2,000 Hours of Dedicated Practice

I crossed 2,000 hours a few weeks back, though I didn't realize it.

At one thousand hours, I said, basically, that I was a competent writer. The 1,000 hours that I put in had allowed me to do a decent job of describing the world around me and my thoughts about it.

At 2,000 hours, I have a bit bolder statement to make, but I believe it to be true.

I'm better than 90% of all fiction writers.

That isn't the most arrogant thing I've ever written, but that only speaks to my arrogance and not the actual statement.

While I think saying that could ruffle some proverbial feathers, I'm okay with that. Kobe Bryant said recently, discussing he and other greats (Peyton Manning, Federrer, etc.):

"We’re not on this stage just because of talent or ability. We’re up here because of 4 a.m. We’re up here because of two-a-days or five-a-days."

If I'm better than most, it's because of the time I put in. Very little of this has to do with internal talent, but with the fact that I write for hours each day, read for hours each day, and comb through my own work looking for opportunities to get better the way a crack addict will comb through the carpet to see if they dropped any gear they could use.

Perhaps I'm losing my ability to be humble about this, and given that I have another 8,000 hours to go, it might be best to keep quiet.

At the same time, though, if you don't like hearing that I'm most likely better than you, work harder.

On Police Violence

I need you to read what I'm about to write with cold dispassion. Use the logical eye in your mind, not the heart's. I know that's going to be hard, but try to hear me out.

The major question I want to ask all those decrying the two newest cop killing's is:

What did you expect?

It's not rhetorical. I'd sincerely like someone to think about it and answer me.

Let me ask a hypothetical:

What would happen, say, if:

1) I put out job posting asking for people who want to help their communities, fight crime, and generally wield a large amount of power. While the first two of those three may be positive things, the last will certainly bring in a lot of candidates which may not have the best intentions.

2) Train the people I hire that the citizens they are to protect must obey them at all times. If citizen does not obey them, escalate violence until either A) citizen obeys, B) citizen is incapacitated, C) citizen is dead.

3) I then create a massive amount of laws to which these new hires have no choice but to follow and enforce.

4) Many of the laws I create are based on personal whim and violate individual sovereignty. (drug laws)

In short, what if I consolidated the right to use force into a group of people, gave them a different color suit and a shiny metal badge? Well, given that there entire job consists of the right to use violence, I imagine violence is going to occur--yet no one talks about this. The entire system is set up for one group of people to use violence on another but it's completely lost in the discussion. Perhaps instead of gun control for regular citizens, we should be talking about gun control for cops.

Theme, Character, Story.

Alright, if you're here--it's probably because you like my stories. If you don't like my stories, I don't like you. That sounds pretty fair to me.

I realize that a lot of people love reading stories, but they don't care about how the writers going about forming them. (Outside of the question--where do your ideas come from? That one is universally loved.) I try not to go very deep into the craft on this blog, partly because I really love the idea of putting out a finished product that is beautiful, without anyone seeing how it was made. Also, because I don't think most readers care.

Sometimes, though--I amaze even myself. I do this rarely as my expectations are so high.

I reread On Writing by Stephen King last week, and while most of that book is gold, he said something I had a tough time relating to. He said the most important thing in a story is story itself. To me, this means what happens. He said character is second, and finally, you search through the novel to see if themes exist after it's written.

I'm coming up on 2,000 hours of dedicated practice (another post coming soon), but I'm growing into the writer I will be; that said, I disagree with King.

To me, the process is like this:

Theme creates characters, and then the characters drive the story. Everything relies on theme to move the story along, though. It's the foundation beneath the house.

I hate the distinction between a 'serious' writer and a genre writer; it's silly and a dichotomy that need not exist. King, I believe, does theme last because the fan's entertainment is his most important concern (think plurality, not majority in this instance). It isn't mine. Philip K. Dick said: I am a fictionalizing philosopher, not a novelist. 

I really identify with that quote.

I've always felt--and my family can attest--that I'm right and the rest of the world is, for lack of a better term, wrong. That's where my stories come from. Those themes about the world being wrong on so many different issues. It's mindblowing (both how I can be so arrogant and so many people so wrong).

That's where my stories come from, though. Themes. Questions about how the world should work or how one should feel. From there characters are born, and then the story.

It's a great feeling, this becoming a writer thing.

Red Rain

Clouds Gathering

Chapter One

John knew he was dreaming, though that didn’t make it any better. He hated the dream, yet knew it the same as he knew his wife, an old lover—someone that he had spent the most important moments of his life with. Because, when John got right to the point, what other moments were there besides those like his dream?

He held the gun in his hand, barrel facing the ground.

He knew what came next, because he was only reliving what had been done years ago. It didn’t matter how many times he dreamt this, it always ended the same. He couldn’t change it and perhaps that’s why everything went so wrong—his inability to change anything.

John watched the seventeen-year-old dream-version of himself lift the gun up, the barrel shaking from both excitement and fear. He had never done this before, despite everything else that had already happened in his seventeen years of life. Somehow, he stayed away from this. Until now.

He stood on the black asphalt, the trees surrounding him hiding the moonlight above. Who was the girl in front of him? He didn’t remember her name, not now anyway. 

Is that true, John, or do you just refuse to name her after all this time? 

Perhaps the dream version of himself knew, but now, he walked among this past the way a ghost might walk around the world. He wanted to reach out and tell himself to stop, to put the gun down—or at least part of him did. Another part though, wanted to watch it happen.

