at Voices in the Dark.

"The Rats in the Walls" read by Sean Puckett at Voices in the Dark (mp3)

"The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft text at DagonBytes (online reading)

"The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft PDF

There are more Black Ribbons to come. What do I need to read next?

What? H.P. Lovecraft could almost smile?

Here's the Thing About Money

Once upon a different life of mine, while I was a student in Principles of Learning (Pscy 475) way (WAAAAAY) back in my days as an undergrad at Kansas State University, the professor discussed motivation with this simple anecdote:

A young girl, proficient at cello, loved to play her instrument. She practiced all the time. Her parents, seeing this as an opportunity for reward, praised their daughter and started paying her for practice time.

She lost her love and stopped playing.

No, this isn't yet another blog post in a sea of blog posts on the InterwebTM about the evils of money. Money is not evil. This is simply a discussion about motivation.

As I've started writing again, I've had to ask myself, "why?" Writing takes energy and time and sometimes sucks emotional well-being*. Writing is not easy and the "rewards" are never guaranteed.

Look, nothing I do in life comes with a guarantee. If I do X, I'm not always going to have Y. Life simply doesn't work that smoothly, simply, or, unfortunately, with such logic. I do know this: back in 2011, especially in the fall as I anticipated the birth of Elliot, I felt compelled to "get paid" for my writing.

Yes, I believe and always will believe writers should be paid for quality work--but I've also learned the pay, even professional rates, is never, never commiserate with the amount of time/effort expended on a project. And some non-paying markets exist where the readership carries more weight than any amount of money I could gain for some made up nonsense (i.e., fiction). Pay never correlates 100% with quality--but there is a correlation.

I'm talking about cashing in, making a pile of money because I "had to". Writing for pay has never been my sole motivation. I don't seek professional publication venues first and then down through semi-pro and token paying markets because I need the money or even want the money--what I want is to be able to tell stories which can be and should be published in those venues because they are good stories. It's a difference in motivation, however subtle, which guides me.

I lost sight of storytelling in 2011. I lost sight of storytelling and chased dollars. Things were not good at home. In early 2012, Aimee committed suicide. Chasing the wrong motivation brought stress and a sour taste which just didn't hold up as I rebuilt my life. Now, on the other side, I'm so happy and never want to lose sight of the important stuff again.

Kim and I often talk about things "serving us". Why expend energy if something doesn't serve you? It's a slightly different spin old "do what you love or at least get paid for it" adage. And making sure something serves us is my prime mover these days. I don't need the stress of trying to make writing pay the bills. I do need the rich intellectual stimulation and personal satisfaction which comes with a story well-told. This serves me, and in serving me, it serves Kim and strengthens our relationship.

This is the motivation, folks. This is why I write: to tell stories, grow my heart and mind, and do it for the love.

*Because, despite my claim that they don't in my previous post, rejections do bother me. They bother me enough to write better stories and work harder next time.Thank you, Doug Murano, for helping me remember the value of rejection.

The Wait

Here's the thing I forgot about writing and submitting short stories (or any kind of fiction/poetry): waiting.

I remember rejections well, and the oldest wounds, the first ones I suffered back in 2007 when I first began this journey, healed so well--I have a nice, thick layer of scar tissue. Rejections haven't bothered* me in a long, long time. They are part of the game, and if they bother* you, stop submitting.

But waiting... man. I forgot about the waiting. Some markets are lightning fast, especially a few pro-paying venues like Nightmare and Clarkesworld. But chances of appearing in those venues is slim. I'll submit to them when I can (i.e., I have a story which might, just might slip by the first round of reads), but they are the whitest of the white whales. Most publications have wait time well over a month or more.

Tick... tick... tick...

And then the inevitable rejection letter--or, sometimes, an acceptance.

Here's what I know now: I'm writing and submitting because I want to tell stories. Lots of stories. Big, semitrailer truckloads of stories. And some of them will be good.

Aaron, you say, you could just post your stories here. You could just upload them to Smashwords and Amazon KDP. 

Yes. I could. But I want to tell the best stories I can--and the submissions process has been good to me. I've learned and become a better writer because of the wait, the rejections, the occasional feedback from editors, and the sweet taste of acceptance. I've become a better writer because I've worked with editors. I've become a better writer because I try to listen to advice, sort the good from bad, and take what works back to the word processor with me.

So I'll take the wait. I'll keep writing. This is what I love: writing and telling stories, the best stories I can. This is the path I've chosen because of how it fills me, not because of any reward on the other side.

Dream on. Like this guy (and listen to an amazing interview on NPR):


* Edited to add... Here's what I mean by "bother": if you get physically ill, want to throw a tantrum and/or respond in a negative way to a rejecting editor, or find that rejection affects your ability to write (after the requisite "rejection hangover") then you need to find another creative endeavor in which to engage.

