J.D. Buffington's Blog

ON WRITING

(OR GETTING READY TO)

I write in fits and spurts. My creativity is manic, I am either bursting with ideas or drained of imagination. This does not account for the executive dysfunction or perfectionism or life in general getting in the way, or of my “fear” of doing the damn thing (which is a combination of all of these things). “What if I can’t write what I’m imagining in my head?” “What if what I think is brilliant will bore others?” “I can’t start this part until I’ve got this other part figured out first, but this part is what’s got me excited…”

And of course, not delivering for extended periods of time leads to imposter syndrome. Harper Lee got it in one (for a real long time, anyway)! Who cares how many pieces I have, right? But I do have more stories to tell, I just beat myself up in the process of telling them.

The first draft cannot be written until I have the necessary materials. It’s like going to the Home Depot of Idea Land, I have to gather up materials and tools. This is reading and ruminating. I will write snippets of ideas, and sometimes those end up in a final piece, but a lot of my initial writing is practice. All this lumber and siding and plumbing and shingles, I want to build a house you can walk into and it feels lived in, but you can’t see the joints.

The first draft is the framework of the house. But if you’ve ever seen a neighborhood being constructed, there are all these wooden skeletons of houses on dirt lots. There might be shiny, white concrete driveways sitting empty next to huge trash bins and dirty trucks and plastic tarps weathering. This place looks dead, but in six months, it’ll have green grass, a tree, and a family of four in all the houses with clean cars and regular trash bins for the collectors to pick up on Thursdays. You won’t see a construction zone anymore, you’ll see where people live.

My vomit draft(s) is all the cruft on the side. A lot of it will be discarded, but sometimes the foreman in my brain, who is just Steve Martin from the Jerk where he’s saying he doesn’t need anything…except all this junk. Something gets blown up, something gets glued back together. Trash becomes building materials, fresh ideas become trash. It’s a vicious cycle, this vomiting up something to work with; but in my head, with how I write, this constant churn, this slurry of ideas, eventually yields a piece of sheetrock. A door. Windows that fit neatly and will let the light in just right…

I’ve been to Imaginary Lowes a lot of times on my current WIP. And sometimes I think I’ve got a handle on it in a way that makes me want to tear through it. The high-highs of my creativity. And it was a confluence of ideas, external and internal over the last couple of weeks that have led to maybe forging ahead like I want to.

I may finally have scaffolding strong enough to hold up all this trash the Jerk said needs to be in this book. It’s vomit-draft time. It’s the first-first draft. Putting it all on paper and then sliding the pieces around and doing the shaving and plaining and sanding and all the This Old House buzz words so that I can make something so well machined you’ll think it’s hewn from a single block.

And this? Blogging about nothing really? A look into my writing process, and that I sometimes will write anything else to keep from writing the thing. It’s first gear. I’ve started typing and I’ve said something and I can proofread this and this is short, so I can move straight into the thing.

Okay, bye.

S8C And Moving Forward

I would not say learning how to self-publish through Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) was the worst experience. It’s free, it puts your books in ebook and paperback on Amazon—one of the largest retailers in the world—and with Amazon’s purchase of Audible, you could even set up audiobooks, but I’ll get to that in a moment.

KDP and Amazon marketing were a learning experience, for me, not a lucrative one. As the rise of LLMs and Generative AI have stolen works and work from authors and artists, Amazon has invested in these very things as well, and is promoting AI narrators for fast and cheap audiobooks.

Publishing on Audible (ACX behind the scenes on the author dashboard) used to be: upload content you already had, pay a standard rate for a narrator who offered their services on ACX, or opt for a 50/50 revenue split with narrators who also agreed to such projects. I did a couple of short stories and two of my novelettes on Audible, but I had no control over pricing, and always felt Audible was asking too much for my productions. But I worked with humans all the way through. Because of those prices, I don’t advertise my audiobooks much, it’s hard even asking people to “buy” Kindle Unlimited titles which are free for people signed up! It’s hard selling anything, frankly, but every so often, someone will use a credit they have on Audible and my narrator and I get a few cents in royalties. Moisture farmers in the desert. This is why I haven’t decided on taking down my Audible titles—yet.

You can still purchase books of mine on Amazon. As I’ve written about before regarding Standing 8 Count, I publish wider now through IngramSpark. I have discounts set in accordance with any bookstore to be able to special order or even stock if I were so lucky. Anuci Press publishes through IngramSpark as well, meaning my autobiography is readily available across storefronts.

But Amazon’s push toward AI and a general lack of sales despite personal effort and paid promotion has not moved enough units to justify continuing to expose my work to a machine that may well devour it if I don’t move before they do. Am I paranoid? Absolutely. Do I have a plan for the future of the titles I’ve removed? Indeed!

Earlier this year I took Fruitless Bodies off KDP and republished it through Ingram with notes now preceding each story. An “annotated” edition. Of the three novelettes that I have pulled down, I intend to recollect them in a four book compilation à la Stephen King’s Different Seasons. The fourth novella will be a new ghost story I’ve been slowly working on, loosely based on events from my haunted townhouse apartment here in Tulsa.

