Brian Harmon's Blog, page 4
June 26, 2012
The Short Story or the Collection?
Remember when I removed all my short stories and you got all
emotional on me because you didn’t know what you were going to do without those
little bite-sized doses of your favorite horror fiction author? No?
Well it happened. Maybe you were
on the Nyquil or something… Anyway, the
whole point behind that was to combine all my short stories into a single collection
because I kept hearing that readers preferred collections over singles. Therefore, I pulled my four existing short
titles from all the virtual shelves, added two brand new ones and introduced Buried in the Basement, a Gathering of Dark
Tales. The world rejoiced. Well, maybe not rejoiced. Nodded approvingly? Um…
No… Okay, the truth was the world
didn’t seem to notice, actually. Sales
were…well let’s just say they were crap, for a lack of better word… I know, I know. Shocking.
You can’t believe it. After all most
of you rushed right out and…um…well…said something about buying
it…sometime…maybe…when you got around to it…
So I took two of those short stories, “From Such Small Things” and “The
Man in the Fire” and I put them back up for sale by themselves and I made them
both free. (Some of you might remember
that “The Man in the Fire” was free the first time, and has always been
available to read on my webpage.) My
thinking was that people would read a free story because…hey, free story…and
they would like it and they would go back and buy the collection. But they didn’t. So I found myself sitting, staring at my sales
results, wondering what went wrong. The
results tell me that people don’t actually prefer collections to singles. So should I trash the collection, go back to
selling each short story individually? More
stories were downloaded that way than in the collection. Decisions, decisions. My solution?
I decided to keep the short story collection just as it is, for those
who like the collections. But I’m also
returning my other two short stories (“Low Tide” and “The Hell Within the
Heart”) to the virtual shelves as well. The
final two short stories, “Children in the Dark” and “Jeremy Fell,” will remain
exclusive to the pages of Buried in the
Basement, as an incentive to buy the collection, and the description for
all my individual short stories now inform the reader that this short story is
also available in the collection, so they can’t say I tried to charge them
twice for the same story.
And there you have it.
I feel like this is the best strategy for moving forward. If you have any opinions you’d like to share
about single short stories versus short story collections, then feel free to
respond. Or in the absence of such remarks,
I’ll simply assume that you are nodding with giddy assent and overwhelmingly
agree with my decisions.
June 10, 2012
The Devil's Walk
For those of you who like short stories, I have a new title
out. “The Devil’s Walk” is available at
Smashwords, Amazon and Barnes & Noble right now.
I know, I know. What
am I doing? I should be working on book
5 of The Temple of the Blind,
right? Why am I wasting time writing
these short stories? Don’t worry. Put your pitchforks and torches away. Book 5 is coming along very well. It’s almost done, in fact! I’m in the process of completing the final
editing before formatting it and ordering my proofs. But the editing process involves a lot of
careful reading. Have you ever read a
full-size book as carefully as you can twelve consecutive times in a row? After a while even The Great Gatsby starts to look like Dr. Seuss… My short stories allow me to take myself away
from the manuscript for short amounts of time so I can come back to them with
fresh eyes without even stepping out of my writing groove. It actually allows me to finish the work
faster this way.
And what a better distraction from waiting for the next
heart-pounding installment of The Temple
of the Blind than a nice little short story by your favorite author? What?
No, not Stephen King…
Let me tell you a little bit about “The Devil’s Walk.”
As she sits at her dying grandfather’s bedside, Amanda is
told an incredible tale. But are these disturbing revelations of his life
merely the addled fabrications of a cancer-ridden mind, or is there any truth
to his frightening claim that a dark and menacing figure has been roaming the
land all these many years.
The story is about 6,500 words long and is only $0.99 (USD). You can download it now at any of these
links:
http://www.amazon.com/The-Devils-Walk-ebook/dp/B0089ZPZAI
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-devils-walk-brian-harmon/1111476212
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/170042
Or, for our European friends, Amazon offers it at these sites as well:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0089ZPZAI
https://www.amazon.de/dp/B0089ZPZAI
https://www.amazon.fr/dp/B0089ZPZAI
https://www.amazon.es/dp/B0089ZPZAI
https://www.amazon.it/dp/B0089ZPZAI
And remember that two of the stories from Buried in the Basement (“From Such Small
Things” and “The Man in the Fire”) are available free to download at most
e-bookstores.
Thanks for reading, and watch this blog for upcoming news
from the Temple!
June 7, 2012
Gilbert House
Following up on my last post, I thought I’d continue celebrating
the upcoming release of book five by sharing a sample from book 2 of The Temple of the Blind. Taking place nearly a year after the events
of The Box, Gilbert House introduces new characters, new settings and new
terrors.
Gilbert House: Book Two of The Temple of the Blind
by Brian Harmon
The second floor
of Gilbert House was nearly identical to the first. It had the same wide hallways, the same tiled
floor and ceiling and the same eerie atmosphere. But like the basement, it lacked the spacious
common room in the middle. Apparently,
these existed only on every other floor.
Albert supposed that this was probably why they were designed so much
larger than the lounges at Lumey. They
would have had much more traffic.
Albert and Wayne
started down the hallway, sweeping away the stubborn shadows with their
flashlights.
“I don’t like
this,” Wayne murmured. “It’s wrong.”
“So you keep
saying,” replied Albert.
“Yes, I do. And I’ll keep saying it until I leave.”
“Nobody’s keeping
you here.” Albert glanced back and
realized that the girls were no longer right behind him. He turned and saw that they both were
standing in the middle of the hallway near the stairwell, shining their lights
up at the ceiling.
“What’s up,”
Albert asked, but was shushed by Brandy.
“We heard
something upstairs,” Nicole whispered.
“What kind of
something?” Albert asked.
“Sort of like
footsteps,” Brandy replied.
Albert remembered
again the way the doors had been opened ahead of them, as though someone had
beaten them here. Could that intruder
still be here somewhere, stalking around in the darkness?
The four of them
stood silently, their eyes and flashlights fixed on the ceiling tiles.
“Probably
nothing,” Brandy said after a while, but the tone of her voice was not
convincing.
Albert walked back
to the stairwell and shined his flashlight up into the darkness. There was nothing up there. At least nothing he could see. He couldn’t help but remember the temple,
however, and how they had never really been alone, even though they never saw
anyone.
When he returned
from the stairwell, Brandy took his hand and leaned against him, as if craving
his warmth. “I don’t like it in here,”
she confessed. “It doesn’t feel right. It’s not like the temple at all.”
Albert
nodded. There was something different about this place.
The four of them
started forward again, their flashlights still gravitating now and then toward
the ceiling. Albert, always alert,
always aware, noticed that Wayne
lagged purposefully behind. He was
considering turning back, perhaps without even telling them. He did not very much trust these three
strangers he’d found snooping around Gilbert House’s ruins.
Wayne
could leave if he wanted to. Albert
would not blame him. Perhaps that would
be the smart thing to do, to get out before anything happened, before it was
too late. They should all probably get the hell out of this
weird building. Not all forgotten places
were meant to be found, after all.
But the temple had
been calling them back. The first
journey had been dangerous, but they weren’t completely unprepared. They had the box. And the box was the map that kept them on the
path. Whoever sent them there did not
send them to die. If so, they never
would have made it home. Albert was
fairly certain that they would never have left the sex room if the strange man
with no eyes hadn’t removed the flashlight and left them unable to see the
statues.
At least, he assumed it was the man with no eyes; he
never saw anyone else.
His mind kept
returning to the statue between the sex room and the frigid water through which
they’d been forced to swim. He called it
the faith statue. It encouraged them to
have faith, to push forward regardless of the discomfort that waited for them
in the passage ahead. And looking back
now, it was their faith in the box that kept them safe. Sure, there were other dangers. The deadly pit of spikes had been waiting for
them at the hate room’s exit, for example.
And there were those creatures…
But he’d trusted
the box. And he’d trusted those strange,
stone sentinels. And now he was trusting
the envelope that the girl with the pierced nose and eyebrow gave to him.
Besides, it wasn’t
like he had much choice. The only thing
that awaited him at home was more of those eerie telephone calls.
