Stuart R. West's Blog, page 61
May 24, 2014
The Lima Bean Writing Challenge
So the other night my wife and I debated on what movie to watch. She wanted explosions, I was in the mood for monsters. We found something that satisfied both of our needs, "I, Frankenstein."
Yow. Bad mistake. The movie had no soul, just a CGI videogame. No characterization, no compelling drama. I mentally checked out fifteen minutes in, contemplating my ingrown toe-nail. After an agonizing hour and a half, when the "monster" stood on a rooftop with Batman-styled noiresque narration and music, I vowed to quit watching bad movies. Now, I love bad movies. Unintentional hilarity in cinema makes my day. But the movie made the cardinal sin in being boring. I thought I could write a better tale in one page utilizing the most mundane thing in the world I could think of. I happened upon lima beans.
Here is "Lima Beans For Mom."
The cafeteria server asked what I'd like for a vegetable. I froze. People behind me grew impatient, sighing, banging their trays onto the rollers. My decision, so inconsequential to anyone else, carried the weight of the world, though.
The corn looked appealing. Peas were always hard to pass up, so round and small like miniature marbles that roll around in the mouth with a rewarding slice of goodness once you crush the thin sheath. Salads seemed safe, leafy and easy.
But the lima beans beckoned. Pale of color, a sickly nephew of green. I imagined the mealiness in my mouth, grittiness slushing into sand, the bitter flavor. It churned my stomach.
"Lima beans, please."
Someone behind me dropped a relieved sigh. I wish I could've done the same thing. I don't like lima beans. Never have. But when I look at them, they evoke powerful memories. I remember my mother slashing her palm across my cheek, telling me I'm going to eat the beans and like them or else. I never really understood what "or else" entailed and I suppose I'm glad I never found out. What Mom did when I refused to eat the beans hurt enough. Once, she jabbed her cigarette out on my hand, considering me a human ashtray.
I sat down in the cafeteria, my fork shaking like a divining rod over the green pods. I took a bite. Same horrific taste, yet this time the mouth-full of beans slid down like success.
When a waitress strolled by, I flagged her down.
"Could I get a box to go, please?"
Mom would enjoy the rest of them. I'd make sure of it. Of course I would need to spoon-feed them to her. One can't eat very easily while you're chained to a bed.
Ta-da! Did I succeed in making a compelling one page tale about lima beans? You guys be the judge.
But I'm issuing the challenge to y'all. Writers or not, let me read your one-page tales about mundane crap. It's fun! My next novel's going to be exclusively about lima beans! (But not really). Bring it, gang!
Yow. Bad mistake. The movie had no soul, just a CGI videogame. No characterization, no compelling drama. I mentally checked out fifteen minutes in, contemplating my ingrown toe-nail. After an agonizing hour and a half, when the "monster" stood on a rooftop with Batman-styled noiresque narration and music, I vowed to quit watching bad movies. Now, I love bad movies. Unintentional hilarity in cinema makes my day. But the movie made the cardinal sin in being boring. I thought I could write a better tale in one page utilizing the most mundane thing in the world I could think of. I happened upon lima beans.
Here is "Lima Beans For Mom."
The cafeteria server asked what I'd like for a vegetable. I froze. People behind me grew impatient, sighing, banging their trays onto the rollers. My decision, so inconsequential to anyone else, carried the weight of the world, though.
The corn looked appealing. Peas were always hard to pass up, so round and small like miniature marbles that roll around in the mouth with a rewarding slice of goodness once you crush the thin sheath. Salads seemed safe, leafy and easy.
But the lima beans beckoned. Pale of color, a sickly nephew of green. I imagined the mealiness in my mouth, grittiness slushing into sand, the bitter flavor. It churned my stomach.
"Lima beans, please."
Someone behind me dropped a relieved sigh. I wish I could've done the same thing. I don't like lima beans. Never have. But when I look at them, they evoke powerful memories. I remember my mother slashing her palm across my cheek, telling me I'm going to eat the beans and like them or else. I never really understood what "or else" entailed and I suppose I'm glad I never found out. What Mom did when I refused to eat the beans hurt enough. Once, she jabbed her cigarette out on my hand, considering me a human ashtray.
I sat down in the cafeteria, my fork shaking like a divining rod over the green pods. I took a bite. Same horrific taste, yet this time the mouth-full of beans slid down like success.
When a waitress strolled by, I flagged her down.
"Could I get a box to go, please?"
Mom would enjoy the rest of them. I'd make sure of it. Of course I would need to spoon-feed them to her. One can't eat very easily while you're chained to a bed.
Ta-da! Did I succeed in making a compelling one page tale about lima beans? You guys be the judge.
But I'm issuing the challenge to y'all. Writers or not, let me read your one-page tales about mundane crap. It's fun! My next novel's going to be exclusively about lima beans! (But not really). Bring it, gang!
May 23, 2014
The Memorial Day Conundrum
Happy Memorial Day!
Time for Bubba next door to jump into his go-kart and go trawling through our suburban streets like a testosterone-driven kid. Woo-hah! Bust out the paddle-boats on the lake, strap on those bikini's and burn your face into a blood-orange crimson! Yeah! Pump those fists in the air to the throbbing bass of antiquated '80's arena rock! Let that mullet-flag fly! Go! It's friggin' Memorial Day! Yee-haw!
Except, therein lies my problem.
Memorial Day is a US holiday that started after the Civil War, commemorating the memory of those fallen in battle. The holiday grew into a day to remember all of the brave people who have died in military service, sacrificing their lives during time of war.
From there it blossomed (no doubt in no small part to the efforts of greeting card companies and advertisers) into a day to honor all of our lost, beloved ones. A very heartfelt, important sentiment.
But. When people wish me a "Happy Memorial Day," I cringe. It's a sad event to be taken seriously. Not a time to bust out swimsuits, sunburns and six-packs. Flailing a torn-off bikini-top in the air seems like a strange salute to the dead (although, I'd like to think they're enjoying it wherever they are).
So the next time my neighbor hollers at me over the fence, "Have a happy Memorial Day," I'm going to respond with, "I hope you have a very sombre holiday."
