Joe Hart's Blog, page 3
July 23, 2014
DarkFuse Publication
I'm totally thrilled to announce that DarkFuse will be publishing Leave The Living, a novella I wrote earlier this year!
I've been admiring DarkFuse and their excellent offerings for quite some time now and when I wrote Leave The Living, I thought that they would be a perfect match for the story. Fortunately they thought so too!
If all goes according to plan, the novella should be out late this year. In the coming weeks I'll have more info about the release that I'll share with everyone. I'm really excited and can't wait for you all to read it!
Thanks goes out to my family as well as Dave Thomas and Shane Staley at DarkFuse!
June 18, 2014
Widow Town Is Live!
So the post title says it all. Widow Town is now for sale on Kindle at Amazon, you can find it here.
If you like thrillers, mystery, horror, and a little romance thrown in for good measure, I'm guessing you'll dig the book. Check it out if you get time and let me know what you think!
June 11, 2014
Sneak Peek Of Widow Town
My latest novel is coming out next week with a scheduled date of Tuesday the 17th! Really excited about this book since it's very different than anything I've ever written. It's more of straight-up thriller set a hundred years in the future where there is no such thing as a serial killer. I really hope you all will check it out when it's released but for now here's a sample of the first couple chapters. Enjoy!
Widow Town
Text copyright © 2014 by Joe HartAll rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To Mr. Brown, wherever you are. Thanks for the guidance and inspiration and for believing in me when I was just a kid with ideas. Sorry I didn’t stop to see you that last time. I didn’t know it was the last time.
Chapter 1
A scream woke him, cut off before it could reach its crescendo. Ryan came to laying on a hardwood floor, tasting blood in his mouth, his blood. He tried to sit up and found he could. He was in a house, a hallway. Its walls were familiar but not home. He blinked and let the memories outside the door of his mind flood inward. A whoop came from nearby and Darrin walked through a doorway to the left carrying his big knife, the one that gleamed even in the dark. Darrin’s dark eyes caught and pinned him to the floor.“Whatcha doin’ down there little brother?” “Passed out, I think.” “You think? I’m pretty sure you did, so’s that cooze you were supposed to be watching when she knocked you over. You cracked your head on the floor.” Ryan put a hand to the back of his skull, ran his fingers over a growing knob there, a golf ball half buried under his scalp. “What’d you do to her?” Ryan asked.Darrin knelt close to him, a reek of cigarettes, sweat, and something else coming off his skin. “What do you think I did, little brother?” Adam clunked toward them through the hall, his big boots like hammers on the wood floor. A crooked grin hung off the side of his mouth, his right canine peeking out. He held the steel contraption in one hand. Darrin pivoted without standing.“Done?” “Done,” Adam said, the smile getting wider. “You didn’t leave anything?”“Nope.” “You’re sure? Because one fucking drop of saliva and you’re going to prison, my friend.” Adam seemed to consider it, the wheels turning, slow but sure. “Nope.” “Good.” Darrin turned his attention back to Ryan. “Get up, your mouth’s bleeding.” Ryan nodded, wiping at his teeth with his jacket sleeve. He pushed himself onto his feet and rubbed the back of his head again, the lump there feeling larger through the gloves he wore. “We good?” Darrin asked, panning from Adam to Ryan and back again.“Yep.” “Yeah,” Ryan answered. “Then let’s go.” Outside the frogs harped from a slue somewhere in the dark. A swarm of gnats gathered around them as soon as their feet hit the ground and Ryan only had a moment to look up and see the half moon soaring overhead before he heard Darrin emptying out his little container on the front porch. There was a whoosh of the gas igniting and then orange light bloomed across the house, throwing their shadows into long shapes on the lawn. Ryan glanced at Darrin, his eyes alight with the dancing flames and with some internal burning. He’s on fire inside, Ryan thought as Adam walked past him toward the van parked near the edge of the vegetable garden. Darrin followed him and made his eyebrows jump once as he passed Ryan, his eyes dark again. “We go, little brother, we go.” They piled into the Ford. Darrin behind the wheel and Ryan in the middle. Adam rolled down his window, the sideways grin back on his face as Darrin rounded the van on the gravel drive, and pulled away from the burning farmhouse.
Chapter 2
“When did they start pissing in the coffee around here?” MacArthur Gray lowered his own cup, tasting the bitter tang and gave his deputy a look. “Joseph, how many times are you going to say that?” “I suppose until they quit doing it over at the diner.” “I would say that’s an awful rude assumption you’re making.”“What? That they urinate in the coffee?” “Yep, I find the flavor to be closer to cigarette butts and toilet bowl cleaner. Piss has a different taste entirely.” Deputy Ruthers gave the sheriff a glance and burst out laughing, slopping a little coffee onto his pants and the car seat. “Now damn it, Joseph, look what you’ve done.” “Sorry, Sheriff, apologies.” Gray focused on the dirt road and the sun seeming to rise directly from its end. A field to the left rose and fell with head-high cornstalks for acres beyond measure, their green color standing out against everything else dead or dying. Dust plumed behind the cruiser in a cloud, the sky already a mocking blue. No rain in weeks. “They sure it was a house fire? Could be Jacobs is just burning a brush pile or something?” Ruthers said. “They didn’t say, but any and all smoke has to be looked into right now, there’s a burning ban and Jacobs knows better than most what a spark could do around here.” Gray saw Ruthers shoot him a look and then glance back at the road. “What do you really think, Sheriff?” “I don’t know.” “What’s your gut tell you?” “That I didn’t eat enough this morning.” Gray piloted the cruiser around a sharp bend, a flock of blackbirds bursting from the roadside in a flay of wings and beaded eyes. A finger of smoke rose above the trees to the right and Gray turned the car into the long dirt drive, past a pitted mailbox, the letters worn away to almost nothing. When the house came into view Ruthers inhaled and set his coffee in the center console. “Well shit,” Gray said. The front of the Jacobses’ house was a blackened mess. The covered porch was gone and soot ran in vertical streams up the siding. The windows, trimmed with white decorative shutters before, were blackened, their glass shattered or cracked. The shingles were curled up in a greeting and a bit of rubble that might’ve been a glider swing still smoked. Ruthers started speaking into the radio, calling back to Mary Jo, telling her they would need the fire truck from Wheaton. Gray parked a dozen yards from the smoking structure and stepped out into the morning air that smelled of cooked paint and char. “Get that hose going off the side of the house there will you, Joseph?” “Yes sir.” Gray picked his way toward the front porch, seeing the screen door gone, the brass knob blackened like a nub of coal. With long strides, he made his way around the side of the farmhouse, seeing that the rest of the structure looked untouched by the flames. The buzzing of flies sizzled to his left and he looked at the doghouse near the edge of the woods, the dead dog lying at its entrance. Its throat was slit, a red gap ringed by clotted fur gone from gold to burgundy like a sunset. Gray drew his weapon. The Colt 1911 Long Slide came out of the holster in a seamless glide of pitch-black steel. Gray made sure the safety was off before moving around to the back of the house. The backdoor was unlocked and opened without a sound into a small mudroom. Work boots stood in pairs beside brightly colored sandals. A wooden sitting-bench lined one wall and a low freezer stood against the opposite. Gray waited, listening to the quiet. Except for the hush of Ruthers squirting water against the smoldering front porch, there was nothing. No sounds of life, no dishes banging or footsteps coming to investigate his presence. After another minute Ruthers approached from outside and stepped in behind him.“Sheriff—”“Get that fancy pistol out of your holster, Joseph, there’s something wrong here.” Ruthers struggled with the nylon straps holding his Deacon .7 Striker and finally released it, touching the digital thumbprint reader on its handle twice in quick succession. The weapon issued a short click. “What is it?” Gray didn’t answer for a long time, still listening, hoping. “The smell.” “I don’t smell anything,” Ruthers whispered, his eyes looking past the sheriff’s wide back. “You will.” They moved through the house, Ruthers pointing his gun into each doorway as they went, Gray holding his at the floor, his dark eyes watching. The kitchen stood empty, late August sunshine filling the space up with orange light so thick it looked solid. Pans sat on the counter, a layer of grease coating one, another half cleaned in the sink. The faucet dripped once, breaking the silence. Gray walked into the dining room, his boots clicking against the hardwood floor. A vase set with flowers lay on its side on the dinner table. Water pooled on the floor in Rorschach patterns, yellow petals became miniature boats on their surfaces. The smell got stronger and Gray stopped, glancing to his right at a stairway that ran up into relative darkness. Ahead the front entry and living room were empty, the TV blank except for an elongated reflection of his movement. A white door to the right stood closed, its paint clean and fresh as if applied the day before. A collage of pressed flowers against a blue paper background hung from its middle. Gray moved to the door, his breathing steady, still listening, waiting. He gripped the doorknob, pointing the long barreled Colt straight up. Ruthers moved in to his other side, the Deacon at shoulder level, its barrel flashing a small red light every three seconds. Gray nodded once and waited until Ruthers returned the signal. Gray flung the door open, readjusting his position, bending his knees, his finger tightening on the trigger. The smell was awful and only the sight was worse.“My God in heaven,” Ruthers managed before he covered his mouth with one hand and stepped back. Gray stood in the doorway looking into the pink-walled bedroom and finally dropped his gaze to the splattered floor before closing his eyes to a sight he knew he’d never forget.