The girl was crying. Hot, fat tears ran down her face, swelled on her chin, and then fell—disappearing into the dream’s darkness. John looked at her, lips quivering, body shaking from fear instead of the winter night’s bitter cold. Her eyes said she hoped that this would all work out, sparkling in the moonlight, but that she knew it wouldn’t. Hope and knowledge rested in the seventeen-year-old version of John, too. Hope that this would be as good as he dreamed, and a quiet knowledge that it never could.

Still, the gun didn’t stop its ascent, shaking the same as the girl on her knees. 

“Please,” she said. 

The last word she ever spoke.

John pulled the trigger, momentarily closing his eyes at the gun’s roar. He only closed them for a second though, as everything inside of him wanted—no, needed—to see what happened next.

He watched her forehead balloon outward as the bullet wrecked the skull beneath. Blood spurted from the front of her head, and the bullet smashed through the back, sending brain and bone splattering on the car behind her. Her eyes stood open, but the life inside them was gone. Blood dripped down from the hole in her forehead, over her eyelids, turning the white of her eyes red. 

She remained there for a second or so, as if in shock, unable to believe that her head was no longer intact. Then she fell backwards and to the left—her head hitting the car door—before falling to the ground. Her hair trailed behind her head, smearing the already cooling blood.

John watched the younger version of himself stand there, alone in the cold night, with the gun’s report still echoing in his ears.

* * *

John opened his eyes and looked across the dark room, expecting to see nothing but the chest-of-drawers against the opposite wall. Sweat pooled across his skin, causing a chill to run over his entire body despite the blanket draped over him. 

He blinked twice, not moving an inch. He wasn’t looking at the chest-of-drawers. He saw someone that he hadn’t seen in a long time, someone that he hoped to never see again. 

Harry stood across the room, his hands in his pockets, looking directly at John.

Harry had aged, just as John had, which didn’t make a lot of sense because Harry never aged a day after thirteen. Still, he stood there, looking a bit heavier and a bit older. 

Maybe he’ll leave. Maybe this is just the dream’s hangover. 

“Hey, John,” Harry said.

John looked to his right, seeing Diane still lying asleep. 

“You know she won’t wake,” Harry said and John almost groaned at his voice. John closed his eyes, turning his head so that if he opened them, he would only see the ceiling. 

God, please, make this a dream. Please.

“Still doing the praying thing, I see. When did that start? It was most definitely after I left, but I hoped it would pass. Just doesn’t make any sense … ya know, given everything.”

John didn’t open his eyes but he couldn’t shut out Harry’s voice. Harry who shouldn’t be here, who was nearly twenty years dead, but who stood across the room all the same.

The dream. He should have known what the dream meant. That Harry was coming—or he was near, at the very least. Though in this case, Harry had been waiting the moment John woke up.

“Go away,” John said. “I don’t want you here anymore.”

“Come on, we both know that’s not entirely true. If you didn’t want me here at all, then I wouldn’t be here, would I? I’m not the one running the show, John. You are.”

“Please go, Harry. Please. I need more time. I need … I can’t do that again.”

Harry didn’t move, kept his hands jammed in his pockets, but his voice wandered as if it were taking a stroll. “Need is a funny word, I think. I’m not sure that need is completely in the equation between the two of us, but I’m not sure it’s out of that equation either.”

John listened to him prattling on, only caring that Harry wasn’t leaving. That Harry was still here, standing in John’s room. 

“Look, go back to sleep,” Harry said. “We can discuss this all in the morning. We’re not going to get all of our work done tonight, that’s for sure. There’s a lot to do, John. A whole lot.”

John blinked and when his eyes opened, the chest-of-drawers stood alone, the moonlight from the window behind slicing through the room but showing nothing of Harry.

It was a dream. Just a part of the dream. He wasn’t here … you’re okay …

John thought the words, but he didn’t know if he believed them. When Harry arrived, he arrived. Because for Harry, despite what John wanted, there was plenty of work to be done.

* * *

Alicia hated this time of year. The weeks leading up to it and the weeks after. She couldn’t get away from it, though—because the time of year had nothing to do with the climate. She couldn’t run from it like she could the weather. If she wanted to avoid the cold, she could pack up and go on a vacation; Alicia could escape much in this world, but she couldn’t escape her mother’s death. This time of year would come regardless of where she lived or however else she tried to avoid it.

Alicia walked out of her house and into the chilly morning air. She kissed her husband goodbye before leaving, but her heart hadn’t been in it. She wasn't able to stop thinking about speaking with John, or about their mom. He handled her death worse than anyone else, and this month was always tough on him. On top of that, she’d nearly been derelict in her duty to him—despite her thinking of him more and more as the date grew near, she hadn’t called him in days.

She opened her Toyota’s door and sat down in the car, placing her purse in the passenger seat. She started the car; the clock on the dash read six. He would be on his way to work too. Alicia didn’t always leave at this time, but when she wanted to talk to John, she knew she could get ahold of him now.

Alicia pulled out of the driveway then grabbed her phone from her purse. She found her brother’s number and let the phone ring through her car’s stereo system.

“Hello?” John answered.

“Hey, it’s me. What ya up to?”

“Just driving to work.”

Silence came over the line, feeling like a cold breeze running across her skin. Her brother and her didn’t have awkward silences like this, not on the phone and not in person.

“Have you talked to Dad?” Alicia said, wanting to fill the space with something.

“About what?”

“About Mom.”

“Oh,” John said. “No, I haven’t … have you?”

“What do you mean, oh?” Alicia said. John sounded surprised, as if the anniversary of their mom’s death wasn’t this next week.

“I just … I haven’t thought about it, I guess.”

Alicia didn’t know what to say, was almost speechless. She stared out the windshield, the car rolling down the mostly empty road. She wasn’t sure she had ever heard her brother say something like that, as if their mom’s death was just a side issue and not a central piece of both their lives.

