BooksofJobe.com

Why Can’t We Be Friends?

If there’s one topic I really don’t enjoy talking about, it’s the “P” word. Some of you who share my propensity for profanity may think you know the word I mean, but it’s not that, perverts.

Politics.

I hate talking about politics and hot-button topics with people. I feel like I have a responsibility to know at least a little bit about what’s going on in the world, or at least our country, so I do what I can to educate myself, and of course I form opinions about issues, but to actually discuss those opinions with others? I’d rather eat an entire cantaloupe (if you knew me, you’d know how grand a statement that is—I hate cantaloupe).

And I don’t just mean I don’t like talking politics with people who don’t agree with me. I don’t even care to talk politics with people who have the same slant as me, either. What I do find interesting, though, is hearing or reading other points of view from a distance. I’m not all one side or the other, and you never know what you might learn. Few subjects are (to me) completely black and white, aside from the fact that R.I.P.D. is a truly awful film, but I digress.

I mention all that to relay this: After years of reading a Facebook friend’s political posts (someone I know in real life, btw) that were mostly the polar opposite of my own views, I finally decided to comment on one. I thought maybe we could exchange viewpoints and just have a brief discussion about it. After two comments back and forth that were perfectly civil, some time went by and I noticed there was nothing from this person popping up in my newsfeed anymore (do you see where this is headed?). I decided to check their wall and discovered the person had blocked me. I was surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t have been.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. I guess I thought people could still discuss a topic without it affecting their relationship, however slight or casual that relationship may have been. I don’t necessarily tiptoe around social media trying not to offend, but I don’t deliberately try and set people off by being some kind of repugnant troll, either. The last comment I made to the person who blocked me was along the lines of “maybe people on both sides should try talking to each other—maybe they could each learn something about the other.”

Maybe they thought I was being sarcastic, or patronizing, or condescending. It makes me wonder what would happen if I talked about more hot-button issues with people. I know at least two of my longtime friends, going back over 25 years, have very different views than me on most topics, but I can’t imagine any of it being enough to end a friendship over. Maybe that’s just it—we became friends before we’d fully adopted the views we have. At the same time, we almost never talk about politics, either. When you meet someone new, does you view of them change once you learn their political leanings?

Is all of this something new? Surely not, right? Surely people have always been so sensitive about the issues? Am I naive to think people can have differences of opinion without ending friendships, or are my opinions not passionate enough that I would push someone away for thinking differently than I do?

I don’t know.

It just seems ironic that I decided after all this time to dare speak in opposition and immediately get blocked. And despite how it may sound reading this, I don’t really care (I’m not all butthurt, as the kids say). To paraphrase one Facebook friend who had something similar happen, getting blocked/unfriended by some people is sort of like the trash taking itself out for you.

All I know is I’ll probably go back to keeping my political views mostly to myself, however I will say this: If anyone wants to tell me they thought R.I.P.D. was a good movie, you can just go ahead and unfriend yourself. Relationship over. 🙂

10 Books

So there this thing that’s been going around on Facebook. Maybe some of you have seen it—people are asked to share ten books that made an impact on them or stuck with them over the years. I hadn’t participated yet, for a couple of reasons: first, I hadn’t been tagged by anyone, and second, I thought I would have trouble thinking up ten books. Regarding the first issue, well, I’m just tagging myself, I guess. And on the second issue, I took some time to think and came up with my list.

Ten books—not my ten favorite, just ten that stayed with me, for better or for worse. Some are books I like a lot, some not so much. A couple I barely remember reading, a couple are only included for a short story they contain, but they all made an impact, left an impression. So, let’s have a look.

The Dead Zone, by Stephen King — The first book that sprang to mind when coming up with my list. Not my favorite King book, but the first one I read. It hooked me and never let me go, and is a big reason why I became the weirdo I am today.

Tales of Mystery and Imagination, by Edgar Allen Poe — A collection of several of Poe’s best known works. My parents made sure to expose me to the masters, buying me this when I was around twelve or thirteen, in part I’m sure to make sure I understood there was more out there than just some guy named King.

