Brian Keene's Blog, page 181

Win a date with Nickolaus Pacione

Note: Before any of you take me to task for poking the crazy person, it should be noted that said crazy person has recently begun threatening my fiancee again. So, fuck that noise. It's prudent to remind people of what they are actually dealing with, should they happen to be contacted by him.

If you're new to the Internet, Nickolaus Pacione is a deranged man from Illinois who lives in his grandparent's basement, where he shouts at the world from a computer. He fancies himself a professional writer (he's not), a publisher (also not), and concert promoter (thrice not). He doesn't like gay people, some racial and ethnic minorities, grammar, soap, or common sense. He believes that there is a vast Illuminati-like conspiracy to keep him from being published. In years past, he has stalked and/or harassed a large number of both professional and amateur authors and editors, including myself, Ray Garton, Poppy Z. Brite, Darren McKeeman, David Niall Wilson, Mary SanGiovanni, dgk goldberg, RJ Sevin, Shane Ryan Staley, Angelina Hawkes-Craig, Brian Knight, Susan Taylor, and dozens more. His threats, while never progressing beyond his grandparent's basement, have included everything from lighting his perceived rivals on fire to kidnapping their children. He has been locked up and medicated a few times since then, but — like herpes — he always comes back.

And if this listing on Craigslist is any indication, he's looking for love. Since it is often difficult for the novice to understand Nicky-speak, I thought I'd translate portions of the listing as a way of providing a valuable community service.

It's actually been two years since I actually did a personal ad on Craigslist.org.

Nick likes to say "actually" a lot. Actually is actually his favorite word. You can make a fun drinking game out of this. Do a shot every time Nicky says "actually".

I am also published if some of you actually ask that question.

DRINK!

I am looking for that one woman who has the patience of a saint because I am…

Unemployed; spend my disability check on fixing my computer each month after I infect it with viruses from visiting unicorn-porn websites; live with my grandparents; subsist on a diet of Coke and Cheese-Doodles; shout racial, ethnic, and sexual slurs at my computer; don't own a car so I need you to drive me everywhere; think hygiene and bathing are all part of the conspiracy to keep me from being published; etc.

I end up getting women who are geographically undesirable

Translation: I don't own a car, my relatives refuse to drive me anywhere, and the bus doesn't travel to these potential suitor's neighborhoods.

I refuse to date a girl from Coal City or Morris, because they hardly leave the area in terms of going out on a Saturday or Friday night.

Who can blame them? If you went on a blind date with Nick Pacione, would *you* want to be seen in public with him?

I have a unique charm to me that some can't stand.

Extreme B.O. and rampant homophobia are "unique charm" in the same way that Justin Bieber is good music.

but others actually find this kind of funny

DRINK!

looking for that one lady who'd be willing to date me when I come into the city.

Translation: I need a place to crash. Can I sleep with you? If not, can I at least sleep on your couch?

person who is actually a starving artist type

DRINK!

I would run up and down the stairs of the subway for exercise when I am in Chicago.

In the paragraph before this, he said he goes to Chicago every three months. Translation: I exercise once every three months.

I am a Renaissance man.

Renaissance Man: a person whose expertise spans a significant number of different subject areas. Da Vinci was a Renaissance man. His contributions to society included numerous scientific observations, inventions, and art. Nick Pacione's contributions to society include trying to lure an underage girl into a cemetery for a "modeling session" and writing the following opening sentence: "From this that eludes me which I pen this – as what I say what eludes me is sleep, and from the sleep becomes the etchings where the dreams begin." (Excerpted from Collectives In A Forsaken Landscape).

Some college buddies actually coined

DRINK!

I like eating at dives and diners for the most part

Best First Date Ever!

I have the Italian looks, but got the Swedish height.

And the brain of a diseased, meth-addicted howler monkey jacking off into a razor-laced grapefruit.

I am actually a Chicago

DRINK! (Shit, I'm out of whiskey…)

The thing that the ladies are drawn the most about me is I am a photographer.

Translation: I take pictures of pigeons. And also of myself squatting on various pieces of public real estate.

I honestly really don't mind dating a BBW just as long they're height and weight balance out

As someone who has dated several BBWs, I'm not sure what this sentence means. Is he looking for a blueberry?

