Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.
|Posted by Rob Smales on October 7, 2017 at 8:00 PM||comments (0)|
Yup, it seems we even collaborate when writing about collaborating. All caught up? Good! On with the show.
~ ~ * * ~ ~
So Stacey and I had this thing.
It looked like a book. I mean, there were lots of words―lots of chapters, even―and there were quite a few characters in there doing all kinds of stuff. So it looked like a book.
I shipped the file to the printer and let it run awhile―and it ran for a while. And when it was all done I took the whole manuscript over to my comb-binder, punched the holes, slipped the sheets into the open comb, took it out of the machine, and hefted it.
It felt like a book.
I dropped it on my desk from about a foot up, grinning at the healthy thunk.
Christ, it even sounded like a book. But was it a book? Or was it, as I've had happen in the past, merely an attempt at a book?
I was about to find out. I sat down to read the manuscript all the way through for the first time, settling in for the long haul.
Now, what usually happens when I try to read anything of mine, especially first draft, is I read it in fits and starts, stopping along the way to repair fractured grammar, fix typos, and rewriting bad story elements on the fly, sometimes adding or deleting whole pages of text. It makes for a very slow read-through, and effectively keeps me from looking at the work as a whole, as, well, a story. But that's when I'm reading my work on my laptop, Chromebook, or tablet―hell, even my phone―and we'd kind of edited this thing as we wrote it, passing it back and forth, each of us reviewing the chapter we'd just been handed before trying to write our own to follow. I think I mentioned last month that we'd even gone back and added a needed chapter close to the beginning before we'd even finished the first draft. I'd printed out a hard copy specifically so I couldn't do any rewriting on the fly. Oh, sure, I had the manuscript in one hand and a red pen in the other, line editing as I went because I just can't help it anymore, but I was going to look at this as a whole story; as a book. And you know what? It was―
I'm going to break away for a moment to let you in on a little secret: at a certain point―usually while I'm still writing the latter half of whatever the current project is―I don't like a lot of what I write. It always seems fantastic when I start, but sometime while I'm finishing it up or reading the first draft, it all goes retroactively bad on me: characters seem flat, dialogue sounds stilted, and whatever twists or turns I've tried to instill into the plot suddenly read as so obvious it's like I'm trying to insult the reader. I have a bunch of stories banked I should be submitting—getting them out there making the rounds looking for homes—but I'm kind of . . . not. And, yeah, part of that not is that I don’t have a lot of time right now for my own stuff, but another part—probably the larger part—is that I’m pretty sure that somewhere in everything I’ve written, something somewhere sucks. I’ve been told it’s a self-confidence issue, and I understand that intellectually . . . but I still can’t help it.
So with all that in mind, I sat down with my red pen in hand, opened the manuscript, and started reading, looking for the suck.
And didn’t find it.
Stuff I’d written was supported by things Stacey had added in. Some of her work was supported by my crap. She’d taken ideas I’d slipped into the story and run with them, often in directions I’d never even considered, and I’m pretty sure I did the same with her. Between the two of us, nothing ever seemed flat, stilted, or obvious, and the whole thing was just . . . fun.
And as I was reading it faster and faster, that damned red pen lying forgotten on the desk, the little part of me that was still trying to analyze things realized just how much my this sucks attitude about my writing really is a lack of self-confidence, and that I was getting an added little surprise bonus out of this collaboration, because—and here I have to let you in on another little secret:
I really like Stacey’s writing, and have a huge amount of respect for her as both a writer and editor. As a writing/editing partner, she’s sometimes sent me pieces to look at with a little note attached, some variant of either Does this suck? or How can I make this not suck? I’ve yet to receive anything from her that actually sucked, and often I’m at a loss to even identify what she thinks the problem is. I have a tremendous confidence in her as a writer; what I didn’t count on was that offsetting the lack of it I have in myself. In a blog post a couple of months ago, Stacey listed five things to look at before embarking on a collaboration:
To this list, I’d like to add a sixth thing, of special importance if you (like me) are a bit lacking in the aplomb department: team up with someone you’re kind of a fan of—it makes the experience more enjoyable all the way through.
So, with all that in mind, is it really any surprise that I read to the end of the last page, all the way to the little ~fin~ I’d added down there as a reminder I could stop looking for the suck, dropped the manuscript on the desk so I could hear that hearty thunk again, and spoke aloud through a huge grin?
“Son of a bitch, I think we have a book!”
|Posted by Rob Smales on September 10, 2017 at 7:30 AM||comments (3)|
Okay, did you see up there where it said "Part 2"? You missed that? No worries. You can click here to go to "Our Collaboration—Part 1: Two Heads?"
Oh, you have read that already? Well, did you know there's kind of a part 1.5 over on a completely different blog? No? Well, you can see what Stacey herself—the other half of this collaboration I'm telling you about—by clicking right here and going to "Collaboration" over at All Things Stacey Longo. Right now, though, I'm going to tell you what happened when we got started.
We got started.
We had our outline—and better, had agreed (quite strenuously on both sides) that it was really no more than a guideline; we had a starting point and a tentative ending, but were both completely free to veer wildly from the stated path while making the trip. But it had been my idea and I’d written the outline in question, a situation I think Stacey found somewhat daunting with regard to who was going to light the fuse on this bottle rocket. She stood back and let me write the opening chapter.
I thanked her for the chance to go first. I looked at that fairly detailed outline, thought of our vow to use the thing as a guideline at most, checked the outline again, reveled in being completely free to veer wildly from what was in the damn document, and then . . . wrote exactly the scene I’d had in my head when I’d written the outline. Oh, sure, there were little things I’d not thought of before, things informed by the characters as they developed and moved about the scene, but the scene itself was pretty much what the outline stated—excuse me, what the guideline suggested. I went over it a couple of times—the thought of sharing something first draft made me feel queasy (still does, really)—and sent it off to Stacey. I checked the out—guideline, tried to estimate what she’d cover in chapter two, and started thinking about the stuff I’d be putting into chapter three.
