Edward Lorn's Blog, page 96

An Excerpt from Cruelty: Episode Two

Because of NaNoWriMo and a nasty little stomach bug, I’m a bit behind on publishing Cruelty: Episode Two. So here’s an excerpt from the next installment to make up for my laziness. No promises, but the next segment should be live before November 10th. Thank you for your patience.

Turtle

Turtle needed a fix. The ants were crawling, had been since Jennifer ran off with the mark. Where is she? How long has she been gone? All these thoughts tracked heavy boots through Turtle’s thoughts, leaving depressions in his mind; caverns too dark and confusing to navigate.

Twon had called four times so far. The cook wanted his money. Turtle didn’t blame his supplier. If Turtle had fronted two grams of primo crank to two layabout tweakers with a promise from said addicts to sell the goods, Turtle would expect his money as well. Twon didn’t play. Turtle was scared. And in the crushing fist of a rather vicious case of withdrawals.

Naked, Turtle sat upon the leather sofa in the living room, picking at his already bleeding foreskin. His real name was Simon Allison, but that name was so far removed from him that even he referred to himself as Turtle. The nickname had come from the boys in the locker room, back when he was in high school. Those boys had said his cock looked like a frightened turtle, one with its head tucked inside its shell. Turtle had a rare condition. Basically, his manhood didn’t look like manhood at all—rather, a second belly button with a set of balls dangling beneath. His condition wasn’t what made him itch, though; the jonesing did. His fingernails came away smelling of rust and man-musk. Crank. He needed some crank.

For the umpteenth time tonight, Turtle sprung from the sofa, turned, and headed to the trailer’s open kitchen. Whining like a hungry pup, he grimaced at the empty cabinets. He’d checked the cupboards so many times that nothing remained inside; their contents were scattered across the peeling linoleum under his feet. He climbed onto the counter, feeling the faux-wood flex and crack under his hundred pounds of skin and bones. He stood spread-eagled over the sink. Blood from his scratched foreskin dripped into the basin as Turtle reached into the upper cabinet and ran his hands over the bottom of the cupboard.

Nothing. Of course there was nothing. He and Jennifer had smoked it all. And when his Bic ran out of fluid, they’d crushed up the remaining shake with the butt of the lighter and snorted the dust. Even the drips were gone; that lovely meth-laced mucus that slid down the back of his throat like sour syrup.

Why is it so fucking hot? Turtle thought as his hand found its way back to his gouged foreskin.

Pick, pickpick, pickpickpickpick…

Someone knocked on the front door. Turtle started, spinning his arms at his sides in an attempt to regain his balance. His fix-deprived brain acted in reverse, sending a foot backward over the edge of the counter. He went down hard, his right hip taking the full brunt of the impact. Turtle trundled across the small kitchen like a child learning how to stop, drop, and roll.

The knock came again followed by, “Open tha door, muddahfuckah!”

Even through his pain, Turtle recognized Twon’s accent. The cook was from the Caribbean. Where exactly, Turtle didn’t know or care.

Twon called again, his words punctuated by the rap of his fist upon the door, “Imma come in, Turt’, and if I do, you be hurtin’, seen?”

“I’m comin’!” Turtle squealed as he pushed himself to his knees. His right hip protested, locked up, and he collapsed onto his side.

Outside, the rusty hinges on the screen door screeched seconds before the frame crashed against the side of the trailer. The front door came down like a drawbridge, landing with a thump on the carpet in the living room. Turtle stared in amazement at the fallen door, wondering how in the hell Twon had managed to knock it down in such a fashion. Turtle had only seen such a thing in cartoons. He found it almost comical.

Twon strode across the downed door, looking forever tall from Turtle’s kitchen floor vantage point. The cook wore a solid blue tracksuit with a Nike swoosh over his left breast. When he set eyes upon Turtle, Twon’s chocolate-colored features creased with confusion.

“The fuck you naked for, Turt’?”

“It’s hot in here,” was all Turtle could think to say.