“Have you talked to him?” John said.

“I called him last night.”

“I’ll probably give him a call today then,” he said.

A few seconds passed and then Alicia said, “Are you okay, John? You sound out of it.”

His answer didn’t come back immediately, but he finally said, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well last night. A lot of bad dreams. I’ll call today.”

“You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Yeah, positive. I’m fine, just sleepy.”

“Okay. Call me later?”

“Sure,” John said.

“K. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

The call ended and Alicia sat in silence. She knew John as well as she knew anyone besides perhaps her husband, and she had been with her brother the past decade at this time of year. He never, ever forgot their mother’s death. He never went this long without calling their father, not around this anniversary.

What are you getting at, Alicia? He’s sleepy so he hasn’t been thinking about Mom, and you’re imagining … what exactly?

But she didn’t know. She was just worried. She wanted him to sound like he usually did, and there wasn’t anything wrong with that, was there?

* * *

John’s office door was closed, which was rare. He tried to leave it open as often as possible; he wanted people to feel free to come in as needed. Today though, he closed it when he entered, placing his laptop on his desk mount but not opening it.

He knew the phone call with Alicia hadn’t gone well, but he honestly hadn’t been expecting it. The anniversary of their mother’s death was right around the corner, and until this morning, he’d been thinking plenty about it. This morning, though, he only thought of Harry. Even when he and Alicia hung up, his mind didn’t go to her and her questions. It went back to Harry.

John didn’t see him this morning, not at breakfast with Diane and not in either the front or backseat of his car. If someone put a gun to John’s head, he couldn’t have adequately described the relief he felt at either of those things. What he saw last night could have been just an extension of the dream—

And when do you have that dream, John? Do you have it just randomly?

He reached down to his bag, opening the flap and pulling out a worn Bible. He laid it on his desk, not glancing up to see if anyone was at his glass door possibly needing him. He didn’t care one way or another if someone saw him reading his Bible, and if someone asked, he wouldn’t feel a need to defend it either.

He went to God often, as much as he possibly could—not just when things got bad. There had been bad times over the past five years, everyone had their ups and downs, but certainly nothing turned dark. Even in the bad times, light pervaded, letting John see everything around him. The dream, though—and Harry—those two meant that life could grow dark again, and John would need God more than ever if it happened.

He can get you out of this. If nothing else can, He can.

All you need is the faith of a mustard seed.

John flipped the Bible open, tossing the thin pages to the left as he searched for the passage he wanted.

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor debt, nor anything else in all creations, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

John could keep Harry at bay if he kept those words in mind. Harry was something of the past and John didn’t ever need to go back there. God forgave him his transgressions and all he had to do was follow the old saying, ‘let go and let God’.

* * *

A whole day without Harry.

Praise God.

Praise God.

John couldn’t say those two words enough. He went through all his meetings without a single glimpse of Harry or what was left of the aging apparition’s body. He kept looking all day, up from his computer screen or over the person’s shoulder in front of him, constantly checking to see if Harry was standing there, assessing the situation, ready to start talking about the work to be done.

Nothing. Nada.

The day went without a hitch and now John was on the way home, driving his car and wanting to thank God for letting him pull through this. Five years since his last episode. The people in his meetings, they called it acting out, and John supposed that phrase could work too. Regardless, five years was a long, long time, and he really feared “acting out” again after last night. Yet here he was, alone in his car and ready to head home to his wife—without Harry.

John grabbed his phone and shot a text to Diane.

Need to stop at the Church for a few minutes. Be home soon.

He put the phone back in his pocket and took a right off the expressway a couple of miles later. He didn’t plan on talking to Father Charles today; he only wanted to be alone in Christ’s refuge.

John tried not to judge other Christians, or anyone else for that matter, too harshly, but when he really thought about it, a lot of people missed the point of Christianity. God delivered him today, and one shouldn’t simply take that for granted, as if deliverance was a right.

It took him ten minutes to make it to the church. John hopped out of the car and went inside, almost walking on air. Had he ever beaten Harry before? He didn’t think so. Every time Harry came, it meant things were growing dark, and yet John now stood inside his church without a single glimpse of the man all damn day.

Praise God.

John made his way to the front, and sat down in the first pew to the right. The church was well lit, and Jesus hung in the front as he did in nearly all Catholic sanctums across the world. John bowed his head, keeping his eyes open, preparing for how to thank God.

He felt something like Moses must have when he finally saw the Promised Land. How many years had he run from Harry? How many times had Harry controlled him? Forcing him to do things he didn’t want to … evil things …

John closed his eyes.

Thank you.

He paused, tears coming to his eyes. He couldn’t put this happiness into words. He couldn’t … he had never been able to resist Harry’s temptation, and here he was, praying in gratefulness.

Thank you so much, John said. As always, your will, not mine, but thank you. I don’t want to go back there, God. Ever. I want to live in your grace and through that grace, find love and happiness in this world.

Thank you.

John opened his eyes and a tear escaped, falling to the carpeted floor. 

He could do this, with God’s help. He didn’t have to see Harry anymore. He didn’t have to go back to the dark times.

John felt he had found a new life and in that life, freedom from the chains he carried.

On Orlando

I cannot stand when shootings happen. 

As selfish as this is, I can't stand it because of what the living still do. Don't misunderstand me, I feel for the people killed or hurt. I'm a pacifist and Buddhist; all life is sacred in my eyes.

People die. It's what we're literally born to do. When life is cut short, and in a horrendous fashion no less, much intenser heartbreak and pain accompany it.

The living go on, though, and do we ever make fools of ourselves.

