Edward Lorn's Blog, page 29

My Semi-Fictional Life #14 (Book Giveaway!)

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

Happy Birthday to The End! Five years ago today, I created this sleepy little town, a town that keeps secrets better than any other. It all started HERE! The town pops up in all of my fiction in some way or another. Even when the connection isn’t obvious, be it novel, novella, novelette, or short, the story somehow leads back to The End. I promise.

Bay’s End is by far my most well-received piece. I’ve been hard on it in the past, but I’ve come to the realization that the book is no longer mine. It’s yours. The fans. Thank you for showing this book so much love.

HOW TO ENTER:

Go to this book’s MAIN PAGE and scroll down to the giveaway. The promotion is good for one doodled-in paperback of the first revamped copy in my new Minimalist-Cover Series. The book will also be a signed one of a kind. Other versions may be printed, but no one will ever own another Doodled Version.

Thank you for all your support over the years. I wouldn’t be here without you fine folks here on Goodreads. Much love.

Oh, this is only the beginning of the giveaways. I plan to give out one Doodled Version of each of these new paperbacks every two months.

Take care of each other.

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #13 (Cookbook Review WARNING LANGUAGE!)

Hello, you tasty taste goods! In case you don’t follow me on Goodreads (seriously, though, why don’t you? Kidding… but seriously… Why not?), I sometimes post idiotic cookbook reviews. This is one of those days. If you’re sensitive to… well, anything, I suggest skipping today’s post. HOLLA!

My Review of Chicken Dinners: The Best Chicken Dishes!

If you’re gonna make a cookbook, would you please, for the love of Tom Cruise’s slippery anus, make the sumbitch so it can lay down flat on a workspace? For fuck’s sake, you have one goddamn job, Cookbook Designers! Create a book that is easy to read while cooking. I got flour and egg wash and chicken blood and your girl on my fingers, my kitchen looks like a bakery fucking exploded, and I can’t be washing my motherfucking hands every time I need to turn the page! FUCK!

How y’all doing today? I’m good. But, holy creamsicles, Foghorn, does the design of this book raise my blood pressure. No cookbook should be a pain in the cock to keep open. It makes about as much sense as Lego slash fiction.

Anyfuck, on with the review!

Did you know that the average adult chicken weighs 3.25 pounds? That’s one of my buttcheeks. All right. Ya got me. That’s like my big toe. But a fat fuck can dream, right?

When cutting a chicken it can be cut into four to eight pieces. But if you’re like me and can’t math good, you can cut that fucker in half a bunch of times until you have dinner. Don’t judge me. If you want the actual instructions, buy the fucking book. And some scissors. Kitchen shears, they’re called. Don’t use your mom’s crafting shits. She might choke a motherfucker.

Don’t enjoy splatter-painting your toilet brown and red? Ya might wanna cook your chicken before eating it. For cereal, Salmon-illa can give you the death squirts. That’s where your insides turn to water and your butthole starts reenacting the latest presidential debate.

Like titties? How about cheese? Why not have the best of both worlds? Try this book’s Mozzarella-Stuffed Chicken Breasts. And you’re gonna need some prosciutto and shit for this recipe. I know it’s a chicken dish, asshole. I don’t fucking know why you need pork for a chicken dish. Goddamn it, I didn’t write the fucking book. SHIT!

How about some Green Chicken Curry? Doesn’t that sound good???????

You’re right. That sounds disgusting.

NEXT!

Do you like Cock Oven?

*producer whispers in ear*

Sorry… What? That’s what I said. Yeah. “Cock Oven”. It’s written right there in my review…

*producer shakes head, grabs pen and paper, jots down a note*

OH! Motherfuck me. Ha! It’s spelled Coq au Vin? My bad!

So, okay, do you like Coq au Vin? To you sorry fuckers who don’t get turnt on the weekends, that’s chicken and wine. For cereal, what y’all doing with your life? Give your chicken a bottle of Boone’s Farm and that motherfucker will ‘preciate you for life!

Last recipe of the day is motherfucking Chicken with… Is this right? Forty? These assholes lie like a motherfucker. This recipe says 3 garlic bulbs, not 40. Who the fuck they think they’re talking to? There ain’t no nine cloves to a bulb…

Shut up!

I TOLD Y’ALL I DON’T MATH GOOD!

FUCK!

CHICKEN WITH FORTY CLOVES OF GARLIC! Have you ever wanted to go down on a girl whose nether portal smells like an italian restaurant? Do you want your man’s baby batter to taste like Guy Fieri looks? Wanna make your significant other never want to kiss you ever again?