The End of Alice, by AH Homes — I just gave my thoughts on this book recently, so I won’t rehash it all again. I’ll just say it’s an exquisitely written, horrifying, disgusting piece of literature that’s actually really good, if you can stomach it. Love it or hate it, you won’t forget it.

Swag, by Elmore Leonard — As with King, my first Elmore Leonard book holds a special place. Up ’til then, everything I read was horror, suspense, etc. Reading Swag, I realized you could write a book with tension and drama, and still have funny bits that made you smile or actually laugh. I still remember the smile that crossed my lips when I read the last line of this book.

Red Dragon, by Thomas Harris — My all-time favorite thriller. I haven’t read Silence of the Lambs yet, it could be even better, but this first Hannibal Lecter book builds tension like I’d never read before.

Ghost Story, by Peter Straub — The first grown up book I remember reading. I honestly don’t remember much about the book—I had to go to wikipedia to look up what the book was even about—but I remember it scaring the bejesus out of me. After I finished it, I told my parents I liked it and they proceeded to buy me a book I’d seen my teacher reading, called The Dead Zone.

Haunted, by Chuck Palahniuk — Taken as a whole, this book of interconnected short stories is just so-so. But I’d be remiss not to include it for the first story in the book, titled Guts. It’s another that’s so disgusting that you’ll never forget it, even if you want to.

Blood and Gristle, by Michael Louis Calvillo — A book of short stories by my late friend. It’s a nice peek inside a deranged mind, one little snippet at a time. Again though, I’m mainly including it for one piece: the non-fiction essay for which the book is named. It’s his thoughts about life, death, and the afterlife, which I found quite interesting and, since I read it soon after his death, quite sad.

Weaveworld, by Clive Barker — I was obsessed with the movie Hellraiser when it came out back in the 80s. That, along with Stephen King’s claim that Clive Barker was “the future of horror” commanded I buy his books and devour them like an animal. Surprisingly, it turns out I’m not the biggest fan of all his stuff. Nothing against it, just not my thing. I didn’t dislike this book, but I wasn’t crazy about it. The thing about it was it showed me how narrow my scope had been when it came to what horror was and what could be scary.

The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne — Forced at virtual gunpoint to read this in the 8th grade, I despised everything about this book. I hated it, hated my English teacher for making me read it, hated Nathaniel Hawthorne for writing it over a hundred years earlier. To be honest, I barely remember anything about it, other than how much I hated it. I think it may be responsible for my dislike of period pieces. Although I didn’t like it, I’ve never forgotten it. Well played, Mrs Roder, if you’re still alive. Well played.

There we have it. Any and all reading this, if you haven’t already, consider yourself tagged. Post it on Facebook and tag me or just put it in the comments. Let me know what books made their mark on you.

Optimism Can Be Exhausting

There are a lot of words that could be used to describe me. For the purposes of this post, though, the word we’ll go with is ‘mellow.‘

I've been compared to this character on more than one occasion — I’ve been compared to this character on more than one occasion

I may be cynical with a healthy dose of sarcasm, but on the whole I wouldn’t call myself overtly negative. I don’t think most people who know me would think of me that way, either. It’s not that I have no reason not to be—quite the opposite, actually. If I chose to, I’d have plenty of reasons to be pissy and miserable. Without going into too much detail, the last year hasn’t been all puppy dogs and rainbows around here. Truth be told, it’s been a struggle at times, and a different attitude may have resulted in getting pretty down, if not flat out depressed. But I’ve always had an inherent belief—others may call it faith—that things will always work themselves out in the end. I don’t always know exactly how or when, but they just will. And just when I was getting tired of trying to force myself to be optimistic all the time, changes are coming that will make things a little better.

The financial situation around here is poised to take a turn for the better. I know they say money can’t buy happiness, but I believe it can make happiness much more affordable to rent. I’m not really going to go into detail, but it’s been a lean year around the homestead, and there’s finally some relief in sight. It’ll still be tight, but we can finally loosen the belt a notch or two. Yay, money!

rich-guy1 — This is not representative of our new financial standing, but I really like this picture.

