Author: Year One

As this February ends, I mark 1 year since THE SAMARITAN was released. So while I’ve been a “writer” for as long as I can remember, this is pretty much my first year as an “author.” With that in mind, to celebrate one year as an author, here’s 12 things I learned in the last 12 months.

Publishing a novel is hard . . . Writing a book? Easy. Rewriting a book? Slightly tougher. Getting on board with a publisher who—gasp—wants to publish the book? Rewriting repeatedly, absorbing editorial comments, the cover, the dedication, trying to remember who to put in acknowledgments, the bio, the author photo? The “is anybody going to read this, is this any good” feeling? Staring at your promotional plan and wondering if you can bring yourself to read in public? Going to a reading with 8 people, and then 80 people, wanting to soil yourself no matter what the audience size for entirely different reasons? Coming to terms with the fact that the most visceral, violent stuff you can come up with will now be out there for public consumption? All that stuff is pretty hard. Fun, but hard.

. . . but not impossible. The writing world is rife with stories of perseverance. It doesn’t happen overnight, but I truly believe if you want it to happen, it’s going to happen. I can’t even get a count on how many hundreds of thousands of words I’ve written to get to the 73k that is bound between the two covers of SAMARITAN, how much I needed to learn and discover and work out. I can barely remember when I started putting words to paper, but it’s been over fifteen years. The key is don’t get stuck or married to one idea. Write it and move on. The best is always yet to come, but you’ve got to do the right now to discover it.

Independent publishers like Blank Slate Press can be incredibly viable and effective. They’re not bound to tradition, they’re nimble, flexible, daring, they work hard, they return calls and emails same-day, they write checks that clear. They’re the guerilla fighters that win while the lockstep redcoats get popped off one by one.

The feeling that your first book will be the noose that hangs your second book? Totally real. Just to reiterate—totally. Real. I approach my second novel clenched up as if the manuscript is going to punch me in the face.

Social media and platform creation is paralyzing and difficult for me. I’m just not consistent enough with it. I never feel like anything’s worth posting, I barely know how to operate a hashtag, it’s just a complete extension of social anxiety disorder that branches into a virtual world. Must. Do. Better.

The author’s personality and delivery is just as important as the quality of the book when it comes to selling the book. I gave a “lecture” to a bunch of college kids who didn’t seem like they particularly cared to hear from some “author.” After my talk, which was more of me just being myself than anything else, a lot of them bought books. Why? “Because I thought this lecture was going to suck but it all sounds pretty cool.” Or something like that. Either way, I moved a lot of books that day and learned a lesson. You’re not just marketing the book, you’re marking you.

I’d rather be from a town of 600 people than a city of 6 million. The small town I’m from? Yeah, they do a hell of a job of supporting the locals. I think that everyone read it, bought it, recommended it, or talked about it at some point. It’s easy to get lost in a big pond. The small pond Patoka ripple effect was pretty amazing. 

You better keep writing your ass off. Eventually what you’re writing today is going to be yesterday and everyone wants to know what you’ll have tomorrow.

Balance is important—so is having a wife that keeps you both balanced and grounded. It’s quite a luxury to have a gentle voice tell you to put that damn laptop away. She helps me remember that life comes first.

Physical fitness is a secret weapon for a fiction writer. My longest writing sessions and some of my best ideas came after a really traumatic, weight-filled workout. If you’re a writer that thinks better during or after a walk, kick it up to a run, a few sprints, a few Olympic lifts. Your body and mind will thank you.

You get to ask cool questions and do cool stuff in the name of “research.”  No one says no to anything if they think it’ll make it into a book.

You can connect with readers, but you can’t make your non-reading friends into readers. This one is self-evident. I don’t need to name names here, but I can think of one dude that had an ARC of my book and now, over a year later, I think his family has read it and he still hasn’t. I haven’t found that magical power that makes non-readers into readers quite yet. 

Heroes Save Cats

At the beginning of the film "Our Idiot Brother," we meet Ned at an organic fruit stand. A father is buying veggies there, his daughter in tow. Dad pays for the veggies even though Ned looks like he'd just as soon give them away for free. The daughter grabs a strawberry and eats it. Dad scolds her a little bit, saying they didn't pay for the strawberry. Dad walks away, the girl follows, but Ned calls her back to the vegetable stand and gives her an entire bowl of strawberries for free, a smile across both their faces.

I started paying attention to "Save the Cat" scenes after I read a great craft book of the same name. The book's by Blake Snyder and I recommend it for aspiring screenwriters, movie lovers, or anyone who wants to put a few more tools in the storytelling toolbox.

The crux of the "Save the Cat" scene is basically, have your hero do something great to immediately get the audience on board with them. A good save the cat scene creates an immediate connection with the hero. And in my execution of it, I've found it doesn't necessarily mean the hero has to be a likable person, but a good STC scene builds up some capital--the audience will hang with the hero through a few rough patches if they're on board with a good STC scene.

Think Pulp Fiction, where these guys don't necessarily save any cats, but rather, engage in a funny and unique conversation about hamburgers and France and whatnot. Aren't you sort of on board with these guys before they start blowing people away? Don't they seem fun to hang out with before they pull those guns out of the trunk?

Action movies typically start by putting the hero in an action-packed save the cat scene, where we not only get a dose of the action we bought our ticket for, but it establishes the heroes skills and morals. I think of Bruce Willis in Die Hard with a Vengeance, popping aspirins after a hangover, talking lotto numbers and smalltalk with the cops in the back of the truck with him, even though he's about to put himself in a life-threatening situation.

It works in books as well. In my novel The Samaritan, I didn't set out to create an STC scene, but I recognized where to start the book by asking one simple question--at what point would a reader instantly connect with my narrator? It was the chapter where he lets the cool girls in the grade school put him through a mean prank because it meant he had their attention.

