Dark Bits

Does Whatever a Spider Can

2009-07-08T22:18:00.002-05:00

My graphic novel The Spider: Judgement Knight hit the comic shops today. The book is an adaptation of Norvell Page’s pulp novel The Devil’s Paymaster and is published by Moonstone Books (who publish many fine comic books and prose anthologies, including The Spider Chronicles, The Avenger Chronicles, Captain Midnight and The Green Hornet Chronicles, all of which I have tales in) with artwork painted in haunting, noir black and white by master artist Gary Carbon.

I got to see a copy at the comic book shop today and it is gorgeous and I am proud to be a part of the launch of this line of Spider graphic novels (thanks to pal and fine writer Martin Powell) and comic books (look for my original Spider widescreen comic The Strange Case of The Spider and Mr. Hyde coming soon!)

For those unfamiliar with The Spider, he was a 1930s pulp novel hero, uber violent for the time period and a trifle shy of a full deck. He was a razorblade version of the ultra successful pulp character The Shadow and appeared in over 100 novels, many written by the imaginative and hyper-prosed Norvell Page under the house name Grant Stockbridge (the house name was a penname adopted by pulp publishers to cover actual authorship of a company-owned character in case the writer walked or died. They could easily just slip another author into the series, the audience none the wiser.) He was accompanied by a regular supporting cast, most notably lovely socialite Nita van Sloan, a Hindu servant named Ram Singh and others, and not only went after crime, but obliterated it. The only good criminal was a dead one, in the Spider’s opinion, and the streets of New York were littered with good criminals…their corpses, anyway. His adventures ranged from extreme to outrageous and often plot went by the wayside in favor of red-hot action and blazing pace. The weren’t called “The Bloody Pulps” for no reason, boos.

The guy was also quite unhinged at points. You never knew whether he were going to lose it (and many readers would say he actually did), and he was just as likely to shoot a friend he suspected of being a traitor as a criminal. Wanted by the police, he also loved taunting them, daring them to unmask him.

For this particular adaptation the standout attraction is the brilliant artwork by Gary Carbon. His widescreen noir paintings leap off the page, nearly three-dimensional.

I hope readers will enjoy what I’ve done with The Master of Men. The Spider has returned!

You can order your copy through Moonstone Books, your local comic shop and Amazon.

Wild Bunch Wednesday

2009-07-07T22:24:00.004-05:00

Welcome to the first installment of Wild Bunch Wednesdays here on Dark Bits. This initiative, the brainchild of Black Horse Western writer Joanne Walpole (writing as Terry James), will focus on different themes with excerpts spotlighting them each week, and is in conjunction with a handful of other fine Black Horse Western writers—Ian Parnham, Joanne Walpole, Gary Dobbs, Ray Foster and myself (writing as Lance Howard). Links to the other blogs are provided after the excerpt, so you can visit each and read their excerpts.

Today’s theme is, “The Hero.” The excerpt is from my most recent Black Horse Western, Coyote Deadly by Lance Howard. Lance Howard westerns can be purchased at Amazon, AmazonUK and The Book Depository (free world wide postage)

The Excerpt:

A heavy footfall came from the boardwalk to the left and Josh’s attention shifted from the tree (adorned with undergarments) to a man who had stopped onto the boardwalk. Josh reined up, peered at the fellow, whose bearded face showed signs of fear. A nervous tick stuttered at his left eye and balls of muscle quivered to either side of his jaw.

“What do you want here?” the man asked, his voice carrying a tremble but also bitterness. Others on the boardwalk stopped, looked Josh’s way.

“Who are you?” Josh asked, not particularly taken with the man’s tone.

“I am one of the church leaders in this town, Josiah Herridge. Who are you, sir?”

Josh glanced at the other men, noting none of them carried guns or the looks of fellows intending to make a hostile move. They simply looked more scared than anything else.

“Name’s Josh Dellin. Passin’ through here on my way to Coyote Creek. Lookin’ for some men. Perhaps you mighta seen them.”

The man shook his head too quickly. “Those men are not here, so please be on your way.”

Josh’s brow furrowed. “Somethin’ tells me you know exactly which men I mean.”

The man’s face tightened, and anger flashed in his eyes. “It does not matter. Those men are not here. It would please us if you were not as well.”

“Right neighborly of you…” Josh’s gaze shifted back to the tree and undergarments, then went again to Herridge. “But I reckon you got a damned good reason for not being hospitable, don’t you?”

“As I told you, it does not matter. They are not here.”

“But they were here, weren’t they?” Josh’s eyes locked with Herridge’s.

The man shifted feet, discomfort in his stance. “They are not here.”

Josh nodded, frustration crawling through his nerves. “Established that. But ‘less you’re decorating your tree with undergarments for an early Christmas, it’s obvious they paid you a call. Not a goddamn social call, either.”

The man’s head lowered and his gaze went to the boardwalk, then, moments later, came back up. “They were here. They are no longer. It does not matter.”

“You keep sayin’ that, but reckon it matters to me. Reckon it matters to a woman whose sister they killed in Dark Springs and reckon it might matter to some of the women in this here town, too.”

The man’s carriage stiffened. “What’s done is done.”

“Maybe so, but I aim to see to it what’s done is paid for.”

Please visit the following blogs for more exciting excerpts:

Gary Dobbs (Jack Martin at The Tainted Archive)

IJ Parnham (The Culbin Trail)
Terry James (Joanne Walpole)
Ray Foster (Broken Trails)

Coyote Deadly by Lance Howard Copyright 2009 by Howard Hopkins. Used by permission of Robert Hale Ltd.

Terror Tuesday: Psychic Surgery

2009-07-06T22:07:00.001-05:00

It’s time for Terror Tuesday on Dark Bits. Have you gone into your local boostore, er bookstore, and requested a wider selection of horror novels like good little ghouls and daemons? I hope ya did. To increase the number of horror books and authors available out there, your help is needed. Otherwise it’s off to the altar of sacrifice for you! Have you read any good horror lately? I just finished Something’s Alive on the Titanic. I know, silly title. The first half of the book was over-burdened with detail and too long by about half its length. Characters were passable, and you didn’t much care who got toasted in the deep. But the second half of the book has some pretty eerie sequences and ghostly goings-on and turns the book into a nice spooky read. It’s by Robert Serling, who, I assume, is no relation to Night Gallery’s horror host, Rod Serling.

Now, on to today’s groovy ghoulie subject matter: Psychic Surgery. Or should I say Psycho Surgery? Nah, how about Charlatan Surgery? That’s better.

As you might have guessed, I believe this load of poo poo about as much as I believe in honest politicians. This nefarious practice involves sick and dying people going to a practitioner who “performs” this trickery by kneading your tummy like bread dough until he supposedly yanks out a gooey gory mass of “something” and proclaims the patient to be healed. Yay-hah. Hallelujah, and all that good stuff. There’s lots of blood, lots of ceremonial acting and serious faces. Ooohs and ahhhs, too, boo. It is performed in septic environments yet patients suffer no infections and walk away fit enough to scale Mt. Everest.

Sure they do. Does anyone other than the desperate believe this garbage? I mean, really? Can no one see the palming of chicken livers that represent tumors? Medical tests prove, when actually tracked, as these practitioners are notorious for disallowing any investigation into their “powers”, no cures have taken place. If by some chance one does, it can more readily be attributed to a placebo effect or mind-body belief connection than to any spiritual surgery performed by these quacks.

I think what irritates me the most is their preying on the sick and desperate. It’s easy to take advantage of someone who has no hope left. Simply offer them a bit—for a price. I find this behavior disgusting, deplorable and any other pejorative adjective you’d care to stick on it.