Widow Town
Text copyright © 2014 by Joe HartAll rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To Mr. Brown, wherever you are. Thanks for the guidance and inspiration and for believing in me when I was just a kid with ideas. Sorry I didn’t stop to see you that last time. I didn’t know it was the last time.
Chapter 1
A scream woke him, cut off before it could reach its crescendo. Ryan came to laying on a hardwood floor, tasting blood in his mouth, his blood. He tried to sit up and found he could. He was in a house, a hallway. Its walls were familiar but not home. He blinked and let the memories outside the door of his mind flood inward. A whoop came from nearby and Darrin walked through a doorway to the left carrying his big knife, the one that gleamed even in the dark. Darrin’s dark eyes caught and pinned him to the floor.“Whatcha doin’ down there little brother?” “Passed out, I think.” “You think? I’m pretty sure you did, so’s that cooze you were supposed to be watching when she knocked you over. You cracked your head on the floor.” Ryan put a hand to the back of his skull, ran his fingers over a growing knob there, a golf ball half buried under his scalp. “What’d you do to her?” Ryan asked.Darrin knelt close to him, a reek of cigarettes, sweat, and something else coming off his skin. “What do you think I did, little brother?” Adam clunked toward them through the hall, his big boots like hammers on the wood floor. A crooked grin hung off the side of his mouth, his right canine peeking out. He held the steel contraption in one hand. Darrin pivoted without standing.“Done?” “Done,” Adam said, the smile getting wider. “You didn’t leave anything?”“Nope.” “You’re sure? Because one fucking drop of saliva and you’re going to prison, my friend.” Adam seemed to consider it, the wheels turning, slow but sure. “Nope.” “Good.” Darrin turned his attention back to Ryan. “Get up, your mouth’s bleeding.” Ryan nodded, wiping at his teeth with his jacket sleeve. He pushed himself onto his feet and rubbed the back of his head again, the lump there feeling larger through the gloves he wore. “We good?” Darrin asked, panning from Adam to Ryan and back again.“Yep.” “Yeah,” Ryan answered. “Then let’s go.” Outside the frogs harped from a slue somewhere in the dark. A swarm of gnats gathered around them as soon as their feet hit the ground and Ryan only had a moment to look up and see the half moon soaring overhead before he heard Darrin emptying out his little container on the front porch. There was a whoosh of the gas igniting and then orange light bloomed across the house, throwing their shadows into long shapes on the lawn. Ryan glanced at Darrin, his eyes alight with the dancing flames and with some internal burning. He’s on fire inside, Ryan thought as Adam walked past him toward the van parked near the edge of the vegetable garden. Darrin followed him and made his eyebrows jump once as he passed Ryan, his eyes dark again. “We go, little brother, we go.” They piled into the Ford. Darrin behind the wheel and Ryan in the middle. Adam rolled down his window, the sideways grin back on his face as Darrin rounded the van on the gravel drive, and pulled away from the burning farmhouse.
Chapter 2
“When did they start pissing in the coffee around here?” MacArthur Gray lowered his own cup, tasting the bitter tang and gave his deputy a look. “Joseph, how many times are you going to say that?” “I suppose until they quit doing it over at the diner.” “I would say that’s an awful rude assumption you’re making.”“What? That they urinate in the coffee?” “Yep, I find the flavor to be closer to cigarette butts and toilet bowl cleaner. Piss has a different taste entirely.” Deputy Ruthers gave the sheriff a glance and burst out laughing, slopping a little coffee onto his pants and the car seat. “Now damn it, Joseph, look what you’ve done.” “Sorry, Sheriff, apologies.” Gray focused on the dirt road and the sun seeming to rise directly from its end. A field to the left rose and fell with head-high cornstalks for acres beyond measure, their green color standing out against everything else dead or dying. Dust plumed behind the cruiser in a cloud, the sky already a mocking blue. No rain in weeks. “They sure it was a house fire? Could be Jacobs is just burning a brush pile or something?” Ruthers said. “They didn’t say, but any and all smoke has to be looked into right now, there’s a burning ban and Jacobs knows better than most what a spark could do around here.” Gray saw Ruthers shoot him a look and then glance back at the road. “What do you really think, Sheriff?” “I don’t know.” “What’s your gut tell you?” “That I didn’t eat enough this morning.” Gray piloted the cruiser around a sharp bend, a flock of blackbirds bursting from the roadside in a flay of wings and beaded eyes. A finger of smoke rose above the trees to the right and Gray turned the car into the long dirt drive, past a pitted mailbox, the letters worn away to almost nothing. When the house came into view Ruthers inhaled and set his coffee in the center console. “Well shit,” Gray said. The front of the Jacobses’ house was a blackened mess. The covered porch was gone and soot ran in vertical streams up the siding. The windows, trimmed with white decorative shutters before, were blackened, their glass shattered or cracked. The shingles were curled up in a greeting and a bit of rubble that might’ve been a glider swing still smoked. Ruthers started speaking into the radio, calling back to Mary Jo, telling her they would need the fire truck from Wheaton. Gray parked a dozen yards from the smoking structure and stepped out into the morning air that smelled of cooked paint and char. “Get that hose going off the side of the house there will you, Joseph?” “Yes sir.” Gray picked his way toward the front porch, seeing the screen door gone, the brass knob blackened like a nub of coal. With long strides, he made his way around the side of the farmhouse, seeing that the rest of the structure looked untouched by the flames. The buzzing of flies sizzled to his left and he looked at the doghouse near the edge of the woods, the dead dog lying at its entrance. Its throat was slit, a red gap ringed by clotted fur gone from gold to burgundy like a sunset. Gray drew his weapon. The Colt 1911 Long Slide came out of the holster in a seamless glide of pitch-black steel. Gray made sure the safety was off before moving around to the back of the house. The backdoor was unlocked and opened without a sound into a small mudroom. Work boots stood in pairs beside brightly colored sandals. A wooden sitting-bench lined one wall and a low freezer stood against the opposite. Gray waited, listening to the quiet. Except for the hush of Ruthers squirting water against the smoldering front porch, there was nothing. No sounds of life, no dishes banging or footsteps coming to investigate his presence. After another minute Ruthers approached from outside and stepped in behind him.“Sheriff—”“Get that fancy pistol out of your holster, Joseph, there’s something wrong here.” Ruthers struggled with the nylon straps holding his Deacon .7 Striker and finally released it, touching the digital thumbprint reader on its handle twice in quick succession. The weapon issued a short click. “What is it?” Gray didn’t answer for a long time, still listening, hoping. “The smell.” “I don’t smell anything,” Ruthers whispered, his eyes looking past the sheriff’s wide back. “You will.” They moved through the house, Ruthers pointing his gun into each doorway as they went, Gray holding his at the floor, his dark eyes watching. The kitchen stood empty, late August sunshine filling the space up with orange light so thick it looked solid. Pans sat on the counter, a layer of grease coating one, another half cleaned in the sink. The faucet dripped once, breaking the silence. Gray walked into the dining room, his boots clicking against the hardwood floor. A vase set with flowers lay on its side on the dinner table. Water pooled on the floor in Rorschach patterns, yellow petals became miniature boats on their surfaces. The smell got stronger and Gray stopped, glancing to his right at a stairway that ran up into relative darkness. Ahead the front entry and living room were empty, the TV blank except for an elongated reflection of his movement. A white door to the right stood closed, its paint clean and fresh as if applied the day before. A collage of pressed flowers against a blue paper background hung from its middle. Gray moved to the door, his breathing steady, still listening, waiting. He gripped the doorknob, pointing the long barreled Colt straight up. Ruthers moved in to his other side, the Deacon at shoulder level, its barrel flashing a small red light every three seconds. Gray nodded once and waited until Ruthers returned the signal. Gray flung the door open, readjusting his position, bending his knees, his finger tightening on the trigger. The smell was awful and only the sight was worse.“My God in heaven,” Ruthers managed before he covered his mouth with one hand and stepped back. Gray stood in the doorway looking into the pink-walled bedroom and finally dropped his gaze to the splattered floor before closing his eyes to a sight he knew he’d never forget.
May 16, 2014
Godzilla Review
So there's no words to tell you how much I was looking forward to see this movie. I watched the trailer fifty times over the last few months. I read updates on the film. I read early reviews (without spoilers) and tried not to hold my hopes too high.