A week later an email from Stacey hit my inbox with the growing document attached. Excited, I cracked that sucker open, eager to see how she’d handled the next part of the outline. If she’d written through where I thought she would, I needed to see if what she’d put down would support my . . .
Hang about. What the hell was this?
She’d glossed right over some stuff that would have been gold, just gold, and written some of the scene I’d been preparing to do. And said scene wasn’t what I’d envisioned at all! There were a lot more characters, for one thing, and they weren’t at all like the characters I’d been going to . . . Hot Jugs? The mother’s nickname was Hot Jugs? But that’s . . . And the grandmother was a tippling wrestling fan? Hold on.
I kept reading, going faster and faster once I’d stopped my silent bitching. And I had stopped, interested in the interplay between these new people I was meeting for the first time—people I’d be getting to know very well, if this project moved forward. And I saw how it could move forward. The way the mother and father spoke, and the relationship between both of them and the grandmother, well, it wasn’t what I’d had in mind, but if I . . .
I sped through to the end, amused and entertained and slightly awed in turns. Then, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, I read it again.
The third time was just for fun.
And that was the last little bit of solo-writer reaction I had to anything Stacey did, the final but what’s she doing, this is mine! Editors—the good ones, anyway—never look at a manuscript with the idea that they would have done it differently. They might have, if they’d written it themselves, and it may have turned out better or worse than the story they’re currently editing, but that doesn’t matter. Ever hear the saying My sandbox, my rules? Editors are constantly working in someone else’s sandbox, so they have to cultivate the mindset How can we make this better, rather than How can I make this better. They have to fix things grammatically and make them fit whatever style guide they’re following, all while maintaining the author’s voice, characters’ voices, and story tone—and that, friends and neighbors, is pretty much impossible if all you’re thinking is me-me-me.
So, after that one hiccup, I stopped thinking about me-me-me, and started thinking about it-it-it. No, I’m not talking about the Stephen King tale of Pennywise’s playground, I mean the manuscript in progress itself. I wasn’t working on my book, we were working on the book—or, at most, our book. We started shooting the manuscript back and forth in earnest, and I started really enjoying the ride. And if any readers out there are thinking Hey, now we know you wrote the odd chapters and she wrote the even, good luck with that. It didn’t take long for us to get to the point where one might say, I know I’m supposed to be writing this chapter, but [blah-blah-blah] is happening, and I think you’d be better at that scene than me. Why don’t you take this one and I’ll take the next one? So we swippy-swapped, and skipped turns—even went back and inserted a chapter at one point, completely messing with the chapter numbers—and tried pretty hard to mesh everything together.
We even started playing kind of a game, showing just a little bit of one-upmanship. We each like to end our chapters with a little tug toward keeping the reader reading—maybe not a full-fledged cliffhanger, but a little something. Those little somethings grew, and grew, until it got to the point I’d read each new chapter sent my way, tearing through the new addition, only to find the chapter ended much like the Coyote wound up in those old Road Runner cartoons: ten feet away from the wrong edge of a cliff, hovering over a thousand-foot drop, with just enough time to hold up a Yipe! sign before the plummet began. Shit, I’d think. Where the hell do I go from here?
Then I’d find a place to go from there, working the chapter toward my own yipe! moment before sending it back. The yipes got bigger and bigger, until one day, shortly after I’d sent off my newest chapter, Stacey emailed me back: Shit! Where the hell do I go from here?
Success! [insert evil laughter here]
She figured it out. We always figured it out. And this was the most fun I’d had writing in a long time. And with all the back-and-forth, and all the one-upmanship, and there was never a feeling of God damn it, that bitch really screwed me this time. What there was was a whole lot of admiration, glee, and the feeling God damn, but this is all making a really great story! Because after that one hiccup it wasn’t about me.
It was about the story.
At the time of this writing, the first draft is complete, but I haven’t yet gone back and read the whole thing from start to finish. I’ve been looking forward to it—hankering might be the word here—but putting it off until I could sit down and read it through, without having to do it a chapter or two a day (I’d like a time machine for Christmas, if anybody out there is paying attention) to get the full effect.
That day is coming soon.
|Posted by Rob Smales on August 14, 2017 at 1:40 PM||comments (0)|
: to work with another person or group in order to achieve or do something
: to give help to an enemy who has invaded your country during a war
This is very important, and the main thrust of today’s post: one of those definitions above is a good thing when writing; the other is not.
Hickman & Weiss
Golden & Moore
King & Straub
Preston & Child
There are many good writing teams out there, and we enjoy their work so much. The question is: how do they do it? My answer: beats the shit out of me. You want their secrets, go check out their blogs; I can only tell you what’s worked for us, and take a stab at explaining part of their success—and please keep in mind this is what’s worked for us so far. This blog is called Writer in Progress, not Guy Crouching Beside His Best-Seller, Shouting “It’s Alive!”as It Lies Hand-Twitching Upon the Slab. What we’ve got so far has a good beat and we can dance to it, so we’ve jumped on the floor and started to boogie. Stick with me here long enough and you’ll either see us holding up the dance trophy as the end credits roll, or watch as we slip on the freshly waxed floor and fall on our asses. But I really have my fingers crossed for that trophy.
Full disclosure time: what I’m writing about today is not my first attempt at a collaboration. I tried one a few years ago, when I was a much newer writer than I am today. I liked my experimental partner’s writing, and she liked mine. But she came to the project with a particular story in mind, and so did I . . . just not the same story. We were each in the process of convincing the other that our story was the one to write—which was not a lot of fun, by the way—when we each had other things come up, each developed other things to write, and the head-to-head collaboration fell by the wayside. Rather than working together, we’d each tried, in some fashion, to sublimate the other to our will and make our ideas dominant, intending to simply allow the other to help . . . which sounds a lot like that second definition above.
Not a success story.