Also, we’re fast approaching my absolute favorite time of the year. Late September through the end of the year is when I’m usually at my happiest. My birthday is at the end of September (and since hitting the big 4-0 last year this one won’t seem so traumatic), followed by Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I’d be hard pressed to say which is my favorite of those holiday. The weirdo in me of course loves Halloween, but I’m also a big fan of Christmas, too.

Aside from the holidays, it’s my favorite time of year because of the weather. In case I’ve never mentioned it before, I hate summers in the Midwest. The humidity makes me want to die, the mosquitos try to eat me alive, then there’s the lawn mowing, yard work, and lest I forget those godforsaken bugs.

But then, around late September, something magical happens. The weather cools off, the grass stops growing, the need for yard work dissipates, and the bugs—although just temporarily—go away. Early fall marks the end of oppressive heat and the start of good things to come: autumn leaves, the eventual first snowfall, and more time to write, which is really what this blog is all about, isn’t it? Something about the cooler (even downright cold) weather just seems to make my brain run better. I tend to want to write more than in the summer, when I feel like I’m forcing myself. Combine that with the extra time to write that the cool weather brings, and who knows, maybe I’ll have a passable draft of this damn novel done by the end of the year.

As tired as I get sometimes of trying to stay positive when things around me suggest I shouldn’t be, I know what’s just around the corner. So I laugh, I make jokes, I stay optimistic, stay a goofball. To do anything else seems unthinkable.

Mockingbird by Chuck Wendig (2012): Like Reading Chili Cheese Fries

Reading is kind of like eating (just go with me here): Sometimes you want a luxurious, elegant meal by candlelight, complete with fine wine and classical music. Other times you want homestyle meatloaf with mashed potatoes, or chicken fingers, or maybe a big plate of chili cheese fries with an ice cold beer. Mmm…chili cheese fries.

Where was I? Right. Mockingbird, Chuck Wendig’s sequel to Blackbird and book #2 in the Miriam Black saga, is pretty close to literary cheese fries, and I mean that as a complement.

In this installment, we find Miriam trying to live without relying on her “gift” of being able to see how and when someone is going to die by the mere touch of skin on skin. Frustrated and feeling out of step, Miriam quits her job and goes into a brief tailspin until her on again/off again boyfriend Louis tells her he has a way she can make a few hundred dollars easy—if she wants to go back to her old ways.

Despite knowing taking the job may disappoint Louis, Miriam takes the job and goes to an all-girl reform school to meet one of the teachers and tell her how she will meet her demise. What starts as a simple task quickly turns into Miriam’s gift giving her a horrific glimpse of a serial killer at work. From there it’s off to the races as Miriam must find out who the killer is with very little to go on and stop them before they strike again.

And therein lies the beauty of the story and the genius of Wendig. He takes what could’ve easily been a dull retread of the first book and gives us instead an original story that doesn’t use Miriam’s gift as a cheap gimmick. There were times I actually forgot she had said gift, and when it came into play it was timed brilliantly. The people at the STARZ network evidently agree, as they’ve tentatively agreed to create a series based on Miriam’s adventures. If done right, the show could be great fun to watch.

Another thing I really liked, without giving anything away, is that Wendig leads you to an inevitable climax, then the story reaches that climax and seems to resolve itself at the 75% mark. When you still have that much book left and what you thought would be a somewhat predictable ending has already happened, that keeps you guessing and wondering what on earth is going to happen next. Very cool.

Of course, these books come with the requisite ‘not for everybody’ tag: like the first, the book is peppered liberally with creative uses of profanity, and Miriam is a character with a tongue like a razor blade. At times her dialogue borders on unbelievable, but these books are too much fun for me to care. I should also note that Wendig has other books that deal with the supernatural and is putting out a dystopian young adult trilogy, so if the Miriam Black books don’t sound like your cup of tea don’t dismiss other titles of his without giving them a shot.

Regardless of what happens with the TV deal, there’s already another Miriam Black book out, The Cormorant, and Chuck shows no signs of stopping the series anytime soon. I’ll take my time before I read the next one, though. If I read them too close together I’ll have a long wait before a new one comes out, and that’s no fun. In the meantime I’ll just wait until I have another hankerin’ for chili cheese fries.

