I'm ready to admit I'm writing a horror novel

Well, the horror novel is moving right along – almost 17,000 words in two weeks. After 15,000 words, I thought it was okay to admit to myself that I was onto a novel here, as it was already too long for a short story unless your last name is King.

I’ve read a lot of horror fiction, most of it by the aforementioned King. But oddly enough, I had never attempted a horror novel. I must say that I am enjoying the experience, especially because the bloody thing is almost writing itself. Well, we shall see if that keeps up as I tackle the ‘muddled middle’ as they say in the thriller biz. Around that point, I typically hit a slow patch in which I can’t think how to proceed. I plod along until I hit the Eureka! epiphany (usually while walking on the treadmill).

I’ll keep you posted.

It couldn't be done.

I’m no poet, and read mostly prose. But I will admit to reading some Poe, Frost, or Kipling rhymes from time to time. In honor of the presidential election just past, I’d like to offer this doggerel by Edgar Guest. It’s entitled simply, “It Couldn’t be Done.”

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,

     But he with a chuckle replied

That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one

     Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

     On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

     That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;

     At least no one ever has done it”;

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,

     And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

     Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

     That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

     There are thousands to prophesy failure;

There are thousands to point out to you one by one,

     The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

     Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing

     That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

For one day, I wrote like Stephen King.

The horror novel goes well, with words still flowing from my head onto the computer screen. Today, I wrote 2100 words, which is a Stephen King level of effort. And I wrote it in about the same amount of time, maybe four hours. So I guess you could say that for one day, I wrote like Stephen King. J

I’ve gotten some new ideas for direction, and have added a new character. But besides having a general mental outline, I don’t really know where all this is going yet. As SK says, that’s the fun of it.

Vive la difference!

One thing I’ve always enjoyed about Elmore Leonard, besides the fact that he is a Detroit boy like me, is the lack of formula in his writing. Strong voice, yes, formula, no. His Westerns are very different from the formulaic Zane Greys and Louis L’Amours. The Hot Kid was a very different novel than Get Shorty, and both stretched well beyond the standard thriller formula. Now I am reading Touch, his oddest story yet, and loving it.

I read that Leonard had difficulty selling Touch, even though he was an established best seller. His first publisher reluctantly picked it up, then sat on it for two years. So, Dutch retrieved it, as he was contractually allowed to do, and sold it elsewhere. Despite all this, he’s stated that it was some of his best writing, and I would agree. Yet, it is still one of his least read works.

Stephen King is another one that stretches the genre mold, sometimes breaking it, sometimes just changing its shape to scare us in an unexpected way. With both him and Leonard, you come away with the feeling of having experienced something new, rather than another rehash with changes in only the location, macguffin, and a few characters. Vive la difference!

Sometimes you don't have to dig too deep to find whatever it is.

Recently finished Stephen King’s On Writing. King has an interesting philosophy on the creative process. Michelangelo used to say that the figure was already in the stone, he just removed unnecessary bits. King likewise believes that stories already exist like artifacts, it just takes a careful archeologist to reveal them without mucking them up. He may have something there.

I had a dream a couple of nights ago; something vague about which I don’t remember much. But thinking about it that morning led to a train of thought that in turn led to an idea for a horror story. I’d been toying with the idea of writing a horror novel, and had just read Stephen King, so I guess I was primed. Anyway, the idea came to me so vividly that I immediately sat down at my computer and started on a draft. Over the next twenty minutes, 750 words wrote themselves, complete with several juicy characters. Today that word total is around 2500. So maybe King is correct and the story was just sitting around my subconscious like an artifact. Bear in mind, I don’t know yet whether I uncovered a shard of pottery or an intact Etruscan vase. But sometimes you don’t have to dig too deep to find whatever it is.

We'll see how that works out.

Been trying my hand at online writing contests lately. I entered two of my recent short pieces (Going Back and Craft of Love) in the Writer’s Digest Short-Short Story competition. It’s a low-yield endeavor, since the competition is 3000-4000 entries. But for that reason it is a bit prestigious if you can place or get a mention.