Fast forward to last year. In our writing group, The Storyside, the concept of collaborations was thrown around one day, kind of like a beach ball rolling atop a concert audience: everybody touches it, but no one really keeps it. Then it was mentioned at the next meeting. And the next. And eventually, because we were tired of the beachball rolling into our heads and blocking our view (we’re the somewhat cranky old people at the concert), Stacey and I had a brief side conversation, consisting, basically, of We already work pretty well together, we could give it a shot. So we took the ball and went to our respective homes . . . where we then sat and wondered what the hell we’d just done.
A quick word about us already working well together: we’re an editing team and, I think, a good one. For both The Storyside and our clients over at S&L Editing, we try very hard to maintain cohesion: you get two editors’ opinions, but it’s just one edit rather than two competing edits running side-by-side. We don’t always agree on everything, and when we don’t then the client is told what we differ on and why; in other words, we’ve already discussed it.
Communication is key.
Back to me and Stacey. I had an idea on a back burner somewhere—I have a ton of back burnered ideas—that had a pair of teen girls as protagonists. Now, I have never been a teen girl, but Stacey has, and she writes them well (he said from his 48-year-old male perspective). It seemed like a cool idea, something that would be fun to write, but I did have that failed collaboration attempt in mind. I tentatively pitched the idea to her, trying hard not to sound like I was saying, This is what we’re writing.
“That sounds like fun,” she said. “Do you have an outline?”
I did not. I’d tried working from an outline once or twice, but I’m a bit of a pantser (meaning I tend to make it up as I go along) and I found them impossible to strictly adhere to. I wrote one up anyway and shot it her way. I was a little nervous sending it, as the two of us seem to be a small study in contrasts: she reads lots of true crime, I have shelves of fantasy and science fiction; when she types it sounds like a teletype machine set to ludicrous speed, while I hunt and peck a bit like a narcoleptic one-legged chicken; when she writes she’s sharp and to the point, skipping unnecessary descriptions for brevity, while I tend to meander a bit, getting to the point eventually and having a fine time on the way. I don’t use outlines, so I assumed she would be all for them as a logical tool to get the job done. My outline, I was convinced, would suck.
“Wow, this is detailed,” she said, and my heart grew and cringed at the same time. Then, as tentatively as I’d pitched the idea, she asked, “Do you want to stick right to this? Because I’m kind of a pantser, and I figure I’m going to have ideas of my own to add, and we’re really going to have to work together to pull this off, and . . .”
I’m sure there was more, but I was busy melting.
We got started.
|Posted by Rob Smales on July 17, 2017 at 11:10 PM||comments (0)|
It all started with a raffle.
The raffle was a part of the Haverhill Holiday Bookfear, a dark/horror oriented book fair put on at the Haverhill Public Library last December. As a last-minute prize (there were lots of prizes in this raffle) they added the authors themselves: fill out one of your tickets, drop it in the bucket at any of the participating authors’ tables, and you’d have a chance to be written into one of that author’s stories. I was one of the participating authors, and I had three winners.
To be fair, I only had three entrants, so it wasn’t like I had to paw through a goldfish bowl filled with tickets trying to come up with a winner or anything. Three people, three stories; over the course of a year, no problem, right?
See, I’m still new enough to all this that I actually thought that was true.
I wrote the first story, and had quite a bit of fun with it. I actually knew the person I was writing about, and that did add some enjoyment to the experience. The second name I’d pulled out of my bucket, though, was new to me: for the purposes of maintaining her privacy, I’ll call her Frankie Blithersbottom. When I’d come up with what I thought was a good story idea—something where nothing terribly graphic or gruesome would actually happen to Frankie, I gave her a call.
I got voicemail.
“Hello!” I said. “This is a message for Frankie Blithersbottom. My name is Rob Smales, and I’m calling about a raffle you entered back in December at the Bookfear. I was one of the authors, and you put your name in my bucket, and you won. I know it was a few months ago, so you may have forgotten, but I’m supposed to write you into a story! Now, I can either just use your name or I can try to write the character as you. I only have your name and number, though, so if you’d like to go with that second option I’m going to have to talk to you and ask you a few questions—kind of get to know you. I’d love it if you could give me a call back so we can decide which way you’d like to go with this.”
The call back came while I was driving home that night, of course, and I missed it. I got in the house, got comfortable, and checked my own voicemail.
“Hello, this is Florentine Blithersbottom (also not her real name, thank God). I’m calling regarding a message you left for Frankie.”
A little baffled as to why Florentine would be calling back for Frankie’s message, I called right back.
“Hi, I’m calling for Frankie?”
“This is Florentine. Can I ask what this is regarding?”
Was Frankie ducking me? Avoiding my calls for some reason? Maybe she’d had second thoughts and didn’t want to be in a story anymore. Or maybe . . . maybe she’d had some kind of accident. Maybe she was laid up in bed, or in traction, and couldn’t get to the phone. Coma? Or maybe—Christ, maybe she was dead, and here I was, bothering the grieving family!
Look, I write horror for a reason; my mind doesn’t always leap toward the happy possibilities.
I went through the pitch again—pretty much regurgitated my earlier voicemail message. Unlike when I’d left that message, however, I paused every once in a while to allow Flo a chance to offer up some sound of her own. An okay, or an uh-huh, maybe an m-hmm. Hell, even a clearing of the throat. But Flo remained silent until I’d wound down, and I managed to stop before I started babbling; the whole thing was making me nervous.
We were both silent a moment, then Flo said, “Okay,” but I could tell by the way she said it she didn’t mean all right: it was a placeholder sound while she thought. After another beat of silence—an uncomfortable one, at least on my end—she finally added, “Would you like to talk to Frankie?”
“Uh,” I said, thinking Why else would I call? “Yes. Sure. That would be great, thank you.”
There were muffled handing-off-the-phone sounds, and then a small, very not-yet-adult voice said, “Hello?”
Sitting alone in my room, phone pressed to my ear, I facepalmed.
“Uh, hi Frankie, my name’s Rob.” I went through a truncated version of the pitch—truncated because she knew exactly what I was talking about and seemed rather excited by the idea. The more I heard her speak, the harder I pressed my face into that palm. “So,” I said, when she said she was in. “I’m, uh, going to have to ask you some questions, okay?”