But after seeing it last night I have to say the movie is...off.
I'll try to do a spoiler free portion here articulating the elements of the film and then below I'll do a more in depth pro and con list that will contain spoilers.
The film's overall sense was one that didn't hold true with traditional giant monster movies. I liked the director's other monster movie- Monsters- since it held overtones of menace for the main characters. Super 8 had a scary, coming-of-age sense that spoke to my early self in the idea of discovering something truly terrifying that grownups were either unaware of or turning a blind eye to. One of my favorite monster movies in recent years would have to be Cloverfield. Since the creature in that movie is so utterly alien and threatening, it was not only shocking to behold, but also horrifying.
Godzilla did not bring this sort of dread or similar awe that I was expecting. The monsters were cool, very cool in fact. The acting was good for the most part. But I think what held me back was the story itself got lost in the tale not knowing what it wanted to be. Is the movie a monster film? A disaster flick? A familial bond tale? A metaphor for our arrogance as humankind and our affect on the environment?
I think it tried to be all of these and fell short in each of them. There was too much emphasis put on the human side of things and not enough on the monsters themselves. Which is THE reason everyone will be going to see Godzilla in the coming weeks.
Don't get me wrong, I did enjoy the movie and will definitely see it again but there were not enough awe inspiring scenes to bring the film up to the expectations brought about by the excellent trailers. I would encourage everyone to go see it and decide whether or not they enjoy it for themselves but for me it fell a bit short.
SPOILERSSPOILERSSPOILERS
Now a quick pro and con list that sums up how I felt.
Pros:
Acting- All of the cast did okay but Bryan Cranston was by far the most talented. CGI- Excellent and in some places pure brilliant. Setting- All of the settings were very well done, great color and backdrop, especially the train scene.Godzilla's presence- When he's there, he's really there. The fire breathing was epic and the final fight scene was excellent.
Cons:
Bryan Cranston dies within a few scenes of him being reintroduced to the current story. Extremely important character who fades away before being fully realized. I think this is the biggest mistake the movie made. Cranston could have added so much more to the plot and balanced the sullen and almost annoying, downtrodden Ken Watanabe. Not hacking on Watanabe, he's an excellent actor and played his part very well, though his emotions were too muted to really call him a character. Like I said in the pros, the acting was okay but everyone seemed to be going through the motions. Not a character driven story really at all, which is what I think the director was going for. Story problems- The children in the bus trapped on the bridge. Why in the world would there be police blockading the evacuation route out of the city? Very off-putting and not an effective tension device. Elizabeth Olsen's character puts her son on a bus but stays behind because her husband says he's coming for her. The definition of a strong character is someone who makes their own decisions. She should have went with her son and tried to escape the city or at least sheltered somewhere relatively safe with him. Instead they split up and she remains in the beast's path. Very weak character, could've been much stronger. And lastly, why wasn't the city evacuated as soon as the military was sure where the monsters would converge? Monster fights- I'm all for delaying the appearance of the creatures to build tension, but after they're revealed and their first two clashes are cut off in mid-scene, I became angry. I was ready to hate the movie but the final fights between Godzilla and the Mutos redeemed it.
Overall, go see the movie and form your own opinions. I'll be watching it again to see if I can glean a bit more appreciation for it but as of right now I'm a little disappointed in what could've been an epic film.
But after seeing it last night I have to say the movie is...off.
I'll try to do a spoiler free portion here articulating the elements of the film and then below I'll do a more in depth pro and con list that will contain spoilers.
The film's overall sense was one that didn't hold true with traditional giant monster movies. I liked the director's other monster movie- Monsters- since it held overtones of menace for the main characters. Super 8 had a scary, coming-of-age sense that spoke to my early self in the idea of discovering something truly terrifying that grownups were either unaware of or turning a blind eye to. One of my favorite monster movies in recent years would have to be Cloverfield. Since the creature in that movie is so utterly alien and threatening, it was not only shocking to behold, but also horrifying.
Godzilla did not bring this sort of dread or similar awe that I was expecting. The monsters were cool, very cool in fact. The acting was good for the most part. But I think what held me back was the story itself got lost in the tale not knowing what it wanted to be. Is the movie a monster film? A disaster flick? A familial bond tale? A metaphor for our arrogance as humankind and our affect on the environment?
I think it tried to be all of these and fell short in each of them. There was too much emphasis put on the human side of things and not enough on the monsters themselves. Which is THE reason everyone will be going to see Godzilla in the coming weeks.
Don't get me wrong, I did enjoy the movie and will definitely see it again but there were not enough awe inspiring scenes to bring the film up to the expectations brought about by the excellent trailers. I would encourage everyone to go see it and decide whether or not they enjoy it for themselves but for me it fell a bit short.
SPOILERSSPOILERSSPOILERS
Now a quick pro and con list that sums up how I felt.
Pros:
Acting- All of the cast did okay but Bryan Cranston was by far the most talented. CGI- Excellent and in some places pure brilliant. Setting- All of the settings were very well done, great color and backdrop, especially the train scene.Godzilla's presence- When he's there, he's really there. The fire breathing was epic and the final fight scene was excellent.
Cons:
Bryan Cranston dies within a few scenes of him being reintroduced to the current story. Extremely important character who fades away before being fully realized. I think this is the biggest mistake the movie made. Cranston could have added so much more to the plot and balanced the sullen and almost annoying, downtrodden Ken Watanabe. Not hacking on Watanabe, he's an excellent actor and played his part very well, though his emotions were too muted to really call him a character. Like I said in the pros, the acting was okay but everyone seemed to be going through the motions. Not a character driven story really at all, which is what I think the director was going for. Story problems- The children in the bus trapped on the bridge. Why in the world would there be police blockading the evacuation route out of the city? Very off-putting and not an effective tension device. Elizabeth Olsen's character puts her son on a bus but stays behind because her husband says he's coming for her. The definition of a strong character is someone who makes their own decisions. She should have went with her son and tried to escape the city or at least sheltered somewhere relatively safe with him. Instead they split up and she remains in the beast's path. Very weak character, could've been much stronger. And lastly, why wasn't the city evacuated as soon as the military was sure where the monsters would converge? Monster fights- I'm all for delaying the appearance of the creatures to build tension, but after they're revealed and their first two clashes are cut off in mid-scene, I became angry. I was ready to hate the movie but the final fights between Godzilla and the Mutos redeemed it.
Overall, go see the movie and form your own opinions. I'll be watching it again to see if I can glean a bit more appreciation for it but as of right now I'm a little disappointed in what could've been an epic film.
May 2, 2014
Officially A Hybrid Author
I'm ecstatic.
I've been sitting on this news for a while but got the go ahead yesterday to make the announcement.
My thriller, The River Is Dark, has been acquired by Amazon's mystery and thriller imprint, Thomas & Mercer, to be republished this fall!
I can't say how happy this makes me! Thomas & Mercer was my absolute first choice for a publisher to work with and it was a dream come true when I received an email from the wonderful Kjersti Egerdahl who reached out to me about River. She was really taken with the book and asked me if I was interested in forming a partnership with Thomas & Mercer.
That was when I basically did a happy dance. For a long time.
I love self-publishing, I really do. It offers so many opportunities and freedoms, one of which is that I was able to become a full-time writer in the first place. But being traditionally published has a ton of benefits also such as a broader reach for readers and being able to work with many other talented people in the publishing industry. Having options is what this business is all about and being able to self-publish along with partnering with a publishing house is a fantastic way to go.
This is a whole new world for me as an author and I'm learning as I go. Kjersti has been excellent to work with and extremely accommodating, and I know River is in great hands going forward with all the outstanding people at Thomas & Mercer.
All in all I'm simply thrilled. Getting a publishing contract has been a goal for me for some time and now that it's here I'd like to thank several people who helped me along the way:
Thanks to my beautiful wife who never gives up on me and always has a kind word, I appreciate you more than you know. Thanks to Kealan Patrick Burke who is not only an extremely gifted author but also the absolute best cover designer in the business as far as I'm concerned. Thanks to Neal Hock, my editor. I appreciate your insight and skill that has helped me up my game. To Griffin Hayes, Craig McGray, Dylan Morgan, Julie Hutchings, and Keith C. Blackmore who are some of my favorite people on Twitter. You guys make me laugh, inspire, and drive me to become better, thank you. Thanks to Kjersti Egerdahl for making this all happen. Thanks to all the readers who make my day with feedback and reviews, you guys rock! Thanks to all my friends and family who have supported and encouraged me throughout the years.
Without the people around me, I wouldn't be where I am today. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.
Now, more happy dance! Whee!
I've been sitting on this news for a while but got the go ahead yesterday to make the announcement.
My thriller, The River Is Dark, has been acquired by Amazon's mystery and thriller imprint, Thomas & Mercer, to be republished this fall!