Lessons Learned from Listening to a ‘Cool’ Radio Station

It’s amazing to me how even in 2014, in an age of self-driving cars and hyper-realistic sex dolls (clearly the two biggest technological advancements of all time, right?), I can still forget what kind of incredible technology I have at my fingertips.

Growing up in a sparse desert halfway between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, radio was a fickle, fickle thing. Vegas stations were much too far away. The LA stations were attainable, depending on a few things—where your house was located, how good an antenna you had, and just which station you wanted to listen to. If it was classic rock you were after, then you’d have no problems whatsoever pulling in KLOS, which had the strongest signal and could be picked up from practically anywhere in our Mad Max-like wasteland (slight exaggeration). If your tastes were slightly more off center, however, then getting a good radio station became exponentially more difficult.

(I should note, just in case any desert friends happened to be reading, I know eventually X1039 popped up and made things a heck of a lot better, but I’m talking about the harder-to-get stations from the barren, early years before their existence, so bear with me. Also, desert friends: is that still the only ‘local’ alternative station or do you have any actually broadcasting in the Victor Valley yet?)

The radio situation was part of what made going to concerts such a special experience. See, at that point in time you pretty much had to make the 100-mile-plus drive all the way to LA or Orange County to see a band you liked, and that meant you could get all the stations that were faint, static-filled whispers in the night back in the desert. The go-to station would usually be KROQ—er, “The World Famous KROQ” as they’re so fond of saying—an alternative station that played a plethora of music that most stations within our measly desert reception area never touched. You could hear new music, but you could also hear music you actually liked on the radio—something I think people take for granted in the new, Pandora/Spotify era.

The other, even more elusive station was 91X out of San Diego. They were even farther away and it would usually take an extra long trip somewhere far from the desert to be able to pick them up (in my case, anyway). They played an even broader spectrum of music, a lot of which I had never heard of, and they have the distinction of being the first (and only) terrestrial station on which I’ve ever heard the great Morphine, one of my favorites.

Now, back to the present. Cut to three weeks ago. My wife and I had a brief conversation one day about Ye Olden Days of being excited to tune in KROQ or 91X once we’d driven far enough toward civilization, and a couple of days later she casually mentioned that she’d started listening to 91x, streaming it from their website.

I looked at her like a dog when you ask it who sang Purple Haze. “Really?” I asked. “You can just do that?” You see, guys, I was being an idiot. It never dawned on me even once to just go to a radio station’s website and stream their signal. Partially I suppose it’s because the stations here in Wichita are absolutely dreadful, and why on earth would I want to stream them when I can listen to a Pandora station that’s infinitely better? But now, realizing the great brass ring of radio stations was right there this whole time, just waiting for me to tune in…well, I felt pretty dumb and I started streaming 91X immediately. (KROQ requires some app to stream their feed, and said app is the lowest-rated I’ve ever seen in the app store, so they’ll just have to fix their shit before I listen to them anytime soon)

It’s been two weeks now of unadulterated, previously unattainable radio, and what have I learned? Let’s see:

Never heard of KONGOS? Give 91X a day, two tops.

I knew vaguely of their song “Come with Me Now” from…somewhere; a commercial or movie trailer or something. It’s an okay song—catchy, not overly poppy, and features slide guitar, a true rarity in today’s music. 91X likes KONGOS A LOT. Not just the one song, either. I’m now familiar with about half their current album. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing, just sayin’.

They actually play a decent amount of new music.

I can’t claim to be the bastion of cool I was in my 20’s (inside joke there for anyone who actually knew me in my 20’s), so I don’t know how obscure or underground any of the new music 91X plays is. The fact is, I don’t really care. They’re playing music that I’m not familiar with that’s not entirely bad, and some of it is actually pretty good. Most—no, all—the stations here in town can only hold me for about ten minutes or so before they play something that makes me want to puke or pull an “Aunt Linda” from SNL:

You may wonder why I say they play only a ‘decent’ amount of new music. That brings me to my next point.

They pander to old people like me.