Time for Bubba next door to jump into his go-kart and go trawling through our suburban streets like a testosterone-driven kid. Woo-hah! Bust out the paddle-boats on the lake, strap on those bikini's and burn your face into a blood-orange crimson! Yeah! Pump those fists in the air to the throbbing bass of antiquated '80's arena rock! Let that mullet-flag fly! Go! It's friggin' Memorial Day! Yee-haw!
Except, therein lies my problem.
Memorial Day is a US holiday that started after the Civil War, commemorating the memory of those fallen in battle. The holiday grew into a day to remember all of the brave people who have died in military service, sacrificing their lives during time of war.
From there it blossomed (no doubt in no small part to the efforts of greeting card companies and advertisers) into a day to honor all of our lost, beloved ones. A very heartfelt, important sentiment.
But. When people wish me a "Happy Memorial Day," I cringe. It's a sad event to be taken seriously. Not a time to bust out swimsuits, sunburns and six-packs. Flailing a torn-off bikini-top in the air seems like a strange salute to the dead (although, I'd like to think they're enjoying it wherever they are).
So the next time my neighbor hollers at me over the fence, "Have a happy Memorial Day," I'm going to respond with, "I hope you have a very sombre holiday."
May 16, 2014
Author Heather Brainerd: Duck Tape or Duct Tape?
Let's give it up for my guest this week, Heather Brainerd. Heather's written a very fun (and funny) detective series, presumably starring her alter ego.
Stuart, thank you so much for having me over to chat.
*Heather, tell us about the Jose Picada, P.I. series.
Josie P. Cates left the corporate world to strike it out on her own as a private investigator. Of course, nothing is ever easy for Josie. The first little hitch: all her promo material was misprinted as “José Picada, PI,” and the cheapo printing company disappeared. Josie can’t afford to get it redone, so now she’s stuck using all this misprinted junk. And boy, do things get interesting from there!*I can't even get along with my brothers, let alone write with them. But whatever you're doing, it works. How in the world does the process work?
Dave and I live three hours apart, so we*Josie's a fun character. Best of all, she wields the razor-sharp tongue and wit that all good detectives do in noiresque tales. Based on anyone you know? (And no cheating, I happen to know you worked the same job Josie did before she became a detective!).
Thanks, Stuart. I really like Josie, too. She’s quick-witted and doesn’t take crap from anyone. I wish I could be more like her. She’s purely fiction, however, not based on anybody real. My insurance coworkers were, for the most part, pretty normal.
*Along these same lines, Josie's go-to computer geek, Bobby, seems to be based on...um, many people I've met in the past. Truth or fiction?
Total fiction. Except that my brother is a genius with computers and math stuff. I’m horrible at both. Math plays an important role in the third José Picada book, so Dave got to use some nice big words while we were writing that one. It’s just in one scene, though – we didn’t overdo it. Oh, and Josie’s reaction to all the math-speak is pretty funny.
*I was certainly surprised (in a good way!) when you took Deception Al Dente down an unexpected supernatural alley. Can we expect more supernatural twists in the follow-up book, The Sound of Sirens? In future Jose Picada entries? In a way, the series reminds me of the late, great George C. Chesboro's "Mongo" series. (There dang well better be future entries! Don't MAKE me come over there, Heather!).
Hmm, sounds like I should check out the Mongo series! It’s funny, but we had no intention of taking Deception Al Dente in a supernatural direction when we started writing it. But that’s the way it wanted to go, so we followed along. And yes, you will see more situations along those lines in future José Picada installments. In fact, there’s a reason why Josie seems to attract supernatural shenanigans. But we’ll save that for later.
*What's Dream Shade about?
It’s a teen paranormal romance with a touch of mystery. Or maybe a teen paranormal mystery with a dash of romance. Either way, it’s about ghosts, and it was inspired by growing up in a haunted house.
*What's next in the ol' Brainerd and Fraser noggins that you're going to share with everyone?
We’re working on the third and fourth/final books in the José series. Before that, however, we have our first middle grade novel coming out this summer. It’s called Shadows of New York, and it’s a totally new spin on the vampire-werewolf theme. In fact, it kind of turns that subgenre on its head.
*Bonus round question! From oldest female detective to youngest...who would win in a fight, Miss Marple or Veronica Mars?
Miss Marple. She has a lifetime of experience to draw on.
Hmm, I may have to disagree with you there, Heather. Regardless, foks go grab the first Josie Cates book, it's good fun. Thanks for going under my grill, Heather.
Blog: http://drivingblindproductions.wordpress.comFacebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/BrainerdFraserTwitter: https://twitter.com/HFBrainerdMuseItUp Publishing: http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/our-authors/51-our-authors/authors-b/291-heather-fraser-brainerdAmazon: http://www.amazon.com/Heather-Fraser-Brainerd/e/B00FNRQV0S/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1393882515&sr=8-1Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/heather-fraser-brainerd?store=allproducts&keyword=heather+fraser+brainerd
May 9, 2014
Where Do Writers Get Their Ideas?
As a writer, this is the question I hear most often.
Wish I had a good answer.
Usually, when asked this, I end up looking like Bambi at the barrel-end of a shotgun. I stare, stammer, try to be witty. Stomp my hooves for a bit. But honestly? I don't know.
I suppose one could look at it as gathering my supper at a salad bar. I pick and pull and consider various leafy plot ideas, pile them on the plate of my mind, garnish them with what I hope is tasty style, top it off with a heaping dollop of my personality. My dressing of preference is humor, heart, and horror. Steaming hot jalapenos of plot twists really set it off. I know, I know, it's an unlikely combination of flavors, but hey! It tastes great at the time, even if it burns when it leaves.
Finally, I let my palate of imagination hunger for the best. I demand shrimp. I know it's hidden away in the refrigerator of my mind somewhere.
Not good enough an answer?
Okay. Most of my books start with an image that strikes me. Out of the blue. Then I take it from there.
Examples:
A bitter farmer standing on his front porch, angry against the world, plotting revenge. The house's windows rattle behind him. Why? I wrote Godland, my forthcoming horror/suspense thriller, to satiate my hungering curiosity.
Neighborhood Watch, my suburban, paranoid horror thriller, was birthed by my snooty neighbor across the street who refused to ever speak, let alone look at us. And she always hid within a snug-tight red hoodie. Why? Again, curiosity drove me to crazy answers.
