Clark Hays's Blog, page 3
May 13, 2017
The Return of Bonnie and Clyde
Outlaws become patriots, and take on an evil even worse than vampires, in our new thriller series.
Kathleen McFall and I have a new book coming out, and it may seem like a pretty big departure from our popular The Cowboy and the Vampire Collection. The book, Bonnie and Clyde: Resurrection Road (Pumpjack Press), definitely moves away from the occult themes we explored in our first series, but fans will find some clear similarities. Here are five parallel elements, and one big difference:
1) We’re tapping into some familiar archetypes. Instead of cowboys and vampires though, our protagonists are Bonnie and Clyde, infamous outlaws and the closest thing America has to Robin Hood.
2) We’re bringing characters back from the dead. In this case, it’s not because they are vampires, it’s because, at least in our new series, Bonnie and Clyde were saved from their bloody end to serve a secret government agency trying to protect democracy.
3) The evil they face is bigger and even more grotesque than an ancient order of bloodsuckers. It’s greed, and it feeds on humans in a much more insidious way. Right now in this country we love so much, wealth inequality is at the highest level it’s ever been, edging past the gilded age when the robber barons controlled a huge proportion of the wealth. Their greed triggered the Great Depression. The real Bonnie and Clyde, soup lines and Hoovervilles all emerged from the economic rubble of that disaster.
4) Like our other books, Bonnie and Clyde: Resurrection Road is about love, and second chances. The real Bonnie and Clyde were thieves and murderers, regardless of the economic conditions that spawned them, and regardless of how the public romanticized their exploits. In our retelling, they get a second chance and are forced to confront the bad decisions they made along the way. And in the end, it’s their fierce love for each other that helps them navigate the challenges and atone.
5) Despite the heavy themes — greed, atonement, poverty, presidential assassination attempts — there’s plenty of our trademark humor woven throughout: gin and pimento cheese sandwiches, a goon that’s terrible at his job, and a regimented eater in old folks home. There’s no dog though, not yet anyway, so Rex fans will have to re-read the Cowboy and the Vampire series for a dose of canine heroics.
6) Unlike our other books, there is time travel. Well, sort of. The book is pinned to 1984 — a very good year (it’s when I graduated from Whitehall high school!) — when the now elderly Bonnie, known to her neighbors as Brenda Prentiss, shares her story with a dubious local reporter. Most of the action takes place in the 30s though.
After more than a decade skulking through creaky crypts and dilapidated honkytonks, exploring undead palaces of excess and the loneliest stretches of sagebrush-choked high deserts, Bonnie and Clyde: Resurrection Road shifts gears. It delivers all the fun and thrills of The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance, only we’ve traded cowboy hats for fedoras, nervous horses for bullet-riddled Buicks and occult ruminations on the afterlife for a brass knuckle assault on corporate greed.
It’s a lot of fun, with a timely economic message, and we hope fans of our first four books will come along for the ride.
You won’t be disappointed.
Kathleen McFall and I have a new book coming out, and it may seem like a pretty big departure from our popular The Cowboy and the Vampire Collection. The book, Bonnie and Clyde: Resurrection Road (Pumpjack Press), definitely moves away from the occult themes we explored in our first series, but fans will find some clear similarities. Here are five parallel elements, and one big difference:
1) We’re tapping into some familiar archetypes. Instead of cowboys and vampires though, our protagonists are Bonnie and Clyde, infamous outlaws and the closest thing America has to Robin Hood.
2) We’re bringing characters back from the dead. In this case, it’s not because they are vampires, it’s because, at least in our new series, Bonnie and Clyde were saved from their bloody end to serve a secret government agency trying to protect democracy.
3) The evil they face is bigger and even more grotesque than an ancient order of bloodsuckers. It’s greed, and it feeds on humans in a much more insidious way. Right now in this country we love so much, wealth inequality is at the highest level it’s ever been, edging past the gilded age when the robber barons controlled a huge proportion of the wealth. Their greed triggered the Great Depression. The real Bonnie and Clyde, soup lines and Hoovervilles all emerged from the economic rubble of that disaster.
4) Like our other books, Bonnie and Clyde: Resurrection Road is about love, and second chances. The real Bonnie and Clyde were thieves and murderers, regardless of the economic conditions that spawned them, and regardless of how the public romanticized their exploits. In our retelling, they get a second chance and are forced to confront the bad decisions they made along the way. And in the end, it’s their fierce love for each other that helps them navigate the challenges and atone.
5) Despite the heavy themes — greed, atonement, poverty, presidential assassination attempts — there’s plenty of our trademark humor woven throughout: gin and pimento cheese sandwiches, a goon that’s terrible at his job, and a regimented eater in old folks home. There’s no dog though, not yet anyway, so Rex fans will have to re-read the Cowboy and the Vampire series for a dose of canine heroics.
6) Unlike our other books, there is time travel. Well, sort of. The book is pinned to 1984 — a very good year (it’s when I graduated from Whitehall high school!) — when the now elderly Bonnie, known to her neighbors as Brenda Prentiss, shares her story with a dubious local reporter. Most of the action takes place in the 30s though.
After more than a decade skulking through creaky crypts and dilapidated honkytonks, exploring undead palaces of excess and the loneliest stretches of sagebrush-choked high deserts, Bonnie and Clyde: Resurrection Road shifts gears. It delivers all the fun and thrills of The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance, only we’ve traded cowboy hats for fedoras, nervous horses for bullet-riddled Buicks and occult ruminations on the afterlife for a brass knuckle assault on corporate greed.
It’s a lot of fun, with a timely economic message, and we hope fans of our first four books will come along for the ride.
You won’t be disappointed.
June 24, 2016
What is the Hell is Western Gothic?
As part of our book tour for The Cowboy and the Vampire: The Last Sunset (the fourth and final book in the series), we were asked to talk about Western Gothic, a genre we might have invented, for one of our blogger pals (view the original post here).
Here's a slightly modified version for our friends on Goodreads:
Western Gothic is a fairly narrow but very deep and wildly entertaining literary genre. We say that as recognized (by each other) experts in the field of Western Gothic Studies, a field and (and likely a genre) we created, and with all the confidence an exhaustive, seconds-long Google search can bestow (see sidebar).
So what is Western Gothic? It is a style of fiction that transplants the moody, death-obsessed themes of classic gothic fiction (think The Castle of Otranto or, of course, Dracula) to the wide open, inspiring vistas of the modern west (Riders of the Purple Sage, or All the Pretty Horses). We’re pretty sure we invented the genre with The Cowboy and the Vampire Collection, a series of four books set in the modern west and featuring sexy, brooding vampires bent on world domination.
We wrote the first book — The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance — in 1999. Our fourth and final book in the series — The Cowboy and the Vampire: The Last Sunset — hit the shelves of bookstores on June 9. Not only are we experts in Western Gothic, we’re also pretty good with numbers. It has taken us an average of 4.25 years per book. Western Gothic requires an intense commitment. (Check out book two, The Cowboy and the Vampire: Blood and Whiskey, and book three The Cowboy and the Vampire: Rough Trails and Shallow Graves here.)
The Last Sunset, like the first three books, explores the tension and connection between opposites: life and death; mortality and immortality; love and lust; urban and rural; thought and action; strength and decay; good and evil; and country music and whiskey.
Our books — and all books in the Western Gothic genre — exist in the negative space between dark and light. Gothic fiction uses the darkness — the creepy atmosphere, curious, obsessive behavior and morbid thoughts — to focus on the light, providing the perfect backdrop to illuminate the best in people: the desire to overcome death, to hope and to love. Westerns, ironically, use the light to set off the dark, weaving stories of good men pushed to the limits by the cruelty and avarice of others (usually tyrannical land owners) or the blind apathy of nature. Our books live in the borderlands between the two worlds, a forever twilight of gray nights and last sunsets.
We love writing in the Western Gothic genre. Not only do we get to explore huge, archetypal themes about human consciousness, love and death, and more, we get to move our characters across stunning natural landscapes with deconstructed shootouts and heart-pounding action. Add in the quirky humor natural to small towns and a long-suffering cowdog with the soul of a poet — and some pretty steamy undead erotica — and we think it makes for an unforgettable reading experience whatever the label (hint: it’s Western Gothic).
Sidebar: Why Western Gothic isn’t the same as Weird West
Searching for Western Gothic returns a bunch of scattered results and a re-direct to Wikipedia’s entry for Weird Westerns. Weird Westerns are not the same as Western Gothic, which, once again, we probably invented and definitely should have trademarked. By contrast, the Weird Western genre has existed for decades, transports occult shenanigans to the old west, and is probably most often associated with the golden age of pulp paperbacks. Weird Westerns may have reached their apogee with the spooky Jonah Hex comics of the 1970s, but Western Steampunk is a more recent energetic offspring and heir to the crown. Not to dismiss a popular genre, but the West was probably always weird — it took two writers, Clark Hays (me) and Kathleen McFall, to make it Gothic.
