Just a quick note--because that's all I have time for--to say that Ali and my wedding went very well. Thank you to all of our friends and family for making the occasion wonderful and special. We are now on our honeymoon for a week, laying on the beach...and doing very few other things ;) I must add, because I can't help but shout it to the world, my bride was (and is, but especially on our wedding day) beautiful in every way imagineable. I cried like a baby when I saw her in her dress, mom and dad both helping her up the isle...awsome!
Secondly, I encourage all of you to check out the premiere issue of TREI Literary On-line Magazine. It comes out September 1st, 2008 and my new short story, IT CRIES, is included. Once I have been sent the link, I will post it here and on my website...otherwise just Google TREI Literary Magazine.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
Impending Marriage and Writing Updates
On August twenty-third of this month, Alicia Victoria Grivno (my beautiful and faithful muse) shall become the beautiful and faithful Alicia Victoria Holley. I am independent, sometimes to the extreme, but I must concede that my life (and writing for that matter) has grown to heights I didn't dare to think possible as a result of "Ali" being in it. I look forward, not only to the nuptials that saturday, but to a life-long journey together...wherever that life may take us.
On the writing front, that certain producer from Cali is still perusing THE DREGS in regards to its filmability. There has been some difficulty getting the MS in front of him, however, due to e-mail problems (them not reaching him). I found out because he e-mailed me wondering why he had not received the MS as of yet. I shall take that as a compliment, that he would bother to contact me. Being that I am an incessant worrier, I did contact Brendan Deneen (my potential future agent) to see if he had any wisdom to lend me in regards to contacting the above mentioned producer directly. Brendan graciously offered to e-mail the man himself. Not exactly an offer of representation, but dare I say that I am creeping closer? I will continue to work hard and see what happens.
My short story, IT CRIES, is still under consideration for inclusion in Necrotic Tissue's new BLOOM MEMORIAL print anthology. The anthology is due to run in late 2008 or early 2009.
On the writing front, that certain producer from Cali is still perusing THE DREGS in regards to its filmability. There has been some difficulty getting the MS in front of him, however, due to e-mail problems (them not reaching him). I found out because he e-mailed me wondering why he had not received the MS as of yet. I shall take that as a compliment, that he would bother to contact me. Being that I am an incessant worrier, I did contact Brendan Deneen (my potential future agent) to see if he had any wisdom to lend me in regards to contacting the above mentioned producer directly. Brendan graciously offered to e-mail the man himself. Not exactly an offer of representation, but dare I say that I am creeping closer? I will continue to work hard and see what happens.
My short story, IT CRIES, is still under consideration for inclusion in Necrotic Tissue's new BLOOM MEMORIAL print anthology. The anthology is due to run in late 2008 or early 2009.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Beyond the written word... perhaps?
Sometimes things in life take an unexpected, but delightful detour and rejection turns into something else entirely.
My short story "The Dregs" was rejected by Necrotic Tissue last week. More specifically it was rejected by Paige McCoy, one of the editors of the highly touted e-zine. Paige mentioned that, in her opinion, the peice has too many POV changes for a true short story. She did suggest, however, that it has the potential for the screen and that she wouldn't be surprised to see it there.
I had mixed emotions of course. Rejection is never grand, but within it came an opportunity that I had never considered. I sent the MS to a producer from Sacramento that I have become familiar with. I shall leave him nameless at this point, but he has worked with horror author Michael Laimo and so I thought he may be a good fit.
I am a bit excited because this producer got back to me and asked to see "The dregs". He thought the concept had merit and said that he would get back to me upon assessing "The Dregs" filmability. Now I wait as always, having learned that good things come to those that do--and those that work hard.
In the spirit of waiting, Brendan Deneen requested that I also keep him posted. Wouldn't that just be a wild ride... if this producer would care to produce "The Dregs" and Brendan Deneen would care to represent me. That is too much to think about, so I'll wait to jump up and down when it actually happens!
My short story "The Dregs" was rejected by Necrotic Tissue last week. More specifically it was rejected by Paige McCoy, one of the editors of the highly touted e-zine. Paige mentioned that, in her opinion, the peice has too many POV changes for a true short story. She did suggest, however, that it has the potential for the screen and that she wouldn't be surprised to see it there.
I had mixed emotions of course. Rejection is never grand, but within it came an opportunity that I had never considered. I sent the MS to a producer from Sacramento that I have become familiar with. I shall leave him nameless at this point, but he has worked with horror author Michael Laimo and so I thought he may be a good fit.
I am a bit excited because this producer got back to me and asked to see "The dregs". He thought the concept had merit and said that he would get back to me upon assessing "The Dregs" filmability. Now I wait as always, having learned that good things come to those that do--and those that work hard.
In the spirit of waiting, Brendan Deneen requested that I also keep him posted. Wouldn't that just be a wild ride... if this producer would care to produce "The Dregs" and Brendan Deneen would care to represent me. That is too much to think about, so I'll wait to jump up and down when it actually happens!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Recent Short Stories For Necrotic Tissue
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.
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.
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”.
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