Brian Keene's Blog, page 184

In The Words of Billy Joel…

…working too hard can give you a heart attack, ack ack ack ack. You oughta know by now.

And if you follow me on Twitter, then you know that's what happened to me last Friday. According to my doctor, had I not been in good shape, and had I not swallowed three aspirin before going to the hospital, it would have been much worse.

The aftermath is easy enough to deal with. Medicine, more strenuous exercise, and a stricter diet. Less booze. No more cigars, 24 hour writing marathons or worrying about deadlines. Most importantly, less stress.

But while the aftermath is easy to deal with, as I lay in the hospital, I worried about all kinds of things. If I died, had I told my sons I loved them enough times? Had I told my friends and the rest of my family the same? Did my cat and my hermit crabs have food, or would they starve to death before somebody found them?

The one thing I didn't worry about was my literary estate, and what would happen to my rights or my work after I was gone. I wrote about this here back in 2008, and linked to this Blog entry by Neil Gaiman. It remains the most vital and important piece of writing advice I know, so I'm linking to it again today. If you are a writer, you need some form of legal document outlining your affairs in the event of your death. It doesn't matter if you are an unpublished beginner or an old pro with forty mid-list paperback novels to your name. Set up a literary estate today.

It's very strange. Horror writers (and crime, mystery, thriller and even fantasy and science-fiction writers) spend a lot of time thinking about death, but we rarely think about our own. You never know when it will happen, or how. When I woke up Thursday morning, I certainly wasn't thinking about it. The only things I was thinking about were playing with my youngest son, finishing John Hornor Jacob's wonderful debut novel, Southern Gods, and doing some writing that evening. Then… BAM. Luckily, I'm still here. But it could have easily turned out differently, and if that had happened, my estate is in order. I know who the rights and copyrights get assigned to, who oversees the publication of my work and processing of payments, who makes sure that the money goes to my sons, etc. You should too, regardless of where you are at in your career. So, again, read this Blog entry by Neil. Follow the link he posts in it. And take a moment to get your affairs in order.

Paranoia, Proteges, and Pinheads

CLICKERS VS. ZOMBIES

The Word Zombie has a new interview with my dear protege, Kelli Owen, who has most-certainly stepped out of her big brother's shadow and become quite an accomplished writer with a rabid and growing fan base over the last year. Among the highlights, Kelli says: "Stephen King doesn't do cons, JK Rowling can't go out in public, and Brian Keene is paranoid and un-trusting of almost everyone." And she's right, of course…

THE LOST LEVEL

Meanwhile, many of you have heard me rave (on panels and in interviews) about protege Nate Southard's Just Like Hell. I've called it "this generation's The Girl Next Door" and many critics have agreed with me. It has the same gravitas that Ketchum's seminal classic had when it was first released. I'm happy to say that Just Like Hell is now available in paperback from Deadite Press. Click here to order a copy, and prepare to be blown away.

BINKY

Turning from paranoia and proteges to pinheads, Newsarama reports that Ed Kramer has been arrested again for violating his parole, after being found sharing a motel room with a 14-year old boy. We covered the original Kramer case in detail back when I was the editor of Jobs In Hell. Indeed, that was our first big, in-depth, multi-part story, and it earned us jeers and hate mail from many of our "peers" who made excuses for Kramer. It's worth noting that none of those people are speaking up today.

Finally, if you can read Italian, Horror It has a nice write-up on the upcoming film adaptation of my novel Castaways.

As you can see from the Fuck Around Quotient Meters above, progress has been made this week on all three books. I go back to work now. Have a good weekend.

Digging up GHOUL (Part 3)

So far, we've looked at deleted scenes from the novel (one of which made it back into the film) and the book's original synopsis (which differed from the final version). Today, we look at my inspiration for the novel and how I prepared myself for writing it. This essay first appeared in the now out-of-print The New Fear.