No? Neither have I. Seriously. Try pineapple. Stay away from coffee and cigarettes. Try flavored lubes. Hell, stay on theme and just use coagulated chicken fat when going downtown on your lovely lover. YUM!

I’m like the Dr. Ruth of the cooking world, motherfuckers. HOLLA!

In summation: Goddamn this book is fulla ass. It won’t stay open. The names of shit are fucking liars. And now I’m hungry AND horny. Until next time, I’ve been E. You’ve been you. And this has been a Cookcook Review.

Final Judgment: FUCKING, LAY THE FUCK DOWN, BOOK! FUCK!

See you tomorrow!

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #12 (Reading Slumps: Yeah or Naw?)

Welcome to all the new followers. Now that I’ve been blogging daily the site is seeing more traffic. I appreciate you dropping by and reading my stuffs.

*hugs and/or high fives… whichever you’re more comfortable with*

Man, I’m tired. I’ve been editing Slasher: Live nonstop, getting it ready for submission to publishers, and my brain is fried. And I STILL have over a hundred pages to revise.

Dude, this is only the first content edit… I know, dude… 

Oof.

Anyway, I spoke earlier this week about Me Time. I think I’m going to take myself up on the offer tonight, right after I post this blog.

I also seem to be in the beginning of a reading slump. I read a string of terrific books recently, and I know they can’t all be good, but sweet baby Tom Cruise, do they have to go from Grade-A directly to Dumpster Fire? This Richard Laymon book I’m re-reading, Cellar, is awful. I’m also reading Alan Moore’s 1,280-page masturbatory effort, Jerusalem, which I should have put down 900 pages ago.  Unfortunately, now I have to know how it ends. Only 380 pages left to go! Fuck my obsessive brain. Seriously.

So let’s talk about reading slumps. Why do you think they happen? Is it because we get on such a good run that no matter what we read next is going to be bad, like a book hangover? Or do we set ourselves up for failure, like authors who give themselves writer’s block by thinking too hard about not hearing from their muses? FWIW, I don’t believe in writer’s block for the same reason I shouldn’t believe in reading slumps, but I do believe in ghosts, I do, I do, I DO! If you read enough, slumps are bound to happen. I guess that’s why I lend credence to slumps and not blocks. I’ve never been blocked. Well, not when it comes to writing. TMI? Probably. But I’m being honest. I’m never in need of the next word. I might struggle to find the proper description of something, but I’m never stuck. I write through it and revise later. But I’ve had plenty of reading slumps, believe you me.

So I’m reading through it and hoping the next book isn’t the literary equivalent of Face AIDS.

Do you believe in reading slumps, or is everyone off their rocker? When was the last time you read a bad book? What was it? What’s your social security number, bank account info, and birthday?

See you tomorrow,

E.

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I do not own the above image.

 

My Semi-Fictional Life #11 (A Story)

“How Many Times”

by E. Lorn

In twenty-one years how many times have you left your keys on the counter? On the same square of tile? By the corner of the microwave? Five steps from the door to the garage? Twenty steps from your car? One hundred feet from the curb? Nineteen miles from work? Galaxies away from us?

I smell you on the air. I hear you laugh. Not alone. I hear someone else laughing with you. I take another step. Quiet. Listening. Can’t tell if the other is male or female.  Muffled voices like my ears are full of cotton.

The couch springs screech. Twenty years I’ve heard those springs squeak. They never sound like that year one. Only after parties with friends and visits from family members with heavy middles and kids bouncing and late nights when the walk to the bedroom is too far do the springs start to talk. The stories they would tell.

You laugh. The soft tinkle of your pleasure drifts down the hallway. How many times have I stood here and listened to your laugh? How many times have I heard the flirt in your voice that I hear now? How many times?

I’m convincing myself you wouldn’t do this when I hear you squeal and giggle. That squeal and giggle only comes when someone catches you off guard. How many times have I made you sound like that? How many times have I grabbed you around the middle and spun you around? How many times have you squealed and giggled and stared down at me with eyes on fire? Eyes filled with intensity. A ferocity that could scald the sun. How many times?

It’s hard to breathe. Hard to swallow. Impossible to move. I need to move. I need to storm down the hall and scream and rage and break everything that dares come within striking distance. I need that. A release. A lessening of pressure. My hands tremble at my sides. I’m about to explode. I need to move.

How many times have I pushed through this swinging door and into the living room? How many times has it been my wine glass on the table. How many times has it been my coat over the back of my recliner? How many times?