I can't say how happy this makes me! Thomas & Mercer was my absolute first choice for a publisher to work with and it was a dream come true when I received an email from the wonderful Kjersti Egerdahl who reached out to me about River. She was really taken with the book and asked me if I was interested in forming a partnership with Thomas & Mercer.
That was when I basically did a happy dance. For a long time.
I love self-publishing, I really do. It offers so many opportunities and freedoms, one of which is that I was able to become a full-time writer in the first place. But being traditionally published has a ton of benefits also such as a broader reach for readers and being able to work with many other talented people in the publishing industry. Having options is what this business is all about and being able to self-publish along with partnering with a publishing house is a fantastic way to go.
This is a whole new world for me as an author and I'm learning as I go. Kjersti has been excellent to work with and extremely accommodating, and I know River is in great hands going forward with all the outstanding people at Thomas & Mercer.
All in all I'm simply thrilled. Getting a publishing contract has been a goal for me for some time and now that it's here I'd like to thank several people who helped me along the way:
Thanks to my beautiful wife who never gives up on me and always has a kind word, I appreciate you more than you know. Thanks to Kealan Patrick Burke who is not only an extremely gifted author but also the absolute best cover designer in the business as far as I'm concerned. Thanks to Neal Hock, my editor. I appreciate your insight and skill that has helped me up my game. To Griffin Hayes, Craig McGray, Dylan Morgan, Julie Hutchings, and Keith C. Blackmore who are some of my favorite people on Twitter. You guys make me laugh, inspire, and drive me to become better, thank you. Thanks to Kjersti Egerdahl for making this all happen. Thanks to all the readers who make my day with feedback and reviews, you guys rock! Thanks to all my friends and family who have supported and encouraged me throughout the years.
Without the people around me, I wouldn't be where I am today. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.
Now, more happy dance! Whee!
April 26, 2014
How Important Are Your Dreams?
So I caught myself daydreaming the other day while I should've been editing a recent novella I wrote. I was pacing around the house thinking of ideas for an upcoming novel, how the scenes would play out, what the main character would have to endure, and how readers might react. Then I went on to think about how my novella might be received. Of course as writers we all hope that our work will be applauded and widely read but our doubts about our own abilities and imaginations keep us in check.
As I realized I wasn't working I chided myself and went back to the computer to sit down, but then realized I was being a bit harsh. I was stifling my daydreaming because of a self-imposed deadline. Normally I'd applaud myself for staying on task but this time I stopped and allowed myself to continue daydreaming because I realized that if you focus your dreams they become something else.
Visualization.
Visualization becomes planning. Planning gives birth to doing. Doing results in progress. Progress breeds momentum. Momentum feeds into accomplishments.
Accomplishments become realized dreams.
So the next time you find yourself daydreaming about something, don't cut yourself short. Allow your mind to wander. Visualize yourself receiving an award, getting that publishing contract, or simply finding readers that love your work.
Then connect the dots. With a little luck and persistence your daydreams will become your reality.
The endgame always starts somewhere.
Don't forget to see the forest beyond the trees.
As I realized I wasn't working I chided myself and went back to the computer to sit down, but then realized I was being a bit harsh. I was stifling my daydreaming because of a self-imposed deadline. Normally I'd applaud myself for staying on task but this time I stopped and allowed myself to continue daydreaming because I realized that if you focus your dreams they become something else.
Visualization.
Visualization becomes planning. Planning gives birth to doing. Doing results in progress. Progress breeds momentum. Momentum feeds into accomplishments.
Accomplishments become realized dreams.
So the next time you find yourself daydreaming about something, don't cut yourself short. Allow your mind to wander. Visualize yourself receiving an award, getting that publishing contract, or simply finding readers that love your work.
Then connect the dots. With a little luck and persistence your daydreams will become your reality.
The endgame always starts somewhere.
Don't forget to see the forest beyond the trees.
February 15, 2014
The Face Of A Hero
What does your main character look like?
Is she tall? Does she have dark hair? Is he ugly beyond belief or does he turn heads when he enters a room? Is she a child no older than 10?
In the end, it doesn't truly matter. Your character's physical traits can have an impact on how the reader interprets or reacts to your MC, but all in all it's really what's inside that counts.
I know, I know, that's really lame but hear me out.
I'll try to break down what a great MC has that makes him memorable and someone the reader can cheer on. In short, what does it take to make your MC a hero? Not necessarily in the traditional sense of the word, but in the overall feeling that your character exudes. We all love great villains but in the end most of us want the good guy to triumph. So what are some elements that create someone we can root for?
Relatable Your MC has to be a mirror. Not entirely, he or she can be a shard or a sliver, but they must reflect a little of the reader to be compelling. Now don't mistake relatable for likable, those are two different things. There has been some very memorable and interesting MCs that you want to see win the day that haven't been all that nice. Sometimes they're called the anti-hero and can be used in that way to great affect. Having a relatable MC is crucial to capturing a reader's attention. Pour a little pathos into their words and actions and you'll be doing just fine.
ChallengedSome of the best MCs have the greatest challenges facing them throughout the story, and I don't necessarily mean outside threats or problems that they encounter during the plot. I'm talking about internal conflicts. These usually fall into a sub story or sub text. Does your MC have a chronic disease that she struggles with day in and day out? Does he have a broken past marred by a hideous mistake? Is he damaged in some way that keeps him from what he wants? These are the internal challenges that make a character live and breath.
MistakesEven though you don't want them to, great MCs make mistakes. They go into the dark room after hearing a noise, they pursue the killer though they know it's dangerous, they go out on a limb for those they love even though they know if may be their undoing. Mistakes are sometimes critical to a story since they tie into a MC being relatable. No one's perfect and if you paint your MC as being so, readers may get turned off to the fact.
GoalsThis one's obvious but I thought I'd put it down here. Your MC must have an end goal that drives her. She must want something so bad all other interest are put aside until she gets it or dies trying. Is your MC a scientist working on a cure? Is he a detective that is charged with finding a serial killer that is uncatchable? Is she a single mother determined to better her and her son's lives by finding her place in life? Find out what your character wants more than anything else and then see if you can cause him some grief before he gets it.
So those are just a few traits that I thought of off the top of my head. What are some others that you guys can think of? Feel free to chime in in the comments.
Is she tall? Does she have dark hair? Is he ugly beyond belief or does he turn heads when he enters a room? Is she a child no older than 10?
In the end, it doesn't truly matter. Your character's physical traits can have an impact on how the reader interprets or reacts to your MC, but all in all it's really what's inside that counts.
I know, I know, that's really lame but hear me out.
I'll try to break down what a great MC has that makes him memorable and someone the reader can cheer on. In short, what does it take to make your MC a hero? Not necessarily in the traditional sense of the word, but in the overall feeling that your character exudes. We all love great villains but in the end most of us want the good guy to triumph. So what are some elements that create someone we can root for?
Relatable Your MC has to be a mirror. Not entirely, he or she can be a shard or a sliver, but they must reflect a little of the reader to be compelling. Now don't mistake relatable for likable, those are two different things. There has been some very memorable and interesting MCs that you want to see win the day that haven't been all that nice. Sometimes they're called the anti-hero and can be used in that way to great affect. Having a relatable MC is crucial to capturing a reader's attention. Pour a little pathos into their words and actions and you'll be doing just fine.
ChallengedSome of the best MCs have the greatest challenges facing them throughout the story, and I don't necessarily mean outside threats or problems that they encounter during the plot. I'm talking about internal conflicts. These usually fall into a sub story or sub text. Does your MC have a chronic disease that she struggles with day in and day out? Does he have a broken past marred by a hideous mistake? Is he damaged in some way that keeps him from what he wants? These are the internal challenges that make a character live and breath.
MistakesEven though you don't want them to, great MCs make mistakes. They go into the dark room after hearing a noise, they pursue the killer though they know it's dangerous, they go out on a limb for those they love even though they know if may be their undoing. Mistakes are sometimes critical to a story since they tie into a MC being relatable. No one's perfect and if you paint your MC as being so, readers may get turned off to the fact.
GoalsThis one's obvious but I thought I'd put it down here. Your MC must have an end goal that drives her. She must want something so bad all other interest are put aside until she gets it or dies trying. Is your MC a scientist working on a cure? Is he a detective that is charged with finding a serial killer that is uncatchable? Is she a single mother determined to better her and her son's lives by finding her place in life? Find out what your character wants more than anything else and then see if you can cause him some grief before he gets it.
So those are just a few traits that I thought of off the top of my head. What are some others that you guys can think of? Feel free to chime in in the comments.
December 23, 2013
Grain Of Salt Writing Advice
I have to get this out of my system.
Not that I'm going to whine and complain to you, I won't do that, not really.
Today I want to talk about writing advice. First off-
It's everywhere.