Every single time I open up Facebook there's someone new commenting on either A) their love and support of the LGBT community, B) their anger at Islam, C) their support/opposition to gun control, D) anger at white, straight males and the overall patriarchy we supposedly dominate, and  E) anger at others for being angry at any of these things.

We're on Facebook to broadcast ourselves. It allows us to play the role of actor and twenty-four entertainer that we never achieved in our professions. It allows us to tell what we're feeling, whenever we want. So, that's what we do. We take a tragedy and then we decide to make it ours. We HAVE to comment. We HAVE to give our opinions on how it affects OUR lives.

This is bad enough in itself. An outlet to selfishness never before seen in the human race.

What is worse, though, is that none of these thoughts are original. All five of those things are fed to us through a Specialized Media IV Tube. These thoughts, these PLEAS to be noticed, aren't even ours--they're someone else's that has dripped, dripped, dripped into our veins and consciousness over days and weeks, until we think we actually believe them.

I wrote down 'it's sickening' and then deleted it. It doesn't sicken me, but it does make me angry.

Turn the television off. Turn off the radio. Read something that isn't a newspaper. Stop broadcasting yourself until you have something that is yours. It need not be original; indeed, someone else has most likely thought it before. But at least it will be yours.

On Terror

I'm living my life in near constant terror right now. I'm not at a point where I can say publicly why, but it's the largest decision I've ever made, and I'm losing a lot of security with it.

Everyone craves security. It is, perhaps, the predominant biological impulse in us: safety/survival. Most of our decisions are made with that single idea in mind. This is why people stay in jobs they hate. I've never met so many miserable people as those in the workplace, going in day after day, for years and hating their company.

I think about the word legacy a lot, or at least I have been in the past couple of months. I don't say legacy in a grandiose, arrogant way--but simply, what will I be remembered for?

Climbing the corporate ladder? Powerpoint decks? Leadership in growing a corporation? 

In business, you're constantly trying to add value, which simply means making sure the word you do is beneficial to the company. During this existential crisis, I'm asking myself where I add the most value to mankind? Is it behind a computer, looking at spreadsheets, and presenting ideas to upper-level management? 

I can't say that it's a complete loss. It allows people to have jobs and customers to be happier. But, what if I was a mechanic and decided to go bake cakes instead? Sure, I'd still be producing something the world wants, but where would my value add be greatest? Where could I do the greatest good for the most people? Under the hood of a car, not wearing an apron. 

In the end, we're all dead. So what am I going to leave behind? A full bank account and a bunch of regret? 

Nemesis: Book Six

Book Six is out and the series is finished.

Done.

Final.

I wish I knew other languages because I'd put those words here too.

For the next day or so, you can get it for only $0.99.

BUY IT NOW

All reviews have been fantastic, with over forty rushing in this week, and giving the book an average rating of 4.9 out of 5!

If you haven't read the first one, you'll need to, but because I'm a good guy, you can also get that for $0.99. Nemesis: Book One.

Trust me, if you like reading--this isn't something you want to miss. 

Nemesis: Chapter One

Fifty Million Years Past

The ship understood the cold, but that only meant she understood the cold. Time was…nonessential; when one floats through space as long as she had, counting millennia becomes a futile exercise. Even the cold, which had once been so strange to the ship, and thus to her, was now as familiar to her as the companion she traveled with. She had time to think. If nothing else, she had that—and in the beginning her thoughts went to her past, to the reasons behind this voyage, and to her companion. She found herself thinking about him constantly in the beginning, briefly wondering if she had made the right choice and then banning that thought forever from her mind. As time moved on, she quit contemplating her past so much, understanding that it was over. Completely. Indeed, her past had probably forgotten about her, relegated her to its own history, and a piece it wasn’t proud of.

She thought of the cold for a long time, about how long it had been since any light passed over the area she now propelled through. Her home had been a warm place, a habitable place, and yet surrounding it was a place of death and silence. How life ever stemmed from such a cold, dead universe, she didn’t truly understand. The Makers had a plan when they began it all; she had no doubt about that. The Makers. She wondered if she, a Var, floating out in space, nearly alone, was part of their plan. If they had figured her plight into it all, or if The Makers merely started this experiment and let the universe proceed as it wanted. These were the debates of philosophers from her past, and they had no bearing on her current predicament, but what else was she to consider while floating further into nothingness? Was the universe in charge or were The Makers? Or was it an accident stemming from those original creators? Everything occurring after They stepped away only random misfires?

The thoughts went around and around, but there would be no answer. The Makers existed and that was all anyone could be sure of. As for why they did it and where they went? No one knew, and the philosophers could debate their ideas until The Makers returned; it mattered not.

During the million years of her travel, hope died. She had made her choice out of desperation and now she would deal with the consequences. Which were these—unable to die, unable to live, and unable to simply shut her mind down. Millions of years to go, and she would still be here when The Makers returned. Maybe then she could ask them the answers to all those meaningless questions.

She felt the wave roll across the ship, jarring her mind away from its ceaseless thoughts. The ship tumbled, turning over and over, breaking from the smooth path she set it on. She felt herself rolling in space, trying to calculate what was happening, what in the hell was causing such a disturbance.

And then her mind settled as she understood.

That was her past. The thing she left behind so long ago, finally catching up to her, and then moving forward, leaving her behind now. For a long time her past had been allowed to live, and now, the wave showed it was the same as her. Just a wave in space, unable to live and unable to die.

She wondered what it must have looked like, to watch it happen? A thing of monstrous beauty, without doubt. And even now, after all this time, she was saddened at the knowledge of what it meant. Her people were gone. No more. She was the last of them, not even the being she traveled with could claim the blood that flowed through her veins. The wave meant everything she had fought for, everything she had wanted, was finally over. Her past had ended and the future only a bleak, cold, and lonesome place.