Now How Creepy is Free?

Free can be pretty creepy, I suppose, depending on what is being given away. This Friday, it's written words from yours truly and several other authors,  Bob Eccles,  James Garcia Jr.,  and Michelle Ann King thanks to the wonderful  Milo James Fowler.

Here's what I can give you today: a free digital copy of Loathsome, Dark and Deep . Go to Smashwords and use code SW24Q to grab a copy for zero money.


You also have a chance to win a paperback (yes, actual dead trees!) copy of The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories signed by yours truly. I hear it makes great kindling or a shim to hold wobbly table legs steady. You might even want to read a few stories. For your chance, simply toss your name in the virtual hat. 


So what, exactly, are you waiting for? Free is free... and I won't even make you read a word.

The Graveyard of White Whales

Hello, my name is Aaron and I write short stories. Granted, the longest piece I've written was well over 100,000 words (my first "novel" and first piece of fiction I wrote), but after editing and trimming, it landed well within the 70K range. Yes, I cut 30,000 words.  Loathsome, Dark and Deep is only 67,000 words. Nothing else comes close.

I am a short story writer, and I'm not ashamed.

But things make me sad... like the white whale short story markets of yesteryear becoming the graveyard of today. After reinstating my account on Duotrope.com, I noted the following:

Of my reported acceptances (155 including poetry and reprints), 48 of those markets were dead (closed or defunct), including Everyday Weirdness, Necrotic Tissue, The Rose and Thorn Journal... some of my favorite stories had life there. Note those 48 markets represented more than 48 of my acceptances. Everyday Weirdness printed several stories and I was fortunate enough to place 3 with Necrotic Tissue. I loved those publications and did what I could to support them. Thanks to Nathan E. Lilly (Everyday Weirdness) and R. Scott McCoy (Necrotic Tissue) for everything they did to bring my stories and stories from other authors to readers' attention.

Short story venues die. It's the nature of the beast. My own brain child, 52 Stitches, is no more, but it had two years to run. It's time is done. But those which stick around? Wonderful. I'm proud to have a story in issue #118 of Space and Time. #118 people. The magazine has been around since before I was a zygote.

There are white whales I will chase and never capture before their deaths--this, too, is the nature of the beast. But I am a short story writer. I write short stories, and the submission/rejection process has made me a better writer. My stories are stronger because they've had to survive in a world of high casualty rates.

Here's a fear: writing is going to suffer in this do-it-yourself world. It already has. Why face rejections when I can easily publish myself via Smashwords, Kindle, Createspace and the like?* Why? Because, dear readers, without those white whales, even the dead ones, I would not have become the writer I am today. I wouldn't have sold a few stories to professional venues or found myself on any honorable mention lists. Writing short fiction is about the story, the art of words, and making life out of digital nothing. I want my stories to be like my flesh-and-bone children: resilient and beautiful.

Write on, chase those whales, and give some pause and respect when they leave us.


*Yes, I've published plenty of previously published material via these venues. But my first path--and it should always be a first path--was and remains the submissions trail and quest for those white whales.

"Jumping In" - A Friday Freebie

Creepy Freebies is in full swing at Milo James Fowler's website. Drop in and see what's available from Simon Kewin, Roland Yeomans, Christine Rains, and Cate Gardner. Good stuff. 

Today, I'd like to share "Jumping In," a story originally published in Slices of Flesh . Happy reading and even happier weekend. 




