Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 19

Top Picks : GodBomb! by Kit Power

There are times when I read a description of the concept for a book and I find myself thinking, how could that possibly be stretched out enough to fill an entire novel? It doesn’t happen often but I wonder how many great books I have put back on the shelf (metaphorically anyway) because of this pre-conceived rush to judgment. Because there are plenty of authors out there who can take a concept and work it to the point where not only does it succeed as a full length novel, you actually find yourself wishing there was more.

GodBomb! was my first serious read of Kit Power’s work. I had seen some shorter pieces of his but nothing of this size and scope. The concept seemed interesting enough to me but as I hinted at, I was curious to see how it was going to work over the length of an entire book.

Without giving away too much of the plot, which I think is one of the best parts of the experience, the idea of GodBomb! is that a man comes into a church during services and threatens to blow up the building unless he can have a personal conversation with God. Unless the priest can make that happen, he is going to detonate his bomb and kill everyone present.

Putting myself into the shoes of someone sitting in those pews and trying to imagine a scenario like this actually unfolding is terrifying and I think would shake every single person’s faith down to the very core. It’s easy to say that you believe in God but to put yourself into that position where your life literally hangs on the balance of that question is unthinkable. Would your faith hold true if you knew that the only way you were going to walk out of a church alive is if that God were to physically appear before you?

To start out, I think that many would read this description and immediately judge what they think is going to be in the book. But I want to make sure it is clear that this is not a heavy-handed or one handed rant for or against religion. Obviously this is a subject matter that has the potential to spark anger in many, but Power handles it in a way that is respectful and fair. What I find most compelling about the book is that every person in the church seemed to become a sympathetic character. Even the bomber is treated, not like a raving movie villain stereotype, but as a three dimensional person with real emotions and real motivations. At times, I felt like there was a genuine dialogue going on between not just the characters but between the characters and the reader as well.

As a part of weaving the narrative of this story, Power moves from one perspective to another, telling the story through as many different eyes as possible. And I think this is a perfect example of how much stock writers should put in the “rules of writing”. Because, if this idea were proposed to your average writers group on Facebook, chances would be pretty good that the author in question would be flooded with bad advice, encouraging him or her to ditch it as a story telling device. They would go on about how the story would be too confusing, that the reader would have too much difficulty keeping track of the story and the characters.

They would be wrong.

Whenever I see people making arguments like that, I always want to say that they are thinking too little of readers, not giving them credit for what they are capable of. And the irony is that these are often the same people who go on about how books need to be more complex and interesting. Power layers the story masterfully and there was never a point really where I felt confused or unsure where it was going. In fact, moving from one person to the next provided a unique perspective on the events of the story which served to help further propel the narrative. Indeed, the use of this as a story-telling device leads to a number of emotionally touching moments for several characters.

One of my favorite books on the craft has been Stephen King’s On Writing. And one of the biggest points I took from that book is that it is important to remember that every character in your book thinks of themselves as the hero of their own story. Nobody sees themselves as the villain. Nobody refers to themselves as the hooker with the heart of gold or the sassy grandmother who just says whatever pops into her head. They are all characters who see themselves as the center of their particular universe. As such, they need to come across as separate, unique people, not just characters who exist in reference to the protagonist. You can’t just be the “bad guy who is trying to kill the hero” or the “sidekick who becomes a romantic interest”. They are all people and they all have their own stories. And while it would be easy and probably understandable to describe the bomber in this book as a frothing at the mouth lunatic, Power actually manages to add some elements of humanism to him.

My advice to you is that if you choose to read this, make sure you have a healthy chunk of time at your disposal because trust me, this is a book you will want to read in as few sittings as possible. It really is that engaging and the story is that compelling. Don’t let the subject matter scare you off. I would not categorize this as an inappropriate or exploitative book, any more so than if it had been about a guy who takes a bomb into a restaurant, demanding to speak to the chef.

This is a book of ideas, and we should never be afraid of ideas, regardless of what genre they are wrapped in.

This was one of my favorite books of 2015 and I’m very glad that I took the plunge and tried it out. Click your way on over to Amazon and check it out. You won’t be disappointed.

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Purchase your own copy of GodBomb! over at Amazon

Baked Scribe Flashback : Glory Lost

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Frank set his glasses down on the table and tried to marshal all the powers of his patience and maturity. “Joe, what is your problem, you have been acting pissy all afternoon.”

“What difference could it possibly make?” Joe responded without actually looking at him, a habit that had driven Frank insane, since as far back as when they were in high school.

“Was it the letter?”

Joe turned away but didn’t answer, pacing back and forth as he swept the floor around the rug for the tenth time.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset, it’s clearly meant for the both of us.”

“How do you know that?” Joe finally spun around to ask. “The letter was addressed to you. All I am is ‘and brother.’ We’d like to thank you and ‘your brother’ for services performed for the—”

“What do you honestly expect? I can’t believe we got this much. It’s been twenty years since we worked a case, I don’t even know anyone in the mayor’s office who remembers us.”