I also entered a free contest for thriller and horror novels (http://tinyurl.com/zagnp4r), which is judged by a literary agent. We'll see how that works out.

"Even through the covers I could feel the firm pressure of her breasts, live things that caressed me of their own accord."

In an effort to ignore the current election cycle, I have been directing my efforts toward the past, namely reading old books and watching old movies. Not too long ago, I watched Kiss me Deadly, a real gem from 1955 that I hadn’t seen in a while. The movie stars Ralph Meeker, a highly underrated actor in my humble opinion. You may know him as the sociopathic cavalry officer in Anthony Mann’s The Naked Spur, the psychiatrist and Lee Marvin drinking buddy in The Dirty Dozen, a cowardly French soldier in Paths of Glory, or (my personal favorite) FBI agent Bernie Jenks assisting Karl Kolchak in The Night Stalker. Meeker gives a nice, gritty performance as Mike Hammer, a gumshoe with the skills and know-how of a Dirty Harry, as well as a bit of a seedy side not seen in the noir thrillers of the 40s.

The movie inspired me to buy the book through one of Amazon’s $4 used specials. I first discovered Spillane many years ago during a phase where I was reading mostly horror, sci-fi, and fantasy instead of thrillers. I’m enjoying rediscovering his punchy style that is so much more direct and in your face than Hammett, Chandler, Cain, or MacDonald. And although still tame by today’s standards, the sex is a whole lot steamier, albeit still mostly implied (it’s no 50 shades).

“Even through the covers I could feel the firm pressure of her breasts, live things that caressed me of their own accord.” Kiss me Deadly by Mickey Spillane

I think age is catching up to the master.

I am currently reading three books (yeah, I’m weird like that). Stacked next to my bed is a western, an Elmore Leonard thriller, and my kindle, from which I am currently reading Stephen King’s On Writing. The western is fun and Elmore Leonard is always cool, but the most enjoyable is King, even though it’s non-fiction. The guy really has the gift, so that his non-fiction reads, not like fiction, that’s a cliché, but like, well, Stephen King. In some ways, he sets such a high bar that I sometimes expect too much, which brings me to the point of this post.

A few months back, I read his latest collection of short fiction, Bizarre of Bad Dreams. As always, there were a few real gems. But normally, the diamonds and emeralds are sprinkled among amethyst, jade, and other semiprecious stones. In this rendering, most of the rocks in the jewel case were zircons, what QVC dubs Diamonique, and Donnie Brasco dubs fugazi (fuggedaboudit).

Probably the best of the gems was Blockade Billy, but next to it, shining brightly until you looked through the jewler’s loop, were some (what seemed to me anyway) half-hearted, un-Kingly efforts. Stories whose conclusions were obvious (Under the Weather) or that were parodies of his former work (I’m thinking of Mile 81). I was also disappointed to see that for the first time (as far as I remember), he’d included stories already published in his previous anthologies. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love rereading the King, but I don’t want to pay for the same ruby twice.

Although I found the above somewhat disappointing, the worst is yet to come. He’d included (gasp) poetry. Now, I am no poet and don’t read a lot of it, although I enjoy the occasional Poe or Frost piece. But the King is no Robert Frost (or even David Frost). To his credit, he acknowledges that fact up front, but says he’s includes some of his better efforts at the craft. Wow! Let’s just say, I read a couple of these space fillers, scanned one, and then put the book down.

It’s sad to say, but I think age is catching up to the master. But worse than that, he is starting to turn off the quality filter and sell whatever will sell. I recognize that he’s in a business, but I was a little embarrassed for him. It almost felt like I saw him signing T-shirts at the head of a long line at Monster Fest. “Step right up and get your genuine, autographed, Tommy-knocker T! Comes with a complimentary copy of Bizarre of Bad Dreams and a bamboo steamer.”

"The three sure signs of aging are baldness, a bit of a spread, and feet of clay."