No matter what the story medium, getting your audience to "go along for the ride" with your protagonist is truly an area where actions speak louder than words. And since most films contain a scene like this, usually in the first ten minutes, you can impress the hell out of your friends by keeping an eye out for it.

Blog Tour De Troops - And a Story About a Fallen Soldier

Before I get to my story, let me tell you about the bright and shining purpose of this blog—on this day, this weekend, my blog is part of a “Blog Tour De Troops” blog hop.  Home plate for the blog tour is the Indie Book Collective.  You probably just “hopped” from Rachel Thompson's blog, and the next stop is Stacey Kennedy's blog.

Thing is, I have joined forces with dozens of other authors who are doing their part to give free books and Kindles to the troops—all you have to do is comment on this blog (be sure to include your email address) and you will receive a FREE e-book of my novel, “The Samaritan,” you will be entered to win a free Amazon Kindle, and better yet—these books and Kindles aren’t just free for you, they’re free for the troops as well.  

 So to recap—if you comment, free e-book for you, free Kindle entry for you, free book for the troops, and yes, the troops are getting some Kindles as well.  And if you’re “hopping” along these blogs, you can collect dozens of diverse books for yourself and the troops, so it’s worth sharing with a few friends.

Okay, so, now onto my story of gratitude on this Memorial Day weekend.  

Memorial Day is a three-day weekend packed with folks planning barbecues and boat rides, full of images of sunshine and the unofficial start of summer.  And you’ll see a few news pieces and some Facebook posts about the true nature of the holiday—the remembrance of those troops that have died in defense of our country.  

I don’t need a special day to remember.  There’s a boy I once knew, and I think of him often.  Probably more often than I should; more often than anyone will ever realize.  His name is Torrey, and I refer to him in the past tense because he is no longer with us.

We lived in a small town of about 600 people called Patoka.  When I met Torrey, hell, he couldn’t have been any older than fourteen.  I was five years older, just getting started in college.  For a few months one summer, he was over at my house all the time (I had a younger sister—you do the math) and while I had often heard of his issues with behavior and grades in school, he always seemed bright and warm to me.  He was sniffing around my sister and my big-brother duty was to dislike him, but I couldn’t.  We would talk about music and wrestling.  He was funny, engaging, and loved Insane Clown Posse.  

There was also a period in Patoka where everyone, at the same time, seemed to want to box each other.  A few car trunks (mine included) would have pairs of gloves and headgears and there would be unsanctioned matches in parking lots, lit by headlights, those lucky enough to not be fighting getting their entertainment while the young and stupid brawlers left with headaches and ringing ears.

The circumstances of the time Torrey and I boxed isn't important.  Let’s just say I was upholding my duty as a brother, but, in almost playful fashion, I gave him a choice—we could box in my backyard or I could just give him a whipping.  He chose to box, and we did.  Torrey never threw a punch.  After about thirty seconds, I was gassed and felt the wrongness of it, and let him be.  We ate Doritos and watched television when it was over, sweaty and not saying a word, the silence meaning that the matter was settled.  

Soon, I was back to college, and as teens are prone to do, he and my sister drifted apart.  I never saw much of him after that, even after I graduated college, as I had moved out of Patoka by then.

In April 2004, Torrey died in Iraq.  He died Lance Cpl. Torrey Stoffel Gray.  I hardly recognized his picture in the paper.  It was the picture of a man, not the boy I had known.  I learned that whatever problems plagued him in his checkered past were far behind him, as he had enrolled in military school, finished his high school equivalency, and had become a Marine.  They say the events of September 11, 2001, inspired him to this course of action. They say he had blossomed into a role model, a responsible young man who planned to propose to his long-time girlfriend upon his return.

He had pushed himself to the maximum of his potential, become a Marine, become a hero, a galvanizing force for his small community.  And my lasting memory will be the time we had a boxing match in my backyard, a moment that sickens me with regret because even then, I knew the light he had inside of him.  I would have wagered that he would overcome and defeat the problems he was going through, that he would change into the exact person he would change into.  I knew this in my bones, but didn’t allow myself to believe it, not really, and still treated him badly that day.  

And he didn’t punch back.  As was his nature—he saved his action for when it was important.  His non-action spoke volumes—he and I were both dumb young boys at the time, believing in some sort of goofy masculine code, one that he was honoring by never lifting a fist to me. 

Even then, on that day, he was a soldier.  And years later, as a writer, I have written stories and journal entries trying to discover the lessons learned that day, and maybe alleviate some of the guilt I feel. I’m still discovering lessons, still feeling guilt, but the one thing I know for sure after all these years is that our men and women aren’t just “troops,” they have names and families, hometowns and backgrounds, they call came from something, threads of America that bind tightly to unify us.

On Memorial Day and many others, I think of Torrey—he is my flashpoint to feel the sacrifices of all of our troops, and a reminder to thank them for their service and sacrifice.  

Semper Fi, Torrey.  And thank you . . . you are not forgotten.   

Fred's Author Commandments

In interviews and discussions, I’ve talked about how, as a new author, I want to use it as an opportunity to really engage with people.  I’ve said a few times that “I’m a fan of readers.”  It sounds strange to some, but it is a one line summary of what I consider to be my “author commandments” when it comes  to having my book out there for the masses to consume.  Just to be clear, here is a list of some of my self-imposed commandments. 

1 – Thou shalt respond.  I’m easy to find on Twitter, Facebook, and a Google search yields my hometown, website, and email address. Every Tweet, FB message / post, email, text, call shall receive a response.  Not just about the book, but about books, writing, publishing, or anything else in general.

2 – Thou shalt be a resource.  Do you have a book club, a local library, a convention, a classroom?  I’m game.  Some writers dig the introverted style, but I like to get out there and I have no qualms speaking in public about a variety of topics.  Even if it’s just you and a friend and you want to talk shop over a beer, if I’m nearby, I’m available.  And if you’re in California or New York, today’s technology makes it easy to make things happen.  Facetime anyone? 

