Just in time for Halloween, 2 new horror books in print

My literary horror sort of gothic novel 100 Years of Blood and the collection SEVER, SLICE and STAB: 20 Tales of Horror are both now available in print.

This time I decided to go for something different with the designs. I intentionally decided to go against much of the common wisdom about e-book covers, and instead focused upon the print copies. I still think the top one should look okay as a copy for an e-book ... okay, not great, but okay ... but the bottom one doesn't show up will in the digital form, though I think it looks pretty nifty in the printed edition.

Where do I see myself as a fantasy writer?

One might argue a writer cannot determine his or her own legacy, not unless that writer becomes quite popular and lives to a ripe old age. Speculative genre figures such as Heinlein and Asimov and Tolkien had some control over how they were portrayed, but the images they had of themselves change and evolve the further we get from the end of their writing careers and often their deaths.

I am in no position to even think about my own writing legacy. Or at least I shouldn't be. I'm not that popular an author, in fantasy or any other genre.

But I don't set out to be.

Fame isn't a goal of mine. More money is always appreciated, but that's not really my goal, either.

Telling stories? A good number of writers will suggest they live to tell stories, that they long to reach readers with their tales. This is closer to the truth for me, but it's still not hitting the nail on the head.

I don't write for readers, at least not initially with each novel or short story. I occasionally will write with an anthology editor in mind, but that's usually because they have provided me a challenge in some way by giving me a new world to play in or a twist on a genre which I find interesting.

So who do I write for?

I write for myself.

I don't write because I enjoy it. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.

I write because, when I'm truly honest with myself, there are people living in my head and they are yearning to get out. They live there, slurking around within my skull, having their adventures, slaying the monsters, falling in love, falling out of love, betraying one another, honoring one another, doing all kinds of things to themselves and to each other.

No. No, that's not quite accurate either.

These people do not live in my brain. They live outside of me in another universe, or perhaps several other universes. If you're up on your quantum physics, this is theoretically possible.

So, they live in these other worlds, and my brain is somehow a conduit to wherever they are located. My mind is filled with images and emotions, and I must get these down onto paper or onto a computer screen. I must. I have to.

It's like breathing, or eating, or drinking water. If I do not do this, I will cease to exist, at least in any meaningful, conscious way. Without writing, I could physically go on, but I would be a shell of my former self.

Also, writing is sort of a spiritual thing for me, not quite metaphysical, but more philosophical. I like to explore my own mental landscape through my writing, and sometimes that is exciting, other times not so much.

If I don't tap into the stories in my head from time to time, my head will fill up and eventually explode. And we can't have that, brain matter and bloody gore all over the place with a bunch of sword-swinging freaks and ghoulish beasties wandering about outside my corpse.

That would be bad form.

So I write. I let a little steam out of the boiler from time to time.

That's why I write.

Now back to the image of myself as a writer.

I don't really set out to have an image, to be honest, though I suppose I do have one or something like one.

For example, a fan recently called me "humble," and I had to think about that. Am I humble? I don't consider myself especially humble, but when I look around at the world in which we live today, yeah, I have to say I'm a pretty humble guy. But only comparatively. I'm not as humble as a saint, not by any means, but compared to the celebrities and politicians and other familiar names in the headlines, yep, I'd say I come off as pretty humble compared to them.

If I get remembered as the "humble" fantasy writer, there are worse things.

If I'm remembered at all.

Not overly worried about being remembered or not remembered, honestly.

But if I am to be recalled by future generations as a fantasy author, how would I want myself to be remembered?

As an esteemed professor, such as Tolkien?

As the hard party boy, like Karl Edward Wagner?

As a hard working writer, such as Glen Cook?

I suppose that last is closer to the truth.

See, I never set out to become some world-known fantasy author. I've never had any plans to go down in history as some literary genius, either. Back in my youth I had plans to become a horror author, but I eventually found that limiting, though I still work some in that genre.

If I had to pick and choose, I suppose I would want my fantasy writing career to be more akin to that of many of the '60s to early '80s fantasy authors, most of whom are not remembered today outside of true fandom. Zelazny, Norton, Saberhagen, these are just a few of the names. These writers weren't necessarily the greatest writers who ever lived, at least in a literary sense, but they could type out adventure tales not unlike the pulps of an earlier era. Michael Moorcock came out of that group, and today is probably the best known of the lot.

I'd like to add that I don't mean any of these authors are completely forgotten, but that they aren't generally recalled or even known by the world's mass consumer audience.

Much like the pulp writers of the '20s through the '50s.

I suppose that means I would be satisfied being thought of as a modern pulp author, for being remembered as such. I'd like to be remembered for bringing the thrill of adventure or the creeps of horror to a few readers, to bring a smile or smirk or gasp to their lips from time to time.

All while keeping my brain from exploding.

I can live with that.

For now.

Today I go off on a rant

But not here.

No.

If you want to see me rant and rave today about writing, you'll have to check out my guest post over at the blog of horror writer Kevin G. Bufton.

Thanks, Kevin!

Gimme Three Spells

This is what happens when the stereo isn't working in the Explorer and I have too much time for thinking while driving ...

I was snug as a sword

at the head of a horde

when up rode a man in plate.

He was the size of a ship

with an ax on his hip

and a look that was filled with hate.

He said, “Hey there wizard

with a familiar of a lizard,

I hear your cantrips are great.

“But I’m the lord of the land

and magic has been banned

so your death can no longer wait.”

I was scared and fearing for my soul

I was shaking like an imp in Hades.

’Cause he was tough and rough,

and didn’t look to bluff,

sporting in all those blades.