Here's a slightly modified version for our friends on Goodreads:
Western Gothic is a fairly narrow but very deep and wildly entertaining literary genre. We say that as recognized (by each other) experts in the field of Western Gothic Studies, a field and (and likely a genre) we created, and with all the confidence an exhaustive, seconds-long Google search can bestow (see sidebar).
So what is Western Gothic? It is a style of fiction that transplants the moody, death-obsessed themes of classic gothic fiction (think The Castle of Otranto or, of course, Dracula) to the wide open, inspiring vistas of the modern west (Riders of the Purple Sage, or All the Pretty Horses). We’re pretty sure we invented the genre with The Cowboy and the Vampire Collection, a series of four books set in the modern west and featuring sexy, brooding vampires bent on world domination.
We wrote the first book — The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance — in 1999. Our fourth and final book in the series — The Cowboy and the Vampire: The Last Sunset — hit the shelves of bookstores on June 9. Not only are we experts in Western Gothic, we’re also pretty good with numbers. It has taken us an average of 4.25 years per book. Western Gothic requires an intense commitment. (Check out book two, The Cowboy and the Vampire: Blood and Whiskey, and book three The Cowboy and the Vampire: Rough Trails and Shallow Graves here.)
The Last Sunset, like the first three books, explores the tension and connection between opposites: life and death; mortality and immortality; love and lust; urban and rural; thought and action; strength and decay; good and evil; and country music and whiskey.
Our books — and all books in the Western Gothic genre — exist in the negative space between dark and light. Gothic fiction uses the darkness — the creepy atmosphere, curious, obsessive behavior and morbid thoughts — to focus on the light, providing the perfect backdrop to illuminate the best in people: the desire to overcome death, to hope and to love. Westerns, ironically, use the light to set off the dark, weaving stories of good men pushed to the limits by the cruelty and avarice of others (usually tyrannical land owners) or the blind apathy of nature. Our books live in the borderlands between the two worlds, a forever twilight of gray nights and last sunsets.
We love writing in the Western Gothic genre. Not only do we get to explore huge, archetypal themes about human consciousness, love and death, and more, we get to move our characters across stunning natural landscapes with deconstructed shootouts and heart-pounding action. Add in the quirky humor natural to small towns and a long-suffering cowdog with the soul of a poet — and some pretty steamy undead erotica — and we think it makes for an unforgettable reading experience whatever the label (hint: it’s Western Gothic).
Sidebar: Why Western Gothic isn’t the same as Weird West
Searching for Western Gothic returns a bunch of scattered results and a re-direct to Wikipedia’s entry for Weird Westerns. Weird Westerns are not the same as Western Gothic, which, once again, we probably invented and definitely should have trademarked. By contrast, the Weird Western genre has existed for decades, transports occult shenanigans to the old west, and is probably most often associated with the golden age of pulp paperbacks. Weird Westerns may have reached their apogee with the spooky Jonah Hex comics of the 1970s, but Western Steampunk is a more recent energetic offspring and heir to the crown. Not to dismiss a popular genre, but the West was probably always weird — it took two writers, Clark Hays (me) and Kathleen McFall, to make it Gothic.
June 14, 2016
Top Ten Vampires of Book and Screen
As part of our book tour for The Cowboy and the Vampire: The Last Sunset (the fourth and final book in the series), we were asked to contribute a top 10 list for one of our blogger pals (view the original post here). Here's a slightly modified version of some of our favorite blood-suckers.
But first, a note: we’re defining vampires not in the narrow sense of undead creatures of the night who sleep in coffins and need blood to live, but rather, we are expanding that definition to include beings who feed on the life force of others.
With that in mind, the best of the worst:
1. Dracula, of course. Specifically, Bram Stoker’s version (1897), which helped spawn the genre. We’re crazy about the original, especially because there was a cowboy in it. Quincey Morris, from the wild west of America (Texas, actually), delivered the fatal wound to the bad Count courtesy of a Bowie knife. We liked Gary Oldman the best of all the various actors who have played Dracula.
2. Lord Ruthven, from Polidori’s The Vampyre: A Tale, arguably the first modern story about of the undead. It’s a little dated now (from 1819) but still worth it; at the very least, watch Gothic (from 1986) which is about the fevered night Polidori came up with the idea and Mary Shelley came up with Frankenstein.
3. Lothos, from the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1982), because: Rutger Hauer.
4. Eli, from Let the Right One In (2008), one of the best vampire movies all time. Such a beautiful, creepy film that conveys such grown up angst, ennui, dread and carnage, and all from the vantage of children.
5. The Girl, from A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014). A black and white movie about an Iranian vampire that feels like a Spaghetti Western and tugs the heart like the best kind of romance, this — naturally — is our favorite vampire movie of all time. The scene of her on her skateboard, abaya billowing behind her, is unforgettable.
6. The Mind Parasites by Colin Wilson (remember, we loosened the definition boundaries a little), a crazy book about alien parasites that have been lurking in the deepest layers of human consciousness, feeding on human life force, for hundreds of years. It was published in 1967, and still stands out as a creepy masterpiece.
7. Miriam Blaylock, from The Hunger (1983). This movie has three things going for it: A great, creepy plot, Catherine Deneuve AND David Bowie. Susan Sarandon rocks too, of course.
8. Carmilla, from Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s In a Glass Darkly (1872) collection. It’s a quietly disturbing, genre defining work with not so subtle lesbian undertones.
9. Frank Underwood, from House of Cards (2013). Clearly, Frank Underwood is sustained by the life force of those he crushes. He may not have fangs, but he sure has claws. The only vampire, it seems, who has the power to challenge him is Claire Underwood.
10. Elita, from The Cowboy the Vampire Collection. Elita has it all: she’s beautiful, seductive, powerful, vicious and funny — the most irreverent revenant in the history of the undead. She’s been around for thousands of years, changing allegiances when it suits her, clawing her way through the powerful and the blood-rich alike and leaving behind a trail of smiling corpses.
Of course, Elita isn’t the only powerful vampire in The Cowboy and the Vampire Collection. To learn more about the series co-written with Kathleen McFall and all four books, check out www.cowboyandvampire.com.
But first, a note: we’re defining vampires not in the narrow sense of undead creatures of the night who sleep in coffins and need blood to live, but rather, we are expanding that definition to include beings who feed on the life force of others.
With that in mind, the best of the worst:
1. Dracula, of course. Specifically, Bram Stoker’s version (1897), which helped spawn the genre. We’re crazy about the original, especially because there was a cowboy in it. Quincey Morris, from the wild west of America (Texas, actually), delivered the fatal wound to the bad Count courtesy of a Bowie knife. We liked Gary Oldman the best of all the various actors who have played Dracula.
2. Lord Ruthven, from Polidori’s The Vampyre: A Tale, arguably the first modern story about of the undead. It’s a little dated now (from 1819) but still worth it; at the very least, watch Gothic (from 1986) which is about the fevered night Polidori came up with the idea and Mary Shelley came up with Frankenstein.
3. Lothos, from the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1982), because: Rutger Hauer.
4. Eli, from Let the Right One In (2008), one of the best vampire movies all time. Such a beautiful, creepy film that conveys such grown up angst, ennui, dread and carnage, and all from the vantage of children.
5. The Girl, from A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014). A black and white movie about an Iranian vampire that feels like a Spaghetti Western and tugs the heart like the best kind of romance, this — naturally — is our favorite vampire movie of all time. The scene of her on her skateboard, abaya billowing behind her, is unforgettable.
6. The Mind Parasites by Colin Wilson (remember, we loosened the definition boundaries a little), a crazy book about alien parasites that have been lurking in the deepest layers of human consciousness, feeding on human life force, for hundreds of years. It was published in 1967, and still stands out as a creepy masterpiece.
7. Miriam Blaylock, from The Hunger (1983). This movie has three things going for it: A great, creepy plot, Catherine Deneuve AND David Bowie. Susan Sarandon rocks too, of course.
8. Carmilla, from Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s In a Glass Darkly (1872) collection. It’s a quietly disturbing, genre defining work with not so subtle lesbian undertones.
9. Frank Underwood, from House of Cards (2013). Clearly, Frank Underwood is sustained by the life force of those he crushes. He may not have fangs, but he sure has claws. The only vampire, it seems, who has the power to challenge him is Claire Underwood.
10. Elita, from The Cowboy the Vampire Collection. Elita has it all: she’s beautiful, seductive, powerful, vicious and funny — the most irreverent revenant in the history of the undead. She’s been around for thousands of years, changing allegiances when it suits her, clawing her way through the powerful and the blood-rich alike and leaving behind a trail of smiling corpses.
Of course, Elita isn’t the only powerful vampire in The Cowboy and the Vampire Collection. To learn more about the series co-written with Kathleen McFall and all four books, check out www.cowboyandvampire.com.