Oh, the ones who do it free, someone might ask? Well, there will always some who believe the Emperor has spanking new cloths covering his flabby nakedness. Some practitioners might honestly believe they do cure the sick, though since they are using cheap parlor tricks, I’m not sure how they have convinced themselves of it. But some people think there was no moon landing or that Jesus appears in Spaghetti-O’s. It’s a weird world.

I wish we could stop cluttering up true paranormal research and inquiry with this stupidity. And before anybody asks, I differentiate this from psychic healing, something I will tackle in another blog (and something I have actually witnessed a number of times). For now, skip the chicken livers and let’s look for Santa Claus, just in case…

Grumpy Old Authors

2009-07-02T14:52:00.001-05:00

Apparently some authors feel it is their publisher’s duty to publish them. And when something happens they don’t like, though the fault may lie with them, they decide to criticize and denigrate that publisher in public forums and expect this passive aggressive ploy to endear them to that publisher and therefore get them their way.

It’s a risky tactic unless you are somebody like Stephen King or Stephanie Meyer. And it makes said author look like a bitter sniveling curmudgeon. Publishing, like writing, is a business. The publisher, through their own marketing research, knows what it wants and doesn’t want. It may have limitations placed on its material by outside elements the author has no knowledge of. You don’t get a job at McDonalds and start telling them how to make their fries. So if you are going to push the limits you had better decide to be sincere and do it for the sake of your art, and not simply for the sake of pushing to see what you can get away with. And you should be prepared to tone down that effort if it doesn’t fly.

Of course, I am not saying you shouldn’t express your displeasure in a polite courteous manner befitting the professional you are. You have that right and publishers respect that. But keep biting the hand that prints you and sooner or later you’re going to pull back a stump—read: rejection, or blackballing.

Besides being a business for both publisher and author, being published is a privilege. I am totally against the PC pervasiveness, but on the other hand I understand it’s there and if you are going to write you will need to come to terms with it and work around it. Constantly whining about it does not do a damn bit of good for any concerned. An artist should be able to work within the boundaries set forth by the publisher—and ALL publishers have them—and still be able to satisfy their creative integrity. If your publisher frowns on violence or sex, then work harder on character and suspense. If you can’t live with the guidelines, go elsewhere.

I’ve been very lucky with my publishers. I have probably used some things in books that might not fly from others because, I hope, I have used them in such a way as to still be palatable and true for the reader. There have been times when I pushed the limit--though I have never down this on purpose, it was just the story I was telling--and maybe went too far. Sometimes I probably haven’t gone far enough. That’s part of being an author. That’s part of being a professional, as I discussed in a previous blog.

Some folks never learn that. They feel every word they set down is sacrosanct, and bitch and moan about their artistic integrity if even a single phrase is altered, when in actuality all it comes down to is pathological need for control and validation. They crave being right. They are essentially two-years-olds stomping their feet and wanting their way or no way.

Believe me, take this attitude enough and it is usually no way.

Then of course, after the inevitable confrontation, they feel the need to argue their point incessantly and ad infinitum. They take it public. Perhaps there are instances in which this is necessary, such as if you are being radioactively poisoned by Russian spies, but for the most part this just burns bridges and makes the complainer look like an ass. I know authors like that. They usually pick and choose supportive statements from friends out of context to back up their case. I’ve been the victim of it and so have some friends and publishers.

This negative energy usually turns on the user, much like the Wiccan tenant of what you do unto others coming back on you seven times over(forgive me if I balled that up any, I’m going from memory). I wish these authors would seriously sit down and take a hard look at themselves. See the other point of view and perhaps learn to channel their energy into a more positive creative expression. There are points of no return. A little revising might get you published, but a lot of whining isn’t going to endear you to anyone, including the folks who initially supported you. Hard lesson learned for those types. Too often a bitter pill that just swells in their gullet. A pity. Because talent is a gift. Irritating the hell out of someone is not…

Western Wednesdays on Dark Bits

2009-07-01T15:49:00.003-05:00

It’s Western Wednesday on Dark Bits. As most of you reading this are aware, I write westerns under the penname Lance Howard (the latest of which, Coyote Deadly, Amazon is at last carrying) as well as the horror/westerns under my own name. So it’s only fitting I dedicate a day to the genre and hopefully we’ll be getting that going next week with a new initiative from western writer Terry James (Joanne Walpole) involving excerpts and blog linking on various themes.

A lot of folks have a certain idea in mind when you mention westerns. And it’s not always a good one. But the genre encompasses so much more than just the standard gunfights and guys doing weird things with their horses because they’ve been on the trail too long. The westerns I write for Robert Hale’s Black Horse Western line (for those who aren’t familiar with these gems, they are hardcover books of high quality a bit large than the standard paperback. Hale produces 6-10 a month, all with wonderfully painted covers and has been doing so for over 20 years. Please check out Black Horse Express for more info) and Ulverscorft’s large print western line (check your local libraries for them or take a look at my Western Page) blend mystery, a little romance and occasional spooky stuff, and usually deal with a number of issues relevant to a modern audience, such as spousal abuse or racism. The western is far more versatile than it ever has been and some wonderful authors are working in the Black Horse line—IJ Parnham, Ray Foster, Jack Martin, and Terry James, just to name a few. You’ll be introduced to them during Joanne’s Wednesday’s Wild Bunch initiative if it comes off as planned.

The western is making a comeback. With Gary Dobbs’ Tainted Archive blog spearheading a revival, as well as planned Hollywood movies with such stalwart characters as the Lone Ranger (with Johnny Depp as Tonto) and Jonah Hex, and the Black Horse Line increasing print runs and production, the future is starting to look a lot brighter for a genre that was considered moribund not so long ago. And much of that is because it reflects something that holds true even today—the strength and spirit within mankind.

The western can do what any other genre can and in fact more, because it lends itself to blending with others better, as well as being entertaining and action-filled. Whether it’s the true historical West or the Mythical West that lives within the writer’s imagination, its possibilities are as boundless and as persevering as the landscape and people upon which it is based.

Terror Tuesdays on Dark Bits

2009-06-30T16:44:00.003-05:00

Taking a leaf from friend actor/writer Gary Dobb’s highly successful Wild West Monday initiative on his excellent Tainted Archive blog, I have decided to try something of the same sort for horror fans on Dark Bits. I’m calling it Terror Tuesdays. Gary encouraged all western fans to do something to help promote and proliferate the western genre, such as visiting local book stores and requesting a larger western section, buying a western book, or anything else they could think of to bring the genre back into its glory.

I think horror needs something like that, something to regenerate the corpse, bring in fresh blood. Remember the ‘80s? I wish I didn’t, but even so it was a boon for horror writers and horror books were everywhere, mostly thanks to King and Koontz. Sadly the market got saturated with some poor quality stuff slapped with foil hologram covers and ended up as buried as the proverbial zombie. Publishers started calling horror dark fantasy or some such, hoping to make it more palatable. But I write horror and I am not ashamed to say it. I write supernatural mysteries and old school horror and am proud of the fact.

So I am asking horror writers and horror readers, fans of horror movies and TV shows, anyone interested in the genre to do something one Tuesday a month to try to expand the genre. Go to your local bookstores and request more horror on the shelves, then report back here in the comments section and let me know what you did. Do whatever you can to create more interest in the spooky. It worked splendidly for Gary and I would like to hear your ideas and see you implement them. I’d love to hear from other horror writers and give them some space as guest bloggers and maybe do an interview or two and on other Tuesdays I will set aside the day for some sort of blog post on the supernatural, things that go bump in the night and all else horror-related.

So what can you do to resurrect the horror genre of old? Let me hear your opoinions. and let me know the type of things you’d like to see here that feature horror.

And for western fans we’ll be having Western Wednesday starting in about a week or so with a special blog project developed by western writer Joanne Walpole (Terry James) called Wednesday’s Wild Bunch. More on that as soon as details are set.