I said, “Wait a second, master,

I’m only a low-level caster,

I can’t even summon up dew.

“And while I know we don’t agree

About what’s to happen to me

I’d ask one pledge from you.”

“Won’t you give me three spells,

Gimme three spells, master,

Gimme three spells and not one more.

Gimme three spells,

Gimme three spells, master,

And I’ll fly away from here for sure.”

Well the warriors cleared out

and I started to shout

for anyone to save my hide.

And I’m telling you, sirrah,

That I wasn’t no nearer

To that armored man being denied.

But he turned and pointed way over there,

And that’s the chance I was seeking out.

And you could see me running for my life,

I’d never come back there, no doubt.

“Won’t you give me three spells,

Gimme three spells, master,

Gimme three spells and not one more.

Gimme three spells,

Gimme three spells, master,
And I’ll fly away from here for sure.”

(my compliments to the late Ronnie Van Zant and Allen Collins)

As a writer, I feel like I'm never doing enough

The headline to this post says it all.

I've not published a lot this year. Serious health problems have hit my family pretty hard since January. My book sales are evidence of this.

There were weeks on end, maybe even a month or two, in which I did not write a word. Nothing. Zip. Nada. I was just too busy, and often too emotionally devastated to write.

The period seems to have moved passed, though it still lingers around the edges of my sanity, and I'm back to writing daily.

Thinking about all this brought me around to realize that I've accomplished more this year than I initially thought, though most of that work is not readily apparent to anyone.

I did put out a five-part series of short stories very early this year, my Shieldbreaker tales. I also managed to get the majority of my self-published works into print form, though a few of those are still coming, a couple likely in the next week or two. On top of that, I helped a children's indie author with formatting her first book.

And then there's my super secret collaboration with another author. I've felt guilty because I should have been able to punch out this project in a month or two. Last year I could have managed that. Not this year. Instead, I've pecked and picked and clicked and clacked at the keyboard off and on for about six months now. Finally the first draft of that project is nearing its end. The other author finished up his end of the writing a long while ago, but I'm just now down to the last couple of scenes. I hope to have my first draft finished within a week or two, then I'll start reading it and making corrections, doing some rewriting, etc.

I've also managed to pen a few short stories this year. Three have been accepted in anthologies and will be available sometime in the next year, possibly one of them within the next month. I have another story finished and ready for the editor, but I've yet to submit as it's still a little early for that.

So, looking back, I got more accomplished this year than I originally believed. With a few months left in the year, perhaps I'll even get another novel finished, or at least near finished. Come January, it will have been two years since my last Kron Darkbow novel. That's at least a year too long, in my opinion, but hopefully I can remedy that situation soon.

My Smashwords interview

I have recently joined all the cool kids and have taken part in the new Smashwords interview process in which indie authors answer questions provided by the Smashwords site or questions the authors themselves come up with. I went with the site's questions, as creating my own questions doesn't feel like an interview to me, but that's just me.

Books read in 2013: No. 47 -- Walden and Civil Disobedience

by Henry David Thoreau

Started: Sept. 1
Finished: Sept. 17

Notes: As the title suggests, this is actually a collection of two of Thoreau's books, Walden and Civil Disobedience. I've had this book for some time, but kept putting it off because I wanted to be in the right frame of mind to study it and hopefully to enjoy it. The famous Walden is about the author's two years living alone in the woods near a pond, and Civil Disobedience was originally a speech given by Thoreau concerning the duties of American citizens. Individualism, to some extent libertarianism, transcendentalism, simplicity of living, and other factors are discussed in this literature.

Mini review: I went back and forth on this book. Some of it I found quite interesting, other parts not so much. Roughly the first half of Walden tends to focus upon philosophy, which to a modern eye is a sort of naturalist libertarianism. While I personally agreed with some of this and didn't agree with other parts of it, I still found it interesting, especially as it's a work of philosophy somewhat grounded in what I think of as "reality," and is not a philosophical work that goes off on tangents of logic so complicated as to almost be high mathematics (writers of empiricism especially come to mind ... John Locke, David Hume, etc., but also some of the rationalists like Leibniz and Descartes). The second half of Walden mostly focused upon Thoreau's various observations of nature around his cabin and at Walden Pond. This section of the book did not thrill me. Having lived a sizable portion of my life in or around rural districts, I'm well aware of what a pond looks like, the animals and plants found in such regions, the effects of the seasons upon such regions, etc. While there might have been some subjects of Thoreau's study specific to the Walden Pond region in the mid-19th Century, most of it was readily familiar. However, in this portion of Walden there were also some historical writings about particular individuals, a number of them slaves or former slaves, who lived in the area, and this I found of interest. The last chapter of Walden returns to the more philosophical writings, and this I enjoyed. As for Civil Disobedience, it is only about 20 pages, being a speech the author gave publicly on a few occasions. The reason for the speech is that Thoreau was once arrested and jailed for not paying a poll tax, which he did out of protest against slavery and the U.S. war with Mexico. Civil Disobedience itself does not focus on that event but it does allude to it, and it goes on into a philosophy that borders on anarchy while also retaining much concerning the U.S. Founding Fathers. Civil Disobedience I found interesting from historical, philosophical, and even political points of view. Thoreau calls for recognition of the importance of the individual within broader society. Not that an individual is necessarily more just than a collection of men, but that the collection isn't itself more just simply because of numbers. And Thoreau consider it the individual's duty to not take part in government of which he or she does not morally approve, even to the point of imprisonment and confiscation of goods. On the other hand, Thoreau suggests the best way to never be in any one government's power is to live simply, to never own enough of anything so that it hurts one when those belongings are taken away.