3 – Thou shalt keep writing.  I’m trying to keep up with blogs and tweets and Facebook, and I’m also working on my next book.  My novel’s release is not a destination, it’s a signpost on a longer journey, and one never knows where the next turn will take us. 

4 – Thou shalt appreciate.  I got to write an acknowledgments page for the novel, but the truth is, I have a deep appreciation of every single reader, whether I knew them or not, who picked up the book.  I’m also including every single person who showed up at an author event to support me.  While not all readers will try to correspond with me, I’m there for them, and I recognize that without those rabid readers out there, books would be dead and my hobby would have no outlet.  It would be incomplete.  Writing isn’t writing if there is no audience to connect with. 

5 – Thou shalt learn. The book has afforded me opportunities I never would have imagined, such as chatting and networking with so many talented and insightful authors, readers, editors, publishers, agents, producers from all walks of life.  Every encounter is an opportunity to learn and use that knowledge to further myself and my work.

Well, there’s five I can think of.  I know there’s supposed to be ten commandments, but I wouldn’t want these to get confused with the other, more popular set of ten. 

What do you think?  Do feel free to let me know if I’m missing something or totally insane.  Or cash in on the commandments I’ve set upon myself.  Look forward to hearing from you.  

The Horror, the Horror: WHC 2011

There's a scene in Rocky III when Mick sees Clubber Lang (the Mr. T character) fighting in a boxing match. Mick sees an unpolished fighter, but a hungry fighter--a fighter who wants it. What he lacks in technical skill or talent he makes up for with sheer will and desire. It's enough to make Mick remark to Rocky that he simply can't win; Clubber is too hungry, wants it too bad.

I met a lot of Clubber Langs of the author variety at the 2011 World Horror Convention in Austin, Texas.

That's not to say there weren't some incredibly polished and talented authors there, the Rockys that already wear title belts in the form of an established and successful writing career.  Only at a convention like this can you sit down after a day of gleefully soaking up useful and insightful panel discussions, ready to refresh yourself with a Texas-sized Shiner Bock, and Peter Straub sits down next to you. Being new to writing conventions like this one, I took every opportunity to chat with the Rockys--the Straubs, Jack Ketchums, Joe Hills, and many others.

Yet it was the Clubbers that I found interesting. They had a swagger to them, an incredible light in their eyes (eye of the tiger, perhaps?) and passion and enthusiasm as they spoke about their expectations. I'm thirty, yet many were younger than me--they're the next wave, full of big ideas for the future of the book and for their own futures in the world of horror and publishing in general. Conversations like this were big highlights for me. Perhaps one day, I'll be able to say, "I had a beer with that guy back when he was on the verge of busting out."

So the networking and conversations and general fanboy goodness (I love me some Stephen Graham Jones, and to chat with him and Paul Tremblay was pretty awesome) was all great, but the panels were useful and entertaining as all hell.

The panel on writing realistic violence had an array of badasses telling you how streetfights and gunfights and knifefights really went down, complete with funny stories of broken bones, blackouts, and gunfire.  A panel on horror's place in the academic world made me yearn to enroll in Stephen Graham Jones's zombie class he carries at his university.  Speaking of zombies, how about a zombie mega-panel discussion?  Enough said.  And the panel I sat on about the future of the book was an eclectic mix of folks: the established (Joe Hill, Sarah Langan), the agents and publishing types (Robert Fleck, Jeff Burk) and the "who the hell is he and what's he doing up there?" (Fred Venturini). Without rehashing the hour discussion on the matter, the future of the book is unclear but exciting.  They're not going to die, they're going to evolve.  The frontier is upon us.  Who will the pioneers be?

My money is on the Clubber Langs of the world, and their passionate pursuit for their own championship belt--that effort is going to have a big impact on the future of the book.  I count myself lucky to be in that batch, trying to make a breakthrough.  The only thing missing is a booming Survivor anthem to motivate the effort.  I suppose Eye of the Tiger will have to do.

Books, Beers, Bub's, Bars, and Havin' a Blast

Book events are like a box of chocolates--you never know what you're going to get.

On Saturday, I got the really good chocolate with the caramel center.

Bub's Pub in Sandoval, Illinois, is the Cheers of my hometown region.  Everyone indeed knows your name.  Parties are scribbled onto a dry erase board, which magically reels in a nice turnout and a great time.  I'm no exception--a friend had the awesomely brilliant idea to have a book party at Bub's, and I wouldn't exchange the moments I experienced on Saturday for anything.

It was an opportunity for the many people in the area who snagged my book to catch me for a discussion and a signature.  It was a great way to catch up with family.  It was a nice night out with my lovely wife.  It was great to see some friends I hadn't seen in a while.  And it was cool to grab the house mike, and skip reading or talking about myself or my book and just tell everyone thank you for the support.

I had a bunch of books behind the bar and I came with some extras never thinking I'd need them--and left empty-handed.  The support continues to be incredible.  I had the chance to talk to almost everyone about the book and plans for the future, and thank them in person.  Just a whirlwind evening that was quite surreal.  And it was nights like this that made me realize what an honor it is to have the love and support of so many people behind me on this journey.  It's touching and motivating.

It makes me reiterate what I promised myself I would do as the book hit print--no email, Facebook message, Tweet, text, or call will go unresponded.  If you're in the area and you want to talk about writing, reading, the book, anything--I'm there.  Every classroom event, library, workshop, book club--I'm one call away.  I wanted to get the most out of this experience, and that means total access, making myself a boots on the ground author, but also, a resource that is completely available.  Because when it comes down to it, I'm not looking for readers to be my fans, I'm a fan of readers, and want to give as much as I can when it comes to this experience.  

