Looking backward . . . and forward

Not one to look at the end of one year and the beginning of another as any sort of landmark or guidepost, but I suppose it’s as good a time as any to count your blessings.

First and foremost, my family and friends (and come to think of it, me!) are all healthy and happy, and for that I am truly grateful. Let’s all be careful in the new year, okay?

Spent this past year getting acquainted with St. Pete, and among the highlights were taking in a dozen or so Rays games at the Trop. Won tickets to see Nelly after one game and he put on a great show. Also had an opportunity to take in the first playoff game against the Rangers, something that never would have happened at Fenway.

Saw The English Beat at newly revamped Janus Landing (an outdoor concert venue that takes up a half-a-block downtown.) First Fridays in downtown St. Pete were always a fun take. The city shuts down one of the main streets and they have live music and activities for the family. Also, you can drink on the street, which will never get old.

Went to The Taste of Pinellas and Ribfest at Vinoy Park, and chili festivals in the Kenwood neighborhood and on the waterfront. Went to the beach more than a few times.

Got just two stories published, “The Intersection” in the Night Terrors anthology and “Milk of the Goddess” in 52 Stitches. Need to work harder on that.

But I did complete and self-publish a novel, “Swash,” and had another novel “Applewood” accepted for publication by a small press. Lots more on that in the new year.

Finally signed up for Twitter and am enjoying the hell out of it. Can FaceBook be far behind?

All in all, it’s been a fun and interesting year, and thanks to all of you who occasionally pop your head in here to see what’s up.

Guess I’ll leave you with the image I’ll take most from 2010, of a man who reminded us what’s really important, and what isn’t.



Happy New Year!

The Pit

Jack Nyhan was ready. Terminally ill, he’d lived a hard life filled with pain, most of his own making. When the brilliant white light appeared, he walked toward it and found himself young and strong again, in a place where dust and the screech of heavy machinery filled the air.

“Nyhan,” he heard a voice say. “Good to see you. Welcome back.”

Turning toward the voice, Nyhan watched a nattily dressed man approach with a clipboard.

“You’re in the pit today,” the man said, pointing to a place below where it appeared millions of shadows worked, breaking rock from the largest mountain Nyhan had ever seen. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Am I in hell?” he asked plaintively. The man smiled as if he heard this every day.

“Jack,” the man said, not unkindly. “There is no heaven. There is no hell. There is only this place and Earth. And your time on Earth is done. Here, let’s get your equipment. Got a lot of work to do.”

The man took Jack by the shoulder, but Jack would have none of it and shook it off.

“Whaddya mean there’s no heaven? No hell? Then what was the point?”

The man’s patience appeared to be waning. The area they were in was getting crowded with new arrivals.

“I don’t have time for this, Jack,” he said. “But I understand it’s confusing. At any rate, for the past . . .” The man looked at his clipboard. “Sixty-seven years, you’ve been on vacation. That’s what Earth is, a vacation from . . . this place. Hope you enjoyed it! Now, come on, let’s grab your gear.”

They stopped in front of a locker with “Nyhan” written on it. The man opened it and Jack caught a glimpse of now half-remembered mining gear: flashlights, tools, pickaxes, and shovels. He turned, but the man with the clipboard was gone. He glanced again into the pit, saw and heard dynamite being used to expose rock, and remembered.

He had been on vacation. Time on Earth was hard to come by. He had waited centuries for his own chance. Then, he remembered the caveat – he wouldn’t remember who he was, or why he was there, and would have to make the best of it. He’d have to find his own fun.

Stifling a sob, he realized then that he’d blown it, the one chance he had for the rest of eternity to relax, to have fun, to find the time to sit in both the sunshine and the cool shade of the evening, to love and be loved. And he’d blown it. For all eternity, he’d blown it.

Ah, what the hell, he thought. Turning toward his locker, he grabbed his gear.

It was time to go back to the pit.

Should the zombies come . . .

Surfing the web the other day, I saw this:



So I looked to my left and saw this:



Yeah, the bucket's gonna come in REAL handy.

Ought to take one or two of them with me anyway.

52 Stitches

When I was fortunate enough to have my first story accepted to Northern Haunts, I began Googling to see what other writers and stories had been accepted. It didn't take me long to learn there was a community of aspiring writers out there just like myself, writing stories and plugging away.

Though it would be months before I'd set up my own blog, and later still before I had the courage to post at one of the other blogs, I noticed there was a great deal of cross-pollination going on among the writers I followed. They posted comments on each other's sites, congratulating them on acceptances and commiserating on rejections.

Links to many of the blogs I lurked can be found on the lower right-hand part of this blog, but there were lots of blogs I kept going back to that aren't, and one of those blogs belonged to a guy named Jamie Eyburg. He'd had a number of acceptances to markets I was trying to crack, and he'd also blog about his struggles as a writer and his love for his wife and two young children.