Lights in the Night

2009-06-29T14:36:00.006-05:00

Orbs. Those fuzzy wuzzy wittle glints and glunts that are supposed to represent members of the spirit world working on their auditions for the Lawrence Welk show. They appear on video and film and pirouette, flutter and vanish. The technical term for it is backscatter or near-camera reflection. Legit ghost hunters tend to discount an awful lot of them as moths fluttering by the camera, dust specks on the lens or other perfectly rational explanations.

It’s more common with smaller digital cameras, due to the distance between the lens and built-in flash increasing the likelihood of reflection off usually sub-visible particles in the air. There may be chromatic aberrations associated with it as well, but it is all the result of camera limitations, not a door into the spirit world.

Some paranormal investigators claim such orbs to be light beings, aliens, ghosts, or elemental beings. In the fervor to prove their theories, however, they fail to examine all possible explanations, or simply do not have the background to be able to explain them, if indeed they really want to. After all, light reflection doesn’t sell books, TV shows, etc. Nothing glamorous or spooky about it. There are some unexplained orb cases, apparently, appearing in some cases in clusters in particular areas or places regardless of type of camera or video equipment used. However, I believe there is some perfectly normal explanation for those, likely unusual electrical activity or some other natural phenomena.

As you can tell I am highly skeptical of orbs as so called spirit encounters. I think stuff like this interferes with the genuine studies of ghosts and extraterrestrial phenomena much in the way the spirit mediums of old used to pull cheese cloth out of their mouths and private tunnels and proclaim it was spirit ectoplasm and expect the world to be convinced there was no chicanery involved. Though I can’t ask a ghost personally, my feeling is if they want to manifest themselves they aren’t going to do it as specks of light or poofy particles. Unless of course you are dealing with the spirit of Liberace, then all bets are off.

I tend to look at ghost hunters pushing orbs with a jaundiced eye. It makes me suspect their research, their methods, their scientific qualifications and accuracy. It also makes me think they are more agenda oriented or interested in show, instead of acumen. Don’t get me wrong, as a horror writer I am deeply interested in all things paranormal, but I am also not going to accept just anything as proof. So far I have not seen any evidence I can personally verify, though I would love to. However, orbs are not going to do it for me. I don’t think supernatural phenomena is a matter of faith (discounting things like the Devil and demons, which might fall more into that realm), so if there are things that go bump in the night, I need something that removes personal belief and mind conditioning or filtering from their study. If a ghost is composed of energy we should be able to measure that energy somehow (and I don’t mean using a little electrical meter). Stuff like orbs just muddies the picture, pardon the expression.

Just Beat It

2009-06-24T16:27:00.002-05:00

So Chris Brown gets no jail time for beating the crap out of Rihanna. Am I the only one not surprised at this? Or that in other comparable cases the term was anywhere from three months to two years, yet the rich celebrity got what, now? Oh, yeah, nothing.

I would like to pick on California for this, where the case went to court, but hitting another person isn’t taken very serious in any state or by the authorities. Unless you are Perez Hilton, then you can whine your flamboyant little ass off about it and sue. But if you’re a child, who we as adults stress to go “tell someone if something is going on” or a battered husband or wife, well then you are out of luck. Because nobody is going to do a damn thing, especially if the person assaulting you is a celeb or has money. And if it’s just fear tactics and verbal abuse, well, then, suck it up, sister, because it’ll be your fault for provoking the poor schlub by the time you get done telling somebody—assuming you can even get somebody to listen.

So in the USA, oh, what the hell, in the world, it’s ok, go ahead and hit your husband or wife, beat the living tar right out of them, then wait a few days and do it again. Don’t forget to belittle them in front of others and make them feel like scum when you are alone. Leave bruises. Break some teeth. Why not? We live in a nation of cowards who’ll just chuckle and not get involved. Kick your kids in the face. Break an arm even and tell the doctors the poor lad is clumsy, oh my.

Oh, and make sure you don’t fight back, because then YOU will go to jail. YOU will be charged because YOU violated the poor abuser’s rights.

Screw it all. I don’t know why I bother even talking about it because no one listens but those who have been through it or are already tilting at the system windmills. And half the time even the battered won’t help because they are too conditioned into taking it and accepting it as love or attention. They are already too screwed up to have a normal caring relationship with another and run back to the person they “love”. Aww, ain’t love grand? I mean, really, ain’t it? Love is all about smacking around your best friend, controlling them, putting them in an emotional electric cage.

Warms the heart, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s plain useless to keep talking about it, trying to help. Easier to hide, look the other way. Then we can just send flowers and call it good. Assuage our guilt. It’s just not our problem. It’s someone else’s. Darn, that’s awful, but have a good day.

Sure.

Course, there’s that other choice: grow a set. But in this society I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I just don’t see anyone listening. Much less stopping it.

So why bother?

Unless of course you give a damn…

Pay to Play?

2009-06-22T15:21:00.002-05:00

A couple blogs back I talked a bit about speed-dating. I was, of course, being tongue-in-cheek for the most part, but in yesterday’s paper here in Southern Maine I came across an article about a speed-dating style thing for writers with agents. I think I felt a cold chill slither down my spine and instantly knew why I am starting to be turned off by some writer’s organizations (though there are myriad other reasons, but if I go into them I’m likely to piss off a lot of people, and I’m not really in the mood to do so today. At any rate, this one was sponsored by the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance.)

Apparently the victim, er, writer gets seven minutes to pitch book ideas to a group of literary and publishing professionals (I am tempted to use the term loosely after this, but I will refrain). At the end of your seven minutes somebody bangs a gong. Oh, yes, you read that right: a gong. So it’s a combination of Next and The Gong Show.

The entire concept turns me right off. Writers tend to be introverted as a lot, and since I am fairly socially retarded, the idea of trying to sit in front of a bunch of steely-eyed judges upon whom my future might depend just chills my blood. I’d be lucky if I could talk, let alone pitch. This isn’t Hollywood and there’s no Screen Writers Guild for novelists. Had I wanted something so pressure-driven added to my need to create and be read, I might have opted for trying out for American Idol and singing “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts”. I can just see a Simon agent calling my concept “dreadful” or “Your ideas are total rubbish and I could get a better pitch from a fourth grader.” No thanks.

For me, the entire concept has all the appeal of a cold toilet seat. Writers used to be judged on their talent, not their ability to pitch their talent (and believe me those are two totally different things or I’d be selling vacuum cleaners door to door to supplement my income). It’s become sound bite ideas, the encapsulated big concept, and probably not a lot to do with whether the person can truly write. If they like your pitch you get represented. That seems to me to give someone who can sling crap a distinct advantage, even if they can’t back it up. How many times has someone come up to you—as a writer—and said, “I have this great idea about mutant peapods invading the nation’s school lunch programs…” Which is usually that’s followed by, “You should write it and give me half the money.” It’s a long way from germ to fruition, pitch to production.

But the thing that bothers me most is that there is a $175 charge just to sit there for seven minutes. What the hell? I can certainly see how this benefits the agents and publishers, because they are making that much money every seven minutes. Good for them, but I recall the old days when agents made money by getting a percentage of the author’s advance and royalties by doing what the author couldn’t do—pitch to publishers—and when publishers made their money by publishing good stories and paying advances for them. Maybe the authors should just walk into the publishers’ offices in New York and pitch directly, if that’s the case. But charging an author that much money—or any money—to hear a pitch or look at work? Authors make money by SELLING their work. Not by ASKING to sell their work. Not by presenting their work. So asking an as of yet unpaid, unrepresented, unpublished author to cough up $175 for seven minutes really goes against my grain. Hookers are cheaper and you get an hour. Er, so I’m told.

Maybe somebody who plays the violin can tell me, do they charge you to audition for a spot in the symphony? How about American Idol, does it cost to get in front of the judges? A much as I dislike the speed-pitching concept I cringe with every cell of my being over charging unpublished authors for what is basically applying for a job. Imagine if Walmart made you pay 50 bucks just for filling out an application? And in these economically troubled times, I think this practice is shameful.

