Edward Lorn's Blog, page 17

My Semi-Fictional Life #134 (I finished a story today)

Hello peeps. According to some author on the internet, I shouldn’t be writing this post. It would seem that you are not allowed to be excited about finishing a piece, only the publication. Tom Cruise forbid you vaguebook about being excited. Shame on you! Seeing as I have more stuff in cyber prison than published, that would mean I’d only get to be publicly excited… well, once or twice a year. Shit, what a depressing life that would be.

So fuck that author. I’m bursting to get it out, so here it is…

I FINISHED A STORY TODAY!

I wrote the motherfucker longhand, too, which is a feat unto itself. At least for me it is. “Buh-buh-but E. John Irving writes 800 page novels longhand…” Fuck off, Bubble Burster. Lemme have my success, assnuts!

Anyfuck, the story is entitled “There Were Other Versions of Us” and it’s taken me two months to write about 27 pages. Not because I was writing longhand, but because the story is a little twisty-turny. Suffice it to say, the piece is too fucking smart for me to have written it. So I take no credit. Like Stephen King says (paraphrasing), writing is like an archeological dig; the bones are there, you just have to uncover them. He says it much better than that, but I don’t have time to look up the quote. It’s in his book On Writing if you wanna look it up.

So I wrote a really smart piece longhand and finished it. I would say that’s a first all around and worth blogging about.  Usually I give up on the smart stuff. Not because I have no faith in my readers, but because I have little faith in me pulling it off.

Damn it. That cynical asshole author says I shouldn’t be self-deprecating either… I’m fucking horrible at following rules. #eatmyassrandomauthordude

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #133 (Love is in the Air)

Hello peeps. I went to a wedding today. My nephew got hitched to his baby momma and all was right in the world. He wore a camouflage tie and she had a pink camo corset thingy on the back of her dress. It was very country. All the rednecks attended. But they’re young and in love and who am I to shit on their culture, or whatever it is you want to call this unbranching tree that is the American southeast.

The church wouldn’t let my nephew and his baby momma get married in the sanctuary because they’d been living in sin, but they had a lovely reception in the fellowship hall.

Religion, dude, you can’t make this shit up… wait, yes you can. Never mind.

We drank the funkiest punch I’ve ever smelled or tasted. Seriously, someone didn’t want to be rude and ended up allowing someone who obviously can’t taste or smell make that punch because holy fuck it was disgusting. Who would’ve thought that pineapple juice, lime sherbet, and goddamn Sprite would be nasty? *raises hand* Even my kids hated it and they’ll drink anything with the title “punch”.

I had water because there wasn’t anything diet. I’m telling you, if this marriage was anymore thrown together, there would have been a shotgun involved. Well, there kinda was. The church and their relatives have been harping on these two to get married since the baby came into the picture. Not entirely sure these two even like each other all that much, but fuck it, they’re married now, so they’re good in the eyes of their invisible man.

All in all, it was okay. I met some racists who gave the side-eye to my family, and then caught up with this one hillbilly who helped my nephew deliver our dining room table, at which time he decided to lecture me on the difference between “black people” and “n-words” but he didn’t exactly say “n-words” if you’re following along at home. When he saw me, ol’ dude said, “Don’t remember me, do ya?” I said, “Sure I do,” and shook his hand, because I’m a kill-em-with-kindness type of dude.

Who the hell am I kidding? I was uncomfortable as all fuck. So were my wife and kids. But I got to see this boy I helped raise follow through on his choice not to wear a condom, so YEEHAW!

See you tomorrow,

E.

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Doesn’t everyone look fucking THRILLED?!?!?!

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My Semi-Fictional Life #132 (Herman Sheckle’s Top Ten Albums of All Time)

Hello peeps. The music a person listens to can tell you a lot about them. So, today, I want to take you down a list of albums Herman Sheckle listened to while writing. Since Herman is no longer with us (he died in 2011), I will simply post the list without any intrusion from myself. Let’s allow Herman’s musical tastes to speak for themselves, shall we?