“Clearly someone remembers you.”

“For crying out loud, stop being such a drama—”

“Of course you don’t understand! You’re Frank, you’re everyone’s favorite.”

“Joe—”

“You’re the smart one and I’m just the handsome one. You’re the one who does all the hard thinking and I’m the one who just runs in and punches people. I am so fucking tired of everyone on the planet thinking that you’re the great, wonderful golden boy and I’m just the meat-head.”

“Nobody thinks that.”

“Really? I can think of at least one person off the top of my head who thinks that.”

“Are you…are you talking about Nancy? Would you let it go? It’s over and done with. She fucked you, and then she fucked me and moved on. Get over it.”

“Well maybe it’s easier for you.”

“Or maybe you’re just making it too difficult.”

“Sure, it’s all my fault. It couldn’t possibly be anything you did to cause this.”

“Well seriously, what do you expect me to do? I can’t change anything.”

“How do you know? It isn’t like you’ve ever really tried.”

“You’ve never said anything about it.”

“I shouldn’t have to! I shouldn’t have to beg for people to pay attention, and maybe show a little bit of fucking gratitude for the things that I do instead of being seen as a perpetual man-child. That is, assuming I know what the word ‘perpetual’ means.”

“Right, and the Academy Award for biggest baby goes to—”

“You know, it’s easy for you to make fun of me, you aren’t the one who’s been a plus-one for your entire life.”

“Joe, what’s the point of all of this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like you’re building up to some dramatic declaration that you want me to hear.”

“Oh. Well I suppose now is as good a time as any. I’ve decided that I’m going to start working cases again.”

“Working cases?”

“Working cases. Solving mysteries. Catching bad guys. Like the good old days. It’s the only time in my life that I’ve ever felt alive and I can’t think of any better thing to do now.”

“Joe, I can’t just drop everything I’m doing just so I can—”

“Of course that’s how you respond. I didn’t say anything about asking you to help. I’m going to start working cases again. Me. Without you.”

“But…I don’t understand, we’ve always been a team. And you’ve never said anything to make me think you were upset about our arrangement before. I always though we played well off of each others strengths.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you did think that. But I think maybe you were holding me back.”

“Come on, Joe, that’s absurd. And think about it. You’re…’

“…I’m what?”

“Joe, you’re fifty years old! You aren’t exactly in the greatest shape right now, are you sure you’re even up to—”

“Oh, here we go. Right, because I couldn’t get the big fancy job like you, Mr. bank assistant manager? Is it that hard to imagine that a poor, dumb little car mechanic like me could possibly have something positive to contribute to the world?”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that the cases we worked got a little physical at times, a little dangerous. I want to make sure you don’t get hurt. The kids really look up to you, it would break their hearts if something happened.”

“Is that it? Because I was kind of liking the idea that you would be upset if something happened to your brother but if the issue is more of your kids losing their favorite mascot…”

“That’s not it.”

“I think it is. And I think that your giant ego just couldn’t handle the sight of little old me, solving cases without you. And that’s not my fault. You’re the one who decided to get married and go off and have a life. I should have gone solo a long time before this.”

“Look, will you please just reconsider? Talk to some people about this, talk to the police. I mean, after all the world is a lot different than it was when we were teenagers.”

“Yeah well we were teenagers for like fifty years, and we never seemed to have any problems with it.”

“Joe…”

“Just forget it, okay? Just put it out of your damn mind. I’m so tired of having to beg and plead for everything in my life from perfect Frank. You think you’re so great that I can’t do anything without you?”

“No, of course not, calm—”

“Do not tell me to calm down you arrogant asshole, I am tired of you always telling me what to—”

“Joe please, this is not going in a good direction.”

“Right, because you have to dictate that also, don’t you? Everything according to your stupid little plans.”

“Wait, what the hell are you doing?”

“Didn’t see this as part of the plan, did you? Think your way around this one, professor.”

“Joe, for the love of God, put the knife—”

“Put the knife where, Frank? Where do you think I should put the knife Frank? What should I do with the knife Frank?”

“Please. We can’t end up like this. Not like this.”

“What are you saying Frank? END UP LIKE WHAT, FRANK?”

“No! Stop, don’t—”

Frank pushed away from the table, but was to late to avoid his brother as he sprang across the table, light flashing on steel as he swooped in.

Joe stood over him for a minute before letting the knife slip from his fingers. He bent down over Frank’s prone figure and opened his mouth to scream.

“YOU DON”T GET TO CONTROL ME ANYMORE!”

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Reveal

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It began at home with the pain. Hot, searing pain as if there was someone inside my head, jabbing out at the back of my eyes. It was enough to drop me to one knee on the spot, a headache suddenly worse than I would’ve ever thought possible. I don’t know how long I was lying there, but they had to call me from work, asking me why I hadn’t shown up yet.