“All right, first question . . . how old are you?” Please, I prayed, just be one of those twenty-somethings with a babydoll voice!
All that crap I thought of—how could I not think of this? I wondered. Was it any surprise Florentine—make that Mom—had sounded a little unhappy? She’d had a man in his late forties calling out of the blue and leaving a message for her fourteen-year-old daughter, saying he’d like to talk to her on the phone and get to know her better!
I twitched the curtain aside, half-afraid I’d find Chris Hansen already coming up my walkway with a police-issue doorknocker and film crew; I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the night’s shadows unbroken by camera lights and battering rams.
“Okay,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Next question: can I talk to your mom?”
Everything was sorted out, especially when I had the brains to make Frankie’s parents part of the project, but for a while there . . . yeesh!
Talk to you later.
|Posted by Rob Smales on June 19, 2017 at 8:55 PM||comments (1)|
Hey, happy June! Thanks for stopping by.
They say things come in threes. They also say three’s company, third time’s the charm, and go on three! I think I’ve said all those things, but the one that applies today is that things come in threes: specifically, surprises.
There’s a local dark fiction-focused public reading that happens every couple of months, at Koto Japanese bar and grill in Salem MA. It’s called Wyrd, and I tend to go sit in the audience even if I’m not going to read; it’s good to get out and see some of my peers once in a while.
At about 11:30 pm a couple of Tuesdays ago, my Facebook Messenger dinged. Loudly. I was practically lying on the phone, so it actually scared the shit out of me. It was Curtis, the man behind the Wyrd, saying he’d had a cancellation about a day and a half before the event, and asking if I could fill in.
Could I? Sure! I broke out my stopwatch and got together a reading that would fit the slot, went to Wyrd and had a great time. I even sold a few books! So that was surprise number one; a good surprise: I got to go hang with some of my writerly peeps, and we all had a good time.
Moving on. The Storyside (a writers’ collaborative I’ve worked with for three years now) had an appearance scheduled for this past Saturday: we were slated to give a panel discussion to a bunch of library patrons about being in a writers’ collaborative, and what we were doing to try to make a success of it. It was even going to be taped for local television! The appearance had been scheduled for about a year and a half, which was plenty of notice to prepare, but here’s the thing: I work for the postal service, and over the years they’ve gotten a little wyrd . . . excuse me, weird about giving time off. Though the event had been scheduled for eighteen months, I could only put in for the day off forty-five days in advance, and even then there was no way to force some hustle on the answer. Sadly, I’d told the rest of The Storyside to simply assume I wouldn’t be there and plan accordingly—which they did. I acted brave when they could see me, saved my sad face when they couldn’t, and planned to just watch the thing when it hit the local network.
Then, one week before the event, my slip came back approved. I could go! So I did, and that was surprise number two: I got to hang with some of my writerly peeps, and we all had a good time. On television. Manly squee (Is there such a thing? Is there really?)!
Moving on. Again. As I believe I’ve mentioned before, I write a monthly column over at Cinema Knife Fight, called Monster Movie Madness. Just last night I sent in my column for Tuesday. Sadly, it was the last one I had. I try to have one or two in the works at all times—maybe not finished, but with the bulk of the work done, so that if I forget and am in the middle of something big the next time a column is due, I’m not caught completely flat-footed.
Knowing my little buffer bank was empty, I sat down while I was over at my son’s house last night to watch a movie to review, making notes as the plot progressed. I’m not going to tell you what film it was (you’ll have to read my column to find out! Muhahahahahaaa . . . ), but quite a few of my notes concerned the way the film was shot: the whole thing was very dark and shadowy—it was a ghost story, I’ll tell you that much—and they seemed to be trying to set a spooky tone. But for Christ’s sake, this was a film I’d heard some good things about, and there were scenes that were so dark I couldn’t see what was going on. I rewatched several scenes, sometimes multiple times, just to try to figure out what the hell was happening. It was a ninety-minute movie I’d been watching for almost two hours, and I still had about a half hour to go when it was time to give my son’s girlfriend a ride home and head for home myself.
I dashed to my room when I got home, notes in hand, determined to power through that last 30 minutes in 30 minutes, and get this damned nightmare of wondering what the hell is going on? over with. I’d even stopped the film in the middle of one of those dark scenes, where I couldn’t see anyone’s faces, and sure it was spooky, but it was also annoying as hell. I powered up the TV, logged into NetFlix, scrolled to the correct film, clicked Resume, watched as that annoyingly black scene began rolling across the screen and . . . could see the whole scene, clear as day.
I rewound a bit, hit Play. There was the same conversation I’d been listening to before I’d had to stop, but rather than squinting at the screen and cursing, I could now see everything quite well. I backed up to another one of those dark scenes, then another, and could see everything quite well: backgrounds I hadn’t known were there, on-screen actions I’d not seen before—it looks like a completely different film. A well shot, well-lighted film.
It occurred to me, as I was throwing the angry I can’t see a #@$%ing thing! notes away, that the last one to use the television over at my son’s house was my son. Might he not have fiddled with the brightness for some reason? It wouldn’t even have to be a good reason; he’s fourteen, and if I ask him why, he’ll most likely shrug and say I dunno.
So I have to watch that film again, hopefully tonight, if I can fit it in, and that was my third surprise: I wasted two hours of my life—was actually pretty annoyed for two hours of my life—because I dunno.
So there, I’ve had my three surprises. Two were good, but the third was not. The third actually kind of sucked. A lot. Can I be done now, Universe? Can I go back to the whole daily grind thing?
Talk to you later!
|Posted by Rob Smales on May 22, 2017 at 9:40 PM||comments (0)|
Welcome to Writer in Progress—or, if you’ve been here before, welcome back!
I know I haven’t been here in a while, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been sitting on my ass eating bon-bons—and if you’re a WYMOP reader, yeah, I’m about to run through the What I’ve Been Doing list again. Please bear with me.