I’m also working on a new novel that spans eras, though is much more disjointed and globe trotting than In the House of In Between (my first novel I wrested control back from insensitive boutique publishing solely through KDP).

Both of these I hope to shop around next year, but I have seen marginally more success publishing through Ingram and just shouting on BlueSky and Discord and finding support from other writers and readers. With major corporations bending the knee to censorship, I may retain my rights and continue self-publishing. Not all publishers are doing this, of course; there are many successful independent presses actively fighting in support of first amendment rights and the rights of authors and artists. And I would love to work with them!

So, while I’m proud of my work, and KDP was a good way to learn how to do this for little to no expense, I don’t trust Amazon on the future. I still have a little room to grow with the initial investment I made to get S8C titles available anywhere a reader wants to get their books. Red Clouds, The Light Across the Street, and Come Hither No Malice will return, maybe even touched up a little (an artist is never done…), maybe under a new banner, maybe still firmly mine.

In the meantime, find other books by me anywhere! I link to Bookshop most often as they support local and indie bookstores, but there are links to purchase from my IngramSpark account directly in my bibliography page, as well.

STAR WA—TREK: SNW SEASON 3

I like Star Trek. I know that not all of it is good, I’ve never even cared to watch Enterprise and I’ve only seen the first half of Prodigy (I liked it, just haven’t gotten back to it). But Discovery and Strange New Worlds (SNW) felt like Star Trek more than the NuTrek movies did.

I will now start talking about the latest season of Strange New Worlds, spoilers and conjecture, and of Star Trek at large. You’ve been warned—I’m pushing up my glasses…now.

There’s been a lot of booing about the new season, but overall, I enjoyed it! I certainly have some problems that I’ll get to, but pretty much out the gate for this season, it felt like SNW was getting campier and lighter in tone, as if in reference to the era they are leading up to: 1960’s Space. They make fun of themselves for it in the holodeck episode (note: even on the original series and The Next Generation, writers of Star Trek knew AI is bad and stupid), while still acknowledging the larger contribution to society that something like Star Trek can provide. Yes, there is a lot of skin and stereotyping of sensitive issues. But it can be tender and really saying something at times, too, even here 60 years later (yeah! Next year marks 60 years of Trek!).

But that turning from science mystery of the week—with a little social justice sometimes—more and more into the vaguely Trekish “Adventure Hour” this season has felt like it’s not taking itself seriously. What’s going on behind the scenes with Paramount right now doesn’t affect what was filmed last year, but it may have been visible on the horizon. We may not get another episode of SNW where Pike shows our current real world politics as the beginning of the WWIII that leads to the Star Trek future. However, the show has maintained that destiny is both a construct and something that mysteriously pulls at us. And that sometimes trust, faith (in our abilities, in our crews, in our friends), and gambling are what gets us through the impossible.

The episode where they turned Uhura, La’an, Chappell, and Pike into Vulcans was ridiculous, offensive at times (Anson Mount wasn’t being Vulcan, he was being Dan Akroyd’s Beldar from Coneheads and SNL, not that that was offensive, it was just silly), but there was still something there, and I wish it would have focused more on Chappell and Spock vs entertaining that La’an is somehow inherently “evil.” They haven’t revisited whatever shaming Spock did so I hope, if only for my own head canon, he said that to make her mad and break her from her stupor, but it’s still a dick move, even for Spock.

But to speak of inherent evil, yes, the finale went a little off the rails into Star Wars territory, and that’s what I didn’t like about NuTrek. However, again, there were elements I liked about the finale. It’s not like we haven’t seen other people in Star Trek live out entire lives before (hi, Kamin! I mean Picard…or are you living your whole life over and over because of Q in the finale of TNG?). It won’t be the last, I’m sure. Neither is it the first time time travel shenanigans were involved—though TWO Doctor Who Easter eggs in one season? Again, not even the first Doctor Who reference ever, either. Captain Batel felt like Discovery’s Red Angel, but what she did with her power goes back to that trust and faith in our friends. She was going to become that statue no matter what, but while she held dominion over time and space, she gave herself and Pike their lives, whole, long lives, when both know they are just awaiting an ultimate tragedy.

It might be saccharine. The root of all evil being demonic forces from beyond time and space? Not very scifi. I even said while watching, “If it looks like magic, you run the fuck away and study it from afar until you’re ready.” And Pike does trot out the “sufficiently advanced technology looks like magic” line. But, they were headed here all this season.

The evil entity at the edge of the galaxy that eats planets like Galactus turning out to be the first generation ship attempt by humanity seemed like a sly and fun way to do the Futurama joke of all monsters turn out to be Man. Were they somehow inflicted with the timeless demons? Or did they just use other peoples’ legends to wrap themselves in mystery while being good old fashioned capitalist consumer era humans who don’t care about life, only what can sustain their own lives (certainly sounds like a portion of humanity)?