How many times have I made you squeal like you’re squealing now? No. This squeal is different. This squeal is more wanton. This is the squeal I haven’t heard in ages. Because you’ve reserved it for someone else. How many times have they heard it?

I shamble down the hall. Undead. I stop at our door. Whoever is in there with you grunts. They sound like an animal. You don’t seem to mind. How many times have I sounded like this? How many times have you asked for it? Harder? Deeper? How many times have you begged for more?

I reach for the knob.

How many times have I not been here?

 

Without the title, byline, and this post script, the story above is exactly 500 words. Thank you for reading.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #10 (A Review)

Today we have a review for Gabino Iglesias’s sophomore effort, Zero Saints.

First, let’s get this bit out of the way. You need more than a passing knowledge of Spanish to understand every word of this book. If the extent of your Spanish is Dora the Explorer, prepare yourself for much Google Translate. My friend Janie C., who I buddy read this with, says you can use your Kindle to translate selections, but she also said it didn’t work for words like pinches. In other words, it doesn’t help with the cussing. I didn’t have a translation option at all because I read the super sexy paperback. (Seriously, this book is fucking gorgeous. *tips hat to whoever designed it*)

Anyway, I read it without the aid of Google Translate or Kindle and I don’t feel as if I missed anything. Of course, I grew up in California and ran with a bunch of dudes who just happened to be Mexican, so I was able to catch all the foul language and much of the Spanglish. The prayers? I skipped those entirely. And STILL I didn’t feel like I was missing anything. That being said, yes, it was annoying as fuck to have to skim over entire sections and wonder what I was missing. Because, on average, there’s a line of Spanish in almost every single paragraph, if not more. There’s whole paragraphs and entire strings of text in Spanish, and I’m positive I missed one whole conversation because of it. But (third times the charm) I do not feel as if I missed anything.

That being said, I loved every minute of this book. Had it not been a buddy read, I would’ve tore through it in two sittings. Gabino Iglesias can write his ass off, in English and Spanish, and even a touch of Russian. Do I expect people to read this and be pissed off that they don’t understand whole sections of the text? Yeah, I do. But those sections add to the authenticity of the narrative. I would have liked to see some kind of explanation for bits of dialogue, but I understood the overall story enough to enjoy myself. So, if you can stand not knowing or having to search for the meaning of what’s written in parts, I recommend the book. If not, seriously, stay the fuck away. No reason to annoy yourself. If you speak Spanish, by all means, buy the fuck out of this book.

The magic showcased in the book rings true. There’s one bit with a ritual involving an egg. I’ve actually seen it done in the real world. I found that rather cool. I also dug what I will call the final reveal. Indio’s appearance at the end was bone-chilling. But my absolute favorite parts of this book are when the author goes into loose second-person. All the “What happens when you…” chapters were so well written. They really showcased what Iglesias is capable of.

The ending does suffer from framing. The way the novel is set up, you can imagine the who of the situation if not the what. I’ll explain in the Spoiler Discussion section.

In summation: A great read that many will find unreadable due to the language barrier. I dug it anyway, and if I missed anything, I don’t know what it is. I received a full experience, even though I’m sure I missed something.

Final Judgment: Pinches gringos might become lost.

Spoilers after the break

***

Spoiler Discussion:

I was waiting for the Russian to pop back up at the end. Everyone else was dead and Fernando was out of options, so I read the last bit thinking, “Where’s the Russian?” When he popped up and matrixed Indio, I just kinda nodded.

What do I mean by “matrixed”? Well, remember that bit inThe Matrix where Trinity appears next to an agent and sticks a gun to his temple and says, “Dodge this,” before pulling the trigger and saving Neo? Yeah, that’s the final scene of the book.

Nothing bad. I simply saw it coming is all.

Thanks for joining me.

End Spoilers

Thanks for joining me. See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #9 (Me Time)

Hello, everybody. Last night I was laying in bed after a long day of work. I edited for ten hours and managed to get 40 pages of Slasher: Live done. By the end of the day, my head and back were throbbing . It’s true what they say, mental strain can have physical symptoms. I know, I know, woe is me. Over here living the dream and bitching about some aches and pains. Sorry. I’ll move along.

So, at the end of my day, I’m lying in bed, I got an ebook open, John Carpenter’s “Lost Themes” playing in the background, my son bouncing around the room, refusing to go to sleep, and my wife next to me working on her website, when this sudden irresistible urge to just veg out with some tunes strikes me. It was like a punch in the face. Helluva wake up call.