Since starting this website back in 2011, I’ve had more than two dozen short stories published, written for a couple of short fiction websites, won some small writing contests, written and had published a short story collection (and it’s good) and a novella in an anthology (ditto!), won two readers’ choice awards (one from Preditors and Editors, the other from the Gothic Readers Book Club), been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes, joined a writers’ collaborative called The Storyside, edited an anthology (and I’ll be piloting another one shortly), written and am currently shopping around a short book titled Friends in High Places, formed one half of S&L Editing (two editors for the price of one!), for the past two years I’ve written the monthly Monster Movie Madness column over at Cinema Knife Fight, and for six years (off and on, mostly on) I’ve been blogging over at While You’re Making Other Plans (WYMOP).
This is not to mention the stuff I’ve written the public has never seen: more than another dozen short stories, two novellas, two and a half novels, and the collaboration I’ve been working on for the past several months (which is nearing first draft completion, and we’re super excited!) I’ve barely had time to scratch my ass, never mind sitting on it to wrestle the lid from the bon-bons!
Okay, that’s the old stuff, and hopefully the last time I’ll be boring over here. I’m transitioning my blog over here from WYMOP for a couple of reasons, both outlined in my last post over there, but the short of it is this: I need to work on and maintain my pitiful website. The home page says it’s under construction right now, and it’s not kidding. There have been some major changes here already, and there are many to follow—including maybe a name change? Make things less confusing? How’s The Official Rob Smales Website sound? Yes? No? Seriously, I’m asking and any comments left below will be looked at with all kinds of consideration.
So, if you’re someone who was directed to my site via the blurb in the back of a book (either one of mine or an anthology containing my work), from seeing/hearing an interview or review, or even one of my own business cards, and found the place lacking any current information about me, my apologies. I’m working on fixing that now, and I’ll be blogging over here at least once a month from now on—hopefully some entertaining shit from time to time. And if you’re someone who’s followed me over from WYMOP looking for that entertaining shit, I hope you won’t be disappointed.
To that end, on with the entertaining shit! The Storyside has a new book coming out June 6, Insanity Tales III: Seasons of Shadow, and I have a couple of stories in there. One of them, “A Bee,” is a little tale of foster placement gone a little awry. For your reading pleasure, the following is an excerpt from that story.
“Of course.” Judy turned to look at him, but Pete continued staring through the window overlooking the playground, where a dozen or so children ran about in the sunshine. A game of tag was in progress, and he smiled, watching them play.
“Well, don’t be. We’ll do fine.”
She pushed his shoulder playfully. “Oh, don’t even pretend you’re not nervous.”
He continued to smile, ignoring the butterflies holding a rugby scrum in his stomach. “We’ll do fine.”
“Yes, you will.”
They turned toward this new voice, Judy’s hand slipping into Pete’s, gripping it with nervous strength. Elizabeth Davis closed the thick manila case folder on her desk, pushed it aside, and folded her hands on the blotter, dark eyes serious beneath salt-and-pepper bangs.
“You’ve completed all the training and paperwork. I’ve got copies of your CPR certifications, individual evaluations, and results of the home inspection. Everything in here”—she tapped the folder—“looks just fine. I must officially commend you on your preparation for becoming foster parents, and personally thank you for immediately joining the emergency foster home list. There are children out there who need more people like you.”
The little woman’s serious demeanor broke, her teeth flashing a grin. “Let’s stop beating about the bush and introduce you to your new foster child, shall we?”
Judy’s grip relaxed as she sagged with relief. Somewhere inside Pete a whistle blew, and the scrumming butterflies halted the play and took a timeout, milling about the field.
“I’ve been trying to pick her out from the photos,” he said, indicating the playground, “but I can’t seem to find her.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. McCormack." Mrs. Davis strode to the door. “You won’t find Abby out there.” She held the door, directing them into the hallway. “Come this way, please.”
She led them down the hall to the elevator, where, rather than pushing the 1 for the ground floor, Pete saw she pressed the button marked B. Judy got the question out just a fraction faster than Pete.
“She’s in the basement?”
“It’s where she feels safest. It’s that bee allergy mentioned in her file—remember? That’s why we asked so many questions about your area.”
The elevator bumped to a halt, the door sliding open to reveal a cinderblock corridor painted an industrial gray. Mrs. Davis took a half-step forward, keeping the door open with an outstretched hand as she faced them, her expression troubled.
“I’m sorry, I know you’ve answered this—and a hundred other questions—but you don’t have any bees where you live, do you?”
Pete and Judy exchanged a look. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Like we said, we live on the coast, on a road that dead-ends at a salt marsh. Not a lot of flowers, I’m afraid, but there never were many bees. What with scientists claiming that bees are disappearing, I don’t think I’ve seen any lately.”
He looked at Judy, who shook her head, then back to Mrs. Davis. “Nope. Still no bees.”
Mrs. Davis looked at her shoes, out into the corridor, and then back up to not quite meet Pete’s eyes: the very picture of uncomfortable and defensive.
“I know you read about Abby’s allergy, and I’ve mentioned it, and I did note your certificate in the use of an EpiPen. But I still feel compelled to mention it again—can’t stress it enough, in fact. It is severe. Severe. Bees are a serious threat to her life, even with the EpiPens. Am I being clear?”
They nodded, and Mrs. Davis led them off the elevator and down the corridor. “The safest thing, we’ve found, is to simply keep her away from any place bees might come. That’s what we’d officially advise. Indoor activities. She goes along with this much better than you’d think. She’s aware of her condition, and takes it very seriously for a six-year-old. She’s terrified of bees, and—well, like I said, down here is where she feels the most comfortable.”
She ushered them through a door into a large chamber filled with all the accouterments of a child’s playroom: shelves of toys, a long chalkboard, even a plastic indoor play set complete with two tiny swings, a see-saw, and a slide.
