Dev Jarrett's Blog, page 3

"...Ride the King's Highway, baby..." --"The End" (The Doors)

...this is NOT a short story... So last night (this morning), while the rest of the family was in REM sleep, I came to the end of my principal WIP, Casualties . THE END. My fourth novel. It's a little more personal than any of the others so far. I dug deeper into myself for this one than I ever have before, and I'm kinda proud of that.

It might suck--hell, at this point, it's definitely got suckage. Plenty of it. Assloads of it. But that's okay. It's allowed to suck. It's only the first draft. The rewrite is already looming on the horizon like some distant, approaching specter, but I'm cool with it. Like someone more clever than I am once said: "You can't rewrite a blank page."

Before I get started on the rewrite, I've got to focus on something else for a little while, get some of that heady stuff called "perspective." Rewriting something else, knocking out a quick short story, and getting started on the NEXT BIG THING. Yup, I've already got an idea brewing back there in the fear factory, and it, too, will kick ass. And there's family time I need to spend with my wife and kids. And there's the day job. And there are the personal goals I've set for myself (NO, NONE OF THEM INVOLVE BATHROOM SELFIES AND PHOTOSHOP...WHY WOULD YOU EVEN THINK THAT?).  And, and, and...(ad infinitum).  I'll get back to it soon enough, and draw all the suck-ticity out of it.

All for you, Damien...all for you (haha).

--Dev   

Life's Like That...so take Freytag's Pyramid and Shove It

We've all seen this before.  The Classic Dramatic Structure.  Rising Action, Climax, Falling Action, et cetera.  It's boring, right?  Confining.  Tedious as watching flies fuck.  Now maybe it works in terms of a strenuously constructed five-act play, but as writers we need to make sure we're not sacrificing story for structure.  The story, whatever it has to say, should always come first.

Writers have to be able to suspend disbelief.  Granted, we hope for a little reader buy-in, for the reader to gamely challenge us to send them to the moon, or to a hidden hell, or to some snowy landscape behind all the jackets in the wardrobe, but one of the keys to the kingdom is to make it reasonably plausible-sounding.  As a writer of RATHER SPECULATIVE things (ghosts, backwoods cannibals, and monsters of every stripe) I feel I've got to work a little harder at that than someone who might pen stories about teenagers who overcome the adversity of high school peer pressure, or even legal thrillers.

I'm good with that.  A measure of verisimilitude goes a long way, and once a really good writer gets hold of you, he or she can take you anywhere.  So...does anyone's life, or even a portion of it, really follow the structure of the pyramid?  Hell no. That would be terribly depressing.

I heard secondhand about Kurt Vonnegut speaking on the terrible structure of Hamlet.  He held that there was nothing in that masterpiece of tragedy.  No rising action at all, it hugs the baseline from the beginning until the climax, and then the bottom falls out.  The EKG line drops off the chart entirely, and stays there until the play ends, when practically everyone dies.  Poor Yorick, my ass.   
Then there's this other template.  A novel structure, a little more ROLLERCOASTERY than the first one, a little more jazzed-up and bouncy than the pyramid, but still, does anyone's actual life follow that pattern, either?

Nope.

All I'm saying is that the writer should simply be the conduit for the story, the little hook thingy that Doctor Emmett Brown set up to channel the lightning into the flux capacitor and send Marty McFly rip-assing off to the future.  YES, ABSOLUTELY, THE STORY IS A DAMNED TIME-TRAVELING DELOREAN, WHAT OF IT?

Whatever the story calls for is what goes into it.  You might have a story whose measure of tension stays all the way at the top of the tension axis, or yours may hammer up and down like the pulse rate of a rabid squirrel on meth.  WHATEVER , DUDE, JUST WRITE IT.

Tell the story, tell it as well as you can, as honestly as you can, and you won't be wrong.