Perhaps that sounds a little silly.  And it just shows that I don't have a gazillion fans knocking on my door that I can make such a pledge, but I'm going to do all that I can to live up to it, for as long as I can.  But one promise I know I can keep--I don't care if it's my next book or my tenth book, whether it's a small release or a New York Times bestseller--you will definitely be able to find me at Bub's doing the same thing.

So thanks to everyone who came out, and thanks to Bub's Pub for hosting.  And yes, that is the legendary Bub in the photo.  (Not the blonde, that's my wife Krissy).  

Don't Let "The Ones That Got Away" Escape You

Story collections are like golf shots . . . if you run into a crap story, the next one could be the redeemer, so it keeps you interested start to finish.  You run into a stinker of a novel, you're screwed for 300 pages, you know?  But in reading the latest from Stephen Graham Jones, The Ones That Got Away, I'm reminded that it is still possible for a collection make me say, "Seriously, this next one cannot be better than this one.  No way."  And then delivers again.  And again.  And again.

I wasn't this giddy or delighted reading a stack of stories since I was 10 years old, mopping up King's Skeleton Crew, crapping my footie pajamas to "Survivor Type" and "The Jaunt."

Jones slam-banged me right out of the box with the very first story, "Father, Son, Holy Rabbit," about a stranded father and son who continue to eat a "magical" rabbit over and over again to stay alive.  I was thinking about that story for days, and it has all the makings of a lifetimer for me, where I'll be sixty talking about that story to someone, probably my grandkids, who will laugh when I try to explain what a payphone was.

Bookending the collection is "Crawlspace," which, if you think a telepathic infant sounds creepy, wait until the guilt of our narrator's infidelity starts to get the best of him.  The final page is unsettling.

Special thanks to the story "Raphael" for just existing.  Wow.  This one accomplished a rare feat in my reading exploits . . . there are two pages that just made me stop and reread them on the spot, then I finished the story, then read the whole thing again.

There's another story where the title itself can give you nightmares.  Two words for you: "Meat Tree."  Think about that.

King called his men's magazine stories that populated Night Shift and Skeleton Crew "screamers."  Well, Jones takes the screamer mentality and deploys it full force, with an ability prod you along with sentences that are sharp enough to cut.  Twisty and startling, the stories don't finish up in predictable "screamer" fashion many times . . . they just worm their way into you, make themselves at home, and you'll feel like your balance is off for a few days.  You find yourself wanting a little extra sunshine, maybe a long shower.  This effect is achieved largely through the use of childhood as a gateway to the horrors within the collection, and the close attention paid to who the horror happens to as opposed to how.

The story notes are a treasure trove for anyone interested in fiction, the author, or just loves having insight into these excellent stories.  Better than that crap bonus material you find DVD's, that's for sure.

You want me to sit here and gush about every story?  Just go out there and buy this book.  Like, now.

Mammoth Book of New Horror is . . . Mammoth

My feelings on this year’s “Mammoth” entry might be a matter of taste over substance.  The stories are rich and well-written, but there was a lingering feel of dust on the pages—not befitting to the proclamation of “new” on the cover. 

You can’t go wrong with “Throttle,” a collaboration by Joe Hill and Stephen King, based on the story “Duel,” by Richard Matheson.  That’s a hefty trifecta, and some excellent reading.  The biker gang twist was clever, and the deft attention paid to characters and their motivations adds dimension to the twisted trucker looking to wreak havoc in his growling semi. 

“Venturi” and “What Happens When You Wake Up in the Night,” by Richard Christian Matheson and Michael Marshall Smith, respectively, were the other two highlights for me.  “Venturi” is a slick exercise in paranoia, intimately told with such fervor that the book almost heats up in your hands.  “Night” is primal fear seen through the simple narrative of a young girl, and the focus is on the fear, not the rational reasons for what she is experiencing, racking up some serious points on the “I’ll remember this one for a while” horror Richter scale.    

Stephen Volk’s “After the Ape” crossed me up.  Beautiful and almost lyrical, it tells the story of Ann Darrow dealing with the death of her “lover,” King Kong.  Yet I asked myself why this was in a horror anthology.  The story can best be described as having “emotional dread,” as she follows her grief to the interminable end, and its inclusion made me consider the blurring boundaries of genre.  If someone opens up yet another discussion on the differences between “literary” and “horror” fiction, I might be compelled to use this as evidence that there’s plenty room for both on a piece of paper.

 

For the rest of the stories as a whole, whether it’s through settings (1920’s Cairo, old hotels, derelict amusement parks) or language (big-voice / third-person narration and word choice), it felt like a very antique collection.  “The Reunion” would be at home next to a Poe story, and “The Game of Bear” is an M. R. James story finished up by Reggie Oliver.  Good stories?  Yes.  But if I told you some of these stories were fifty or a hundred years old, you would believe me.  Not an excellent barometer for what’s new and exciting in horror fiction. 

The antho is worth your money.  You get the excellent “Year in Horror” and “Necrology” sections, as well as some handy addresses and resources for the aspiring writer or ardent horror fan.  You get about 300 pages of solid horror stories, not a dud in the bunch.  You may very well like it, as I did, but what kept me from loving it was how the tales seemed like fresh pieces of wood, beaten with chains to look older than they really were.  I was ready for something new and exciting, and instead I got tried and true. 

Solid collection.  But not spectacular. 

 

5 Phrases to Retire

We've all heard them.  We've all said them.  But it's time to take a close look at these phrases so they can be retired once and for all:

1 – “At the end of the day”  You hear this one a lot with business talk.  It’s a summary statement.  “At the end of the day, sales will still be on the plus side.”  Well, at the end of the day, I’m sick of hearing this phrase.  This is a slight improvement over “When all is said and done,” which also needs to die.

