Edward Lorn's Blog, page 113

Dichotomy

Why do you smile when I look at you? What have I done to garner such a wondrous sight? Do you not realize that I’ve failed you?

I remember when the sight of you sent me to tears. That you should return my blatant disregard for your feelings with such joyous amusement, terrifies me. What do I have if not darkness in my heart and hatred in my head? Love? Such a foolish commodity. Affection is bought and sold with gold smelt from the ore of loneliness. We give expecting to receive. I will not be your emotional pawnbroker.

Tread safely away and I will calm my deprecations. You do not want me; nor I, you. We’re only here to exist. Coexistence is not my modus operandi.

You tell me everything will be all right, but you lie. How can you know such things? How can I believe you when I do not believe in myself? How are you any different than I? That’s just it, you fool, we’re the same. Loving me would be akin to lusting after air.

I dredge up this reasoning because you seem so thoroughly pleased with everything we’ve accomplished. You seem so happy. But what is mirth but advent sadness. Glee is a chemical limbo, a way station between nirvana and suffering. You have no right to be euphoric, as I have no need for the feeling.

You’re a testament to the shortcomings of humanity. So focused on the now that you refuse to see what lays just ahead of you. There is no constant up, for everything eventually comes down. I can promise you this, though. When you finally trip and come sliding back down to where I reside, I will make sure that I say, “I told you so.”

So what right, Mirror, do you have to smile? You’re nothing more than glass, an optical illusion distorting the present, making it seem like now is now when now was actually just then. You make me sick with your pleasant eyes and your upturned mouth. You truly believe this can last? Answer me!

“Yes. Yes I do.”

Open Submission - Bellows of the Bone Box

Reblogged from The Sirens Song:

Steampunk Horror at it’s finest!

Travel to a world where steam power is widely used, and weave a tale where Steampunk horror rules the night.

Tell a tale of imagination, fascination and horror that will keep the reader enthralled by what was or might have been in an age dominated by clockworks of brass, pneumatic tubes, airships with ether screws, and leather worn out of necessity not vanity.

Read more… 111 more words

Siren's Call at it again. This one has piqued my interest...

Ruminating On: Inspiration

Plenty of things inspire me, as do many places, but the noun we are focusing on today is people. If you know you have inspired me, yet do not find yourself on this short list, let your knowledge remain sound and know that I do appreciate you. This is a present-tense list. The past and future have either been mentioned or will be ruminated on at a later date. We shall proceed person by person, giving credit where credit is due, as we discuss the beauty of some and the strengths of others. Please click on each person’s respective names to find their online presence. And away we go…

Aniko Carmean: I have run into many souls doing blog tours where I either guest post or answer questions ala interview. Aniko Carmean was brought to my attention during the first Dastardly Bastard virtual tour. She read and reviewed the book, gave her honest assessment of the piece and that should’ve been that. But it was later, in the comments, when I realized her blog wasn’t just a one-stop venue. She responded to the people who commented, myself included, with a personable attitude bereft of pretense. Aniko was talking to us, not just popping in to thank people for their comments, but spurring conversation. That is what first attracted me to her; that out-going personality. What I found later was a blog filled with amazing writing, quirky thought processes and sensible advice for the working author. Just recently I picked up her debut novel, Stolen Climates, because I finally found the time to read something new. I started the novel not because she was kind enough to spend time with my book, but because her writing piques my interest. I like the way she says things. When I finish Stolen Climates, I will review it. Once again, not because she reviewed me, but because I’m impressed so far with what I have read. And when I’m impressed, I tend to make it known. Aniko is a lovely person, kind and honest, but she is also very human. You see this in the posts she adds to her blogs. She’s open about her fears and her self-stated shortcomings, her strengths and weaknesses. Most recently she admitted she needed help, so she sought it out. Not many of us are that open in a public environment. It’s Aniko’s way of spotting problems and spurring actions that I commend. She is far from static, and that, above all, I appreciate.