Sitting on a checkerboard carpet amid a splash of wooden alphabet blocks sat a small girl, all pale skin, blond hair, and huge blue eyes. As they walked in, the tiny thing put down the block she’d been holding and stood uncertainly. Pete surveyed the room, disbelief and anger washing through him.
I don’t care how nicely it’s set up, he thought, or how bad her allergy is. What the hell is a six-year old girl doing left in a basement room all alone?
He turned to Mrs. Davis, that very question on his lips, when Judy strode past so fast it startled him, dropping to her knees just a step or two away from where Abby shifted from foot to foot.
“Hi, Abby. I’m Judy, and that”—she pointed—“is Pete. We would really like it if you’d come stay with us for a while.” She gestured about the playroom. “We don’t have any rooms like this in the house, but I can promise you won’t be left all alone again. Not unless you want to, that is.” She held out a hand. “What do you say? Will you give us a chance?”
The girl had gone still as Judy spoke. Now she looked at the outstretched palm as if not sure what to do, then reached out a small hand to grasp Judy’s fingers. Abby took a single step forward, and the smile that spread across her face was enough to bring tears to Pete’s eyes as she nodded, throwing her arms about a surprised Judy’s neck.
“I know I go on about the allergy,” Mrs. Davis murmured behind Pete, “because her safety is my primary concern, but it’s her lack of speech that makes her an emergency placement. She can speak—at least, she says her name—but doesn’t. Dr. Skasi, our staff psychologist, believes it’s stress related, and a stable, less clinical environment, one with more one-on-one attention than she can get in a facility like this, will help her regain her speech naturally. We’ll be looking for a permanent placement for her, but if she would talk to us we might even be able to locate her biological parents.”
Pete turned to the door, again with the intent of asking a question—this time about permanent placement—but it slipped from his head when he saw Mrs. Davis: she stood in the doorway watching the tableaux in the middle of the room, file folder hugged to her chest, wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes; they still looked as they had when she’d been unable to meet his gaze on the elevator: uncertain and maybe even . . . afraid?
What the hell?
That’s all of the story I can give you here; to post the whole thing would be unfair to the other writers in the book with me, plus there’s this little thing called a contract. If you want to read the rest, though—and for no more than I was charging you here—all you have to do is go over to The Storyside and sign up for the newsletter to receive a free PDF copy of the whole story, “A Bee,” as a gift (unless you’re already subscribed—then just keep an eye on your email, we’ve not forgotten you). Or you could simply wait until June 6 and buy the book when it comes out, and get my other short, “Tracks in the Snow,” as well as “A Bee.”
Wow, I’m starting to sound like a commercial. I think that means it’s time to go.
Talk to you later, and welcome (back) to Writer in Progress.
|Posted by Rob Smales on March 31, 2016 at 4:35 PM||comments (0)|
I was in Portsmouth New Hampshire the other night, at the Author's Night by the Sea, when an older woman came by our table and was fascinated by my Carol of the Bells chapbook.
"Well," she said, "my name is Carol."
"Oh," I replied with a smile. "So is the main character in this story. That's where the title comes from."
"It's only four dollars?"
"Well," I said, "it's very short—just forty pages."
"I'll take it!"
I did warn her that, though the book cover was designed to resemble a Christmas card, it's not a happy Christmas story. I even pointed out the skulls worked into the cover art. Nevertheless she bought the book . . . then walked to a nearby refreshment table where she took a seat and proceeded to read it not fifteen feet away from me.
I couldn't help but glance over from time to time, wondering if she'd gotten to the bad part yet. She was a rather sweet-looking woman, and the temptation to slip on over there and tell her whether the Carol in the book makes it or not was huge, but I resisted. It is, as I said, NOT a happy Christmas story.
Eventually she closed the book, slipped it into her handbag, stood, and, leaning on her granddaughter, started for the door—by way of our table.
Oh, terrific, I thought. Is she coming by to express disappointment that it wasn't what she was expecting? Perhaps ask me why I write this kind of stuff? Wave a grandmotherly finger in admonishment?
She walked right over to take my forearm in a gentle grip, much as she held onto her granddaughter with her other hand, and give it a gentle shake.
"This is good!"
|Posted by Rob Smales on December 8, 2012 at 7:40 PM||comments (0)|
Okay people, this should actually be a short one. For those of you with attention deficit disorder, it should be -- hey! Where the hell are you going? Get back here! Even your attention span isn't that short!
Episode 19 of the podcast Protecting Project Pulp stars the work of author Thomas Thursday in the form of the story Ten Dollars - No Sense. The story is voiced, however, by yours truely. It's free, and if you can get by the poor voice work the story's pretty good. Every show put on by The District of Wonders has some of the very best short fictionout there. Do yourself a favor and give one of the shows a listen. Just to make it easy on you, here's a link to my episode -> http/protectingprojectpulp.com/protecting-project-pulp-no-19-tom-thursday/
One Buck Horror has yet to reply to me about the story I submitted last month, Saying Goodbye. I still have my fingers crossed.
While waiting, I've written two more stories: a sci-fi short called You've Got Mail (where a man figures out how to avoid any and all junk mail, with surprising results) and a sci-fi/horror crossover called It's In The Blood. It's In The Blood was written for submission to the Blood Type anthology, a collection of science fiction vampire stories. Both stories are in the editing phase, one of them being out with a couple of test readers at the moment.
Other than that I've been working on getting my small collection, The Dead of Winter edited so I can send it out for publishers to look at. I think I'd really like to try to have a book out there with my name on the cover rather than in the Table of Contents as a 'contributing author'. I'm working on it.
I went down to Fiskdale Massachusetts back on December 1st and threw some of my stuff down on the New England Horror Writers sale table at the Tantasqua High School Holiday Craft Fair. I'd never even been to a Craft Fair before, never mind working at one. How did I do? I already wrote a blog entry about it over at WYMOP, so I won't do it all again here. I'll just put a link right here and you can click on it to read the story whenever you like --> Click HERE for WYMOP
Something I'm looking forward to is being on The Roundtable Podcast sometime in the future. Roundtable is a show where two writers invite in a third, someone considered to be a successful writer, as a Guest Host. Then the three of them have a fourth writer on the show, a newer writer who comes to the show with a story idea, and the four of them workshop the idea for about an hour, trying to shape it into a full novel idea. It's a terrific show if you're interested in the way people create stories from nothing, and I'm just waiting for then to get a hold of a Guest Host in the field of Horror so they can slide me into the show schedule. I love the show, and it should be a lot of fun.