My forthcoming darkly comedic suspense thriller, The Secret Society of Like Minded Individuals, gave birth when my wife abandoned me on the "husband bench" at a large outlet store. I studied the desperately bored men joining me there, wondering what secrets they could possibly be harboring. The answers might astound you!
On the way to see my inlaws, we drive through a dilapidated town just over the border of Kansas into Oklahoma. Creepy and sad, painful to experience. I researched the town of Picher, Oklahoma. My findings will form a sprawling, epic ghost saga of how greed, ecological poison and the forces of nature destroyed a once prosperous mining town.
Dunno where this came from, really, but an image sprang to mind of a kindly, little ol' lady coming at me with hedge-clippers, smiling beatifically. My next novel. Somehow, someway, details to follow.
Actually, writing is good therapy, as well. My Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy started life as a miss-mash of my exorcising my high school demons along with the detailing of my recently graduated daughter's tenure in hell. The books grew from there.
So, those are my answers. Think I'll print it off, keep it in my pocket. Because, as I said, whenever anyone asks me where I get my ideas? I freeze, locking up like a guy at a urinal with twenty angry, full-bladdered men waiting behind him.
Wish I had a good answer.
Usually, when asked this, I end up looking like Bambi at the barrel-end of a shotgun. I stare, stammer, try to be witty. Stomp my hooves for a bit. But honestly? I don't know.
I suppose one could look at it as gathering my supper at a salad bar. I pick and pull and consider various leafy plot ideas, pile them on the plate of my mind, garnish them with what I hope is tasty style, top it off with a heaping dollop of my personality. My dressing of preference is humor, heart, and horror. Steaming hot jalapenos of plot twists really set it off. I know, I know, it's an unlikely combination of flavors, but hey! It tastes great at the time, even if it burns when it leaves.
Finally, I let my palate of imagination hunger for the best. I demand shrimp. I know it's hidden away in the refrigerator of my mind somewhere.
Not good enough an answer?
Okay. Most of my books start with an image that strikes me. Out of the blue. Then I take it from there.
Examples:
A bitter farmer standing on his front porch, angry against the world, plotting revenge. The house's windows rattle behind him. Why? I wrote Godland, my forthcoming horror/suspense thriller, to satiate my hungering curiosity.
Neighborhood Watch, my suburban, paranoid horror thriller, was birthed by my snooty neighbor across the street who refused to ever speak, let alone look at us. And she always hid within a snug-tight red hoodie. Why? Again, curiosity drove me to crazy answers.
My forthcoming darkly comedic suspense thriller, The Secret Society of Like Minded Individuals, gave birth when my wife abandoned me on the "husband bench" at a large outlet store. I studied the desperately bored men joining me there, wondering what secrets they could possibly be harboring. The answers might astound you!
On the way to see my inlaws, we drive through a dilapidated town just over the border of Kansas into Oklahoma. Creepy and sad, painful to experience. I researched the town of Picher, Oklahoma. My findings will form a sprawling, epic ghost saga of how greed, ecological poison and the forces of nature destroyed a once prosperous mining town.
Dunno where this came from, really, but an image sprang to mind of a kindly, little ol' lady coming at me with hedge-clippers, smiling beatifically. My next novel. Somehow, someway, details to follow.
Actually, writing is good therapy, as well. My Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy started life as a miss-mash of my exorcising my high school demons along with the detailing of my recently graduated daughter's tenure in hell. The books grew from there.
So, those are my answers. Think I'll print it off, keep it in my pocket. Because, as I said, whenever anyone asks me where I get my ideas? I freeze, locking up like a guy at a urinal with twenty angry, full-bladdered men waiting behind him.
May 4, 2014
Raising Hackles With Jeff Chapman
I accidentally stumbled across author, Jeff Chapman, purely by accident. We discovered we were both Jayhawkers (graduates of the University of Kansas. Yay!), and had a mutual interest in horror fiction. Jeff's a terrific writer, able to raise the hackles on the back of your neck with smooth and beautiful prose. Give it up for Jeff!
*So, Jeff, everything you've written has been very macabre. Why the morbidity?
Morbidity seems to be in my blood. A tale dark and dreary always excites my interest. Fall and winter are my favorite times of the year. I don't know. That's just how I'm wired. Maybe I read too much Poe and Greek mythology in my youth.
*I also detect an old-fashioned voice at work here. I'm almost hesitant to classify your tales as "horror." I don't mean this in a bad way, quite the contrary. Your tales bring me back to a time when horror wasn't overwhelmed by stabbers, sadism and grue. Instead the reader is treated to poetic prose and subtle chills. How do you categorize your writing? (I know, I know, I'm asking you to put a label on it.)
One of the reviewers of Last Request described it as soft-horror. That's such an apt term, particularly for Last Request, that I started using it in my descriptions. I usually aim for conflicted characters, often suffering from guilt. Entrapment is another favorite and, having grown up on the plains, I think you can be just as trapped in a wide open windy space as in a small box. My favorite horror story is Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla, a vampire story and precursor to Dracula. Maybe the 19th-century is where that "old-fashioned voice" comes from.
*I feel your pain, brother, being trapped in Kansas!
The horror's definitely of a psychological slant in your tales. In my favorite work of yours, you like to put the characters through the traumatic turn-styles of terror-filled situations. (So, maybe there's a bit of sadism in your work, after all!). But I love how, as a reader, I'm suffering alongside your characters. Do these scenarios work so well, because they scare Jeff Chapman?
In Highway 24 the protagonist meets terror and guilt on a lonely highway in the middle of the night. I've been alone on those highways before, and if you let yourself drift into the right mood, they can be very frightening. I'm also a bit claustrophobic. I've lain awake at night worrying about being buried alive. Thank God for embalming.
*Never thought I'd read somebody blessing embalming.
Your last two stories have had hair-raising scenes set in crypts. What's the deal and what are you not telling us?
Crypts are deliciously creepy. Humans generally separate the living from the dead and limit their contact with corpses. Placing a character in a dwellling reserved for the dead immediately ups the creep factor. My favorite character from Last Request is the Sexton, whose spent decades talking to the "ghosties" down in the crypt. I find his eccentricities hilarious. The inspiration for the Sexton comes from Dicken's Stony Durdles, the odd gravedigger in The Mystery of Edwin Drood. The caretaker of the cemetary in Highway 24 is rather strange as well.