October 28, 2015
The Blue Lady of the Oregon Caves: A Ghost Story
The Oregon Caves are no place for taphophobes — those who have an acute fear of being buried alive.
Early on in the tour that took us deep inside the namesake caves, the ranger turned off the lights, sheathed his flashlight and let us experience the utter, absolute darkness.
We were hundreds of feet below the surface of the earth, and far from the already-tenuous fading light of day, so the effect was memorable — it was terrifying, and also oddly liberating.
The ranger wasn’t tormenting us, he was simply illustrating how the discoverer of the caves might have felt as his last sulfur match flickered out, leaving him stranded in the inky blackness with no sense of direction, lost and alone in the bowels of the mountain in complete silence other than the trickle of the underground stream. (Spoiler alert: the stream saved him; he made it out by following the creek.)
Oregon Caves is a not-very-well-known park and national monument. It’s far from the nearest tiny town (Cave Junction), surrounded by dense forest and steep mountains, has it’s very own river Styx (albeit, a tiny version of the original, which also flows right through the dining room in the main lodge) and — not surprisingly — is a hotbed of paranormal activity.
After our ranger friend brought back the lights, we returned gratefully to the surface — slipping and duck-walking past pale stalactites and stalagmites looming like grotesques in the stygian darkness — and debouched to the Chateau for the night.
The Chateau, a grand old lodge constructed in the 1930s, seems to be built of shadows, creaks and plenty of old burnished timber. There, in front of a roaring fire with drinks in hand and the rest of the guests mysteriously absent, the desk clerk regaled us with stories of Bigfoot sightings, the haunted house she lives in and, of course, the resident Chateau ghost: Elizabeth.
Elizabeth isn’t the only ghost, of course, she’s just the most active.
A lady in blue, Elizabeth is reportedly the ethereal remains of a young bride who, while on her honeymoon, found her betrothed in bed in the sweaty, amorous embrace of a chambermaid. The distraught young bride acted quickly, tragically and definitively — she leapt from their window on the upper floor to die, heart- and neck-broken, in the gully below.
Or, alternatively, she slit her wrists in a nice warm bath.
We’ll never know for sure; there’s no corroborating proof — no police report, no media coverage, no death certificate. All we do know is that a ghost named Elizabeth — a pretty, mournful young blonde — roams the halls.
Our desk clerk saw her many times.
The maids have seen her too, perhaps a bit nervously given the vocation of the original temptress. They say she bangs closet doors, unmakes beds and leaves once neatly folded towels strewn across the floors, and all behind locked doors.
The people working in the kitchen have seen her the most often. She’s apparently quite active in the kitchen, banging pots and pans in the wee hours of the night, rattling doors and making soufflés fall. They even have an image of her, captured in some random photo of a storage area, her sad, innocent face, blonde curls and period clothing clearly visible in an impossible reflection. The picture is in the big book of hauntings behind the front desk.
Guests have seen her too, of course. One little girl — and we all know children are more disposed to the sense the supernatural — crayon-sketched her in in convincing and pants-wettingly terrifying detail, and left it behind for others to see. Also in the big book.
We didn’t see her. To be fair, she died in room 309, or maybe 310, and we were in 201. And truthfully, I thought I was going to see her and didn’t really want to. I got a little freaked out by all the darkness, the spooky talk, the murder home where the desk clerk lived, the Bigfoot stuff and the gift shop clerk cheerfully describing how yetis dismembered people in the Himalayas. And when we were talking about Elizabeth, the ghost detector app on my phone went nuts.
By the time we got back in our room, I was rattled and filled with a sense of dread, expecting to see Elizabeth peering out at me piteously from inside the mirror, or feel her cold, insistent pinches to my feet (one of her favorite mean tricks, apparently).
In that state of mind, sleep — when it was most needed to insulate me from my own paranoia — didn’t come easily and the (probably) natural noises of the ancient building took on a sinister tone. And there were plenty of noises. The merest vibration, the travels of a spider across the ceiling for example, was enough to start the whole building vibrating and trembling. The flush of a toilet upstairs sent a cascade of water flooding throughout the entire Chateau. The steam heat on a cold October night knocked the pipes like the Devil’s own marimba band.
The situation could not have been spookier, and yet, still no Elizabeth.
By the light of day, I was both relieved to be alive and disappointed we hadn’t seen a ghost.
But I wasn’t disappointed about the visit. Regardless of the scarcity of ghosts, Oregon Caves is an amazing national monument. Best of all was that moment when the lights went out deep below the surface of the mountains, below the roots of trees, below even the remains of the dead. We experienced a silence and a darkness and an aloneness that felt a little bit like death. We may not have seen Elizabeth, but just for a few seconds, we ventured for a moment into her world. Luckily, we didn’t have to stay there long.
Early on in the tour that took us deep inside the namesake caves, the ranger turned off the lights, sheathed his flashlight and let us experience the utter, absolute darkness.
We were hundreds of feet below the surface of the earth, and far from the already-tenuous fading light of day, so the effect was memorable — it was terrifying, and also oddly liberating.
The ranger wasn’t tormenting us, he was simply illustrating how the discoverer of the caves might have felt as his last sulfur match flickered out, leaving him stranded in the inky blackness with no sense of direction, lost and alone in the bowels of the mountain in complete silence other than the trickle of the underground stream. (Spoiler alert: the stream saved him; he made it out by following the creek.)
Oregon Caves is a not-very-well-known park and national monument. It’s far from the nearest tiny town (Cave Junction), surrounded by dense forest and steep mountains, has it’s very own river Styx (albeit, a tiny version of the original, which also flows right through the dining room in the main lodge) and — not surprisingly — is a hotbed of paranormal activity.
After our ranger friend brought back the lights, we returned gratefully to the surface — slipping and duck-walking past pale stalactites and stalagmites looming like grotesques in the stygian darkness — and debouched to the Chateau for the night.
The Chateau, a grand old lodge constructed in the 1930s, seems to be built of shadows, creaks and plenty of old burnished timber. There, in front of a roaring fire with drinks in hand and the rest of the guests mysteriously absent, the desk clerk regaled us with stories of Bigfoot sightings, the haunted house she lives in and, of course, the resident Chateau ghost: Elizabeth.
Elizabeth isn’t the only ghost, of course, she’s just the most active.
A lady in blue, Elizabeth is reportedly the ethereal remains of a young bride who, while on her honeymoon, found her betrothed in bed in the sweaty, amorous embrace of a chambermaid. The distraught young bride acted quickly, tragically and definitively — she leapt from their window on the upper floor to die, heart- and neck-broken, in the gully below.
Or, alternatively, she slit her wrists in a nice warm bath.
We’ll never know for sure; there’s no corroborating proof — no police report, no media coverage, no death certificate. All we do know is that a ghost named Elizabeth — a pretty, mournful young blonde — roams the halls.
Our desk clerk saw her many times.
The maids have seen her too, perhaps a bit nervously given the vocation of the original temptress. They say she bangs closet doors, unmakes beds and leaves once neatly folded towels strewn across the floors, and all behind locked doors.
The people working in the kitchen have seen her the most often. She’s apparently quite active in the kitchen, banging pots and pans in the wee hours of the night, rattling doors and making soufflés fall. They even have an image of her, captured in some random photo of a storage area, her sad, innocent face, blonde curls and period clothing clearly visible in an impossible reflection. The picture is in the big book of hauntings behind the front desk.
Guests have seen her too, of course. One little girl — and we all know children are more disposed to the sense the supernatural — crayon-sketched her in in convincing and pants-wettingly terrifying detail, and left it behind for others to see. Also in the big book.
We didn’t see her. To be fair, she died in room 309, or maybe 310, and we were in 201. And truthfully, I thought I was going to see her and didn’t really want to. I got a little freaked out by all the darkness, the spooky talk, the murder home where the desk clerk lived, the Bigfoot stuff and the gift shop clerk cheerfully describing how yetis dismembered people in the Himalayas. And when we were talking about Elizabeth, the ghost detector app on my phone went nuts.
By the time we got back in our room, I was rattled and filled with a sense of dread, expecting to see Elizabeth peering out at me piteously from inside the mirror, or feel her cold, insistent pinches to my feet (one of her favorite mean tricks, apparently).
In that state of mind, sleep — when it was most needed to insulate me from my own paranoia — didn’t come easily and the (probably) natural noises of the ancient building took on a sinister tone. And there were plenty of noises. The merest vibration, the travels of a spider across the ceiling for example, was enough to start the whole building vibrating and trembling. The flush of a toilet upstairs sent a cascade of water flooding throughout the entire Chateau. The steam heat on a cold October night knocked the pipes like the Devil’s own marimba band.
The situation could not have been spookier, and yet, still no Elizabeth.
By the light of day, I was both relieved to be alive and disappointed we hadn’t seen a ghost.