...and the Surprise:
Do you remember that little story I wrote called Photo Finish? The one in the anthology The Ghost IS The Machine? The one my friend Paul out in California was such a help with, reading it and helping me edit when I got stuck? I was just notified the other day that back in the last days of November Eric Beebe, the man who runs Post Mortem Press, the publisher of the book The Ghost IS The Machine, nominated Photo Finish for a Pushcart Prize for excellence in fiction. For those of you who may not know, here's a short blurb from the Pushcart Press website:
The Pushcart Prize - Best of the Small Presses series, published every year since 1976, is the most honored literary project in America. Hundreds of presses and thousands of writers of short stories, poetry and essays have been represented in the pages of our annual collections.
Writers who were first noticed here include:Raymond Carver, Tim O’Brien, Jayne Anne Phillips, Charles Baxter, Andre Dubus, Susan Minot, Mona Simpson, John Irving, Rick Moody, and many more. Each year most of the writers and many of the presses are new to the series.
Have I won? No. Could I win? Eric Beebe seems to think so. Am I happy about this? You bet your ass.
I guess I have to thank Paul again for the assistance he gave me with that particular project.
Dude, you are officially my bestest friend.
Okay, that's all I have for this month's update. Y'all go read something, I'll go write something, and I'll meet you back here in a month.
Talk to you later!
|Posted by Rob Smales on November 14, 2012 at 1:35 PM||comments (0)|
Happy November! I'll jump right into this one.
The Coffin Hop: Some Reading
October was a busy month, but mainly due to the Coffin Hop and my lack of preparation for it. For those of you who might not know, the Coffin Hop is a virtual shop-hop with better than 100 horror writers linking their blogs and websites together for a huge, week-long event. There are contests and games and drawings, all with prizes, and it's a lot of fun.
I, having been doing narration recordings for the District of Wonders podcasts for the past few months had decided a long time ago that my special thing for the Coffin Hop was to be a small podcast of my own. The original idea was to do the show every day for a month, but that got cut down pretty quickly. With everything that went on a couple of months ago I actually forgot all about it until the beginning of the month. That's when I found out that all the pre-work I had done on it - choosing and editing the intro and outro music, doing the voice-over for the intro, a couple of stories already recorded for it, stuff like that - had gone missing. I thought I burned it all onto a CD but apparently I had a little glitch, and what my computer said was a CD filled with data I needed was really still blank.
The week before the Coffin Hop was due to begin was NOT the time to be finding this out, let me tell you.
I did pull it together a little and managed to get out seven days of shows, one to be released each day of the Hop. You can find them on The Storyteller on my "Ten Minute Tales" page. Each has a little bit of a talk-up from me and then you can hear one of my Friday Fright flash pieces read aloud for your enjoyment. You may have already read them, they're all on my "Friday Flash" page, but if you haven't, or if you're just curious as to what my stories sound like, then stop on by for a Ten Minute Tale, close your eyes, put your feet up, and let me tell you a story.
The rest of the Coffin Hop was okay, and I even managed to give away a few e-books containing my work.
The District of Wonders: More Reading
The District of Wonders is a podcast network where you can find four different podcast shows -- think of them like old radio shows, and you're pretty much on the money. Each show deals with a different genre of fiction and gives you a different story from that genre each week. Some are new, some are classics, and there is something for everyone there at The District of Wonders. Tales to Terrify covers the Horror angle, Starship Sofa hands out weekly gems of Science Fiction, Crime City Central opens their files each week for tales of cops and robbers (or even robbers and robbers if the fancy strikes them) and Protecting Project Pulp doles out old-fashioned Adventure stories, occasionally starring guys who make Indiana Jones look like a bit of a sissy.
I while ago I started working for the District (for free, of course) doing story narrations for them to play on the air. Someday I'd like to make some money at it, but for now I'm trying to learn the ropes from working with a few professionals who also donate their time to the District. I've read a few stories for them, but I've yet to make it on the air -- so far I'm just helping them fill up the story bank they use to put the shows together.
I've yet to make it on the air, that is, until now.
I've been working for a while with Dave Robison, the voice behind Protecting Project Pulp, trying to get a particularly tricky narration (snappy patter from the 1920's... you try reading that stuff cold and getting the rhythm right!) ready for the show, and I think I have it. By the time any of you are reading this we have the show in the can (so to speak) and I'll be the voices for the fiction portion of the show this Monday, 11-20-2012. Stop on by any time next week after Monday morning when the new show uploads and give it a listen. Hell, download it and take it with you -- it's free, and Dave puts on a really good show.
One Buck Horror - Again: The Writing
Yeah, I told you all last month that One Buck Horror would be hearing from me again. I've read an issue or two of their magazine, and I just know my stuff would be a good fit in their books. I just have to hit the right tone for them. I've submitted a quirky little tale I call Saying Goodbye with them, and now I'm stuck waiting for a letter of acceptance or rejection.
Terrific. I just love waiting.
The good news is they seem to have a pretty fast turnaround time with regard to acceptance/rejection, so I won't have to wait long. I'm sure I'll be able to let you all know by next month just how gently they let me down.
Waitaminute... Heartwarming Tales?: Yup - More reading, but for YOU this time!
Latter Day Saints Publishing has finally gotten out that Christmas anthology I've been waiting for! It's titled Checkin' It Twice & Other Heartwarming Holiday Tales, and includes a story I wrote a couple of years ago (when I was just starting this writing ride) called Fishing Buddy. You can find it over on Amazon.