*I'm a fan of everything of yours I've read. But with your newest work, Last Request: A Victorian Gothic, I really think you've hit your stride. Your prose, almost Victorian at heart, matches up perfectly with the period setting. Some of the scenes, particularly amongst the servants, reminded me of "Downton Abbey (Okay, I'm a closet fan)." What inspired this macabre tale about a night in the crypt?
I saw a reference once to a crypt in which the future occupant had placed a bell that could be wrung from inside in case of a premature burial. Premature burials are also a frequent theme in Poe's work. I thought about what someone might do to make certain they were dead and cutting off the head came to mind. The story wouldn't work as well now with most people being embalmed so I chose a nineteenth century setting. The rest of the story flowed from the initial problem and the setting. And yes, I love those Victorian and Edwardian costume dramas.
*What came first in Last Request? Your awesome hook (I'll let you explain it, if you'd like, but you won't get spoilers from me), the setting, or the plot?
The hook came first, the idea of an aging claustrophobe asking his relatives to cut off his head postmortem, just to make sure he's dead.
*Highway 24 is a great ghost story. You and I both share Kansas upbringings (gasp!) to a certain extent. And I can't recall if you actually stated this took place in Kansas, but I'm sure it did. Absolutely know it did! Give everyone a little background about Highway 24. And, putting you on the spot here...any truth to the protagonist's tale about his traveling salesman father?
I grew up in Beloit, a small Kansas town in the north central part of the state. U.S. 24 passes to the north of town. Yes, the story is set in Kansas and the town the protagonist visits is a conglomeration of Beloit and neighboring towns. The setting is rooted in reality but the ghostly (and angry) girl on the highway as well as the story about the father and son are pure fiction. Roads in rural Kansas can be lonely and spooky at night.
*The Crooked House of Coins was the first work of yours I read. And it still gives me the creeps thinking about it. Your mission, should you accept it? Scare everyone into reading it!
I wrote "The Crooked House of Coins" for an anthology of stories featuring crooked houses. I had wanted to do a "Fall of the House of Usher" kind of story but I didn't have the ingredients for a plot until I heard a news story about the 1933 Double Eagles. These gold coins are illegal to possess and were never officially circulated as the United States was going off the gold standard, but an enterprising treasury employee stole a few from the mint before the coins were destroyed. Needless to say, they are very valuable and highly prized among collectors. The story centers on two cousins racing against time to find a collection of the Double Eagle coins hidden in the house's structure. Their great grandfather left cryptic clues to the coins' whereabouts. He also hung himself in the third-story ballroom, a victim of financial ruin during the Great Depression. The cousins may be the only people in the house, but they're not the only beings in the house. Some ghosts are greedy beyond the grave.
*I keep bugging you about writing a full-length novel. Now get on it, you'll create a great one. What's next off your sick keyboard?
I'm working on a couple novellas. In "The Masque," a young artist is asked to create a mask to cover the scarring on a young woman's face. The woman's brother implies that the mask will help her to find a suitable husband, but as the protagonist falls in love with the disfigured sister, he learns that the relationships in the house aren't what they seem. "The Masque" pushes some of the subtle suggestions in "The Fall of the House of Usher" to their logical extreme. "The Quick and the Damned Damned Dead" is a frontier adventure story set during the American Revolution. Think Daniel Boone versus British soldiers as zombies. When those are done, I have a short fantasy novel to write based on my story "Esme's Amulet," about a young girl's dealings with a very nasty witch. I'm also collaborating with a friend on a werewolf novel set among the Pilgrims.
*Sounds great, Jeff, and I can't wait to read them. There you go, folks! For some chilling late-night reads, seek out Jeff's works. You can thank (or hate) me later for the sleepless nights! Here's where you can find his tales:
Blog: http://jeffchapmanwriter.blogspot.com/
Last Request: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00J3J5LYY
Highway 24: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D91M13G
The Crooked House of Coins: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00A950FVA
*So, Jeff, everything you've written has been very macabre. Why the morbidity?
Morbidity seems to be in my blood. A tale dark and dreary always excites my interest. Fall and winter are my favorite times of the year. I don't know. That's just how I'm wired. Maybe I read too much Poe and Greek mythology in my youth.
*I also detect an old-fashioned voice at work here. I'm almost hesitant to classify your tales as "horror." I don't mean this in a bad way, quite the contrary. Your tales bring me back to a time when horror wasn't overwhelmed by stabbers, sadism and grue. Instead the reader is treated to poetic prose and subtle chills. How do you categorize your writing? (I know, I know, I'm asking you to put a label on it.)
One of the reviewers of Last Request described it as soft-horror. That's such an apt term, particularly for Last Request, that I started using it in my descriptions. I usually aim for conflicted characters, often suffering from guilt. Entrapment is another favorite and, having grown up on the plains, I think you can be just as trapped in a wide open windy space as in a small box. My favorite horror story is Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla, a vampire story and precursor to Dracula. Maybe the 19th-century is where that "old-fashioned voice" comes from.
*I feel your pain, brother, being trapped in Kansas!
The horror's definitely of a psychological slant in your tales. In my favorite work of yours, you like to put the characters through the traumatic turn-styles of terror-filled situations. (So, maybe there's a bit of sadism in your work, after all!). But I love how, as a reader, I'm suffering alongside your characters. Do these scenarios work so well, because they scare Jeff Chapman?
In Highway 24 the protagonist meets terror and guilt on a lonely highway in the middle of the night. I've been alone on those highways before, and if you let yourself drift into the right mood, they can be very frightening. I'm also a bit claustrophobic. I've lain awake at night worrying about being buried alive. Thank God for embalming.
*Never thought I'd read somebody blessing embalming.
Your last two stories have had hair-raising scenes set in crypts. What's the deal and what are you not telling us?
Crypts are deliciously creepy. Humans generally separate the living from the dead and limit their contact with corpses. Placing a character in a dwellling reserved for the dead immediately ups the creep factor. My favorite character from Last Request is the Sexton, whose spent decades talking to the "ghosties" down in the crypt. I find his eccentricities hilarious. The inspiration for the Sexton comes from Dicken's Stony Durdles, the odd gravedigger in The Mystery of Edwin Drood. The caretaker of the cemetary in Highway 24 is rather strange as well.