Years ago, when I worked a job pulling 60-hour weeks, I used to buy several albums a paycheck. I’d listen to them over and over again, until I’d memorized all the lyrics. If the album had any guitar tracks, I’d learn every riff, in track order. That was my release. My chill time.

But, man, I cannot remember the last time I did it. At some point, my hobby (writing) became my job and I stopped using music to relax. And I have no idea why. I’m not even sure it was a slow decrease in Me Time, or if it all just went away one day and I somehow didn’t miss it. I missed it last night, though.

So I put on Slayer’s latest album, “Relentless”, lay back, and did nothing else for the length of the album. After that, I slept like a baby. Rad.

Tonight’s the county fair, so no work today.

What do you do for Me Time? Do you ever get to have time to yourself, or does life constantly get in the way? Let me know in the comments sections below.

Until tomorrow, I leave you with how I work when my back acts up…

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My Semi-Fictional Life #8 (A Review)

If you follow me on Goodreads, you’ve likely already read this review. If you have, please don’t leave. I want you to scroll past Final Judgment and check out what’s below it. Thanks.

Whom the Gods Would Destroy Review

“I tried to believe that my place in the world remained unchanged—or at least unchanged until further notice—and that I still had contributions to make that would help the world know itself and its place in the cosmos a little better, even though all the evidence showed that most people were content to muddle through each day in willful ignorance, choosing to believe in a god that took sides in the Super Bowl and a devil who’d hidden dinosaur bones in 6000-year-old rocks to test the faithful.”

Hot damn, this book.

Brian Hodge first hit my radar when I scored a short story collection from my local thrift store entitled Alone on the Darkside: Echoes From Shadows of Horror. Hodge’s story is the first in the collection, a little ditty called “And Our Turn Too Will One Day Come”. After reading the story I knew I had to look him up. This dude has skills. I dig how he develops characters, and his dialogue is on point. Nothing spoils a book quicker that shitty banter. Luckily, Hodge knows what he’s doing.

Did the science go over my head? Yeah. I’m not an astrologist, and I always scored higher in English and literature than I did science, but I never felt like an idiot while reading this like, say, when I read The Martian. Thanks, Brian, for not making me feel like a troglodyte. *smooches*

One of the standouts of this book is the emotional quality of the writing. Several passages hit home for me, as I had a very rocky relationship with one of my parents. The constant worry that you’re turning out just like the crap parent is real, and Hodge conveyed those emotions through his protagonist perfectly.

“Sometimes we sleep because we want to, sometimes because we need it, and sometimes we sleep in self-defense.”

In summation: My one and only complaint is that it wasn’t longer. It was not too short, nor do I think it could have gone on longer, I simply wish there was a way that there could have been more. I guess I’m just going to have to find the rest of Hodge’s back catalog and read those instead.

Final Judgment: I want a copy for my shelf.

See that Final Judgment? Notice how I said I’d like a copy for my shelf? Well, my buddy Bill was gracious enough to actually send me a copy. Being the main source of income for my family, I don’t get many gifts. The ones I do get, I have to buy myself. So this gift from Bill meant that much more to me. Thank you so much, my friend.

Without further ado, I leave you with the…

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My Semi-Fictional Life #7 (Fathers of Boys)

By now, you’ve heard the latest comments from the republican candidate and all of the excuses or backpedaling from his side of the fence. I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to try and change the mindset that has led many to believe that the things he said are “just the way men talk”. So below I have listed several things fathers of boys need to make very clear to our sons.

A woman is not a conquest. Sex is between you and the person/people you’re having sex with. No one else. Braggarts are and will always be suspect.

A woman is not an object. She’s not a piece of ass. She is a person. That should be enough.

Unwanted touching or conversation is never okay. No means no. End of discussion. If she is not conscious to give you consent, this is the same thing as her saying no.

Women are not to be catcalled. They do not appreciate men who loudly boast what we would do to them if given the chance. This is creepy. Do not do it.

No one “hits like a girl” or “screams like a bitch”. There are plenty of weak men in the world. Likewise, Daniel Stern of Home Alone fame screams pretty damn high, as have other men throughout history.

Your default setting is not “Rapist” so do not act like it. Don’t lurk. Don’t hover. Don’t follow. If she’s not interested, go away. It’s really that simple.

Your inaction is your acceptance. If someone goes against anything list above and you do not tell them that what they are saying or doing is not cool, you are not in the clear. If something happens and you do not try and stop it, you are also at fault. We must state loud and clear that this behavior is unacceptable. Because this “that’s just how guys talk” stuff doesn’t gel with me. It’s not okay. It is not acceptable. We can do better.

