The Story Behind the Story with Author Joe Powers of New Brunswick, Canada.
Let’s welcome Joe back to theScribbler.
Always a popular guest, we are happyhe accepted our invitation to tell you about his new book. As a bonus, he’ssharing an excerpt.
If you missed his previous post,please go HERE.
Read on my friends.
Joe Powers is a Canadian horror writer, New Brunswick native, and long-time fan of all things scary. He's the author of Terror in High Water, Seventeen Skulls, Old Bones, and Putting Down Roots. His short stories have appeared in various anthologies and collections.
Among his many inspirations he lists Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Michael Crichton, Vincent Price, Peter Benchley and Richard Matheson. He enjoys introducing the reader to flawed, believable characters and leading them on dark journeys with an unexpected twist. He isn’t afraid to mix and match genres, fearlessly weaving horror into noir, western, or sci fi.
Joe enjoys poking around in the dark recesses of nature, off the beaten path, chasing down old legends and new stories. In his spare time, he's an avid hockey fan and dog lover, and still finds time to teach several classes at UNB's College of Extended Learning.
Joe currently lives in Maugerville with his wife and fellow author, Sheryl, and a wide array of creatures. Follow Joe at www.joepowersauthor.com.
Title: Putting Down Roots
Synopsis: Matt and Rachel Bailey have uprooted theirfamily and moved across the country to a quiet college town in New Brunswick.Their new house is a beautiful old Victorian with a sprawling yard on a cornerlot in a nice suburban neighbourhood. Rachel’s got a great job at theuniversity, the kids are making new friends, and everything’s coming together.
There’sjust one problem.
Huddledin the far corner of the lot, just inside the high board fence that surroundsthe yard, stands an old, massive tree. The moss-covered branches hang low tothe ground, like skeletal hands reaching for those who wander too close. Thethick, gnarled roots ripple just below the surface of the ground like probingtentacles. Matt finds it creepy and unsettling and plans to remove it as soonas possible. But it won’t be that easy.
Beforelong, unease turns to terror as the true nature of the tree slowly begins tounravel. This is no mere tree, but an ancient evil presence that has preyed onunsuspecting animals and people for centuries.
Andgetting rid of it won’t be as easy as he thinks.
Withthe safety of his wife, two curious children, and the family dog at risk, Mattdoes everything he can to protect his family from the rooted predator thatlurks mere feet away from their back door. One false move, a step too close, isall it takes for tragedy to strike. And just how close to the house do theroots reach? Is anywhere safe?
Aftera close call that he narrowly escapes, and with the number of victims on therise, Matt must devise a plan to destroy the menacing evil before it destroyseverything he loves.
TheStory Behind the Story:
One day about tenyears ago I sat down and wrote a short story that I called Putting Down Roots.It was a quick little thing, born from a “what if?” idea I had about a treethat attacks and eats people. For the older crowd who may remember the Peanutscomic strips, the idea was a kind of spin on the kite-eating tree that used totorment Charlie Brown, only this one eats people instead of kites. It was a funlittle thing, but I was never quite happy with it. As time went by, I realizedthat was because it simply wasn’t finished – there was a lot more story totell. So I dusted it off and went to work. Gradually, characters came to life,the tension and suspense crept higher as the story took shape. It was closer towhat it was supposed to be, but still, I wasn’t satisfied. Stumped anddiscouraged, I put it aside once more.
More time wentby, other projects came and went, and all the while that insidious tree hauntedme, demanding I tell its story properly. So last fall, all these years later, Iwas ready to finish what I started. I relocated the story to the fictional townof Beaverbrook, which might sound familiar to those who have read my secondnovel, Seventeen Skulls. Unfortunately, my writing style and skill had changeda great deal in the time since the first draft’s inception, so I had toeffectively rewrite the entire thing from scratch. It was a long process, butit allowed me to get reacquainted with the story all over again and reminded meof what made me want to tell it in the first place. I have never in my lifetaken so long to finish writing something, but I’m pleased with the way itturned out, and very glad I stuck with it to the end.
Website: Please go HERE.
You can buy your copy HERE:
Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?
Joe: I write portions of each book at various places. The concept notes can come together wherever I happen to be. My notes are a blur of frantic handwriting, nearly indecipherable until I transcribe them. Sometimes, when I’m at large and trying to work through something I’ll write in an email draft that I can later cut and paste into my document. Once I get settled and ready to begin writing in earnest, I split my time between writing on my laptop and writing freehand scenes or fragments that will be added later on. I frequently have an array of web pages open to whatever I’m researching at a given time, and notes scattered all around me. Sheryl is fond of telling me my approach to writing is odd and unorthodox, and I don’t necessarily disagree. My style is my style, it might not work for everyone but it seems to work for me.