My hands were covered in blood. I didn’t even know where it came from. My nose was bleeding a little, but not enough to explain the amount of blood I saw around me. There were also scratches, up and down my arms, no idea how they happened. Maybe when I fell.

I went to the doctor the first time this happened, the first time I “left myself”. I was so scared. He couldn’t find anything wrong, other than maybe my blood pressure issues had caused me to pass out. I think he was full of shit, but the moment came when he left to find a nurse to do a blood draw and I looked at myself in the mirror.

The person looking back wasn’t me.

It was like some kind of malevolent entity was wearing my body like clothing. The eyes that were supposedly mine glared out at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much hate. It was like I was laughing at the sight of myself.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up in the middle of the hospital. The nurse had found me, curled up on the floor of a janitor’s closet, raving about something in the room.

“James, do you know why you’re here today?”

Right. I’m in the shrink’s office now. I looked up at him, the officious prick in a nice suit, with the clipboard and then down to my hands on the table, still shackled to each other.

“I…” The prick had thrown me right out of the story I was trying to tell. How was I supposed to say anything that made any sense when he kept interrupting me?

“You were talking about being at the doctors office…” The idiot seemed to think that he needed to prompt me.

“I god-damned know what I was talking about, why don’t you just shut up for a minute.”

“James do you know why the court sent you here?”” He asked.

“How the hell should I know that?” The guy just gets me so sidetracked. Fucking prick.

“Do you remember how you got the blood on your hands James? The blood you saw the doctors office, because it wasn’t your blood, was it?”

“You should go fuck yourself.”

“James—”

“No, right up the old Bombay doors, right up there. Fuck you and the judge anyway.”

That put the prick back on his heels least. The guy leered, back in his chair, looking like he was trying to remember what his training had told him to do in this situation.

“James, I understand why you have this hostility.”

“You don’t understand shit.”

“James I think it would be easier if—”

“Stop saying my name!”

The guy blinked at me, shaking his idiotically sculpted forehead as he did so.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“My name! It isn’t going to get me to relate to you or calm down any faster. Just knock off the bullshit!?”

“Okay James, no bullshit. Can you tell me what you remember about that day? Do you know what you did?”

“Do you know what I did?”

Dr. Doctor didn’t even answer, and instead settled for clicking his pen and glancing at the clock, as of this whole charade was somehow more irritating to him, than it was to me.

The thing is, I can’t really remember for sure why I ended up here on this couch. It happens sometimes, blackouts and my memories get lost inside of blood red storm clouds. I can’t even piece together sequences of events in my head. I wake up. I eat. I sleep. I work. All of those things, but not necessarily in that order. When I try to hard to remember, all I get is the pain.

It’s like there’s some foreign army of that’s invaded my consciousness, trying to consume me from the inside out. Sometimes I think that this body is just a shell, worn by something made up of total darkness.

“Jerry?”

I close my eyes and leaned back, trying to get the annoying sound of his voice out of my head. Maybe I could just wait out the session, killing him with silence until my time just runs out.

“Jerry?”

I’m feeling it again. The pain, pressing out into my eyes, and even as I start to reach up to massage my forehead, I know where this is going. I see the doctor’s office, my hand streaked with blood. I felt the other presence, the one down deep in the dark that I can never quite succeed in eliminating.

And then I have the blackouts, my little mental vacations that, I think, give me the ability to do all these fun little nasty things that I want to do without realizing it.

Take this prick, the sheep in sheep’s clothing, this doctor of a man who thinks he’s going to find out what’s wrong with me. I’m going to bet he has no idea what’s barreling down the tracks at him. This is my chance, the only one that I’m likely going to get. There are cops out there in the hallway, but no one is keeping me from going out that window. No one but this doctor.

I’m starting to feel that pressure, pushing against the inside to my eyeballs. My eyelids are starting to drip a little. Time to take another one of those mental vacations. There’s a collection of vintage surgical tools in the display case back there. I can see them over this idiot’s shoulder.

I wonder how sharp they are.

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Issue #156 : To The Depths

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Levon sat cross-legged along the side of the river and looked out into the swirling fog. He could hear the sound of traffic from the bridge to his left but other than the vague outline of the structure itself, he could see nothing. Even the water of the river seemed to flow off into a vortexual gateway that led off into oblivion. He looked up at what sounded like wings flapping and birds calling out into the far distance. Turning back to his book, he shivered slightly at the sudden rush of cool air and pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

In the mass of fog, he heard water splashing, as a large fish jumped up into the air and splashed back down. He frowned as he looked up from the book. In all the time he had come down here, he couldn’t remember any time when he had seen or heard fish in the river acting like that. Certainly he knew that some fish that would rush to the surface and nearly take flight from jumping so high, but he never associated wildlife that exotic with this river.