OLD GHOSTS, NEW BOOK

Recently, while sitting on the toilet reading Papillion, I remembered that I have a book due to Leisure at the end of January—Ghoul. Upon realizing this, I thought, "Shit, that's less than two months away. I suppose I'd better start writing it." Then I flushed and got to work.

Ghoul is my love letter to late-70's/early-80's horror, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. If, as a kid, you thought Phantasm was the greatest movie ever, Amityville Horror was the scariest book ever written, and Marvel's Steve Gerber was the better than Jesus, then this book will be for you.

But a novel has to be more than that. It can't just be wink-wink, nudge-nudge. It has to have heart. Without heart, you're just phoning it in. Without heart, Terminal would have been just another bank robbery novel and The Rising would have been a book about a zombie goldfish and not much else.

Usually, I get my heart from past experiences. Usually bad ones. I call them ghosts.

I grew up across from a cemetery. The graveyard was our playground, and served as everything from the Death Star to a World War II battlefield. We had a clubhouse there, built over one long summer. A hole in the ground, deep enough for us to stand up in and wide enough to put a card table and four chairs inside; covered with planks (which we then covered with sod), and a trapdoor to let us get in an out. It was filled with the kind of treasures common to any twelve-year-old boy's fort: comic books, Hustler magazines, and junk food. We called it The Dugout, and it sat right at the edge of the cemetery.

Right at the edge of our known world…

I knew that Ghoul was going to take place in that cemetery. It says so in the synopsis I used to sell the book to Leisure: "Timmy and his friends all live next to the Lutheran Cemetery."

The problem was this—my memories of that time were happy ones. There were no ghosts. Maybe my memory had dimmed with time, or maybe I was just happier then. But when I searched my mind—no ghosts.

Earlier this week, I took a drive out to my parent's house. This wasn't a friendly visit. I was working, and as such, I went armed with:

Toshiba satellite laptop

RCA digital voice recorder

Leather Jacket (because it's cold outside)

Nicotine and other Mind-Altering Drugs

Shovel

My parents weren't home, but that was okay. To be honest, I preferred it that way. Visiting with my folks is always fun, but it wasn't their son pulling into the driveway that morning. It was the Magus. And the Magus couldn't be bothered to explain this wasn't a social call or to explain that yes, he was actually writing, even if it didn't look that way. Most importantly, even at age thirty-six, I'd still feel funny about taking mind-altering drugs in the presence of my parents.

And take them I did, right there in the driveway. Washed them down with a sip from my Knob Creek flask.

(Don't follow my example, kids. It's too late for me, but you can turn out differently. Avoid things like nicotine and drugs, and stay in school. If you do, I promise that I'll write you another zombie novel).

The medicine kicked in. Mood properly altered, I went walkabout.

With the recorder in one hand and the shovel slung over my shoulder, I tromped through frozen fields and winter woods and each step was a walk through memory. I rambled into the recorder; a stream-of-consciousness tour through childhood, haphazard notes and musings that, hopefully, could later be shaped into something usable.

"We used to name the cows in this field. My sister always named her things like Snowball and Cupcake. I always named mine things like Mephisto and Beezlebub. The ones I named always died. I used to hide things inside this hollow tree trunk; Matchbox cars and marbles, money and plastic dinosaurs. The tree trunk is gone now, along with my possessions. Here was where we shot the dove with our B.B. guns, and felt bad for days afterward. There was where we built a little house for the neighborhood's stray cat, Maguire, who all of the local kids collectively adopted. We used to sneak table scraps off our plates and bring them to him, because nobody's parents would let them have another cat."

I crossed over into the cemetery. The old wrought-iron gates still stood. Back in the day, they were the door's to a medieval fortress, the blast doors on the Death Star, a pirate ship, Doctor Doom's hideout, a prison for bank robbers, and the safe base for many games of tag and hide-n-seek.

I said into the recorder, "The cemetery has little pathways running through, barely wide enough for one car. We used to race down these on skateboards and BMX bikes. I learned to ride my bike here. So did all the other kids in the neighborhood."