"Jumping In"by Aaron PolsonNick skips out on the game during the third quarter and heads for the shadowed trees on the other side of the parking lot. He goes because the older boys, the cool kids Derek Hullinger, Smack Willits, and B-rad Tibbits are there, smoking GPC cigarettes and lacing every sentence with superfluous “fucks” and “shits” like a bunch of Marine Corps jarheads on leave. Nick braves the shadows and trees because he wants to be something. Derek told Nick to come, promising a chance to show his stuff. A chance to be somebody and join the team. Who gives a shit if B-rad and Smack are nineteen and still in high school? And nobody mentions Derek Hullinger’s name without a little bit of fear. Nick wants that. He wants to be something the other kinds at Jefferson East fear, especially those testosterone amped jock-assholes on the football team. The shadows and tall trees on the other side of the stadium scared Nick when he was a kid, but not now. Hell no. This is his chance to roll with Derek, to get some genuine respect. It’s quiet at the edge of the woods, strangely so less than a hundred yards from the stadium and jeering fans, less than a football field from the actual field with its lights and sprayed on-lines.The little kid in Nick holds his breath. He was afraid of monsters ten years ago, now he wants to be one. The too-pissed-off-to-care teenage Nick stomps on dead leaves and snaps twigs under his feet. When he feels like it’s all over, like the blackness of the trees have eaten the world, a little orange glow shows him the way. B-rad flips his Zippo open and shut, lighting the flame in one motion. Click, click, click. “Nicky. What’s the good word?” Derek smells of cigarettes and whiskey and day-old sex. Nick squints. The shadows work magic with the others’ faces. Nick imagines a spare—four instead of the three he’d expected. “I’m here.”“Yes,” Derek says, his voice thick and heavy and laced with more years than he’s earned. “Yes, you are. You want to roll with us, little man?”Nick sets his jaw. “Fuck yeah.”Derek tilts his head over a shoulder. “Hear that, Smack? He’s hungry already. Give him a treat.”The fourth face staggers into the space between Nick and the others. It belongs to a thin kid, a freshman. Nick has seen him around before. The only light comes from B-rad’s Zippo held aloft and sliver-blue starlight filtered through the black branches above. Nick swallows. The skinny kid’s face is pale and moony and lost. His arms look about as big as the twigs Nick crunched on the way into the woods. The funny thing though, the kid doesn’t flinch or shake or anything. “You want in, Nicky, you give this bit of fresh meat here a good stomp down. You give him a good stomp down, and you’re one of us.” Derek crosses his arms. The shadows play with a scar on his face, splitting his mouth in two.Nick’s hands ball together in a pair of fists. He doesn’t really want this, to beat this scrawny kid bloody, but he doesn’t want to be nobody, either. He wants to slash tires, drink whiskey, and kick ass with Derek and Smack and B-rad. Respect waits. He teeters on the balls of his feet. A memory of himself as a freshman tumbles through his brain like a bit of trash blown by the wind. He doesn’t think about the first punch. The scrawny kid crumbles, clutching his stomach. Power. Nick feels it, now. Blood thrums through his head. Smack and B-rad are cheering. Derek laughs like a machine gun. Nick brings his knee into the kid’s face. The kid’s neck jerks back, shiny black blood glistening under his nose.“Fuck yeah, Nicky.” “Kick his ass.”Nick trips the kid, sending him over backwards. The thin body hits the ground and “oof” pops from his mouth. He’s down, and Nick pulls back his foot and kicks, hard. He kicks again, and again, each contact followed by the same, tiny “oof.” Panting, Nick steps back after five or six good kicks—he’s lost count—and brushes sweat from his forehead. The scrawny kid, the freshman, whoever, doesn’t even whimper. No, he pulls himself to his feet while Nick takes a breather. “You fucker,” Nick says. The kid’s blank eyes find Nick’s. They’re blank and black and tranquil almost, like a quiet night in the woods out beyond the stadium.  Nick growls and swings a fist—he can feel it now, all the rage and old hate and venom. His eyes glaze over with red. He can feel the power of his memories, the hate for his dirty bastard of an uncle, the sons-of-bitches in uniform on the other side of the lot, and his mother for letting his father walk out four years ago. He puts all that swill in one punishing cross. The crack is audible. Nick feels it in his arm. The scrawny kid reels and spits teeth and blood.“That’s good,” Derek says.No, it’s not. Nick punches the kid again, this time in the side. He falls. Nick kicks him one final time, one time too many as a sickening, wet crack signals a broken rib. Nick leans on his knees, huffing and puffing, while the boy on the ground curls into a ball. “I said that’s good.” Derek frowns slightly. Nick flexes his sore fingers. He wipes sweat again, this time pulling his shirt to his face. When he’s done, he studies the others. “So?”Derek’s cheek flinches. “So?”“Am I… In?”There’s a noise on the ground. The others watch as the scrawny kid pulls himself up one more time. As before, there is no sound, no groan, no moan of pain. Not even a dry sob. The scrawny kid stoops and picks his bloody teeth—two of them—from the ground. He pops them in his mouth and swishes them around. Nick’s guts go cold. There’s a snake in his stomach made of ice. “What the fuck…”The scrawny kid—but it’s not really a kid, Nick knows that now—smiles. All the teeth are there in neat rows. All of them.“My turn,” it says. Nick looks at Derek, but Derek is looking at the thing. He nods and takes a step back. The snake in Nick’s stomach coils and uncoils. He feels his bowels go loose.  Somewhere behind him, B-rad flicks his Zippo, click, click, click. In the distance, across the lot, a cheer rises in the big stadium, but the trees and shadows have swallowed everything.

I'm Cheap

Part of resurrecting my writing "career" involves resurrecting my writing to be read. Now that we live in a world of digital words, I've never understood why anyone would take good stories away from potential readers.