You can purchase Aniko’s debut novel, Stolen Climates, by clicking HERE:

Jo-Anne Teal: Any of you that follow my blog should know this lady. If not, I feel sorry for you. Jo-Anne is a constant cheerleader, a staunch supporter of the written word and those that pen it. She writes herself, and is not to be missed or ignored. Though I do not comment often, I always jump over to see what she’s up to. Whether or not that’s a shock to her, I do not know, but without sounding too creepy, I am always watching. Jo-Anne, I met through KD Rush, or vice versa—not really sure who instigated our contact, but I’m thankful it happened all the same. I’ve come to say, “Any friend of Jo-Anne Teal’s is a friend of mine,” mostly because I’ve never seen her associate with lame-brains or internet trolls. If she ever does find herself in the company of said individuals, I’m sure she is respectful, as I have never seen her post an ill comment or rage about anything. She’s a constant light when traversing these dark interwebs; a needed source of ambiance in a world bereft of smiles. Jo-Anne supports many of us, indies and small press authors alike, and the list continues to grow. She gains nothing from knowing me, or supporting me, other than whatever personal highs she reaches by supporting a bunch of authors trying to make headway in a sea of storytellers vying for affection and attention. She’s selfless, never requiring anything from the people she heralds. Not once has she asked me for a favor, or anything even remotely close to one. All I have to do is open my Twitter account every few days to find a little slice of joy. In a world where we are so apt to complain about the bad, but negate to shout the good from our soap-boxes, I beseech you, know this woman. You will be a better person just by association.

So, in summation, these two women inspire me. One is a bastion of hope, a screaming meme focused on the good that is left inside the human race. The other is a fellow writer trying to figure out this business with the help of those around her. I have known many good women in my time, but these ladies deserve a little something extra. If they didn’t know how I felt before, I hope they do now.

Thank you both for being you.

E.                                               

A Review of “Dissolute Kinship: A 9/11 Road Trip” by David Antrobus

For the most part, I read to be entertained. I normally don’t enjoy nonfiction memoirs. My escapes into literature are normally just that; escapes, so when I picked up David Antrobus’s short story, “Dissolute Kinship: A 9/11 Road Trip,” I did so understanding two things: harsh memories would be dredged up and someone else’s emotions would become my own. What I did not expect to find was a sudden admiration for an author that, in my honest opinion, makes my own writing look banal in comparison.

I do these reviews not to help sell other author’s works, but to dissect what they have done right or wrong. I am a self-trained storyteller; literature is my classroom. With David Antrobus, I have learned that there is beauty in the mundane. My favorite bit from the story has David likening a cloud of smoke to a head of a cauliflower. Simple, beautiful, striking. You see exactly what he means without him having to go into great detail. That might seem like a small thing to everyone else, but to me, it’s my life’s blood.

I enjoyed the story as much as I could, seeing as it’s not a light-hearted journey. What I saw was a man coming blindly into a terrible situation. There was no one to fight, no place-holder to attack, nothing but an overwhelming since of sadness and empathy for those around him. At that moment, David seemed to look within and without with equal curiosity. So often I read stories from only one point of view—the author describing in glorious detail what’s happening inside, inside, inside, forgetting for a moment that the real world is still going on around them. David doesn’t do this. He examines his own feelings as well as the emotions emanating from those he comes in contact with. I applaud his efforts, for he succeeds page after page.

David Antrobus has a way with syntax. You can tell he is a well-read, intelligent individual that could crush you with his vocabulary given the chance, yet he dribbles instead of spews. He brings out the big guns only when their effect is desirable and doesn’t beat you about the head with verbose meanderings. Having an extensive lexicon and knowing when to use it is a gift in my eyes. David, you, sir, are gifted.

This is the first piece from David I have read—other than his online presence—and it will not be my last. Thank you for sharing your travels. They were well received.

Five Stars

E.