I want a woman I like to actually be able to carry

DRINK! I don't care that you can't stand up! You wanted to play a fun drinking game. Now drink!

I am a male hetero pig.

I am a male hetero pig. There. Fixed that for you, Nicky.

I don't mind if the woman actually dresses normal

DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!

I really don't look like the bookish type, I hardly drink alcohol.

Study that sentence. Repeat it aloud. Ponder its eloquence. Marvel over its structure. That shit should be hanging in a museum somewhere. Maybe he *is* a Renaissance Man!

I am actually a Christian believe it or not.

Drink! The power of Christ compels you to drink!

I am known in the Chicago area because of my website

I am known in the Chicago area because of my website as that creepy fucker who stalks and threatens people.

actually outlasted many of it's hosts.

If you aren't drunk by now, you're playing the game wrong.

When at parties, my book collection is actually a conversation piece because the authors in the small press, some of them I actually worked with.

A DOUBLE SHOT OF ACTUALLY! DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!

Sometimes it grows on a person

Write your own joke here___________________.

others might find this kind of sense of humor openly offensive.

In Nicky's world, saying things such as: "I want to kill all fags", "your mixed-race son is a fucking mongrel", and "I will kick you in the cunt with a steel-toed boot" are just jokes.

I love being a writer, but I wish I did make a little more money doing it.

I wish that, before I die, mankind might set foot on Mars, but we make do with what we're given, Nicky.

I might take the lovely lady with me to different events as moral support.

Translation: Carry my boxes of self-published books, pay for my way into the convention, pay for my food, pay for my taxi, and keep me from getting my ass kicked when I spew my special little brand of invective at the wrong person.

So, yeah. There ya go, ladies. What's that? You're still not convinced? Well, then…

Have a look at this.

Just drips with romance, doesn't it?

After Deluge… Dead Air

If you're looking for this week's chapter of Deluge, click here (or scroll down to the next post). The last chapter of Deluge is written, although I haven't let Dezm see it yet. I'm happy with it. One of my personal favorite endings. Not sure how the rest of you will feel about it, though. Guess we'll find out next week.

As I announced previously, Deluge will be followed by another serial — Dead Air. That will start some time early next year, and will hopefully feature spot illustrations by comic illustrator Steve Wands (and I know I owe you an email, Steve. Will be in touch soon). Dead Air is a book I've had banging around in the back of my head since 2004 or so. It has never made it beyond the pitch stage, and I'm glad for the opportunity to finally write the damn thing and get it out of my head.

After next week's finale is posted, I'll keep Deluge up on the website for a few weeks so everybody has a chance to finish reading it. Then it will come down in preparation for publication. It will come out as a signed, limited edition hardcover as part of next year's Maelstrom set, and will see release in digital and trade paperback in early 2013 from Deadite Press.

DELUGE (Part 88)

Leviathan trudged toward them. Sarah could only imagine the skyscraper-sized legs plodding along beneath the surface. Each step sent huge waves surging outward from the beast. The thing shook its massive, misshapen head, flapping its tentacles, and its roar echoed across the ocean, drowning out all other sound.

The group paused, stunned, as each step brought the monstrosity closer. Sarah trembled with dread, tears streaming down her already wet cheeks as memories of her encounter with Leviathan in Baltimore overwhelmed her. At her side, both Henry and Gail gaped, staring in disbelief as Leviathan raged.

Leviathan's roar faded, and Mylon cried out in anguish. Sarah turned to see him clutching his wound with one hand and trying to steady his rifle with the other, as two more starfish men slipped over the side onto the deck. Before they could reach him, Novak shot them both from his perch. Sarah watched as Novak patted his pockets. Then, he gestured at her, shouting something. The wind snatched his words away.

"What?" Sarah shouted.

"I'm out of ammo!"

Ahead of the rocking ship, the whirlpool grew larger, spinning faster as the light in its center continued to expand. Sarah couldn't be sure, because the rain obscured her vision, but for a moment, she thought she saw blue sky and clouds in the center of the light.

That can't be right, she thought.

It is, Simon's voice said inside her head. But I need another moment to stabilize the doorway.