Albert opened the
door to one of Gilbert House’s second floor rooms and looked inside. For a moment he only stood in the doorway,
not quite understanding what he saw. The
room was as dark as a grave, just as the ones below it had been, but its window
was not covered. Dusty glass reflected
the beam of the flashlight back at him, a slightly distorted reflection of
himself looked back at him with his own puzzled expression.
There had to be
something blocking the sunlight. They
hadn’t been in here long enough for it to have gotten dark. It was not yet even six.
Brandy and Nicole
peered in after him as he walked across this empty room and shined his light
through the glass. He expected to find
another wall on the other side of the window pane, but there was none. His flashlight’s beam passed through the
glass and planted a weak disk of light on the ground two stories below.
“What is it?”
Brandy asked, stepping up behind him.
“It’s the ‘Alfred
Hitchcock Dimension’,” Albert replied, borrowing the phrase from Nicole. “Wherever we are, it’s nighttime.”
Brandy and Nicole
peered past him and out into the darkness beyond the glass. After a moment, Wayne
also joined him at the window.
Very little could
be seen of that dark, outside world, but what could be made out was vastly
different from the landscape that surrounded Gilbert House when they were
outside. Through this window, sizable
trees could be seen nearby, their limbs bare of leaves. But there were no trees of that size within
many yards of the building as they had seen it, and those farther away had not
yet even begun to turn their autumn colors.
Also, the ground beneath them appeared to be void of the grass and brush
that had overrun the forest floor for as far as they could see. There was nothing out there but naked earth.
It should have
been startling, staring out at a nighttime scene when the sun should be burning
brightly in the sky, but after facing the reality of Gilbert House’s multiple
floors, they were numb to this shock.
Each of them, after all, had already contemplated the idea of some alien
world lurking beyond these walls.
And yet, the
logical part of their minds continued to deny it. Perhaps it was still an illusion. Perhaps this entire building was still
somehow underground, and all they were looking at was a cavern floor and some
fake trees. But that wouldn’t explain
how they could be so far underground without knowing that they had
descended.
Albert considered
breaking the glass and taking a good look at whatever was out there, but that
might be a mistake. He knew nothing
about this place. Just like when he was
exploring the temple, he didn’t dare do anything reckless. For all he knew, the air out there could be
poison.
“Well,” said Wayne,
at last stepping away from the window, “I still don’t know where we are but I
know where we’re not.”
“That’s the first
step,” Nicole said smartly and turned away from the window.
“Come on guys,”
Albert said. “Let’s check out the rest
of this…” He paused, still shining his
flashlight through the window.
“What is it?”
Brandy asked, concerned.
Albert shook his
head. “Thought I saw something out
there.”
“If you did,”
suggested Nicole, “maybe you should keep it to yourself.”
“Don’t worry. It wasn’t anything. A little breeze in the trees, I think.” But thirteen months ago, he learned never to
dismiss anything, no matter how unlikely or bizarre it might seem, and he
continued to stare through the window as he backed away.
The four of them
exited the room and walked on down the hallway, pausing at each door to peer
behind it.
“Did you hear
that?” Nicole asked, shining her flashlight at the ceiling again.
“I heard it,”
Brandy confirmed.
“I’ve been hearing
it for a while now,” Wayne said,
“but I didn’t want to alarm anyone.” He
looked up at the ceiling, visibly nervous.
“Footsteps.”
“Following us
since we left that first room,” said Albert, loath to admit it, but seeing no
point in keeping it to himself.
“What is it?”
Brandy wondered.
“I don’t like this
at all,” Nicole said.
Albert opened one
more door and peered inside, then closed it again. “Okay guys, this is getting a little
weird. I don’t think we can keep
pretending we’re alone in here. If
anyone wants to bail, now would be the time.”
The three of them
looked at him, surprised.
“What the hell are
you talking about?” Brandy asked. There
was a distinct edge to her voice, but Albert ignored it.
“I’m talking about
you and Nicole going back down those stairs and back outside where you know
it’s safe. Wayne,
too, if he wants.”
Nicole looked doubtfully
at Wayne and Albert saw that she
wanted to go. She was very brave, but
she was getting scared. Hell, so was
he.
Wayne,
too, wanted to go. He could see it in
his eyes, but there was something else there, too. Curiosity, perhaps, but more likely
pride.
“I’m going to
check things out. If I’m not out in a
couple hours, get the police. They won’t
buy it, but they’ll figure things out for themselves once they’re inside.”
“I’m not going
anywhere,” Brandy insisted, and there was a flush in her cheeks that Albert
rarely saw. She was afraid, but she was
also mad. She was mad at him for even
suggesting such a horrible thing, that she were to abandon him and run away, leaving
him to face whatever might lurk in Gilbert House alone.
Albert sighed. “It might not be safe in here, okay. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m not leaving
you!” Brandy exclaimed, her voice loud enough to echo.
Upstairs, there
was a shuffle, followed by movement.
Whatever it was, it was now moving away from them.
“I’m not going
anywhere, either,” Nicole said, and if not for the way her eyes jittered toward
the ceiling, Albert might have believed that she hadn’t heard the noise.
Albert
nodded. “Okay then.” He looked at Wayne. “You’re still free to go.”
Wayne
shook his head. “Nope. I’m going to stick it out.” It was bold words, spoken courageously, but
he still wanted to turn and run all the way back home to his bedroom.
“All right, then,”
Albert said. He looked up at the
ceiling. “What do you suggest we do now?”
“This might seem a
little crazy,” Wayne said. “But maybe we should go upstairs.”
Albert, Brandy and
Nicole exchanged a surprised look.
“There’s something
up there,” Wayne explained. “It might be a squirrel or a rat. It might be some guy in a hockey mask. I don’t know.
But I know we probably outnumber it.”
His eyes lifted apprehensively to the ceiling. “Besides,” he added, “we’ll have to check out
the next floor eventually anyway.”
“He’s got a
point,” Albert said. “And besides, maybe
that’s what we’re in here to find.” He
turned and walked on down the hallway.
Another stairwell loomed in the shadows ahead.
“I don’t like it,”
Nicole said. “It seems risky.”
“It is,” agreed
Albert. He stepped up to the foot of the
stairs and looked up into the darkness with his flashlight. For just an instant, he thought there was
something up there, something just disappearing into one of the upper hallways,
but it was gone before he could register it.
He remembered that feeling of being watched that he’d felt while
examining the concrete wall at the bottom of the other stairwell and wondered
again whether he’d really imagined it.
“I’ll go first.”
They began to
ascend the steps to the third floor, Albert in front, Brandy and Nicole close
behind and Wayne at their
backs.
The third floor
was different from the first. Instead of
a single double doorway at the center of the wall on the left, the entire wall
between the restroom and the shower room was a row of large, glass windows. At the very center, a single pair of glass
doors allowed access into the room, which looked to Albert like a solarium
except for the fact that there seemed to be no sun to shine into it.
Albert stepped
into the hallway and shined his light around.
Aside from the glass wall, everything on this floor was the same as
those below it. He turned and looked
back at the others. Brandy was standing
near him. Nicole was just at the top of
the steps behind her. Wayne
was waiting several steps below her.
They were all watching him, waiting to for him to tell them it was
safe.
What happened next
happened extremely fast.
Something plunged
out of the darkness of the stairwell and landed on the steps with a resounding
impact that shook the very floor beneath them.
A large, hulking shape lunged as the darkness became a chaos of darting
flashlight beams. The silent hallways of
Gilbert House were suddenly filled with piercing screams and a horrible,
guttural howl.
Find Gilbert House at any of these bookstores (or simply
search for "Brian Harmon" at your favorite online bookstores).
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/56273
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004YEY1V2
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B004YEY1V2
Amazon Germany: https://www.amazon.de/dp/B004YEY1V2
Apple: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/gilbert-house/id438868151?mt=11
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gilbert-house-brian-harmon/1033747601
May 25, 2012
Who Was Wendell Gilbert?
Here is another curious article I discovered regarding the
mysterious history of Briar Hills, Missouri.
This one is about the accomplished architect who went missing back in the late
twenties. Who doesn’t love a good
unsolved mystery?
From the pages of the Southeast
Missouri Post
“Who Was Wendell Gilbert?”