You can't turn around without running into an article on the latest way to "trim your manuscript" or "write a killer first chapter". There are hundreds of books out there just on the craft of writing. Some are very excellent, some are tosh. The problem is there is so much advice out there, it's like walking through a field of land mines.
DON'T, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, PUT AN ADVERB IN YOUR BOOK! ANYWHERE! THEY'RE THE DEVIL'S HERPES AND YOUR MANUSCRIPT WILL SHRIVEL AND PUS UNTIL IT'S NOTHING BUT A STINKING CARCASS OF WHAT MIGHT'VE ONCE BEEN A STORY!
I just picked up a traditionally published book by one of the big five that recently got optioned for film. Guess what I saw within the first page? An adverb. Yep, on the very first page. Did you see I mentioned traditionally published and optioned for film? Okay, good.
PASSIVE VOICE WILL MAKE THE READER FALL INTO AN APOCALYPTIC SLUMBER THAT OF WHICH HASN'T BEEN SEEN SINCE RIP VAN WINKLE! DO NOT USE "WAS", DO NOT USE PAST TENSE! EVERYTHING MUST BE PRESENT, FIRST PERSON!
Blech. I mentioned this in a post I did a while back, you can read it here, but it's worth saying again. Know who uses passive voice so much, "was" makes up half the manuscript? J.K. Rowling. 'Nuff said? Okay.
SHOW, DON'T TELL! THERE WILL BE NO CHARACTER FEELINGS OR INSIGHT INTO THE PLOT OTHER THAN WHAT THE CHARACTERS DO AND SAY! NO THOUGHTS! NO FEELINGS! JUST DIALOGUE AND ACTION!
Three words for you- King, Leonard, McMurtry.
My point here is this: writing advice should be taken with a grain of salt. And here's where I'm going to get all hypocritical and give you some writing advice but pa pa ta ta sh sh shhhhh, just be quiet. Let me tell you what I think is above all this other nit-picky advice:
Story and voice.
You heard me. Your story is your baseline from which everything else grows. It is the very first rung of the ladder you climb toward the roof that is publishing. Your story must have fantastic plot twists, great characters, and it must be told confidently and boldly, which brings me to voice.
Voice is how you tell the story. How you push the reader along with the words you choose. It's how you construct your sentences and describe your characters. Voice is close to style, but not quite. If style is the clothes you wear, voice is the body you keep beneath them.
Story and voice, voice and story. These two things above all else are the most important to me. I can overlook adverbs and passive writing if the story is rip-roaring and the author's voice is hypnotic. That's what I focus on the most in my own writing. Beyond that you can fix things. You can hunt adverbs down and skewer them on a delete-key lance. In the second draft you can take out "was'" that don't need to be there and speed up the pace. These things can be tinkered with.
But story and voice are your bedrock. Start there and move up.
And don't listen to every little piece of writing advice you hear.
Ah pa pa ta ta sh shhhhhh. Quiet.
;-)
Not that I'm going to whine and complain to you, I won't do that, not really.
Today I want to talk about writing advice. First off-
It's everywhere.
You can't turn around without running into an article on the latest way to "trim your manuscript" or "write a killer first chapter". There are hundreds of books out there just on the craft of writing. Some are very excellent, some are tosh. The problem is there is so much advice out there, it's like walking through a field of land mines.
DON'T, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, PUT AN ADVERB IN YOUR BOOK! ANYWHERE! THEY'RE THE DEVIL'S HERPES AND YOUR MANUSCRIPT WILL SHRIVEL AND PUS UNTIL IT'S NOTHING BUT A STINKING CARCASS OF WHAT MIGHT'VE ONCE BEEN A STORY!
I just picked up a traditionally published book by one of the big five that recently got optioned for film. Guess what I saw within the first page? An adverb. Yep, on the very first page. Did you see I mentioned traditionally published and optioned for film? Okay, good.
PASSIVE VOICE WILL MAKE THE READER FALL INTO AN APOCALYPTIC SLUMBER THAT OF WHICH HASN'T BEEN SEEN SINCE RIP VAN WINKLE! DO NOT USE "WAS", DO NOT USE PAST TENSE! EVERYTHING MUST BE PRESENT, FIRST PERSON!
Blech. I mentioned this in a post I did a while back, you can read it here, but it's worth saying again. Know who uses passive voice so much, "was" makes up half the manuscript? J.K. Rowling. 'Nuff said? Okay.
SHOW, DON'T TELL! THERE WILL BE NO CHARACTER FEELINGS OR INSIGHT INTO THE PLOT OTHER THAN WHAT THE CHARACTERS DO AND SAY! NO THOUGHTS! NO FEELINGS! JUST DIALOGUE AND ACTION!
Three words for you- King, Leonard, McMurtry.
My point here is this: writing advice should be taken with a grain of salt. And here's where I'm going to get all hypocritical and give you some writing advice but pa pa ta ta sh sh shhhhh, just be quiet. Let me tell you what I think is above all this other nit-picky advice:
Story and voice.
You heard me. Your story is your baseline from which everything else grows. It is the very first rung of the ladder you climb toward the roof that is publishing. Your story must have fantastic plot twists, great characters, and it must be told confidently and boldly, which brings me to voice.
Voice is how you tell the story. How you push the reader along with the words you choose. It's how you construct your sentences and describe your characters. Voice is close to style, but not quite. If style is the clothes you wear, voice is the body you keep beneath them.
Story and voice, voice and story. These two things above all else are the most important to me. I can overlook adverbs and passive writing if the story is rip-roaring and the author's voice is hypnotic. That's what I focus on the most in my own writing. Beyond that you can fix things. You can hunt adverbs down and skewer them on a delete-key lance. In the second draft you can take out "was'" that don't need to be there and speed up the pace. These things can be tinkered with.
But story and voice are your bedrock. Start there and move up.
And don't listen to every little piece of writing advice you hear.
Ah pa pa ta ta sh shhhhhh. Quiet.
;-)
December 2, 2013
Pooling Editing Tactics
So I did a blog post a long time back on editing, and you can read it here, but since things always change and style along with methods evolve as you go, I wanted to do another post about this topic.
In the other post I called editing writing's ugly cousin. It is. It's the necessary monster that's awaiting all of us at the end of every project. I said it before and I'll say it again-
YOU MUST EDIT YOUR BOOK.
Now when I say this, I don't mean read through it once to make sure the punctuation's correct. Editing is not a read through, it is a completely different evolutionary step in your book's life. Think of editing as taking your work to another plane of existence both in creativity as well as correction. So here are some tips that have helped me along the way so far in my career.
Most authors, myself included, say to take a break after finishing your first draft. This is good advice because you are too close to the story to make good decisions concerning any changes you'd like to make. With this said, I personally do a quick read through directly after finishing BUT, this is only to spot any obvious errors before I send it off to my editor. Secondly, my work goes through several passes and the time span between those passes allows for some perspective.
On the topic of professional editing I will say this: If you were going skydiving, would you want a professional dive instructor packing your chute for you before you left the ground, or would you trust someone who's done it once or twice? Or would you try to do it yourself? I know I would want a pro taking care of me if my life were at stake. The life of your book is no different. You want someone qualified to help you polish it and make it shine. You do not want to send your book out into the world with so many glaring errors that any reader that picks it up will put it down immediately. In my opinion professional editing is crucial.
Now, if your editor is good he or she will do a concept as well as a copy editing pass through your manuscript. Concept editing deals with the overall story- plot structure, character arc/development, and scene organization are just a few aspects of this portion. This is where you and your editor take a look at your book from a reader's point of view. Does the story make sense? Do the characters live and breathe? Do you need to lose a scene, gain one? This is where you put your book in the water and see if it floats. Copyediting deals with things like punctuation, sentence structure, POV consistency, tense agreement and whatnot. This is swabbing the deck and checking the rigging of your book after you see that it floats.
Another tactic that I've recently begun doing is using the search feature prior to beginning an overall edit. What that sometimes consists of is seeking out overused words.We all have our favorite words but at times they can become overbearing and distracting to the reader if used too much. Here is a list of overused words that I look for:
Just
Began
Started
Glanced
Looked
Watched
Noticed
These words can sometimes be removed from a sentence completely or merely changed into another similar word that isn't used as much.
Glanced, looked, watched, and noticed are all words used as a segway into some sort of description (at least that's how I use them) such as Winston stopped and glanced around. The walls in the castle courtyard were high and topped with turrets made of rough-hewn stone. Now this isn't terrible and I think can be done from time to time, but really it sounds and works better to just change the segway like this: Winston stopped in the doorway. The walls in the castle courtyard were high and topped with turrets made of rough-hewn stone. Now you've taken out a needless character action and smoothed the transition over into a description. For me this reads better but YMMV.