But I wasn’t disappointed about the visit. Regardless of the scarcity of ghosts, Oregon Caves is an amazing national monument. Best of all was that moment when the lights went out deep below the surface of the mountains, below the roots of trees, below even the remains of the dead. We experienced a silence and a darkness and an aloneness that felt a little bit like death. We may not have seen Elizabeth, but just for a few seconds, we ventured for a moment into her world. Luckily, we didn’t have to stay there long.
October 1, 2014
#50DaysofFiverr - Like the Star Wars Cantina for Marketing
The worst part about writing is anything that’s not writing (that means you, marketing)
At the end of a long day of work (writing internal communications masterpieces for a financial services company), all I really want to do is come home, pour a nice tumbler of whiskey and spend a few hours … writing about cowboys and vampires and death cults and metaphysical energy fields. I would too, if wasn’t for the need to market our books.
Sadly, at least for indie authors, marketing is almost as important as creativity and foundational writing skills. Without a marketing plan, you can’t connect with readers and even the best books may languish in obscurity.
That’s why many (most?) nights find us working on marketing plans and studying website trends and designing ads.
Kathleen and I really don’t like marketing, but if we ever hope to achieve our goal of having our creative works contributing to financial self-sufficiency, we have to do it. A lot. Which is why we’re constantly on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, and forever thinking about ways to make our limited marketing budget work harder for us.
Then we stumbled across Fiverr.
It’s a website that connects artists, graphic designers and creative types of all stripes with customers in need of logos, testimonials, writing help, graphics, illustrations and more. It’s like the Star Wars cantina, only for creative types, and yeah, we’re Luke in this scenario.
The trick is that the starting price for any service is just $5. You can add more sophisticated components that send the price up a bit, but not much. And they can be delivered crazy fast.
Being thrifty-minded authors (read: broke), Kathleen and I came up with a crazy idea: What if we pooled our limited marketing budget and spent it on fifty $5 products and shared them across our social media channels?
#50DaysofFiverr was born.
It's part marketing campaign, part experiment and all fun. We’re using the considerable talents of the Fiverr community to do the creative work for us – focused on cowboys, vampires and our books (and we've received some truly epic deliverables) – and then we’re going to share it out with the world and see what happens.
Come along for the ride.
I’ll share a few things on Goodreads (check out my photos for a fun caricature), but the best way to participate is by connecting with us on Facebook (www.facebook.com/cowboyandvampire), Twitter (@cowboyvamp) and Instagram (@cowboyvampire). And remember, it’s #50DaysofFiverr.
When it’s all done, 49 days from now, we’ll have some fun stories and hopefully a few lessons to share.
Oh yeah, and there’s a contest. Share your favorite pieces of work to be entered into a drawing for a $50 (of course) gift card.
At the end of a long day of work (writing internal communications masterpieces for a financial services company), all I really want to do is come home, pour a nice tumbler of whiskey and spend a few hours … writing about cowboys and vampires and death cults and metaphysical energy fields. I would too, if wasn’t for the need to market our books.
Sadly, at least for indie authors, marketing is almost as important as creativity and foundational writing skills. Without a marketing plan, you can’t connect with readers and even the best books may languish in obscurity.
That’s why many (most?) nights find us working on marketing plans and studying website trends and designing ads.
Kathleen and I really don’t like marketing, but if we ever hope to achieve our goal of having our creative works contributing to financial self-sufficiency, we have to do it. A lot. Which is why we’re constantly on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, and forever thinking about ways to make our limited marketing budget work harder for us.
Then we stumbled across Fiverr.
It’s a website that connects artists, graphic designers and creative types of all stripes with customers in need of logos, testimonials, writing help, graphics, illustrations and more. It’s like the Star Wars cantina, only for creative types, and yeah, we’re Luke in this scenario.
The trick is that the starting price for any service is just $5. You can add more sophisticated components that send the price up a bit, but not much. And they can be delivered crazy fast.
Being thrifty-minded authors (read: broke), Kathleen and I came up with a crazy idea: What if we pooled our limited marketing budget and spent it on fifty $5 products and shared them across our social media channels?
#50DaysofFiverr was born.
It's part marketing campaign, part experiment and all fun. We’re using the considerable talents of the Fiverr community to do the creative work for us – focused on cowboys, vampires and our books (and we've received some truly epic deliverables) – and then we’re going to share it out with the world and see what happens.
Come along for the ride.
I’ll share a few things on Goodreads (check out my photos for a fun caricature), but the best way to participate is by connecting with us on Facebook (www.facebook.com/cowboyandvampire), Twitter (@cowboyvamp) and Instagram (@cowboyvampire). And remember, it’s #50DaysofFiverr.
When it’s all done, 49 days from now, we’ll have some fun stories and hopefully a few lessons to share.
Oh yeah, and there’s a contest. Share your favorite pieces of work to be entered into a drawing for a $50 (of course) gift card.
August 24, 2014
Punching the Night in the Teeth: A Crime Scene Mystery
Note: This is a post we wrote for our friends over at OmniMysteryNews.
"Something terrible happened here."
The detective was talking mostly to himself, because the two patrol officers — fresh-faced rookies barely out of the academy and bursting with professional pride — were staring at the carnage, their mouths hanging open like the swinging doors of an abandoned saloon.
After 20 years on the force, the detective had seen a lot, too much, but this was the worst so far. It was 10 in the morning and he needed a drink. Another drink.
He scratched at the salt and pepper stubble on his cheeks and then reached under his rumpled trench coat to adjust the Colt .45 nestled in his shoulder holster. The gun had a name — Brenda — and she was always ready to dance, but this wasn't a shooting thing. Not yet anyway. But the day was young.
Instead, he pulled out his battered notebook, flipped it open and grabbed the dusty pen jammed into his shirt pocket. He clicked it to life, dotting his tongue to start the ink flowing, and then held it like a club over the sweat-stained paper.
He was probably the last cop in America who even used paper, a renegade, a rebel who couldn't play by the rules, even if those rules made entering, storing and retrieving data so much easier.
All the whiskey and divorces and fights and nights alone came crashing down around his shoulders and he lashed out to avoid even one second of introspection.
"What do you see?" he shouted at the youngest of the rookie cops, a boy in the knight blue armor of all the men who came before him, a child who picked up the badge reluctantly and only to appease his father, the cold and distant commissioner.
"I don't know," the boy said, shrinking back.
The detective grinned like a wolf over a lamb, revealing a row of even, white teeth — even rebels could practice good oral hygiene — and a deep-seated mean streak.
"Useless. How about you toots?"
She bristled at the diminutive hurled at her from the washed-out detective, and raised her chin higher defiantly. She couldn't know it yet, but they would be lovers before the sun came up again.
"I can't explain it," she said. "But with all your many years of experience, you must know what's going on. Enlighten us."
This one had fire, he thought. He couldn't know it, but she would break his heart into 18 pieces and flush them, one at a time, by the end of the week.
His eyes narrowed like a hawk circling a field of blind mice. "They stopped cleaning, that's for sure," he said, pointing at to the dishes mounded and molding in the sink. "A long time ago."
The floor was littered with discarded clothes and empty glasses and the drained corpses of vodka and whiskey bottles that clinked together as he paced though them.
"Looks like they were working some angle." Every flat surface was littered with hastily scribbled pages of text and open books, the pages dog-eared and marred by frantic writing in the margins.
"It's like some kind of horror movie," she whispered.
"Yeah, that's right, only this time it's real," the detective said. "There are no sparkling vampires here, no cowboys to ride in and save the day."
He leafed through his notes. "I called around before we got here. They don't have many friends, but the few people who even called themselves casual acquaintances said they hadn't seen these two in months. The last person to see them alive was the bartender at the local gin joint."
He lit a cigarette.
"You can't smoke at a crime scene," the young cop said. His name was Bart and he was still a virgin.
"The dead don't care about smoke," the detective muttered.
"But it's against regulations."
"Screw your regulations," he said with grimace. "All I care about is closing cases."
"And getting bombed," the beautiful rookie muttered. Her name was Tanya and her eyes were the color of jade at night. He imagined her in candlelight, shaking her hair loose and laying her service revolver on the night stand and handing him a drink.
"Until you've walked these streets as long as I have, seen the things I've seen, don't you dare judge me," the detective said.
He touched the computer. "Still warm. I bet that one is too."
She touched it and then jerked her hand back, frightened, nodding that his hunch was right.
"What does it mean?" Bart asked, his voice on the edge of breaking.
The detective spun to face him, his face contorted in rage and anguish. "Haven't you figured it out yet, junior? Can't you see what's going on here? They're writers and they are so far into their project, they've disappeared from the world."
Tanya gasped and held her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with fear. Bart couldn't hold it together any longer. He snatched an ancient and half-full container of now-petrified Kung Pao and retched violently into it.
"What can we do?" Tanya asked, pale, almost translucent, and shaken — like a martini.