Take care, keep writing, and keep reading!
--Dev

"Paperback Writer" 1966, (Lennon-McCartney)

This morning I woke with Beatles in my head (NO, NOT BEETLES, GROSS).  First, the song "Paperback Writer," because...(drumroll please)...the southern gothic fear-machine Loveless is now out in paperback!  Hit the image and it should clickamagically open a link to Amazon, where you can find Loveless in both paperback and electronback versions.  Get it, read it, and then go enjoy your weekend at the lake...HAHA.

The other Beatles-related thing in my head was a quote from John Lennon.  He may not have been the first to express the thought, but I always associate him with this sentence: "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans."  See, my plan is to write, and write better, and write MORE.  I love the writing, and the rewriting, and the editing.  It's what I want to do forever.  BUT, that other thing I do, during the day, involves wearing a uniform.

I've been in the US Army for almost 20 years, and yesterday, I got promoted.  Pretty cool.  Now I'm a Chief Warrant Officer 4.  The  Army said, "Yeah, you're doing a fine job at CW3, but we think you've got potential to do more.  Have another dot."

Did I do it all?  Not even close.  My family puts up with everything, from my deployments in combat zones to absurdly long hours to moving every couple of years to new places.  This kind of life ain't for sissies.  My children have gone through the "new kid" phase at every school they've ever attend.  Every social thing my wife and I do in one place lasts only as long as we live there.  And still, they support me.  I can never thank them enough--they've always got my back.

Music to Kill By, a playlist for Loveless

My publisher and I were talking this morning about Loveless (Marc's a great guy.  I know he's got a million other things to do, but when I stopped him to ask what songs came to his mind while reading my book, he seemed to already have a few in mind).

Here's what the two of us came up with.  Now, keep in mind that most of my childhood was spent in western Georgia, and I spent MANY summer days on the backwaters of the Chattahoochee, in places a lot like the area of Pine Top Lake.  Also, Loveless is a story of love, both lost and found, and what folks do with second chances.

“Honeysuckle Blue” –Drivin’ n Cryin’
“Take Me to the River” –Talking Heads
“Stormy Weather” –Billie Holliday
“If You Want Blood” –AC/DC
“Nightswimming” –REM
“Simple Man” –Lynyrd Skynyrd
“Chattahoochee” –Alan Jackson
“Possum Kingdom” –The Toadies
“When the Levee Breaks” – Led Zeppelin
“Black Velvet" – Alannah Myles
“Silver Springs” – Fleetwood Mac
“Love Should Never Feel Like This” – Alice Cooper

These aren't in any particular order, and are by no means the "end all, be all" of a Loveless playlist.  Your mileage may vary, and all that.  So read the book, then tell me what we missed!

Until next time,
Dev

 

First, you step back from the plate, tap the dirt out of your cleats, and spit. Then you step up and get ready to swing for the fences again.

To all you folks who made the ballot but didn’t win a Stoker this year, congratulations!  It might not feel like it when the winner gets announced, but being a finalist is an amazing accomplishment in itself.

Back in 2011, I submitted my second completed novel, called Hell or High Water, to the Journalstone “$2000 in 2011” horror novel contest.  It was pretty good, I thought.  I’ve seen many books on shelves—fuck, I’ve PAID for many books—that weren’t as good. Sure, I’m biased, but just in terms of grammatical mechanics, some of the stuff that gets published is simply ugly.

Sure enough, Hell or High Water made the Top Ten in the contest.  When I found out, of course I was stoked.  I was in Afghanistan at the time.  Good news is always welcome, but when you’re downrange eating dust every day, good news is a special kind of soul fuel (and seeing a bald, 40-year-old Warrant Officer with two left feet do the happy dance in full battle-rattle is surely a spectacle to behold—you missed out).

A couple of weeks later, I found out that I didn’t make the top three—the prizewinners.  The top three won publication and a cash prize (considered an “advance against royalties”), but I was eighth place out of ten.  An Also Ran. A strikeout.  It was disappointing.

My first completed novel, Dolly, had been picked up around the same time by Bad Moon Books, which softened the blow (Roy and Liz, I’m on pins and needles waiting for Dolly this fall!).  Also, after doing this a little while, I've come to consider a rejection (or a non-win, in this case) an exhortation to do better next time.