2 – “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”  Everyone knows this is a nice way of saying “I’m breaking up with you and we’ll act like we can still be friends for a few awkward weeks until we’ve both moved on.”  So just cut to the chase and don’t hide behind this cliché. 

3 – “Stayed within ourselves.”  This is meaningless sports jargon.  “Played within ourselves” is the cousin of this phrase.  Someone explain what this means.  I think playing outside of yourself would actually yield better results, or better yet, play out of your mind.  When a guy hits six shots in a row, he’s “out of his mind!” or “unconscious!”  That’s like the opposite of staying within yourself.  So that one has to go. 

4 – “Chomping at the bit.”  This has to go because it’s incorrect, okay?  It’s “champing” at the bit.  I promise.  There, I did that one for you. 

5 – “You know what they say” This is usually a precursor to some pearl of wisdom.  “You know what they say, don’t pee in the wind.”  The phrase is disposable, since you’re basically going to tell me anyway and I’m not even sure who “they” is in the first place.  So just skip right to “Hey, don’t pee in the wind” and save me a precious few seconds.  

You have any phrases you hate?  You have any good alternatives to my little list here?  Sound off in comments.  

These Characters are a Work of Fiction . . . Aren't They?

You are not a character in my book.  Trust me. 

We’re getting to the point where a few people have read the teaser, or maybe a few pages, and are making connections between reality and fiction.  Is Fred Dale?  Is so and so Mack Tucker?  Who is this?  What about this character?  Did this chapter really happen to you? 

I'm sort of used to this, from my short stories.  I have come to the conclusion that it is not uncommon for readers who know the author to reflexively search for connections to reality.  And while I can confidently insist that "you" are not a character, I can also say that on a cellular level, you may indeed  be part of the book because you are part of my experiences.  

A writer has a well they can dip into that is extremely valuable and helps make the best fiction—the well of experience.  The rest is completely made-up, but even the “made up” pieces are filtered through the writer’s reality.  I think the best fiction comes when the steadying details of reality and experience are completely married to fictional enhancements.   Sometimes this is done first-hand, sometimes it's done through an amazing amount of research (see Palahniuk, Chuck, a notorious researcher).  An example is my story, “Detail.”

I have cleaned cars since I was a teenager.  It was a decent buck and I enjoyed the process of turning something chaotic into something neat and clean.  Over the years, I have read articles, written articles, used thousands of products.  Would I ever write a story about a car detailer?  It’s pretty boring cleaning things up all day.  But I mixed this real well of knowledge with the made-up hook, the “strange attractor” that makes it a story instead of nonfiction—a car detailer cleans up the vehicles of people who have done bad things inside of them.  The story grew from there, new fictional things popping up after each draft.  But in the reviews, one compliment I continued to get was that the story works is because the car detailer knows how to clean the cars—there are tips and products that draw the reader in.  It creates an authenticity that helps the fictional parts work. 

When creating a character, a vehicle, a room, a town . . . it’s like cooking.  I have ingredients in my head.  For “Detail,” I had just completed the cleaning of a friend’s car—so it was fresh in my mind, and easy to use as part of the setting.  Maybe I saw a weird guy in a strange town, and used that description on a character.  Perhaps you said something to me many years ago that I thought was interesting, and it stuck in my notebook all this time, and becomes a piece of a character’s sensibilities.  A dash of this, a sprinkle of that . . . fiction is nothing but a Frankenstein creation built from the pieces of “real” inside of a writer.  The funny part is, even the most out of the world stuff comes from that “real.”

 

In The Samaritan, Dale Sampson can regenerate his organs and limbs.  How could reality be the basis for me describing this?  Because I know about surgeries from doing the research.  I've been on the operating table a time or two.  I know about healing from doing it myself.   I read a lot.  Interviewed a little.  I often sit and ask myself, “How would this person react to such and such?”  Sure, it’s fiction on the page, but it’s arrived at through my own meditations.

When I wanted to create a small town, I took the small town I lived in and then used the powers of make believe to make it smaller.  In reality, it's a nice, kind, warm town.  But I made it a little darker.  Seedier.  When I think of a playground, what do I think of?  Yes, that playground.  But then my imagination can move the pieces around.  It can build a new basketball court.  Inhabit it with different people.  Hell, I can drop a meteor on it if I wanted to.  

Characters are the same way.  Mack Tucker is an insane confluence of every single crazy friend I’ve ever had.  And trust me when I say, I’ve had some crazy ones.  But Mack doesn’t exist. He’s not my best friend from high school, or one of my goofy college friends.  He’s Mack Tucker, and he has the flaws and sensibilities I made up for him, but the reason I could inject him so strongly with them is because I have observed them in so many different people. 

So Dale Sampson is not me.  I am not Dale Sampson.  But he definitely sprang from a part of me I once knew, so I took that awkward period of my adolescent life and put it on steroids to make Dale into the introvert I wanted him to be. 

Anyone who knows me well and reads The Samaritan may have flashes of recognition, but that’s only because my well of experiences may be similar to yours.  Heck, some of us may share more wellwater than we would care to talk about.  But I firmly believe that fiction is what makes fiction interesting, and those bits of experience is what makes fiction believable.

So there you go.  These characters are a work of fiction, but the author and his experiences are not.  

Five Awesome Writing Nuggets

Here are five random pieces of writing advice worth sharing.  These are nuggets that I heard, and they set off an “ah ha” moment.  They are nuggets I’ve often recited when asked for advice.  Some are useful, some may just be a handy FYI.  I share them with you now, in no particular order:

1 – Every writer has a published story he or she wishes had never seen print.  This is usually among the writer’s first publishing credits, when the buzz of sending out stories and SASE’s is awesome, when sealing the envelope seems a tad more exciting than sitting down for yet another rewrite.

I remember this because I am guilty, but I’m not alone, and it’s not a fatal mistake or anything, but something I wish I would have heard a little earlier in the game. 