“Git some air conditionin’, seen?” Twon looked around the small trailer then leaned back and craned his neck to glance down the short hallway leading to the single bedroom. “Where yo bitch?”

“I t-t-told you on the phone, man, she’s off tryin’ t’ score your cash.” Turtle grasped his sore hip and whimpered. “I fell off the fuckin’ counter!”

“Does I give a fuck? Lookit me,” Twon said as he pointed to his nose. “Not one fuck given. Nar’ bit. Now, git up, you fuck. Up!”

“I can’t stand!”

“Oh, you muddahfuckin’ bitch, you. I said—” Twon rushed Turtle, dipped down, and scooped the tweaker under the arms, “—git up!”

Turtle’s hip popped as he was lifted from the floor. Strangely enough, the joint felt better. Then Twon shoved Turtle back into the lip of the sink and an all-new pain shot from his coccyx to his neck.

When Turtle could focus on the surrounding world again, Twon had a nine-inch butcher knife clutched in one hand. Turtle didn’t know at what point Twon had grabbed the shiny piece of cutlery, but he recognized the crimson handle. The knife had come in a Paula Deen gift set that Turtle had bought Jennifer three Christmases ago, back before she hooked him on crank. Before the scratching and the weight loss. Before some angry meth-producing islander seemed intent on carving Turtle from his shell.

“Imma fuck you up, kid. I won’ me money, and me won’ it now, seen?” Twon’s eyes twinkled with menace.

“I ain’t got it. I’m sor—“

Twon slashed with the Paula Deen Special and Turtle’s left bicep split like a rotten tomato. Turtle’s knees disappeared. It wasn’t the pain that made him collapse; it was the blood. All that glistening red flowing from his arm. As he fell, he cracked his head on the lip of the counter. He should’ve blacked out, but the Twon situation alongside a shattering case of the DTs had his adrenaline going. He clutched his lacerated arm, sobbing. He could see muscle between his fingers. There was something white in there, under the blood.

That’s your bone, Turtle, he thought. He cried louder.

Twon didn’t approach him. Instead, the cook turned on his heel and moved toward the hall. He vanished into the corridor.

Fight or flight was not a question Turtle bothered himself with. Only one verb popped into his head. Flee. Still clutching his gushing bicep, Turtle slid himself up the cabinets at his back, inch by inch, until he was standing. He could hear Twon making a fuss in the bedroom, tossing what sounded like dresser drawers this way and that. The cook was busy. Turtle could escape.

Turtle hobbled toward the busted-down front door. His limping gait slowly became a jog as he rushed through the empty frame and down the four wooden steps to the gravel dooryard.

A beastly, wall of a man looked at Turtle over the barrel of a shotgun. The bore seemed to smile at him. This new guy was just as white as Turtle, but twice as big; corn-fed and blond to boot. Turtle came to an unsteady stop two feet in front of the stranger.

“Yo, Twon!” the stranger called as he racked the slide. “Your bird’s leavin’ his nest!”

Turtle craned his head back in time to see Twon coming down the steps. The cook shook his head as he went.

“The fuck you t’ink you doin’?” Twon pointed the tip of the Paula Deen Special at Turtle’s chin. Gingerly, Twon touched the blade to the underside of Turtle’s jaw and rotated it, as one does with a screwdriver. “You wan’ die tonigh’, Turt’?”

Turtle shook his head. The knife cut into him. Warm blood slid down his neck. He froze. Snot ran from his cupid’s bow, across his lips, and over his chin. He didn’t dare suck it back up. Any more movement would surely be greeted with death.

“Ollie,” Twon hitched his chin at the stranger, “git tha duct tape outta tha trunk. Make a mummy outta `im, seen?”

“Yup,” Ollie said.

Gravel crunched under the stranger’s feet as he went about his duties. The trunk popped open. Things banged around inside. Ollie returned. A slow rip sounded as the heavy adhesive tape was unwound.