Still, that was about as noteworthy as it was worth, so he returned to the book, giving the fish no more thought.

The next series of sounds came to him so rapidly that he wasn’t even sure which occurred first. He heard a wet sloshing sound and an impact onto hard ground. The closest thing he could identify the sound with was that of someone climbing out of a swimming pool, water streaming down off of the person as they stepped down onto the ground. He heard heavy breathing, followed by a growl like some kind of animal and then rapid footfalls. They were soft at first but quickly grew louder, as if someone was charging at him.

Levon turned a moment too late as a figure leaped forward and grabbed him in a bear hug, pulling him down onto the ground and across the cold, hard mud. He yelled out something incoherent, even to himself as he twisted around, trying to get free or at least turn around enough to see who was attacking him. Part of him clung to the hope that this could be one of his older brothers, playing an overly elaborate prank on him. The feel of the person’s skin was slick and clammy, like a lizard, still wet and slippery from the water and before too long, he was able to wriggle free. He tumbled to the ground and scrambled away, trying to catch his breath as he stood to turn and face his attacker. What little breath he had came rushing back out in the form of a scream, sounding to him like it had come from over a mile away.

The thing standing in front of him wasn’t even a person, not by any definition he had heard of.

It was at least two feet taller than him, so thin that it looked at first like you could knock it over with a touch. When he saw the firm texture of tightly wound muscular structure under the surface of the skin, he knew how wrong that impression had been. All he could look at was the massively over-sized head atop the body, the mouth gaping open to reveal multiple rows of teeth, gleaming in the morning light with what looked like blood.

Levon took another step back and felt his foot catch on something. As he waved his arms to keep his balance, the thing shrieked, so loud that he clapped hands over his ears as it rushed at him. He felt the impact, as if he had just been tackled by the entire defensive line for the school’s football squad and he was on the ground. Hands gripped his arms and held them to his side and in the back of his mind, he noted that there were three hands holding him down, not two. There was a hallow clicking sound all around him as the thing lunged, snapped at him, missed and lunged again. He twisted from side to side, pulling as far away from those questing teeth as he could manage.

Somehow, he managed to get the two of them rolling down the hill towards the water, and as the thing’s weight came down more fully on top of him, he felt a bulky object in his back pocket. The Christmas present from his roommate last year that he almost always forgot to bring with him when he left the house.

Today had been a rare exception.

The object he felt in his pocket was his pocket knife.

Levon jerked his arm back and was able to pull his arm free enough to snake his hand into his pocket. Before he could pull it free they rolled again, enough that his arm was now pinned underneath his body. He could feel the outline of the knife in his fingers and frantically pulled, trying to get it loose. The thing leaned in closer, it’s weight pinning him down into the mud underneath him. He felt the slick moisture and could smell the wet, fishy smell of the river, as if after a fresh rain. The teeth were closer and he seemed to have less leverage to be able to move out of the way.

The engine of his strength, driven by panic, gave him a surge of adrenaline and he pulled his arm free. As the thing scrambled at his arm and lunged for his hand, he flipped open the knife and plunged it into the thing’s midsection, praying that there would actually be something vital underneath there.

He flinched as the thing lurched back, screaming so loud that he was surprised that there was no screeching sound of cars stopping on the bridge. Someone must have heard it. Levon opened eyes and saw the thing, staggering back towards the water as if drunk. It weaved from side to side and never made it the full distance, dropping first to its knees and then to the ground.

There was no more sign of movement.

Levon took in a shuddering breath and stooped down to pick up the knife that had been pulled free. He looked around, seeing the serenity of the fog again settle around him as he began to wonder if he had just dozed off and dreamed the entire thing. Still, the thing lay there on the bank of the river and the blade of his knife was stained brightly with its blood.

His head snapped up at the sound of the thing screaming, but so much louder than it had been before. He realized, with a sinking in his stomach that it was coming from all around, amplified because there was more than one this time, a cacophony of voices where before there had just been one. He heard all of them, the crashing sound of multiple legs and arms, bursting up out of the water and dropping down onto shore. He heard them, growling and shrieking at him as they rushed up out of the water to claim their fallen comrade, to make amends for the life that he had taken.

Levon stood there limply, the worthless knife slipping from his fingers as he looked up in the sky. He lost himself in the fog, mixed with darkness that rushed in at him, along with the snapping jaws and teeth that sought only him.

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Behind Our Walls

Tracing The Trails Of The King : Christine

“Leigh left college to be married, and then it was goodbye Drew and hello Taos. I went to her wedding with hardly a qualm. Nice fellow. Drove a Honda Civic. No problems there.”

― Stephen King, Christine

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I have read that Stephen King doesn’t care much for Christine and I’m not really sure why. It’s certainly true that the perspective on a work from that of the writer is always and essentially different from that of the reader, looking in from the other side. There is a great analogy about how what you see in a book is a lot like looking at an iceberg. What you see is actually only what appears above the surface of the water. If you go below, you really see how massive and huge the iceberg is. This is not unlike the writing process as there is so much more material and context, work and sweat that only the author gets to experience, leading up to the final product of the book.