Maybe I’m apologetic, connecting dots between kind of a middling season that was way more episode of the week than overarching narrative—until it all comes to a head and every little piece counts—

Wait…

I’m being reminded they did exactly this for the final season of Discovery. …including seeing old versions of our love interests. Hmm…

But Patton Oswalt was fucking hilarious in that post credits scene of the Vulcan episode!

Next season will probably be even goofier, what with a Jim Henson’s Muppets episode, and hopefully Star Trek can stay safe from CBS/Paramount’s capitulations to the current US Presidential administration. Star Trek can be dumb. It can be fun. But I still want a little nugget of hard science and social justice. We should all still be aspiring to a Star Trek future, but let’s avoid the WWIII part and embrace some friendly ribbing (Spock and Kirk and their mind meld/sexual euphemisms) and levity. And if there is no peace to be had, maybe imagine there was, just for yourself, for a few minutes a day. Yoga and mediation are good for you (something I have always liked seeing in Star Trek, it’s always there, but this season drew more attention to purposefully practicing such things).

Yes, this season was a little rough. But I still enjoyed it, and I can understand if you didn’t. If it becomes bad? I’ll stop watching until something else interests me. Wouldn’t be the first time…

A New York I Wish I’d Known

Recently, I finally finished reading Kathe Koja’s SKIN, rereleased by Meerkat Press in April this year, 2025. Don’t take my reading times between books too much into account. There’s a lot of variables there. I will say, however, SKIN felt like it needed to be pieced out, like the artists’ within creations. They took time to contemplate and conceptualize, then to construct.

SKIN is a horror novel in the sense that horrible people do horrible things, either to themselves, each other, or the world. But as I’ve mentioned multiple times, SKIN feels like a NIN video being directed by Hellraiser’s Cenobites. The vibes of Head Like A Hole and Closer with those snippets of strangers seemingly behind the scenes? Those are the demons watching the depravity humanity is willing to achieve. That’s where the horror lies for me—and like the Cenobites only linger in the shadows—this is a story rooted in the real world; one I recognize. One I kinda yearn for.

There are no demons wearing human suits in New York City. I have never experienced any criminal harassment in my multiple visits there—or to Dallas, Orlando, Branson, Alaska, New Jersey, Arizona, not in Canada or Mexico. Crime happens. I’ve been lucky, I acknowledge that.

NYC has a large population, ergo, more crime. A friend, his cousin, and I got a little turned around after dark looking both for someplace to grab a bite to eat and a station to get us back to Connecticut. Friend and I started singing aloud our plight and woe as if dueling verses a la Le Misérables. His cousin kept shushing us, afraid of the NYC as seen in TV and movies where everyone is angry and ready to kill you; or we would get us mugged or worse… the thing was, my friend and I felt comfortable to be our dumb ass selves. I felt like I was someplace I belonged.

Kathe Koja’s depiction of NYC through seasons and different living spaces spread out from densely packed closets serving as “apartments” to neighborhoods with houses as normal and boring as Anywhere, USA, shows a microcosm of the world. Different cultures clashing for better and/or worse to create fusions of people, art, food, and ideologies.

It’s a similar NYC in the FX series POSE about the ballroom scene and the AIDS epidemic in the 1980’s. I visited New York as wee lad in the ‘80’s, as a pre/teen a couple of times in the 90’s, and then for the last time, August of 2000.

When I see New York of that era, I feel like I’m looking in a window to a world I could have lived in. Or Vancouver if there’s mountains in the shot. There’s a variant of me out there in the multiverse who grew up in New York, most likely the Bronx, where my mom was from. A world where I was running with gothy, creative types. Hell, that might be the best version of me out there. Or not, I don’t really know.

I just know that Koja’s vision of NYC is a living, breathing background that demands as much attention as the characters or stories unfolding on the page. And it’s the NYC I would want to live in, that I want to live in.

I want to thank Meerkat Press and Kathe Koja for the wonderful book, and letting me linger in world I wish I might have known.

#VoteMemdani

Of Galactus and a Mother’s Love

My daughter and I went to see the Fantastic Four: First Steps, and I really enjoyed it. Like, grinning wildly through the opening, and seeing exactly where they cut poor John Malkovich’s character, but I understood. This movie wants to get to both Galactus and what the Fantastic Four can do in a hurry.

I will be discussing spoilers for this one, I want to talk about some character traits that can be easily gleaned from trailers, though, and what you can expect from any villain who happens to be the size of a mountain. I will say, we enjoyed the movie, I can continue to recommend the MCU and this almost felt like the MCU’s attempt at making another studio’s variation but still within their overarching narrative. You don’t need to know one thing about the Fantastic Four or the current state of the MCU to enjoy this film. Anybody off the street can watch it and have a good time.

SPOILERS AHEAD:

From the first trailer we know Reed and Sue are expecting their first child. It is the lever upon which this whole world can be moved. Fantastic Four is always about family, but this one gets it right, and this does feel like a family protecting each other and the world they live in.