He'd also had a couple of stories selected for inclusion in a project called 52 Stitches, which I'd learn later is overseen and edited by the (I'd learn over time) how-does-he-find-the-time-to-do-everything-he-does Aaron Polson.

52 Stitches is a weekly dose of the macabre, conveniently available each week on its own website and at the end of the year made available in printed form.

I'm only telling you that to tell you this:

I'm pleased to report I've got a story titled "Milk of the Goddess" available in the newly published anthology 52 Stitches from Strange Publications and available now from Amazon.Com.



I'm even more pleased to note that after many long years, I'm finally sharing a Table of Contents not only with many of the writers I've since come to know, but also with Jamie Eyberg, who along with his wife died in a tragic accident a few short months ago.

All proceeds from the sale of this, what I understand will be the final edition of 52 Stitches, will go toward an alreadly existing fund for Jamie and Ann's two children.

And so, to my friends and family who are pretty much obligated to buy my stuff, buy this. That's an order. And to those visitors who've ever considered checking out some of my own work or that of the other writers I've long spoken of, this is the one you want.

Thanks, Aaron, for letting me be a small part of it.

Obligatory Update and Weather Report

Not much to report. Finishing up a short (1,500 words or so) post-apocalyptic thing that's been rolling around in my skull a few years. Got the idea from one of those "Top Ten Ways the World Could Really End!" lists that come around every now and then. Probably been done before, but then, what hasn't?

Received something called a "galley" (hey, what do I know? I'm self-published for Christ's sake!) for "Applewood," which on first glance looks pretty good. Will spend the weekend going through it.

It's funny, but after having gone through a few rounds of edits with the publisher, when I'm reading "Applewood" now, it's almost as if it was written by someone else. Not that it has changed that much, though a few scenes were excised and other bad habits I'd fallen into were flattened.

Maybe it's just because it was written three or four years ago, but like I said, by now it's as if someone else wrote it. And I'm pleased to say, someone better than me too.

Not sure exactly how it's going to go, but don't be surprised should I ask some of my writer friends for a blurb or two. Be ready!

Been cold here in St. Pete, with nights down in the thirties and daytime highs not getting out of the fifties. It began warming yesterday afternoon, and temperatures will be in the more normal seventy range before another cold front comes through on Sunday.

Finishing up a re-read of Robert R. McCammon's "Mystery Walk" that I picked up in the local used bookstore. I've mentioned before how long I've been a fan of his. In a recent post on his blog, he noted (to much complaint from his fanbase) that he has no intention of allowing most of his earlier works -- e.g "Baal", "Bethany's Sin", "The Night Boat" -- ever coming back into print.

Of course he's moved on to historical fiction, with his excellent Mathew Corbett series. Seems I recall he noted too (or maybe just gave the impression) that he was a little embarrassed by those earlier books. Having gone back and re-read most of them (and "They Thirst" comes to mind) I know exactly what he's talking about.

Still, for writers who aspire to get better, it's interesting to note just how he improves from one book to the next (though he was pretty damn good to start) before exploding with the wonder that is "Swan Song" and "Boy's Life" and "Gone South" and "Mine."

So, if you should happen to see any early Robert R. McCammon floating around your own used bookstores, pick them up.

They're not making them like that anymore.

Loathsome, Dark and Deep

I'm delighted to report that my friend Aaron Polson's novel "Loathsome, Dark and Deep" was released yesterday from Belfire Press and is now available on Amazon.com:

If you're not familiar with Aaron (and you should be, or most certainly will be) he is fast becoming a well-known and prolific master of dark horror, appearing in dozens of anthologies with some of the biggest names in the biz.

And If you don't keep up with Aaron's blog (and you should) you've missed lots of free fiction, tips for young writers, explorations of the writing craft, and resounding defenses of the short story form. There is no more eloquent champion of the short story than Aaron Polson.

However with "Loathsome," Aaron explores the longer form, which can't be good for the sleep of any of us:

"After months of silence from the H&P Lumber and Pulp logging camp, strange raving madmen have wandered out of the woods near the Lewis River. Civil War veteran Henry Barlow hasn’t carried a gun since his wife’s brutal murder, a memory he drowns nightly with bourbon and whiskey. When reports of the strange goings on at the Lewis River camp reach H&P, they send Barlow and a small band of armed mercenaries upriver to investigate. As the days pass and things get stranger, Barlow must confront the phantoms of his past, his alcoholism, and the dark hearts of men perverted by power and greed. Most of all, he must find a will to live in order for he and his team to get out of the woods alive."

And if the above description of the novel from Amazon (and the creepy trailer that follows) do not make you purchase a copy RIGHT NOW, either for yourself, or as a stocking stuffer for someone you love who's interested in dark fiction with a historical twist, then you and I have nothing in common.



Most sincere congratulations, Aaron! And best of luck.