I suppose Christine could be an example of how a story has the ability to get away from you. The book is broken up into three acts. The first and third act are told in first person, from the perspective of Dennis, one of two main characters of the story. Dennis is the one who gets to watch, as his best friend slowly deteriorates into madness at the will of this evil car. The second act is told from Arnie’s perspective. King has talked about how he disliked having to incorporate this shift in point of view and that it became necessary when he wrote the conclusion of the first act with Dennis breaking his leg in a football accident. As the story wasn’t going to progress very much if it was limited to the perspective of a hospital bed, he moved the point of view of the story over to Arnie for the second act.

While I guess I understand where King is coming from and while I know that perspective shifts are often frowned upon, I actually think it benefits the story in this case. I think that Christine is a great metaphor for addiction, ironic in itself considering the point in King’s life in which it was written. Arnie is sucked down into a world in which he loses control, where his lust for this car slowly destroys him. In any kind of a story like this, I think that the impact is heightened if we get to have the perspective from within as well as without. I think that Arnie becomes more of a tragic character than he might have been, if the entire book had been told purely from Dennis’ perspective.

I’m a huge fan of the notion of cursed objects. Mostly because there is no mercy to be had, nothing to negotiate. And one thing I really like about Christine is the ambiguity in terms of whether or not the car is inhabited by a malevolent spirit or if we are actually seeing the ghost of the previous owner, taking his revenge out through the car itself. King leaves it up to us to decide and I think that’s the better way to go about it. Is it possible that the car could both be cursed by some kind of evil entity and be haunted by the spirit of a former victim? The car has certainly borne witness to a ton of death. Anything is possible.

One thing I also liked about the book is how you have multiple love triangles going on at the same time. As would be expected from the nature of the book, you have the relationship between Arnie and Dennis and how their friendship is damaged by Arnie’s increasing devotion to the car that Dennis pretty much hates from the start. But separate from that, there is also the relationship between the two friends and Leigh, the attractive student who transfers to school. Against all odds, Leigh ends up dating Arnie but as that relationship develops, Dennis comes to figure out that he has feelings for her as well. That then leads to the final triangle, namely that of Arnie, Leigh and Christine. As Leigh feels progressively repulsed and threatened by the car, and finds herself attracted to Dennis as well, she starts to disengage from Arnie. As he sees the betrayal from his best friend, he begins to struggle somewhat, choosing between the pull of his dream car and his own ego-driven feelings of jealousy over his ownership of the “dream girl”.

All of this smacks of a Telenovella and in the hands of many other authors would have likely ended up cheesy and easily dismissed. Somehow, King pulls it off. He creates the characters, layers the narrative and finds the emotions in a way to bring it all down to a very human and entertaining level. It’s interesting to me how Leigh is used in the story. By all rights, Arnie should not be the type of guy who ends up with her. The fact that he basically turns his back on that chance accentuates how much he seems to be changing, and taken in by the power of his car.

There seems to be a penchant for supernaturally powered cars in the King family. His short story “Trucks”, from Night Shift features vehicles all over the country which become sentient and start killing people. This story would be the basis for the movie, Maximum Overdrive. Again, in the collection Skeleton Crew, a story titled “Uncle Otto’s Truck” features a haunted pickup truck. His novella, Mile 81 sports a pretty frightening demonic (possibly alien?) car. In his son, Joe Hill’s book NOS4A2, the villain of the story, Charlie Manx drives around in a supernaturally charged 1938 Rolls-Royce Wraith. And while it would be easy to dismiss all of this with an eye roll and a muttered comment of, oh great, another evil car, all of these stories manage to stand on their own and bring something fresh to the concept.

In all, while I wouldn’t put Christine on my list of all time favorite King books, it’s definitely a fun and entertaining read. He doesn’t spend too much time explaining or bogging down the narrative with a bunch of over-bearing exposition. There’s just enough and just the right amount of creepy atmosphere to make this book great. I know there are some who don’t connect with this book as much as others but I think that it is a great representation of this era of King’s writing. Well crafted and nicely executed. Scary and compelling.

Stephen King, doing what he does best.

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My name is Chad Clark, and I am proud to be a Constant Reader.

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Living To The End

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I don’t know what it is that gives me the urge to run. I don’t know if it’s the sound of the meat cooking and wondering when the day will come that I’ll be next. Don’t know if it’s the storms, now so constant that you can almost feel the electricity in the air.

I don’t know why I feel the urge to run, mostly because there isn’t really anywhere else for me to go. It’s not like anyone would take me in, not the wondering packs of soldiers or any of the scattered villages who are scared of them.We’re out here on our own and it’s our responsibility to make things work out.