Ruminating On: Empathy

Depression is a contagious thing. If you are human (and by reading this I only assume that you are) empathy comes fully loaded in your make and model. Some people can opt out of their programming, but that takes practice and hard work. I have a saying that goes like this: There are three types of people, six if you split the genders. With women, you have your good ones, then your bitches, followed up by kind-hearted women who allowed society to turn them into raging fem-bots. Same with men; good ones, assholes, and those driven to douchebaggery by the company they keep. For quite some time I believed once you crossed that line between caring and your give-a-damn being broken, there would be no return. My wife proved my theory wrong eleven years ago by changing an emotional cripple back into a decent person. But, recently, I found myself backpedaling, not giving a flying fornication what happened to anyone as long as my loved ones were not affected. Now, I’m back on track once again and I find myself depressed for the first time in over a decade.

The depression I speak of (because there are several kinds) comes from a deep feeling of empathy towards my fellow humans. I had a rather heated debate with a person I used to call friend, over a topic that seemed cut and dry to me—illegal immigrants being allowed medical care in the United States. I firmly believe that everyone in this country, illegal or otherwise, deserves to be helped in their time of need. If that means making them better and then shipping them back home, so be it, but we should still strive to be greater than wherever they originally came from. This ex-friend thought I was crazy. Hell, maybe I am. But, honestly, to say we should deport the sick and injured and let their own country deal with them is a wee bit screwed up. At least to me it is. I pay taxes just like the rest of you and I couldn’t care less if that money went to aid an illegal alien. After all, we’ve spent billions in taxes rebuilding other countries that we’ve laid to waste; so what’s the difference? If you don’t agree with me, there’s nothing I can do to change that. But could you seriously look a dying individual in the eyes and tell them they have to wait until they are deported to receive medical treatment? If you could, I don’t want to know you. Plain and simple. Period.

The sadness I’m going through has a lot to do with the state of humanity and what we’ve become. We try our damnedest to skirt each other on the street just so we can get home and have our intangible internet relationships. It’s so easy for us to ignore our problems when we don’t have to stare them in the face. Now, with that said, I know there are many of you that do not act this way. I have friends in healthcare and other humanitarian fields which I respect because of their selflessness. But, I see countless others debating simple issues of conscience. Should someone go hungry because they are poor? That answer should always be no. Yet, some people that receive food stamps wouldn’t offer that aid to someone outside of our country or someone here without papers. I have two former acquaintances (former because I believe in guilt-by-association and I’m not letting anyone form opinions about me based on the company I keep) that believe this way. This country has a stick up its wazoo called entitlement. This rectal probe blasts a constant stream of: “We were born here so we deserve everything and those that were not must jump through hoops to attain it.” Listen, go find a Native American and explain your eschewed logic. I hope they chase you off that little patch of land our government gave them after we stole an entire nation out from under their noses. Makes me laugh every time I see an Indian casino. In their case, I want The House to win.

Notice I have not once asked what’s wrong with the world. That’s because there’s nothing wrong with “the world,” only the people who reside in it. I have had a modicum of success by the grace of those around me. I did not reach this place on my own and I don’t intend on leaving people behind now that things have started looking better. I give back whenever I can, not because I think that I’m better than those people, but because they deserve the same life that I have come to enjoy.

This is not a political post. I’m not trying to sway anyone’s vote. I’m not a republican, nor am I a democrat. I’m a human being. I’ve done without, been homeless, slept on cold concrete and wondered where the hell my next meal was coming from. Then, when I realized it wasn’t coming, I went to sleep. You can stave off hunger pains if you can train yourself to dream that you’ve already eaten. I cannot in good conscience wish that upon anyone, or refuse to help when I see it happening. If I have the means, they will know comfort. I expect the same from the country I live in and the people enjoying the freedoms they are allowed.

I wish you all health and happiness, even those of you that would not afford it to others.

E.