My (steadfast and strong or MULISH and HARDHEADED?) response to being the eighth-place McJoker was to shove Hell or High Water back through the Grand Abominable Rewrite Thresher. Cut the crappy parts out of it, let some of the good things expand, and hope for the best.  Then I sent it out again, this time to Blood Bound Books.

It was accepted. Since then we’ve worked on it, performed significant editorial surgery on it, retitled it, and now (ta-da!) Loveless will be out in approximately one month.  Thanks Marc and Joe, and thanks Dave!  You guys are awesome!  With the wise editing, the brilliant publisher's guidance, and the KICK ASS cover art, this one looks like a homerun.

In the meantime, my laptop has continued to be a busy place.  I finished another novel, this one called Dark Crescent, and I submitted it to Journalstone as well.  I’m pleased to announce that Dark Crescent is in this year’s Top Ten list of finalists. A finalist.  Again.

I’m taking this as a good sign.  I don’t know how many entries they had in either year, but these lists of finalists represent a great deal of potential.  Among these folks could be the next horror rockstar.  OF COURSE I WANT IT TO BE ME, but I’m in good company either way.  If Dark Crescent isn't a homerun with Journalstone, I'll do what I always do, and take another swing.

Congratulations to all finalists, both at the Stokers and at Journalstone!

Nerd Dates and Sharkmouth

       A few days ago, I went to the dentist for my regularly scheduled exam.  Not something I was looking forward to.  Maybe it’s a trust issue.  Maybe I have some phobic tendencies. The dentist doesn’t have to be sane (and yes, I’ve got images of Corbin Bersen grinning like a maniac and holding a dental drill over my face), and can accuse us of lying.  Because regardless of how thoroughly we brush and rinse and floss, the dentist can, with impunity, look in your mouth and say “HOLY FUCK...WHAT ARE YOU DOING?BRUSHING YOUR TEETH WITH SNICKERS BARS?”

Then the dentist can order any sort of bizarro dental surgery he wants.  Implants!  Braces!  Prosthetics!  ROOT CANAL!  Granted, I’ve never had
any of that shit, but I’ve heard the horror stories.  We all have.  It makes me want sharkmouth—those apex predators constantly lose teeth, and they’re constantly replaced.  I only considered the benefits of sharkmouth last week, when my wife and I went on a date (it was my birthday) to Westmoreland State Park, where we spent the day hunting for fossilized shark teeth (NERD DATE STATUS ACHIEVED: LEGENDARY).  We found several teeth, blackened by age but still sharp enough to slice into the flesh of puny humans.  (Jennie: "Feel how sharp this one is..."  poke!  Dev: "OW!  Damn!")  These teeth are millions of years old, and most of them are still whole.  The creatures who owned this glorious dentition had the same tooth-replacement mechanism as today's sharks--continuously producing rows of new teeth to use as the older ones get pulled loose or fall out.

That's what you need.  Sharkmouth.  Endlessly regenerative teeth.

 As a father, I remember the horrors of teething children.  The screaming, drooling, fever-producing pain of pushing teeth through gums.  Pain like that, on a constant basis, would probably drive anyone to be a ferocious predator.

 The role of the dentist would change drastically, and all he'd ever get to bitch about is your lack of flossing.  On
second thought, not even that.  If he says "You're not flossing enough," you could just bite him.

But getting back to my nerdy birthday date, I'm sure we're not alone in enjoying dates like that.  What do you do for a nerd date?  Cosplay?  Con attendance?  LARPing?  Let's hear it.   

LOVELESS news, complete with cover art reveal!

      A few days ago, over on Chuck Wendig's fantastic blog (http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/05/13/what-gets-you-to-read-a-book/) he asked what gets you to read a book.  Is it the cover, despite what we've consistently been told about judging a book?  Is it author recognition and fan base loyalty (I've read books by this guy, and I like his work)?  Good writing on the first page to hook the reader?  Maybe you only read books based on a recommendation from someone else, whether it's from a review, a cover blurb, or (GODIHOPENOT) an Oprah endorsement sticker.