The camp was attacked again, late last night. Funny how the military seems to know if one of us dares to spend the night under a roof, or a bed, but couldn’t care less if we try and kill each other out here in the waste.

I can look up from my perch in this tree and see the city off in the horizon. I love watching the lights, imagining it to be more welcoming than it really is. It’s fun to imagine what life could be like, protected within those walls, but in the end, we have to live out, with what’s been given to us.

The supply of meat has gone up over the past few days and I try not to dwell on the fact that this comes at the same time that we have had several deaths in the camps. Bodies just seem to disappear, tokens given up for the survival of those that are still here.

The children have started to ask what things were like, before the wars, and I don’t even know where to start. I suppose there was a time when people didn’t have to live in fear, had the resources they needed to survive and support each other. Now, the world is a graveyard with no memory. I don’t even remember which countries the various armies once paid allegiance to, or who was waging war on whom. The world itself, at some point became one engorged battlefield, landscapes doused with the blood of the fallen.

This is what life has become for us, those not fortunate enough to of been born within the setting of those protective walls. We can either go forward or back, merely exist until the moment of our inevitable death.

They’re signaling us again, someone spotted a scouting party headed our way. Another call to arms. Maybe I’ll ignore them and get myself killed for betrayal of my unit. Or, perhaps I can get cut down by whoever is on their way, and all this can end. Anything has to be better than this. Even if, when crossing the bridge from our mortality of life into death, we find nothing on the other side but darkness, it still seems preferable.

It may be my only escape.

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Essentially Yours

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“He hasn’t been well for over a week,” Sarah said as she poured the hot water over the loose tea leaves.

“Sorry to hear.” Brianna replied.

“It isn’t serious, but it’s sure taken him off his feet. And he looks about the color of skim milk.”

“And your sure it’s not serious? Have you guys been to a doctor?”

“It’s nothing. Just one of those bugs going around. Dickie has always been sickly.”

The comment hung in the air like a foul odor as Brianna watched the tea leaves steep in the near boiling water. What was there to say really?

“So, is this going to interfere with your trip?” She finally figured out something to say. Sarah laughed at the suggestion.

“Are you kidding? The sun and the mountains are what he needs the most. He actually wanted to limp down here last night to help me load up the van.”

“Well, I suppose it’ll be good just to get away from things for a while,” Brianna said.

“I agree.”

Brianna felt her gut twist at the overly chirpy tone from her coworker. She had been reluctant to come here, but Sarah had been relentless, and there wasn’t exactly an unending supply of plausible excuses. She couldn’t even claim that she wasn’t feeling well, as the last time, Sarah had sent her private physician over to check on her. This visit was already going exactly as awkwardly as she had been expecting. Maybe even worse.

“So…” She looked around the room, desperate for inspiration, something to talk about, calculating exactly how long it might take before it stopped being rude to just leave. She took a closer look at the pictures and for just a moment, her attention was piqued.

“Where were all these pictures taken?” She asked.

“Oh, all over. We travel so much, and these are from just some of the trips. Isn’t it just the best?”

“But your husband. I don’t see them in any of the photos. Wasn’t he with you?”

“Oh, Dickie does better behind the camera then in front of it.” As she said this, Sarah let out a honking bray of laughter, so absurd sounding that the Brianna was barely able to cut off the giggle that rose to her lips.

“Here, try some of the biscuits,” Sarah said as she slid the tray of hockey puck looking pastries across the table. Brianna forced herself to choose one. She bit down, slowly, so as to conceal the sound like granite splitting in her mouth.

“We thought about buying another time-share this year, but it’s so hard to keep them all straight, don’t you know?” The laugh again and, this time, it was only the mouthful of stale biscuit in her mouth that stopped her laughter from spilling out.

“It’s good that you’re able to take so much time off,” Brianna said. How much more of this would she have to endure? At this point, she would have even welcomed a phone call that someone had been in a car accident. Anything to give her an excuse to leave.

“You meet so many interesting people,” Sarah said, seemingly oblivious to Brianna’s comment. “Sometimes, it’s a wonder that you can even come home after everything you get to experience. You really just don’t understand the world unless you really been out in it.”

Brianna had always found sentiments like that to be a conceit of the well-to-do. It was easy to blather on about the importance of seeing the world when you had the means to drop whatever you were doing, hop onto a jet and enjoy the world from the serenity of your four-star hotel balcony. It wasn’t so much that Sarah was experiencing the world as much as she was likely zip-lining over it. On her last trip, Sarah had brought gifts into the office, trinkets that Brianna was sure had originated in an airport gift shop.

Sarah was blathering on about something, probably the expense of walking tours or swimming with dolphins, but it was getting harder to focus on the words. In fact, she found that what had started as an odd queasiness had suddenly blossomed into the stark imminence of throwing up.