It’s nice to hear an occasional nugget from my youth mixed in with the new stuff; you need something to be able to hum/sing along with once in a while. 91X makes sure to comfort us old folks by playing the likes of Sublime, Offspring, Weezer, Beastie Boys, Nirvana, No Doubt, etc. constantly. Don’t get me wrong, like I said, it’s nice to have the familiar mixed in with the new, but it’s not like they’re playing deep cuts off of the obscure albums or anything like that. In most cases they’re playing the same songs that were played to death 20 years ago. And some of those old bands (*cough-Offspring-cough*) I never liked to begin with.

One thing I have to say about playing old music: even though I’ve never been the band’s biggest fan, I will instantly be a fan of any radio station that plays Violent Femmes, particularly “Add it Up.” They were one of those bands I never heard anywhere but on the cool stations, and while I won’t listen to an entire album of theirs, I like whatever songs get played on the radio.

All in all, it’s been a great time and has made me crave more. And this is where I reach out to you folks.

What’s your favorite (preferably independent) radio station? I’ve noticed some of the differences and similarities between 91X and the ‘cool’ station in Kansas City, 96.5 The Buzz (stupid name, but it doesn’t have an ‘X’ in it). Some songs overlap, but there’s a good number of different artists as well, and that’s where it gets interesting. I want to see what bands/songs the radio station in your town plays. This goes for anyone and everyone reading this, too; not just people who like this kind of music. I’m eclectic, I want to hear it all. Even that handful of you who read from outside the US, if I can stream it, let me know about it.

In the meantime, I’m going to go turn on some tunes and bet my wife how which band 91X plays first: KONGOS or Nirvana.

The Great Bradello

“Sometimes the one with the biggest smile is the one hiding the biggest frown.”

Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, “Treatment is simple. Great clown, Pagliacci, is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up.” Man bursts into tears. Says, “But doctor, I am Pagliacci.”

There’s a good chance you’ve seen this joke somewhere online in the last few days. I’d never heard it before—because I’ve never seen Watchmen—but people quickly realized the joke was quite appropriate regarding the passing of Robin Williams and began posting it everywhere.

I’m not going to ramble on about Robin Williams—not because I’m not sad about it or affected by it—quite the contrary, actually. But in this day and age, commenting on something after four days have already passed, well, that’s an eternity in online time. There’s not much I can say that hasn’t already been said.

What I am going to do, though, is share. I wrote a short—very short—story about a year and a half ago that sort of fits the situation. Sort of. I haven’t looked at it in a long time and I’m sure it’s a little rough, but I don’t have a whole heck of a lot else going on that’s really blogworthy, so I thought I’d post it here, now.

It’s not about a clown per se, but a magician named The Great Bradello. Enjoy.

Brad took a sip of his cheap whiskey and looked at the clock. 11:38 am. Time to get dressed for work. He gulped down the rest of his drink and carried the empty glass into the kitchen, shoving a stack of dirty dishes aside to make room.

He ignored the pile of overdue bills on the kitchen table as he walked into his bedroom and pulled out the only clean clothes in his closet: a pair of black dress slacks and a crisp, white button down shirt with long sleeves. Then he grabbed his black dress shoes, polished to a high shine as usual, followed by his cape and black top hat.

As he dressed, Brad couldn’t help running through the argument the night before. The booze wasn’t enough to make him forget about Ashley. The way she’d begun by gently suggesting he needed to “grow up” and get a “real job,” eventually escalating to name calling and yelling, telling him he was a born loser.

The breakup was inevitable, even if she hadn’t started in last night. She just didn’t understand. Still, he already missed her. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever dated, and while they were going out he would imagine how she would look dressed up on stage as his assistant in a big Las Vegas show.

Fully dressed and shoes laced, Brad tied the cape around his neck and donned the requisite top hat before checking his appearance in the mirror.

Spot on.

Outside, a horn honked. Brad pulled back the curtain to see his cab waiting. He turned back to the closet and grabbed his case full of props. He stuck a deck of cards in one pocket and put his ‘never-ending’ handkerchief up his sleeve so he’d be able to pull off a couple of quick tricks right out of the cab.

Looking at himself in the mirror one last time before heading out the door, Brad smiled for the first time in three days.

For the next two and a half hours, he would convince himself that his life was not in ruins; he was not depressed. Brad would convince a birthday party full of children and their parents that life was good and he was happy.