The wave meant that her home, her planet, had finally detonated.

Like it? Get it here for free: Amazon

Book Six is out on the 30th.

On 'Tropes' ... or where writers mess up.

The rage in writing circles right now is ... hmm, what's the word I'm looking for? Imitation, I suppose is the polite way to say it.

I saw someone say the other day that writers should buy the top books in their genre and literally put them into a Word doc. From there, the writer said that people should break them down by word count per sentence. Sentence structure. Pacing. Tropes (this means themes and plot). Then they should copy what they find while putting in a few unique twists to make their book not a direct copy.

This is, without doubt, an easy way to make some cash. A lot of people are doing it. Indeed, an artist I know just launched his career by doing something similar to this.

I've thought about this a lot, wondering whether that's the way to take my career. Clearly, from a capitalist perspective, we want to give customers what they want, and if they're clamoring for certain things, it would be wise to give 'em what they ask for.

I decided--for now--that I think such a route is disastrous in terms of long term thinking.

I don't want my books to imitate anyone else's. If I tried to emulate James Patterson, I'd basically be selling my soul, and I'm not willing to do that. More, though, what separates me from any other writing doing those things?

The greats--from Hemingway to King--didn't break down books to see what sold. That's not to say they weren't influenced, as all of them read prolifically, but the words they put out were their own.

I hate when people quote Steve Jobs, mainly because I've studied the man a good bit. First, no one wants to really be him, as he was a pretty shitty individual for much of his life, and second, no one else is Steve Jobs. However, he didn't imitate. He stole, sure, but then he combined things in a way that had never been considered before. 

Look at PCs. For decades, they all simply imitated each other, putting out crap that sold really well. You couldn't distinguish an HP from a Dell, though. It didn't matter which one you bought, because you were getting basically the same thing.

That's what I believe will happen/is happening with this 'trope' mentality. Authors will commoditize their work.

Someone responded to the earlier discussion around breaking a book down into a Word document with something along the lines of, "if people listened to this, there would be a lot more intense competition. They won't listen, though, and that's good for me, because I'll keep raking in money."

That's fine and probably true. However, what you're missing is the chance to be great. Give people things they hadn't thought of before; make them wonder questions that have never been posed to them; make them see things in completely new light. Long term, that's building a brand. Long term, that's going to satisfy customers. 

Homogenization is for hacks. Perhaps hustlers, too--as it takes a lot of work to imitate at such a granular level. But a hustler can most definitely be a hack.

I'll choose to be one, but not the other. See ya at the finish line.

An Afterword

I've started putting afterwords and the end of my books. In the past, I did this at the end of a series, but--I write some long frickin' series, and there's only so much an afterword can say. Thus, I've started putting a page or two at the end of my books describing my thoughts on characters, my writing process, and whatever the hell else comes to my mind. I figured I'd post the last one I did (though I won't anymore--it's a special treat for people that buy the books :) ). 

From Nemesis: Book Five (you can start the series for free here: Amazon):

This has been a tough series to write, if I’m being truthful. No series is easy, but this one … well, fans who’ve followed me for a while know that I write with a tremendous amount of self-doubt, and part of me feels that this story might have been beyond my grasp as an author. You always have this grand idea in your head, and never quite feel like you were able to put it down perfectly. So there’s a bit of insight into my work, I suppose.

A lot of readers write me and tell me they don’t know who to root for, which means I’m succeeding at least in some aspects.

I’m rooting for two characters—Morena and Wren. Morena because what choice does she have? Wren because, at least in some part, is my own father.

Nearing thirty years old, I have very little relationship with him due to alcoholism. I know him, as in, what he looks like and acts like—but that is only to say I know what alcohol has done to a man who was once strong and smart. 

I don’t think I’ll ever know my dad, not truly.

Redemption doesn’t always happen in life, but it can in my mind, and so I root for Wren—because there’s something good in all of us, even if it’s buried deep.

I’ve dedicated these books to my father, though he’ll never read them. I guess in some way, this series is a letter to him, saying how I wish things could be between us—without the alien about to kill us all.

So, one more book left. Let’s find out who wins, shall we?

All the best,

David - 3/28/2016

2015 Numbers

I think a lot of entrepreneurs are scared to talk about numbers--meaning cash. Hell, most people I know are scared to discuss what they make, and that probably stems from some underlying insecurity that what they make defines who they are.

I, however, am far too arrogant to think such nonsense.

So, what I want to start doing each year is tracking my revenue on a yearly basis (I do this on a daily basis, but nobody has time to update that much).

So, briefly, in 2014, I made about $4,400.

My goal for 2015 was to hit $6,000 which would be an increase of 36%--an astounding increase for year over revenue, even if a modest increase in actual cash. That's the joy of making almost nothing the year before.

My plan going into 2015 was to put out six books and focus on building a mailing list. I had around 200 people on my list going into 2015. Mostly friends. My friends are poor, so they never buy my books. I need new friends.

So how did I do?

My 2015 pre-tax operating income was: $21,282.

An increase of 483%.

Yeah, not a millionaire yet--fo sho. However, at this point, I'm among less than one percent of the population to ever live to make that much money from writing novels. I'll take it.

My mailing list ended up at 4,400. An increase of 2,200%. I think. I'm not that good at math.

Focus this year?

1) Continue building mailing list.

1 A) Optimize mailing list to increase sales of back list.

2) Focus on Facebook advertising for box-sets.

3) Optimize backlist by updating covers for The Devil's Dream series, and creating multiple box-sets for Nemesis series.

4) Spend a few minutes each day reading about the business. (this could be more specific, I know).