"Nothing," the detective said. "They're beyond all hope now." He snapped his notebook closed. "Let's go get some pancakes."
Note: Kathleen McFall and I are starting book four, so things are about to get weird...
Book One: The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance
Book two: The Cowboy and the Vampire: Blood and Whiskey
Book three: The Cowboy and the Vampire: Rough Trails and Shallow Graves
"Something terrible happened here."
The detective was talking mostly to himself, because the two patrol officers — fresh-faced rookies barely out of the academy and bursting with professional pride — were staring at the carnage, their mouths hanging open like the swinging doors of an abandoned saloon.
After 20 years on the force, the detective had seen a lot, too much, but this was the worst so far. It was 10 in the morning and he needed a drink. Another drink.
He scratched at the salt and pepper stubble on his cheeks and then reached under his rumpled trench coat to adjust the Colt .45 nestled in his shoulder holster. The gun had a name — Brenda — and she was always ready to dance, but this wasn't a shooting thing. Not yet anyway. But the day was young.
Instead, he pulled out his battered notebook, flipped it open and grabbed the dusty pen jammed into his shirt pocket. He clicked it to life, dotting his tongue to start the ink flowing, and then held it like a club over the sweat-stained paper.
He was probably the last cop in America who even used paper, a renegade, a rebel who couldn't play by the rules, even if those rules made entering, storing and retrieving data so much easier.
All the whiskey and divorces and fights and nights alone came crashing down around his shoulders and he lashed out to avoid even one second of introspection.
"What do you see?" he shouted at the youngest of the rookie cops, a boy in the knight blue armor of all the men who came before him, a child who picked up the badge reluctantly and only to appease his father, the cold and distant commissioner.
"I don't know," the boy said, shrinking back.
The detective grinned like a wolf over a lamb, revealing a row of even, white teeth — even rebels could practice good oral hygiene — and a deep-seated mean streak.
"Useless. How about you toots?"
She bristled at the diminutive hurled at her from the washed-out detective, and raised her chin higher defiantly. She couldn't know it yet, but they would be lovers before the sun came up again.
"I can't explain it," she said. "But with all your many years of experience, you must know what's going on. Enlighten us."
This one had fire, he thought. He couldn't know it, but she would break his heart into 18 pieces and flush them, one at a time, by the end of the week.
His eyes narrowed like a hawk circling a field of blind mice. "They stopped cleaning, that's for sure," he said, pointing at to the dishes mounded and molding in the sink. "A long time ago."
The floor was littered with discarded clothes and empty glasses and the drained corpses of vodka and whiskey bottles that clinked together as he paced though them.
"Looks like they were working some angle." Every flat surface was littered with hastily scribbled pages of text and open books, the pages dog-eared and marred by frantic writing in the margins.
"It's like some kind of horror movie," she whispered.
"Yeah, that's right, only this time it's real," the detective said. "There are no sparkling vampires here, no cowboys to ride in and save the day."
He leafed through his notes. "I called around before we got here. They don't have many friends, but the few people who even called themselves casual acquaintances said they hadn't seen these two in months. The last person to see them alive was the bartender at the local gin joint."
He lit a cigarette.
"You can't smoke at a crime scene," the young cop said. His name was Bart and he was still a virgin.
"The dead don't care about smoke," the detective muttered.
"But it's against regulations."
"Screw your regulations," he said with grimace. "All I care about is closing cases."
"And getting bombed," the beautiful rookie muttered. Her name was Tanya and her eyes were the color of jade at night. He imagined her in candlelight, shaking her hair loose and laying her service revolver on the night stand and handing him a drink.
"Until you've walked these streets as long as I have, seen the things I've seen, don't you dare judge me," the detective said.
He touched the computer. "Still warm. I bet that one is too."
She touched it and then jerked her hand back, frightened, nodding that his hunch was right.
"What does it mean?" Bart asked, his voice on the edge of breaking.
The detective spun to face him, his face contorted in rage and anguish. "Haven't you figured it out yet, junior? Can't you see what's going on here? They're writers and they are so far into their project, they've disappeared from the world."
Tanya gasped and held her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with fear. Bart couldn't hold it together any longer. He snatched an ancient and half-full container of now-petrified Kung Pao and retched violently into it.
"What can we do?" Tanya asked, pale, almost translucent, and shaken — like a martini.
"Nothing," the detective said. "They're beyond all hope now." He snapped his notebook closed. "Let's go get some pancakes."
Note: Kathleen McFall and I are starting book four, so things are about to get weird...
Book One: The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance
Book two: The Cowboy and the Vampire: Blood and Whiskey
Book three: The Cowboy and the Vampire: Rough Trails and Shallow Graves
June 30, 2014
Writing, and Other Hopeless Afflictions
Tips and tricks from the trenches.
Note: This is a guest post we wrote for Rebecca's Writing Services website.
Writing is the worst thing you can do in the world. For starters, it’s thankless. And chances are you’ll never make any money at it. Plus you’ll be relentlessly critiqued and judged by countless people, some (many?) of whom feel obliged to assassinate your character in the process. And forget about having a social life, or any kind of life, really. You have to spend all of your time writing and all of your spare time marketing your writing and all your spare, spare time reading better writers than yourself. (Note: there’s no such thing as spare, spare, spare time — that’s just called “sleep,” and it’s in short supply).
If you’re still reading this, it’s too late for you — you’re afflicted. There’s no hope. But we do have a few tips and tricks to help you manage the unfortunate condition that will shape the rest of your life.
Be selfish. Writing requires alone time, and lots of it. When people ask you to do anything that isn’t writing, say no. Don’t even make excuses for your action; that just takes extra time away from writing. Related tip: Make sure your significant other suffers from the same affliction; you won’t feel quite as lonely as you sit on opposite sides of the room ignoring each other while you work.
Be social. The only thing worse than not focusing on writing is focusing too much on writing. Over-focusing can blind you from being creative. In order to charge the part of your brain that fuels good writing, you have to get out in the world, see people and do fun things.
Be confident. Writing requires a huge ego. If you aren’t convinced that every single word you write is electric and riveting, better than any word ever committed to paper in history, writing is just a hobby. Try scrapbooking instead. Or pickling things.
Be insecure. Writing requires a healthy dose of insecurity. You have to constantly challenge yourself to improve and you can’t improve if you don’t open yourself to risk. And by risk, we mean feedback. Join a writing group or pay an editor. Do not trust your friends. Unless you friends and family don’t really like you; then their feedback might be helpful.
Be realistic. Writing is hard work and it never gets easier. If your books aren’t selling, you have to write more and better, and market harder. If your books are selling, you need to write more and better sequels and fight for control of your movie scripts and worry about international rights. If you go into this thinking anything about it is easy, or success is guaranteed, you are in for a long, disappointing ride.
Be optimistic. If you can’t envision yourself being wildly successful — like J.K. Rowling levels of success — why bother? There’s always pickling things.
One thing about writers is that they are naturally astute and if you’ve been paying attention, you probably noticed this advice is all sorts of diametrically opposed. That’s because the affliction of writing requires a continuous and long-running, self imposed derangement of the senses, a willful bipolar disorder, a life-long creative mood swing between extremes. Embrace it and learn to make the most of it. That’s the only advice that really matters.
But if you’re still reading and want some actual, practical advice, here it is: try online dating. No, not for yourself — for your characters.
If you really want to get to know your characters inside and out — and that’s the only way your readers will want to spend uninterrupted time with them — they have to be real. Some people write short stories about their characters, others write biographical sketches. To really get inside their heads, write their dating profile for some online hook up site. And not what you think their profile should be — write their profile like they would write it: inflating their good qualities and minimizing their bad qualities, glossing over their quirks and balancing what they really want in a partner with what is socially acceptable to ask for.
Then write the feedback their blind date sent back to midnighthookups.com after their first meeting.
There’s no quicker way to get behind the eyes of your characters than by throwing them into the world of dating.
Note: If you have any more tips, please share them! We're getting ready to start book four and we can use all the help we can get...
The Cowboy and the Vampire: Rough Trails and Shallow Graves
Note: This is a guest post we wrote for Rebecca's Writing Services website.
Writing is the worst thing you can do in the world. For starters, it’s thankless. And chances are you’ll never make any money at it. Plus you’ll be relentlessly critiqued and judged by countless people, some (many?) of whom feel obliged to assassinate your character in the process. And forget about having a social life, or any kind of life, really. You have to spend all of your time writing and all of your spare time marketing your writing and all your spare, spare time reading better writers than yourself. (Note: there’s no such thing as spare, spare, spare time — that’s just called “sleep,” and it’s in short supply).
If you’re still reading this, it’s too late for you — you’re afflicted. There’s no hope. But we do have a few tips and tricks to help you manage the unfortunate condition that will shape the rest of your life.