Turtle didn’t take his eyes off Twon as Ollie rounded him with the duct tape, securing Turtle’s arms to his sides. The pressure would stop the bleeding in his arm; at least, Turtle hoped it would. When Ollie was done, Turtle couldn’t feel his hands. His circulation had been cut off. Gotta take the good with the bad, he thought. Though he was currently doing his best impression of King Tut, Twon had yet to kill him.

“Now,” said Twon, “we go’n go back inside t’ talk. Ollie, bring `im.”

As Twon walked back up the steps, Ollie shoved the shotgun in between Turtle’s shoulder blades and dug in. Turtle took the steps one at a time, trying to prolong what little time he had left in this world.

Back inside, Ollie directed Turtle to the worn leather sofa. Ollie pushed him down on top of the cushions. Turtle landed on his side. Twon helped him sit up then dragged the glass-topped coffee table flush with Turtle’s shins. Atop the glass sat Jennifer’s Scooby Doo pipe, a fund-less Green Dot prepaid card, a thin coat of powder leftover from the last of Twon’s meth, and the empty Bic lighter. Twon brushed the drug paraphernalia onto the floor and sat down on the glass.

“Where yo bitch?” Twon asked.

“She went off with some trick to try and score your money. The dude only had enough to pay for a lay, so she made him take her to an ATM. But that… that was hours ago.”

“Wha’ time?”

“I don’t know, man!”

The Paula Deen Special slid into Turtle’s bare thigh, as if Twon were doing nothing more than placing it back in its sheath. Turtle bucked in pain. The knife jerked and the incision grew longer. Turtle could feel the tip of the knife scraping against his femur.

Turtle exploded, “For fuck’s sake, maybe three hours ago! Four… I don’t know!”

Ollie said, “Might should ask him who the guy is that she went off with.”

Twon nodded in agreement. “Who she run off wit’?”

“Some guy my buddy Kirk put her on to.” Turtle tried not to squirm, for fear that the butcher’s knife would open his leg further, but he couldn’t help it. Not only had the pain become dizzying but the ants were back, too. And he couldn’t scratch. Somehow, that was the worst thing of all.

“You don’ got a name?” Twon asked.

“Fuck naw, man. He’s… he’s just some teen out t’ score some pussy.”

“You whore out your old lady?” Ollie grimaced. “You balls deep in secondhand materials. Yuck.”

“How your buddy know this guy?” Twon asked.

“They room together.” Turtle’s breaths were coming easier now, and the pain in his leg had subsided. He’d heard somewhere that the body shuts off receptors to alleviate the agony of death. God damn, he hoped that wasn’t the case here.

“Where this?”

Turtle saw a light at the end of the tunnel—a little beacon of hope. Words fell out of him. “In Fredericksburg. Nancy Lane Apartments. Corner of North Brundidge and Ridgeon. Kirk Something-or-other. He lives in 10C.”

“I know the place,” Ollie said. “Nice digs. What’s this Kirk guy do?”

“I don’t know. He spends most his time working out. Why the fuck does it matter?”

“So he’s a big guy?” Ollie asked.

Turtle shrugged. “You got a street-sweeper tucked under your arm, man. Ain’t nobody bigger `n that.”

“What we do wit `im?” Twon asked Ollie.

Turtle’s brain misfired and he hiccupped, as if the two actions were connected somehow. Things were coming together. It no longer seemed as if Twon was the boss and Ollie the lackey. Turtle doubted that Ollie was in charge, though, as Twon had ordered him to bring Turtle inside. Partners, maybe, but not boss and subordinate.

“You got a knife. Handle it.” Ollie glanced down at his shotgun before heading for the door. “Ammo’s expensive these days.”

Turtle deflated. “No.”

Twon gave him a soft, almost kind face. “I trusted you, Turt’. I don’ trust lightly, seen? Goodnigh’, muddahfuckah.”

The knife came out of Turtle’s thigh. The addict didn’t feel it. There were no shouts or pleas for his life. The ants stopped marching. He laid his head on the back of the sofa.

Twon slit his throat.

Turtle took a long time dying.