These Darkened Streets back in digital "print"
Note I said good stories. I've trunked plenty of my tales, including some which have seen print. Even though they were published once, I might not want to claim them as one of my current stable of quality tales.

Way back on March 26, 2012, I wrote this post which explains how many of my collections and stories were wrested away from readers. I'm working to make them available again. And here's the thing--as I republish, I republish at the lowest price point I can. I don't mind 99 cents if it means a reader will take a chance and pick up my stories. This writing thing isn't solely about making money (although compensation is nice); it is about telling stories.

When I started focusing on the money, I started to lose my love for the process. The universe set me right.

I've recently returned Darker Matter: Stories of Strange Futures, These Darkened Streets, The Undead: 13 Stories, and Loathsome, Dark and Deep to the digital world.

Darker Matter back in digital "print"
You can find them at Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere electronic words are exchanged.

So yes, I'm cheap. I'm cheap and ready to tell you a story.

Old Bones and New Polish

I'm bringing back some old books as part of the resurrection of my writing career. To be a little more accurate, my "career" slept, fairy tale-like for the last year and and some change.

I've recently published some mothballed "collections" on Smashwords, including Darker Matter: Stories of Strange Futures , and These Darkened Streets (horror and weird fiction). I've also brought back my horror/adventure/grim-as-hell novel Loathsome, Dark and Deep (originally from Belfire Press, and until now out of "print").

I write to be read. I'll never understand the purpose of sitting on good stories when readers are hungry. No storyteller should hide in the dark.

When I set to republish Loathsome, I took a good look at the original dedication:

For Aimee, even through the darkest part of the woods.
Do I remove the dedication? No. Not exactly. But my life isn't what it was then. There's more to my story than the dark woods I traveled with Aimee. The dedication grew as I have. So now we read the original, along with:

...and Kim for helping me see the light. 
Kim wasn't a part of my life when I wrote Loathsome, Dark and Deep, but she's helped me find my way home. She's helped me find my voice again. And that, dear readers, is the only place I want to be: home, telling my stories.

The F Bomb is a Sad Adjective and Other Free Speech Woes

Okay, so I've missed writing this blog. I've missed the conversational tone and processing some ideas which have really stuck with me. These are blog entries, not college expository essays. I may ramble.

And today, I need to ramble a bit about free speech. Two things have collided in my brain this past week and I need to process. First, there's David Guth, a professor at the Univeristy of Kansas and all the heat he's received for a recent tweet involving the NRA. The tweet-in-question read: "The blood is on the hands of the #NRA. Next time, let it be YOUR sons and daughters. Shame on you. May God damn you." The second... well this post ("Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito") at Medium (New to you? Me too.). It's a funny (and truthful) piece in which he uses the F-bomb. Ubiquitously.

I've wrestled with this free speech issue. When I was seventeen (and it was a pretty good year), I wasn't allowed to buy a copy of Faith No More's Angel Dust because of the explicit lyrics decal. Yes, this was way back in 1992. Remember CDs? Anyone? I was still listening to cassette tapes, too. I was fired up. Angry. How dare some over-inflated political ninny tell me to what I can or cannot listen? This I believe: free speech is important to me personally and vital to the health of a free, educated society.

What steps over the free speech line? What is free expression and what is profane/inappropriate/illegal? Who decides where to place the line?

Once upon a time, I had a student with a large "Freedom of Fucking Speech" decal across his school planner. Really? Let me repeat: Free speech is important to me personally and vital to the health of a free, educated society. I'm not sure which part of that statement is synonymous with "carpet F-bomb when/wherever you'd like". So yeah, Mr. Lucky Shirt's post about burritos is funny, but after a certain number of "fucking chance"s and "fucking empires of sour cream" I shut down and stop reading. If I was still teaching, I would have told my students the offense lies in lazy writing, not a personal issue with the f-word. Is "fucking" the best adjective he could muster? It certainly isn't the most accurate (unless he eats his burritos differently than me).

For those of you who like analogies, I liken using "freedom of speech" to cover for poor writing and the need to "fuck" everything (in writing)  to a man who would by a Mercedes-Benz and enter it in the demolition derby at the Douglas County Fair. Way to use those resources, dude.

But what about David Guth? I still don't know. He teaches at a university--supposedly a bastion for free speech and intellectual discourse. But it is a publicly supported university (getting at least a small chunk of funds from public tax coffers). People (taxpayers and lawmakers) get their feathers ruffled. It seems to be a matter of tone. If he had posted "What if it is your sons and daughters next time?" instead of "Next time, let it be YOUR sons and daughters." I think the effect might be different. But does it matter? In Twitterland, you only have 140 characters per thought.

And that, dear friends, is why I missed blogging. Ramble on.



Read more here: http://www.kansascity.com/2013/09/23/...