“Are you all right?” Brianna could hear the sounds of concern in Sarah’s voice. She could see the expression on her face to match it, but it looked like it had been painted on, by a poor artist. She just wanted to get out of this house, out into the fresh air. That would make her feel better.

“I just need to go home,” she said, the heel of her hand pressed her to her forehead. “I’m sorry, I just need to—”

“Oh, I understand.” She said the words, but the hurt expression on her face told otherwise. “But at least come upstairs for a minute. Dickie has been wanting to meet you, as much as I talk about you.”

Brianna nodded and allowed Sarah to lead her upstairs. As they reached the top, she felt the outer edges of frigid cold air, like a freezer. She shivered and looked around, wondering how sick she was getting.

“Down here.” Sarah gestured as she walked to the end of the hall, pausing just long enough for Brianna to walk in ahead of her, the pinup smile still firmly planted in its place

Brianna entered the room and the only thing that stopped her from screaming was the blast of cold, dry air that hit her like a physical blow.

The room felt like a meat locker. At the center, stood a simple hospital bed and lying atop it was a corpse, in an advanced state of decay. Brianna started to weave from side to side, vaguely recalling that Sarah had never once touched any of the pastries, or drank any of the tea. The sense of alarm came far too late, as she tried to back away. She felt Sarah’s hand pressing firmly into the center of her back, shoving her forward.

“Can’t you at least say hello?” she asked, the hurt plain in her voice. “He was nice enough to ask to meet you, I think it’s the least you can do.”

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Issue #155 : On The Radio

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Derry had been driving for over an hour when he realized how special his audiobook really was.

“As he merged onto the freeway, he looked ahead and noted the dead tree, the spindly branches spearing up into the sky like the frail appendages of an animal, long since dead.”

Derry laughed as he looked up the road. He was merging onto the freeway and at the end of the ramp there was indeed a massive tree that fit the description fairly well.

Julie had recommended this book, said that he wouldn’t find anything better to go along with the trip. He could see why, it was like having everything around him narrated to him in real time. There were plenty of details that were wrong, the kind of thing where you had to be looking at the right time, but it was still fun.

“The boats were out on the water unseasonably early as he passed over the bridge, glancing at the freight train as it rumbled across the decrepit old bridge.”

That was a little more freaky. He had been passing over the river and that exact thought at the sight of the boats littering the water. So there had also been a train going over the bridge. Had it not been for the boats, he wouldn’t have been looking up in time to see the train anyway. In the back of his mind, even he was telling himself that his explanation made no sense but it was good enough to calm his nerves. What other explanation was there? That the author of the book had been both psychic and telling the future?

This had to be Julie’s handiwork.

She was the master of pranking and this one might just be her crowning achievement. How many times would she have driven this route herself so that she could get the timing just right? It was masterful. He would enjoy the ride and pass along the well-deserved compliment later.

She had gotten lucky with the train.

“The flock of geese dipped low over the power lines and he gazed up into them, reveling in their obvious freedom.”

How could she have done that? There was no way to guess that there would be birds flying over him at just that moment. How had she done it? He frowned, listening to the continued dictation of everything, the colors of the cars around him to the peculiar slant of a barn and the number of clouds in the sky, even what was written on the side of the blimp he spotted on the horizon. As he watched it all, his stomach dropped at a sudden realization.

Julie couldn’t have driven the route to dictate this story to him.

He hadn’t told her where he was going.

“Derry looked up suddenly, too late to see the grill of the oncoming, out of control semi…”

Derry sucked in a sharp breath and flinched as he looked up towards the sound of the air horn and the scream of failing brakes.

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Ramblings On The Craft : The Myth Of Writer’s Block

DISCLAIMER : I consider myself to be a life-long writer but I am still an aspiring author. What’s the difference? Essentially, to me anyway, it means that while I have devoted a great deal of time to my words and my art, the amount of money I have made as a professional writer to date could maybe be used to purchase a nice steak dinner for two. So while I have a deep and devoted passion for writing, I do not claim in any way to be an expert or authority figure. What you will find in these essays represent my personal thoughts and feelings about various issues related to writing. I think that in any endeavor, it is essential to have the mindset that there is always something to learn, something you don’t know. As soon as you start to think that you are an authority on anything (besides how to eat a hot dog or perhaps, spelling your name) there might be a problem. With that in mind, I am fully cognizant and comfortable with the fact that on any and all of these issues, I could be completely wrong.

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Put another way, I recognize and admit that I could be full of shit.

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Okay. Let’s get into this one, shall we?

I suspect that this is going to be somewhat more of an emotional issue for some of you and I’m sure that there are some who will read the title for this piece and reflexively dismiss me as being a judgmental asshole. So I hope you give me a chance and hear the perspective that I am coming from because I really do intend for this to be more motivational than disparaging. I want this to be a rallying cry, a reminder to us all of our own inherent value and self worth.