#1. “Bleach” by Nirvana

#2. “Promised Land” by Queensrÿche

#3. “Dookie” by Green Day

#4. “The Art of War” by Bone Thugs and Harmony

#5. “Come On Come On” by Mary Chapin Carpenter

#6. “Butchered at Birth” by Cannibal Corpse

#7. “My Own Prison” by Creed

#8. “August and Everything After” by Counting Crows

#9. “1999” by Prince

#10. “Ropin’ the Wind” by Garth Brooks

There you have it. Quite the list, no? Let me know some of your favorite albums.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #131 (Yo, E., What Ever Happened to PENNIES FOR THE DAMNED?)

Hello peeps. Today I want to answer a question I’ve been avoiding like a syphilitic hooker. Ever since the book was taken down from Amazon, I’ve received dozens of emails and messages and Goodreads Ask the Author questions wondering where readers can score my fourth novel Pennies for the Damned. The short answer is, you can’t. Sorry. That’s just the way it is. I do wonder where everyone’s interest was when the book was actually available for sale, because, to date, it’s the worst a book of mine has ever performed. It even beat my short story “Come” for fewest sales on release week.

Pennies for the Damned was even on Netgalley for a while. Half the reviewers my publisher got from that experience either reviewed the wrong book in the series or flatout lied in their glowing five-star reviews. Seriously, two reviewers just invented stuff for their review, mentioning things that never happened in Pennies for the Damned or its predecessor, Hope for the Wicked. Then again, I’m kinda glad so few people bought and read the book. Because it’s not the book I wrote. Curiously enough, I ended my relationship with this publisher over my lack of interest in procuring reviews. Is there any wonder I wasn’t looking for reviews? I didn’t want anyone reading the fucking pile of shit.

So why did I allow it to be published in the state it was published? Well, I didn’t. I was rushed through the process because the publisher was tired of sitting on it. Why were they tired of sitting on it? Because the first editor who worked on it made a fucking mess of the book, suggesting a complete overhaul of key scenes and a brand new ending, as well as a complete rewrite of one character’s dialogue. I was literally forced to change the way a character spoke.

Why did the company accept the book if it was so goddamn bad? Fuck if I know. Long story short, the first editor left the company or was made to leave (I’m still not sure which) and the next editor to come along tried their damnedest to fix the book but ended up making an even bigger mess of it. Finally, the owner of the company called me and said “We have to move forward with Pennies. Where are you at with it?” I told them I hadn’t finished all the rewrites and had no idea when I’d be done because it was such a mess. I was told to “send it over” and the owner would finish proofreading it themselves. The book was in dire need of line editing but we were, for some reason, skipping from content editing to final proofreading? What the fuck, man? And then, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, I was told by the owner that they didn’t actually read the whole thing, only the parts I had changed. I recall saying “Whatever. Just make sure to have your final proofreaders do a check for continuity regarding the word Fuck because the character whose dialogue I changed so much of had a strange way of saying it. Fok instead of Fuck.” Simple enough, right? I mean, you can literally search for every instance of Fok in Word and then correct it. The publisher refused to send the manuscript back to me because I’d already taken so long, so I was forced to trust them. Guess what? All instances of Fok were left in, and so were the fixes, so there was no continuity. But this is what happens when books are rushed out to the public. Needless to say, I will never work with that publisher again, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Pennies for the Damned marks the only time I’ve ever thrown my hands up and given up the fight with a book. I don’t mind killing my darling if there’s a reason. But if the entire book needs a fucking overhaul, why the hell did you take it in the first place?

