I’m enjoying going through the third draft of a novel. There seem to be so many folks doubting themselves or unsure of how they should approach things. Just do it, well, it cannot be that simple, of course, but getting after it, yeah, do it. I like it. I feel good about it. I’m not filled with doubt or worry if I’ll offend anyone or any of that manure. It feels right. Now, that isn’t valid in every scenario in life, but this time, I feel the burn. It’s warm.  

At times, I smile at things I wrote, stuff I forgot in the earlier drafts. There are times I doubt I wrote it at all. But that doesn’t scare me. Then there are the moments of passion, or outright Christmas morning glee when everything hooks up and the answers are revealed. Those are the times I feel it, I feel something, or someone in my mind. Maybe it’s my higher self, or my low-life, baser self, conducting an orchestra of the mad. Whatever the cheesy application, it’s damned good to listen to. It burns through the darkness and light splashes on the page. Does it smell like victory or just a mental napalm barbecue, hold the legions of victims? Dunno.

All writers have a God complex. Some fess up to it but others whack off against the idea for eternity. It’s a creation thing, some are weirder or more obsessive than others. Some, their balls never drop and they work their jaws in discussion on a topic instead of working it out in a tale. Others, spread it out too much and the money shot gets old after a spell. Today, though, I looked at what I made. And it was good.

Someday, someone will read it and tell me it blows chunks. They may say they didn’t care for it, it wasn’t their kind of thing or, it fell short of what I must’ve had in mind. That’s okay as well. I told the story. It exists. It belongs to no one else. Those who cannot try can bite me. Today, I’m God. If only for a little while.

Advance copies of my new novel TORMENTOR arrived yesterday. It’s always a humbling experience to hold a work labored over in one’s hands…to touch a little piece of a dream and marvel that it exists. This has happened before, and each new book brings a step up, another marker achieved. On the way home from work last night I wondered if it’d be that big of a deal, seeing a new book again.

Can any of ya see me as a giddy school kid?

I think I’d a tad more jaded than I used to be, but sitting there in the kitchen, tired and still hot from the factory, holding TORMENTOR made me feel like a kid again…

…that kid that used to re-fight Biblical battles in his huge sandbox, dreaming of writing books like the ones my brother left behind when he went to the Army…sure, that kid had German army soldiers attacking the walls of a sandy Jericho…but he’s still alive. And he isn’t done telling tales yet.

To say that writers are quirky is like debating of the Pope’s love of hats. Yeah, we have our moments, but at times one of them is the uncontrollable desire to write. I’ve been line editing and re-reading three different manuscripts or works ready to go soon, either to pubs or pre-readers, etc. However, while I perform surgery on these manuscripts (Hell prep them for further surgery but I digress) I’ve conceived of a few more books…developed simmering ideas, frankly. I’ve plotted out a couple, but one is drawing me into its clutches. Soon, there will be no going back. The fresh page awaits and I will start anew. I usually do this at the start of a month. What do ya know, April is around the corner and I can do a rough draft in a month.

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So, as the economy goes to Hades and work strife in my hometown is running wild, I prepare to fiddle while the desire burns. Will there be blood? Yup, lots of it. It won’t be pretty but I can promise it’ll never be boring.

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Per tradition, I’ve carbo loading my brain with stuff I really like: Robert E. Howard books (not of the genre I will write in either), history books on ancient times, hell billy music and lots of DVRs of Two and a Half Men episodes. None of this has to do with the horror novel I’m about to begin.

 

After being struck by a car bomb in Iraq, Marine reservist John Kern starts to hallucinate spirits, forgotten gods, and the man he beat to death back when he boxed professionally. While he recovers in Germany, Kern gets caught up in a cult of ghouls trying to resurrect a medieval Prussian torturer. Though still seeing visions of the nether-world, Kern attempts to make sense of those around him: A fawning nurse, a drunken fellow soldier, a concerned priest, a transsexual alchemist and the necrophiliac leader of the cult. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />....

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Will Battlin’ John Kern be strong enough to face what steps out of Hell itself? ....

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A story of horror, twisted lives, sacrifice, and heroism, TORMENTOR reaches deep into the soul and forces one to face their fears and overcome them. ....

Special kudos to Louise Bohmer at Lachesis for doing such a great job on the final version, and to Tracy Jones who did the first edit last year. ya both rock.
 

We all have our passions, for good or ill, but one I want to talk about is storytelling. I really love to tell tales. Be it things that crawled from my own mind, or stories my family knows of obscure times & battles…or just yarns of odd interest. Be they about religious men, women of sin or creatures wearing suits pretending to be nice guys, it is all very fun. I love it.  

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Every so often, I see the reaction in a person's face to what I've written. More often than not, it is kind of a disturbed amazement. In the case of my last novel, HAWG, it starts as, "Man, where did that come from?" From folks who work with me or know me casually, they wonder what I have on the inside now. Well, it wasn't all apple pie and rural comical ability to start with. Also, they all like the story and some were disturbed by it. I made a few folks think. I made them feel a little. I told a story. I had fun telling it. I hope folks read it and like it.

But I have more to tell. Fantasy tales, things that happened thousands of years ago and people forgot about…things that happened after the Civil War…things in my own hometown…things that happened in your hometown…tales that are fun to tell.

There is nothing worse than faking it. As a man, I guess it'd be akin to faking an orgasm. Tricky, but unsatisfying. I loathe writing what I don't wanna, as my son would say, so I won't.

I'm not holding a copy of my new novel HAWG in my hands, as I'm typing (har har) but since I got the copies last night, I had one delivered to the plant.

It is a surreal thing to see something you labored on so, worked to get right IN your hands, in print, breathing before you...all with a kick ass FC by Bob Freeman..which everyone LOVES BTW Bob...I heard "kick ass cover!" alot last night.

The product is great. Graveside Tales did a bang up job getting it made. As a printer geek, I'd see a flaw. It looks great.

And words are inside. Some are sad, some are disgusting, some are really funny...some will make one cry...and some will make you look behind you in the dark. But they are mine. No one wrote it for me. Good or ill, I told the story I wanted to tell. One can buy it. It is on print.

Dreams are strange things. As a kid, I dreamed of seeing my name on books. Yesterday, I was moved by the experience.

I'm going ot take this big assed box of books to HYPERICON and sell 'em all. If I do, I have to give a dramatic recital of a Neil Young song. It'll be worth it.  

I'd list thanks yous, but that'd take too long.

I'm holding HAWG.

Now, will you?

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