*I'm a fan of everything of yours I've read. But with your newest work, Last Request: A Victorian Gothic, I really think you've hit your stride. Your prose, almost Victorian at heart, matches up perfectly with the period setting. Some of the scenes, particularly amongst the servants, reminded me of "Downton Abbey (Okay, I'm a closet fan)." What inspired this macabre tale about a night in the crypt?
I saw a reference once to a crypt in which the future occupant had placed a bell that could be wrung from inside in case of a premature burial. Premature burials are also a frequent theme in Poe's work. I thought about what someone might do to make certain they were dead and cutting off the head came to mind. The story wouldn't work as well now with most people being embalmed so I chose a nineteenth century setting. The rest of the story flowed from the initial problem and the setting. And yes, I love those Victorian and Edwardian costume dramas.
*What came first in Last Request? Your awesome hook (I'll let you explain it, if you'd like, but you won't get spoilers from me), the setting, or the plot?
The hook came first, the idea of an aging claustrophobe asking his relatives to cut off his head postmortem, just to make sure he's dead.
*Highway 24 is a great ghost story. You and I both share Kansas upbringings (gasp!) to a certain extent. And I can't recall if you actually stated this took place in Kansas, but I'm sure it did. Absolutely know it did! Give everyone a little background about Highway 24. And, putting you on the spot here...any truth to the protagonist's tale about his traveling salesman father?
I grew up in Beloit, a small Kansas town in the north central part of the state. U.S. 24 passes to the north of town. Yes, the story is set in Kansas and the town the protagonist visits is a conglomeration of Beloit and neighboring towns. The setting is rooted in reality but the ghostly (and angry) girl on the highway as well as the story about the father and son are pure fiction. Roads in rural Kansas can be lonely and spooky at night.
*The Crooked House of Coins was the first work of yours I read. And it still gives me the creeps thinking about it. Your mission, should you accept it? Scare everyone into reading it!
I wrote "The Crooked House of Coins" for an anthology of stories featuring crooked houses. I had wanted to do a "Fall of the House of Usher" kind of story but I didn't have the ingredients for a plot until I heard a news story about the 1933 Double Eagles. These gold coins are illegal to possess and were never officially circulated as the United States was going off the gold standard, but an enterprising treasury employee stole a few from the mint before the coins were destroyed. Needless to say, they are very valuable and highly prized among collectors. The story centers on two cousins racing against time to find a collection of the Double Eagle coins hidden in the house's structure. Their great grandfather left cryptic clues to the coins' whereabouts. He also hung himself in the third-story ballroom, a victim of financial ruin during the Great Depression. The cousins may be the only people in the house, but they're not the only beings in the house. Some ghosts are greedy beyond the grave.
*I keep bugging you about writing a full-length novel. Now get on it, you'll create a great one. What's next off your sick keyboard?
I'm working on a couple novellas. In "The Masque," a young artist is asked to create a mask to cover the scarring on a young woman's face. The woman's brother implies that the mask will help her to find a suitable husband, but as the protagonist falls in love with the disfigured sister, he learns that the relationships in the house aren't what they seem. "The Masque" pushes some of the subtle suggestions in "The Fall of the House of Usher" to their logical extreme. "The Quick and the Damned Damned Dead" is a frontier adventure story set during the American Revolution. Think Daniel Boone versus British soldiers as zombies. When those are done, I have a short fantasy novel to write based on my story "Esme's Amulet," about a young girl's dealings with a very nasty witch. I'm also collaborating with a friend on a werewolf novel set among the Pilgrims.
*Sounds great, Jeff, and I can't wait to read them. There you go, folks! For some chilling late-night reads, seek out Jeff's works. You can thank (or hate) me later for the sleepless nights! Here's where you can find his tales:
Blog: http://jeffchapmanwriter.blogspot.com/
Last Request: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00J3J5LYY
Highway 24: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D91M13G
The Crooked House of Coins: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00A950FVA
April 25, 2014
Nightmare of Ghastly, Macabre, Heart-Stopping Horror! And it's all true!
This Monday I lived through a true-life horror film. Something I'll never forget in my life as much as I'd like to.
So. Monday afternoon, 3:00 p.m., the dog and I are napping upstairs. Lame, I know, but I suffer from insomnia so I have to steal sleep when it calls. But I digress.
Half-asleep, I hear the front door open. Gotta' be my daughter who just got off work. Soon, footfalls thunder upstairs. I wonder why she's intruding upon my inner sanctum. The bedroom door opens. My dog's collar jangles as he runs to meet my daughter.
Although...it wasn't my daughter.
A man's voice, mumbling to himself. Or talking to my dog. Popeye-esque. "Hello, boy, be damned if I know where they are."
Okay. What does one do in this circumstance? Oddly enough, I kept my eyes closed the entire time, still groggy and in a pseudo sleep coma. If I'm gonna' die, I may as well go out in a state of half-realized Nirvana. Or something. I couldn't think. The surrealism nearly swept me away. That and my heart jack-hammering against my chest.
"Hello?" I said, master of witty dialogue. I don't know about you guys, but apparently since I was about to meet a serial killer who broke into my house, I guess I wanted to be polite to the man who was about to take me out.
"Hi," my would-be murderer replied, "I'm supposed to meet some people here to look at the house." Pause. Still had my eyes closed. Couldn't be buggered to open them. Dreaming? No. The strange long silence continued. I don't know who was more horrified. Me? Probably not. The mystery man walked into a scenario with an overweight, middle-aged man lying on top of a bed in his underwear with a half pit-bull dog on the floor.
"Um, no, the house next door is for sale," I said. Had to be dreaming. Right? RIGHT?
"Jesus Christ, tell me I didn't come into the wrong house! I'm sorry, buddy!"
I said it was okay (it wasn't), no problems done (tell that to my soiled underwear), come back again soon, next time I'll be clothed (No way. The door gets locked even while I'm home from now on). But you know what? In my state of sleepiness, I handled it all in stride, too dazed to realize the horror of it all. Wasn't 'till I woke up, I realized how damn creepy it was. But I handled it in an amazingly half-lucid Zen state of mind. Even though I still don't know what my visitor looked like. I don't think I ever want to, either. He's probably heavily drinking in a bar right now after what he saw. Or gouging his eyes out.