.So if you go no further in this piece, at least read the next sentence before you go on your way because it lies at the crux of everything that I am trying to say.

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The crime of believing in the existence of writer’s block is in the perpetuation of the self-dismissive notion that your art is somehow gifted to you by some external benefactor.

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That’s it. That’s really at the heart of this issue and where my statement is coming from. You deserve more credit than that. You aren’t just some mindless vessel which these ideas and words are funneled through.

So repeat after me.

I am NOT the doorway.

I am the mother-fucking key.

So in an effort to make somewhat of a distinction, I am not trying to suggest that you are any less of a writer if the words aren’t flowing out of you like so many brilliant flakes of gold. There are going to be plenty of days when it just isn’t working for you. There are going to be mornings or afternoons when the coffee just doesn’t feel like it’s helping and all you want to do is lie down and do anything but write. The reason why you are feeling all of these things is not because of writer’s block.

It’s because writing is hard.

And that probably sounds flippant and there may be some rolling their eyes, screaming out that we’re all talking about the same thing and I’m just drawing arbitrary lines and distinctions. So I will do my best to try and demonstrate where I’m coming from. Writing, or if I could be more specific, being a working writer is not for the faint of heart. It doesn’t work if you don’t have an incredible amount of tenacity and drive and stubbornness. It is a soul-sucking, confidence-killing endeavor that not everyone is emotionally equipped to handle. The difference is in having the ability to sit down and do it, even though it’s the last thing you want to do. Even if you know in your heart that every word you write is like dripping dog shit onto a stale, moldy cracker.

Here are some statements you will likely never hear from people in other lines of work.

“Man, really having trouble with my barista-block today. Can you come back in an hour for that whipped non-fat mocha?”

“Sorry, we won’t get your roof finished today after all. I’m having some carpenter’s block right now.”

“Oh, your lunch? Sorry, I’m having some serious cooking block, it’s going to take me a while.”

My point is that while it’s okay to feel the drag and the emotional weight of your endeavor, it isn’t okay to let that bring you to a complete halt creatively. I truly believe that we are blessed as writers to have the ability to do what we do. Not everyone can, it’s a rare talent. Anyone can start a book but to have the drive to take that project all the way to its conclusion is a gift which we must respect and nurture. If you want to just say “I’m having writer’s block today” as a way of expressing that the writing is harder than it was yesterday, I think that’s fine. It’s okay to feel like you are losing momentum or to be unsure of what you need to be writing next. Hell, I had it myself with this article. But if you’re calling out “writer’s block” as if it was a shield, or as an excuse to not write, I’m not so okay with that. Being completely honest, I feel like it is taking something that is emotional and imaginary and using it as an excuse to stop trying. I think it is defeatist and ultimately, we should be better than that. You prove yourself in those moments. Is the writing harder than usual today? The words just don’t seem to want to come out? As far as I’m concerned, that’s the most important time to make sure you are sitting down and doing it.

I have hinted at this issue in previous essays, but I believe that a big part of being a working writer is having the ability to see this as work. It’s just something you have to do. It’s totally fine to be passionate about your work, in fact I think it’s better that way. But I also believe that there are some who are just too precious about their process. If we focus too much on the external things, we run the risk of making them required for our mental well-being. Don’t get too caught up if you can’t surround yourself in your perfect recliner with your perfect pen and the perfect notebook with the perfect music playing while you look out over the perfect view from your perfect window. Having those things can be great and I have music I like to listen to while I work. But sometimes it’s also about writing out a few paragraphs on your phone while you’re sitting on the toilet. If you can mentally accept the fact that writing can, and should happen anywhere, at any time, you can start to chip away at the notion that somehow there is some external emotional event which has the ability to restrain you from your work.

Some writers have the notion that you shouldn’t be trying to force your writing. You should do it at times when it feels right and everything is working for you. What I am trying to say is that the act of writing itself is the most important thing. The more often you can consistently put yourself down at the keyboard and perform that act, you should find that the occurrences of writer’s block become fewer and far between. And remember, I don’t think there is any need to stress yourself out over a word count. No need to commit Seppuku if you can’t make it to two thousand words. The point is to write. If on one day, that happens to only be a few paragraphs, that’s okay. The important thing is to flex that creative muscle and engage your brain in your work.

And of course, if it helps you, take a day off or a week or whatever off from your project and write something else. I know how we can burn out and our brain wants to play with different toys. Write a poem. Edit something. Start an outline for a new project. Just do something. 

There’s a specific mental light switch that I found helpful, which is that you don’t have to put the pressure or the expectation on yourself that every word you write has to be perfect. There are going to be days when everything you write feels like (and probably is) total shit. The advantage of being a writer is that you can come back to that work with your editing pen and make it better. You can fix it. My point is that if you relieve yourself of that expectation of being perfect, the writing doesn’t feel as much like it’s being forced. You just sit down and say to yourself, well, this is what I’ve got today.

Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

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