But that won’t stop it. Because it makes sense for agents and publishers' bottom line, and because as long as there are people out there dreaming dreams with every fiber of their being, there will be dreamers taken advantage of, and willing to pay whatever it takes for just that one shot at fame, regardless of whether they have any talent for writing. No refunds for wanna-bes or the deluded.

I have to wonder if this isn’t just another nail in mainstreaming publishing’s coffin. I know I have agents and a few publishers reading this who are probably going to disagree with me vehemently, and truthfully I hope they can give me concrete reasons as to just why this is a good idea. I can’t see it myself. It goes against everything creative in me. Am I wrong?

Blue on Blue

2009-06-19T15:22:00.001-05:00

Blue is my favorite color. I love its calming nature. Some folks think of it as a bit cold but I see it as warm, tranquil. It’s the color of a summer sky or Caribbean sea.

Blue, however, gets stuck with a bad rep when attached to other things, unlike other colors. Well, maybe red has a few less than pleasant connotations, like red herring, which means a false lead, and “I see red”, which means you’re pissed off. Nobody picks much on yellow, though. Yellow is always the cheery color. Unless your spine has a streak of it. Ok, “green with envy” gives green a little blemish, but orange and white are pretty much home free.

Yet with blue we get Blue Norther, a term for a nasty storm sweeping across the Plains. But that’s not the worst of it. Blue movies anyone? No, I’m not offering you porn, but why must naughty movies get colored blue? They are not filmed in blue. There’s nothing really blue about them. In fact, they should call them red movies because they’re s’posed to be hot. Red equals hot, right?

Turning the air blue means you’re swearing your head off. Poor frickin’ blue. Again, labeled in a negative manner. #$#%$!

Ever threaten to hold your breath until you turned blue? Blue usually means corpse. Dead. Dead-dead-dead. Not a great color for a human being to be, though I have seen some pretty sexy blue aliens on TV shows. I kind of like blue girls, girls with blue hair, girls who wear blue lipstick…whoa, Nellie, getting off subject here…

Then of course you can be beaten black and blue. That’s not really good. And when you are sad folks say you are in a blue mood. Blue equals depression. How nice. Such a terrible thing for such a pretty color.

And maybe worst of all there’s blue balls. Nobody wants those. Ladies, you don’t have to worry about them, but guys you KNOW how uncomfortable those are. Who the hell ever came up with that name, anyway? If you have ever had them there’s sure as heck nothing blue about it. I’m going to go ahead and put those in the red column, because that’s the color your face turns when you have blue balls. Er, red balls. I’d like to blame them on yellow, but yellow balls just doesn’t have the same impact. Anyway, take my word for it, avoid your balls turning any color.

So I figure we need a campaign to remove this blue taint. I think we should partition the Pres for a blue bailout. Maybe start a smear campaign against magenta. I mean, what kind of a name is that for a color, anyway? Magenta. Sounds like a disease. Yeah, caught magenta the other day and my blue balls fell off. Now I’m feeling a little green around the gills and seeing red because that little yellow SOB down the street gave it to me. I’d give him a black eye if he didn’t already have a pink one, and a big purple bruise. Now orange you glad you read this?

From the Shadows

2009-06-18T16:49:00.005-05:00

I make no apologies about being old school influenced when it comes to my horror writing and horror influences. I have little interest in slasher/blood gore stuff and the more reality-based type horror, like Saw and Chain Saw Massacre. They don’t scare me. They either sicken me or gross me out, and neither feeling is one I particularly cultivate. I like supernatural horror, spooky stuff, and try to write that, mixed with a bit of mystery, suspense and even western.

Probably a good deal of that influence comes from my growing up in the ‘60s and ‘70s and watching the Hammer Draculas and older horror movies on late night TV. A notorious night owl even as a kid, I just waited for summer vacation to be able to stay up all night, first watching the movies—the local channel in Portland, Maine, played them at 11:30 pm on Fridays—listening to CBS Radio Mystery Theater or reading.

But my earliest interest (aside form the Catspaw episode of Star Trek I got to see on Halloween as a kid) came from the gothic soap Dark Shadows. I was addicted, even at 6 or 7 and probably lucky my parents understood I was capable of handling such fare, considering what went on in it. Still, for a time, they banned me from watching it, wanting me to be more “normal” in my childhood activities: i.e. go outside and play with the other kids or stay in my room. I, of course, chose staying in my room because I could at least hear what was going on, since my mother was also addicted. They soon relented, realizing it was a losing battle.

A lot of the scenes from the show left a lasting impression on my distorted young mind. The scene where Rachel Drummond wakes up to find the ghost of Quentin Collins rocking in a chair in the dead of night in her room scared the crap out of me. Another where a headless body was lying in wait in the woods to grab unsuspecting young gals and whose head, which belonged to the warlock Judah Zachary, resided in a glass case was probably the scariest damn thing I had ever seen at that point. The severed hand of Count Petoffi, despite his candy bar sounding appellation, was pretty darn creepy, too.

Recently I watched some of those episodes on DVD, occasionally cringing at things I never noticed as a kid, but some of the moments are still pretty spooky. The ‘90s version of the show, which I also watched on DVD, was exquisitely done. But the old episodes still have a magic to them. That hand is obviously rubber but still gruesome enough to make me wonder why I didn’t have nightmares as a kid or why I am so pleasantly adjusted today (heh, some candy, little girl? Bwa-ha-ha). There are moments of unadulterated spookiness that transcend the genre and a chemistry that brought it all together. Mostly together. For the most part I think seeing it as a child, in that period where things are magic and influence our lives, latent creativity and puerile imagination, is best. I’m not sure if an adult who has never seen it would find it as charming, but besides an interest in the supernatural it led to a chain of events in my life that influences what I do today (it was because of Dark Shadows I picked up my first Doc Savage novel, Brand of the Werewolf—werewolf on the cover, how could I resist?—which led, to writing for fanzines, then fiction).

I owe a lot of my novel Grimm to Dark Shadows, I guess (and Kolchak, The Night Stalker, another Dan Curtis prodcution--he was the master!) in particular, and of course that just happens to be the lead character’s favorite show. And since The Chloe Files spins off of Grimm, I guess I owe her series to it, as well, along with the other old-school supernatural horror shows and movies of my youth.

What do you owe your current writing or life interests and goals to? What ignited your imagination as a kid?

Ghostly Voices?

2009-06-17T00:19:00.002-05:00

I have to admit, even before I became a horror writer I was interested in things supernatural and investigating whether they exist. As I’ve mentioned, my uncle was a “psychic minister” and for a short period reigned over the Church of I See Dead People or something or other. He also worked on a number of alien abduction cases as a hypnotherapist and age regression “expert.”

So as much as I would like to state outright this stuff exists I really am not convinced because I haven’t had definitive experiences myself or seen evidence from credible scientific sources that unequivocally makes me believe. I need more if I am going to accept the supernatural as something other than fodder for my stories. I lean towards some, yes, but I haven’t fallen off the fence yet. This is not like religion to me, which falls more into the realm of faith (though I am fascinated by the search for Noah’s Ark and that sort of thing, too and there is an over-lap). This is something I want to experience for myself and see real proof for. And in this day of digital photo altering (Lord knows I do enough of that myself when I create book cover art) and easily faked recordings, I find it even harder to accept what I “see” from some TV shows.

I enjoy Ghost Hunters and some of their evidence looks damn titillating. I want to believe it, but often I wonder about their test parameters and actual scientific accuracy. Now, I have never accompanied them on an investigation to see how they operate without the enhancements for drama the show editors obviously employ (come on, it’s a ratings-driven TV show and just how many ghostly orbs can you debunk as specks of dust or fluttering moths before nobody’s watching?) but I would like to know just how controlled their investigations actually are. I am guessing not very, but don’t get me wrong, I am a fan. The St. Augustine investigation had chills dancing down my spine.