Startled, she glanced at Gail and Henry to see if they'd heard the telepathic message as well, but if so, neither of them gave any indication. Instead, they'd turned back to the battle. Above them, Novak was clambering down to the deck.

The song of the sirens began anew, as the feminine forms surfaced once more. The pain on Mylon's face disappeared as the song grew louder. He lay the gun on the deck beside him and struggled to rise, leaving a bloody smear on the bulkhead behind him.

"His ears aren't stuffed," Sarah hollered at Henry. "Stop him!"

Henry, Gail, and Sarah battled their way toward the injured man. Sarah was dimly aware of Novak doing the same behind them. Leviathan roared again, and the ship lurched sharply, sending both the crew and their attackers careening. Mylon clutched the railing, steadying himself, and peered out over the side. His expression was peaceful.

"Mylon," Gail yelled. "Don't listen to them!"

"So beautiful." Smiling, he climbed over the rail. "They say they can stop the pain. All I have to do is go to them."

A starfish creature squealed as Henry buried his hatchet in its chest. Sarah leaped over the thrashing creature and slid across the wet deck, trying to reach Mylon before he leaped, but she was too late. Still smiling, the wounded man let go of the rail and plummeted into the ocean. When Sarah reached the railing and peered over the side, she saw the mermaids swarming over him, biting his throat and wrists and feasting on his blood. Mylon squirmed as if in ecstasy. A wave crashed over them all, and when it receded, both Mylon and the mermaids were gone.

You can't help him, Sarah. Focus.

"Simon…" Sarah paused, and then thought it instead. Simon?

I'm here, came the response.

If you were telepathic, Sarah thought, then why didn't you use it before?

Because when you first found me, I was too injured and weak. More importantly, when I do so, it can potentially attract the attention of other entities, such as Shtar. I'm only doing it now because I have no choice—and because in a few moments, it won't matter.

Novak reached Gail and Henry. The three turned to Sarah. Novak made a sweeping motion with his hand. Sarah glanced around the vessel and realized that all of the creatures were dead.

"I think," he panted, "we won."

Sarah shook her head. "We're going need more than guns and broom handles to deal with Leviathan."

Novak opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, something small and silver jumped from the water and soared toward them—a shimmering school of flying fish, more teeth than body, tiny black eyes full of malevolence and hunger. The creatures swerved in mid-flight, targeting Henry. The teen stumbled backward, screaming, but Gail stepped in front of him, clutching a can of roach killer in each hand.

"I've got this." She unleashed a spray directly onto the fish, who wheeled away, plunging back into the water.

The ship rolled again as it got caught in the whirlpool's current. Sarah, Novak, Gail, and Henry grabbed on to each other to keep from falling.

Listen to me, all of you, came Simon's voice in their heads. You need to leave this vessel immediately, before Leviathan arrives. Swim toward the center of the whirlpool. Don't fight it. Just let it take you through the door.

How will we know when we've reached the other world? Gail asked.

Sarah was surprised that she could hear the question. Judging by Novak and Henry's expressions, they heard, as well.

You'll know, Simon said. The important thing is that you not fight the current. Let it sweep you along. If you fight, you could end up somewhere else. The Lost Level, or a different realm than the one I'm sending you to. Or simply wandering the Labyrinth.

What about you? Sarah thought. You're coming, too, right?

No, I cannot. This ritual requires a sacrifice. That sacrifice is me. Consider it a karmic debt for what we did to the people aboard Locke's ark. Had we not sacrificed them, we would not have made it this far. And now, to insure that the rest of you make it through the door, a further sacrifice is required.

Fuck that, Novak protested. Can't you use one of these shark-men? Hell, we could catch one of those mermaids or something. Use one of them instead.

I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, Mr. Novak. And besides, somebody has to remain behind to stop Leviathan and his spawn from following you through the doorway.

I'm the Captain, Novak said. If anybody is going down with the ship, it's me.

Leviathan roared again. They glanced up, startled to see how much closer he was. He loomed over the boat now, blotting out the sky.

There is no time for bravado, Mr. Novak. Now go! All of you.

Novak stumbled as something pushed him toward the rail. Sarah felt it, too—as if a giant, invisible hand had shoved her. Gail and Henry struggled against the unseen force, as well. Above them, one of Leviathan's tentacles curled around the antenna mast, snapping it off. Novak's resolve dissipated. He turned around and jumped into the water. Gail, Henry, and Sarah followed.