My apologies to anyone who read the book in the condition it was in. Will I ever republish it? Sure. Once I get it back to the way it was before the fuckery occurred. There are three more books done, which concludes the Larry Laughlin series, but I can’t do anything until I fix Pennies. Until then, it and its predecessor and its sequels will remain in the vault.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #130 (A Voice from Beyond the Grave…)

Hello peeps. Today I have for you an article written by the late Herman Sheckle. Sheckle, who died in 2011, was a longtime friend of mine. He was… well, I’ll let him tell you who he was.

Oh, one more thing. I should warn you that not everything Herman says is true. Remember, he was a writer of stories, and everything he wrote falls under the umbrella of fiction. But, like all good fiction, there was some truth to his lies. You simply have to be in possession of the decoder.

“Who am I?”

by Herman Sheckle (1980-2011)

Only those closest to me know that I am a writer. My estranged wife and children, neither of which claims me as family, would tell you that my being a writer is all they ever knew about me. I am a rather prolific author, in my own right. That is, if I ever finished anything, I would be. To date I have failed to finish over a thousand short stories, eighty-nine novellas, and twenty-six novels. Some of these are mere lines from being complete, while others I had barely begun, having quit them after the opening sentence, or, as is the case with four of these manuscripts, after the first word. When I am dead, perhaps these manuscripts will see the light of day. Although I have my doubts anyone will care enough to compile them.

I recently read an article about how business mogul Donald Trump is planning to run for president, hoping to oust Barack Obama from the white house in 2012. That’s just silly. But I bring it up because I would like to make a promise to all who might one day read this:

I do so solemnly swear that the day Donald Trump becomes president of these United States is the day I will publish my unfinished manuscripts. And, on this day of flying pigs fly and ice cubes in Hell, I will reveal myself to the world as The Illuminati. No, not a member of the secret organization, but the whole thing. I am The Illuminati. 

I should say that my unfinished work is quite safe. However, should disaster ever strike America under the guise of a manatee in a toupée, I’ve left this blog post and my entire writerly output (a memory stick I have christened HMS Trunk; my full name is Herman Montgomery Sheckle) with my good friend and colleague author [name redacted], aka Edward Lorn, aka Scott Wax, aka Luv Lorn, aka [final three names redacted by request of [name redacted]]. If people only knew all the names my friend writes under, there would be more than a handful of angry souls in the world. It is so very hard to promise to stay away from one writer’s output when one does not know all the aliases of said author. Time and again, I’ve seen readers swear to never read [name redacted] again, or perhaps “I will NEVER give Scott Wax another penny!” only to see them read and enjoy [name redacted]‘s work. I do chuckle when this happens. Just a little. Okay. A lot. I chuckle a lot. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. To date, the latest version of my friend [Edward Lorn] hasn’t even published his first novel. Something he calls Bay’s End. I do think the title is a typo, but having not read the book I can only guess. That apostrophe is suspect, though… I’m sure leagues of readers will love the novel, it being a coming-of-age tale. Those kind of books sell buckets. I have three unfinished coming-of-age novels inside HMS Trunk. One of them is a paragraph from completion… 

Where was I? Oh, yes! Who am I? Who am I, indeed ? I am a writer you’ve never heard of and likely never will hear of. If HMS Trunk didn’t exist, one might assume that I am a figment of [name redacted] ‘s imagination. But I am not. I exist… Or, on the off chance that I am dead when this article is finally illuminated in the light of day, I did exist. I was a real boy, as one is 

[article ends here]

As with all of Herman’s manuscripts, this piece was left unfinished. This and more will be available inside The Complete Incomplete Fairytales of Herman Sheckle. The book does not have a release date as of yet, but as soon as I finish compiling twenty years’ worth of Herman’s output and arranging the pieces in chronological order, I’ll post a date you can expect the novel… or collection… or whatever I end up calling it.

I’m finding that I love working on this. So many memories have been brought back to the surface: times Herman and I spent shooting the shit on my porch after his wife kicked him out, trips we took, unfinished collaborations… The list goes on.