When we meet Galactus, he senses the unborn baby, and wants it, believing the infant has the “power cosmic” an ability to change reality, and can cure him of his infinite hunger. It is no surprise that protecting their family is what the Fantastic Four are going to do.

Jack Kirby, I hope, would be very pleased with this adaptation of his art. Galactus is imposing, menacing, and frightening. Reed fears that from his readings, Galactus comes from before their universe even existed, and cannot fathom what that means for trying to fight or defeat him.

Without a breakdown of the whole film, ultimately, it’s Sue Storm who saves the day, because she is protecting her newborn son, Franklin, whom Galactus is attempting to apprehend before munching on Earth with his planet grinding ship.

I’m going to assume you’ve seen Brandon Lee in the Crow, quoting William Makepeace Thackery’s Vanity Fair from 1848, the powerful line of “Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children.” Fantastic Four shows us that a mother’s love can push down a god.

This film’s adaptation of the herald of Galactus, the Silver Surfer, is a woman who gives up her life to save her child and world. Johnny Storm gets to be smart and a smartass and figures out how to really reach the person inside the Surfer, and find that there is a mother who still has an ounce of courage, yet.

It was not lost on me how much this movie displayed both spectrums of being a protective mother, from direct intervention to sacrificing the very relationship for the protection of the child. That the one who had lost would provide the final push to send Galactus to some random point in space without a ship.

And then Sue drops dead in the street in a scene very reminiscent of everyone crowding around the knocked out Tony Stark in the first Avengers movie. But this was filled with fantastic emotional acting from Pedro Pascal as Reed Richards. Through the movie, he makes digs at himself that he’s responsible for the incident that changed them. And without saying he has anxiety, describing forecasting and worrying about every possible outcome and inventing worst-case scenarios just so he can be prepared for them.

Hello, it me.

Using her powers so aggressively destroyed her, and you can see Pedro put Reed through every tract of those thoughts. But Franklin proves he’s got powers and saves his mother. This family are the only people who see this happen, they keep Franklin’s powers secret and safe, and then of course Doctor Doom wants something.

As fun a movie as it was, it also reminded me of something else—my own work in progress, The Flower Girl. There’s something like Galactus, there’s something like a mother’s love, but they’re not exactly the same. When one day you’re reading The Flower Girl, you will not think, “Hey, this is that Fantastic Four movie!” But a hunger from before the stars? I already introduced him in my short story, the Last Tree, originally published by the NoSleep Podcast and now appearing in my collection, Nothing But the Willows & Other Things That Are Not There.

Fantastic Four: First Steps made me really think about my own dire god-thing. I think art that inspires art, or challenges an artist to take the next steps, is great art. I understand it’s a superhero movie made by a company that just wants to make money, but with the right people in place, people who still care about the art in their craft, can sneak out a fiLm among the churn.

I like Thunderbolts a lot. It’s about depression and found family.

I liked Brave New World, it was a fun romp, like Winter Soldier for the era of the 47th president and the CEO of too many tech companies all up in our government’s business.

I don’t dislike anything from the MCU, but there are definitely entries that felt more like bloat than a special event for the heroes on screen. I do however, like a song that never ends, and Marvel continue to tell fun stories that make you think about today, or your heart, or your world. The comics have always been like that, too, and in a world full of infinite hunger, I hope these stories continue to stir emotion and creative thought. The X-Men are around the corner, and they are an allegory for marginalized people that we desperately need to see done with intensity and truth.

Of Flesh & Oats

Normal white guy—author J.D. Buffington, cheeks puffed out with gauze post wisdom teeth extraction. He is in a car, seatbelt on, wearing a black jacket and a red shirt underneath.

I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed yesterday. This is something I’ve been putting off for twenty years, due to misaligning funds and expenses. Last year, I became debt free, and just as I started thinking of having the procedure done, I was in a minor car accident, followed the next month by a major oil leak (the two might have been related, but the oil leak would have happened eventually, old, known-issue rubber hosing in place versus newer aluminum hosing. It didn’t help that I had lost my job in 2023, went a month unemployed, and was temp worker from October of ‘23 until July 2024. Newly hired with vacation and sick leave at my disposal, I thought it was time to start thinking about it again.

Then we had our HVAC and ventilation on our house completely renovated. Then our water heater broke. But, dammit, I need these fuckers out! The older I get, the harder it will be to heal. So I made the appointment to coincide with Tulsa Public School’s Spring Break as my daughter is a teacher and would have the week off to help me to and from surgery without disrupting the whole family.

Then our pup of maybe more than 10 years old (we don’t know how old he was when we got him as a rescue, but we’ve had him that long—frankly, we don’t know how old any of our pets are exactly—adopt, don’t shop!) developed some labored breathing. A visit to the vet determined he has an enlarged heart that was pressing on his bronchial tubes. He’s on medication now, but that was yet another pretty penny in the face of everything.