2 – One of the most valuable talents a writer can develop is the ability to self-edit.  This can only be done by critically evaluating what works and doesn’t work in the fiction of others.  Once you can pull that off, it becomes easier and easier to find flaws and strengths in your own work.  My MFA program was vital to developing this skill from ground zero (and it’s still developing of course, and I don’t think anyone ever wants to NOT give a trusted colleague a story to look over and just trust themselves).  You can make best use of the feedback avenues you have at your disposal when you can make some excellent headway in rewrite on your own by putting that editor hat on. 

3 – Concentrate on nouns and verbs for strong writing.  I think that novice writers, or simply folks that don’t write until it’s time to put together an email or letter or report, rely far too much on adjectives and adverbs.  That is the primary difference that I have perceived in my exposure to lots and lots of diverse work, in both the writing and professional realm.  What is better writing, “quickly ran” or “sprinted?”  “Big man” or “giant?”  You get more done with less when you focus on the best nouns and verbs you can come up with.  An adverb, to me, is an easy to find note to rethink that particular phrase—just look for the “ly” words and stare at it a while until the right verb comes along. 

4 – “If you write something for which you were given a check, and that check did not bounce, and you paid the light bill with the money, then I consider you talented.”  I read this Stephen King quote when I was much younger, and typed it out and hung it up.  Why?  Because I wanted Stephen King to consider me talented, and he had given me a roadmap to do it.  That’s why I never cashed that first check for eight dollars that I earned for a story called “The Beautiful Man,” (um, see #1 for how I feel about that story).  This was proof that Stephen King thought I was talented, even though I never did figure out if it bounced or tried to pay the “light bill” with the massive sum of cash.  But this is proof that goal-setting is important, that inspiration works, and that if you do indeed get paid for something you wrote (which is extremely, extremely difficult) then there is no question you have some talent.  Yes, even you Stephanie Meyer. 

5 – Finish your first draft.  Writing is just like sports . . . finishing is the key to success.  Finish your tackle, finish at the rim, close out the baseball game, finish your block, finish, finish, finish.  Finish your first draft.  Why?  Because you’ll be surprised at what happens by the time your “lost project” is done.  Because you’ll learn how to write by making mistakes.  Because you can always go back and fix it later.  Because the second half of this story or novel might end up being the first half of an even better one because you were writing background the entire time, gaining momentum for the good stuff.  There are times that the lure of something shiny, new, and perfect (the next great idea!) have come calling.  A concept so awesome you should drop this crappy project and get to work on the real thing.  You know what you do when this happens?  Finish what you’re working on first. 

The Samaritan exists because I finished three novels before this one.  Much longer and crappier novels at that.  Two of them I knew were dead in the water, but I finished them, stuffed them in a drawer, and moved along.  I learned from them.  Hell, I may even go back and salvage some parts down the road.  But I’m glad I forced myself to finish. 

And The Samaritan grew out of fragments and pieces of a totally different novel that I had in mind, and I just kept plugging away, trying new things, and by the time I had fifty terrible and fragmented pages along with a surprisingly decent short story, I knew I had to keep working until whatever it was that was happening had been completed.  I had to see it through, and I did, and now I have a novel that I’m proud of. 

I cannot end this blog without thanking my first MFA instructor (and a hell of a nice guy to boot), Michael Nye, who told me at least two of these nuggets (numbers 1 and 2) for the first time, and continues to advocate 5, and I’m willing to bet enjoys nouns and verbs instead of adverbs.  Just a hunch.  And yes, he pays his light bill.  Enjoy his posts at http://www.missourireview.com/tmr-blog/. 

PS - I have decided to use a bigger font on blog posts.  Mainly because someone said the print was small to read on a computer.  If you love or hate my fonts, sound off.  But this is the maximum size I can tolerate without including pictures written in crayon.  

Knocked Stiff by Donald Ray Pollock

I was recently floored by praise for my book from Donald Ray Pollock.  Thinking back to when I first discovered his work, I thought I would urge anyone who reads this blog on occasion to run out and discover him as well. 

His collection, Knockemstiff, is simply fantastic.  It's the type of raw, fast, electric fiction that plugs into your head and rattles you . . . a book like a Taser.  Knockemstiff, Ohio is the location and it's a real place, one that Pollock knows well, one full of characters you will not soon forget. 

But I don’t want to make this an infomercial.  You can look at all the well-deserved praise for the book and order a copy on Amazon by clicking here.  Do it, you won't be sorry.  

I want to talk about the night I knew I was going to buy and read this man’s book.  I was in St. Louis to see Chuck Palahniuk, who was going to read one of his stories, sign some books, and do a live interview.  Along for the ride was a “who is this guy?” named Donald Ray Pollock, who was on tour with Chuck. 

He basically “opened” for Chuck by reading a story from his collection, “Bactine,” about two men who—you guessed it—huff Bactine to get high, hang out at a donut shop at 3 a.m. and hit on the less-than-desirable women that arrive.  Sound funny?  Well, it is.  There was laughter at several of the zinger lines, the turns of phrase, the rich and unexpected language of the inhabitants of Knockemstiff . . . but I specifically recall an underlying tenderness in the prose, an adoration for these characters.  They held a certain kind of nobility, and the story ended with a hint of sadness.  These weren’t caricatures meant to entertain—these were people engaging in their lives, no matter what tragic and strange turns those lives were taking. 

The story was fantastic.  And while Chuck had his line of fans that curled out the door, Donald had the place to himself.  He seemed at ease, went out for what I presumed to be the occasional smoke, signed a few books, chatted with a few people.  He was easy to approach, down to Earth, happy to have someone discussing his story with him. 

Knockemstiff is about a small town and the situations that lurk there . . . so when I was finished with my novel, I wanted to take a chance and see if he would read it, and perhaps like it since it grew from the tiny towns of Southern Illinois.  I asked my publisher to send him an advance copy. 

