In the last week, I have finished with two short stories that I am quite excited about: The Dregs and It Cries. Both were written for the e-zine Necrotic Tissue--both are terrifying (so I am told). The Dregs is a submission for the e-zine itself, with It Cries being a submission for Necrotic Tissue's upcoming "Bloom Memorial" anthology. Please look for the anthology in late 2008... perhaps early 2009.
Not to worry, my work on No Innocent Victim and Jewel is coming along just fine--both are still on schedule anyway.
Some good news for Spirit Asylum! In the last week, I have had a few more requests for material. The one that I am excited about inparticular is from Sandy Lu of Vanguard Literary. Sandy is a rock solid agent and along with Brendan Deneen, one of my top choices.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Jewel Exerpt (Revised Edition)
Thank you to all who gave me input on the exerpt that I had posted for Jewel. In considering all of your sage advice, I rewrote and below is what I came up with. Please take the time--once again--to let me know what you think. All your help and compliments are much appreciated!
Jewel
She was new to our school, so I suppose that in some uncanny fashion, that made her fresh and exciting. In the first few days of her arrival, we all flocked to her like moths to a flame. Maybe it was the cute red hair and freckles or maybe it was the helpless look she had about her—our young male egos already starting to bud like an insipid forbearer of things to come.
Jewel was sullen.
And that is akin to calling blood simply a liquid.
A more appropriate term would be haunted, which fell nearer the mark than anything; that red hair hanging in clumsy strands over sunken pale blue eyes which almost never opened to their full potential, bony shoulders that slumped just a bit too far forward causing her back to hump in an awkward posture. Jewel made a habit out of the way she played with her fingers—wringing them when nervous, which was almost always—as she stared at things no one else, save her, could see. Jewel never wore sleeves and her gangly arms seemed to dangle like pendulums. Her bare freckled arms and white skin accentuated the faint bruises on her forearms that never seemed to quite heal up. They matched in a rather fiendish compliment with the red scrape on her forehead. She reminded me of a tortured soul without a voice—a thirsty flower, uprooted and wilted. Dead.
For most eleven year olds, attention span was still a bitch, and so my other classmates—already singed well enough for their tastes—fell away like moth corpses in the breeze. Despite the lapse of the others, I always was resilient so fluttered about her longer than most—perhaps too long.
I noticed all this before she had ever parted her thin lips to utter a word, but then she did and my world changed forever.
Jewel
She was new to our school, so I suppose that in some uncanny fashion, that made her fresh and exciting. In the first few days of her arrival, we all flocked to her like moths to a flame. Maybe it was the cute red hair and freckles or maybe it was the helpless look she had about her—our young male egos already starting to bud like an insipid forbearer of things to come.
Jewel was sullen.
And that is akin to calling blood simply a liquid.
A more appropriate term would be haunted, which fell nearer the mark than anything; that red hair hanging in clumsy strands over sunken pale blue eyes which almost never opened to their full potential, bony shoulders that slumped just a bit too far forward causing her back to hump in an awkward posture. Jewel made a habit out of the way she played with her fingers—wringing them when nervous, which was almost always—as she stared at things no one else, save her, could see. Jewel never wore sleeves and her gangly arms seemed to dangle like pendulums. Her bare freckled arms and white skin accentuated the faint bruises on her forearms that never seemed to quite heal up. They matched in a rather fiendish compliment with the red scrape on her forehead. She reminded me of a tortured soul without a voice—a thirsty flower, uprooted and wilted. Dead.
For most eleven year olds, attention span was still a bitch, and so my other classmates—already singed well enough for their tastes—fell away like moth corpses in the breeze. Despite the lapse of the others, I always was resilient so fluttered about her longer than most—perhaps too long.
I noticed all this before she had ever parted her thin lips to utter a word, but then she did and my world changed forever.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Exerpt of "Jewel"
Besides writing No Innocent Victim, I am currently working on expanding one of my short stories—Jewel—into a novella. The short story version is currently under consideration for award. I am extremely excited about this particular project and would appreciate some feedback—positive or constructive as always—from those following my writing endeavors. Please feel free to leave a comment under the “comments” section beneath this entry. I will do my best to respond to everyone who takes the time. Thanks!
Jewel
She was new—to our school anyway—so I suppose that in some uncanny fashion, that made her fresh and exciting. In the first few days of her arrival, we all flocked to her like moths to a flame. Maybe it was the cute red hair and freckles or maybe it was the helpless look she had about her—our young male egos already starting to bud like an insipid forbearer of things to come.