Then, mere days ago, we were informed our daughter, turning 26 mid-March, would be kicked from her mother’s health insurance. I’m on there, too. First impulse is to drop me and keep our daughter insured. I can find insurance, and through work they have a significant life change allowance to let you get insurance outside regular enrollment. But I can’t take advantage of that until after said life change occurs, and the option to cover our daughter as a live-in beneficiary (which by all accounts she qualifies for), cannot be paired with covering a spouse. But to drop me, my wife’s insurance needs proof I’m still covered elsewhere—I can’t be dropped just to trade for our daughter.

Luigi’s angry stare from Mario Kart 8 for absolutely no reason.

In the midst of trying to figure out how to keep our daughter covered, the option of dropping me was still under exploration. But my procedure was scheduled for the day after her birthday. I called to see if I could reschedule for something sooner. Fortunately, they had a cancellation and could get me in in just two days. It meant disrupting everyone’s work schedule, and I felt bad, sad, angry… AND I have a new oil leak. Wednesday it was, more debt it is.

I am writing this the day after my surgery.

I definitely feel it, but I am also pleasantly surprised I’m not completely decimated. The surgery itself went off without a hitch, and faster than I thought it would be. All told, I think the surgery only took about twenty minutes. My teeth weren’t impacted, only one came in cockeyed and always ended up being a garbage collector (especially with eating nuts, and I love almonds). Coming out of anesthesia, I remained lucid, even if I couldn’t speak so well with gauze all up in my mouth and thirsty as fuck.

Pain meds were called in, but my pharmacy wouldn’t fill them until this morning, so I went with migraine medicine and acetaminophen. Eating? I was terrified. Open wounds and stitches at the back of my mouth, packed with gauze? I was able to down a protein shake—

Quick aside, if you’re over 40, you need more protein. If you are lactose intolerant, like me, you may find protein shakes difficult to come by. Wal-Mart’s Equate brand has a plant-based protein shake with 32g of protein per serving, and it doesn’t taste too bad. There’s also a brand called OWYN that has a 32g protein shake that tastes good, but is more expensive. /end service announcement.

—then water, until my stomach started grumbling around 2 or 3 o’clock. I tried oatmeal, figuring, let it cool, then very small “bites” that I could just swallow whole. This worked, though I still had gauze (I probably bled for close to twelve hours, changing gauze every two. A few hours later, I tried Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and was able to drink the broth and swallow small spoonfuls of noodles and the cubed chicken bits without chewing—still gauzed.

Last night, at bedtime, I went without the gauze. I fell asleep okay, but awoke this morning around four, tummy upset and a massive headache I couldn’t will away with meditation. I relented and got up to take ibuprofen and some nausea medicine. I was about to fall back asleep in about half an hour—only to wake up with my alarm at 6am.

I felt “okay.” Got up, fed the animals, made oatmeal again, and mixed a bit of protein shake and coffee. I am addicted to caffeine and had none yesterday, so some of this pain could be withdrawal. But now I was without gauze.

I tried to swallow the oatmeal straight down the center of my tongue, but, some made it into the spots my teeth used to be. This didn’t hurt, but there was a spark of panic. I don’t want to start obsessively tonguing the wounds, and a little swish of coffee seemed to help, but—I had to get in there. This didn’t hurt, but feeling the mush of oatmeal and the smoosh of swollen gum line was disturbing. After finishing my bowl, I gently swished with my coffee again, though I cannot tell you if I dislodged oatmeal or a clot.

The immediate thought was, “This is what turning into a zombie must feel like.”

There was no sudden bleeding and a swish with saltwater didn’t hurt, so hopefully it was just food.

The next “big” step is brushing my teeth. It has now been over 24 hours since the procedure and I’m scared of brushing my teeth. I’m diligent about brushing my back teeth because I’ve had those wisdom teeth fully erupted (with the only the one grown in “wrong”) for so long. Now I have to be über cautious I don’t tear myself apart.

I have a medicinal mouthwash to incorporate in my routine now, and my prescribed pain medication. I’m on the road to recovery, but the journey has only just begun. I’ll probably be on this soft diet for several days, and supposedly the swelling will maximize by the third day, so this weekend may be a fresh new hell.

For now, today, R&R. I’m bad at napping (if the sun is up, so am I), but maybe the pain med will let me drift off for a bit. I wanna read, and if my mind stays active, dabble in one of my WIPs. Stress has had my creativity tamped down for a while. But, now that this long needed procedure has been completed, maybe a little of my internal stressors can ease up.

By the gods! Please, ease up.

If your dentist is suggesting you have your wisdom teeth removed, try to find a way to get it done, especially if you’re younger. We’re all living through interesting times and the best thing you can do for yourself is to take care of your body, and a lot of health problems start in the mouth, at the teeth. It is expensive, even with insurance, but something worse could come along costing even more.