      Turns out, it's a lot of things to many different people.  (That's right, there's no single solution...much like the rest of life.  Go figure.)  For me, it's a combination of things.  I'll read pretty much anything by my favorite authors.  I'm usually willing to take a chance on new guys when the cover art or back cover copy really resonates with me.  Sometimes that's good (Ernest Cline, I'm talking to you!), and sometimes, not so much.  If I'm still reluctant to shell out the cash, I give my library card a workout.  Thankfully the library system here in northern Virginia is pretty good.

      In turn, I recommend books to my family, friends, and anyone else who might listen.

      Either way, as a reader, or as a writer, sometimes, you just get lucky.

      Like me.   This weekend, I opened a message from Marc Ciccarone at Blood Bound Books with the cover art for Loveless.  I was stunned.  "What do you think of this?" he asked, and I couldn't answer for a moment--I was busy laughing and dancing through the house like a meth-fueled dervish in a low-gravity environment.  The cover is amazing.  Abso-fucking-lutely amazing.

      So if you're a reader attracted by good writing, I think you'll be pleased.  I had a fantastic editor (Thanks, Dave!) who kept me from writing myself into mediocrity.  If it's cover art that attracts, well, I think we've got that pegged, too.  Either way, when it comes out I hope you read it.  I hope it keeps you reading into the darkest depths of night.  I hope you LOVE it.   

      For a variety of visceral reasons, though, I think it'll never get the Oprah seal of approval.  I'm SO okay with that.  
     

For Sale, one (1) Dev, slightly used...

What the hell...

I went to eBay yesterday, and found out that I'm for sale.

Not a story of mine, or a poem (YES I'VE WRITTEN POETRY BEFORE--SHUT UP), or an anthology that contains some of my work.

ME.

No, really.  It's me.  A much smaller me, with hair (yeah yeah, laugh it up), from sometime in the 70s. 

Apparently, this company buys old pictures from newspapers and magazines, and resells them.  So, some thirty-odd years ago while I was busily composing a watercolor masterpiece, a photographer took my picture.  Now, through the vagaries of bulk sales, it's available for anyone to purchase.

It's just a press photo I don't even remember, but these jokers are asking $25.00 for it (DUDE, SRSLY?).  The picture is not my property, so I don't get anything out of this except this surreal sense of bemused hilarity, but that asking price garners its own questions.

Why ask so much?  It's just a picture of a kid.  Granted, he's a handsome kid (this was before I'd twice broken my nose and cultivated these crow's feet around my eyes), but still...

Did the seller Google me and see my name come up as a writer?  Did they think I might have some crazed stalker fanbase that has to collect everything Dev-related?  I WISH.  (On second thought, I don't wish for that...I'm seeing a mind movie of someone enlarging it, then cutting out the mouth and eye sections of the photo and pressing it against his face like a Gimp mask, his tongue licking out and fluttering seductively as he talks to himself in the mirror and mastur--EW.  NEVER MIND.) 

Selling a photo of me is weird, yes, but what's even weirder?  Someone BUYING it...

Lord willin' and the creek don't rise... and "But why haven't I ever heard of you?"

     After all this time, it's finally happening.

     Oh, yeah.

     I've been informed by the great people at Blood Bound Books that if things go "as planned" my debut novel Loveless will be released on the 10th of June.  There are a couple of hurdles still ahead, but I'm hopeful that everything will go according to plan.

      Ideally, my next post will be one of those seventeen-point headlines about Loveless being loosed on an unsuspecting population like some redneck-ghost-story Godzilla.  ("AIEEEE!  GOJIRO!  GOJIRO!")

      You've been warned.  Prepare yourselves.  Gird (or ungird) your loins accordingly.