30 Day Book Challenge – Day 07

 

Day 07 – A book that makes you laugh.

The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove

I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as hard while reading as I did when the giant lizard attempted to mate with the tanker truck. Comedic genius.

30 Day Book Challenge – Day 06

Day 06 – A book that makes you sad.

Joe Cafe is one of the bleakest stories I have ever read. JD Mader’s debut novel proves that one can get emotionally attached to villains as well as protagonists. There really isn’t a clear good guy in the entire book. Everyone is flawed. JD does a terrific job in building empathy for his antagonists, and will have you questioning your own ethics and morals by making his heavies tug upon your heart strings. This is one of those books that I will never read again. Not because it’s poorly written. But because the ending floored me, and I don’t want to revisit that dark corner of humainty. Expect not an ounce of happily ever after here. Joe Cafe doesn’t concern itself with the evil lurking in the hearts of men. Rather, what good lurks in the heart of evil.

30 Day Challenge – Day 05

 

Day 05 – A book that makes you happy.

I read this one when it first came out because a friend from work recommended it. I typically don’t like Grisham. I don’t know what it is about him, but I just don’t enjoy the way he writes. Not saying he’s a bad author, just that, personally, I don’t dig him. Anyway, I do, however, dig this book. It’s one of the first comedies I remember reading all the way through. Before this book it was all King, Koontz, Little, Laymon, Ketchum, and so on. If there was blood and murder and monsters and evil, I was in. I didn’t have time for happy crappy like feel-good lit. Skipping Christmas changed all that. I matured a great deal after reading this book. I have certain chapters from this book that I will go back and read whenever I’m feeling down. Better than Prozac, eh?

Oh, and don’t even mention the travesty of cinema known as Christmas with the Kranks. I don’t believe that any adaptation can ruin the source material because the original work remains the same, but the movie based on this book is an affront to Grisham’s story. I haven’t watched a Tim Allen movie since.

30 Day Book Challenge – Day 04

 

Day 04 – Favorite book of your favorite series.

D’oh! I answered this one yesterday. This is what I get for not reading ahead. Oh well. My fav of my fav is Odd Interlude. If you wanna know why, read my post from yesterday. Later!

30 Day Book Challenge – Day 03

Day 03 – Your favorite series.

This is kind of a no-brainer for me. Though Dean Koontz’s fry cook and I have quite the love/hate relationship, I’ve liked more Odd Thomas novels than I’ve disliked. Yes, Forever Odd should have been skipped, and Deeply Odd could have used a little more… well… everything, but at least they’re readable. My personal favorites in the series are Odd Interlude and, the book that started it all, Odd Thomas. And yes, in that order. There’s something about Odd Interlude that reminds me of classic Koontz. Dean’s biggest success in my eyes is making me feel scared for Odd in Interlude. I knew there was another book coming, namely Odd Apocalypse, but I was still concerned that Odd might finally die.

On a side note: My second favorite series is also by Dean Koontz’s. The Christopher Snow books are amazing (Fear Nothing and Seize the Night), but it’s been over a decade since we’ve had a Snow novel. Chris’s home of Moonlight Bay is mentioned in Odd Interlude, which makes this fan wonder if Odd and Chris might rub elbows in the near future. Dean Koontz, before you die, make that happen.

30 Day Book Challenge – Day 02

Day 02 – A book you’ve read more than three times.

It, by Stephen King. I’ve read it four times, and have listened to the audiobook once. This book is not for everyone. It is by far King’s most verbose read. But by the end you’re left with a sense of knowing, as if you’ve grown up with these people and lived your life right next door to them. Another reason I’ve read this one so many time is because it’s over 1000 pages long, so by the time it’s over I’ve forgotten how it began.

30 Day Book Challenge – Day 01

Day 01 – Best book you read last year.

Horns, by Joe Hill. Ig Perrish is still with me. The jumps from past to present were part of the inspiration for the structure of my novel, Life After Dane. The right information at the right time can make a world of difference in a story.