Now, about my dog. Sure, he wants to tear the mailman's head off, but he met a house-breaking serial killer with a lick and a wag of the tail.
So. Monday afternoon, 3:00 p.m., the dog and I are napping upstairs. Lame, I know, but I suffer from insomnia so I have to steal sleep when it calls. But I digress.
Half-asleep, I hear the front door open. Gotta' be my daughter who just got off work. Soon, footfalls thunder upstairs. I wonder why she's intruding upon my inner sanctum. The bedroom door opens. My dog's collar jangles as he runs to meet my daughter.
Although...it wasn't my daughter.
A man's voice, mumbling to himself. Or talking to my dog. Popeye-esque. "Hello, boy, be damned if I know where they are."
Okay. What does one do in this circumstance? Oddly enough, I kept my eyes closed the entire time, still groggy and in a pseudo sleep coma. If I'm gonna' die, I may as well go out in a state of half-realized Nirvana. Or something. I couldn't think. The surrealism nearly swept me away. That and my heart jack-hammering against my chest.
"Hello?" I said, master of witty dialogue. I don't know about you guys, but apparently since I was about to meet a serial killer who broke into my house, I guess I wanted to be polite to the man who was about to take me out.
"Hi," my would-be murderer replied, "I'm supposed to meet some people here to look at the house." Pause. Still had my eyes closed. Couldn't be buggered to open them. Dreaming? No. The strange long silence continued. I don't know who was more horrified. Me? Probably not. The mystery man walked into a scenario with an overweight, middle-aged man lying on top of a bed in his underwear with a half pit-bull dog on the floor.
"Um, no, the house next door is for sale," I said. Had to be dreaming. Right? RIGHT?
"Jesus Christ, tell me I didn't come into the wrong house! I'm sorry, buddy!"
I said it was okay (it wasn't), no problems done (tell that to my soiled underwear), come back again soon, next time I'll be clothed (No way. The door gets locked even while I'm home from now on). But you know what? In my state of sleepiness, I handled it all in stride, too dazed to realize the horror of it all. Wasn't 'till I woke up, I realized how damn creepy it was. But I handled it in an amazingly half-lucid Zen state of mind. Even though I still don't know what my visitor looked like. I don't think I ever want to, either. He's probably heavily drinking in a bar right now after what he saw. Or gouging his eyes out.
Now, about my dog. Sure, he wants to tear the mailman's head off, but he met a house-breaking serial killer with a lick and a wag of the tail.
April 18, 2014
Spelling Bad With Marva Dasef
I’d like to shove little Harry Potter to the back of the classroom to make way for a serious student of witchcraft, Katrina, the heroine of Marva Dasef’s imaginative and fun series, The Witches of Galdorheim.
Thanks, Marva, for coming on and putting up with my hoo-hah.
*Fill the uninitiated in. Tell us about the Galdorheim series.
The series follows the adventures of Katrina Galdorheim, a teen witch who lives with her family on an island in the Barents Sea north of Norway. The Witches’ Home (Galdorheim) was established during the 15thC. when the witch-burning fad was in full swing in Europe. Since the island is entirely populated by witches, they can maintain a pleasant environment via a magic dome surrounding the village where the witches reside.
Katrina was born into a powerful witch family. Unfortunately for Kat, her mother (Ardyth) fell for a simple Siberian fisherman who was stranded on the island when his umiak was crushed by an amorous walrus. Kat was the result of their union, but her father was frozen into an ice cave shortly after her birth. Her younger brother, Rune, was conceived by his and Kat’s mom on an ill-fated vacation to Transylvania.
Skip ahead a few years and the story begins as Kat becomes increasingly frustrated that all her spell casting goes terribly wrong. She’s a very bad speller. She decides she’s just not witch material and decides to run away from the island to find her father’s Siberian family. This involves a rather lengthy trip across frozen seas, through the Norwegian mountains, then eastward into Siberia. Her half vampire brother, Rune, decides to help her on the journey since he’s a super spellcaster. This is how the first book begins.
The next two books (Midnight Oil and Scotch Broom) in the series continue with Kat and Rune getting into and out of trouble with various magical creatures, many of which you mention below.
*Okay, at first, I gave an award-winning eye-roll (several gravitations) when I read that your books involved witches, vampires, trolls, werewolves, ogres, the whole nine yards. Toss everything in a fantasy blender and stir. But once I read the first book, Bad Spelling, I became bewitched beneath your spell. You made all the seemingly disparate elements gel. Talk about world-building. Finally, I get to my question. Did you start with a witch, your heroine, and work from there? Were the other fantastical characters preplanned or did the tale lead you on the way?
I started with a title—Bad Spelling. It was one of those wake up in the middle of the night with a couple of words and it grew into Kat’s story. As I wrote, I outlined some of the events, coming up with the situations Kat would encounter. With lots of research into magic and Norse legend, I found the various characters, both good and evil. Many times I’d find something in research I never knew before, but just had to use. A lot came from my love of Fractured Fairytales. Give me a legend, myth, or fairy tale, and I’ll be happy to abuse it.
*How did you settle on such a cold and foreign climate and terrain to set your series in? Knowledge or wishful thinking?
I’m 1/4th Norwegian on my mother’s side of the family. People tend to read about their roots, so I was fairly familiar with Norse myth and legend. The usual Norse-based fantasies are all about Vikings and tend toward epic fantasy. I wanted something fun, humorous, a little dangerous, and without a Viking in sight. Hm. Maybe a Viking or two wouldn’t be a bad idea.
*No, I think you did right by keeping those vikings at bay, Marva. Bad bunch, the kind Mom warned about hanging out with. I was very impressed with the small imaginative touches, from the cheese in the refrigerator mooing to the clocks announcing the time. Um, tell me, Marva, does your milk chat at you?
Alas, my food talks only if it disagrees with me. I can usually shut it up with a couple of Tums.
*To be honest, I was a little disappointed when the tale of Galdorheim became a quest. Not that I didn’t enjoy the quest. I did. But I liked the characters who were left behind. Am I the only one who really liked uptight Aunt Thordis? For whatever reason, she was my favorite character. I need therapy, maybe.