Be selfish. Writing requires alone time, and lots of it. When people ask you to do anything that isn’t writing, say no. Don’t even make excuses for your action; that just takes extra time away from writing. Related tip: Make sure your significant other suffers from the same affliction; you won’t feel quite as lonely as you sit on opposite sides of the room ignoring each other while you work.
Be social. The only thing worse than not focusing on writing is focusing too much on writing. Over-focusing can blind you from being creative. In order to charge the part of your brain that fuels good writing, you have to get out in the world, see people and do fun things.
Be confident. Writing requires a huge ego. If you aren’t convinced that every single word you write is electric and riveting, better than any word ever committed to paper in history, writing is just a hobby. Try scrapbooking instead. Or pickling things.
Be insecure. Writing requires a healthy dose of insecurity. You have to constantly challenge yourself to improve and you can’t improve if you don’t open yourself to risk. And by risk, we mean feedback. Join a writing group or pay an editor. Do not trust your friends. Unless you friends and family don’t really like you; then their feedback might be helpful.
Be realistic. Writing is hard work and it never gets easier. If your books aren’t selling, you have to write more and better, and market harder. If your books are selling, you need to write more and better sequels and fight for control of your movie scripts and worry about international rights. If you go into this thinking anything about it is easy, or success is guaranteed, you are in for a long, disappointing ride.
Be optimistic. If you can’t envision yourself being wildly successful — like J.K. Rowling levels of success — why bother? There’s always pickling things.
One thing about writers is that they are naturally astute and if you’ve been paying attention, you probably noticed this advice is all sorts of diametrically opposed. That’s because the affliction of writing requires a continuous and long-running, self imposed derangement of the senses, a willful bipolar disorder, a life-long creative mood swing between extremes. Embrace it and learn to make the most of it. That’s the only advice that really matters.
But if you’re still reading and want some actual, practical advice, here it is: try online dating. No, not for yourself — for your characters.
If you really want to get to know your characters inside and out — and that’s the only way your readers will want to spend uninterrupted time with them — they have to be real. Some people write short stories about their characters, others write biographical sketches. To really get inside their heads, write their dating profile for some online hook up site. And not what you think their profile should be — write their profile like they would write it: inflating their good qualities and minimizing their bad qualities, glossing over their quirks and balancing what they really want in a partner with what is socially acceptable to ask for.
Then write the feedback their blind date sent back to midnighthookups.com after their first meeting.
There’s no quicker way to get behind the eyes of your characters than by throwing them into the world of dating.
Note: If you have any more tips, please share them! We're getting ready to start book four and we can use all the help we can get...
The Cowboy and the Vampire: Rough Trails and Shallow Graves
February 24, 2014
Queasy rider: Voyage of the Damned
Or, how I met the vomit whisperer
Kathleen and I just got back from a vacation in Kauai. We shouldn’t have gone. We’re very close to re-releasing an “author’s cut” of The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance, with a slick new cover, and a second edition of The Cowboy and the Vampire: Blood and Whiskey, also with a new cover. And all of that work is in preparation for the release of our new book, The Cowboy and the Vampire: Rough Trails and Shallow Graves.
We’ve still got a LOT of work to do to meet our self-imposed deadlines, but the need for a vacation trumped business plans.
It was our first time to Kauai and we did all of the expected touristy things: hiking, snorkeling, laying on the beach, drinking too much (Hurricanes are delicious and mildly addictive), reading and getting sunburned.
But this is not a travelogue — it’s a story about a vomit whisperer.
We took a boat tour of the Na Pali coast, a rare stretch of the island inaccessible by car where steep cliffs — 3,000 feet tall and cloaked in emerald foliage, the tops obscured by ominous clouds — plunge mostly straight into the sea. There are no beaches of note, only tremendous waves crashing against the wet rocks. There are two ways to see it: by air or sea. After our shared experience “terri-flying” around Denali in Alaska (during which the passenger behind us yakked into a 50-gallon trash bag) we opted for the sea.
We booked a cruise from Chantel, the concierge at the resort, even though she warned us with wide, serious eyes that the sea would be rough, so rough, in fact, they might go the opposite direction and simply putter around in calm water for some snorkeling. We took the chance. And the captain of the boat took the chance, aiming us for the Na Pali coast.
Before we event left the office, our crew warned us the ride would be rough, and yet 60 of us — pale and sleepy as the dawn broke — stepped willingly onto the catamaran of doomed breakfasts.
One woman became seasick, literally, the second she stepped on board. It was not a fortuitous start. She spent the entire four-hour trip pale and miserable, sitting at the back of the boat, huddled under a blanket and clutching an “aloha bucket,” as the crew cheerfully called the 2-gallon plastic buckets. She never puked though. She never puked.
The trip started smoothly. We stopped and snorkeled in some calm, sunny water where I came face to face with a sea turtle, and we could hear whales singing underwater. But after that, the sea grew angry — like an old man with ill-fitting dentures — and things quickly deteriorated.
The swells grew in size and the boat began to pitch and haw on what seemed like 50-foot waves but, more likely, were about eight feet. One by one, passengers began losing the battle against nausea, and our cruise ship turned into a spews ship.
An unfortunate teenager started us off. She erupted unexpectedly, catching all of the queasy passengers off guard. She was surprised and mortified and spackled her clothes with so much vomit, the crew rushed her to the back to hose her off. She sat for the rest of the trip, crying and taking solace from her worried parents.
Next came The Angriest Puker in the World, an older man who seemed outraged by the fact he’d become sick. He vomited over the rails with an ear-splitting, roaring scream each time his stomach contracted. His wet shouts rattled the boat and sent nearby sea birds to wing.
The irritated husband of the first bucket clutcher was next, surprised his stomach lost the battle first. We tried not to watch anyone actively vomiting for fear of losing our own tenuous grip, but I happened to glance behind and saw his aloha bucket half full of what looked like beer, but more likely — given his brown-stained fingers – some sort of vast and unholy mixture of bile and nicotine.
One woman puked with a machine-gun like staccato, another with a quiet efficiency that barely interrupted her conversation.
When we travel, I like to read a history of where we’re going so this time I read Kauai: The Separate Kingdom, by Joesting. I learned Hawaiians are natural born seafarers and in the early days, they were prize additions to western ships, though one observer begrudged them their ease as the interisland ships pitched and the natives crouched happily on the deck eating poi (taro paste) and smiling good-naturedly while western men and women tossed and stumbled and vomited.
That was certainly the case on our little boat. The entire crew, naturally, was quite comfortable on the heaving boat, but the two native Hawaiians were utterly at ease. The largest of the two, especially, padded around with cat-like grace incongruous to his bulk, tattoos and fierce countenance. I forget his name – something short that ended in “-ki” or “-ku” — but I remember he was a kind, gentle soul and an empathetic vomit whisperer.
He made a continual circuit of the boat, taking a reading on the faces of the distressed and disturbed, distributing aloha buckets just before disaster struck. A woman in front of us — one half of a newlywed couple — was on the fence the entire time. Her partner was an excellent wildlife spotter, splitting his time sighting breaching whales, playful dolphins and obscene-mouthed manta rays and comforting his new wife.
She was pale and miserable, but gamely held on to the contents of her stomach. As the boat pitched and bobbed and the captain struggled to keep up his patter of factoids about the Na Pali coast for a ship full of largely, at this point, uncaring and inattentive passengers, the vomit whisperer padded up from the deck below, scanned the pale, worried faces and honed in on the woman in front of us.
“You ok?” he asked.
She held out her trembling hand and made the universal symbol for so-so. He smiled, nodded and handed her a bucket. She smiled back, then unleashed a mighty chunky rainbow of puke as if possessed by the very demon of gluttony (editors note: that would be Beezelbub).
I’m not sure if he knew it was coming up or, by his proactive kindness, simply gave her permission to throw up. I just know that in that one moment, based on the volume produced, he put those of us around her into his debt forever.
Once we sailed out of the stormy petulance of the Na Pali coast, things calmed down, but the damage was done. The boat limped back to Poipu with a lot of empty stomachs, many uneaten sandwiches and many unconsumed Mai Tais. I’m pleased to report our Mai Tais were not among those.
Kathleen and I just got back from a vacation in Kauai. We shouldn’t have gone. We’re very close to re-releasing an “author’s cut” of The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance, with a slick new cover, and a second edition of The Cowboy and the Vampire: Blood and Whiskey, also with a new cover. And all of that work is in preparation for the release of our new book, The Cowboy and the Vampire: Rough Trails and Shallow Graves.
We’ve still got a LOT of work to do to meet our self-imposed deadlines, but the need for a vacation trumped business plans.
It was our first time to Kauai and we did all of the expected touristy things: hiking, snorkeling, laying on the beach, drinking too much (Hurricanes are delicious and mildly addictive), reading and getting sunburned.
But this is not a travelogue — it’s a story about a vomit whisperer.