And that was The Great Bradellos’s greatest trick of all.

I realize now this is a fairly depressing post, and I don’t want anyone to end their week on a sad note, so if you’ve read this far you must now click this link to make sure your weekend starts off right. Seriously, it is required by Books of Jobe administration. Do it. And have a good weekend, everybody.

The Ruins by Scott Smith (2006): Making Vines with Pretty Red Flowers Absolutely Terrifying

I’m scrapping my previous book review formula, The Quarterly Book Report. It made for posts that were too long (I felt), and forced me to condense my thoughts on a book down too far. From here on out, I’ll just drop a review randomly as I finish a book, capiche? I finished this book a month or so ago, but since I just decided to scrap the old format I’m reviewing it now.

I watched the movie version of The Ruins a few years ago on cable, and liked it well enough. I remember it being a little cheesy, but in a cool , B-movie kind of way. Ultimately I thought it was ‘just okay.’ Then a couple of years ago when I started really getting into reading again, I wanted to see what had been going on with books in the horror genre, and I found list after list of Best Horror Novels of X amount of years, and The Ruins kept popping up on the lists with the same comment: “The book is so much better than the movie.” Everybody says that about books made into movies, so I didn’t think a whole lot about it until one day, about two months ago, I found The Ruins along with Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn at my local used bookstore—quite the score indeed.

The Ruins tells the story of six tourists on a Mexican vacation—four Americans, a German, and a Greek—who embark on an adventure to find the German’s brother, who’s run off with a woman he met and gone to the site of a supposed archeological dig. Following a crude, hand-drawn map, the group takes a bus ride, hitches a ride in the back of a truck (with a vicious dog in tow), and hikes extensively into and back out of a small village before finding a hidden trail.

The trail leads them to an massive hill overgrown with vines with little red flowers. Villagers show up and try to scare the tourists away, but language barriers inevitably lead to mass confusion, and when one of the tourists makes contact with the vines the villagers then force the tourists (at gun and arrow point) to hike the narrow trail leading up the hill. At the top the tourists find a couple of abandoned tents battered by the elements and a few supplies left by whoever was there last.

The first half of the novel reminded me of a straight-forward survival story. This group of people, stranded with practically no supplies except what they happened to grab before leaving their luxurious hotel—water, a couple of protein bars, some fruit, and a bottle of tequila—and the empty tents and supplies, struggle to survive and find a way off the hill, which remains patrolled by the villagers.

Confident help will arrive in the form of the Greek’s friends (for whom he left a copy of the map), the group tries to make do. At the bottom of a mineshaft the group hears what appears to be a cell phone ringing, and rig up a contraption to lower the Greek down to look for it. The rope they’re using to lower him snaps (due in no small part to the acidic sap of the vines, which has eaten away some of the rope) and the Greek plummets down the shaft, severely injuring himself. The others manage to get him out, and now must contend with caring for a critically wounded person on top of their already surreal dilemma.

To say any more would spoil the book, except to say that the vines turn out to be much more than just acidic. The initial denial the characters feel—how things like this just don’t happen, and their certainty that they will be rescued—is gradually replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread, as they begin to wonder if they will, in fact, die on the vine-covered hill.

Scott Smith’s writing style struck me as sort of minimalistic—almost businesslike. There’s no excessive descriptions or long tangents about things that don’t matter. At over 500 pages I was expecting to skim some passages, but it’s actually a lean, no BS story.

Between Smith’s style and the fact that there are no chapters to separate parts of the book, I initially thought the book was oddly written, but was quickly consumed by the story. In the two years or so since I started reading regularly again, this is easily the best book I’ve read, and although it is classified as horror, I think people who don’t normally enjoy the genre could still get into this book. At one point about halfway through, I was so caught up in the group’s struggles just to survive that I forgot about the vines altogether.

Scott Smith has only written one other novel, his debut, 1993’s A Simple Plan, which Smith himself adapted for the big screen in 1998, directed by Sam Raimi and starring Billy Bob Thornton, Bill Paxton, and Bridget Fonda. I’ve neither read the book or seen the movie, but both are now on my short list of things to read and watch.