And just like that night in St. Louis, he was gracious enough to give me the time of day.  More than that, even.  He read my book and sent the following praise:

“Fred Venturini is an awesomely talented writer, and he proves it on every page of The Samaritan.  Stretching artfully from the shabbiness of life in a small Illinois town to the glitter and greed of Hollywood, this first novel about a shy, emotionally damaged loser with a bizarre but coveted ability to regenerate his vital parts is one of the most engaging and ultimately satisfying that I've had the pleasure to read in a long time.”

Incredibly humbling, coming from a writer I respect a great deal.  And I think if you take the time to read Knockemstiff, you'll respect him a great deal as well, and be lights out entertained in the process.

So for you writerly folks who may be reading this, the take-home is to attend those readings, be open to discovering the next good book, and network.  I recall running an extremely high fever that day . . . and if I would not have gone, I would never have discovered Donald Ray Pollock or his amazing book.

Hey, I Wrote a Book

You are probably asking yourself why my blogs are so infrequent.  Well, I am continuing my education in graduate school, I'm working an adult-caliber job, I'm living out of boxes as we prepare to move, I'm battling a 4 week bout of bronchitis, and I have been revising the novel I'm about to plug.

It's called "The Samaritan" and it's coming out in February.  I'm going to be posting more in the coming weeks now that I can see some light at the end of the tunnel.  If you haven't seen it already, here are the covers.  The hands are hardcover, the heart is the softcover.  Time for your eyes to bulge with jealousy!  Behold!  And maybe comment, or as most of you do, text me because you're afraid of posting as "anonymous."

Similes Are Like Bullets in a Zombie War

When I was a kid, I was into horror movies and such.  I remember going to the IGA grocery store in Vandalia, Illinois, and begging my mother to buy me the issue of "Fangoria" that I would browse while she was shopping.  I thought it was insanely cool that I could read about my favorite horror movie characters while she was buying milk and bread.


So for the most part, I'm delighted to have the words "Fred Venturini" in an actual Fangoria book review.  You can check it out here. 


My blurb is at the bottom, where the reviewer pretty much shoots down my story for using too many similes (while using a simile, a neat trick).  Which is a great excuse to talk a little bit about two things that writers love to talk about--similes and having a thick skin. 

Similes, for those keeping score at home, are figures of speech that use two unlike things, and connect them with "like" or "than."  You will see them in much of the fiction you encounter, as a general rule.


So, with definition out of the way . . . similes are a true risk / reward tool in a writer's toolbox.  They are like bullets in a a zombie war--use them when you absolutely need them.  Don't overdo it or you'll be left out of ammo with your brain getting eaten by the undead.


But similes can be so, so excellent.  Chances are, some of the most memorable lines that you have encountered while reading have an amazing simile.  Take this line from Cormac McCarthy as an example:


"Even in this world more things exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. "


The line is great even without the simile, but it creates an immediate connection on visual and emotional level.  It makes the image complex.  For the most part, similes can rub two images against each other, or in concert, to create a lasting connection for the reader.  It can add richness.  It can surprise.  


Or, it can completely destroy what you are trying to accomplish.  It can distract.  It can be cliche.  It can happen too many times, creating too many "likes" in the text, and soon, the reader will see the gears of fiction at work, and the spell will be broken.  Take this entry from the "Top 10 Bad Similes in Suspense Novels" which does not attribute the author, but serves my point:


"Unable to contain his rage, he burst like a pimple of emotion, the puss of his fury streaking the mirror of calm in the bathroom of his life."  


Does my story, "Threshold," use too many similes?  Well I dare you to (SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT) head over to Amazon or your local bookstore to buy a copy of "Sick Things" and read for yourself.  I can avoid the situation altogether since the story is in first person.  I can simply say that the character I'm narrating the story as uses lots of similes to describe actions he is witnessing.  But that would be a copout.  I've got to own the negative reviews as much as the positive ones, correct?


Which is why I will also mention that writers, above all else, must have a thick skin.  Baseball players are said to be mentally tough because they compete in a sport where failure is the rule, not the exception.  If they succeed 3 out of 10 times, they are considered good hitters.  In writing, if you're hitting .300 or better on your story submissions or your queries or your novels, I can almost guarantee that you're a "name" author who started out hitting well under .100 and have worked a long time to bring that lifetime average up.


Writers have collections of rejection slips.  Their best stories are often rejected time and time again, with cold and impersonal form letters.  The novels they work on can linger for years before seeing the light of day.  This is truly a craft where you don't come for the fame and fortune and stay for the continental breakfast--you're in it because you enjoy writing and finding acceptance is gravy.  


Any writers who are reading this are nodding, and know that there is usually nothing new to add to this subject.  If you don't have a thick skin, you're either going to acquire one, or you're going to quit.  It's that simple.  So if you want to be a writer, get tough, and take the stance of American Idol rejects.  Yes, I said it.  Watch American Idol.  The bad singers who are punished and humiliated by the judges never seem to quit, do they?  They have a dream.  They will chase it, no matter what anyone says.  A qualified panel of experts has just told them to quit singing.  


They won't.  What do they do instead?  They look at the camera and say, "I'll show them."  


The story Threshold was originally drafted in 2001.  It was short and had a terrible title.  I rewrote it a few years later.  It lingered.  I rewrote it again, and gave it to my writer's group.  They hated the title.  I changed more things.  It was accepted to an anthology that never happened.  I pulled the story after a year plus of waiting.  I shopped it again.  Rejected.  I sent it again.  I got a letter, a contract, a check, and a spot in "Sick Things."  


And now there is a Fangoria reviewer who is telling the world I used too many similes.  And he may be right. But that story has been written, and I'm moving on, and I'm still writing, and you know what?  


I'll show him.  