We took a boat tour of the Na Pali coast, a rare stretch of the island inaccessible by car where steep cliffs — 3,000 feet tall and cloaked in emerald foliage, the tops obscured by ominous clouds — plunge mostly straight into the sea. There are no beaches of note, only tremendous waves crashing against the wet rocks. There are two ways to see it: by air or sea. After our shared experience “terri-flying” around Denali in Alaska (during which the passenger behind us yakked into a 50-gallon trash bag) we opted for the sea.
We booked a cruise from Chantel, the concierge at the resort, even though she warned us with wide, serious eyes that the sea would be rough, so rough, in fact, they might go the opposite direction and simply putter around in calm water for some snorkeling. We took the chance. And the captain of the boat took the chance, aiming us for the Na Pali coast.
Before we event left the office, our crew warned us the ride would be rough, and yet 60 of us — pale and sleepy as the dawn broke — stepped willingly onto the catamaran of doomed breakfasts.
One woman became seasick, literally, the second she stepped on board. It was not a fortuitous start. She spent the entire four-hour trip pale and miserable, sitting at the back of the boat, huddled under a blanket and clutching an “aloha bucket,” as the crew cheerfully called the 2-gallon plastic buckets. She never puked though. She never puked.
The trip started smoothly. We stopped and snorkeled in some calm, sunny water where I came face to face with a sea turtle, and we could hear whales singing underwater. But after that, the sea grew angry — like an old man with ill-fitting dentures — and things quickly deteriorated.
The swells grew in size and the boat began to pitch and haw on what seemed like 50-foot waves but, more likely, were about eight feet. One by one, passengers began losing the battle against nausea, and our cruise ship turned into a spews ship.
An unfortunate teenager started us off. She erupted unexpectedly, catching all of the queasy passengers off guard. She was surprised and mortified and spackled her clothes with so much vomit, the crew rushed her to the back to hose her off. She sat for the rest of the trip, crying and taking solace from her worried parents.
Next came The Angriest Puker in the World, an older man who seemed outraged by the fact he’d become sick. He vomited over the rails with an ear-splitting, roaring scream each time his stomach contracted. His wet shouts rattled the boat and sent nearby sea birds to wing.
The irritated husband of the first bucket clutcher was next, surprised his stomach lost the battle first. We tried not to watch anyone actively vomiting for fear of losing our own tenuous grip, but I happened to glance behind and saw his aloha bucket half full of what looked like beer, but more likely — given his brown-stained fingers – some sort of vast and unholy mixture of bile and nicotine.
One woman puked with a machine-gun like staccato, another with a quiet efficiency that barely interrupted her conversation.
When we travel, I like to read a history of where we’re going so this time I read Kauai: The Separate Kingdom, by Joesting. I learned Hawaiians are natural born seafarers and in the early days, they were prize additions to western ships, though one observer begrudged them their ease as the interisland ships pitched and the natives crouched happily on the deck eating poi (taro paste) and smiling good-naturedly while western men and women tossed and stumbled and vomited.
That was certainly the case on our little boat. The entire crew, naturally, was quite comfortable on the heaving boat, but the two native Hawaiians were utterly at ease. The largest of the two, especially, padded around with cat-like grace incongruous to his bulk, tattoos and fierce countenance. I forget his name – something short that ended in “-ki” or “-ku” — but I remember he was a kind, gentle soul and an empathetic vomit whisperer.
He made a continual circuit of the boat, taking a reading on the faces of the distressed and disturbed, distributing aloha buckets just before disaster struck. A woman in front of us — one half of a newlywed couple — was on the fence the entire time. Her partner was an excellent wildlife spotter, splitting his time sighting breaching whales, playful dolphins and obscene-mouthed manta rays and comforting his new wife.
She was pale and miserable, but gamely held on to the contents of her stomach. As the boat pitched and bobbed and the captain struggled to keep up his patter of factoids about the Na Pali coast for a ship full of largely, at this point, uncaring and inattentive passengers, the vomit whisperer padded up from the deck below, scanned the pale, worried faces and honed in on the woman in front of us.
“You ok?” he asked.
She held out her trembling hand and made the universal symbol for so-so. He smiled, nodded and handed her a bucket. She smiled back, then unleashed a mighty chunky rainbow of puke as if possessed by the very demon of gluttony (editors note: that would be Beezelbub).
I’m not sure if he knew it was coming up or, by his proactive kindness, simply gave her permission to throw up. I just know that in that one moment, based on the volume produced, he put those of us around her into his debt forever.
Once we sailed out of the stormy petulance of the Na Pali coast, things calmed down, but the damage was done. The boat limped back to Poipu with a lot of empty stomachs, many uneaten sandwiches and many unconsumed Mai Tais. I’m pleased to report our Mai Tais were not among those.
January 14, 2014
A Play within a Play within a Play
Last year we went to a local production of Venus in Fur at the Portland Center Stage. It’s about a playwright struggling to adapt the classic novella, Venus in Furs (by Sacher-Masoch). The literary work is famous for exploring some dark themes, including sadomasochism, and the play — a kind of a play within a play — taps into the psycho-sexual tension between a writer/director and an auditioning starlet. We were unexpectedly treated to a play within a play within a play because, in the row in front of us, another little drama was taking place.
Just as the curtain was about to go up, the ushers seated two late arrivers in the only seats left which, of course, were in front of us and two seats to the left. The man and woman were in their early 30s, stylishly dressed in expensive clothes and fashionable leather jackets; it was January. Given how dark it was, perhaps not unexpectedly, she stumbled a bit moving past those already seated.
Once in their seats, they immediately began whispering furiously. He cut her off, angrily, and gestured for the ushers who conferred with him at the railing to his left and then scurried off. Apparently, she’d left her purse in the restroom and the ushers — two lovely older women — found it and delivered it to the grateful husband just as the show started. It’s a good thing, too, because the purse would have a starring role in the near future.
Sadly, the whispering did not end with the purse. As the show heated up, the couple continued talking. Actually, it was mostly her. She would lean over to whisper loudly in this ear, confused by the action on stage and, it seemed, unsure of why she was even there. Each time, he rebuffed her angrily and waved her quiet. It soon became clear that she was not merely uncouth, she was actually so completely inebriated that she could barely function.
We are not ones to judge, nor to make light of addictions, but the poor woman put on such a public spectacle it was hard not to divert our attention from the stage — where the lingerie-clad actress slowly transformed from a disempowered sexual object to a stormy goddess and the suit-clad actor transformed from a petty tyrant to a blubbering wreck (seriously, if you get the chance, see this play) — onto the action in the seats in front of us.
The slow motion fade was her signature move. At least a dozen times in the next hour, she would slowly, agonizingly slowly, slump to her right until she was fully resting on the polite, hapless woman to her right. Her chagrined partner would see her there and, embarrassed, pull her upright — startling her in the process and often shaking loose an oath — and admonish her. Seven minutes later (we timed it), she would begin slowly keeling to the right again.
She also had the less graceful, more disruptive aborted escape move. Every so often, she decided enough was enough and stood to leave, but was so confused by the mechanics required to escape that all she could do was look helplessly left and at the insurmountable railing and right at the long row of angular knees poking out in front of disapproving eyes. Flummoxed, she would sit back down with a groan.
As the actress and the producer waged a war for sexual dominance on stage, the side show was reaching its climax and all of us in that little corner of the theater wanted to see how it turned out. We would not be disappointed. She stood one more time, wobbled a bit, then with an oath, collapsed back into her chair, snatched up her purse — I said it would figure largely — and promptly threw up into it.
And ... scene.
To be fair, her vomiting was very quiet and refined. Her husband, mortified, popped up, snatched her by the hand and pulled her through the row of people now too shocked to complain, disappearing out into the night. She clutched the purse — it was not a large one either — to her chest and not a drop was spilled. We all wanted to clap, mostly because it was finally over, but we didn’t want to disrupt the real show, which was also nearing the end.
I’m pretty sure I saw her again recently, which is why I thought about that night. If it was her, she was sober and looked healthy, so hopefully it was a one-time event or she got the help she needed. She was at the food court in the mall looking for a plug in for her lap top. She had a cup of coffee.
And a new purse.
Just as the curtain was about to go up, the ushers seated two late arrivers in the only seats left which, of course, were in front of us and two seats to the left. The man and woman were in their early 30s, stylishly dressed in expensive clothes and fashionable leather jackets; it was January. Given how dark it was, perhaps not unexpectedly, she stumbled a bit moving past those already seated.
Once in their seats, they immediately began whispering furiously. He cut her off, angrily, and gestured for the ushers who conferred with him at the railing to his left and then scurried off. Apparently, she’d left her purse in the restroom and the ushers — two lovely older women — found it and delivered it to the grateful husband just as the show started. It’s a good thing, too, because the purse would have a starring role in the near future.