5) Write and publish six books while averaging 90 minutes per day at the act of writing.

6) Pray and sacrifice to the writing Gods that Bookbub is good to me this year.

Some brief thoughts on last year: 

1) Writing is tough. It's really tough, man. Sitting down and staring at the keyboard day in and day out is not fun, at least not for me. It's worth it, though.

2) I'm extremely lucky I found my passion. A lot of people live their whole lives not knowing, I think. I'm also extremely badass for having the nerve to keep this up for the past 9 years. A lot of people quit when they don't see immediate results. You should not talk to those people.

3) Drops in a bucket add up. For nine fucking years I've sat here staring at computers, hunched over, ruining my spine and my eyes, just trying to tell stories that would make people want to keep turning the page. Every one of those days has been a drop, and the bucket is starting to feel a bit heavy when I lift it.

4) The only way to succeed is to keep learning. Everything I do is not a success or failure, but an opportunity to learn. 

As always, I didn't edit any of this. Sorry. That I'm not sorry.

Now go out there and be someone!

Two Months Without an Update...

What have I been up to?

A lot, I suppose, and that keeps me from this little corner of my life. 

Books I've been reading? First, Don Winslow. If you're not reading him, you're missing out on a monster. I just reread Power of the Dog (the sequel, The Cartel, came out last month) and the guy is just amazing. If you saw Savages, he wrote the book the movie was based on. This guy doesn't get enough credit, but if you haven't checked him out, do yourself a favor.

I'm also reading In Cold Blood, or rereading it too. The first time I read it, I remember thinking that Capote was doing something I would never be able to obtain. That he was just such a master of his craft, that it was like watching real, actual magic. I'm reading it again maybe 6-7 years later, and I'm starting to see things I would have done differently. Now, this isn't me comparing my self to Capote, or any of my novels to In Cold Blood--he is a literary giant, and I have nothing but respect for him. Even so, it's interesting to be able to critique someone like that, critique and at least have an argument as to why you're right and he's wrong. If you haven't read In Cold Blood, pick it up, for sure. Killer, true tale.

My ninth novel comes out this month. I'm always looking forward, thinking about what's next, what can I do to get more eyes on my words, but sometimes when I take a chance to sit back and just think about what has happened--it's stunning. Every single day I get to converse with fans that write me. Every single day I make money while I sleep. I had someone in France buy a novel yesterday. I know that I'm still a very, very small player in this writing game, but to come from some guy writing a book in his college apartment, to this--I'm just very, very grateful.

Alright, as my editor says, I'm heading back to the salt mines. 

If I were you, I'd go buy all of my novels (again, if you did it once), and then ride around your city with a bullhorn, telling people about me. :)

P.S. Didn't edit this. Sorry for grammatical errors.

Nemesis: Chapter One

Get the book here, for only $2.99 when you pre-order!

The new series starts on July 15th. Meet Earth's final Nemesis...

 

Chapter One

Fifty Million Years Past

The ship understood the cold, but that only meant she understood the cold. Time was…nonessential; when one floats through space as long as she had, counting millennia becomes a futile exercise. Even the cold, which had once been so strange to the ship, and thus to her, was now as familiar to her as the companion she traveled with. She had time to think. If nothing else, she had that—and in the beginning her thoughts went to her past, to the reasons behind this voyage, and to her companion. She found herself thinking about him constantly in the beginning, briefly wondering if she had made the right choice and then banning that thought forever from her mind. As time moved on, she quit contemplating her past so much, understanding that it was over. Completely. Indeed, her past had probably forgotten about her, relegated her to its own history, and a piece it wasn’t proud of.

She thought of the cold for a long time, about how long it had been since any light passed over the area she now propelled through. Her home had been a warm place, a habitable place, and yet surrounding it was a place of death and silence. How life ever stemmed from such a cold, dead universe, she didn’t truly understand. The Makers had a plan when they began it all; she had no doubt about that. The Makers. She wondered if she, a Var, floating out in space, nearly alone, was part of their plan. If they had figured her plight into it all, or if The Makers merely started this experiment and let the universe proceed as it wanted. These were the debates of philosophers from her past, and they had no bearing on her current predicament, but what else was she to consider while floating further into nothingness? Was the universe in charge or were The Makers? Or was it an accident stemming from those original creators? Everything occurring after They stepped away only random misfires?

The thoughts went around and around, but there would be no answer. The Makers existed and that was all anyone could be sure of. As for why they did it and where they went? No one knew, and the philosophers could debate their ideas until The Makers returned; it mattered not.

During the million years of her travel, hope died. She had made her choice out of desperation and now she would deal with the consequences. Which were these—unable to die, unable to live, and unable to simply shut her mind down. Millions of years to go, and she would still be here when The Makers returned. Maybe then she could ask them the answers to all those meaningless questions.

She felt the wave roll across the ship, jarring her mind away from its ceaseless thoughts. The ship tumbled, turning over and over, breaking from the smooth path she set it on. She felt herself rolling in space, trying to calculate what was happening, what in the hell was causing such a disturbance.

And then her mind settled as she understood.

That was her past. The thing she left behind so long ago, finally catching up to her, and then moving forward, leaving her behind now. For a long time her past had been allowed to live, and now, the wave showed it was the same as her. Just a wave in space, unable to live and unable to die.

She wondered what it must have looked like, to watch it happen? A thing of monstrous beauty, without doubt. And even now, after all this time, she was saddened at the knowledge of what it meant. Her people were gone. No more. She was the last of them, not even the being she traveled with could claim the blood that flowed through her veins. The wave meant everything she had fought for, everything she had wanted, was finally over. Her past had ended and the future only a bleak, cold, and lonesome place.