I heard the sound of children laughing. It came to me on the wind, which should have been cold and bitter, but somehow seemed warm, as if fueled by my memories. Or maybe that was just the drugs talking. I don't know and I don't care.

I stopped and smiled.

I put the shovel in the hard, frozen ground and began to dig.

A man strolled by, walking his dog. I nodded politely. He nodded back. The look on his face asked, "Who is this person out here digging around in the cemetery and should I call the police?

I grinned, trying to make friends with the dog and silently wishing the man would go away, because he was disturbing the spell. The man continued staring at me. I did not know him, but he knew me. You could see the recognition suddenly sweep across his face.

"Aren't you the Keene boy? The one what wrote them books?"

"Yes sir, I am."

"You out here to visit your parents?"

"Not today. Actually, I'm writing."

"Don't you need paper for that?"

I held up the digital voice recorder, which was still running. "It's all in here."

He frowned. "What you digging for?"

"Ghosts."

His frown deepened. He bid me farewell and hurried the dog along. I'm sure my parents will get a phone call later.

I returned to the job at hand. Didn't take me long. A few thrusts of the shovel and the blade struck something hard. On hands and knees, I brushed the soil out of the way and found a wooden plank. After all these years, it was still there. Our clubhouse… buried amongst the ghosts. A little worse for the wear. Falling apart, crumbling with age. But still there.

And then I remembered.

I remembered a kid who slept with a butcher knife under their pillow and locked their bedroom door from the inside. All the other kids knew it was going on. They just didn't talk about it. Another kid always had bruises and scrapes. Fell a lot, was the explanation offered. But all the other kids knew. They just didn't talk about it. A third kid had freedom, at least from all the other kids' perspective. Yet deep down inside, they knew this kid was able to come and go because their mother never noticed they were missing. All the other kids knew. They just didn't talk about it. And there was another kid, one with a pretty decent home life, who was a natural-born storyteller. He was driven by the other children's demons, even at that early age. All the other kids knew it. They just didn't talk about it.

And he'd forgotten about it. Blocked it from his mind when he grew up.

Sometimes, violence and fear are our heritage, passed down to us by our parents. The sound of children laughing often sounds like screaming. The happiest days of our lives are nothing more than a defense mechanism. Who are the real monsters? The ones under the bed, or the ones in charge of the world?

I knew, now. I remembered. I'd gone out to the cemetery and found new old ghosts. It was time to talk about them. I returned to the car, got the laptop, walked back to the cemetery, sat down on a tombstone, and wrote the first three chapters of Ghoul.

I'll let you see it when I'm finished.

Digging up GHOUL (Part 2)

Yesterday, I posted the original pitch synopsis for my novel Ghoul. Readers noticed that there were a lot of differences between the original pitch and the published novel. Today, I offer three deleted scenes — segments cut from the book during the re-write phase, along with a note on each:

DEB LENTZ MEETS CLARK SMELTZER

This scene took place at the beginning of Chapter Seven. This scene never made it past the first draft, so the writing is a bit rough and unpolished. I cut it from the second draft because I thought the chapter was more effective if Deb wasn't revealed until the end. Interestingly enough, while it wouldn't have worked in the book, screenwriter William Miller found a way to make it work effectively in the movie, for which I am happy because its one of Dane Rhodes' (who plays Clark) best scenes. And let me tell you right now, as good as the cast is — and believe me, every single one of them is amazing — Dane's portrayal of Clark will simultaneously give you goosebumps and break your heart.

For the first time in a long time, Deb Lentz felt happy. Content. She'd just gotten done working second shift at the Hanover shoe factory, and the extra overtime would really help with next week's bills. During her lunch break, Marty Thoman had asked her out. Deb had been interested in him ever since he'd started at the factory three months ago. He was divorced, just like her, and had no children, just like her as well. And he was cute. He reminded her of Rick Springfield.

Extra money and a date on Friday night. All was right with her world. She turned up the radio and sang along with Spandau Ballet.