There you have it, as high a recommendation as I can give to The Ruins—2 Jobes Up, if you will. Give it a shot and see if you don’t allow a little extra room the next time you walk past your spider plant.

Let’s Hear It for Swift Kicks in the Butt

Last week, I sung the praises of being back in a routine again. How finally that would let me get some stuff—we’re talking writing stuff here—done. So here we are, a little over a week later, and who would like to guess just how many words I’ve written since then? Anyone?

Here, I’ll give you a hint:

Despite having my blessed routine again, I’ve somehow managed to avoid any kind of serious writing or editing. Do you know what that means? It means I need something to get myself moving again, to get me unstuck, out of neutral, and flying down the Word Count Highway again.

That’s it! That’s exactly what I need, a swift kick in the butt. I think it’s kind of like exercise: when you’re in the routine and doing it regularly, it’s easy to keep it up. But once you stop, for whatever reason, it can be hard to get back into the program. It doesn’t help that I’ve been obsessing over my Work In Progress, wondering if some of the happenings in the plot are too contrived or convenient, is it all believable, does it all make sense? Those are all good things to be thinking about, but maybe after the rough draft is done and I’m in editing mode. After all, you have to have something to mold; you can’t edit words that aren’t there.

And so, with that, I’m going to end with one of the shortest posts I’ve ever published as I attempt to kick myself in the butt and spend my day off doing some honest to goodness writing. Feel free to go down to the comments and take a good swift kick too, if you want. Just in case I miss.

Alright, here goes nothing.

I’m going in.

Finally, a Routine

We’ve all heard that change is good; we should embrace change. I feel like I’ve done a pretty good job at that the last couple of months, to be honest. New job, schedule all over the place. Not that I’m complaining—far from it, I love my new job—but finally I’m back into a routine and I’m so relieved, because now I might be able to get seriously back into writing again.

It hasn’t been absolutely zero productivity these last couple months, though. I managed to write a few stories, two of which I really like and the other I think will end up being cannibalized and put into a different idea I’m chewing on in the back of my mind. But the Big Work In Progress, the novel, has set idly by since around Memorial Day. I just haven’t had the time or energy to think about it. Well, that and I had some ideas that would require going back and either adding scenes in or rewriting altogether. At this point I don’t know which I’ll do; the fact that I finally have the time to do either is what matters.

All this means I’ll probably have more time for the blog again as well, so set you blocking preferences accordingly. 🙂

Oh! I can’t believe I got this far without mentioning it: I got another story published!

That's me, and the belt is my acceptance letter from the publisher. — That’s me, and the belt is my acceptance letter from the publisher.

My short story Randy’s Bad Day is being published by Jitter Press, a division of Prolific Press specializing in horror and dark fiction. Details are still to come, of course, but you know I’ll be passing them along as I get them. It’s the story of an angry man in a cabin, his hangover, and a whole mess of mutant frogs. They say you should write the kind of stuff you’d like to read, and I definitely did that with this story, because it’s gross, scary, and, dare I say, funny. It makes me laugh, anyway. I hope you guys like it.

I also got a pair of very encouraging rejection letters a couple of weeks ago, which, as weird as it sounds, it really cool. One told me they liked my story but it wasn’t right for the issue they’re getting ready to put out, and asked me to send more work in the future. The other said my story was “a hell of a lot of fun” but needed just a bit of tweaking, in their opinion, and it could find a home easily. We’ll see about that, but it was a nice way of being told ‘no, we don’t want your story.’

I’m going to cut this short, because as happy as I am to have a routine again, I’m still getting used to it. I work much later in the day now and my days off are in the middle of the week, so there are some adjustments to be made before I’m totally used to it. So I’m gonna go and read for a while (if I still remember how—my reading time has been cut drastically short lately, too) and relax a little before heading to work. But there will be more to come, so stay tuned.

Where I Geek Out a Little Bit

I’ve always considered myself a bit of a geek. Or is it a nerd. A geeknerd. A…neek? Anyway, there’s been a monumental shift in popular culture over the past few years. All the nerds and geeks that got picked on and teased, say twenty years ago? Yeah, they run shit now. Which is cool. Part of that geek culture is why we’re living in a ‘golden age’ of television. But I’ve felt a little left out.