      But here's the tricky bit...I've been told that in this day of immediate, adrenalin-scented, faster-than-humanly sensible self-publishing, writers have an even tougher row to hoe than before (as if hoeing was easy in the first place NO I DIDN'T SAY HO'ING...BEHAVE).  New writer discovery is hard...damned hard.  The market is cluttered with people who don't bother with such mundane things as EDITING their work, or even finding a competent proofreader to unscrew their mistakes.

     I know how it happens.

     The writer writes and writes and writes until his or her wrists ache with the sort of freakish carpal tunnel Wolverine must suffer.  But then, a magical thing happens.  He finishes.  The writer types "The End," and some sort of monster begins to grow in his skull.  An Ego Parasite that feeds on positive feelings of accomplishment.  (And yes, finishing a first draft is a pretty awesome feeling.)  That parasite grows fat drinking the blood of the confident.  Before long, it crowds out the smarter, necessary feelings of "Hey, wait a minute, how did THAT fuckery get in there?" and pushes the author to self-publish his novel without any changes.  He thinks he'll sit back, rake in the waffleicious literary dough and maple syrup flavored-accolades, and wait for someone to call him with a six-figure movie deal.

      The book comes out, and lo, and behold!  It's fifty shades of baby-shit yellow, and the few people that actually give it a chance (because it's WAY cheaper than, say, a book by one of the big publishing houses) get screwed.  Not only does the multitude of self-pubbed books glut the market, but the fact that most of them are humongous rafts of reeking squid shit makes even the most open-minded reader a little jaded about trying someone new on their reader.

      Are there exceptions?  Of course.  I imagine that some writers can self-edit the hell out of their work.  I've heard it whispered in dark alleyways that there may even exist great works that were done in one draft (but if you see any of these cryptozoological wonders, make sure you get photographic evidence).  For the vast majority of us, though, a critical, objective view of the work is essential.

      Loveless went through three and a half drafts before I thought it was ready to send out.  I could have tinkered with it for much longer.  Some writers do.  Even after it got accepted at Blood Bound Books, my editor went through it with a fine-toothed comb and said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, but you stepped on your dick here, and here, and HOLY SHIT ESPECIALLY HERE, and why the hell did you screw up the subplot like that?"  Granted, he said it with brilliantly smooth tact and genteel editorial aplomb, and I made the advised changes as craftily as I could.  The end result, hopefully, is a work readers will enjoy.  That's the biggest gun I've got in the fight to be "found" by readers.  

       The next step?  Easy.  Just do it again.

       But better.

       And make sure all the squid shit gets edited out.

It's the end of the world...and I feel fine

     When the Morpheus Tales Apocalypse Special Issue announcement came out, I knew I wanted to be part of it.  When one of my stories was chosen to be in their biopunk special issue a few months back, I was pleasantly surprised at the beautiful quality and diversity of the writing and the range of story choices, not to mention the fantastic cover art.  These guys knew what they were doing, and any story I sent them would be in good hands.  And now an Apocalypse Special Issue?  What an opportunity: ending the world.  The trick was to solve a couple of problems first.

     The first problem was how to make the idea something new.  Vampires?   Done.  Pandemic disease?  Done.  Alien Invasion?  Done.  Zombies?  Fucking overdone.

     The other problem, obviously, was how to end the world in 3000 words or less.  Global catastrophe, limited space.

      My solution was "Songs of Goodbye," a story of a girl and her father at the end of the world.  I focused on the two of them and their relationship as they face impending doom, instead of the death of the planet overall.

      When I sent it out, I was unsure the editor would choose it.  In my opinion, it wasn't a horror story, as such.  Morpheus Tales usually tends toward those creepy stories that make you wonder what that soft thump was in the other room when you're suddenly awake at 2AM, and "Songs of Goodbye" didn't really fit that mold.  It was quiet, honest, personal, and a little bit sad.  When my wife read it, she said she could picture one of our daughters and me having similar interactions.

      Self-doubt notwithstanding, I sent it in and it was chosen for publication.  The editor said in response, "The ending really got to me."     While I haven't had a chance to read the issue yet, I'm sure it's another example of the good stuff.

      Take a look.  You won't be sorry you did.