Finally I would like to say to those out there fuming about the possibility of my having used other names throughout the years, that section from Herman is most definitely fiction. Bay’s End is my debut novel, and I’ve only ever written under the name Edward Lorn. If you don’t believe me, Google the other names Herman mentions. I only redacted the names I did because they were code for certain unseemly websites. Meaning, if you googled them, you would be taken to something nasty akin to Two Girls, One Cup, or One Man, One Jar, or image results for blue waffles, and so forth. In other words, I’m not hiding anything of import. Promise.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #129 (Another Review)

Hello peeps. Final review of the week and then back to original content until I finish another book. Today’s review is for Shane, by Jack Schaefer.

Shane was my father’s favorite movie. I remember watching it with him on many occasions. The film remains one of the only positive memories I have of my old man. I was never a fan of westerns, but as a kid who desperately wanted his father’s approval (approval that, I might add, would never come; he’s been dead since 2011), I’d force myself to consume the things he liked in the hopes that I might become one of those things.

And then I grew up and realized my father wasn’t someone whose approval I should be concerned with. Still, the film adaptation of this book remains one of my favorite movies, if for no other reason than that it was something I shared with my father. The book itself is terrific and gets my highest recommendation.

One final note, an inside look, if you will… People assume that when I say negative reviews don’t bother me that my words are nothing but posturing. “Of course he cares about reviews. What author doesn’t?” But I mean what I say. And I can thank my father for that. If you hate me and/or my work, that doesn’t affect me in the slightest. I find some reasoning silly and others thought-provoking, but I never take reviews to heart because they are opinion not truth. I had to teach myself at an early age that truth and opinion are two different things. I had to for my own mental survival. There I was, winning writing contests and spelling bees and science fairs, and my father took every one of my successes as a slight against him. “Oh, you think you’re hot shit because you can read? Well you ain’t ever gonna be shit beyond that, so enjoy your fifteen minutes.” That’s a direct quote from Dad. Classy motherfucker, huh? So what the fuck do I care if you hate me? My own father didn’t like me and I turned out just fine. But keep on giving up that free real estate to me in your mind. I’ll be over here paying the bills.

In summation: This was my first time reading this novella and it certainly will not be my last. It’s just long enough. Any more of it would have been to overstay its welcome. I might be a bit biased, though, seeing as how the book speaks to me on a personal level, but I dug it. The writing is fantastic, as well. This is so much more than a dime-store western and it deserves your attention.

See you and Herman Sheckle tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #128 (A Review)

Hello peeps. Today I have a short review for A Winter Haunting, by Dan Simmons.

2.5 stars rounded up.

I didn’t like this one as much as my buddy Thomas, but I enjoyed it enough to finish it. Toward the end I realized I just didn’t care about the main character. Reading about Dale Stewart as a kid in Summer of Night was big fun. But the grown-up version is nowhere near as entertaining. I did appreciate the twists, but overall, I am left with a numbing feeling of meh.

A Winter Haunting is not a direct sequel to Summer of Night, meaning it does not continue that storyline, but if you’re looking to catch up with old friends, this book delivers well enough. I was happy to see some vaguely familiar faces and saddened to hear of some of their deaths. This book is much richer for me having read Summer of Night first, though, and I will politely disagree with Thomas when he says one doesn’t need to have read Summer of Night to enjoy this one. I think what I enjoyed the most here was my return to Elm Haven. Had I not read Dale’s first adventure, I would have cared even less about his character in this book.

I think my biggest complaint is that it didn’t feel like a Dan Simmons book. After novels like Drood and The Terror and the aforementioned Summer of Night, I’m left lumping this one in with Simmons novels like Song of Kali, which was good but not quite as good as his other outings. In the end, I liked this one just enough that I don’t regret reading it. I simply think I enjoy historical-fiction Simmons over modern-day Simmons.

In summation: This is a lovely trip down memory lane, but, for me, it failed to give me a character I could root for or care about.

Final Judgment: A watered-down Hell House.