Even as she slipped beneath the dark, foul water, Sarah could still hear Leviathan thundering overhead.

DON'T MISS NEXT WEEK'S EXCITING CONCLUSION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BOOKSELLERS

ATTENTION:

*Independent, brick and mortar bookstore or comic shop proprietors making a special effort to carry my Deadite Press titles and/or The Last Zombie

*Barnes & Noble, BAM, or Chapters employees disregarding the corporate mandate on non-returnables and ordering my Deadite Press titles and/or The Last Zombie for your store.

I would like to hear from you. In early 2012, I'll be launching a program that will specifically send my readers (also known as paying customers) to your store. Going forward, you will also be the only bookstores I will continue to visit on signing tours. If you would like to participate, send an email to briankeene @ live.com with BOOKSELLER OUTREACH in the subject line (so that my assistant Big Joe separates it from the hundreds of other daily emails and makes sure I see it). In the email, please provide your name, your store name, store address, website (if applicable), phone number, and a brief description of your efforts (re-ordering copies when they sell out, hand-selling them to customers, end-cap displays, etc). Your efforts are about to be rewarded ten-fold…

THE LAST ZOMBIE: INFERNO #4 – On Sale Now

The Last Zombie: Inferno #4 is on sale today at all comic shops. If your local store doesn't carry it, punch them in the face and then buy one here.

The team finds themselves fighting against two enemies: a pack of half-starved wild dogs, and the survivors of the inferno — the very people they are supposed to be helping. Warner faces a crucial decision, and his orders may doom them all…

GHOUL Audio Book – On Sale Now

[image error]The audio book of GHOUL is on sale now. You can download it from iTunes and Audible, or purchase it on compact disc from Amazon. Click here to order.

Don't forget, the new paperback edition will be on sale by month's end, followed by the movie debut on Chiller in early 2012.

Follow-Ups

[image error]Following up on some previously-posted items.

1. My foreign rights agent, the super-heroine Betty Anne Crawford, reports my original German publisher, Otherworld Verlag, has been bought by Ueberreuter, the largest trade publisher in Austria. My latest German release through OV was the trade hardcover of Kill Whitey, which you should now find everywhere in Germany and Austria now, since Ueberreuter has more distribution capabilities.

2. We talked a few weeks ago about serial-plagiarist, con-artist, thief, and possible llama-molester David Boyer. Well, now a group of authors are taking the battle to Amazon.com. I urge all of you to get involved. You should also continue to support the efforts of "B-Thoughtful" and author Rick Moore, who have been spearheading this fight.

3. Fear Net interviewed country-music's Kasey Lansdale, who, among other things, talked a little bit about the Castaways movie and revealed that I'm secretly a nice guy.

4. A few days ago, I talked about the strange transition to veteran and mentor. That's why reading things like this makes me feel very weird. (And it's okay, Alyn. I nearly creamed my shorts the 1st time I met Bentley Little).

DELUGE (Part 87)

The ship rolled violently as Sarah raced out onto the slippery deck. Losing her balance, she slid, shrieking, toward the rail, but managed to steady herself before falling overboard. The falling rain and ocean spray stung her eyes, blurring her vision. Blinking water from her eyes, she turned, trying to make sense of the chaotic battle unfolding around her. The paper towels stuffed in her ears made everything seem muffled.

Caterina faced off against one of the half-man, half-shark creatures. The beast loomed over her, standing easily ten feet high. It swung at her with one massive fist, but the lithe woman managed to dodge the blow and dart underneath it, jabbing the creature's white, slab-like belly with her spear. Sarah was dismayed to see that the broken broom handle barely scratched the monster's hide. Roaring, the shark man swung at her again. Caterina dodged a second time, thrusting her weapon at the prominent dorsal fin on its back. The thing spun, lashing out with its tail, and knocked Caterina off her feet. She landed hard, losing her grip on both the broom handle and the knife. Blood dribbled from her nose, turning the wet deck pink. Laughing, the shark man placed one foot on her chest and lowered its head. Foam dripped from its slavering jaws, splattering Caterina's face. The girl thrashed beneath its weight, kicking and punching to no avail.