A Review of The Snake Pit by Donna L. Dillon

 

This book should be required reading in schools all over the country. I would say I enjoyed The Snake Pit, but with a story like this you don’t really enjoy it as much as you experience it. I will admit I’m a little biased here, as I was bullied almost everyday of every week of every month… and so on, while I was in school, but Donna L. Dillon honed in on a tragedy that occurs so often in this topsy-turvy world. Middle-school aged children should be the target audience here, and I will make damn sure my own daughter reads this when she hits ten or eleven years old. Even though she is home schooled, she needs the lessons Donna L. Dillon provides. Kids can be cruel. I’ve heard it said, as even Donna mentions in the book, that ‘kids will be kids,’ but in this day and age it goes far beyond that.

You will read this book and liken it to Stephen King’s Carrie, I’m sure. But you must see past the similarities and read this book for what it is: the truth. Though the points of comparison are many between Carrie and The Snake Pit, the message is stronger and rings truer in Donna’s book. Even though she died at the end, Carrie had her revenge. Poor Cinda, the tortured young woman in The Snake Pit, finds a different method of dealing with the situation that mirrors what’s happening all around us today. Though the story is told through interviews with the people involved in Cinda’s life inside and outside the walls of Hargrove Junior High, and never from Cinda’s POV, we become attached to her nonetheless. By the end, I was so involved that I cried, dripping tears on my kindle in the hope that I wouldn’t have to read on; that my weeping would blur the words and I wouldn’t have to finish. Like I said, I’m a bit biased, and I took the story to heart, but I dare you to read The Snake Pit to the end and not feel broken inside by the tale you’ve been told. I guess the worst part about the whole thing is how true Donna’s fiction actually is.

My hat goes off to you, Donna. This is a tale I don’t think I could have told.

On a side note: For some reason The Snake Pit is no longer available for Kindle. It is, however, available in paperback. The book is short, round about novellette length, but the $7.99 price tag for the paperback copy is still worth it. Especially if you have kids in junior high.

No matter how I look at it, this book deserves no less than five stars. In fact, it might be the first one I’d ever consider giving a six to, if only for that added element of truth Donna squeezed into this. I’m floored, people, and that doesn’t happen often.

E.

 

 

Ruminating On: Public Image

I do very little in the way of self promotion when compared to some. In fact, the only time I really make a push on Facebook and Twitter is when I’m doing a free promotion. I post about guest blogs and interviews I’m involved with, but other than that, I pretty much just go with the flow. I do not think I am better than those that constantly plug their work. I’m just not that guy.

I’ve said more than once that I’d be perfectly happy giving my work away for free. There are several reasons for this—the main one being that I understand not everyone can afford entertainment with the way this economy is. I don’t publish my work to pay the bills, I do it because other people have bills to pay and they deserve an escape. One of the final bastions of free entertainment is your local library. If you don’t have a card, go down and get one. That place isn’t just for children. Amazon is doing amazing things with free books, but they can only offer free material for a limited time—unless, of course, you choose that loophole known as price matching. Amazon, at the end of the day, is a company that needs to make money to survive. They have been nothing but gracious to me in the past, so I choose not to set my independently published books on Smashwords for free just so Amazon will price match it. So, for those of you wondering why you can’t find any of my Indie published books on Smashwords, you now have your explanation.

I’m no saint, as many of you already know, but I would like to be remembered as an author that cared what his readers thought. Some of the opinions expressed on this blog have chased more than a few souls away and I respect their right to ignore me. But, I think I’ve come to that point in my career where I realize that my current public image could be my downfall. I’m not saying you will never hear me rant and rave ever again, only that there needs to be a little growth on my part if I am to ever reach the number of readers that I covet. I’m not ignorant enough to believe that everyone will always like me. The content in my books is abrasive and not for the faint of heart. I realize that I will offend when I don’t mean to and run people away even when I offer them sweets I deem fit for consumption.