Another thing to watch out for is needless dialogue tags. These are he/she said, or (insert your character's name) said. My rule on tags is if you can infer who is speaking in an exchange, don't put anything after the dialogue, it merely slows the reader down. Good dialogue flows and at times is like machine-gun fire. Adding the she/he said after every line is a great way to bog down the story.
After you've done a final edit on the book and everything looks good, read it out loud. Many authors do this and there's a reason why. You get to hear the cadence of the sentences, how dialogue actually sounds, whether it flows or if it's like a jerky ride in a rickety wagon. You'll be able to comb out more unnecessary words reading aloud and this is always a good thing.
So just for an example of my editing process, here it is-
Quick read through to snag major errors.Concept editing pass by qualified editor.Beta reader input on overall story and plot.Make changes for overall story and plot.Copyediting pass by editor.Accept or deny final changes.Read aloud.
Now this works for me and it may not for you. Editing is writing's ugly cousin but they are related in that you'll have your own method. Overall, editing is a painful and needed aspect of writing. Do not shy away from it because it will always make your work stronger.
What I would like is for this post to be a reference point for editing as well as a pooling of ideas on how to edit better. If you've got a different set of problem words or way that you go about editing, please share them in the comments below and help grow a knowledge base that everyone can use.
In the other post I called editing writing's ugly cousin. It is. It's the necessary monster that's awaiting all of us at the end of every project. I said it before and I'll say it again-
YOU MUST EDIT YOUR BOOK.
Now when I say this, I don't mean read through it once to make sure the punctuation's correct. Editing is not a read through, it is a completely different evolutionary step in your book's life. Think of editing as taking your work to another plane of existence both in creativity as well as correction. So here are some tips that have helped me along the way so far in my career.
Most authors, myself included, say to take a break after finishing your first draft. This is good advice because you are too close to the story to make good decisions concerning any changes you'd like to make. With this said, I personally do a quick read through directly after finishing BUT, this is only to spot any obvious errors before I send it off to my editor. Secondly, my work goes through several passes and the time span between those passes allows for some perspective.
On the topic of professional editing I will say this: If you were going skydiving, would you want a professional dive instructor packing your chute for you before you left the ground, or would you trust someone who's done it once or twice? Or would you try to do it yourself? I know I would want a pro taking care of me if my life were at stake. The life of your book is no different. You want someone qualified to help you polish it and make it shine. You do not want to send your book out into the world with so many glaring errors that any reader that picks it up will put it down immediately. In my opinion professional editing is crucial.
Now, if your editor is good he or she will do a concept as well as a copy editing pass through your manuscript. Concept editing deals with the overall story- plot structure, character arc/development, and scene organization are just a few aspects of this portion. This is where you and your editor take a look at your book from a reader's point of view. Does the story make sense? Do the characters live and breathe? Do you need to lose a scene, gain one? This is where you put your book in the water and see if it floats. Copyediting deals with things like punctuation, sentence structure, POV consistency, tense agreement and whatnot. This is swabbing the deck and checking the rigging of your book after you see that it floats.
Another tactic that I've recently begun doing is using the search feature prior to beginning an overall edit. What that sometimes consists of is seeking out overused words.We all have our favorite words but at times they can become overbearing and distracting to the reader if used too much. Here is a list of overused words that I look for:
Just
Began
Started
Glanced
Looked
Watched
Noticed
These words can sometimes be removed from a sentence completely or merely changed into another similar word that isn't used as much.
Glanced, looked, watched, and noticed are all words used as a segway into some sort of description (at least that's how I use them) such as Winston stopped and glanced around. The walls in the castle courtyard were high and topped with turrets made of rough-hewn stone. Now this isn't terrible and I think can be done from time to time, but really it sounds and works better to just change the segway like this: Winston stopped in the doorway. The walls in the castle courtyard were high and topped with turrets made of rough-hewn stone. Now you've taken out a needless character action and smoothed the transition over into a description. For me this reads better but YMMV.
Another thing to watch out for is needless dialogue tags. These are he/she said, or (insert your character's name) said. My rule on tags is if you can infer who is speaking in an exchange, don't put anything after the dialogue, it merely slows the reader down. Good dialogue flows and at times is like machine-gun fire. Adding the she/he said after every line is a great way to bog down the story.
After you've done a final edit on the book and everything looks good, read it out loud. Many authors do this and there's a reason why. You get to hear the cadence of the sentences, how dialogue actually sounds, whether it flows or if it's like a jerky ride in a rickety wagon. You'll be able to comb out more unnecessary words reading aloud and this is always a good thing.
So just for an example of my editing process, here it is-
Quick read through to snag major errors.Concept editing pass by qualified editor.Beta reader input on overall story and plot.Make changes for overall story and plot.Copyediting pass by editor.Accept or deny final changes.Read aloud.
Now this works for me and it may not for you. Editing is writing's ugly cousin but they are related in that you'll have your own method. Overall, editing is a painful and needed aspect of writing. Do not shy away from it because it will always make your work stronger.
What I would like is for this post to be a reference point for editing as well as a pooling of ideas on how to edit better. If you've got a different set of problem words or way that you go about editing, please share them in the comments below and help grow a knowledge base that everyone can use.
November 17, 2013
Sneak Peek Of The Waiting
So I have a new novel coming out this week, and as always, I'm very excited. For those of you who enjoyed my first novel, Lineage, The Waiting will be right up your alley. In fact, I think it might be the creepiest thing I've ever written. Anyhow, the release date is scheduled for Tuesday the 19th, and then you can be the judge. But for the meantime here's a sample from the beginning of the book. Hope you enjoy it!
Text copyright © 2013 by Joe HartAll rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To the ghosts inside us all. You are our treasures and curses. Never go away.
Prologue
It’s coming.The words chanted inside his head as he ran, his arthritic joints exploding with each painful step. Blood dripped from his fingertips, smeared on the screen door as he pushed through it into the warm night air. Stars hung above the lake, their cascade of pinpricks joined to one another like a dot-to-dot in the sky, their portrait reflected in the calm face of water beyond the shore. A soft breeze spoke in the pines and nudged Maggie’s chime into life. The jangle of the hollow steel spurred him on as his lungs began to burn. He felt a twinge in his shoulder, and it lanced down the inside of his biceps and stabbed a shot of fire into the left side of his chest. Heart attack, finally. He knew it would take him one day, just like it took his grandfather, father, and son. He welcomed it, hoped it would drop him on the dewy grass. But the pain relented and vanished, a phantom of the nerves that came and went with his age. He ran.His socks were already soaked when he hit the water, but the chill that set into the lake each night still made him grimace. What did he care now, with Maggie gone? His insides shrunk with the renewed epiphany: he would never see his wife again. Unless ... He stopped in the waist-deep water, the liquid darkness rippling with his movements. Tears rolled down his face, catching in the lines of his years. His family flitted through his mind’s eye—births, graduations, anniversaries. His reverie was broken by a splash behind him, like something diving into the lake. His eyes widened as he craned his neck around, looking for movement but knowing it didn’t matter. He was done.Curiosity killed the cat, and nothing in the world can bring him back.He cried, tears dropping from his face like the blood from his fingers. Knowing it was his fault would be the last thought he would take with him. He doubled over, his face inches from the water, and saw his blackened reflection. He was only shadow, an outline. Nothing more. He took a last breath, savoring the sweet taste of it on his tongue before exhaling as much as he could; he would need a lungful to do it right. He made to push his face into the water, but two hands shot up from the depths, their fingers fish-belly white, and found the back of his neck.A garbled scream of pure terror fell from his mouth and was cut off the moment his head slammed into the lake. His feet surfaced, two pale, thrashing things as he kicked, and then they were gone as well. Concentric waves rolled away in ever-increasing circles, and soon they flattened, leaving the water unbroken and smooth like the silence of the night.