The wave meant that her home, her planet, had finally detonated.

Stephen King's Carrie

I decided, quite idiotically, a few days ago that I was going to read or reread all of King's novels in chronological order. I can't, right now, remember why I decided to do it--but it seemed like a good idea at the time, so I announced it on social media (as one should do with all good ideas) and now am stuck with the announcement and duty. 

I plan on ranking them as I move forward.

I just finished Carrie, his first published novel.

This is a different King than what we read today, and that's kind of surprising for me to say. I'm not saying it is like reading a completely different writer, but at 199 pages, it's one of King's shortest. A lot of people argue that the shorter King's novels are, the better they tend to be (and I'm not necessarily opposed to this argument, either).

This book can easily be drawn into two halves. Prior to prom night and prom night. I have to say, that I almost didn't finish the first half of the novel: it was boring. I don't think King made a great connection between a bullied female quickly accepting these super natural powers and then her willingness to murder with them. The connection was there, and it was believable, but I just think if I was eighteen and suddenly had the ability to tip over cars with my mind, I might have acted a bit different.

King said in On Writing that his wife helped him a lot with understanding high school girls, and perhaps that is what happened in the first half of the book. It is setting the table for the second half, and in doing so, he almost lost me. Honestly, it was only because of my proclamation to the world about what I was going to do that kept me going. 

With that said, King comes into his own in the second half.

The King of Today is more verbose, taking more time to describe both what he sees and what characters think, but forty years ago, King ripped you along at a pace which makes your teeth chatter--once he finally gets started.

The second half of Carrie is why King became King, practically single-handedly pulling the horror genre to national attention. The way he wrote--I just don't think it had been done before. It's not like you're being spoken to, but like you're on a walk with a friend, and this friend is telling you a horrible, horrible story. He talks to you like he's sitting across the table, not hammering at you from a keyboard. 

Now, every modern day horror/thriller writer has pretty much been influenced by King. Before him though, not many wrote like this. Go read Lovecraft if you disagree. So when you read books today, and there is that folksy, friendly, aren't we all looking at this together for the first time type feel--I think a major reason is from King's first book.

The second half of Carrie is hard to put down. King intersperses the narrative with modern (Modern circa the 70's/80's--and don't expect accuracy of when this thing was published from me. I got things to do.) day discussions between Congress, academics, and books published on the subject of Carrie White. It creates an almost worldly view of what happened on that prom night, lending it a sense of non-fiction and critical attention that many thrillers miss. One thing that King misses here, though, is the terror. You know what is going to happen from the beginning of the novel, and in doing so, you're wanting to see how she does it, rather than what she does. This is in stark juxtaposition to his novels like The Stand, in which you desperately want to know the what and not the how.

King wrote this book at twenty-six years old. Two years younger than I am now. If we look at this and compare it to the rest of his work (which I'm going to do in this series), it's missing a lot of the greatness that King eventually becomes--

A brief interlude. It's also missing a lot of the bad that King eventually becomes. His verbosity,  his tendency to use tired metaphors (the room was as black as a hole in the ground), and his (for better or worse) ability to dive in and, and stay in, a character's head for pages and pages are all absent. 

--but when you think about what a twenty-six year old man has been exposed to, you're clearly looking at the beginning of a genius. You're also looking at someone who is having a lot of fun, and I'm glad for that.

Stephen King Definitive Ranking List:

1. Carrie (1974)

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

Practice, of course.

A lot of the people close to me are nearly ready to block me on Facebook, and deleting my number/asking me to delete their number. This is due to meditation and my obessiveness with spreading the benefits. That's okay--I don't really like them anyway. ;)

Actually, everyone I know who has started really does enjoy it. They say it's hard, but they can tell there is something to it, something happening in their minds. However, like most people who start a book, they do it once every ten days. (I know this because I stalk them ruthlessly through the Headspace app). 

Meditation is the greatest investment I've made in my life, but once every ten days isn't going to get you the type of happiness, contentment, and peace that you're wanting. I'm not sure if enlightenment is possible through meditation, though supposedly the Buddha reached it--but I do know that you won't ever near it unless you're meditating daily. I'm not talking about hours a day. I'm talking about 10-20 minutes. 

Taking 10 minutes and concentrating on your breath. Forgiving yourself when your mind ventures elsewhere, and coming back to your breath. That's it.

Someone asked me the other day how I have time to write and meditate, combined with a full time job. I asked them if they had time to eat. You make the time for that what matters most.

Take ten minutes, every day, and start concentrating on your breath. When your mind wanders, realize it has wondered, and bring it back to the breath. In that moment, you're both controlling your mind and practicing a very real sense of self-forgiveness, both of which will transfer over to the rest of your life.

Not Meditating? You're Wasting Your Life

Those that are close to me know that I'm kind of an all or nothing type person. Angry with the government? I'm not going to vote for the lesser of two evils; I'll just never vote again. Want to be  healthy? Forget good carbs vs bad carbs, just sacrifice them all. Want to write novels while still having a career? Just work fourteen hour days, every day.

I've taken this obsessiveness and found a new outlet. I'm having a real tough time not telling everyone I know about it. I basically prosthelytize for it on a daily basis. 

Meditation.

I've been high strung since a child. I can remember riding the bus at like nine and detailing out my entire day from morning until night. I told one of my friends about it and he looked at me like I was insane--I could tell, even then, that he thought I would surely end up in a really tight jacket in a really white and soft room somewhere. That OCD turned into a fairly high level of anxiety as I grew older, until I found myself on like three different type of pills to manage it. 

If I wasn't on these things: I. Freaked. Out. I'm talking, we'll probably have a nuclear holocaust within the next six months, and we might want to go ahead and buy ten billion gallons of water (not that bad, but you get that point).