I believe in me and I would like for you to as well. I have only just begun my creative journey. To have everyone of you join me would be an honor. I will do my best to offer you an escape from everyday life; to bring forth your tears and laughter and gasps of breath in reaction to my words seems an apt way to live out my years. But I need something from you in return. I need to know that you’re reading. I wrote long before I had any need to publish. I did it for fun, and I would like to keep it that way. I’m not talking about pats on the back or constant quotes of “E, you’re amazing!” I only wish that you would drop me a line telling me whether or not you enjoyed the story. This doesn’t have to be in review form, nor does it have to be positive. I only ask that you tell me exactly what I did wrong in your eyes. Moreover, I want to know what I did right. I want to be that author you can talk to without worrying about whether or not his head has swollen too large or his ego has become too imposing. I know everyone following this blog supports me, but I thought I would send this out to those who are maybe stumbling upon me for the first time. I’d like to make this blog a little more personal than it already is—a way for me to get to know my readers and for them to get to know me.

On a side note, even though I love reading new work, please do not send me your unpublished manuscript for review. There are legalities involved and I don’t need any trouble. Thank you for understanding.

In closing, if I ever let you down, tell me about it. If I ever leave you feeling unfulfilled after that final page, email me and let’s talk about it. I will completely understand if you say it just wasn’t your thing. I do it all the time when I read.

Well, that was quite different…

E.

 

Don't Feed the Sharks

Reblogged from Aniko Carmean:

It is both rush hour and the unofficial start of the weekend. Sluggish traffic moves in dribs and drabs of chrome and tinted window. I am in my car, and this is my third time to circle my destination.

I am bad with directions. I can’t parallel park. And I can’t find the entrance to the parking garage.

When I finally make it into the garage, there is a white car ahead of me at the kiosk to get a ticket.

Read more… 678 more words

One damn fine post from Aniko Carmean containing real life experience and lessons learned. If you do not follow this highly intelligent, ruminating soul, I suggest you start.

E.

Ruminating On: The Suspension of Disbelief

When I read fiction, there is only thing I consciously look for: Believability. Honestly, that’s all I can ask. I want the author to make me believe that what I am reading could actually happen. Even in the cases of supernatural, fantasy and science fiction, I need grounding moments, character development, and moreover, a reason to care. It doesn’t matter if you’re protagonist is an asexual, twelve-foot-tall, headless lizardman, if I can’t grasp his motivations, I’m going to put your book down, or turn off your movie.

I am not the type of person to finish a piece of entertainment just because I started it. Examples: I’ll give you fifty pages to hook me, or fifteen celluloid minutes to draw me in. If you can’t manage that, I can’t manage to finish your work. I don’t owe you my attention, nor do I owe you an apology for your shortcomings. Since I don’t delve into piracy, if I’m partaking in your creation, that means I’ve purchased your wares (even downloading a free book requires I give up space on my Kindle), so I expect you to perform the needed tasks. Questions being raised at the beginning of a story are needed to garner interest, but they must be the right kind of questions. I don’t want to ask myself where people are, why they are there and when said timeframe is. Needed questions are: What’s going to happen next? Are they going to be all right? and I wonder if I can find the time to spare so I don’t have to put this book down or step away from the movie.

I’ve seen a lot of crap in my day, but most of it is subjective. Let’s say, for the sake of discussion, that there are no “false” reviews on Amazon and every five star opinion is a factual representation of that reader’s reaction to the work. Okay, with that imaginary baseline drawn, I’ve picked up some stinkers with all five stars. These readers found their suspension of disbelief within the same pages where I couldn’t find mine. I respect their opinion and do not question their motives, rather like I can read a book where there are errors galore and still enjoy the story, whereas many will stop dead in their tracks and return the book for a full refund.