Mylon appeared at her side. With one quick motion, he shoved the barrel of his shotgun against the creature's snout and pulled the trigger, spraying both Caterina and himself with crimson. Grimacing, Mylon wiped the blood away with one hand, while clutching the shotgun in the other. As he reached out a hand to help Caterina to her feet, one of the starfish men charged them from behind. Both Caterina and Sarah shouted a warning, but it was too late. The monster rammed its trident into Mylon's back, lifting him from the deck. He fumbled with the shotgun, but it slipped from his grasp. Sarah gasped.

"Put him down, you fucker!"

She ran toward them, realizing a moment too late that she was unarmed. Sarah could barely believe it herself—to have survived for this long in a world gone mad, only to charge into battle now without a weapon…

She leaped for the shotgun, but it slid farther away. Mylon's attacker turned toward her. Its eye-tipped arms seemed to leer.

And then one of the eyes exploded. Squealing, the creature lowered its trident. Mylon slipped from the prongs, collapsing on top of Caterina. The starfish man's remaining appendages flailed as it collapsed to its knees, writhing in agony. Seconds later, another one of its eyeballs vanished in a spray of pulp. This time, Sarah heard the gunshot. She glanced up and spotted Novak, rifle stock nestled firmly in his shoulder, sitting atop the bridge. With a nod of acknowledgement, he trained the rifle's scope on another attacker.

The beast was still alive. Its screams were inhuman. Sarah snatched up Caterina's makeshift spear and rammed it into the monster's gaping maw. The thing trembled, and then went slack. Sarah pulled the broom handle from its mouth. Slime dripped from the broken tip.

"He's alive," Caterina shouted, cradling Mylon's head in her lap.

"He won't be for much longer if you don't stand up and fight. Give him the shotgun and lets go!"

"I don't need it," Mylon gasped. "You take it. I've still got my pistol."

Nodding, Caterina retrieved the shotgun and then waded back into the battle, standing side-by-side with Sarah. Sarah glanced back long enough to see Mylon propping himself up against the rails. His face was pale and his expression was pained. Blood trickled from his open mouth. Despite his injuries, he managed to free his pistol from its holster and blast another attacker.

Sarah was alarmed to see more creatures climbing onto the deck. Novak picked off several of them before they could clamber over the rails, but for each one that he dropped back into the ocean, two more took its place.

She heard Henry call out, and turned to see him being menaced by three of the shark men. The creatures had backed him into a corner, and were too close for him to use his rifle. Indeed, as Sarah fought her way toward him, one of the beasts snatched the weapon from the teen's hands and flung it over the side. The shark-man lowered its head, coming in for the kill. In his panic, Henry yanked the hatchet free from his belt loop and swung wildly. The blade sank into the closest shark's nose. Roaring, the monster flailed backward onto the deck, taking Henry's weapon—which was still lodged in its snout—with it.

Screaming, Sarah and Caterina both charged toward the group. The sharks turned, and Caterina pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She slid to a halt, inches from Henry's attackers, her eyes wide with fear.

"Oh, sh—"

One of the shark men ripped the shotgun from her hands. The other opened its jaws and attacked, engulfing her head and body in its mouth, biting down right above her breasts. Despite the stuffing in her ears, Sarah still heard the sounds its teeth made as they snapped shut, slicing through flesh and crushing bone. Its eyes rolled up in its head with frenzied, savage delight as it shook her still-kicking form.

Shrieking, Sarah shoved the spear into its right eye. Both Caterina and her killer fell to the deck. The other monster bared its teeth at Sarah, but seconds later, a metal spear sprouted from its chest. Glancing around in confusion, Sarah spotted Gail reloading her spear gun. The creature toppled over the side as the ship rolled again. Meanwhile, Henry managed to retrieve his hatchet.

"How did you kill it like that?" Sarah asked.

Henry wiped the hatchet blade on his raincoat. "I fought one when Moxey and me left the silo. If you hit them on the nose, it really hurts them. I reckon doing so with a hatchet was more than it could stand."

Despite her fear, Sarah grinned. "Good to know."