Jewel was sullen and that puts it as rather a bland understatement. A more appropriate term may be haunted, which fell nearer the mark than anything; she had red hair that hung in clumsy strands over sunken pale blue eyes that almost never opened to their full potential, shoulders that slumped just a bit too far forward causing her back to hump precariously. Jewel made a habit out of the way she played with her fingers—wringing them when nervous, which was almost always—as she stared at things no one else could see. Jewel never wore sleeves and her gangly arms seemed to dangle like pendulums from her bony shoulders. Her bare freckled arms and white skin accentuated the faint bruises on her forearms that never seemed to quite heal up. They matched in a rather fiendish compliment with the red scrape on her forehead. She reminded me of a tortured soul without a voice—a flower not watered and stepped on, uprooted and wilted. Dead
I noticed all this before she had ever parted her thin lips to utter a word, but then she did and my world changed forever. The other moths had already been singed well enough for their tastes—for eleven year olds, attention span was still a bitch. They fell away like moth corpses in the breeze. I always was a glutton for punishment so fluttered about her longer than most—perhaps too long. In fact, I remember the day in which I knew I had hung on a bit longer than prudent.
Jewel
She was new—to our school anyway—so I suppose that in some uncanny fashion, that made her fresh and exciting. In the first few days of her arrival, we all flocked to her like moths to a flame. Maybe it was the cute red hair and freckles or maybe it was the helpless look she had about her—our young male egos already starting to bud like an insipid forbearer of things to come.
Jewel was sullen and that puts it as rather a bland understatement. A more appropriate term may be haunted, which fell nearer the mark than anything; she had red hair that hung in clumsy strands over sunken pale blue eyes that almost never opened to their full potential, shoulders that slumped just a bit too far forward causing her back to hump precariously. Jewel made a habit out of the way she played with her fingers—wringing them when nervous, which was almost always—as she stared at things no one else could see. Jewel never wore sleeves and her gangly arms seemed to dangle like pendulums from her bony shoulders. Her bare freckled arms and white skin accentuated the faint bruises on her forearms that never seemed to quite heal up. They matched in a rather fiendish compliment with the red scrape on her forehead. She reminded me of a tortured soul without a voice—a flower not watered and stepped on, uprooted and wilted. Dead
I noticed all this before she had ever parted her thin lips to utter a word, but then she did and my world changed forever. The other moths had already been singed well enough for their tastes—for eleven year olds, attention span was still a bitch. They fell away like moth corpses in the breeze. I always was a glutton for punishment so fluttered about her longer than most—perhaps too long. In fact, I remember the day in which I knew I had hung on a bit longer than prudent.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
What is a friend?
How does one know when they have great friends? I would wager that most people would list unconditional support, or some such nicety, at the very top of their list of priorities. Although I agree that bearers of unconditional things are desirable, downright hard to find truth be told, I find myself wondering—after my friends’ latest shenanigans—if a better test of the metal of friendship might be the satisfying of my rather bizarre whims.
In case you have not been paying attention, I am to be wed in August of this year. It will be a resoundingly small affair, with a rather large gathering—in comparison—after the nuptials themselves. Along with the said ceremony come the many other trivial bits of pop culture that Ali and I must endure to reach the end prize. I shall not bore you or insult your intelligence by listing them all, but safe to say there are a great many. Anyone who has gone through this type of thing before knows exactly what I mean. In particular, there is the bachelor party.
I know… when men (or women for that matter) think of the bachelor party, images of brass poles, beer kegs, and seedy hotel rooms flit into their minds like random bits of mischievous confetti. Not my friends. No, my friends are the best friends anyone would ever want. Not only have they planned a bachelor party for me that satisfies one of my greatest whims, but will also provide spice for my writing endeavors. They have lined up a private trip to the Tuberculosis asylum in which I wrote of in Spirit Asylum.
The Saint Julia asylum is a sprawling mass of concrete on the otherwise beautiful shores of Lake Julia. Nothing but wildlife… and perhaps the inhuman, have inhabited it for fifty years. It has been resold religiously every couple of years because of the strain that it would have put on the purse strings to tear it down. My heart is already pounding as I imagine walking into Saint Julia with video camera in hand, hoping that I have not upset anyone or anything by way of my novel writing. Of course I am being dramatic, but it will be exciting none-the-less… my novel springing to life before my eyes, at least in my mind. Better yet will be watching my friends, as they navigate about in the pitch black, perhaps gaining a small understanding of why I write about the things that live “Within The Shadows”.