By Carlton Hurldon
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Briar Hills, Missouri, like any American city, has its share
of dark history. The local police have entire
boxes of unresolved cases dating back over a hundred years. But the most intriguing of all these is
arguably the disappearance of Wendell Gilbert.
Gilbert was born in 1865 in Chicago. The son of Ruben Gilbert, a tremendously
successful investment broker, Wendell spent much of his youth traveling the
world with his parents and, at an early age, became fascinated with world
architecture.
He had a gift for aesthetic design and quickly made a name
for himself on the west coast with a number of ambitious projects, including the
erection of the Grasby Center in San Diego, perhaps his most famous
landmark.
In 1897, Gilbert traveled abroad and spent the next twelve
years in Europe, working on increasingly elaborate structures like the Allwardt
Building in Great Britain, the Holgado Tower in France and the Winderbaum Center in Germany,
as well as other less notable projects in Spain, Sweden and Italy. Many of these projects he oversaw
simultaneously, traveling frequently between building sites and leaving his
foremen to oversee the daily work.
Upon returning to the states in 1909, Gilbert spent a few
short years on the east coast before moving to the upper Midwest, then back to
his birthplace of Chicago. A few years
later, he moved again to St. Louis and finally found his way to Briar Hills,
where he spent the final ten years of what is known of his life.
His most notable work in Briar Hills included the extensive
renovations to the city’s police station and hospital, and he designed and
built the new courthouse and public library.
But although the quality of his work was indisputable, Gilbert was met
with harsh criticism for his insistence on using cheap immigrant labor instead of
the skilled local tradesmen.
Then, in early 1927, he was contracted by Briar Hills
University to design and build a new and much needed men’s dormitory to handle
its rapidly growing student body.
Unfortunately, the project proved to be doomed from the start.
Gilbert made a number of changes to the project during the
planning stage that directly contradicted the university’s requests, not the
least of which was that Gilbert moved the structure more than a hundred yards
from the university’s intended location.
He also changed the building’s materials from brick to a much pricier stone
and significantly redesigned the electric and plumbing layouts in such a way
that they would have been almost ten times as expensive as in the original
plans. The university protested these
changes, but was met with resistance at every turn as Gilbert manipulated them
through a veritable maze of legal and bureaucratic diversions, which kept them distracted
and disassociated from his work for many months.
Eventually, the university’s lawyers stepped in to seize the
reigns of the project, but by then it was too late. Gilbert was gone, as were all of his workers,
apparently deported back to their own countries. The money was lost and all that was ever
completed of the university’s new dormitory was an empty set of useless
concrete walls.
It would be another two years before Briar Hills University
finally opened the doors of its new men’s dormitory, now Daney Hall, located on
Carey Street. Built mostly on funds donated
by sympathetic parties and through vigorous fundraising, this new building was
considerably smaller than the one Gilbert was contracted to build, but would
prove to serve the institution’s needs for several years.
Meanwhile, the site of the original failed project remained
untouched. In 1952, a large plot of neighboring
farmland was purchased, providing cheaper and more convenient locations on
which to build. As a result, the
university has never bothered to tear down Gilbert’s useless concrete walls and
today the location is little more than an overgrown eyesore, known by many of
the locals as “Gilbert House.”
Wendell Gilbert, the famed architect, in spite of his
accomplishments, was now considered a fraud and a thief. Local authorities assumed that he took the
money and deposited it in an unknown offshore account. His strange behavior (the changes to the university’s
plans and the bureaucratic runaround) was assumed to be a smokescreen to keep
the university distracted while he committed his crime. And once the money was safe, he obviously
left the country. But several details
about his crime did not add up. The most
glaring of these details was the amount of money Gilbert supposedly stole. It was significantly less than what he left unclaimed
in his bank accounts after his disappearance.
What really became of Wendell Gilbert? No evidence has ever been uncovered to shed
light on what was really going on. Some
historians believe that the brilliant architect must have gone mad. Others insist that his odd behavior indicated
that he might have been being blackmailed and was likely murdered by an unknown
enemy. A few creative locals have even
suggested that Gilbert was caught up in something supernatural. Some have even gone so far as to speculate
that he left clues hidden throughout his life’s work around the world, clues
that, if correctly deciphered from the many buildings he designed and renovated,
would reveal the secret location of the stolen money or perhaps something even
more valuable.
[Carlton Hurldon is a local historian and an enthusiastic collector
of regional legends and mysteries. He
has lived his entire life in the Briar Hills area and is the author of four
books and numerous guest articles for the Southeast
Missouri Post.]
~ ~ ~
Want to know what Wendell Gilbert was really up to in Briar
Hills? Don’t miss The Temple of the Blind by Brian Harmon.
http://www.HarmonUniverse.com/TempleOfTheBlind
May 1, 2012
My Writing Process
I’ve encountered some interesting questions since I started
writing. People want to know about what
I do and how I do it. So I thought I’d
share a little bit about my writing process.
You know, for those interested in that sort of thing. Those of you who are just looking for more
“Hot Naked Women” posts probably won’t be interested. You can move along. (But thanks for being the more than 75% of
all web traffic that passes through my blog since that post was published. You really class up the place.)
First of all, I should say that I do have a writing process by which I create all my work, but it’s
not the most professional model you’ll find.
The biggest flaw in my particular process is time. In addition to being a
novelist, anyone who has read many of my other posts knows that I’m also a
stay-at-home dad with an extremely creative four-year-old. I’d like to dedicate a specific time slot to
my writing each day and remain consistent, but I don’t have that luxury. The other day I turned my back for a few
seconds to get a drink and the child somehow managed to disassemble the
television remote. Therefore, I tend to
do most of my writing not at a quiet desk but in bed after everyone is asleep
or else at the dining room table where I can observe the play areas of the
house. I neither write for a
predetermined amount of time nor a specific number of words or pages. I write until I’m tired or until I can no
longer concentrate or until I have to stop to tend to my household chores. Or until it appears that the cat may be in
mortal danger.
Typically, I tend to compensate for my lack of writing focus
by spending more time thinking about
my work. I am constantly planning scenes
and feeling out characters and constructing new dialog while I go about my daily
routine of managing the house chores and rescuing the pets. As far as I’m concerned, daydreaming is just
a part of my job. (So to all those
teachers who told me to wake up and focus on my work in school, I say suck it!) (I’d also like to point out for the record
that I still haven’t found a practical use for any of that trigonometry
nonsense, either.)
Every great story begins with nothing more than an
idea. But not just any idea will
do. After all, I’ve had some pretty bad
ideas in my life. (That meat slicer
incident comes to mind…) It has to be
strong. It has to be packed with
potential. It has to be the kind of idea
I can build an entire world around. No
matter how cool I might think an epic battle between two scantily clad
supermodels in a giant tub of chocolate pudding might seem, there is simply no
way I can think to build a realistic plot leading up to such an event. Regardless of how many times I try…
When I have an idea that I can build a world from, I write the story. I won’t bore you with a long, drawn-out
description of how I go about sitting down and writing it. Mostly because I asked my wife to proof-read
this post and she told me you’d probably be bored with those seven pages… I don’t know why that would be. I’m sure you’re just devastated to miss out
on hearing all about how I construct a thorough set of notes on plotlines and
character development and progression outlines and how I’m very particular
about the kind of pen I use and what temperature I like the room to be
and… Well, maybe that page about my
bathroom breaks might have been a little too much information… Yeah, let’s just leave it at I write the story.
Once the manuscript is finished, I put it aside. I put some distance between it and
myself. I start a new story or I edit a
previous one. I read a book. I watch some movies. I engage myself in a good video game. I work on that monster I’m building in my
basement that my wife says I’ll never bring to life, like she knows anything
about reanimation science. It’s just not
thunderstorm season yet, that’s all. I
get my mind off the story as much as I can.
Sometimes weeks or even months go by.
By the time I return to the manuscript, it should feel new again. Then the editing process begins.
This is where the most difficult of the work is. I am an obsessive editor. I enter the process with a firm conviction
that my work is severely flawed and riddled with embarrassing errors that I
will probably never be able to fully eradicate.
And I am, for all intensive purposes, absolutely correct. There’s no such thing as a perfect
story. There’s always one more word you
can change, one more sentence you can improve.