At the same time I have to wonder about some kinds of “proof”, not only presented by them, but by any investigator of the paranormal. In particular, I’m leery of EVPs. Electronic Voice Phenomena. These are sounds electronically captured that resemble or are supposedly voices of the dead. Some are barely audible, and I think what your mind wants to hear. Others are more distinct and make you wonder. Creepy, certainly, but what exactly are they?

Obviously, I don’t have an answer, but I have a hard time accepting they are the voices of the dearly or not so dearly departed. Captured errant TV or radio signals? Glitches in tape or digital equipment that merely mock voice or words? Transmissions through quartz or other conductive substances? Fakes? Subliminal attempts by Britney Spears to take over the world?

Needless to say I have let a tape player run before, hoping to hear something. Nada. And I automatically discount anything heard in the white noise of a TV set, because that’s just too easily explained as signal bleed. Of course, if something reaches out like in Poltergeist I’m running like hell.

I guess I would need to hear a voice in my own house I recognize to accept EVPs. At the moment for me they have only slightly more credibility than orbs, which I will discuss in another blog.

So what about you? Do you believe they are the voices of the dead? Or just natural phenomena mistaken for something otherworldly?

Life in a Drawer

2009-06-15T15:44:00.001-05:00

What are your limits? Do you impose those limits, consciously or subconsciously, on yourself? Do you let others put them on you? Do you automatically tell yourself, “I can’t do that”, or convince yourself others are luckier, more skilled or talented?

Self-esteem is a weird thing. Some say it is the result of our environment, an unnurturing parent or bad past. Yet there are those brought up in perfect homes with June Cleaver mothers and Fred MacMurray fathers (and for those of you too young to know who the hell I’m referencing, he was the understanding dad on the 60s TV show, My Three Sons), who have no confidence in themselves. Others say it is chemical. Still others say a combination of the two. Maybe one traumatic event causes the lack of esteem, or perhaps a series of incidents and some synaptic sputtering makes our ego timid.

It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that you can refuse to accept limits put upon you by yourself or by others. I won’t spout a bunch of pop psych bull and tell you it’s easy. Changing any ingrained thought pattern is never a cakewalk. But you can certainly improve the status quo and decide not to accept your limits.

With writers, I see this most often translate to fear of submitting work after it’s been completed. They write a book, then stuff it in a drawer, afraid to send it out to be judged, because they fear that judgment, if negative, reflects upon them personally. Or they convince themselves it is not good enough, or make up excuses such as, well, I am not really intending to be published anyway, just writing it to please myself. But most writers, deep down, want to be read by others. Or more to the point want what they write to be enjoyed by others. Of course, that becomes an impossibility if they leave their masterpiece in a drawer.

You have to take a chance. Not just in writing but in any area of life, if you want to truly live. Of course, if you are satisfied not reaching your potential or simply slaving away hours on something just to know you can do it, then, by all means, choose that path. But if you want to grab life by the balls, send the damn thing out. If your ego is inflated, believe me, somebody will be kind enough to stick a pin in it. And if your ego is suffering, then remind yourself that what select others think really doesn’t justify your belief in yourself or who you are as a person.

You have one life. Don’t shove it in a drawer. Don’t look to others to validate it, either, but certainly don’t let them take it away from you.

There’s a feeling when you are a child that lasts all too brief a time—it’s that moment when you run through the fields of your mind thinking you can do anything, be anything. You can even fly if you want to. You can be Superman or Wonder Woman. Maybe just once in a while you should let yourself try to find that place, be that carefree child again. If only for a moment. And especially in times when the universe seems to crap all over you. People, don’t leave that manuscript in a drawer; don’t let fear stop you from trying. And don’t let rejection or disappointment convince you it wasn’t worth it. Sometimes things don’t work out. Maybe often. But they never will if you don’t take the risk.

THAT choice is, indeed, yours.

Are You a Professional?

2009-06-14T12:54:00.003-05:00

Following up a bit on my previous blog on whether one is a writer by writing or by being published, I see another debate rage every so often: When does one go from becoming an amateur writer to being a professional scribe?

Back in the days of the pulp writers (for those of you unfamiliar with the pulps, they were the dime novels of the 1930s and ‘40s, so called because they were printed in magazine form on cheap grainy paper. The mags were designed as disposable entertainment and if they weren’t tossed away after reading they turned to sawdust over the years. They are what particle board floors are to hardwood if you are building a house.) you were a professional at the rate of a penny per word (a penny certainly being worth more in those days than now, because you could get two Mary Janes—that thar peculiar, filling loosening candy, Ellie May—or for five of them catch a Saturday morning serial flick).

I’ve seen arbitrary amounts set on professionalism since then, but some organizations I have been a member of defined professional as three cents per word or a $2000 dollar minimum advance on a book. This was back a few years ago, so it may be more now. I’ve lost track--on purpose.

Why on purpose? Because I think letting some executive on high or organization potentate set a monetary amount on what makes someone a professional is worth about as much as that pulp paper I mentioned earlier. (Yes, I do realize that for some organizations certain standards are necessary; that is not the point this blog, however, and another debate entirely.)

I have seen some professionals make a lot of money writing terrible stories. I have seen some amateurs writing for free write brilliant tales. Which one was the professional when you really ponder it? Does money really make you professional or does skill and the way you conduct yourself?

Everyone has heard of the doctor who accidentally removed a wrong leg in an operation, yes? A “professional” doctor who got paid a lot to make that mistake. Or the ballplayer who gets a million dollars to sit on the bench after being injured for two years but still remains on contractual payroll., He’s a professional. A professional at what? Watching baseball or football games? I don’t get paid for doing that but sure would like a check for a mil or two.

So is a writer a professional suddenly because someone pays them for their work? I don’t think that defines it fully. Certainly you are a PAID writer, which is always nice and what most of us strive for. I recently was paid 20 cents a word for a short story. Technically, that makes me professional, and I did the best job on it I could do. But I also did the very same job on a non-paid story for a western anthology, Express Westerns, called The Ballard of Jesse Barnett. I am proud of that story because it involved an abused woman in the Old West’s decision that she had had enough of her situation. I feel that is one of the most professional stories I have crafted, but not because I got tons of cash for it.

Ego aside, that is what I feel defines the professional—in any walk of life. Not money, but doing your best, using your talent and skills, no matter the circumstances or recompense, to the utmost of your ability. Professional is not a thing defined by pay, but by attitude and application. A professional acts like a professional, characterizes his/herself with a certain work ethic and dependability. A professional writer, to me, is someone who takes his/her passion of writing serious, writes, works to constantly improve their skills, and conducts his/herself in a manner befitting their profession. Being paid appropriately is the result of being professional, or should be. Because as far as I am concerned, the doctor who cut off the wrong leg is not a professional. He’s someone who gets paid too much for a diploma. A writer who may not yet be paid, but who meets deadlines, writes to the top of their skills no matter the remuneration and behaviors with decorum (NOT defined as: letting someone walk all over you, of course), is a professional in my book, pardon the expression. A writer who gets paid oodles of cash but throws fits, turns in unpolished, sub par material and refuses editing is unprofessional (or just damned lucky).

So are you a professional? Do you strive to be? Do you pour your passion onto the paper and hone it to the best of your abilities? Submit it neatly or scrawl it on toilet paper and send it in? Being professional is YOUR choice, not somebody else’s.

Or course, being paid for your writing is another’s choice in many cases, but if you are professional (and persistent) you can influence that option a whole lot more than by being nonprofessional.

Are You Published?