Captain America: Brave New World

Please give this movie a chance, even if you’re tired of the MCU just doing the same things with diminishing returns. This is a movie that had some production hell, reshoots, it’s runtime concerning fans (yet movie goers have complained of movies being too long—pick one!), so it was filmed before our current political climate, yet feels like it’s talking to right now, to 45, Musk, and militant criminals. I’m only going to address what you’ve already seen in the trailers, but: spoilers ahead!

Like Winter Soldier, arguably one of the MCU’s best entries, this is a political thriller, where a moment’s reflection could save the day, which Sam—Cap—is advocating for, but no one wants to listen, they just want to react. General “Thunderbolt” Ross has been elected President of the United States, and not everyone is thrilled about it. While acknowledging the Eternals, the plot centers around “Celestial Island” and a precious new resource everyone wants to get their hands on (you could look at this as oil or materials used in tech, or both), but the U.S. seems to keep stepping on its own feet on the world stage.

Enter a terrorist manipulating the government through his own technical prowess. The villain of this movie is basically Elon Musk, calling the shots and holding swords over everyone’s heads with his intelligence. He uses a terrorist organization willing to kill indiscriminately and cause as much damage as possible in the process. Meanwhile, our new President is unable, or unwilling, to do anything about these threats.

The rest of the world is getting disappointed and Ross won’t listen to reason because he needs to win, he needs to control the narrative, but also protect his secrets. Sound like 45? Well, eventually he destroys the White House after being confronted about what’s really happening behind the scenes. After 45 recently suggested ripping out the rose garden for a banquet hall?

I think Brave New World will age like wine. There’s a lot of discussion, both out loud and through subtext, of carrots and sticks. But, there are no carrots, only sticks. This film reminds me of Marvel comics at their best, when they’re tackling real life and real world issues. In a world where our President and an unelected “genius” who inexplicably has sway over our President, are gutting our national security and testing the strength of our unity. If 45 existed in the MCU, he would claim the Captain America museum was unAmerican, that Isiah (the first American super soldier, revealed in Falcon and the Winter Soldier, but also shown in trailers) would have been a “DEI” entry in the museum and scrubbed from history entirely. The movie doesn’t go that far, but there is very little investigation before the death penalty starts getting bandied about (sticks, all the way down).

Don’t let superhero burnout keep you from this one. It has things to say, if you’re willing to absorb it. Don’t let angry internet “fans” taint your experience. Yes, it got dumped in February, a bad sign from Hollywood. Yes, there’s a few awkward scenes that are from reshoots, but this movie is swift and energetic, and wants you both to have faith in what you believe in, wants to keep believing we can work together with people we don’t always agree with, but acknowledges any and every enemy will turn on you at some point. Brave New World is about our problems, right now.

Christmas Twenty-Nine Years Ago

A chapter from 41: An AutobiographyBy J.D. BuffingtonChapter 33

What I ended up coming home with, though, is the last heartfelt moments I had with my mother, before I would leave. I don’t know where D was, maybe working late, I think they both worked odd hours, or maybe it was odd because of Alaska time. Regardless, we were alone. Music on and candles lit.

“Do you remember your girlfriend in kindergarten?” she asked me.

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember wanting to give her a ring?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a spark of memory, six-years-old maybe, my “girlfriend” in kindergarten, the girl I “like-liked,” but it was the getting the ring itself. My dad took me to a mall, we visited one of those kiosks that sets up in the concourse between shops. Costume jewelry mostly, cheap trinkets, perfect for kids. Why was it important to give her a ring? I must have been impressed by my mom and dad’s wedding. A ring was how you told someone you loved them and wanted to be with them forever.

“When your dad took you to buy that ring for her,” she started, “he thought it was cute, so he bought a ring for me, too. I kept it because I thought it really represented love. Innocent, unconditional. I want you to have it. And I want you to give it to someone you really think is special.”

Now, cue every girl I knew in high school going, “I know that ring.”

I’m sorry.

I was irresponsible with the gift my mother gave me. I interpreted it as an urgent matter I had to figure out, and quickly. I needed to have a high school sweetheart and get married and start a family by twenty! I wanted to live a perfect life despite all the childhood heartache I already knew I had gone through. I wanted someone who would love me back as much as I wanted to love someone. I was in love with the idea of being “in” love. That ring, my mother impressed an importance on it that I did not appreciate or respect at the time. I still have it, it’s in my wife’s possession.

My mom wanted me to keep love small, pure, and simple. I chased it up and down, after people I didn’t have chances with, or did, and ran them off being too much. The moment, though, that she gave me the ring, I can sit myself back across from her. I know she’s giving up something. She’s held onto that ring, through her marriage to M and into her relationship with D and anyone else I didn’t know about in between, she held onto this trinket because it reminded her that things could be simple. That I should be reminded love and family can be simple.

*          *          *

Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport. It all begins with this ending. I didn’t—couldn’t—know it. Were the walls blue or was it pale light? I was an ogre with my bags, I felt big. This had been a transformative trip, part of me didn’t want to leave my mom, a bigger part wanted to go home. It was morning, a little red in the sky. We were talking when I noticed her intensely staring at me, beginning to tear up.