The battle continued. Sarah, Henry, and Gail ended up back to back as the various deep sea denizens tried to encircle them. Novak continued sniping them from above, but the ship was rocking so severely now that many of his shots went astray. Mylon continued fighting, picking off the creatures as they clambered over the railing. When he ran out of ammunition, he fumbled with the weapon, his fingers slick with rainwater and blood.

"We should do something for him," Gail yelled, nodding at the injured man.

"There's nothing we can do right now," Sarah shouted. "Keep fighting. We've got to buy Simon enough time."

More through desperation and scared savagery than skill, they managed to overcome their attackers. Soon, they outnumbered the creatures left onboard.

"Now," Sarah ordered, "before reinforcements arrive—"

She paused, distracted. A few hundred yards beyond the ship's bow, the sea began to churn. A bright, dazzling light appeared beneath the surface. Slowly, a whirlpool began to form.

"What's that?" Henry asked.

At first, Sarah thought he was referring to the whirlpool, but then she realized he and Gail were staring aft. She turned, looking in the direction Henry was pointing. There, far off on the murky horizon, a shadow loomed, so large in size that its shape was difficult to comprehend. But Sarah recognized it. She knew it all too well. The bulbous head like a misshapen hot air balloon. The hulking, rubbery body. The impossibly long arms, tipped with claw-like hands big enough to tear down whole buildings. And most of all, the tentacles—both the ones dangling from its face and the slimmer, longer ones erupting from the water like a horde of snakes.

Sarah began to weep.

"What the hell is that?" Henry asked again.

Novak and Mylon started shooting as a second wave of creatures tried to board the vessel.

"That," Sarah cried, "is Leviathan…"

ONLY TWO CHAPTERS LEFT! DON"T MISS THE EXCITING CONCLUSION!

The Apathy of Autumn

The late, great Janis Joplin once sang "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." I would add that so is apathy.

Let's talk, you and I. It's been a long time since we've really done that. Oh, sure. We talk on Twitter every day, and we talk here in the comments section. And we used to chat at The Keenedom and on Facebook until the sound of white noise in those places began to overwhelm me, throbbing in my pineal gland night and day, threatening to drive me mad, and I ended up stabbing both of them with a knife so that they wouldn't bother me anymore.

But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes. Talking to you. I'm smoking a cigar and sipping Four Roses bourbon. I'm not supposed to be doing either of those things anymore (and please don't tell Mary, F. Paul Wilson, or Joe Lansdale that I was, because I promised them I wouldn't, and they'll kick my ass). In truth, I've only had one cigar since the heart attack (upon finishing Clickers vs. Zombies) and only a few glasses of bourbon on my birthday, and once while Kelli Owen was visiting. But I'm having them tonight, even though I'm not supposed to, because they are what I used to have when we talked.

Do you remember? We used to talk all the time, you and me. For many years, I had a Blog called Hail Saten. It started as the title for my editorial column in Jobs In Hell (a weekly email newsletter for writers that I used to publish when the Internet was still in its infancy and email newsletters were still rare and neat and wonderful and welcomed, and people actually paid money to receive them). A disgruntled reader (because even back in 1997, I already had those) wrote me a very angry email one day, and called me 'Saten', complete with the typo, and I thought that was delightful and began using it. The title followed me from Jobs In Hell to my original Blog, which is long defunct, but for many years, was a place where I talked to people. Quite often, it got very personal. Eventually, I shut the Blog down. It's one thing to have personal conversations and observations with an audience of 500 or 5,000. It's quite a different animal when that audience is 50,000 or 500,000.

Just like the bourbon and cigars, I'm not supposed to bring back Hail Saten — because these three things will lead to another heart attack, or so I'm told. But lately, I've had the urge to bring the Blog back anyway.

Actually, that's not correct. I first had the urge several years ago, back when my ex-wife and I were beginning to figure out that being married to a writer is one of the worst things in the world to be, and wondering what we were going to do about that, because at age 41, and over a decade making a living writing, it was gonna be awfully hard for me to find any other kind of work. I resisted the urge to bring Hail Saten back at that time, knowing if I did, the marriage would be doomed for certain. Instead, I wrote a book called The Girl on the Glider, which came out in hardcover, and will come out in paperback next year, and which many people seem to think is the best thing I've ever written, and which, in reality, was simply me doing what I'm doing right now. Just with ghosts.