2009-06-12T16:06:00.003-05:00

One of the first questions folks will ask someone after they say “I’m a writer” (right after the “Where do you get your ideas?” query) is: “Are you published?” With many of those folks an implied slight comes with that question. And oddly enough I tend to get this question far more from highly educated, Type A success persons. Basically what they are asking is: “Are you a REAL writer”, as though the very act of somebody else in some company publishing your work makes it somehow suddenly legitimate. Makes YOU legitimate.

A few writers I know feel that way too. They refuse to acknowledge other writers if they are not published and/or published by a big New York company (forget about the fact that some of the truly great and most successful writers were self-published—Mark twain, anyone?) there’s a snobbery even amongst some authors. And as far as I am concerned it’s ugly.

It’s ugly because as far as I am concerned if somebody has written a book, published or not, that somebody has the right to call themselves a writer. If it doesn’t sell to a publisher then they are still a writer, though, of course, an unpaid writer. And if they have self-published it then they are an entrepreneur and risk-taker as well as a writer (and willing to do a whole lot more work than just writing the damn thing). It may be an awful book. It may be the next DaVinci Code. But I do not feel being published or accepted by someone else (and that is greatly a matter of luck, timing and subjectivity) is needed to legitimize a person’s passion. Or their self-worth.

It takes a hell of a lot of work and drive to finish writing a book, bad or good, experienced or neophyte. Why can’t some folks just accept when somebody says they are a writer that they are, indeed, a writer, instead of trying qualify it? Or, worse, tamp them down? Is there a weird jealousy involved?

I was asked this question just a couple weeks ago by a traveling salesman. It was almost funny. He didn’t end up selling me what he intended but I did end up promoting my books. Perhaps I should have asked him whether he had ever built one of the products he was trying to sell…

I don’t know. I don’t care much for any kind of snobbery. I don’t like jockeying for positions or putting down others, even subtly, who don’t deserve it. Being published feels great, I have to admit. However it does not make me any better than somebody who has poured their heart and soul into a novel and have not been published. In fact, many unpublished writers are probably ten times the author I am but simply haven’t gotten the breaks, the timing or luck. Some writers, like Poe, who are superb, don’t get the recognition they deserve until their death (a feat I am hoping not to emulate.)

I think things are changing in the publishing world. New technology and innovative authors are breaking down barriers many monopolistic companies would prefer to keep raised. The playing field will become more even. And some folks won’t like it. Don’t like it. They won’t feel justified and their egos will reject anything but the status quo.

My hope is that that “Are you published?” question will become irrelevant, or at least asked with a more curious edge, as opposed to one of validation.

Mouse Mania

2009-06-09T16:08:00.002-05:00

Well, of course there’s never just one mouse, especially when that mouse turns out to be a ma’am instead of a mister. So Miss Muggles is relocated but apparently had a litter of pups somewhere as yet undetermined (and believe me I’ve looked and pulled out everything) but that is now a moot point. Because yesterday when I was walking into the living room I spotted a tiny gray something on the rug. At first I thought it was a big dust bunny. But the dust bunnies around my house don’t normally have four little legs and a tail. Well, ok, some do, and I leave those alone because they are just plain scary.

This turned out to be a baby mouse. Fully furred but eyes still closed. I picked up the little critter and put it in a little container with some grass and a peanut. Of course it’s too young to eat the peanut but it did drink a drop of water.

Bit later, apparently little baby mouse—now named Peanut courtesy of my niece—sent out invites to its brothers. Or sisters. Hard to tell. Because I found two more. Into the box they went. This morning before leaving for the gym, two more. So now I have five baby mice I am hand feeding formula to with an eyedropper. They are so small I fear hurting them when I pick them up to feed them but so far so good. One doesn’t look like it will make it but the other four gobble the formula then climb all over each other and poop on each other’s heads. I have given them some bits of cut up cloth and grass and now am warming the formula a bit before feeding them. I feel like such a dad. Except my kids just happen to have tails. Guess you can’t choose what your kids look like. I just hope I don’t have to put them through college.

As an addendum: Apparently it’s wildlife week around my house. The other night it was a baby raccoon sitting on the front porch and today while walking back from the mail box a large gray fox runs out from behind my house and across the street right in front of me. I guess it’s a good thing I am an animal lover.

Addendum 2: Make that six mice...Yup, just found another.

You’ve Got a Date—Er, Not…

2009-06-07T21:42:00.001-05:00

I really do not understand speed dating. It seems kind of crass to me. I realize we live in a drive-through world, instant gratification and all that. But should that really apply to something like love that takes time to grow, to nurture?

Of course, there’s instant attraction, or repulsion. Some folks you meet make your knees wobble while others make your belly seek the quickest exist. Most of us aren’t like monkeys who’ll hop on the nearest pop. Note I said, most, because I do know a couple…er, no, I don’t. Really. I mean it. Forget I even mentioned…

Anyhoo…in speed dating you get a buzzer pad like those things on Family Feud and five minutes to sell your, um, package, in this case yourself. If you don’t like what you are hearing, or not hearing, you bang the buzzer instead of your potential date.

I don’t know about normal people but for a social ‘tard such as myself it usually takes me a good half hour to even calm down to a point where I might say something a tenth witty. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? That never happens. That’s why I write. But under that kind of pressure the odds of me saying something decidedly unwitty, nay, retarded, increase tenfold. Maybe a hundredfold. I’d be sweating and constantly looking at the buzzer anyway.

It just doesn’t seem right. Some connections take a little time, getting to know someone, and that opportunity would be missed in speed dating. I can see it working ok if the first questions are: “How much money do you make?” “Have you ever been of the opposite gender?” and “If my hand were a jock strap would the cup size need to be large, extra large or half a Silly Putty egg?” But then of course you might not want to date someone who was asking those type questions anyway.

Maybe they should just skip speed dating and go right to speed marrying. Or speed divorcing. That would save a lot of time. I’m pretty sure speed sex is already frowned upon, at least by half the human species. Five minutes NEVER works there.

Perhaps some things you just need to do the old-fashioned way. Like across a crowded room with stars and secret glances and all that. Or a lot of alcohol and an accidental marriage in Vegas…

Time!

Nightmares for Children

2009-06-05T15:14:00.003-05:00

Most reading this blog know I write a horror series for children called THE NIGHTMARE CLUB. So far, three books in the series have been released--The Headless Paperboy, The Deadly Dragon and The Willow Witch. I wanted this series to harken back to things like Alvin Fernald and Scooby Doo, plus deliver a message modern children could relate to as well as entertain them. I decided to pick a number relevant issues—racism, grief and abuse—and present them in an age appropriate manner. When I was young I discovered Doc Savage and comic books, and these spurred my interesting in reading, and, later, writing, so I also wanted something that would get kids to read early and drag them away from the TV and video games for a few hours.

After writing them, however, I wasn’t sure how to reach the audience for which they were intended. I was used to marketing westerns and horror for adults, along with my pulp and comic book related material, not kids’ books.

I happened onto a bit of luck when my niece mentioned her class had had an author come into her class and that they had read aloud time everyday. She’s in fourth grade, which is a perfect age for my books, so I handed her the first book and asked her to give it to her teacher, along with some Nightmare Club membership cards I had made up and a few postcards.

The project turned out to be a great success and the kids loved the book. One little girl even had my niece tell me how much she enjoyed it. Whether it will have a lasting effect on their reading journey, I can’t say, but it’s a good feeling to know you can bring some enjoyment to a class of children in this instant gratification world.

I was also lucky enough to meet a teacher online, Mrs. Lambert, who works with kids who come from underprivileged backgrounds where one parent might be incarcerated or abusive. These kids already endured more hardships on an everyday basis than many adults face. Since this was the exact audience the books were meant for, especially the second installment, The Deadly Dragon, which dealt with a child coming from an abusive situation dealing with anger issues, I sent Mrs. Lambert a copy of the book along with the membership cards. She laminated them and passed them out and read the book aloud to the class (5th grade). The kids enjoyed the book, started discussions and debates.