I like to get comfy in my usual spot on the couch, dogs sprawled all around me, laptop at the ready, one of a few specific musical selections in the background, and a Rockstar energy drink close at hand. In terms of music, it varies depending on the tone of what I’m working on. I choose something familiar from a small selection of regular titles so it isn’t a distraction.
An Excerpt from Putting Down Roots
The afternoon sun had drifted across the sky, casting long,eerie shadows over the yard. He stared intently at the carnivorous tree from asclose as he dared to go. It simultaneously frightened and infuriated him, andtrying to come to terms with how to deal with it perplexed him. The worst thingwas that for the most part, it seemed deceptively serene, albeit frightening,and certainly appeared no more like a killer than any tree could be capable of.And the fact of the matter was he had yet to actually see it do anything otherthan stand there and look formidable, if somewhat dilapidated. Still, there wasno mistake about what had been going on since his family had moved into thehouse, and apparently, for much longer. He wondered how many pets had gone missingin the area. Or kids. The thought made him shiver.
The tree had to go. That much had become obvious. The trick,then, was to figure out the best way to destroy it once and for all. Itoccurred to him that maybe nobody had ever tried to kill it. Maybe, hereasoned, they had preferred to keep it around for its potentially usefulabilities. In the early days, when it had been used as a tool of justice, thatwould almost certainly have been the case. In the years since, it seemed tohave drifted from known entity to local legend, to all-but-forgotten folklore. Yetsurely somebody, at some point, must have tried. Revenge, perhaps, for thedeath of a loved one. For that matter, how it had escaped the destructive swathof developers for so long remained a mystery. Maybe they’ve tried. Itprobably eats landscapers, too. Maybe even city planners. It made his headswim to think of just how much carnage the tree had caused over the years.
He pondered his options while he stared and studied the detailsof the tree and examined the angles for the best possible point of access. Hewas vaguely aware of Crunchy’s muffled bark, a steady, agitated roop-roopfrom within the house, muffled by the glass door. He had no idea what the dogwanted and tried to push it out of his head and ignore it while he plotted. Heconsidered the possibility of an attack from one of the sides with an axe or,even better, a chainsaw. Could he do enough damage before it fought back? Heshivered as he recalled the stealthy attack on Shaw and doubted that wouldwork.
He started toward the shed, then turned back toward the houseonly to stop himself again in mid-stride. He paced out of nervousness andhabit, he realized, with no clue where to go or what he was trying toaccomplish. Is the knothole watching me? Can it see me? A disturbingthought occurred to him. Maybe that’s the eye of the beast that neversleeps, waiting for its next meal to wander too close. He paced severalfeet back and forth in front of the tree, his eyes locked on the hole, watchingfor any sign of recognition or cognizance. He realized how crazy his actionswould appear to anyone who happened to see him and almost turned back, but hejust couldn’t risk it. On the other hand, he reasoned, maybe it would be betterif the authorities were to deal with the tree. At least that way, ifsomeone gets eaten, it won’t be me. He gave a sharp cackle, somewhatsurprised at his ability to find humour despite the circumstances. It occurredto him that he might be losing his mind, that Shaw’s death may have been thelast straw that forced him over the edge.
The ground shifted violently, and the tree suddenly vanishedfrom his line of sight. His world was spinning, and he was falling backward. Helanded hard with a grunt almost before he even knew his feet had gone out fromunder him. So intent was he on solving the conundrum facing him that he hadfailed to notice the earth ripple beneath his feet, or the snaking root thathad broken the surface and latched onto its target. He gave a strangled cry andstruggled mightily to free himself, but unlike with that first encounter HerbShaw had experienced, there would be no narrow escape; the root was wrappedtightly around his foot, and he was held fast in a vice-like grip. He lookedaround frantically for any sign of someone who might help but saw nobody, heardnothing save for the faint creak of the root tightening its grip and the rustleof something much larger slithering just under the surface. With a groaningswoosh, one of the low-hanging branches reached around and ensnared him despitehis desperate resistance. He thrashed and fought like a man possessed but wassurrounded and forced to fend off attacks from all sides at once. He grabbed anearby limb with both hands and strained with all his might, to no avail. Itfelt like steel cables wrapped around his leg, reeling him in.
More branches had twisted themselves around his legs as he wasslowly drawn toward the sinister hole in its trunk with a steady and unyieldingforce. Most of his attention was drawn to the knothole that lay ahead; thoughit was mid-afternoon, not a hint of sunlight penetrated the murky depths of thebranches. The only illumination present was a faint green glow that emanatedfrom within the knothole itself.
I’m going to die, Matt thought bleakly. I am going to be dragged screaminginto that hole, which is far too small to accommodate me. The tree doesn’tcare, it will pull me through anyway. The pain is going to be horrible, andwhatever is left of me is going to get a really good look at what makes thisthing tick.
Thank you for taking the time to visit and read about my new novel.
Thank you Joe, for being our guest. We wish you continued success with your writing.
Thanks to all our visitors and readers.
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