The second time I had the urge to bring the Blog back was in the dark months before the Dorchester War went public. Here's something important that I want you to remember, because I will come back to it a bit further down — Craig Spector, Bryan Smith, JF Gonzalez and myself decided to go public on March 24th of 2011, but I had not been paid by Dorchester since December of 2009. As I said last March: "I had not been paid since late-2009. My marriage had fallen apart, my bills were piling up, and more than half of my annual income was perpetually coming soon." It should be noted that Dorchester wasn't the only publisher who suddenly seemed to have lost their checkbook — but they were the one who owed me the most. And so, to make ends meet, I started the newsletter and the Lifetime Subscription plan, and signed with a few new publishers to get some money to stem the crushing tide of debt. Now that you know that, I'm sure you understand why the urge to bring back Hail Saten and unleash some righteous fury on their ass was strong. Instead, I stayed professional, joined with other professionals, and eventually, we won.

The third time the urge to re-launch Hail Saten struck me was around this time last year. I don't talk much about my divorce because, quite simply, it's none of your fucking business. All you really need to know is that my ex-wife and I remain absolute best friends. We speak every day, help each other out, occasionally cook for one another, are there for each other if one of us needs a shoulder or a sounding board, and most importantly, we remain an awesome team when it comes to raising our son. My ex-wife is an incredible mother and a wonderful human being, and I am very glad to have her as a friend, and extremely grateful that she is in my son's life. And, post-divorce, we are both very happy in life, and thus, our son and everyone else around us is happy, too. Except… that wasn't good enough for some people. There was a loose-knit group — I won't name them here because, quite frankly, they aren't worth it — who spent much of last year making me and Mary's lives miserable. They each had their own individual axes to grind with me, and when the divorce happened, they saw their opportunity. "Finally, a weak chink in the armor! Attack!" And attack they did. Mary and I said nothing about it in public because, again, it's nobody's fucking business. Mostly, they attacked Mary, saying how terrible she was for having the audacity to fall in love with a recently divorced man with whom she'd been friends with for the last twelve years.  And they didn't care about how their bullshit impacted her or my ex or my kids or my friends or anybody else in my life. All they cared about was getting to me. And they almost did. Almost… Yeah, the urge bring back Hail Saten at that moment was borderline uncontrollable. But I prevailed. I prevailed, and after that, the urge went away…

…until yesterday.

Yesterday, an old friend and trusted mentor told me that he was worried that — in the eyes of the public — I was starting to appear apathetic. Now, he knew I wasn't apathetic. He knew it had been a long, strange summer, and that I was finally just finding my feet again. But he thought the public might not see that. I always listen to this friend's advice. He has always been right, and he's forgotten more about this business than I will ever learn. So yeah, let's talk about apathy. Let's talk about it in a way we haven't talked for quite some time, you and I. Let's Hail Saten the shit out of it, so that everybody is on the same page.

As I said, it has been a long, strange summer. Many things happened between April and September. Dorchester finally began paying some people, and reverting rights for others. I signed with Deadite, and was able to start earning a living again for the first time in two years. Things were good. Well, okay, yeah — there was the hurricane and the tropical storm and the fact that I was living inside a disaster area for a while. But these are minor trivialities, right? For the first time in a very long time, I had some breathing room. I had some freedom. I had nothing left to lose.

Then I had the heart attack.

Remember those books I mentioned before? The ones I contracted for before signing with Deadite? They were: Hollow Inside, The Damned Highway, Clickers vs. Zombies, Binky (a.k.a. Lake Fossil), With Teeth, and Hole In The World. These were books that were contracted in 2010. All were due earlier this year (except for With Teeth, which is due in December). In days gone by, I could have knocked them out, no problem. But these are not days gone by, for this is not the Summer of my years anymore. I turned forty-four two weeks after my heart attack. On my father's side of the family (whom I take after genetically) sixty-five to seventy is a good age to die. Factor in my lifestyle these last thirty years or so, and I figure I've got twenty-five years left, tops. Think mid-life crises are a bitch? Think standing around mulling over the eventual possibility of dying sucks? My friend, you don't know shit. Because when death suddenly comes knocking unexpectedly, you take stock of things. You do the math, and you realize that you have entered the Autumn of your life without even knowing it, and then you realize just how little amount of finite time you have left.