In case you have not been paying attention, I am to be wed in August of this year. It will be a resoundingly small affair, with a rather large gathering—in comparison—after the nuptials themselves. Along with the said ceremony come the many other trivial bits of pop culture that Ali and I must endure to reach the end prize. I shall not bore you or insult your intelligence by listing them all, but safe to say there are a great many. Anyone who has gone through this type of thing before knows exactly what I mean. In particular, there is the bachelor party.
I know… when men (or women for that matter) think of the bachelor party, images of brass poles, beer kegs, and seedy hotel rooms flit into their minds like random bits of mischievous confetti. Not my friends. No, my friends are the best friends anyone would ever want. Not only have they planned a bachelor party for me that satisfies one of my greatest whims, but will also provide spice for my writing endeavors. They have lined up a private trip to the Tuberculosis asylum in which I wrote of in Spirit Asylum.
The Saint Julia asylum is a sprawling mass of concrete on the otherwise beautiful shores of Lake Julia. Nothing but wildlife… and perhaps the inhuman, have inhabited it for fifty years. It has been resold religiously every couple of years because of the strain that it would have put on the purse strings to tear it down. My heart is already pounding as I imagine walking into Saint Julia with video camera in hand, hoping that I have not upset anyone or anything by way of my novel writing. Of course I am being dramatic, but it will be exciting none-the-less… my novel springing to life before my eyes, at least in my mind. Better yet will be watching my friends, as they navigate about in the pitch black, perhaps gaining a small understanding of why I write about the things that live “Within The Shadows”.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Art of Querying
Earlier this month I finally sent out a batch of query letters requesting representation for Spirit Asylum, my second novel. It has taken me awhile, but I believe that I have the manuscript honed to at least a reasonably sharp edge.
I know that perhaps I should have used more of a scattergun approach, but instead I have employed a technique that I thought any agent should appreciate. Having been an HR Manager, I understand a little bit about being approached for a job. I always liked it when job seekers did some research and tailored their materials to match the job I had open. I figured agents can’t be far off from feeling the same way. After all, publishing is a business like anything else. Why would an agent want to represent someone who doesn’t meet the criteria for the kind of author they are looking for? So anyway, I did a little research.
I started on Agent Query with my research and branched out to agency websites. I also noted who represented authors that resembled my style and genre. From there I narrowed down the field by researching each of the agents one by one. I had a wonderful time actually. I read through agent blogs, agent profiles, and any advice that they had rendered available on-line. I took the information to heart and tweaked my query letter for each of the six agents I chose. I can hear my fellow writers laughing now. “You’ll never get a request for a partial after only six tries!”
I would kindly like to point out what a keen eye Mr. Brendan Deneen of Objective Entertainment has. I would also like to thank him for proving my theory to be accurate and for finding my short synopsis “cool”. Brendan was within the top two agents that I decided to approach and I would be ecstatic to begin a professional business relationship with a solid agent and agency. Here is to hoping that Brendan finds my sample chapters equally as “cool” as my short synopsis. The manuscript is already enveloped and stamped, prepared for departure to New York.
Just thought I would share a little information that other authors might find helpful.
Okay, back to No Innocent Victim (my next work in progress). It has been speaking to me from “within the shadows” as of late, feeling neglected. I shouldn’t keep it waiting.
I know that perhaps I should have used more of a scattergun approach, but instead I have employed a technique that I thought any agent should appreciate. Having been an HR Manager, I understand a little bit about being approached for a job. I always liked it when job seekers did some research and tailored their materials to match the job I had open. I figured agents can’t be far off from feeling the same way. After all, publishing is a business like anything else. Why would an agent want to represent someone who doesn’t meet the criteria for the kind of author they are looking for? So anyway, I did a little research.
I started on Agent Query with my research and branched out to agency websites. I also noted who represented authors that resembled my style and genre. From there I narrowed down the field by researching each of the agents one by one. I had a wonderful time actually. I read through agent blogs, agent profiles, and any advice that they had rendered available on-line. I took the information to heart and tweaked my query letter for each of the six agents I chose. I can hear my fellow writers laughing now. “You’ll never get a request for a partial after only six tries!”
I would kindly like to point out what a keen eye Mr. Brendan Deneen of Objective Entertainment has. I would also like to thank him for proving my theory to be accurate and for finding my short synopsis “cool”. Brendan was within the top two agents that I decided to approach and I would be ecstatic to begin a professional business relationship with a solid agent and agency. Here is to hoping that Brendan finds my sample chapters equally as “cool” as my short synopsis. The manuscript is already enveloped and stamped, prepared for departure to New York.
Just thought I would share a little information that other authors might find helpful.