1
“Evan, we’re going to have to let you go.”Evan Tormer raised his face from his hand and let the words reverberate inside him. He stared across the corner office, the office that should have been his, at Christy Weathers sitting behind the desk. Her hair perched in a gravity-defying jumble of curls on top of her head, her mascaraed eyes watching him, cold, unblinking. “Christy, look, we can talk about this, please.”The man leaning against a desk near the panoramic window made a sound like a cough that could’ve been a laugh. Evan glared at him. Calling him a man was pushing it. Colt was a kid, at least seven years his junior. Evan took in his trendily hipster clothes—the too tight slacks, the vibrant clashing dress shirt, the oversized black-framed glasses—along with the sneering mouth beneath a poor attempt at a mustache. “I’m sorry, Evan, there’s no wiggle room here, and you know it. Mr. Tillins is already aware of this, and the best I’ve been able to do is convince him not to press charges,” Christy said.Evan swallowed. His throat was as dry as a streambed in a drought. Tears stung his eyes, and he forced them back down. He would not cry in front of these people. “I paid everything back, every cent.” He searched Christy’s face for a semblance of compassion, a smile, something of the person he had worked with for four years before her promotion.When she didn’t move a muscle, he continued: “Look, I was desperate, Elle was so sick and the treatments were more than we could handle.” “Nontraditional treatments, is what I heard,” Colt said, taking his glasses off to polish them while gazing out at the afternoon sweep of Minneapolis. Evan stared at the younger man until Colt returned his gaze. “What does that have to do with anything?” A cold flame lit in the bottom of his stomach.Christy waved the question away like a buzzing fly. “Listen, Evan, I don’t want this any more than you do, you’re a vital part of the company. You do good work, you’re a team player, and your recent setbacks—”“My wife died, that’s not really what I’d call a setback,” Evan said.The tears were back, and they weren’t heeding his efforts. One slipped over the rim of his eyelid and traced down his cheek to his chin. Christy stiffened, her jaw tightening. “Evan, we’re all very sorry about Elle, but the fact is, you took fifty thousand dollars from the company, and that can’t be overlooked.”Christy paused and tipped her head to one side, a bundle of curls catching light from the setting sun. Evan wanted to tell her that her hair looked nice. In fact, he wanted to say he remembered the first time he saw her wear it like that, at the company Christmas party a year ago. He could still see that mop of blond curls bobbing at Tillins’s crotch while the man reclined in his office chair, oblivious to Evan retreating, the page of marketing reports still in his hand, and closing the CEO’s door without a sound. Instead, he prepared to beg. “Christy, please, I won’t be able to afford Shaun’s medical bills without the health care.” “My thoughts are, you should have contemplated that before stealing from the company, Evan,” Colt said, moving to the side of Christy’s desk. Evan ignored him, focused on Christy. “Please, let me speak to Mr. Tillins, I’m sure he’ll understand.” The curls shook. “No, Evan, this is final. Please pack your desk up. We’ll have your last check delivered to your house. Your health care will continue for the next two months, until the quarter ends.” Evan’s jaw worked as though more pleas wanted to come out, but there was nothing left. The aching worry that had begun early in the morning with Christy’s email asking him for a meeting became a sour explosion of reality. They’d found out. He’d lost his job.Colt come closer, and he stood, staring down at the kid’s snarky face. What kind of name was Colt anyway? “If you have any further questions, direct them at the HR department,” Christy said, now looking at a stack of papers that her fingers shuffled through.Evan turned toward the thick double doors and began to walk, hearing Colt’s footsteps a few inches behind his own. “Well, on the bright side, now you have some extra time to spend with your retard,” Colt said, just above a whisper. Evan moved without thought, oblivious to the static charge in his limbs as he spun. His elbow came up in a short arc and connected with Colt’s face. A sound like an aluminum can being crushed filled the office, and then there was blood—a lot of it. The kid’s hands cupped his shattered nose as his broken glasses slid, now in two pieces, off his head. Colt stumbled back, clutching at his face with delicate piano-player fingers.Christy sat stock-still in her chair, her eyes saucer plates dabbed with blue at their centers. “Uhhh! Uhhh! He fucking hit me!” Colt yelled.He tripped over a chair and fell to his ass, the impact jolting a fresh gout of blood through his shaking fingers.Evan stared, his jaw loosened. So much blood. The sound of the phone on Christy’s desk being picked up pulled his eyes from the bleeding office worker.“Don’t!” Evan said, pointing at Christy, her finger hovering over the button that would bring the two security guards from the lobby rushing toward the office. “Or I’ll call Tillins’s wife.” Christy’s mouth formed words that died in her throat. She set the phone back into the cradle.“Get out.”Evan looked one last time at Colt and wondered if the hipster would bleed to death right there on the floor, then turned and hurried through the double doors. Evan walked as calmly as he could down the hallway, saying hello to several people who passed him by. His legs moved on their own accord, propelling him forward as his slamming heart threatened to burst from his chest. He rounded a corner and saw the sign for the bathroom. In a few seconds he was inside the farthest stall, with barely a pause to see if anyone else was present. He fell to his knees and vomited into the toilet, the light salad he’d had for lunch an unrecognizable mess before him. Evan clutched the handicap bar to his left and heaved again, and again.He was unemployed. He’d broken Colt’s nose, threatened Christy with blackmail. What the hell was he doing? And more importantly, what the hell was he going to do? The stall spun, and he closed his eyes, spitting acid into the water. When he managed to make it to the sink—the bathroom still blessedly empty—his reflection met him, but he avoided it entirely. He didn’t care to see what waited there for him. Instead, he bent and splashed cold water over his face until his skin stung.He left the bathroom and walked to a set of doors at the far end of the corridor, opting to take the stairs rather than risk bumping into someone in the elevator who might ask a question he didn’t want to answer. After six flights of steps, he swung a door open, stepped out on the ground floor, and made his way to his office at the rear of the building.Office. It wasn’t more than a glorified broom closet, just wide enough for a small desk, no window, and two file cabinets. He’d attempted to make it nicer several years before everything fell apart, by hanging photos of Elle and Shaun on the walls. He removed them, pausing to take in his wife’s and son’s features.They both had a fair complexion and light, wispy hair. Elle’s smile radiated from the picture and struck a bell in the center of Evan, as it had when she was alive. Shaun’s arms were wrapped around his mother’s neck, his face partially buried in her hair. The white scar on the side of his small head was all but invisible in the picture unless you knew what you were looking for, and Evan couldn’t help seeing it each time he gazed at the photo. He swallowed and turned in a slow circle to survey his office, searching for anything else to take, but other than a warm can of Coke inside his desk drawer, his favorite pen, and his jacket, there was nothing.He stood in the doorway to the office in which he’d toiled for eight years writing promotions, ads, and marketing strategies. He remembered all the time spent in the little room, away from his family. And what did it mean now? All his effort culminated at this point—alone, with nothing but his pictures beneath his arm to show for it. He snapped the light off and shut the door behind him, listening to the hollow thunk as it closed. The end of his career. Before he could take a step, his cell phone sprang to life in his pocket, trilling and vibrating against his thigh. When he saw the name and number on the display, he almost hit the ignore button, but the thought of having to call his best friend later and tell him what had happened wasn’t appealing either. He answered the phone as he walked toward the lobby, slinging his jacket around his shoulders as he went.“Hey, man.” “Wow, you sound like complete shit. Do me a favor next time I call and don’t answer if you’re having a bad day,” Jason said. Evan sighed. “I almost didn’t.” “Well fuck you too.”Evan heard the tap of a keyboard in the background. “Yeah.” A long pause from Jason’s end. “Ev, what’s wrong?” Evan nodded to a security guard near the front desk in the lobby, marveling that it was the last time he would do so, and pushed into the crisp spring air of the city.“I don’t want to get into it on the phone.” “Shit. Okay. Meet me at Aran’s after work.”A light mist fell as he strode across the parking lot, the mid-afternoon sounds of traffic and smells of wet concrete invading his senses.“I’m leaving work now.” Another pause. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” “Jason, no, I’m going home—”“Aran’s, ten.”
The call ended, and Evan stared at the screen as he stood beside his minivan. “Shit,” he said to the deserted parking lot, and climbed inside the vehicle.
Text copyright © 2013 by Joe HartAll rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To the ghosts inside us all. You are our treasures and curses. Never go away.
Prologue
It’s coming.The words chanted inside his head as he ran, his arthritic joints exploding with each painful step. Blood dripped from his fingertips, smeared on the screen door as he pushed through it into the warm night air. Stars hung above the lake, their cascade of pinpricks joined to one another like a dot-to-dot in the sky, their portrait reflected in the calm face of water beyond the shore. A soft breeze spoke in the pines and nudged Maggie’s chime into life. The jangle of the hollow steel spurred him on as his lungs began to burn. He felt a twinge in his shoulder, and it lanced down the inside of his biceps and stabbed a shot of fire into the left side of his chest. Heart attack, finally. He knew it would take him one day, just like it took his grandfather, father, and son. He welcomed it, hoped it would drop him on the dewy grass. But the pain relented and vanished, a phantom of the nerves that came and went with his age. He ran.His socks were already soaked when he hit the water, but the chill that set into the lake each night still made him grimace. What did he care now, with Maggie gone? His insides shrunk with the renewed epiphany: he would never see his wife again. Unless ... He stopped in the waist-deep water, the liquid darkness rippling with his movements. Tears rolled down his face, catching in the lines of his years. His family flitted through his mind’s eye—births, graduations, anniversaries. His reverie was broken by a splash behind him, like something diving into the lake. His eyes widened as he craned his neck around, looking for movement but knowing it didn’t matter. He was done.Curiosity killed the cat, and nothing in the world can bring him back.He cried, tears dropping from his face like the blood from his fingers. Knowing it was his fault would be the last thought he would take with him. He doubled over, his face inches from the water, and saw his blackened reflection. He was only shadow, an outline. Nothing more. He took a last breath, savoring the sweet taste of it on his tongue before exhaling as much as he could; he would need a lungful to do it right. He made to push his face into the water, but two hands shot up from the depths, their fingers fish-belly white, and found the back of his neck.A garbled scream of pure terror fell from his mouth and was cut off the moment his head slammed into the lake. His feet surfaced, two pale, thrashing things as he kicked, and then they were gone as well. Concentric waves rolled away in ever-increasing circles, and soon they flattened, leaving the water unbroken and smooth like the silence of the night.