 

Ruminating On: Braineater Jones

I’ve been doing this blog for two years now. If you peruse my offerings you will find nothing like what’s about to happen. In other words, I don’t do interviews. At least not as the interviewer. So, why did I decide to throw questions at Stephen Kozeniewski? Because he’s good, folks. Really good.

Stephen’s debut novel, Braineater Jones, first garnered my attention back when Red Adept Publishing announced they had acquired his book. The title intrigued me. But when I read the description, I knew I wouldn’t be passing this one by. Now, for full-disclosure purposes and whatnot, you should know that Stephen and I have both been published under the Red Adept imprint. We even share the same genre: horror/thriller. Because of this, I cannot review the book. I wish I could, though. In fact, it breaks my heart that I can’t. I have a short list of favorite authors, mostly consisting of big dogs like Stephen King, Joe Hill, and Chuck Palahniuk, and, now, Stephen Kozeniewski.

So, without further ego inflation…

E: Stephen! It’s a pleasure to have bounding around the hallowed halls of Ruminating On. I want to start this with the obligatory “Where did the idea for Braineater Jones come from?” question. While you’re thinking of your answer, I’m going to have a couple fingers of Old Crow. Fancy a zozzle?

SK: Thanks for having me, Ed! Normally when a horror author tells me I broke his heart, I worry that I’m going to end up like Fredo at the end of The Godfather Part II. But in this case I choose to take it as a compliment.

So, the story of the genesis of Braineater Jones (or, as I call it, “the jonesis”) is mildly interesting and wholly peculiar. I was watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade one day and I got to the part where the ludicrously hammy actor playing the German tank colonel yells out, “WO IST JOOOOOOOONES?” (Translation: “WHERE IS JOOOOOOOONES?” God bless my liberal arts degree.)

For the next few days I walked around yelling, “WO IST JOOOOOOOONES?” which gradually morphed into “BRAINEATER JOOOOOOOONES!” Then I began to think about who might have such an appellation. I realized it could be only one thing: a noir zombie detective. The rest, as they say, is history.

As to your offer, I have only one response: When Dr. James Crow invented the sour mash process in 1835, he revolutionized Kentucky bourbon making. Old Crow soon became the world’s best selling bourbon. Through the years, Old Crow has often been imitated but never duplicated. Enjoy the true original!

E: I’ve had some pretty far out or off the wall story ideas, but none that evolved from repeating a line from a movie over and over again. I have, however, run around the house reciting the poetry that is the Howard the Duck script. Don’t judge me. Moving on!

Did you outline/brainstorm/plot the novel, or did the the whole thing just kinda fall out of you?

SK: [Howard the Duck] George Lucas’s greatest film, bar none.

Hmm, interesting question. In terms of brainstorming, I do recall that one day in 2009 I went to my day job (I was working at a call center at the time), had a sudden visit from the muse, and scribbled the entire worldbuilding in a Steno pad in one day during smoke breaks. I think that my flash of inspiration was that booze is what makes the zombies work, and then the rest all just poured (ha!) out of me. I think I called this document “The Rules” and I may still have it somewhere…

As for the outlining/plotting business, my apologies but I’m not wading into that debate. I don’t even usually like to invoke the unpleasantly juvenile terms that we in the writing community have for some ungodly reason assigned to these matters. I rarely write more than a note or two to myself in the Word document I’m working in, but I usually have an idea of what story points my characters will hit, which then tends to fall into place during showers when I should be paying closer attention to my loofah. So your readers can choose whichever “P” term they’d like to assign to me based on that. I remain staunchly agnostic on the matter.

E: Good answer. I must say, though, I’m shocked you’ve used the Z-word twice, as I didn’t see it once in the book. Did you make a conscious effort to keep “Zombie” out of the book? If so, why?