She paid attention to the woods, watching for deer eyes reflected in her headlights. This stretch of road was notorious for deer jumping out in front of vehicles. She considered turning on her high beams, but decided against it. She didn't want to risk blinding any oncoming traffic.

"I know this much is… true."

Deb's mood soured a few miles past the Porter's sawmill. Spandau Ballet died in her throat as the car suddenly lurched to one side. The steering wheel spun in her grip and the car swerved off the road.

Shaken, she caught her breath and made sure she was okay. Then, with one trembling hand, she opened the door and stepped outside. Her rear tire was flat.

"Oh shit."

There was no spare tire in the trunk. This far out, there were no houses or places where she could call for help. The road was deserted. Deep pine forest lined both sides of the road. The closest structure was the Porters sawmill, but it was closed at night. Nobody would be there to let her use the phone. She ran a hand through her hair and kicked the tire in frustration. The next closest place that she knew of was the Whistle Stop bar, five miles down the road.

Deb got her purse out of the car and locked the doors. Then she started walking. Before she'd gone a dozen steps, headlights appeared over the hill.

"Awesome!"

She flagged the passing car down. The driver slowed, and then pulled over to the side, parking in front of her car. A man stepped out.

"Thanks," Deb said, walking towards him. "I'm really glad you stopped. I've got a flat tire. Can you give me a ride to the nearest phone?"

"Sure. I'd be glad to."

Clark Smeltzer smiled reassuringly. His teeth flashed in the darkness.

KAREN MEETS THE GHOUL

This scene (in the Ghoul's warren) originally took place between chapters one and two. I cut it because I felt that it revealed the Ghoul too soon, and because it messed up the pace I was going for at the beginning of the book. Again, since it never made it past the first draft, the writing is a little rough and choppy.

The first thing Karen was aware of was the coolness on her skin. Her back rested against a hard, damp surface. The second thing she was aware of was that her clothes were missing. How else could she feel whatever it was she was leaning against?

Karen opened her eyes and screamed. The noise sounded very small in the silence.

She was underground. A cave, perhaps? No, that couldn't be right. There were no stalactites or stalagmites. Her panicked brain tried to remember which one was which, because thinking about that meant she didn't have to think about what had actually happened in the graveyard.

Karen resisted the urge to scream again. That wouldn't help her. What she needed to do was keep her wits about her and figure things out. She had to stay calm—had to hold out until Pat found her. He was probably looking for her right now.

Then she remembered what had happened to him.

Shuddering, Karen choked down a sob.

She was in a large, roughly circular underground chamber. The dirt floor was littered with bones. The ceiling was high above her head, and roots dangled down from the top of it. Her hands and feet were bound with more roots and vines, looped around a large log. Beneath her was a pile of straw and grass. The entire space glowed with a pale, white light. There was some kind of slime on the walls. It glowed like the inside of a lightning bug. The air was thick; it smelled of mildew and rot and something else…

…what they'd smelled before…

…before Pat…

Karen screamed again, and this time, her screams were answered.

Grunting, her captor lumbered into view. It wasn't human. It had long arms that dangled below its waist and oversized hands with curved talons. Slime dripped from its pores. The creature was entirely hairless. Its head was pointed, almost cone-shaped. Yellow eyes peered at her. When the monster smiled, she saw a mouth full of sharp teeth. But worse than all of that was what the thing had between its legs.

Karen's screams grew louder when it fell on her.

DOUG VERSUS CATCHER, ROUND ONE

This scene took place at the beginning of Chapter Five. I cut it because it didn't flow with the rest of the chapter. Again, this never made it past the first draft, so the writing is a bit rough.

Doug knew not to slow down. The only way to get past Catcher was to pedal like crazy, building up speed before reaching his territory and then flying past before he could reach you. If you slowed down, if your foot slipped off the pedal, if you hit a stone in the road—that was it.

In the distance he spotted the Sawyer's farm. A grain silo and the top of a red barn jutted above the rolling hilltops. A narrow, winding lane led from the farmhouse to the road. Doug's pulse sped up and his mouth went dry.

He pedaled faster. The bike's tires hummed on the asphalt.