Catch Me Writing Dirty

Since "author" is in big bold print on this blog's heading, I'm going to be doing regular entries about writing, and the first one is about writing "dirty." 

Disclaimer: Writing dirty is not what you think it means.  It has nothing to do with sex, or swearing, or trying to get into the pages of Hustler.
 
Let me describe the concept by sharing a story that I'm sure consumers all over America are familiar with.  Recently, I got a brand new grill.  Stainless steel panels.  Pristine grates.  Spotless burners.  Everything was shiny and perfect.  I would gleefully start it, let it get hot, turn it off.  I shopped for cleaners and a cover for the new grill.  But at some point, I had to cook on it.  
 
Food would stick to the grates.  Fat would drip onto the flavoring panels.  The stainless panels would get scratched and worn with grill tools and pans hitting the work surface.  
Something inside of me wanted to avoid cooking on this grill at all costs.  It would then no longer be perfect, whole, and new.  
 
You have seen this syndrome in your aunt's house, the one with all the furniture covered with plastic sheeting.  You know, to keep it brand new—at the expense of ever experiencing the softness and luster that made her buy it in the first place. 
 
You have likely felt this yourself with a new car.  You know those first few months, where every speck of tar or every struck puddle was an excuse to wash, polish, wax, and micromanage.  No one was allowed to eat inside the car.  You maintained the fresh smell.  
 
But years went by.  Pretty soon, the interminable destiny settled in on you, car owner—this thing would not stay perfect or new forever.  Now there is salt and hair stuck in the shag.  There are old french fries tucked under the seat.  A sticky ring from sodas.  It smells like dust.  Sure, you clean it from time to time, but there are scratches and stains and weathered parts that will never be new again. 
 
At some point, you come to expect that perfection will not last forever.  You take the plastic off.  You tolerate the muddy puddles.  You learn to love the blackened grates of your trusty grill.  
 
A writer must reach this point as quickly as possible, because if one does not, the need to maintain perfection becomes paralyzing.  I am confident that this perfectionist urge that is best seen in our treatment of new playtoys has absolutely decimated millions of writing projects.  I wonder how many stories, novels, and essays, have been dropped, ignored, tossed, or deleted because of the allure of a "perfect" new idea. 
 
Much has been written in the "how-to" arena about how writers must get past their perfectionism.  But this is a powerful problem, and the only real solution is to simply recognize it and talk yourself through it.
 
For a writer, the new item is an idea.  It is so whole, so perfect, so awesome, that we spend hours on the very first line.  That line then has to be rewritten to be perfect.  Maybe even a whole first paragraph or chapter.  Perfect.  But at the first sign of trouble—it is quite a blow.  Confidence sags.  Maybe the idea wasn't that good.  Sometimes we get halfway through an entire novel—thirty, forty thousand words—before this paralysis sets in.  This was not a good idea.  The excitement is gone.  Where is this going?  It's going to be messy.  I have this new idea though—this one can be perfect.  This is my magnum opus.  Maybe I should just start on that one.  Right?  After all, this is the thing that is exciting me.  
 

We justify dropping the project.  Which is the equivalent of saying "Forget washing my car, I'll just buy a new one."  
 

Sometimes our writing needs more than a mere washing—it needs bodywork.  A paint job.  New upholstery.  Sometimes the maintenance—the rewriting part—is hard.  But this is the cost of writing.  Perfection isn't born, it is made, one word at a time, one rewrite at a time.  Even then it may not be perfect—but it will have approached it, inched closer to it, and sometimes that progress is all we need to get that story or book sold, or maybe just put a period on the project, taken away a great deal of experience and practice, and we move on to the next one. 

I am writing about this because I am guilty of this.  I have two half-done novels, about forty-thousand words each, that were lost to the allure of a new, perfect idea.  But I think I have learned my lesson.  Instead of glossing over a first line over and over and setting a perfect precedent for the rest of the project, I let it stay mediocre.  Then I keep going.  I have a completely disposable first paragraph, page, or chapter, but then momentum comes.  Things get better, not worse.  Then they get worse.  Then a little better.  I know that the plastic is off the couch.  The grates are stained by burned food.  The stainless is scratched.  The car is muddy as all hell.  I'm writing dirty.  

 
I keep going.  I write a chapter.  It's a good one.  The next one's bad.  Probably going to toss it or polish it later.  Another good one. Then . . .  wow, this thing's going off the rails.  Terrible.  I should stop—but I don't.  Another decent page is out there.  The good stuff doesn't line up to be bagged—you have to write dirty for a good while for each salvageable word and page that comes your way.  
 
Strangely enough, we expect writers to be perfect.  We look at an athlete—how many times did Jordan miss in order to hit his game-winning shots?  How many times did Reggie Jackson strike out to hit those mammoth homeruns?  (Answer—more than anyone else, ever).  We respect the work ethic of athletes, about how they fail time and time again to register their successes.  
Now imagine a huge author in a back room writing his or her ass off.  How many pages get thrown out?  How much bad writing did they endure to get to the good stuff?  How many stones did they encounter while panning for literary gold?  
 
Answer—a lot.  Yet many casual fans think their favorite writers have perfect books pop out of their mental birth canal.  Writers know different—yet they still suspect that it is easier for the big ones.  I would bet my new grill it isn't.  
 
And for all this talk, I have no formula to help anyone get past the famous perfection paralysis that many writers face.  But I will say this—if you are confident enough to pick up a pen or keyboard and build an entire world from scratch, you have the confidence to endure the bad lines, pages, and chapters that you will produce while at work.  They are the exhaust of the craft, the waste product of your creative engine.  Talk yourself through it.  Embrace the dirt you kick up.  It's part of the process.  And tell yourself that if you can build a world, you can take a red pen to cut, fix, revise, and rework your pages.
 
But that stuff is all for later.  Right now, you're too busy writing dirty.    
 
Aren't you?