I knew the moment was filling with gravity. I didn’t believe her then. Occasionally the memory would surface in the intervening years, and I would wonder with increasing conviction, “What if she’s right?”

Because she would be.

“What?” I asked.

Her face contorted a bit, a threat of a sob rising in her throat. She said as quickly as she could, afraid she would start crying, “I feel like this is the last time I’m going to see you.”

Was she granted a premonition in that dwindling window of time on our relationship? Or was it that crueler side of nature serving up coincidence? Either way, I feel personally attacked by the universe. Her words haunt me.

I could feel it, the weight of her emotion pressing down on her soul and radiating out to compress us all into a crystal we would never forget. When we saw each other next, I knew I would scoff, and we would laugh—surely. The weight of that emotion that shined brighter than any star hung for a beat. Then I was appalled, aghast, confused—then, caught in the moment I saw her begin to lose it, I felt an overwhelming urge to comfort.

“Don’t say that.” I said, probably robotically. I pulled her in for a hug. She let go a little, letting a sob loose against my chest. I felt too big, she was tiny in my arms. My panicked brain flashed my life before my eyes of all the times I went to her for comfort in this exact same pose: crying into her chest for fear of that which I couldn’t control. She talked about it that time in Florida. We had fled from and chased each other from one tip of the country to the other.

I think I offered some well-meaning platitudes, the moment of horrific scrying subsiding. The waves begin to form here, rippling off the edges of the crystal in time she willed into existence.

As I sat on the plane, immediately as we pulled from the gate, it began to snow. Snow blankets things, freezes it all in place, and covers it up. Snow didn’t fall on my trip until I left. I’ve never known how to feel about it, especially in context. Does nature speak to us?

There was a delay in SLC and OKC that made me late arriving home. It was such a long trip home, too much time to think. This was before cellphones and the phones they had built into the back of airplane seats at the time required a credit card. I had to trust my dad was being kept informed by the airport. He told me as he did wait, some assholes started talking about plane crashes.

The flight from OKC to Tulsa was silly. There was maybe ten people on the plane and the flight itself was probably less time than the jockeying around on the tarmac. I went to the back and took a window seat. A flight attendant asked if that was where I wanted to be if I had the whole cabin to choose from.

Why she was judging my unspoken paranoid logic that if the plane crashes nose first I’ll live the longest is beyond me.

It was colder than Alaska and blowing snow when I stepped out of Tulsa International Airport. I felt defeated. Alaska had not been as brutally cold and snowy as I had feared, but dear old Oklahoma was having white-out conditions for a welcome party.

My mother’s face the last time I looked at her escapes me. Our last embrace wasn’t enough. I struggled to freeze this moment in time, to remember her, versus wondering what she was thinking about. She had already used up all the magic.

Did both of us wonder about that moment as seconds turned into minutes turned into—forever? Was she worried I would meet some unexpected end? Was she worried about the plane? The flight delays were due to engine trouble, but not really. Your car’s check engine light is on and you decide to have it looked at. You wait an hour and a half, it turns out the gas cap wasn’t airtight. That kind of boring thing.

Was she clairvoyant or was there writing on the wall I was missing? I talk about hemming and hawing over how to feel about my mom, even at this time, her moving to Alaska felt like running away, even though I had had a good time visiting. Our relationship was about to get very rocky, and I already knew most of the stones. Could she see my reckoning coming before I did? I cherish my last few days with her. They were good days. I’m glad that the last time I spent in physical space with her was good.

———

41: An Autobiography is available from Anuci Press at your favorite bookseller in print and ebook. It is the story of horror author J.D. Buffington growing up in the last twenty years of the 20th century, and becoming an adult, writer, and developing a family of his own in the first 20 years of the 21st century. Losing his mother in 2001, days after 9/11, and when she was only 40, the age of 41 and the twentieth anniversary of her passing drove J.D. to tell his story of breaking cycles of depression and generational trauma. But as those significant milestones approached, the world itself began to erupt in political upheaval and pandemics, feeling like history repeats itself all too often anyway.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this passage and would consider reading the whole story. Ratings and reviews at your favorite sites welcome and appreciated!

My Precious

A screenshot of Amazon indicating In the House of In Between is out of stock and out of print.

Recently, I regained the rights to my novel, In the House of In Between. This was negotiated quickly and seamlessly with the publisher who picked up the rights in late 2022, releasing the new, revised edition in 2023. I had tightened the screws on this edition, made a few small clarifying changes (nothing that changed the plot or narrative, mostly word choices and a line of dialogue or two), and excised an abundance of the word “actually.” I’m one of those nerds.

That copy-edit pass? I wish I could credit someone. Some of their suggestions were useful for my writing overall, and there were comments in the notes that seemed human. But I can’t be sure a human was ever there. The changes I made in response to this editing pass were my own. Largely, cleaning up superlatives and those subtle clarifying changes (for example, I made a device that silences uncleared radio signals, like Bluetooth and cellular—that’s probably illegal, so I addressed it in a single exchange of dialogue), was my work, my effort, my writing. The copy-edit, or at least what was presented to me as a copy-edit, was mostly grammatical. When I asked if the changes I made were okay, the publisher did not fight me.