"Please," Doug whispered. "Please don't let him come out. Just this once."

If God heard him, then his prayers went unanswered. Within seconds, Doug heard an all-too familiar snarling. A flash of black fur appeared at the end of the lane and sped towards him. Doug screamed.

Catcher rocketed out of the lane and raced along behind him. His hackles were raised. White, foamy spittle dripped from his jowls. His lips pulled back, revealing sharp teeth. Whimpering, Doug hunched over the handlebars and pedaled faster. His breath burned in his lungs. Catcher snapped at his ankles. Doug couldn't kick him. If he did, his speed would decrease or Catcher would latch onto his pants cuff.

"Get away from me," he shouted. "Leave me alone!"

Catcher barked furiously. Doug reached the hill and flew down it. The dog fell behind, then slowed, and finally turned around and loped back home.

When Doug reached the bottom of the hill, he stopped. Gasping for breath, he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"I hate that dog," he muttered. "I wish he was dead."

Digging up GHOUL (Part 1)

As per the previous entry, things will be quiet around here as I finish three books (Clickers vs. Zombies, The Lost Level, and Binky), thus clearing the way for three more books (Hole In the World, With Teeth, and Suburban Gothic). This may impact Deluge, as well. In the interim, while preparing the manuscript for the Deadite Press edition of Ghoul, I discovered a bunch of material that I thought might interest you, including deleted scenes that never made it into the finished book. Some of this material previously appeared in the Lettered Edition of Ghoul. Some of it didn't. Over the next few days, I'll post it all here for your enjoyment. Meanwhile, don't forget to support the upcoming film version of Ghoul on Twitter and Facebook.

First up, here is the original pitch synopsis I submitted to Delirium Books and Leisure/Dorchester (who published the hardcover and paperback respectively). As you'll see, the published version of Ghoul turned out very different than its original inception. Some of these changes were editorial requests, while others just didn't pan out.

GHOULS by Brian Keene

The year is 1984. On the first day of summer vacation, the possibilities seem endless for thirteen-year old Timmy Graco, and his friends Barry and Doug. There is a lot to do in their small Pennsylvania town. Miles of forest to be explored, bike rides down to the newsstand to buy their weekly fix of comic books, fishing at the local pond, camping out and telling ghost stories—and especially hanging out in their clubhouse, known as the dugout.

Timmy and his friends all live next to the Lutheran Cemetery, of which Barry's abusive, alcoholic father is the caretaker. The cemetery's surrounded with woodlands and fields, and this is where the boys spend the majority of their days. Their clubhouse also borders the cemetery—a dugout that they spent the previous summer constructing. It's a seven-foot deep hole, covered with wooden planks and sod, with a trapdoor. Inside, they sit around, smoke cigarettes stolen from Barry's father, and read comic books and Playboy.

But when Timmy's beloved grandfather dies, his summer vacation becomes a nightmare. His grandfather is buried in the cemetery. The night after the funeral, Timmy has a dream in which his grandfather comes to visit. The old man is standing outside Timmy's bedroom window. When Timmy refuses to let him in, and wakes up his parents, his grandfather vanishes. Timmy chalks it up to a nightmare.

The next day, his grandfather's grave begins to sink. Timmy, Barry, and Doug make a shocking discovery. Something has tunneled beneath the earth and consumed his grandfather's corpse. They alert their parents. Barry's father is angry with them for doing this, as he feels it makes him look bad as caretaker.

Soon, other graves are vandalized in the same way. Something is eating the dead, and looting their graves of jewelry and other mementos they were buried with. Then, Doug disappears while inside the clubhouse. Something tunneled inside it as well. That night, Doug appears to both Timmy and Barry, just as Timmy's grandfather did.

The local police seem stumped, unable to find the culprits, the missing bodies, or Doug's abductor. Timmy and Barry sneak out at night and creep into the cemetery, intent on solving the mystery, and finding their friend. Between research materials consisting of old comic books, and a midnight excursion into the cemetery, they find out just what the menace is: a ghoul, trapped for over two-hundred years inside an old vault, and now freed. The ghoul is able to briefly take the form of its victims, after eating their brains and heart, and it is building a den deep beneath the graveyard.