SK: Ah, a man of discerning taste! It’s true, I don’t use the Z-word in the book and there are two reasons for that. The first is that in the 1930’s the word was not in common use, and certainly had nothing to do with our modern usage. IF a character had heard it he MIGHT have thought it meant something like “mindless slave.” You’ll have no doubt noticed some of the winking nods I made to the Z-word anyway, including the drink that Lazar orders at one point. When an actual Haitian witch doctor is introduced he assumes that Jones is not a mindless “zombie” but rather a “jumbee” or a sort of a backwards-headed revenant from Caribbean folklore. Of course, in such an over-the-top story there was only so much anachronism I was worried about. The second and “real” reason I didn’t use the word is because it’s a long-standing tradition not to in zombie literature. This goes back to Romero’s original Night of the Living Dead, which introduced the concept of the modern flesh-eating walking corpse. Yet you’ll note the word “zombie” is never uttered once in the film. The most commonly used term in the movie is “ghoul” although we also got to enjoy such exciting euphemisms as “murder-happy characters.” In conversation and meta-context, though, I don’t mind it. (It’s in the glossary and on the back cover, for instance.) People need to know what you’re talking about.

E: I hadn’t thought of the prevalence of the word at that time in history. Good deal. Speaking of words used and unused, I loved that the word “Braineater” is a derogatory term in the novel; it added a certain reality to the fiction. The same thing with alcohol’s role in the book. The undead having to drink to maintain mental stability (in turn, pickling and preserving their minds) was one of the many things regarding your book that I will be talking about for some time. That, and the options which Hat Scratch Fever offers their clientele in the book. When the folks at home read it, they’ll understand just how disgustingly brilliant that bit is.

Let’s talk about things of the disgustingly brilliant variety for a moment. The cover states, “Corpses in Lust… It’s as gross as it sounds!” and you do indeed offer such things in the novel. Did the thought ever occur to you that certain scenes (I don’t want to spoil anything here) might be… going too far, or do you laugh in the face of such a question?

SK: No, I don’t laugh in the face of such a question. It’s a perfectly legitimate concern. However, I don’t believe in censorship, even self-censorship (in most cases.) For one thing, I wasn’t setting out to write a middle grade or young adult book. BRAINEATER JONES is strictly for adults. And even more than that, it’s horror. Horror fans are jaded, and they love their gore, so I didn’t feel compelled to rein in any of the disgusting stuff. Besides, it’s not like I’m the next Carlton Mellick III or Edward Lee. In spite of its more gruesome details, BRAINEATER JONES is tame compared to some of the stuff I read (and even some of the stuff I write.) I like to think that gorehounds will get their fix but there’s enough humorous “sugar” to help the medicine go down for everybody else.

E: Ah, a man after my own heart. You mentioned Carlton Mellick III. I thought I knew all three of his fans (me being a member of the trio). The Baby Jesus Butt Plug and The Menstruating Mall are two of my favorites. Do you have a favorite Mellick novel? Razor Wire Pubic Hair, perhaps?

SK: What, no love for Cuddly Holocaust or Tumor Fruit? Ha, sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have gone name-dropping somebody I haven’t read more widely. My favorite work of his is “Lemon Knives ‘n’ Cockroaches”, which is actually a short story, but it is probably the single work of fiction which most haunts my nightmares, barring Lee’s Mr. Torso. Oh, and that part in Looper where they started vivisecting the guy and it happened in real time to his future self…

E: I haven’t read Lee’s Mr. Torso. I’ll have to check that one out. Man, we got off on a tangent. Let me see if I can rein us back in. Where were we? Right, Braineater Jones.

Having loved your debut novel, I have to ask, can we expect more from the undead P.I.? If so, how long do you see the series running?

SK: Hoo boy, that’s a toughie. This book came from a very singular place during a very singular time in my life. I can’t imagine getting back into that headspace again. But if popular support demanded it I wouldn’t shirk my duty to write a sequel. So as not to dodge your question, my plans for HARDCHARGER JONES (if I ever write it) would involve everyone’s favorite deadhead coaching a Harlem Globetrotters-esque minor league baseball team. (When your readers get to the end of BRAINEATER they’ll know what I’m talking about.) Ultimately he and his very, shall we say, “unique” baseballers would be called upon to parachute into France for a Dirty Dozen-style mission at the onset of World War II. Right now the best thing you and your fans can do to make that happen is to buy the book, spread the gospel, and possibly start a Save Jericho-type peanut-sending campaign to demand a sequel. I’m not made of stone, after all. (And I love peanuts.)