And as the writer, I know what I meant
to say when I wrote it, making it difficult to see what I actually put on the paper. Just a single incorrect letter in tens of
thousands of words can have catastrophic results to a manuscript. Don’t believe me? Consider the difference between the words “message”
and “massage” for a moment. The
sentence, “Bill received a personal message from his mom,” can become a
dramatically different statement by changing only that one letter. With one single keystroke, your young adult
novel just became really freaky. I am compelled to read my work over and over
and over again. I question every line,
ever word. I become utterly absorbed in
eradicating every possible error. I am obsessed with it. It’s not my best quality, I’ll admit, but
it’s useful for the end result. And it’s
not like I obsess over everything. Only over my writing. And sometimes pickles, but that’s an entirely
different discussion.
As you might imagine, the whole process can be very time
consuming. It can take many weeks just
to prepare a little short story. But the
end result can be extremely rewarding.
After all I’ve done, all the hours I poured into it, the endless reading
and rereading…after all that…when I received that very first five-star review
on Amazon… I can’t describe how
satisfying that was. To love what you do
is one thing. To know that others love
what you do just as much as you… That
means an awful lot.
Now back to those supermodels and that pudding…
writing. People want to know about what
I do and how I do it. So I thought I’d
share a little bit about my writing process.
You know, for those interested in that sort of thing. Those of you who are just looking for more
“Hot Naked Women” posts probably won’t be interested. You can move along. (But thanks for being the more than 75% of
all web traffic that passes through my blog since that post was published. You really class up the place.)
First of all, I should say that I do have a writing process by which I create all my work, but it’s
not the most professional model you’ll find.
The biggest flaw in my particular process is time. In addition to being a
novelist, anyone who has read many of my other posts knows that I’m also a
stay-at-home dad with an extremely creative four-year-old. I’d like to dedicate a specific time slot to
my writing each day and remain consistent, but I don’t have that luxury. The other day I turned my back for a few
seconds to get a drink and the child somehow managed to disassemble the
television remote. Therefore, I tend to
do most of my writing not at a quiet desk but in bed after everyone is asleep
or else at the dining room table where I can observe the play areas of the
house. I neither write for a
predetermined amount of time nor a specific number of words or pages. I write until I’m tired or until I can no
longer concentrate or until I have to stop to tend to my household chores. Or until it appears that the cat may be in
mortal danger.
Typically, I tend to compensate for my lack of writing focus
by spending more time thinking about
my work. I am constantly planning scenes
and feeling out characters and constructing new dialog while I go about my daily
routine of managing the house chores and rescuing the pets. As far as I’m concerned, daydreaming is just
a part of my job. (So to all those
teachers who told me to wake up and focus on my work in school, I say suck it!) (I’d also like to point out for the record
that I still haven’t found a practical use for any of that trigonometry
nonsense, either.)
Every great story begins with nothing more than an
idea. But not just any idea will
do. After all, I’ve had some pretty bad
ideas in my life. (That meat slicer
incident comes to mind…) It has to be
strong. It has to be packed with
potential. It has to be the kind of idea
I can build an entire world around. No
matter how cool I might think an epic battle between two scantily clad
supermodels in a giant tub of chocolate pudding might seem, there is simply no
way I can think to build a realistic plot leading up to such an event. Regardless of how many times I try…
When I have an idea that I can build a world from, I write the story. I won’t bore you with a long, drawn-out
description of how I go about sitting down and writing it. Mostly because I asked my wife to proof-read
this post and she told me you’d probably be bored with those seven pages… I don’t know why that would be. I’m sure you’re just devastated to miss out
on hearing all about how I construct a thorough set of notes on plotlines and
character development and progression outlines and how I’m very particular
about the kind of pen I use and what temperature I like the room to be
and… Well, maybe that page about my
bathroom breaks might have been a little too much information… Yeah, let’s just leave it at I write the story.
Once the manuscript is finished, I put it aside. I put some distance between it and
myself. I start a new story or I edit a
previous one. I read a book. I watch some movies. I engage myself in a good video game. I work on that monster I’m building in my
basement that my wife says I’ll never bring to life, like she knows anything
about reanimation science. It’s just not
thunderstorm season yet, that’s all. I
get my mind off the story as much as I can.
Sometimes weeks or even months go by.
By the time I return to the manuscript, it should feel new again. Then the editing process begins.
This is where the most difficult of the work is. I am an obsessive editor. I enter the process with a firm conviction
that my work is severely flawed and riddled with embarrassing errors that I
will probably never be able to fully eradicate.
And I am, for all intensive purposes, absolutely correct. There’s no such thing as a perfect
story. There’s always one more word you
can change, one more sentence you can improve.
And as the writer, I know what I meant
to say when I wrote it, making it difficult to see what I actually put on the paper. Just a single incorrect letter in tens of
thousands of words can have catastrophic results to a manuscript. Don’t believe me? Consider the difference between the words “message”
and “massage” for a moment. The
sentence, “Bill received a personal message from his mom,” can become a
dramatically different statement by changing only that one letter. With one single keystroke, your young adult
novel just became really freaky. I am compelled to read my work over and over
and over again. I question every line,
ever word. I become utterly absorbed in
eradicating every possible error. I am obsessed with it. It’s not my best quality, I’ll admit, but
it’s useful for the end result. And it’s
not like I obsess over everything. Only over my writing. And sometimes pickles, but that’s an entirely
different discussion.
As you might imagine, the whole process can be very time
consuming. It can take many weeks just
to prepare a little short story. But the
end result can be extremely rewarding.
After all I’ve done, all the hours I poured into it, the endless reading
and rereading…after all that…when I received that very first five-star review
on Amazon… I can’t describe how
satisfying that was. To love what you do
is one thing. To know that others love
what you do just as much as you… That
means an awful lot.
Now back to those supermodels and that pudding…
April 22, 2012
Lies, Lies, Lies!
How wrong is it to lie to your children? I mean we tell all those elaborate fibs about
Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and that Mischievous
Magic Gnome that sometimes locks mommy and daddy in their room for no apparent
reason in the middle of the day… Um… Of course, not everyone celebrates the same…things… I’m just saying we go to a lot of trouble for
this stuff. Milk and Cookies. Hiding eggs.
Risking life and limb to sneak into a dark and treacherously messy room
to exchange that little tooth for a dollar.
It’s like a game for grownups. A
few nights a year, we pretend to be covert agents. Tell me you’ve never played the Mission
Impossible theme music in your head as you slide your hand under that
pillow. It can’t really just be me.
I’ve heard of people who get really bent out of shape about
these kinds of lies. They feel betrayed. They trusted their parents and how could they
dare tell these blatant lies to an innocent, impressionistic child? Really?
Personally, I think these people are WAY too sensitive. Seriously, grow up. I love that my parents cared enough to give
me a little magic in this otherwise grim and unsympathetic world. No matter how cold the world becomes, at
least I believed in something magical at least once in my life.
But what about all those other lies? As parents, we want so badly to protect them
from the world. And as such, there are
truths that we’re not immediately comfortable with. Like where meat comes from. No mom is in any hurry to tell her children
where pork chops come from. Or
cheeseburgers. Or Chicken
McNuggets. I wonder how many parents out
there would run up and stab a man if they caught him telling their kids what
veal is? And we certainly can’t discuss
sex with our children! God no! We cannot possibly tell them where babies really come from. We invent stories of noble storks and magical
cabbage patches to explain away those perfectly natural, if incredibly
uncomfortable questions about the origins of our individual lives. And really, after we’re all grown up, we look
back on those lies we were told with heartfelt gratitude. Because Mom DID NOT DO THAT. End of story.
And if birth is an awkward subject, death is unthinkable. Family pets don’t die. They just go away. The goldfish is just taking the toilet back home
to his family who live out in the ocean.
Sparky didn’t get run over, he just ran away. Great Grandma moved to Florida. We don’t even realize how many lies we
tell.
And then there are the lies we can’t help but want to tell
them. After you’ve spent all day
cleaning that messy closet, don’t you just want to tell them about the child-devouring
monster that lives in there so they’ll stay the hell out of it and leave it
nice and clean? Because you know
otherwise it’s going to be trashed by bedtime.
Aren’t you at least a little bit tempted? And what better way to keep them out of the
basement? Or the attic? Or the cabinet where you keep your Spice
Girls doll collection? Or…you know…whatever
you happen to be into… All I’m saying is
that fear is a powerful motivator, people!