I like writing for children. I can never repay the authors who gave me so much as a child, but I hope by bringing a little joy to some kids it helps me give something back. Beyond the marketing, the smile on a kid’s face makes all the work well worth it. If you’d like to know more about The Nightmare Club, please visit their page at http://www.howardhopkins.com/nightmareclub.htm

Return of the Mousketeer

2009-06-04T14:57:00.001-05:00

Those reading my blog might have seen my bit on Mr. Muggles about a week back. In it, I promised updates so here’s the latest. Mr. Muggles has been thumbing his little gray paw at me the entire week. He runs out from behind the washer, peeps into my office late at night, then scurries back to whence he came. I think I hear a squeaky laugh but that might be just my imagination. But he does seem to think it’s pretty funny. A few nights back he even had a little piece of paper in his mouth and stopped by the door to mock me. I got up and went after him but he vanished, leaving the paper behind, which turned out to be a piece of a sticker from one of my niece’s coloring books.

Well, I’m pleased to report Mr. Muggles, after a month or more of taunting me, boarded the large steel transport vehicle at precisely 3.15pm and was promptly entered in the mousy witness protection program. He was relocated to a nice big field, provided a ration of peanuts and sent along his merry way. This time I was the one laughing. He didn’t look the least bit happy, but you win some you lose some, even when you’re the Six Million Dollar Mouse.

He was a big sucker. He was sticking his little gray nose through the air holes on the hotel trap and didn’t appear to be the least bit intimidated. More like pissed off. Now I am crossing my fingers he doesn’t have GPS. Or a mouse posse…

Is it Live or is it Silicone?

2009-06-02T21:53:00.001-05:00

As much as I appreciate certain parts of the female anatomy, I have never really understood implants. Oh, yes, I understand why in a cleavage-oriented world (in my opinion a goooood thing) somebody might want more of what the Good Lord gave them, or didn’t give them, as the case might be. I understand it’s an esteem thing, or a feeling inadequate thing—we men get it, too, only a bit lower—or maybe just a bigger is better thing. You want a Hummer and DNA stuck you with a Yugo. Two Yugos.

But to go under anesthetic and have something surgically crammed into one’s ta-ta territory? Risk the infection, the myriad potential other health issues equated with surgery? No thanks.

They don’t always look quite right anyway. There’s a girl at the gym I go to…she makes sure you know she got her ta-tas at the plastic surgery store and paid a hell of a lot for them. She displays them proudly and mammerously. You can see them coming quite a ways off. But they kind of look like beach balls made out of skin. With blow up nipples. They don’t move when she lays on a bench, but they go up and down, sometimes one at a time, when she does lat pull downs (for those of you who don’t go to the gym and use weights your lats are those flaring muscles in your back and a pull down consists of a metal bar overhead you grip and pull towards your chest while in a sitting position.) They look solid, but I’m not about to check if her cantaloupes are indeed fresh.

Some of them of course look very nice, but none of them can quite imitate that jiggly quality we men so love…oh, whoops, went off on a tangent…back to program…

Anyway, I don’t really get plastic surgery and the emphasis placed on looking young and perfect anyway. Unless you have a second head growing out of your neck, why take the risk? For maybe a few years of keeping things gravity intended to tug down up? I guess to each his/her own but I like natural aging and natural, er, peaks. Self-esteem comes from within. We all have things we don’t like about ourselves. This or that isn’t big enough, shaped well enough or whatever. I’d like all that nice full thick hair I used to have back. But I am not about to sit there getting latch-hooked in a surgeon’s office. And I won’t have any surgery I don’t absolutely need…though I do hear men can now get butt implants. And bicep and calf implants. THAT would sure save a lot of time in the gym…

Modern Horror Movies--Why Bother?

2009-06-01T15:51:00.001-05:00

Being a horror writer (though I am technically probably more of a supernatural writer), there are a number of things that really tick me off in horror movies. Most of them are cheap moves to illicit some sort of audience response—fear, gross out, character empathy or whatever—and rarely do they work. I can tolerate a somewhat clichéd storyline as long as the writer/director brings something new to it, or the human drama and acting are sufficient enough to involve me. I guess the same could be said for horror novels nowadays as well. Rosemary’s Baby wasn’t a particularly new concept overall, a young woman having the Devil’s son, but it was done so well that didn’t matter. There are only a certain number of situations and plot devices anyway; it’s how you employ them.

But the cheap stuff, the go for the jolt stuff, just doesn’t cut it for me. At the top of the list is introducing a family pet, who you know is going to meet with some grisly fate a sort while into the film. Nothing makes me want to walk right out of movie faster, and I can see it the moment it’s set up. Being an animal lover this almost always just ruins it for me and it’s old. (To be fair I have seen the dead animal device used in comedies way too much and don’t find it the least bit funny. Maybe the same could be said for corpses, though there was an episode of Fawlty Towers that managed to pull that off exceptionally well). It’s not scary, it’s not funny and it just gives me a sick feeling.

Which brings me to the second thing on my list: I don’t like horror movies that simply sicken me. That isn’t what I like about horror, which is why I tend to enjoy the classic or older stuff more. I like being scared, knowing when I walk out of the theater I can shut the door on the monster in the closet. Phantasm, as cheesy and bloody as it was at times, still had an extremely scary element—the Tall Man. I wasn’t sickened by him, but boy I wanted to shut that closet fast. The Saw type movies on the other hand just revolt me. They are too close to the sickos in everyday life, and I like the spooky stuff to take me away from that, contain it.

Then there’s the gore for gore’s sake or goop for goop’s sake stuff. I don’t much care for limbs or heads coming off or body fluids spewing from every orifice just for the sake of getting an “eeew” reaction out a theater full of teens and some adults who never got much past that adolescent maturity level. Eyeballs popping out aren’t high on my list either.

All this comes in the absence of decent storyline, or lack of suspense and character build up. And usually has an ending pulled out of somebody’s Hollywood ass.

I would, however, leave the shower scenes in. I can see their value…ahem…

I would really like to see the supernatural come back into horror films, that dark foreboding atmosphere and suspense build up. The gypsy curse worked fine in The Wolfman, because there was a tension and a genuine feeling of dread for the poor guy afflicted. It worked in Dark Shadows because there was a creepy hand to go along with it that became animated (creepy animated crawling hands always freak me out anyway. I recall a 50s movies with one crawling up the back seat in a car towards a woman in the front—now that was freakin’ scary!) But a gypsy spewing her teeth and various types of goop for no other reason than cheap gross out does not.

I’m not sure a masterful horror movie can be made in today’s market. Studios aim for that young audience, who can’t seem to sit still for true creepiness. They want is fast and gruesome and gross. Story doesn’t seem to matter much and people are no more than ducks on a shooting range for the ax-wielding psycho. Special effects are more important than suspense.

Perhaps someday we’ll return to something more worthy of the genre. And while they’re at it, some decent westerns would be nice too.

The Devil Made 'Em Do It

2009-05-29T17:04:00.001-05:00

A few nights ago a friend of mine named Claire told me to switch on Nightline because she knew I was doing some research into the Devil for an article. As a horror writer, the Devil is good fodder, but I’ll get into that more in the actual article when I write it.

This particular Nightline dealt with the Republic of the Congo and a few other African nations where pseudo religious potentates, corrupt officials and brainless parents believed their kids were possessed by the Devil and/or witchcraft.