Okay, back to No Innocent Victim (my next work in progress). It has been speaking to me from “within the shadows” as of late, feeling neglected. I shouldn’t keep it waiting.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Winning Formula
I have had a couple of people ask me recently what I think the "winning" formula may be for writing and getting published. My first somewhat sarcastic remark was, "How would I know?" At the time, I thought that perhaps I didn't have the right to answer. I have enjoyed a modicum of success with the contests, but have not yet been published with a major publishing house. After some thought, however, I have come to the conclusion that this is America, and by God, I shall give my unabashed opinion… take it or leave it.
A pastor friend of mine once said, "Justin, you should give the first two minutes of anything you do to God." Okay. Fine. The first part of the formula: God gets his measly two minutes - whether he wants it or not - from this foul mouthed horror writer. After all, I need all the help I can get. Ha!
The percentages that I am about to set forth represent a percentage of the time that you actually get to devote to your craft. The actual hour count is obviously going to vary greatly from person to person depending on other time commitments that they may have. My hope is that as you find success in writing, the more time you will have to spend on what you love. I am also going to make an assumption: The people reading my blog, and actually paying attention to the formula, will already have completed at least one piece of work that they feel is worthy of representation or presentation.
Here it is folks; the Winning Formula… I hope!
60% writing new material (Why bother writing otherwise?)
15% marketing current material (Reach for the golden ring… and grasp it!)
12% revising old material (Only upon suggestion from a competent authority or peer)
7% networking (Face it… we need the encouragement and advice from our peers)
6% research (it's called the internet folks. Don't lie… you use it too!)
Let me know if the formula works for you. Obviously there may be times in your writing career when certain priorities will take over and this formula will go flying out the window. Here's to hoping that it is an agent or an editor dictating your time for you!
As for me, I must get back to my writing; something is clamoring for my attention, from "Within the Shadows".
A pastor friend of mine once said, "Justin, you should give the first two minutes of anything you do to God." Okay. Fine. The first part of the formula: God gets his measly two minutes - whether he wants it or not - from this foul mouthed horror writer. After all, I need all the help I can get. Ha!
The percentages that I am about to set forth represent a percentage of the time that you actually get to devote to your craft. The actual hour count is obviously going to vary greatly from person to person depending on other time commitments that they may have. My hope is that as you find success in writing, the more time you will have to spend on what you love. I am also going to make an assumption: The people reading my blog, and actually paying attention to the formula, will already have completed at least one piece of work that they feel is worthy of representation or presentation.
Here it is folks; the Winning Formula… I hope!
60% writing new material (Why bother writing otherwise?)
15% marketing current material (Reach for the golden ring… and grasp it!)
12% revising old material (Only upon suggestion from a competent authority or peer)
7% networking (Face it… we need the encouragement and advice from our peers)
6% research (it's called the internet folks. Don't lie… you use it too!)
Let me know if the formula works for you. Obviously there may be times in your writing career when certain priorities will take over and this formula will go flying out the window. Here's to hoping that it is an agent or an editor dictating your time for you!
As for me, I must get back to my writing; something is clamoring for my attention, from "Within the Shadows".
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Humble Attempt At Philosophy
As I sit down to write this blog entry, I can’t help but ponder the human dichotomy. We are truly a duopolistic species; torn between our chemical reactions in regards to fear and love… and devotion to an omnipotent deity (at least for the majority of the world). As a horror writer, I find it absolutely delicious that the human psyche performs at its most optimal when aroused, either by the need to mate or by fear. Furthermore, I would go out on a limb to muse that nothing has motivated human beings more so. I challenge each of you to think of anything more powerful in your life than; the need to reproduce, escape harm, or please the whims of our jealous God. Only after these three visceral criteria have been adequately met, do most of us humans venture further into the world to appreciate the arts and other more superlative endeavors. I allow for the fact that the need for belonging is strong among us, but even that… can it not be lumped, at least communally, under one of the other three? Is it any wonder that we are often a slave to our emotions… or our chemicals? Perhaps we need not be. Atheists confuse creative stifling with our inability to travel past our instincts… the things that make us human. I challenge us all to step outside our fragile shells and live; embrace our fears not subdue them.