E: As do we all! Even those of us with peanut allergies can see the seductive quality inherent in those tasty little nuts.

Well, folks, that’s all the time we have for today. I’d like to express my sincerest appreciation to Stephen for stopping by. It’s Halloween, and I have pumpkins to carve, children to dress, and candy to devour. You, on the other hand, have a new favorite book to meet. Braineater Jones, by Stephen Kozeniewski is available now.

Any final words, Stephen?

SK: So long, and thanks for all the fish!

 

To find out more about Stephen or buy your copy of Braineater Jones, click one of the links below.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Braineater-Jones-Stephen-Kozeniewski/dp/1940215188/

Barnes & Noble:  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/braineater-jones-stephen-kozeniewski/1117077618?ean=2940148612100

Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/braineater-jones

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id715553980

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18226374-braineater-jones

Book Page on RAP: http://redadeptpublishing.com/braineater-jones-by-stephen-kozeniewski/

Author page on RAP:  http://redadeptpublishing.com/stephen-kozeniewski/

Ruminating On: The Top Ten Dos and Don’ts of NaNoWriMo

WARNING: Adult language and other naughty content.

Why am I an expert on NaNoWriMo? Well, in seven years I’ve never failed to finish, if that means anything. And I normally finish before the two week mark. And I’ve successfully published two novels that were completed during National Novel Writing Month. And, well, other reasons. Truth is you’re either going to listen to me or you’re not. Let’s get on with it.

#10. Do not research. I’m not only talking about writing what you know, rather writing what you don’t know without researching it. Many writers fail this thirty day challenge because they get bogged down in the facts. No good novel is written, my friends. It’s rewritten. Get all the ideas out and on the page (digital or otherwise) during Nano then fix all the broken bits during post-production. Namely, December and beyond. And if you absolutely must research so that your story can be written, do that crap before November 1st.

#9. Do use filler words. This may seem obvious, but you wouldn’t believe how many authors I know who get stuck on simple things like character names or locations. Or that one thing that does something but they can’t remember exactly what it’s called. Or they get stuck on the right word for the occasion. What’s a nineteen letter word for government? Who gives a shit? If you’re looking up that nineteen letter word right now, this very second, you probably won’t finish NaNoWriMo. Some famous author once said, “Any word that needs to be looked up in a thesaurus is almost always the wrong word for the job.” And I’m not going to look up who said that either. Why? Because I’m preparing for Nano. Deal with it. The answer to this dilemma is filler words. Use them. Don’t know the name of that side character on page fourteen? Call him Shithead. When you finally figure out his name, do a search for Shithead in you word doc then replace every occurrence. Problem solved.

#8. Do no harm. Do not edit, revise, rewrite, coffee stain, scissor, piss upon, wipe ass with, or alter your Nano Novel in any way, shape, or form until December 1st. If it’s already written, let it be. Even if you know it’s the biggest, steamiest pile of ass plunder you’ve ever pillaged from your booty, leave it the Christ alone. You’re not helping yourself in anyway by removing it. I promise. The only thing you are doing is distracting yourself from the bigger picture. Are you cheating by leaving in some nonsense you know won’t be used in the final product? Isn’t that knowingly bloating your word count? Nope. Any of you that have played with a good editor will know that almost everything is expendable. The goal of NaNoWriMo is completion. Proving to yourself that you can finish the month and come out the other side with 50,000 words strung together with some kind of reason. Quick story. I know a guy who wrote a 65k novel for Nano only to whittle that bastard down to just under 25k so that it could be sold as a novella. There’s not much left of that original 65k story line, but that’s not the point, now, is it? Nope. Moving on.