Parents have been using the boogeyman and his kind to keep kids in line
since the dark ages. To this day, I’ve never
incurred the wrath of the unthinkable demon that dwells in my dad’s
dresser… (Mental note: sometimes when we outgrow the fantasy, what
remains is infinitely more terrifying…)
And really, it’s not exactly
a lie that too much candy will give you nightmares. I mean it could…right? Maybe?
I mean it never gave me nightmares,
but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen to my kids... Better safe than sorry, right? And so what if I don’t have proof that my favorite kinds of candy just happen to
cause the worst nightmares? It’s still a
valid theory.
Is it wrong to tell them that it’s against the law to take
them to the ice cream shop because you forgot to renew your ice cream buying
permit? Should I feel bad for showing my
kids a picture of Hiroshima and telling them that’s what happens when a child
shakes the soda her dad asked her to bring him from the fridge? What about saying we can’t get a puppy
because we live next to a Lutheran church?
(It’s a religious thing. I don’t
really get it.) We can’t buy that doll
because it might offend certain social stereotypes. You can’t spend the night at Billy’s house
because his parents are communist spies.
Little things like that. Like
when you tell them they need to take a nap because you need to take a nap. Or
that they need to eat more Brussels sprouts because they’re good for them, not
because you hate them and don’t want to have to finish off the dish.
I’m just saying that sometimes a little white lie can’t
hurt. And if Santa Clause can really
come down the chimney once a year, when we don’t even have a fireplace, why
can’t a few nightmares help ensure that they leave some of that candy for me? I don’t think it’s all that
unreasonable.
Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and that Mischievous
Magic Gnome that sometimes locks mommy and daddy in their room for no apparent
reason in the middle of the day… Um… Of course, not everyone celebrates the same…things… I’m just saying we go to a lot of trouble for
this stuff. Milk and Cookies. Hiding eggs.
Risking life and limb to sneak into a dark and treacherously messy room
to exchange that little tooth for a dollar.
It’s like a game for grownups. A
few nights a year, we pretend to be covert agents. Tell me you’ve never played the Mission
Impossible theme music in your head as you slide your hand under that
pillow. It can’t really just be me.
I’ve heard of people who get really bent out of shape about
these kinds of lies. They feel betrayed. They trusted their parents and how could they
dare tell these blatant lies to an innocent, impressionistic child? Really?
Personally, I think these people are WAY too sensitive. Seriously, grow up. I love that my parents cared enough to give
me a little magic in this otherwise grim and unsympathetic world. No matter how cold the world becomes, at
least I believed in something magical at least once in my life.
But what about all those other lies? As parents, we want so badly to protect them
from the world. And as such, there are
truths that we’re not immediately comfortable with. Like where meat comes from. No mom is in any hurry to tell her children
where pork chops come from. Or
cheeseburgers. Or Chicken
McNuggets. I wonder how many parents out
there would run up and stab a man if they caught him telling their kids what
veal is? And we certainly can’t discuss
sex with our children! God no! We cannot possibly tell them where babies really come from. We invent stories of noble storks and magical
cabbage patches to explain away those perfectly natural, if incredibly
uncomfortable questions about the origins of our individual lives. And really, after we’re all grown up, we look
back on those lies we were told with heartfelt gratitude. Because Mom DID NOT DO THAT. End of story.
And if birth is an awkward subject, death is unthinkable. Family pets don’t die. They just go away. The goldfish is just taking the toilet back home
to his family who live out in the ocean.
Sparky didn’t get run over, he just ran away. Great Grandma moved to Florida. We don’t even realize how many lies we
tell.
And then there are the lies we can’t help but want to tell
them. After you’ve spent all day
cleaning that messy closet, don’t you just want to tell them about the child-devouring
monster that lives in there so they’ll stay the hell out of it and leave it
nice and clean? Because you know
otherwise it’s going to be trashed by bedtime.
Aren’t you at least a little bit tempted? And what better way to keep them out of the
basement? Or the attic? Or the cabinet where you keep your Spice
Girls doll collection? Or…you know…whatever
you happen to be into… All I’m saying is
that fear is a powerful motivator, people!
Parents have been using the boogeyman and his kind to keep kids in line
since the dark ages. To this day, I’ve never
incurred the wrath of the unthinkable demon that dwells in my dad’s
dresser… (Mental note: sometimes when we outgrow the fantasy, what
remains is infinitely more terrifying…)
And really, it’s not exactly
a lie that too much candy will give you nightmares. I mean it could…right? Maybe?
I mean it never gave me nightmares,
but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen to my kids... Better safe than sorry, right? And so what if I don’t have proof that my favorite kinds of candy just happen to
cause the worst nightmares? It’s still a
valid theory.
Is it wrong to tell them that it’s against the law to take
them to the ice cream shop because you forgot to renew your ice cream buying
permit? Should I feel bad for showing my
kids a picture of Hiroshima and telling them that’s what happens when a child
shakes the soda her dad asked her to bring him from the fridge? What about saying we can’t get a puppy
because we live next to a Lutheran church?
(It’s a religious thing. I don’t
really get it.) We can’t buy that doll
because it might offend certain social stereotypes. You can’t spend the night at Billy’s house
because his parents are communist spies.
Little things like that. Like
when you tell them they need to take a nap because you need to take a nap. Or
that they need to eat more Brussels sprouts because they’re good for them, not
because you hate them and don’t want to have to finish off the dish.
I’m just saying that sometimes a little white lie can’t
hurt. And if Santa Clause can really
come down the chimney once a year, when we don’t even have a fireplace, why
can’t a few nightmares help ensure that they leave some of that candy for me? I don’t think it’s all that
unreasonable.
April 12, 2012
Mysterious Underworld
Have you ever been to Briar Hills, Missouri? It’s a mostly quiet little city, but like
anywhere else in the world, there’s probably a dark side lurking somewhere
below the surface. Being that it is the
setting for my novel series, The Temple
of the Blind, I’ve obviously done my research. But of all the information I dug up, one
article in particular really stood out to me.
It intrigued me so much, in fact, that I felt compelled to share it with
my friends here on the blog. If you’re
like me and enjoy a good mystery—and the creepier the better—then you’ll
probably like this…
From the pages of the Southeast
Missouri Post
“Mysterious City”
By Carlton Hurldon
Monday, October 22, 2007
The city of Briar Hills is a compact metropolis and an urban
oasis amid hundreds of miles of rural farmland in southeast Missouri. Located on the banks of the Mississippi
river, it is home to Briar Hills University and a very mysterious history.
Officially founded as a city in 1769, it is believed to have
been settled much earlier, with some historians suggesting that the city might
be among the oldest modern settlements west of the Mississippi River. But the city’s real origin might be even
older than imagined. Archeological
findings have revealed the presence of an unknown Native American village that
occupied the area sometime before the arrival of these modern settlers. It remains unclear what became of these original
residents, but it is generally accepted that they were either killed off by the
invading European settlers or, more likely, by a rival tribe some time before
their arrival.
Even in modern times, the history of Briar Hills has
remained mostly murky. Surviving records
predating the 1880s are rare and remarkably vague even when they are
found. Little is known about the early
years of the city and its government. Even
several of the city’s prominent structures have mysterious origins. For example, although it is well known that
the elaborate building currently housing the Heritage Museum used to be the
courthouse before the construction of the new one in 1919, there are no records
revealing what it might have been before it was the courthouse. The game warden’s office and the First
Baptist Church have similar forgotten origins, though their beautiful
architecture defied the rustic setting of the early city, and historians are
unsure why such buildings would ever have been built here. Most peculiar of all, however, is the city’s
complex subterranean underworld. Miles
of tunnels exist beneath the streets and buildings of the city, a great many of
which with no discernable purpose.
In recent decades, the tunnels have been augmented with
modern sewers, but these remain entangled with a confusing labyrinth of
passageways that have become the basis for countless superstitious and
supernatural rumors. Everything from
witchcraft to government conspiracies have been cited as the motives for the
creation of the tunnels, which are said to intertwine with a vast natural
cavern system, but no evidence exists to support any such claims. However, a surprising number of the city’s
residents insist that the tunnels are haunted.