I dare say, however, that fear is a dish best served at a time of our own choosing. Many self proclaimed atheist authors and philosophers such as Georges Bataille and Friedrich Nietzsche rail against the design and fabric of Christianity. Why? Please bear in mind that this explanation is simply put: Besides their ideology that religion purportedly renders us inhibited and less creative, one of their prevalent arguments is that religion instills a sense of trepidation into its constituency. Bertrand Russell said, "Religion is based . . . mainly on fear . . . fear of the mysterious, fear of defeat, fear of death. Fear is the parent of cruelty, and therefore it is no wonder if cruelty and religion have gone hand in hand...” I won’t argue the point that the Spanish Inquisition and the various Crusades were cruel. Never has there been a darker time in the history of Christianity. We made our beliefs compulsory. What is religion when there is no freedom to choose? What is religion when it is forced down our gaping maws on a hardened steel blade? Perhaps the Dark Ages were exactly that… dark. As for myself, if not for having witnessed direct answer to prayer and seen the presence of spiritual beings, I could quite possibly have shifted my thinking to the same vein as the above mentioned because of poor examples within the religious community – and admittedly, there are many. I have not because I do believe, at least to an extent, that religion and fear should be allowed to walk within the same circles… as they always have. Fear is not a bad thing as long as we don't allow it to reduce us to a quivering mound of mush. I believe that our spirituality may be the only way we truly can break the bonds of our innate chemicals and embrace our fears. After all, some aspects of religion are accurately portrayed as fear invoking… hell is supposed to be evil… evil should invoke fear.
I then find it of interest that God challenges us to overcome our fear and “Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid…” The Bible goes on to say that we as humans have dominion over the powers of darkness. We win, they lose. Despite our body’s efficiency while fueled by the above stimuli, many come to the conclusion that obedience and reverence to an omnipotent being brings us a certain respite from exactly these things. I would then also mention that I believe the opposite to be true as well. Without fear, what need have we for our all powerful God? What need would we have for the spilled blood of Christ if there were no fear of spending eternity having our flesh burned off? Yes indeed, the Bible is chock full of horror… potential eternal suffering, spilled blood, demons, the end times… I do believe, however, that there is a bit about love as well (just to be fair).
Thus I write within the horror genre. Yes, I am aware that many of my titles spill over into the thriller category as well, but I prefer horror because it elicits fear or at the very least, creates discomfort; this discomfort thus nourishing our body’s natural efficiencies and giving us the opportunity to step outside our disquiet natures, while allowing me to write about things from “Within the Shadows”.
I dare say, however, that fear is a dish best served at a time of our own choosing. Many self proclaimed atheist authors and philosophers such as Georges Bataille and Friedrich Nietzsche rail against the design and fabric of Christianity. Why? Please bear in mind that this explanation is simply put: Besides their ideology that religion purportedly renders us inhibited and less creative, one of their prevalent arguments is that religion instills a sense of trepidation into its constituency. Bertrand Russell said, "Religion is based . . . mainly on fear . . . fear of the mysterious, fear of defeat, fear of death. Fear is the parent of cruelty, and therefore it is no wonder if cruelty and religion have gone hand in hand...” I won’t argue the point that the Spanish Inquisition and the various Crusades were cruel. Never has there been a darker time in the history of Christianity. We made our beliefs compulsory. What is religion when there is no freedom to choose? What is religion when it is forced down our gaping maws on a hardened steel blade? Perhaps the Dark Ages were exactly that… dark. As for myself, if not for having witnessed direct answer to prayer and seen the presence of spiritual beings, I could quite possibly have shifted my thinking to the same vein as the above mentioned because of poor examples within the religious community – and admittedly, there are many. I have not because I do believe, at least to an extent, that religion and fear should be allowed to walk within the same circles… as they always have. Fear is not a bad thing as long as we don't allow it to reduce us to a quivering mound of mush. I believe that our spirituality may be the only way we truly can break the bonds of our innate chemicals and embrace our fears. After all, some aspects of religion are accurately portrayed as fear invoking… hell is supposed to be evil… evil should invoke fear.
I then find it of interest that God challenges us to overcome our fear and “Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid…” The Bible goes on to say that we as humans have dominion over the powers of darkness. We win, they lose. Despite our body’s efficiency while fueled by the above stimuli, many come to the conclusion that obedience and reverence to an omnipotent being brings us a certain respite from exactly these things. I would then also mention that I believe the opposite to be true as well. Without fear, what need have we for our all powerful God? What need would we have for the spilled blood of Christ if there were no fear of spending eternity having our flesh burned off? Yes indeed, the Bible is chock full of horror… potential eternal suffering, spilled blood, demons, the end times… I do believe, however, that there is a bit about love as well (just to be fair).
Thus I write within the horror genre. Yes, I am aware that many of my titles spill over into the thriller category as well, but I prefer horror because it elicits fear or at the very least, creates discomfort; this discomfort thus nourishing our body’s natural efficiencies and giving us the opportunity to step outside our disquiet natures, while allowing me to write about things from “Within the Shadows”.
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