1
“Evan, we’re going to have to let you go.”Evan Tormer raised his face from his hand and let the words reverberate inside him. He stared across the corner office, the office that should have been his, at Christy Weathers sitting behind the desk. Her hair perched in a gravity-defying jumble of curls on top of her head, her mascaraed eyes watching him, cold, unblinking. “Christy, look, we can talk about this, please.”The man leaning against a desk near the panoramic window made a sound like a cough that could’ve been a laugh. Evan glared at him. Calling him a man was pushing it. Colt was a kid, at least seven years his junior. Evan took in his trendily hipster clothes—the too tight slacks, the vibrant clashing dress shirt, the oversized black-framed glasses—along with the sneering mouth beneath a poor attempt at a mustache. “I’m sorry, Evan, there’s no wiggle room here, and you know it. Mr. Tillins is already aware of this, and the best I’ve been able to do is convince him not to press charges,” Christy said.Evan swallowed. His throat was as dry as a streambed in a drought. Tears stung his eyes, and he forced them back down. He would not cry in front of these people. “I paid everything back, every cent.” He searched Christy’s face for a semblance of compassion, a smile, something of the person he had worked with for four years before her promotion.When she didn’t move a muscle, he continued: “Look, I was desperate, Elle was so sick and the treatments were more than we could handle.” “Nontraditional treatments, is what I heard,” Colt said, taking his glasses off to polish them while gazing out at the afternoon sweep of Minneapolis. Evan stared at the younger man until Colt returned his gaze. “What does that have to do with anything?” A cold flame lit in the bottom of his stomach.Christy waved the question away like a buzzing fly. “Listen, Evan, I don’t want this any more than you do, you’re a vital part of the company. You do good work, you’re a team player, and your recent setbacks—”“My wife died, that’s not really what I’d call a setback,” Evan said.The tears were back, and they weren’t heeding his efforts. One slipped over the rim of his eyelid and traced down his cheek to his chin. Christy stiffened, her jaw tightening. “Evan, we’re all very sorry about Elle, but the fact is, you took fifty thousand dollars from the company, and that can’t be overlooked.”Christy paused and tipped her head to one side, a bundle of curls catching light from the setting sun. Evan wanted to tell her that her hair looked nice. In fact, he wanted to say he remembered the first time he saw her wear it like that, at the company Christmas party a year ago. He could still see that mop of blond curls bobbing at Tillins’s crotch while the man reclined in his office chair, oblivious to Evan retreating, the page of marketing reports still in his hand, and closing the CEO’s door without a sound. Instead, he prepared to beg. “Christy, please, I won’t be able to afford Shaun’s medical bills without the health care.” “My thoughts are, you should have contemplated that before stealing from the company, Evan,” Colt said, moving to the side of Christy’s desk. Evan ignored him, focused on Christy. “Please, let me speak to Mr. Tillins, I’m sure he’ll understand.” The curls shook. “No, Evan, this is final. Please pack your desk up. We’ll have your last check delivered to your house. Your health care will continue for the next two months, until the quarter ends.” Evan’s jaw worked as though more pleas wanted to come out, but there was nothing left. The aching worry that had begun early in the morning with Christy’s email asking him for a meeting became a sour explosion of reality. They’d found out. He’d lost his job.Colt come closer, and he stood, staring down at the kid’s snarky face. What kind of name was Colt anyway? “If you have any further questions, direct them at the HR department,” Christy said, now looking at a stack of papers that her fingers shuffled through.Evan turned toward the thick double doors and began to walk, hearing Colt’s footsteps a few inches behind his own. “Well, on the bright side, now you have some extra time to spend with your retard,” Colt said, just above a whisper. Evan moved without thought, oblivious to the static charge in his limbs as he spun. His elbow came up in a short arc and connected with Colt’s face. A sound like an aluminum can being crushed filled the office, and then there was blood—a lot of it. The kid’s hands cupped his shattered nose as his broken glasses slid, now in two pieces, off his head. Colt stumbled back, clutching at his face with delicate piano-player fingers.Christy sat stock-still in her chair, her eyes saucer plates dabbed with blue at their centers. “Uhhh! Uhhh! He fucking hit me!” Colt yelled.He tripped over a chair and fell to his ass, the impact jolting a fresh gout of blood through his shaking fingers.Evan stared, his jaw loosened. So much blood. The sound of the phone on Christy’s desk being picked up pulled his eyes from the bleeding office worker.“Don’t!” Evan said, pointing at Christy, her finger hovering over the button that would bring the two security guards from the lobby rushing toward the office. “Or I’ll call Tillins’s wife.” Christy’s mouth formed words that died in her throat. She set the phone back into the cradle.“Get out.”Evan looked one last time at Colt and wondered if the hipster would bleed to death right there on the floor, then turned and hurried through the double doors. Evan walked as calmly as he could down the hallway, saying hello to several people who passed him by. His legs moved on their own accord, propelling him forward as his slamming heart threatened to burst from his chest. He rounded a corner and saw the sign for the bathroom. In a few seconds he was inside the farthest stall, with barely a pause to see if anyone else was present. He fell to his knees and vomited into the toilet, the light salad he’d had for lunch an unrecognizable mess before him. Evan clutched the handicap bar to his left and heaved again, and again.He was unemployed. He’d broken Colt’s nose, threatened Christy with blackmail. What the hell was he doing? And more importantly, what the hell was he going to do? The stall spun, and he closed his eyes, spitting acid into the water. When he managed to make it to the sink—the bathroom still blessedly empty—his reflection met him, but he avoided it entirely. He didn’t care to see what waited there for him. Instead, he bent and splashed cold water over his face until his skin stung.He left the bathroom and walked to a set of doors at the far end of the corridor, opting to take the stairs rather than risk bumping into someone in the elevator who might ask a question he didn’t want to answer. After six flights of steps, he swung a door open, stepped out on the ground floor, and made his way to his office at the rear of the building.Office. It wasn’t more than a glorified broom closet, just wide enough for a small desk, no window, and two file cabinets. He’d attempted to make it nicer several years before everything fell apart, by hanging photos of Elle and Shaun on the walls. He removed them, pausing to take in his wife’s and son’s features.They both had a fair complexion and light, wispy hair. Elle’s smile radiated from the picture and struck a bell in the center of Evan, as it had when she was alive. Shaun’s arms were wrapped around his mother’s neck, his face partially buried in her hair. The white scar on the side of his small head was all but invisible in the picture unless you knew what you were looking for, and Evan couldn’t help seeing it each time he gazed at the photo. He swallowed and turned in a slow circle to survey his office, searching for anything else to take, but other than a warm can of Coke inside his desk drawer, his favorite pen, and his jacket, there was nothing.He stood in the doorway to the office in which he’d toiled for eight years writing promotions, ads, and marketing strategies. He remembered all the time spent in the little room, away from his family. And what did it mean now? All his effort culminated at this point—alone, with nothing but his pictures beneath his arm to show for it. He snapped the light off and shut the door behind him, listening to the hollow thunk as it closed. The end of his career. Before he could take a step, his cell phone sprang to life in his pocket, trilling and vibrating against his thigh. When he saw the name and number on the display, he almost hit the ignore button, but the thought of having to call his best friend later and tell him what had happened wasn’t appealing either. He answered the phone as he walked toward the lobby, slinging his jacket around his shoulders as he went.“Hey, man.” “Wow, you sound like complete shit. Do me a favor next time I call and don’t answer if you’re having a bad day,” Jason said. Evan sighed. “I almost didn’t.” “Well fuck you too.”Evan heard the tap of a keyboard in the background. “Yeah.” A long pause from Jason’s end. “Ev, what’s wrong?” Evan nodded to a security guard near the front desk in the lobby, marveling that it was the last time he would do so, and pushed into the crisp spring air of the city.“I don’t want to get into it on the phone.” “Shit. Okay. Meet me at Aran’s after work.”A light mist fell as he strode across the parking lot, the mid-afternoon sounds of traffic and smells of wet concrete invading his senses.“I’m leaving work now.” Another pause. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” “Jason, no, I’m going home—”“Aran’s, ten.”
The call ended, and Evan stared at the screen as he stood beside his minivan. “Shit,” he said to the deserted parking lot, and climbed inside the vehicle.