City officials deny the existence of any supernatural
activity and warn curious residents not to enter the tunnels. “Those tunnels are city property and
trespassers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law,” warns David
Dodd, Briar Hills’ chief of police. “We
don’t want anyone getting hurt down there.”
Most of the tunnel system’s entry points are gated off for public
safety, but determined explorers have been known to find their way in, creating
public hazard concerns for Dodd and the city police.
The original purpose of Briar Hills’ subterranean mystery
may never be revealed, but there will definitely be no shortage of theories by
those who call this city home. And who
can blame them for letting their imaginations get away from them? One can only wonder what secrets might be
hidden down there somewhere.
~ ~ ~
Want to know what lies hidden in the tunnels beneath Briar
Hills? Pick up book one of The Temple of the Blind by Brian Harmon
today!
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/brianharmon
http://www.amazon.com/Brian-Harmon/e/B004YYT16W
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/box-brian-harmon/1103167290
anywhere else in the world, there’s probably a dark side lurking somewhere
below the surface. Being that it is the
setting for my novel series, The Temple
of the Blind, I’ve obviously done my research. But of all the information I dug up, one
article in particular really stood out to me.
It intrigued me so much, in fact, that I felt compelled to share it with
my friends here on the blog. If you’re
like me and enjoy a good mystery—and the creepier the better—then you’ll
probably like this…
From the pages of the Southeast
Missouri Post
“Mysterious City”
By Carlton Hurldon
Monday, October 22, 2007
The city of Briar Hills is a compact metropolis and an urban
oasis amid hundreds of miles of rural farmland in southeast Missouri. Located on the banks of the Mississippi
river, it is home to Briar Hills University and a very mysterious history.
Officially founded as a city in 1769, it is believed to have
been settled much earlier, with some historians suggesting that the city might
be among the oldest modern settlements west of the Mississippi River. But the city’s real origin might be even
older than imagined. Archeological
findings have revealed the presence of an unknown Native American village that
occupied the area sometime before the arrival of these modern settlers. It remains unclear what became of these original
residents, but it is generally accepted that they were either killed off by the
invading European settlers or, more likely, by a rival tribe some time before
their arrival.
Even in modern times, the history of Briar Hills has
remained mostly murky. Surviving records
predating the 1880s are rare and remarkably vague even when they are
found. Little is known about the early
years of the city and its government. Even
several of the city’s prominent structures have mysterious origins. For example, although it is well known that
the elaborate building currently housing the Heritage Museum used to be the
courthouse before the construction of the new one in 1919, there are no records
revealing what it might have been before it was the courthouse. The game warden’s office and the First
Baptist Church have similar forgotten origins, though their beautiful
architecture defied the rustic setting of the early city, and historians are
unsure why such buildings would ever have been built here. Most peculiar of all, however, is the city’s
complex subterranean underworld. Miles
of tunnels exist beneath the streets and buildings of the city, a great many of
which with no discernable purpose.
In recent decades, the tunnels have been augmented with
modern sewers, but these remain entangled with a confusing labyrinth of
passageways that have become the basis for countless superstitious and
supernatural rumors. Everything from
witchcraft to government conspiracies have been cited as the motives for the
creation of the tunnels, which are said to intertwine with a vast natural
cavern system, but no evidence exists to support any such claims. However, a surprising number of the city’s
residents insist that the tunnels are haunted.
City officials deny the existence of any supernatural
activity and warn curious residents not to enter the tunnels. “Those tunnels are city property and
trespassers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law,” warns David
Dodd, Briar Hills’ chief of police. “We
don’t want anyone getting hurt down there.”
Most of the tunnel system’s entry points are gated off for public
safety, but determined explorers have been known to find their way in, creating
public hazard concerns for Dodd and the city police.
The original purpose of Briar Hills’ subterranean mystery
may never be revealed, but there will definitely be no shortage of theories by
those who call this city home. And who
can blame them for letting their imaginations get away from them? One can only wonder what secrets might be
hidden down there somewhere.
~ ~ ~
Want to know what lies hidden in the tunnels beneath Briar
Hills? Pick up book one of The Temple of the Blind by Brian Harmon
today!
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/brianharmon
http://www.amazon.com/Brian-Harmon/e/B004YYT16W
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/box-brian-harmon/1103167290
April 9, 2012
Under the Weather
I can't believe I've gone so long without posting anything. It's been a very unproductive month for me all around. Sales are way down (nonexistent, to be honest). My website is stagnant (does anybody even go there anymore?). I've barely even touched my Facebook page (no friends). I blame it on germs. Stupid, dirty, microscopic, irritating germs.
I've been sick for almost a month now. At first I thought it was the flu. And maybe it was the flu. Who knows? It felt like the flu, with all the aching and the weakness and the fever and the chills and the whining. But then the aching and the weakness and the fever and the chills all got better. (Not so much the whining, though, no.) And then there was the sore throat. Worst I've ever had! Swallowing was so painful! At this point I'm complaining and moaning as well as whining. (You cannot imagine how miserable my poor wife must have been!) Eventually, I decided to dig out a flashlight and peek at my throat to see if I looked as bad as I felt. Yuck. That wasn't a pretty sight. No wonder I couldn't eat anything. My tonsils looked as big as golf balls! I was surprised I could even breathe! By this time it seemed obvious that I needed to go see my doctor.
A sinus infection and strep throat. Wonderful. But at least I can actually start recovering now. A few days into my two weeks of heavy antibiotics and I began to feel better. I got up and got a few chores done. Normality seemed almost inevitable. Then I got sick again. A deep, heavy cough. Runny nose. Weariness. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed. And by now my wife is way over that whole "you poor guy" phase so I'm pretty much on my own.
And don't think for a second that the kids haven't taken advantage of my misfortune. I fell asleep on the couch today while my wife was at work and apparently missed a rampaging horde of destructive goblins and trolls tearing through the house. There are toys and laundry scattered across the floor, along with the mail. I found the electric bill sticking out of the litter box of all places. All the sheets and blankets from my daughter's bed are in the dining room. I'm pretty sure that's cat food in the dryer. There's a banana peel in the printer. The toilet's clogged. There's a pair of pants hanging from the ceiling fan in the kitchen. For some reason, the cat won't come down out of the top of the closet and all the spoons are missing from the utensil drawer… I can't seem to find them anywhere… They even tore my bookshelf off the wall in the living room! I don't understand. I was only asleep for a little while. How do they do it? It's like they have mystical, destructive powers that only work when I close my eyes.
That cough just refuses to go away, but I'm gradually regaining my strength. I've gotten back to work, both on my chores and on my writing. I should be able to get back up to speed here on the blog and hopefully I'll get a chance to update my website soon, too. I've even made it through Easter. It should be all downhill from here…assuming I can keep up with the little monsters…
I've been sick for almost a month now. At first I thought it was the flu. And maybe it was the flu. Who knows? It felt like the flu, with all the aching and the weakness and the fever and the chills and the whining. But then the aching and the weakness and the fever and the chills all got better. (Not so much the whining, though, no.) And then there was the sore throat. Worst I've ever had! Swallowing was so painful! At this point I'm complaining and moaning as well as whining. (You cannot imagine how miserable my poor wife must have been!) Eventually, I decided to dig out a flashlight and peek at my throat to see if I looked as bad as I felt. Yuck. That wasn't a pretty sight. No wonder I couldn't eat anything. My tonsils looked as big as golf balls! I was surprised I could even breathe! By this time it seemed obvious that I needed to go see my doctor.
A sinus infection and strep throat. Wonderful. But at least I can actually start recovering now. A few days into my two weeks of heavy antibiotics and I began to feel better. I got up and got a few chores done. Normality seemed almost inevitable. Then I got sick again. A deep, heavy cough. Runny nose. Weariness. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed. And by now my wife is way over that whole "you poor guy" phase so I'm pretty much on my own.