Leading up to the re-release felt like I was positioned to present the best version of my novel. This is the story of a haunted house that asks what haunts us, what haunts a house, and what haunts the world. It’s an exploration of trauma and what it means to be traumatized, what to do with trauma, and how to turn trauma into something you can live with, or grow stronger because of.

Then the cover hit, and almost as soon as I saw the cover, it was already being sold on Amazon. The publisher would not credit an artist, nor share the name of their editor. I tried hard to be excited, and I was honest when people asked about the cover, “They say it was developed ‘in house’ and I had no part in its creation nor did I approve it.” But I couldn’t keep lying to myself and my potential readers. I argued with the publisher, indicated my displeasure with generative AI “art,” and—they didn’t care.

Then I only started talking about my book in cautionary ways: I wrote it. I’m proud of what I wrote. But what graces its cover is AI art that I do not condone. I urged people with Kindle Unlimited to borrow it instead of buying the book. I did not want anyone spending real money on fake art, even if the art behind the cover is real and mine.

That’s an unhealthy relationship to have with one of your own works, something you’re otherwise really proud of.

I asked for my rights back and we agreed to part ways.

To see that my book is now no longer available for purchase is both heartbreaking and a huge relief. It’s a win for me as a defender of my own art, and supporter of human artists.

I know many other artists have struggled with rights management. We all watched Taylor Swift fight for her rights only to ultimately re-record her music, her versions. There are way more people looking to make a quick buck, or continue making more money than the artist whose art they’re selling, than the artists just trying to share their work. We can get out from under bad deals. There’s the phrase “you can’t unring a bell,” but you can cut that fucker down so it doesn’t ring anymore! You can become the louder bell to drown out the bad tones. You might have to grab the clapper and take your lumps, but you can get it to stop.

I have advocated for my own artistic rights before this, with this book even! And the successful termination of this contract is my proof for other artists facing subterfuge, denial, and swindling, you can take what’s yours back. You can make it better or put it back to the way it was, it’s your art!

In the House of In Between will return sometime in 2025. I’m not making anymore changes, only reformatting the interior and the cover I commissioned, real art by a very real human, Lane Faglie. It will be re-re-released under my Standing 8 Count Publications imprint, following the model I used for Nothing But The Willows & Other Things That Are Not There. That means availability anywhere, not just Amazon. I made investments this last year to give myself greater control over my art and my ability to get it into people’s hands, wherever they want to shop. Not everyone can afford this route, and if KDP is the only avenue available to you, it is an avenue worth trotting. I still have works only available on Amazon. My goal is to eventually have everything available through Ingram (and thus, worldwide and in bookstores).

I intend to continue submitting works to publishers of short and long fiction, but as we head into the next four years and the Republican administration’s attempts to pervert the First Amendment to their twisted interpretations of what free speech looks like, for an independent author such as myself, a mixture of traditional and self-publishing may be the only route to survival as an artist. One hand firmly on the wheel at all times, no one else is taking this from me again. I will only work with publishers who support and lift their writers, and artists that make things with their own imagination and hands.

Phoebe Backlund’s haunted house in Grand Marais, MN, is only closed for a little while. Its doors will swing back and forth once again. The blood will run down the wall. The fire will climb the stairs. And its ghosts will terrorize the fabric of reality forevermore.

In the House of In Between, coming soon from Standing 8 Count—again—again—again…

Statistics

I don’t believe the election results.

Not the way Trump refused to concede in 2020. Not like the assholes on January 6th.

I can’t believe turnout was about even between parties, yet somehow an Electoral College landslide occurred, where the popular vote is only 2.5% different with Kamala Harris slowly gaining more popular votes with 95% reporting as of this writing.

Trump won. I know it. This is what the Electoral College and gerrymandering, and dis/mis/mal-information achieved; influencing too many people who can’t convey what they’re even upset about. This is what Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos financed through years of fomenting that terrible information. But I am so aghast at what people have chosen.

I don’t believe people are this inherently hateful. I believe a whole lot more are disenfranchised and lethargic. Now, we’re all potentially set to suffer.

We can only take each day as it comes. We have to try and hold onto hope there is a bed below us and a roof above us each night. I’m not going to delve into fearmongering about what I think is coming. I’m hopeful GOP infighting and the necessity of Democratic cooperation on big bills will lame the fuck out of the grifting duck.

I love my family, extended family, real-life friends, and internet friends. All types of people of different gender, racial, and national expressions and identities—your rights to exist, to pursue happiness and expect justice, are human rights. That I believe with my whole heart. The only thing there is no room for is fascism, yet it persists. It is not just here in the United States. We have fights ahead of us, I can only pray they do not end in bloodshed or death, but I fear it—I know others fear it more with much more at stake.

I love you. I see you. We have to march one day at a time.