 

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #127 (Who is Herman Sheckle, Part One: Birth)

Who is Herman Sheckle

Part One:

Birth

Herman Sheckle, born on August 18, 1980, was the only child Pete and Barbara Sheckle ever had together. Each brought children from their previous marriages to their own marriage in 1975. Because of this, Herman had three half-sisters, all of them much older than he, only two of which he claimed as family. In order of appearance: Tamara (August 6, 1966) and Regina (July 21, 1968), who were fourteen and twelve years older than Herman, respectively; children of Barbara and her first husband Charles; beloved and claimed; and Little Tammy (September 9, 1972), Pete’s second child from his second marriage; daughter of Gerry; most decidedly unclaimed. Pete’s first daughter Vicky, whom the family rarely ever spoke of, had been born after Pete’s marriage to a woman named Wendy was annulled after only four days of marriage proved to be too much marriage for Wendy to handle. Neither Pete or anyone else in contact with him ever knew any more about Vicky than her first name, so there is no wonder why Herman didn’t consider her a sibling, claimed or otherwise.

Barbara, a nurse of some experience and joviality, and Pete, the unemployed monarch of House Sheckle, attempted to become pregnant for five years before Barbara’s doctor decided that the couple were wasting their time and fluids. Barbara was informed that Tamara and Regina were the only children she would ever have and sent home, where she became pregnant with her third child, the ever rebellious and perpetual-latecomer Herman. Nine months later, via cesarean  birth, Herman came screamingly into the world. It would surprise everyone close to Herman that he would never find success as a vocalist for a Norwegian black metal band.

During her six week post-birth checkup, Barbara’s doctor, Juan Gutierrez, PhD, OB-GYN, found growths on Barbara’s cervix. The malignant-and-swiftly-growing cancer spread to her uterus and Fallopian tubes within weeks. Dr. Gutierrez gave Barbara an ultimatum: a full hysterectomy or death. Pete, who was present during the big reveal of the horrible news, would go down in history for supplying the following comment, “Do you think she could have another baby before the cancer killed her?” Dr. Gutierrez, caught a mite off guard, replied, “At this point, Mr. Sheckle, I wouldn’t suggest sexual intercourse, much less another pregnancy.” Pete responded, “Please, call me Pete.”

Needless to say, Barbara opted for the full hysterectomy, a procedure she would later joke “scraped me out and left me with nothing but the box it came in.” Whether Barbara fell out of love with Pete over the heartless questions he directed toward the doctor, or Pete fell out of love with Barbara over her refusal to die giving him another child, no one would ever know. What was terribly clear to Herman if nobody else was that he would grow up being the wedge driven between his parents. For seventeen years, Barbara and Pete would pretend to love one another, because an unhappy home, in their uninformed opinions, was far preferable to a broken one. And, beyond those seventeen years, Herman Sheckle would wonder why he alone wasn’t enough for his father.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #126 (Who is Herman Sheckle? *teaser*)

Some prefer beginnings

Over saddening things like endings

But then there’s Herman Sheckle

And his endings without beginnings…

Something different this way comes in The Complete Incomplete Fairytales of Herman Sheckle, by E. Lorn. Keep an eye on this space for more questions and fewer answers in the days and weeks and months ahead, starting this week with an in-depth look at “Who is Herman Sheckle?”

Here’s what dead people and fictional characters had to say about Herman Sheckle’s work:

“It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key.”

~Winston Churchill.

“Just one more thing…”

~Lieutenant Columbo

“An ‘extremely credible source’ has called my office and told me that Herman Sheckle is a fraud.”

~anonymous

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #125 (Who Wants to Read INFINITE JEST?)

Hello peeps. This summer, I will be tackling one of the most intimidating novels ever written, David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, and I would like to know if any of you would like to join me. I’ve heard the book is better (easier?) when read with other people.

So if you’ve ever wanted to read the novel but keep putting it off, why not join me? Comment wherever this post might find you.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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