And don't think for a second that the kids haven't taken advantage of my misfortune. I fell asleep on the couch today while my wife was at work and apparently missed a rampaging horde of destructive goblins and trolls tearing through the house. There are toys and laundry scattered across the floor, along with the mail. I found the electric bill sticking out of the litter box of all places. All the sheets and blankets from my daughter's bed are in the dining room. I'm pretty sure that's cat food in the dryer. There's a banana peel in the printer. The toilet's clogged. There's a pair of pants hanging from the ceiling fan in the kitchen. For some reason, the cat won't come down out of the top of the closet and all the spoons are missing from the utensil drawer… I can't seem to find them anywhere… They even tore my bookshelf off the wall in the living room! I don't understand. I was only asleep for a little while. How do they do it? It's like they have mystical, destructive powers that only work when I close my eyes.
That cough just refuses to go away, but I'm gradually regaining my strength. I've gotten back to work, both on my chores and on my writing. I should be able to get back up to speed here on the blog and hopefully I'll get a chance to update my website soon, too. I've even made it through Easter. It should be all downhill from here…assuming I can keep up with the little monsters…
February 27, 2012
What I do
I've been enjoying myself these past few months with these blog entries. Hopefully I've been as entertaining to all my readers as well…because it would be kind of sad and pathetic if I were only amusing myself…again… I also hope you've taken the time to check out my books. They are, after all, the whole reason I started this blog.
If you've been reading all my posts, you probably have a good idea of what my books are about, even if you haven't found the time to read any of them yet. But I seem to find myself again and again on the subject of the identity of my books. What are they? Are they horror? Are they adventure? When I refer to them as "dark" what exactly does that mean? I know that I've posted on this subject before, fretting about how to better market my work and how to clearly identify it for its appropriate audience. But I'm simply not convinced that I've found the best way to describe my work. I've found myself in a number of conversations lately in which this subject has come to light. One conversation in particular stands out to me.
Recently, I was contacted by an old friend of mine who had finally got around to reading The Box. He wasted no time—and certainly no words—in telling me how much he utterly hated it. Now I'd like to state for the record that this is perfectly fine by me. I didn't throw a tempter tantrum or lock myself in my room and refuse to come to dinner. I didn't respond that he was clearly a deranged and ignorant simpleton who obviously had no idea what good writing looked like. I would obviously never think anything like that… I didn't even point out the dozen 4- and 5-star reviews my work has recieved from readers who clearly would disagree with his opinions. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel it deep down in my soul. It was, after all, the first and, as I write this, the only bad review I've ever received. And the first one always stings the worst. But it wasn't as if I wasn't prepared for it. I'd been bracing myself for that first scathing review since I began writing. It doesn't matter how good a writer you are, there's always someone who won't like your work. But I hadn't expected such raw negativity from someone I considered a friend. As such, I didn't know how to respond at first. I did not intend to defend my work. It was clear to me that he despised it and I didn't want to come off as defensive. That seemed childish. I simply thanked him for his feedback. But my failure to respond must have seemed far harsher than any retaliation I could have verbalized, because he soon contacted me again, concerned that I must utterly loathe him now. He continued to defend his opinion, which he is certainly entitled to, by telling me in more detail what he thought was wrong with it. However, as he told me all the things he didn't like about it, and all the things he would rather have seen done, it became apparent that we were envisioning two entirely different novels right from the start. He wanted the characters to possess unspeakable inner demons. He wanted them to be repressing dark desires, to be self-loathing. He wanted them to secretly desire to hurt each other. He wanted them to be psychologically broken by the horrors they encountered, to suffer, to feel indescribable anguish. He hated that the characters had the option of turning back at any point and that they didn't transform into depraved monsters as they ventured deeper into the temple. Yuck! I hated everything he suggested. I was quick to respond that these things would have ruined the book for me, that their ability to turn around was a part of their story, that the discoveries made by the reader hinged on their ability to summon the courage to keep moving forward. I argued that the reader is supposed to relate to my characters, feel for them, even love them, not wish to see them psychologically tortured into madness. It seems that when I referred to the story as a "dark adventure," he immediately jumped to the assumption that I meant for the content of the book to be utterly black.
Is this what people think when I use the term "dark adventure?" Do people think my work is disturbingly grim and bleak? Does the word "dark" already possess such connotation that the work attached to it must be the blackest, most obscene material imaginable? I consider my work to be on the lighter side of horror. I hesitate to call The Temple of the Blind horror alone because I don't want people thinking it's going to be all nightmares and monsters. It should appeal to fans of Stephen King, but also to fans of a wide range of horror, suspense, adventure, mystery and even romance.
So what is the best designation for what I write? My short stories tend to be typical horror tales, but when I pour my efforts into a full-sized novel, the story tends to grow beyond those boundaries. Is it still horror? Is it dark adventure? Is it suspense? Thriller? Or is it merely supernatural fiction? And does it really matter what I choose to label it? Does it make any difference? The story remains the same. The trick, as always, is how do I get more people to read it? How do I convince the world that my book is a good read?
In time, I'll sort out all the pieces. As my audience grows and I gain more reviews both glowing and scathing, I'll begin to understand what works and what doesn't. For now all I can do is keep writing and hope that my readers keep talking about my work.
http://www.amazon.com/Brian-Harmon/e/B004YYT16Whttp://www.amazon.de/Brian-Harmon/e/B004YYT16Whttp://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/brianharmon/?ref=brianharmon
If you've been reading all my posts, you probably have a good idea of what my books are about, even if you haven't found the time to read any of them yet. But I seem to find myself again and again on the subject of the identity of my books. What are they? Are they horror? Are they adventure? When I refer to them as "dark" what exactly does that mean? I know that I've posted on this subject before, fretting about how to better market my work and how to clearly identify it for its appropriate audience. But I'm simply not convinced that I've found the best way to describe my work. I've found myself in a number of conversations lately in which this subject has come to light. One conversation in particular stands out to me.
Recently, I was contacted by an old friend of mine who had finally got around to reading The Box. He wasted no time—and certainly no words—in telling me how much he utterly hated it. Now I'd like to state for the record that this is perfectly fine by me. I didn't throw a tempter tantrum or lock myself in my room and refuse to come to dinner. I didn't respond that he was clearly a deranged and ignorant simpleton who obviously had no idea what good writing looked like. I would obviously never think anything like that… I didn't even point out the dozen 4- and 5-star reviews my work has recieved from readers who clearly would disagree with his opinions. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel it deep down in my soul. It was, after all, the first and, as I write this, the only bad review I've ever received. And the first one always stings the worst. But it wasn't as if I wasn't prepared for it. I'd been bracing myself for that first scathing review since I began writing. It doesn't matter how good a writer you are, there's always someone who won't like your work. But I hadn't expected such raw negativity from someone I considered a friend. As such, I didn't know how to respond at first. I did not intend to defend my work. It was clear to me that he despised it and I didn't want to come off as defensive. That seemed childish. I simply thanked him for his feedback. But my failure to respond must have seemed far harsher than any retaliation I could have verbalized, because he soon contacted me again, concerned that I must utterly loathe him now. He continued to defend his opinion, which he is certainly entitled to, by telling me in more detail what he thought was wrong with it. However, as he told me all the things he didn't like about it, and all the things he would rather have seen done, it became apparent that we were envisioning two entirely different novels right from the start. He wanted the characters to possess unspeakable inner demons. He wanted them to be repressing dark desires, to be self-loathing. He wanted them to secretly desire to hurt each other. He wanted them to be psychologically broken by the horrors they encountered, to suffer, to feel indescribable anguish. He hated that the characters had the option of turning back at any point and that they didn't transform into depraved monsters as they ventured deeper into the temple. Yuck! I hated everything he suggested. I was quick to respond that these things would have ruined the book for me, that their ability to turn around was a part of their story, that the discoveries made by the reader hinged on their ability to summon the courage to keep moving forward. I argued that the reader is supposed to relate to my characters, feel for them, even love them, not wish to see them psychologically tortured into madness. It seems that when I referred to the story as a "dark adventure," he immediately jumped to the assumption that I meant for the content of the book to be utterly black.
Is this what people think when I use the term "dark adventure?" Do people think my work is disturbingly grim and bleak? Does the word "dark" already possess such connotation that the work attached to it must be the blackest, most obscene material imaginable? I consider my work to be on the lighter side of horror. I hesitate to call The Temple of the Blind horror alone because I don't want people thinking it's going to be all nightmares and monsters. It should appeal to fans of Stephen King, but also to fans of a wide range of horror, suspense, adventure, mystery and even romance.