Sadly, the whispering did not end with the purse. As the show heated up, the couple continued talking. Actually, it was mostly her. She would lean over to whisper loudly in this ear, confused by the action on stage and, it seemed, unsure of why she was even there. Each time, he rebuffed her angrily and waved her quiet. It soon became clear that she was not merely uncouth, she was actually so completely inebriated that she could barely function.
We are not ones to judge, nor to make light of addictions, but the poor woman put on such a public spectacle it was hard not to divert our attention from the stage — where the lingerie-clad actress slowly transformed from a disempowered sexual object to a stormy goddess and the suit-clad actor transformed from a petty tyrant to a blubbering wreck (seriously, if you get the chance, see this play) — onto the action in the seats in front of us.
The slow motion fade was her signature move. At least a dozen times in the next hour, she would slowly, agonizingly slowly, slump to her right until she was fully resting on the polite, hapless woman to her right. Her chagrined partner would see her there and, embarrassed, pull her upright — startling her in the process and often shaking loose an oath — and admonish her. Seven minutes later (we timed it), she would begin slowly keeling to the right again.
She also had the less graceful, more disruptive aborted escape move. Every so often, she decided enough was enough and stood to leave, but was so confused by the mechanics required to escape that all she could do was look helplessly left and at the insurmountable railing and right at the long row of angular knees poking out in front of disapproving eyes. Flummoxed, she would sit back down with a groan.
As the actress and the producer waged a war for sexual dominance on stage, the side show was reaching its climax and all of us in that little corner of the theater wanted to see how it turned out. We would not be disappointed. She stood one more time, wobbled a bit, then with an oath, collapsed back into her chair, snatched up her purse — I said it would figure largely — and promptly threw up into it.
And ... scene.
To be fair, her vomiting was very quiet and refined. Her husband, mortified, popped up, snatched her by the hand and pulled her through the row of people now too shocked to complain, disappearing out into the night. She clutched the purse — it was not a large one either — to her chest and not a drop was spilled. We all wanted to clap, mostly because it was finally over, but we didn’t want to disrupt the real show, which was also nearing the end.
I’m pretty sure I saw her again recently, which is why I thought about that night. If it was her, she was sober and looked healthy, so hopefully it was a one-time event or she got the help she needed. She was at the food court in the mall looking for a plug in for her lap top. She had a cup of coffee.
And a new purse.
December 10, 2013
Research by proxy
When you write about ostensibly mythic creatures, actual research is next to impossible. That’s one of the challenges of The Cowboy and the Vampire series.
Cowboys are easy. I grew up on a ranch in Montana and still remember what it’s like to ride and rope and brand. Plus, Kathleen and I live in the Pacific Northwest which means we are never more than a half day’s drive from cowboy country (central and south-eastern Oregon) where actual cowboys and cowgirls can be found in run-down bars listening to honky-tonk music and drinking beer and after an actual long day of working on a ranch.
Vampires, however, are a bit tougher to profile. I can’t just hop on the bus and get off at Dracula’s castle. That’s why I do research by proxy. The vampires in our books are evolutionarily superior beings, stronger than humans and practically immortal, who just happen to need human blood to survive. That makes them a super predator. To introduce an element of reality, we read all the stories and legends we could get our hands on, and I read a lot of nonfiction books about species that hunt — wolves and grizzlies and, one of my favorites, Siberian tigers (The Tiger: A True Story of Vengeance and Survival).
But to really pull my share and write convincingly about vampires, I wanted to get inside the heads of beings that completely lack empathy and operate without the “normal” kinds of moral calculations that hold humans back, erhmm, keep society functioning. That brought me to books about sociopathy and psychopathy and, ultimately, to Cruelty: Human Evil and the Human Brain by Kathleen Taylor.
Despite the dark topic, this is now one of my favorite books of all time. I learned much more than just what might motivate a vampire, I learned what it is that makes us human, and how it works in our brains and in society. Here’s an excerpt of my review:
A margin-wrecker: the best kind of book is one that begs to be marked up
It’s odd — maybe not that odd — that a book about cruel, base and disgusting acts would emerge as one of my favorites of all time.
The author, Kathleen Taylor (funny that two of my favorite authors are named Kathleen) is a neuroscientist at Oxford. She brings together the latest in the fledgling field of neuroscience with evolutionary theory, social and cultural anthropology and biologic processes to bring cruelty to life — what it is and why we have it — and helps readers arrive at a better understanding of what it means to be human. She has a vivid, technically precise and funny writing style that kept me hooked and kept me scribbling frantically in the margins as new ideas skittered away.
Cruelty, she argues, is linked to the uniquely human desire to predict and control the natural world. That can be as basic as avoiding dangerous predators or as refined as protecting belief systems important to our culture. And, she says, “…our hunger for control does not demand that our predictions are actively confirmed, just that they remain unchallenged.”
Challenged, we are “…vulnerable to symbolic threats which cause us no physical harm.” But because of the way our brains are wired, “…conflict feels stressful, like pain, and most people prefer to avoid it.”
According to Taylor, we act against symbolic threats the same way our bodies act against dangerous diseases – “learn the warning signs, avoid the source, quarantine the infected and expel the contaminant.” It’s the same approach, and the same language (a blight upon our culture, threats to our way of living), that have been used to tragic result for those considered dangerous for centuries.
It’s all tied to our biologic responses because, she argues, the symbolic brain is an extension of the physical brain. The same systems we use to deal with ingesting putrid food are high jacked by the brain when we encounter a putrid belief system that is, challenging to our symbolic health. It’s the only system we have in place to deal with a threat that makes us feel sick.
Check out the full review here on Goodreads and if you are in the market for a nonfiction tour through the seediest parts of the human brain, check out her book.
Note: this first appeared on our webpage http://www.cowboyandvampire.com
Cowboys are easy. I grew up on a ranch in Montana and still remember what it’s like to ride and rope and brand. Plus, Kathleen and I live in the Pacific Northwest which means we are never more than a half day’s drive from cowboy country (central and south-eastern Oregon) where actual cowboys and cowgirls can be found in run-down bars listening to honky-tonk music and drinking beer and after an actual long day of working on a ranch.
Vampires, however, are a bit tougher to profile. I can’t just hop on the bus and get off at Dracula’s castle. That’s why I do research by proxy. The vampires in our books are evolutionarily superior beings, stronger than humans and practically immortal, who just happen to need human blood to survive. That makes them a super predator. To introduce an element of reality, we read all the stories and legends we could get our hands on, and I read a lot of nonfiction books about species that hunt — wolves and grizzlies and, one of my favorites, Siberian tigers (The Tiger: A True Story of Vengeance and Survival).
But to really pull my share and write convincingly about vampires, I wanted to get inside the heads of beings that completely lack empathy and operate without the “normal” kinds of moral calculations that hold humans back, erhmm, keep society functioning. That brought me to books about sociopathy and psychopathy and, ultimately, to Cruelty: Human Evil and the Human Brain by Kathleen Taylor.
Despite the dark topic, this is now one of my favorite books of all time. I learned much more than just what might motivate a vampire, I learned what it is that makes us human, and how it works in our brains and in society. Here’s an excerpt of my review:
A margin-wrecker: the best kind of book is one that begs to be marked up
It’s odd — maybe not that odd — that a book about cruel, base and disgusting acts would emerge as one of my favorites of all time.
The author, Kathleen Taylor (funny that two of my favorite authors are named Kathleen) is a neuroscientist at Oxford. She brings together the latest in the fledgling field of neuroscience with evolutionary theory, social and cultural anthropology and biologic processes to bring cruelty to life — what it is and why we have it — and helps readers arrive at a better understanding of what it means to be human. She has a vivid, technically precise and funny writing style that kept me hooked and kept me scribbling frantically in the margins as new ideas skittered away.
Cruelty, she argues, is linked to the uniquely human desire to predict and control the natural world. That can be as basic as avoiding dangerous predators or as refined as protecting belief systems important to our culture. And, she says, “…our hunger for control does not demand that our predictions are actively confirmed, just that they remain unchallenged.”
Challenged, we are “…vulnerable to symbolic threats which cause us no physical harm.” But because of the way our brains are wired, “…conflict feels stressful, like pain, and most people prefer to avoid it.”
According to Taylor, we act against symbolic threats the same way our bodies act against dangerous diseases – “learn the warning signs, avoid the source, quarantine the infected and expel the contaminant.” It’s the same approach, and the same language (a blight upon our culture, threats to our way of living), that have been used to tragic result for those considered dangerous for centuries.
It’s all tied to our biologic responses because, she argues, the symbolic brain is an extension of the physical brain. The same systems we use to deal with ingesting putrid food are high jacked by the brain when we encounter a putrid belief system that is, challenging to our symbolic health. It’s the only system we have in place to deal with a threat that makes us feel sick.
Check out the full review here on Goodreads and if you are in the market for a nonfiction tour through the seediest parts of the human brain, check out her book.
Note: this first appeared on our webpage http://www.cowboyandvampire.com