Nobody believes them, and the ghoul claims more victims, both living and dead. Finally, Timmy and Barry decide to tackle the creature themselves. The ghoul can only be killed by direct exposure to sunlight. Nothing else works on it (unlike vampires). The boys hijack Barry's father's backhoe (used to dig graves) and begin digging up the tunnels. But when the backhoe itself falls into the labyrinth below, Timmy and Barry are trapped in the tunnels beneath the cemetery, and face off against the monster in its lair, which is filled with the loot from the graves. They also discover that the ghoul isn't the only monster. Barry's Dad has kept silent about its existence, in exchange for the occasional trinket or jewelry that the ghoul tosses his way.

One of the women (Karen) that the ghoul abducted has been kept alive in its lair, for breeding purposes. When they free the pregnant captive and flee with her, the enraged ghoul gives chase, desperate to save its progeny. They trick it into chasing them into the sunlight, and Barry's father redeems himself by collapsing the tunnel behind them, thus trapping the ghoul on the surface. Barry's father's sacrifice is successful, and the ghoul is destroyed.

Epilogue: Nine months later, the woman gives birth to a ghoul… if the book is successful, there's the possibility of a sequel.

Word Counts

Emerging from the devastation caused by Tropical Storm Lee, I wrote you a new chapter of Deluge. Now I'm disappearing for the next five days (except for the occasional Tweet) to work on:

CLICKERS VS. ZOMBIES

THE LOST LEVEL

BINKY 

In five days, The Lost Level and Clickers vs. Zombies will be finished, and Binky's first draft will be completed. And then I will collapse into an exhausted, twitching fugue state…

DELUGE (Part 84)

They sailed on, and over the next few days, the mood of everyone aboard the ship became even tenser and more paranoid. On the first night, only a few hours after Simon and Novak lured the crew of Locke's ark into a trap, Henry snuck onto the bridge and tried to radio the vessel while Novak and Simon were asleep. Mylon stopped him before he could warn the survivors. In the ensuing scuffle, the radio was smashed beyond repair, as were the older man's two front teeth. After that, Henry and Gail began spending most of their waking hours apart from the others. Novak insisted they not stand guard together, suspecting that the two of them might try to attempt further mischief if given the chance. Gail was assigned a shift with Novak. Henry stood watch with Caterina. When Sarah tried to talk to the teen and explain her reasoning, Henry rebuffed her. He grew sullen, and began spending most of his time sleeping in his rack, when not on watch.

The rest of the crew pulled away from each other, as well. Sarah noticed that the decision had effected Gail and Novak's friendship in much the same manner as it had impacted her and Henry's. They seemed to avoid each other whenever possible. Caterina and Mylon stood their watches without talking to each other, or anyone else. What few meals the group ate together were uncomfortable and silent. Even small talk seemed forced and futile.

Simon kept entirely to himself, explaining that he needed to fast and meditate before arriving at their destination. He sequestered himself in the ship's aft section, demanding absolute privacy. He took no meals, and as far as Sarah could tell, didn't even emerge for water or a bathroom break.

And all along, the rain continued to fall.

Standing watch the third day, Sarah noticed how most of the debris had disappeared from the water's surface. She'd grown used to seeing cars, trees, corpses, and even entire buildings floating in the grayish-black surf. It had been especially bad in Baltimore. Now, all of that was gone, melted away by the white fuzz. She wondered if it was growing on the ship's hull, and if so, how long they had before the boat dissolved, as well.

Before the radio had been destroyed during Mylon and Henry's altercation, they had received a faint signal from Drammen, Norway. The broadcaster's English had been good enough for them to understand that he was reporting a series of earthquakes. He had insisted the mountains in his region were melting. The crew hadn't discussed it much, other than the fact that if an earthquake triggered a tsunami in their region, there was no way Novak's boat would survive it.