While it was something of a journey, Kat isn’t a Chosen One. I think Quests are more likely to be a journey to find a magical talisman or even “off to see the Wizard.” Kat’s just trying to find someplace to live where she won’t be constantly humiliated by her so-called handicap. The next two books have larger roles for Thordis, Ardyth, and Mordita (who’s my favorite). While Kat continues to search for stuff, at no time is she a Chosen One on a Quest.
*Rune, Kat’s brother. Nice character, always hungry, definitely supportive of his sister. Why half-vampire?
Other than it just being a fun twist, Rune has to be something of an outcast himself, but he has to be a strong spell caster and an annoying little brother. What’s more annoying than a brother who wants to drink your blood? This is brought out when he doesn’t join the warlock Wolf Pack because he figures he has enough trouble controlling his vampire. A prequel story, Spellslinger, is all about a younger Rune dealing with his own problems with his vampire nature and his magic.
*Kat’s mother really got around. Not casting judgment, mind you. But, sheesh, what a hoochie, sleeping with mundanes, vampires, warlocks. What’s next…werewolves? Um, no wonder Kat’s got issues.
Ardyth is a free spirit. She would be right at home at Burning Man or any Renaissance Faire. In the 60’s she would have been Mick Jagger’s favorite groupie. She’s also a responsible mom, though. In her case, if you mess with her kids you might end up as a toad.
*Having not read the rest of the series (yet), I have to ask…Kat’s father, Borisi. He was left “half-dead (it’s complicated)” tunneling his way into a glacier. Yet, we didn’t find out why. This intriguing puzzle fairly opened the book, kept me compelled. The answer wasn’t forthcoming. Can I assume it will be resolved in the next books?
Yes, the question is answered, but Kat doesn’t get to know. The adults prefer not to tell her. “Maybe when you grow up...” Aren’t adults annoying? It’s not really too difficult to understand, though. Borisi was mundane, living with a bunch of spellcasters. He was attempting to establish his own home outside the village. With a harsh environment and few resources, he was building an igloo of sorts. While Samis are igloo-builders, the idea of an icehouse as a home is fairly common. They even have that ice hotel in Iceland. How crazy is that?
*Argh. Parents.
Absolutely loved the “trollercoaster” and the Cavalry of lemmings. Not things you read about often. Things I love to discover. Things I haven’t read about before. Things dreams/nightmares are made of. So, where’d they come from (and pass the peyote)?
Um, yeah. I don’t like to read trite, therefore I attempt to not take the obvious route to any solution. I think all writers try to pull something a bit different from their brains to make their stories stand out. I wish you hadn’t mentioned the lemmings, though. That’s kind of a spoiler.
*Oops. Belated spoiler alert, folks! I’ve found that every writer drops something of their self into their tales. Who are you? What parts are you?
I was pretty much like Thordis when I was managing technical documentation departments at software firms. I even made one guy cry. But I’d really love to be Mordita. Cranky, wise, and willing to break the rules. My kind of gal.
*Moving forward, what can we expect from Kat and company? Burgeoning romance between Andy, the ex-troll, and Kat? Rune getting his vampire on? The little witchy witch, Merry, getting her comeuppance? Many more quests? Mysteries? More of Kat’s mother’s dalliances?
A reviewer who goes by handle The Fountain Pen Diva loves the series, total fangirl. A big plus for her is that sappy teen angst romance doesn’t get in the way of adventure. I can’t say too much or I’d be handing out spoilers. Let’s just say all of the characters you mention play a role in at least one of the next two books, and we’ll meet a few more interesting magical folk. As for quests? I still don’t have any Chosen Ones. I think rather than a ‛quest’ my characters fall into circumstances that put them into hot water from which they have to find their own way out.
*Beyond the Galdorheim series, anything else on Marva’s keyboard we can anticipate?
I have several other books already out in the world. For the near future, I’ll be working on getting my books into the up-and-coming audio book media. When you can listen to a book on your smart phone, a lot of commuters, joggers, and gym rats will have something to do other than endure another Miley Cyrus or Justin Beiber song.
No more Cyrus and Beiber! Bring on Dasef!
Highly recommended, check out Marva’s series. More fun than going to the dentist and immensely less painful.
I’d love to hear from people. Please visit my website, blog, and social media sites. Here are the deets.
Website: https://sites.google.com/site/mdasefauthor/home
Blog: http://mgddasef.blogspot.com
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BM4DM6
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/MarvaDasef
Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/?tab=wX#107073845875601488093/posts
Twitter Handle: @Gurina
Book Trailers: http://www.youtube.com/user/MarvaDasef/videos
I’ve recently re-issued many of my ebooks, including the Witches of Galdorheim series. Everything I have is available on Amazon and its many country-specific sites throughout the world.
Thanks for a fun interview, Stuart. Maybe Tex and Kat can sit down and have a conversation some day. I think they have a lot in common.
April 14, 2014
InKansanity
I'm ashamed to be living in Kansas right now. Not just the usual embarrassments of idiocy, either. And a little scared, too.
You've probably heard about the tragic shooting at the Kansas Jewish Community Center. The perpetrator shot and killed several people. Why? Hate crime. When the police caught this demon, he smiled, made some anti-Semitic comments, very proud of his handiwork. Turns out he had been a "Grandmaster" in the Ku Klux Klan. Yes, sadly, the KKK still exists in Kansas.
I just watched the poor woman who lost her son and father give a heart-felt statement to the local media. Woman's a warrior, said she hopes something good comes from it, and her faith in God is carrying her through.
Bravo and tears for her. Honestly, she handled it with such grace, I don't know how she managed. I couldn't.
If that's not enough, there's currently a maniac who slips on a ski mask and is driving around the "Grandview Triangle (a particularly tricky part of Kansas City highway treachery, a special circle of Hell in itself, now made even more dangerous)" taking potshots at other drivers.
The police commissioner's response when put on the spot? "Well, there hasn't been a shooting since Sunday." Like that's supposed to appease us. Lame. But I know he's in a tough spot.
The insanity has to stop.
It's like Kansas back in the "wild west" days. The difference being I actually understand why people were putting bullets in others back then. Greed. Money. Show of power. Not acceptable, but at least there was motivation behind the shootings.