So what is the best designation for what I write? My short stories tend to be typical horror tales, but when I pour my efforts into a full-sized novel, the story tends to grow beyond those boundaries. Is it still horror? Is it dark adventure? Is it suspense? Thriller? Or is it merely supernatural fiction? And does it really matter what I choose to label it? Does it make any difference? The story remains the same. The trick, as always, is how do I get more people to read it? How do I convince the world that my book is a good read?
In time, I'll sort out all the pieces. As my audience grows and I gain more reviews both glowing and scathing, I'll begin to understand what works and what doesn't. For now all I can do is keep writing and hope that my readers keep talking about my work.
http://www.amazon.com/Brian-Harmon/e/B004YYT16Whttp://www.amazon.de/Brian-Harmon/e/B004YYT16Whttp://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/brianharmon/?ref=brianharmon
February 10, 2012
I Made It All Up!
I was thinking lately that I never put one of those disclaimer things in any of my books. You know, the ones that clearly state that this is a work of fiction, that all characters are made up and the book's plot never actually happened to anyone anywhere. I guess I simply assumed that it should go without saying that a book about a mysterious labyrinth full of monsters hidden far beneath a small, modern metropolis and an endlessly sprawling forest swarming with zombies was not a record of actual events. But then again, I also recently expressed my concern about the growing number of stupid people in the world and that they will undoubtedly eventually be the end of us all… So maybe I should make an official declaration confirming my work is, in fact, entirely fictional.
After pondering over this for a while, I decided to have a little fun and write up a few of these disclaimers, but in an amusing style. It was a great writing exercise and I was very pleased with my results. I enjoyed myself so much, in fact, that I ended up writing more than thirty of them. But then I was faced with the question of what to do with all of them. In the end, I decided to simply list them here on my blog for everyone to enjoy.
…So here they are. Enjoy.
From the desk of author Brian Harmon:
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Should you find any resemblance to yourself or someone you know, you're probably a sad and lonely individual in desperate need of the company of an actual human being. You should really think about attending some sort of social activity. I mean it. People think you're creepy.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The world doesn't revolve around you, you know. Get over yourself.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. They're not real. Like that hot girlfriend you claimed you had in high school.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Should you find any resemblance to yourself or someone you know, perhaps the problem is that you know far too many people. Seriously, back it off a little. People are going to think you're easy.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Please don't attempt to contact them. They probably wouldn't like you anyway, all getting into other people's business and stuff.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. You didn't actually think it was real, did you? How gullible are you? People must take advantage of you all the time.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. If you see your name in the pages of my book, I either have never met you or you weren't worth remembering. Either way, it's not about you. So, again, get over yourself.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Except for any really cool stuff that gets hot women really turned on. That actually happened to me.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. But the subliminal messages I hid in the text were real.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. So are you. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's all just an unattainable fantasy…like understanding women.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. You're not as attractive or as interesting as the characters you claim resemble you. Seriously, you need to get over yourself.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Should you find any resemblance to yourself or someone you know, it is nothing more than a really freaky coincidence and just means that you or the someone you know is probably exceptionally awesome.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's all completely made up. Except for that one character who was a real A-hole. You know who you are. And you saw what happened to you, so you'd better give me that twenty bucks you owe me.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. They're like Hugh Hefner's girlfriends. Everything's fake. But you still want to open the cover and look inside.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. According to my psychiatrist, I just made it all up and my life really isn't that interesting.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Especially all the hot, naked women. Otherwise, my wife would've murdered me by now.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's like the Jersey Devil or the Chupacabra. But not Bigfoot. He's real. And he makes the best snicker doodles.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. I lied, okay! Get over it!
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. You don't actually know them. You just think you do because I'm such a damn good writer.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is all in your head. You should really get some psychiatric help. It's not normal.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. But the cool stuff is all based on me.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It was all a chocolate truffle cheesecake induced dream.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's not real. It's not real. The doctor says it's not real…
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Otherwise it would have to be about real life. And I don't do reality very well.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's only a coincidence that the victim in chapter nine who died the terrible, agonizing death resembled my old boss.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's just like those things you tell women in hopes of getting them to sleep with you. And no, it doesn't work for me, either.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Except for the "About the Author" stuff. Most of that is true.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. The people aren't who they claim to be and nothing ever actually gets done. It's a lot like congress, really.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. I'm way too interesting and attractive to adequately describe in a book, so I just made some stuff up.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Sorry to disappoint you. But on the bright side, so is Twilight.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. And if I had based any of the characters on a real person, I certainly wouldn't have studied them thoroughly by way of hidden, closed-circuit cameras. I mean that would just be weird…
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. If you should find yourself experiencing things that happened in one of my books, you should probably be concerned. Especially if it's a scene that didn't end well for your character. Someone with excellent taste in reading material might be out to get you.
I hope this clears up any doubts you may have had. If not, then I just don't know what to tell you.
After pondering over this for a while, I decided to have a little fun and write up a few of these disclaimers, but in an amusing style. It was a great writing exercise and I was very pleased with my results. I enjoyed myself so much, in fact, that I ended up writing more than thirty of them. But then I was faced with the question of what to do with all of them. In the end, I decided to simply list them here on my blog for everyone to enjoy.
…So here they are. Enjoy.
From the desk of author Brian Harmon:
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Should you find any resemblance to yourself or someone you know, you're probably a sad and lonely individual in desperate need of the company of an actual human being. You should really think about attending some sort of social activity. I mean it. People think you're creepy.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The world doesn't revolve around you, you know. Get over yourself.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. They're not real. Like that hot girlfriend you claimed you had in high school.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Should you find any resemblance to yourself or someone you know, perhaps the problem is that you know far too many people. Seriously, back it off a little. People are going to think you're easy.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Please don't attempt to contact them. They probably wouldn't like you anyway, all getting into other people's business and stuff.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. You didn't actually think it was real, did you? How gullible are you? People must take advantage of you all the time.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. If you see your name in the pages of my book, I either have never met you or you weren't worth remembering. Either way, it's not about you. So, again, get over yourself.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Except for any really cool stuff that gets hot women really turned on. That actually happened to me.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. But the subliminal messages I hid in the text were real.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. So are you. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's all just an unattainable fantasy…like understanding women.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. You're not as attractive or as interesting as the characters you claim resemble you. Seriously, you need to get over yourself.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Should you find any resemblance to yourself or someone you know, it is nothing more than a really freaky coincidence and just means that you or the someone you know is probably exceptionally awesome.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's all completely made up. Except for that one character who was a real A-hole. You know who you are. And you saw what happened to you, so you'd better give me that twenty bucks you owe me.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. They're like Hugh Hefner's girlfriends. Everything's fake. But you still want to open the cover and look inside.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. According to my psychiatrist, I just made it all up and my life really isn't that interesting.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Especially all the hot, naked women. Otherwise, my wife would've murdered me by now.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's like the Jersey Devil or the Chupacabra. But not Bigfoot. He's real. And he makes the best snicker doodles.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. I lied, okay! Get over it!
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. You don't actually know them. You just think you do because I'm such a damn good writer.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is all in your head. You should really get some psychiatric help. It's not normal.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. But the cool stuff is all based on me.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It was all a chocolate truffle cheesecake induced dream.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's not real. It's not real. The doctor says it's not real…
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Otherwise it would have to be about real life. And I don't do reality very well.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's only a coincidence that the victim in chapter nine who died the terrible, agonizing death resembled my old boss.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. It's just like those things you tell women in hopes of getting them to sleep with you. And no, it doesn't work for me, either.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Except for the "About the Author" stuff. Most of that is true.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. The people aren't who they claim to be and nothing ever actually gets done. It's a lot like congress, really.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. I'm way too interesting and attractive to adequately describe in a book, so I just made some stuff up.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. Sorry to disappoint you. But on the bright side, so is Twilight.
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. And if I had based any of the characters on a real person, I certainly wouldn't have studied them thoroughly by way of hidden, closed-circuit cameras. I mean that would just be weird…
*All characters and events within my work are fictional. If you should find yourself experiencing things that happened in one of my books, you should probably be concerned. Especially if it's a scene that didn't end well for your character. Someone with excellent taste in reading material might be out to get you.
I hope this clears up any doubts you may have had. If not, then I just don't know what to tell you.