Sarah thought about that radio call now as she stared out at the sea. They were sailing right over the Appalachian mountains. There should have been peaks sticking out of the water—lonely, scarred mountaintops, perhaps hosting survivors as Bald Knob had hosted her, Kevin, and Henry. Instead, there was nothing.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat behind her. Sarah turned to find Novak. Rain dripped from the hood of his jacket.

"We're here."

"We are?"

He nodded. "At the coordinates Simon gave me. Although I've gotta be honest. It doesn't look much like Pennsylvania to me."

It took her a moment to realize that he was making a joke. When she did, Sarah smiled.

"I'm going to let Simon know. I've sent Mylon to wake the others. You okay on watch by yourself for a minute?"

Sarah was about to respond when a hatch squeaked open and banged against the bulkhead. A rain-coated figure stepped through the door.

"I already know," Simon said, throwing back his hood. "I sensed our impending arrival a little while ago. You can be sure that others have, as well."

"What kind of others?" Novak asked.

Before Simon could answer, all three of them heard voices carrying across the waves.

Female voices.

Singing.

Why I'm Not Answering Your Emails & Calls

Last week, Hurricane Irene stopped by for a visit, and was kind enough to pose for pictures. This week, Tropical Storm Lee did the same, and this time, the damage and devastation were much worse. 

Dark Dreams, Pale Horses

[image error]Dark Dreams, Pale Horses is a new collection by Rio Youers. It features an introduction by me, and is one of the best books I've read this year. Published by PS Publishing, Dark Dreams, Pale Horses is available in two editions: a limited edition hardcover (signed by both of us) for £24.99 and an unsigned trade hardcover for £11.99.

Click here to order the signed hardcover.

Click here to order the unsigned hardcover.

With Friends Like These…

Me and Ken Foree

Last month, Mary and I were the victims of the annual NECON Roast, in which a number of our friends and peers such as F. Paul Wilson, Christopher Golden, John Skipp, Rio Youers, James A. Moore and many others beat the living shit out of us for an hour. You can read all about it here.

Apparently, that wasn't good enough. I'd been told by Horrorfind's Mike and Karen Roden that I was to receive a special literary award at this weekend's convention to honor my 13 years of service to the convention. I prepared by writing a heartfelt speech about the Roden clan and all the authors and fans who have attended Horrorfind, and what they all meant to me.

Me and Tim Lebbon

It was wonderful and would have left a lump in many throats. Unfortunately, I never go to use it, because I got fucking ambushed. When Mary and I arrived at the ceremony Saturday night, I learned that instead of receiving an award, I was getting roasted again, this time by friends and peers who were unable to make NECON. These thugs included Jeff Heimbuch, Joe and Kasey Lansdale, Kelli Owen, Tim Lebbon, J. F. Gonzalez, Andrew Van Den Houten, Meteornotes, and many others. It is worth noting that John Skipp participated in BOTH roasts. Video of his Horrorfind contribution can be found below.

Kelli Owen, J.F. Gonzalez, Mary SanGiovanni

It is also worth noting that Ken Foree, star of everything from Dawn of the Dead to The Devil's Rejects, was supposed to participate but got waylaid with other convention obligations, and roasted me the next morning to the delight of the folks in line at our signing tables.

Mark 'Dezm' Sylva, Mary, Me

It's always great to see friends, both old and new, but the best part off the con is seeing all of you, the folks who read my books. Thanks so much for the kind words, enthusiastic questions, and support (as well as cigars, whiskey, cartoons, cookies, brownies, books, and other gifts). I never get enough time to spend with any of you as much as I'd like, but I hope that in the few moments you have at the table, that I made it as enjoyable for you as you do for me.

In other news, the GHOUL movie now has an official Twitter page to go with its official Facebook page. The CASTAWAYS movie also has an official Twitter page and an official Facebook page. CASTAWAYS will be back in print in just a few short weeks. GHOUL will be back in print (and also available in audio) next month.

And now… John Skipp