This is my first published story not in the Horror genre, so I finally have a book I can give to my grandparents to read without having to provide any kind of warning or disclaimer. Huzzah!
A Reading: Okay, yes, this is the last of the Reading
...And last but not least, last month I attended a Reading/Signing event where writers/authors stand up before a crowd and read a sample of their work in an effort to get the aforementioned crowd to buy it. It was the first of these events for me, and since I already wrote about it over at my weekly blog, While You're Making Other Plans..., I'll just send you over there for the full story with this link to my post called A Reading? Check it out, if you haven't already. You'll probably laugh... I know I did...
And that's about all I have to say about last month. I have a few more short stories pounding their fists on the inside of my skull at the moment, all trying to get out and be heard, plus something a little larger, maybe novella-sized that's lurking in the background and making occasional surges for the door. That larger idea, the bigger story, is something that had me sitting by the roadside while I was supposed to be delivering my route laughing with pleasure at the thought of a story idea like that coming out of my head. You'll be hearing a little about that soon, trust me.
Talk to you later!
|Posted by Rob Smales on October 14, 2012 at 10:25 AM||comments (0)|
For those of you who like quick reads, I think I'm offering you another one this month as last month not a lot happened with me as a writer. Not compared with SOME of the months I've had.
I did write a couple of short stories last month, one titled It's a Kind of Magic, the other (working title) Host. neither was for a specific submission call, so they don't have any intended homes as yet. Indeed, I don't even have any pressure to streamline them and get them ship-shape, though I think I'll be trying to edit Host soon. It's the creepier of the stories, and at 10,000 words it's the larger task to tackle than the 4,000 word Magic. These stories were just things I had clunking around in my head for a while, and they did get me writing again after more than a month off.
Oh... and another little thing. Okay, not so little, I'm actually quite happy about it: I was accepted into the Horror Writers Association as an Associate Member. This means I can claim to be a writer with the HWA in good standing, and I have a few more resources that I lacked before. Some terrific resources, actually. I'm on the waiting list for their Mentor Program, so hopefully sometime in the (not too distant?) future I'll have someone much more experienced than me that I can go to with all my questions... like 'Did Adam and Eve even have belly buttons?' ...okay, maybe not that specific question, but they can help me out ar an aspiring writer...
I am currently working on editing a collection of mine that I have mentioned previously called The Dead of Winter. Two (somewhat lengthy) short ghost stories and a novella all set in the months of winter. I am hoping to start shopping that around to certain publishers I have in mind next month. I'll have to let you know how that turns out...
Last month, if you recall, I submitted a short titled The Gardener to One Buck Horror. They got back to me recently with a polite rejection, so I turned around and immediately submitted it with an E-zine called Lamplight. These are both professional paying markets, so I'm hoping Lamplight finds my story more to their liking than One Buck did. Fingers crossed. And One Buck will be hearing from me again. Soon.
In my August posting I mentioned that back in July I had submitted my story Playmate Wanted (originally published in Dark Moon Digest more than a year ago) to Scarlett River Press for their Zombies vs. Werewolves anthology. I recently received an email saying it has been accepted for publication by them as a reprint, so you can keep your eye out for me to be promoting that little collection in future!
Oh! And if you're looking for a Christmas book to read this year, or maybe one to give away as a gift, be on the lookout for Checking it Twice&Other Heartwarming Holiday Tales from LDS Publishing. It's my first foray into non-horror publishing, just a straight-up heartwarming Christmas anthology, and I've gotten word that it will be hitting the virtual shelves at Barnes&Noble and Amazon within the next few weeks. Possibly very few. I'll definitely be keeping you posted about that next month!
Dangers Untold, the most recent anthology to feature my work, has been receiving some good reviews, and not just Reader Reviews on Amazon. There are three different reviews, one on Goodreads, one on https://tothebonereviews.wordpress.com/2012/09/18/dangers-untold-anthology-review/" target="_blank">To The Bone Reviews, and the last (that I know of) in Dark Media Online, that give quite favorable reviews of the book -- and all three specifically mention my story, Mutes as one of the standouts inthe collection. You can click on the publication names to see the actual reviews. If you like. I know I did!
The Ghost IS The Machine has been out for a while now, and I'm still quite proud of it and the story I have in there, Photo Finish. Last month I found out that the HWA has a 'Recommended Reading List', that the members spend the year getting together for the judges for the Bram Stoker Awards. Just things they point out to the judges over time for them to keep an eye on when they start putting the nomination lists together for the Awards. Ghost is on the list.
The list is made public every year, so you can follow that link up there right to it if you like. Just in case you don't, however, I'll quote some of the page to you here:
"This list of Bram Stoker Award Recommendations is compiled during the year by members of the Horror Writers Association. We make it available to the public as something of a 'reading list' for horror readers and fans. These works are all new horror published during the year that our members feel worthy of recommending for Bram Stoker Award consideration. They are not 'Bram Stoker Award nominees', nor are they part of any ballot process at this stage, but it is likely they represent some of the best new horror fiction, poetry and non-fiction published during the year.
Please note that if your work appears on this list that the Association's Bram Stoker Award etiquette specifically precludes advertising that fact: "You may not promote your work as "Bram Stoker Award Recommended", nor as appearing on the Bram Stoker Award Reading List. Receiving one, or a handful of Bram Stoker Award recommendations (which is how a work appears on the Bram Stoker Award Reading List) is a far cry from winning the Award or even from being listed on the preliminary ballot. It devalues the Bram Stoker Awards to have their name attached to works whose only defining characteristic may be that one or two HWA members liked them. Authors or publishers who promote their work in this manner run the risk of offending our voting members."
-Please also note, if there are any voting members out there who actually read this: my intention is not to publicly promote my work with this information, nor is it intended to offend any of you. I am, however, still new at this, and just the thought that someone out there who ostensibly knows what they are talking about really likes a book that features some of my work makes me very, very proud.
Well, I think that's it for last month's news... and yeah, I guess I had a little more to say that I thought when I started this thing. Sorry about that...
...Talk to you later!