And you slow the fuck down.

It's not like I want to slow down. Believe me, I don't. I've got more story ideas now than I've ever had, and for the first time in my life, it's starting to dawn on me that I will most certainly not live long enough to write them all down for you. But I intend to try.

Autumn is a slow season.

But take the heart attack out of the equation for a moment. Let's look at cold, hard numbers instead. In previous years, I had the luxury of writing for 10 to 12 hours a day, five days a week. Here is the schedule I've had for the last year. Monday through Thursday, I have my youngest son from approximately 8am until approximately 6:30pm. Now, I can play on Twitter during those hours, in-between Play-Doh and making him lunch and potty training and Matchbox cars. But it's impossible to write during that time, nor would I. It would be unfair to him. My time with him is my time with him, and I refuse to spend that time lost in my own head, working on a novel. So… when he goes home, I eat a quick dinner from 6:30pm until 7:00pm. Then I go to work. Except that "work" isn't just writing the next book. It involves answering email (of which I average 120 to 200 PER DAY), looking over contracts, mailing things, etc. — and before this past summer also involved dealing with things like Dorchester. I work from 7:00pm until 11:00pm, but I only write for maybe 3 of those 4 hours. I call Mary at 11, and go to bed by 11:30. Then I get up at 6:30am the next morning and do it all over again.

So, that gives me 12 hours of writing time per week, depending on email volume, etc. Do that math. I went from 50 hours a week to 12 hours a week. Friday — my one day off — is sometimes spent writing, but is also spent cleaning the house, buying groceries, and doing all the other things we have to do in life. Saturday and Sunday are set aside for Mary, and my parents, and my oldest son, and Mary's son, and my friends. Especially since the heart attack.

One other thing I've been doing a lot of since April is mentoring. The authors who were always there for my generation — mentors like Joe Lansdale, Jack Ketchum, F. Paul Wilson, John Skipp, Ed Gorman, Ray Garton, David Schow, Tom Monteleone, Chet Williamson, etc. — are the genre's elder statesmen now (and I say that with nothing but respect and honor). And writers like myself, J.F. Gonzalez, Tim Lebbon, Chris Golden, Jim Moore, Tom Piccirilli, Weston Ochse, etc? We're the veterans now. This was explained to me several times this summer by several of my mentors, and I wasn't the only one of my generation who was given this speech. Somewhere between our fifth and sixth beers, we became veterans, and it's time for us to start paying forward for this next generation the way those guys did for us. And we have been. Believe me, we have. And that, too, takes time out of an already busy schedule, but it so very worth it.   

So yeah, I can see how it looks like I'm apathetic lately. I can see why folks might think I no longer care. I'm late on my deadlines and the newsletter is being folded into a book and I closed down the Keenedom and I don't talk to people on Facebook anymore and the Lifetimer packages have been a few months apart, but do the math. Do the math…

The fact is, I'm still here. No, maybe we don't talk as much as we used to, you and I. Maybe I've seemed more distant. And I'm sorry for that. But rest assured, I am still here. I'm just busy trying to be a father and a fiancee and a friend and a son and a brother and a mentor. But I am still here, and just because we don't talk as much, that doesn't mean I'm not listening.

And you're still listening, as well. Thank you for that. Thank you for your patience and support these last few years. It means a lot. I'm making the best of those 12 hours a week. I'm getting caught up. Deluge is finished. Clickers vs. Zombies is finished. Hollow Inside turned into The Lost Level. The others are coming along, and in various stages of completion. And I think they will be worth the wait.

It ain't Winter yet, and Autumn is a nice time of year.

Hail Saten…

This Week's Links

1. Fearnet on the rise of Deadite Press and what it means for the genre and bookselling in general.

2. As I predicted years ago, Amazon.com gets into the publishing game.

3. Genre-oriented indie bookstore Dreamhaven closes.

4. Mike Oliveri's publisher giving 10 copies of Winter Kill away to Goodreads members.

5. Why #OccupyWriters is running slow.

6. Mike Argento's uproarious first novel is all my fault.