Of course these false priests and crooked politicos make plenty of unpossessed, if not clean, money off of the whole thing by offering fake cures for non-existent maladies. As if profiting on others’ distress wasn’t disgusting enough, idiot parents were dragging perfectly normal kids in to be “exorcised”, often painfully, or worse burning them with cigarettes themselves to cast out the demons, or simply abandoning them in the middle of nowhere. What the hell, I guess, they could just have more young’ins. One little boy who had been left by his father on the side of the road in the middle of the jungle wandered into the “healing” camp and hadn’t eaten in God knows how long. Damned if I didn’t want to just burst into tears seeing this poor child. And throw up. Thank goodness the reporter got him a plate of food (and while I am at it I would like to thank these “republics” for letting millions of dollars worth of donated food and medicine rot on docks or be sold black market instead of going towards their intended use. Jolly good job you bastards are doing. I suppose all those poor children are just cluttering up your land anyway and getting in the way or your drug-running, terrorism, raping, ivory poaching and corpulent lifestyles. I’m very glad to see how far you’ve moved into civilized society.)

One mother was letting her half-dozen plus children scamper around the fake priest’s camp without food or water because she thought they were all possessed. And the dumb bitch was pregnant with yet another child. It was pretty obvious who was possessed in this case, and not by witchcraft but by stupidity, ignorance and plain insanity. Somebody needs to sew this woman’s crotch shut.

When confronted by the reporter (whom I give kudos for not backing off), these fake healers laughed and had the gall to ask for money. And when confronted with the atrocities being suffered by these children, the Powers that Be refused to close these fake churches because “powerful” people sometimes attended.

What the hell is wrong with people? There are a number of problems here, the least of which is what are these kids going to think when—if—they grow up about religion with this kind of “Christianity” as an example? And I am NOT taking shots at Christianity or any religion here. I am condemning these charlatans who hurt and steal in the name of something that is supposed to do good. There are many many wonderful Christian missionaries, as well as from other religions, doing tremendous work, often at the risk of life and limb. But these sons of bitches who masquerade under the name Goodness so they can prey on the innocent—they make me sick.

Yeah, I realize children can be genuine pains in the ass, and often even cruel and destructive if left to their own devices by parents who are experts at plugging A into B but idiots when it comes to dealing with the result of their union. But possessed by the Devil? With the exception of some of my neighborhood kids, I don’t think so. At first I honestly didn’t know which was more disgusting—the fake priests, the brain-dead parents or crooked officials. After some contemplation and calming down, I lean towards despising the parents most because they are the ones responsible for protecting their children, not offering them up to the guilty, not labeling them as demon-inhabited—something that tainted even the “cured” for life. These parents are robbing their children of their childhood and all the truly “magical” things that are supposed to go with it. These kids will never have the chance to be kids, to be cowboys and princesses, to pretend to sail the stars or ride the wind. Their frickin’ dumb ass parents have robbed them of that wonder and So. Much. More. Because if they grown up they will likely have nothing more than a sickly distorted and perverted view of the world. How could they have anything else?

Those parents, fake priests and corrupt officials are the REAL Devils here, not some horned being crawling up from the Underworld. If anyone is possessed, assuming some such thing were possible, it is them.

My heart bleeds for these children. And has utter contempt for their tormentors. May they be damned for their despicable deeds.

A Bitter Pill

2009-05-28T14:17:00.000-05:00

Last night I caught the tail end of a news report proclaiming a recent scientific study stated bitterness may be a mental illness. If it is, it’s all too prevalent in today’s society. I know some very bitter people, and I’m sure y’all do too. It’s hard not to be bitter when everywhere you turn one injustice or another occurs with impunity. Or someone undeserving of success makes millions while the truly talented, such as Poe, die of disease and in poverty.

I know a writer who’s extremely bitter. This despite the fact he’s sold over 20 books, though those books don’t bring in very much money. I can empathize with that, as can most writers, and probably most 9 to 5 workers, who feel they don’t get paid enough for what they do. This writer, however, seemed bitter before writing, and has become even more so as time has gone on. He seems to revel in the passive aggressive snipes at others’ successes, however large or small. His bitterness bleeds through nearly every post, blog or article he writes. It’s sad, yet at the same time can wear on you if you either aren’t yet bitter or are struggling not to become that way.

Does this writer have a mental illness? Is this illness brought about by society? One’s own faulty wiring? Environmental and rearing factors? Can it be cured with some cognitive therapy, assuming the person is capable of realizing they are indeed emotionally ill?

If bitterness becomes a mental illness, does negativism? Cynicism? Is Don Rickles funny or deranged? What defines a mental illness, anyway? Who sets that standard and what average is it judged against?

Maybe happy, well-adjusted people are mentally ill. Maybe positive, hopeful people are messed up.

Sometimes it seems hard to tell just what it real and unreal in today’s world. Which is reality and which is dream. And for too many it’s easy to slip into that which feels the most comfortable for them. Easier to hide from the shadows, all the while being absorbed into them.

I wonder where it will stop. If it will stop. Hmm, maybe that makes me nuts. One thing I am positive of, I grow exceedingly tired of bitter negative people trying to bring others down, then getting angry when they refuse to accept their charcoal-colored reality.

How about you?

Rejection Deception

2009-05-27T16:09:00.001-05:00

Nobody likes rejection. Authors have an especially difficult time handling it because, even though it’s built into the game, it involves a dismissal of something that is part of our very being—our creativity. You send out a manuscript you’ve spent countless hours honing to perfection, poured your blood, sweat and tears into…only to get it back, sometimes a year later, with a form slip that says: Not for Us. Fed through out mind filter it reads: You suck.

Rejection is hard. And rejection of something you’ve put that much of yourself into is right up there with someone telling you your baby looks like the backside of horse. As authors, we sometime take the rejection as a personal slight, meaning not only is our book no good but maybe we’re no good. Our self-worth is often tied into our creation. It’s not meant that way by the publisher or editor who rejected the work Often it is merely market-driven considerations, at least for their particular company. But it’s hard not to take it personally.

It’s that way in any area of life. Whether you’re asking the girl/guy of your dreams for a first date or applying for that job you feel would be perfect for you.

Over time you can cut down on those rejections, by honing your talents, developing your skills…or buying a small firearm. You know I’m kidding on the last one, right? Er, mostly.

Rejection, however, can be useful, if not pleasant—if we resign ourselves to viewing it in a positive manner. We can let it fuel our drive to succeed, to augment our skills and learn new ones, to sharpen the talents we already have. We can gain experience and learn to cope with a world that commonly does not go our way, instead of letting it make us bitter and frustrated. There will be days, of course, when one particular rejection hurts more than another, or when someone issuing the rejection decides to get personal and take out their pettiness or bad day on you. But you know what? Those types aren’t worth worrying about anyway. Why give them that power over your self-esteem or mood?

Like most authors, I have enough rejection slips I received early on to paper a wall. But I learned from them (if nothing else, where best to hide the, er, bodies…) The one thing you can count on with rejections, however: they make the acceptances, whether it be that first sale or first date, all the sweeter and more appreciated.

A Little Sex Talk...or Not.

2009-05-26T21:32:00.000-05:00

Sex is a delicate subject. It’s not really a time you want to hear a lot of laughing, bored sighs or throwing up. And there are just some things you don’t want to ask, during or after sex. Not only can the kill the moment—and let’s face guys, sometimes a moment is all you got—but they’re sure not to get you a return invitation. A little decorum can go a long ways, so heed the advice of those who have gone before…and never gone again…

“You’re HOW old?”

“Hey, do you mind if the monkeys watch?”

“What the hell is THAT thing, anyway?”

“Should I get a rope?”

“Are those real?”

“What do you mean you need to run my credit card numbers?”

“Why are you wearing scuba gear?”

“I thought you said you were a girl!”

“Is an electric carving knife really necessary?”

“There are penalties for early withdrawal, you know…”

“What was your name again?”

“You’re kidding, right? I thought everybody liked Poodles.”

“Dammit, my husband’s home!”

“Are you dead?”

And last but not least: “Silly Rabbit, tricks are for kids…” Or am I mixing that last one up with something? Meh.