My favorite movie of all time is Howard The Duck and don’t you dare judge me for it. When I was younger I believed the draw of that movie lay within the storytelling. Now, over twenty-five years later, I see that where the movie succeeds is with suspension. I watch Howard and Beverly kiss (yes, you only see this represented on the wall with their shadows, but it’s still a woman kissing a humanoid duck in a loving fashion) and I never questioned how fucking sick that scene truly is. We’re talking bestiality here, people, and only this one movie has ever pulled it off. The film makers get away with this because the scene comes toward the middle of the movie and you’ve already come to understand the characters and care for them. It just feels… well, it feels right. I fell in love with all the characters (especially Tim Robbins’s quirky Phil Blumburtt and Jeffrey Jones’s pre-monstrous Dr. Walter Jenning). The film has everything a movie-fan could ever want; action, romance (bestial or not), horror, suspense, and a whole metric-ton of comedy. And the soundtrack? Mo-Frackin’ `80′s gold! George Lucas doesn’t like to be remembered as having anything to do with the film, that his production company and special FX team created my fondest childhood memory, is a moot point to a man that went and made Greedo shoot first to make Hans Solo “socially acceptable.”  It hurts my heart. It’s like the parents of the one you love telling you their child isn’t worthy of your love. That doesn’t make you love their child any less, it only makes you dislike the parents.

Wow, I took an express train to WTF-ville there; didn’t I? I’m back now. Did you enjoy the ride? I did. Okay, moving on.

Don’t get me wrong, there are a great many authors that pull off terrific openings only to shit the bed before the sun rises on their conclusions. One of my heroes—Stephen King—is like this. The man hooks you directly, slaps you in the face with his engorged member, and proceeds to molest your brain through your eye cavity. Then, right when you think he’s about to climax, he pulls out and dribbles on his Easter basket. But still, he had you long enough to make you care about the finale.

We need the incredible in our lives, so keep on pressing on, but remember to root everything you do in reality. Even the surreal can feel real if done properly. You must find your niche, your hook, your method of skull intrusion, or risk someone not finishing your work. Because I’ll walk away with my balls swinging, just watch me. If you can’t be bothered to entertain my attention-deficit-ass with a constant flow of shiny objects, I’m going to give someone else a shot.

“They call `im Howard… the Duck! (YEAH!)  Ain’t no way to conceal it! And he shot an arrow straight through my heart!”

E.

Oops, almost forgot, leave your favorite outrageous, could-NEVER-happen movie or book in the comment section. Tell me why you love it so much, and how the creators managed to suspend your disbelief. Later!

Ruminating On: Steer Manure

You may use the expletive in place of steer manure if you see fit for the duration of this post. You’re welcome.

Ah, steer manure. I’m full of it. You’re full of it. Our family, friends, acquaintances and even our politics and religions are full of it. So much so, that sometimes, we feel like cranberry farmers wading through the cesspool of life just to find the good hidden in the bad.

I’m going to make this short today, because I’m in steer manure so deep my teeth are turning brown. What I would like to see is a rationing of said steer manure. Maybe a statute that states one must only use steer manure on holiday and while attending family reunions. Steer manure is best used during times when surrounded by throngs of people that you would like to impress, but do not see, or interact with on a daily basis. These “strangers” are less apt to see through the steer manure that steadily pours forth from you like a tapped keg because they do not know, nor do they care, that steer manure is your legal tender of choice.

Steer manure has a place in society; don’t get me wrong. We feed our children a steady diet of steer manure with tidbits like, “Because I said so,” and “When I was your age.” The latter is steer manure because there is no example included and weren’t we all taught to lead by example? The former is steer manure because, though you were once technically your child’s age, it was a completely different age and your point is irrelevant. But this pile of excrement is needed. Why? So that our children learn early that this world is unfair, biased and filled to the brim with monkeys collecting steer manure in their brain buckets. I will forever wish that my children do not have to deal with that fact, but it’s an eventuality that I will try and prepare them for.

In closing, I’m tired of steer manure and would like less of it. Period. The problem is, there’s so much of it, that people can’t help but spread it around.

I wash my hands of this crap.

E.