I played baseball in high school, but I was never a jock. Not even close. I was way too nerdy and shy to fit in with the jocks, with their letter jackets and cheerleader girlfriends. I got along okay with my teammates, but I wasn’t really friends with them, except for one or two. No, my friends were the ones who didn’t care that I was such a goof—in fact, many of them were goofs themselves. So in high school I found myself hanging out with skaters, metalheads, and yes, the nerds/geeks (which sounds like they’re opposites, but in their own way all those groups were outcasts). As the years progressed after high school, I kept it nerdy where my friends were concerned. I met new friends who read comic books and played D & D and Magic; I’ve never played those games even once, and only read a handful of comic books in my life, but I’m at least partially familiar with the culture. And I felt like I got them; the ones who didn’t fit in anywhere else.

I bring all that up to say this: It’s been a little weird the last few years—Marvel damn near owns Hollywood, and Game of Thrones is one of the biggest things on TV, and I don’t have much interest in any of it.

I’ve been outgeeked.

Worse still, there hasn’t been much for me to get geeky about. I really liked Hannibal, but the second season is still sitting on my DVR unwatched. It’s just not can’t miss, oh-my-god-did-you-see-that?!? worthy. Other than that, I watch TV, and I like my handful of shows, but there hasn’t been anything to get me too fired up. The last show I really just could not wait to watch every week was Lost. I didn’t hate the ending, but it was Season 5 when I was in up-to-my-eyeballs geekdom. For me, that was when the show was really firing on all cylinders, letting their freak flag fly, and keeping me guessing as to what the hell could possibly happen next. And, mystery of mysteries, I missed out on Breaking Bad as it was happening. That’s priority #1 when I finally pull the trigger and get Netflix.

But now, finally…something for me to geek out about.

If it seems like I just wrote about Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn, it’s because I did. I just read the book last month and really enjoyed it. After I finished it, I checked the IMDB page for it to see if it was headed to theaters anytime soon and found nothing. So imagine my surprise when new recently broke that the novel’s being turned into a TV show.

This excites me for a number of reasons.

It’s a good book. If it’s a completely faithful adaptation, it would make two (or maybe three, if they’re short) riveting seasons of television.
Gillian Flynn doesn’t seem to mind playing around with her work. She’s reportedly written an entire new third act for the big screen adaptation of Gone Girl, so I wouldn’t put it past her to give the okay to completely screw around with the plot, if she’s not involved in said screwing around herself.
The characters are weird, weird people. If the decision is made to tweak the book, it would be great fun for whoever is in that writer’s room. Depending on which direction they’d like to take, they could play it pretty straight, like a CBS-style procedural, or (I’m kind of crossing my fingers here) go a little more out of left field and play up the eccentric, neurotic nature of the characters and the town itself. They could easily make Wind Gap, Missouri the strangest, most surreal city on TV since Twin Peaks. The book is full of psychos, sickos, and stepford wives, and I’d love to see them turn up the bizarre to eleven.
The showrunner (and one of the principal writers) is Marti Noxon. Marti’s a talented writer and producer who’s worked on Mad Men, Glee, Prison Break, and Grey’s Anatomy. That’s all well and good, but the reason her name makes me all tingly is because she was (along with Joss Whedon, of course) one of the primary writers and Executive Producer on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, number 2 on the official BoJ list of greatest TV shows of all time. Her involvement with Sharp Objects takes it from merely a “Hmm, that could be interesting,” to “Oh my god, when does it start?!!?”

The biggest variable may end up being which network snatches the project up. If it ends up on network TV, it would be at least slightly hindered but could still work. As Hannibal has proven, the boundaries for the networks are being pushed to new limits constantly.

A cable channel, like TNT or AMC would be better, but my ultimate choice would be HBO or Showtime—preferably the former, as we only have Showtime temporarily, thanks to a promotional deal courtesy of DirecTV.

Who knows? The show could disappoint me immensely, and a few months from now I could be on here bitching and moaning about everything that’s wrong with it. But for now, it’s the unknown, the speculation, that’s so exciting.

What about you guys? What TV shows or movies have you all foaming at the mouth in a geek-induced rabies?

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