I invite anyone, male or female, to add to this list in the comments section.

Take care of yourselves and I’ll see you tomorrow,

E.

 

 

My Semi-Fictional Life #6 (Free Story and Cover Reveal)

Every Friday, my buddy J.D. Mader does this thing where he gives authors and non-authors alike two minutes to lay down some flash fiction. The posts are entitled, aptly enough, “2 Minutes. Go!” If you write, or even if you don’t, drop on by and check out the comments every Friday. Some terrific flash fiction goes down over there.

http://www.jdmader.com/

Here’s what I wrote yesterday. I call it “Not Before Halloween”. Let me know what you think down in the comments.

“Not Before Halloween”

by E. Lorn

Wind from the west has a slight chill to it this evening. Can you smell the woodsmoke? Leaves in the old elm out front are still green, but a few rebels have gone red and orange. Soon they’ll be yellow. Then they’ll be gone.

If you listen, you can hear the children next door arguing over jack-o-lantern designs and what they want to be, come the 31st. Neighborhood boys, some of them bad at being good and others good at being bad, hum past on bikes. The kid out front of the pack is leaning right and left, almost laying his bike down with every shove of the pedals.

I’m standing on the porch. Smoking my pipe. The rich, sweet aroma of tobacco floats about my head, hiding me in its bluish fog.

I love this time of year. Another few weeks and America’s youth will be knocking on doors and singing their demands. “Trick or treat!” Some of them will say thanks. Some of them won’t. Some of them might even mention how much they miss Old Man Anderson.

I drift inside, through the door. Old Man Anderson is at his kitchen table, stringing together plastic purple bats and orange pumpkins with yellow features. When I enter the room, he stops and lays his decorations down. He clutches his chest. He looks up. Sees me and frowns.

“Not now. Not before Halloween.”

I nod.

“Oh, but-” is all he gets out before his head thunks down onto the table.

Ethereal and vastly more see-through than he was moments prior, Old Man Anderson follows me outside, where we share a pipe and our favorite stories of Octobers past. He tells me he’ll miss the kids coming around. I tell him that he will be missed.

“What comes next?” he asks with a genuine smile.

“Oh, I think I’ll leave that as a surprise.”

“I’d like to stay a moment longer. Watch the sun set.”

“If you wish,” I say.

“Yes. Yes, I think that would be nice.”

 

There you have it. Hope you dug it.

And now, as promised, the cover reveal for my novella Fairy Lights, coming to darkfusemagazine.com in serial format in November and limited edition hardcover in December.

 

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #5 (October Reads)

After two days straight of talking about my own books, I feel it’s time to talk about other people’s books. I’ve linked each book to its spot on Goodreads so that you can add these books to your TBR with ease. Here are my Top Five October Reads in ascending order, starting with…

#5. The Orangefield Series, by Al Sarrantonio. All three books are worth a read, but my personal favorite is the first one, Horrorween. Last I checked, the entire series was only $0.99 on Amazon.com. Check it out HERE.

#4. 20th Century Ghosts, by Joe Hill. My favorite tales in here are “Pop Art”, “Best New Horror”, and “You Will Hear the Locust Sing”, but I’m sure you’ll find your own personal favorites. The entire collection is terrific. Perfect tales for autumn nights. I highly recommend the audiobook, narrated by David LeDoux. You can find it HERE.

#3. Pet Semetery, by Stephen King. This one is in my Top Five Stephen King reads, but it makes this list as well. Something about this book and its film adaptation fit October perfectly. You can feel the chill in the air and the smell the woodsmoke and see the leaves changing while Louis Creed and family face unimaginable horrors.

#2. Night in the Lonesome October, by Richard Laymon, is not only one of my favorite Laymon novels but it involves my favorite month of the year. While many might prefer his coming-of-age novel The Travelling Vampire Show, I pick the former up in October. But, by all means, read them both if you have the time.

#1. This one is a tie between Ray Bradbury books. Something Wicked This Way Comes and The Halloween Tree. My family and I read, listen or watch The Halloween Tree every single year. One of the reasons for this is its length. It can easily be read in a handful of sittings, or listened to in one sitting, thanks to Bronson Pinchot’s terrific reading of the audiobook, which you can find HERE. But, if you prefer novels over novellas, by all means, grab Something Wicked This Way Comes. They are both terrific October reads.

What are some of your own favorite October reads? Feel free to leave a list in the comments section below.

See you tomorrow,

E.

P.S. You don’t want to miss tomorrow’s post. I have a special reveal for you.