#7. Do find writer-y type friends to do NaNoWriMo with. Sure, you can use non-writers for this step, but, like any good holiday, Nano is best celebrated with like-minded company. I mean, it’s perfectly acceptable to spend Christmas with your Jewish friend, but they’re not going to have as much fun as you’re going to have. Hunt down other writers who’re going to participate, who you can bounce daily word counts off of, who’ll appreciate the fact that you just shat out 7k of random verbiage in as many hours. Non-writer friends won’t appreciate those numbers but another writer will.

#6. Do drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, eat Cheetos, have porn playing in the background or whatever other addiction keeps you hyped and ready to work. I’m not your preacher. I’m not going to judge you. If you need to rub one out to boost your creativity, go for it. If you have to snort a line of coke, so be it. More than likely, though, you don’t need my permission to do those aforementioned things, but I’m here to build you up, not tear you down.  Drugs are bad, mm’kay. But do what you gotta do. In other words, if you’re a writer who’s also an inhalant junkie who’s planning on participating in Nano, don’t pick November as the month to quit huffing gas.

#5. Do over-inflate your ego. You’re a badass. Nothing can stop you. Your shit don’t stink. And your preferred gender finds you irresistible. Everyone wants you—Hell, they need you—to finish this book. If you write fifty grand worth of sexy-ass, underwear-dropping words this month, you’ll change the world. This month is all about you! Own it! (Disclaimer: If you’re married, in a relationship, or plan on being around another living soul at all this month, I suggest you keep these thoughts to yourself. This is mental stimulation, not fact. You’ve been warned.)

#4. Do not track your word count. “Whoa! Has this guy lost his mind? Dafuq you mean don’t track your word count?” Calm down, imaginary person inside my head. What I mean is this. Do not check your word count as you’re writing. Wait until you think you’re done for the day then clickety-clack that word count button. To calm those individuals out there who’re screaming, “But what if I haven’t reached my goal, Ass Panda?” My answer is, write more. You don’t need the distraction. Checking your word count every ten minutes isn’t going to help you. It’s going to take you out of the zone. Nothing’s more depressing than thinking you’ve written two thousand words but finding that you’ve only actually written three hundred. On the other side of the coin, let’s say your word count goal is 3k, but, upon checking in, you’ve written more than thirty-five hundred words. Some of you might stop there even though you have more story to get out. You want to pace yourself. Well, you, good sir or madam, are an idiot. Keep the fire stoked and keep on writing. Forget the count and the count will amass. If you properly lose yourself in your writing, I can guarantee you at least two thousand words a sitting. Promise. That’s that magic. True Jedi shit.

#3. If you have the means, do find someone to feed your animals and make you the occasional sandwich. Seriously, you’re going to need it. Writing, like any other addiction, can replace everyday necessities. See, I found an intelligent, beautiful, all-around-wonderful human being when I found my wife. She suffers my need to write—as do my children—and will pop in on occasion to remind me to sleep, shower, and sustain myself. If it wasn’t for her, I would have fused with my office chair a long time ago. I’m not proud of it, but them’s the facts. Writing ten thousand words a day is all well and good, but you must leave the fiction behind at some point. This may seem to go against everything I’ve said thus far, but not really. Peep this, kids. If you write 10k today, but end up putting yourself in a coma-like state for the next week by doing so, you’ve accomplished nothing. Know your limits or find someone who will know them for you.

#2. Do not lie about your word count. And, no, this is not a No Shit, Sherlock situation. You’re not hurting anyone but yourself. Seriously, there’s no gold medal for finishing. The only reward is knowing that you completed the required word count. It takes a real Douchenozzle Von Shizahead to lie about something as self-serving as NaNoWriMo, but these fuckeroos do exist. Some people will do anything for a badge they could easily steal off Google Images.

#1. I know you’ve all been waiting for it, so I’ll close this out with the motto by which I live. It’s the only guaranteed way to become a writer, really. Ready for it? Here goes…

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND WRITE!