Not now. It's a scary, dangerous world. One where I fear for my loved ones. Something has to change. And the change starts with how we interact with one another.
You've probably heard about the tragic shooting at the Kansas Jewish Community Center. The perpetrator shot and killed several people. Why? Hate crime. When the police caught this demon, he smiled, made some anti-Semitic comments, very proud of his handiwork. Turns out he had been a "Grandmaster" in the Ku Klux Klan. Yes, sadly, the KKK still exists in Kansas.
I just watched the poor woman who lost her son and father give a heart-felt statement to the local media. Woman's a warrior, said she hopes something good comes from it, and her faith in God is carrying her through.
Bravo and tears for her. Honestly, she handled it with such grace, I don't know how she managed. I couldn't.
If that's not enough, there's currently a maniac who slips on a ski mask and is driving around the "Grandview Triangle (a particularly tricky part of Kansas City highway treachery, a special circle of Hell in itself, now made even more dangerous)" taking potshots at other drivers.
The police commissioner's response when put on the spot? "Well, there hasn't been a shooting since Sunday." Like that's supposed to appease us. Lame. But I know he's in a tough spot.
The insanity has to stop.
It's like Kansas back in the "wild west" days. The difference being I actually understand why people were putting bullets in others back then. Greed. Money. Show of power. Not acceptable, but at least there was motivation behind the shootings.
Not now. It's a scary, dangerous world. One where I fear for my loved ones. Something has to change. And the change starts with how we interact with one another.
April 11, 2014
The Smears of a Clown
Really dumb title, right? You betcha! And very appropriate, too.
So, my publisher held a contest for the authors to enter a flash fiction contest. The rules were simple. Write a short story under 100 words. Being the consummate idiot I am, I forgot to include a title. My publisher named it "Criminal Clown." But I much prefer my title.
I didn't win. I never win anything.
But here for your pleasure (torture) is "The Smears of a Clown."
Thumping woke me in the night. I slipped out of bed and tip-toed downstairs. A clown stood frozen at the back door, cradling my television.
Caught somewhere between fear and a dream-like state, I blinked, rubbed my eyes. Not the best response, I laughed.
He asked, "What's so funny? Do I look like a clown to you?"
"Yes."
His red, plastic nose squeaked when I planted a meat-cleaver into his face.
I pumped my fist like a rock-star to the resounding applause in my head. Always wanted to kill a clown.
Mimes are next. Then politicians and Kardashians.
So, my publisher held a contest for the authors to enter a flash fiction contest. The rules were simple. Write a short story under 100 words. Being the consummate idiot I am, I forgot to include a title. My publisher named it "Criminal Clown." But I much prefer my title.I didn't win. I never win anything.
But here for your pleasure (torture) is "The Smears of a Clown."
Thumping woke me in the night. I slipped out of bed and tip-toed downstairs. A clown stood frozen at the back door, cradling my television.
Caught somewhere between fear and a dream-like state, I blinked, rubbed my eyes. Not the best response, I laughed.
He asked, "What's so funny? Do I look like a clown to you?"
"Yes."
His red, plastic nose squeaked when I planted a meat-cleaver into his face.
I pumped my fist like a rock-star to the resounding applause in my head. Always wanted to kill a clown.
Mimes are next. Then politicians and Kardashians.
April 5, 2014
Nice Catholic Girl to Wanton Biker Hoochy
Where did I go wrong? I tried raising my daughter in the right way. Taught her good values. Had a very uncomfortable (but frank) sex talk with her while she was on the swing-set. Told her to eat her vegetables and shut her hole, all the respectable things parents should do.
Through-out her edumacational years, she was a good student; shy, sweet, never a hair out of place.
Then it all ended.
Yesterday morning I heard this horrendous chopping sound outside. To my open-mouthed dismay, I watched as my daughter got off the back of a Harley. Leather-wearing dude driving. Gah!
Twenty-one years old and now she decides to rebel.
Well, you know what? I'm rebelling back. I've had it. Two can play at this game. No longer will I tolerate such insolence. Instead I'm going to join the game. I told her I'm going to wear mid-riff t-shirts and skinny jeans. And getting a "tramp-stamp" tattoo that reads, "Luscious." It won't be pretty. Don't care. Payback can be a beeyotch. And when her friends come around, I'm going to spout all kindsa' ludicrous "hipster" lingo like, "Hey, hey, hey, Stuart's in the hizzy-house," and "What up, yo?" and "You feel me, blood?" and "Peace out."
Parents! It's time for us to take back the night. I'm calling for a revolution. And the war starts here. So, hitch up those "mom jeans" and proudly wear them over your navel! Display that comb-over like a trophy! Don't be afraid to own up to having a Hall and Oates eight-track tape in your closet!
I can't wait for the day when my daughter says, "Dad, you're being dumb. Quit embarrassing me."
How will I respond? Gonna' get on my new Harley, of course, toss her the two-fingered metal salute, and leave her in a blaze of smoke.
Through-out her edumacational years, she was a good student; shy, sweet, never a hair out of place.
Then it all ended.
Yesterday morning I heard this horrendous chopping sound outside. To my open-mouthed dismay, I watched as my daughter got off the back of a Harley. Leather-wearing dude driving. Gah!
Twenty-one years old and now she decides to rebel.
Well, you know what? I'm rebelling back. I've had it. Two can play at this game. No longer will I tolerate such insolence. Instead I'm going to join the game. I told her I'm going to wear mid-riff t-shirts and skinny jeans. And getting a "tramp-stamp" tattoo that reads, "Luscious." It won't be pretty. Don't care. Payback can be a beeyotch. And when her friends come around, I'm going to spout all kindsa' ludicrous "hipster" lingo like, "Hey, hey, hey, Stuart's in the hizzy-house," and "What up, yo?" and "You feel me, blood?" and "Peace out."
Parents! It's time for us to take back the night. I'm calling for a revolution. And the war starts here. So, hitch up those "mom jeans" and proudly wear them over your navel! Display that comb-over like a trophy! Don't be afraid to own up to having a Hall and Oates eight-track tape in your closet!
I can't wait for the day when my daughter says, "Dad, you're being dumb. Quit embarrassing me."
How will I respond? Gonna' get on my new Harley, of course, toss her the two-fingered metal salute, and leave her in a blaze of smoke.