About a year ago, I started researching meditation some. There was some science coming out saying that it had really powerful benefits, and I'm all about science and benefits. Science with benefits is how I like to term it (get it?). Anyways, I started. Very small. Five minutes a day.

The road to where I am now in my journey was VERY rocky. I plan on talking about meditation more and more on this blog, and I don't want to act like this has been an easy travel. I went through long periods of not doing it, of a longer period of not understanding, and so on and so forth.

However, this week, for the first time since I was about twenty-two years old, I'm getting off my anxiety meds. I've tried this before and the results were horrific--like I begin to feel that Vampires are living in my closet level of anxiety (not really, but you get the point). This time though, I'm more confident in what I'm doing, and it's only due to meditation.

I spend twenty minutes each day trying to focus on my breath, and those twenty minutes have brought a larger return on investment than anything else I've ever done. 

So, I suppose, this post is me singing meditation's praises, because I really want people to understand what it does.

We'll continue to discuss; how to do it, what it does, why you're an idiot if you're not doing it, etc.

The Devil's Dream: Chapter Six

So, for long time readers, this won't matter too much. However, if you haven't read anything from me, I'm going to post a chapter of The Devil's Dream every week on here. So if you're bored at work, or your spouse is angry with you at dinner, pull the site up and start reading. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Five

     The first night without Allison and Jerry already wasn't sleeping. He spoke to her around ten and told her he was getting in bed, which he had, but now he just lay there with the television on in front of him. Around midnight, the Brand stories began. He couldn't remember what he had been watching, maybe reruns of Friends, but it was broken up by a news alert.

     He changed the channel, wanting to stay away from it, but that did little as every channel he went to had basically the same story.

     Matthew Brand escaped from The Wall.

     Matthew Brand last seen in Texas.

     Somehow though, they managed to take those two sentences, the only thing they really knew, and stretch them out into hour-long segments. They weren't simply going to report the news and let it go until more information arrived. No, they were going to whip the public up into a frenzy. He left the television on, unable to find anything worth watching and unable to fall asleep. He thought about grabbing the book off the nightstand, but he finished it last night and didn't want to restart it.

     Might as well learn about what Allison was up against. He remembered a good deal of it, more than he thought when she woke him up this morning telling him she had to go. He was already sure that every major station would have some kind of recounting of Matthew Brand's life playing within the next couple of days.

     What Allison was up against.

     The words echoed through his head like it was a canyon. As if his wife was going into hand-to-hand combat with Brand. She was directing a massive team trying to monitor his whereabouts and all his communications. She wasn't up against anyone. She was leading a large force against one man, and for some reason, that made Jerry just the slightest bit bitter. Maybe it was because by the time Allison called tonight, her daughter was already in bed. Maybe it was because Marley didn't even ask today if she'd be able to talk to her Mom. Maybe it was because he sat here unable to sleep because she had left again.

     He closed his eyes, took a big breath, and let it out slowly.

     None of that was fair. He knew her career when he asked for her hand. He knew what it entailed. None of this was a surprise to him. Even so, this time felt different. It felt like what was supposed to be a rare thing. The type of manhunt that made careers. These were becoming a regular part of their lives. He didn't mention it to Allison this morning because she knew as well as he, but this was the third in a year. The third time she'd left him and Marley and gone off to another life that he couldn't ever truly understand. Most spouses, they could relate to a day at a job. They could relate to the reason the spouse went to that job. Bills to pay, mouths to feed, and the all-consuming struggle to make ends meet. Not in their case though. This wasn't about meeting ends each month, not for Allison—he understood that part—what he didn't understand was the nearly fanatical dedication for this job. The willingness to sacrifice almost everything if need be for it.

     It was dawning on Jerry, after fifteen years of marriage, that he might not understand his wife. That he might not know the person he slept next to each night.

     "Stop," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the drone of the television. You know Allison. You're just upset because Marley and you are here and she's not. That's all.

     He reached for the remote and turned the television off. Brand would be on until Allison brought him in and there wasn't any need to sit here and watch it tonight. Just lie in the dark until you fall asleep.

     Eventually his worrying stopped and he found the sweet darkness of rest.

* * *

     Ten years had passed since Jeffrey Dillan wrote a book. Eight years since it was published. He didn't need to write another book, didn't really need to do anything ever again as far as money was concerned, but that didn't mean he didn't want to.

     He had tried to write. Three separate times. Three separate murders in which he went to three different towns and interviewed hundreds of people. Jeffrey did the leg work, knew the murders inside and out, knew the murderers as if he were their parents, and nearly wept for the victims. Months on each project, collecting hundreds of pages of notes, all for naught. He sat down to write countless times, on each of the novels, and for a few days the words would come—once they even came for a week. Then they stopped, just dried up. He thought it was something inside him for a while, that he had lost the ability that he honed since the age of twelve. It took him three novels to understand he had nothing to do with it. Matthew Brand commanded his writer's block. After The Devil's Dream what was the point of continuing? What could he have to say, writing about second rate murderers, that hadn't been said before? There were no other Matthew Brands, so there were no more books for Jeffrey.

     After the third try, he put away the notes and retired.

     He still wanted to work, to reignite that passion that had consumed so much of his life. He couldn't though, so instead he drank. It was a slow process, replacing the research and writing with the bottle, but it was a process that he enjoyed. If he wasn't going to be writing, he might as well do something else fun. At eight in the morning, he had a bottle of vodka and a bottle of orange juice sitting on the counter. His head didn't hurt because he took it easy the night before. He'd gone to dinner with his agent, out of friendship rather than any hope of a book. He last spoke to Lecia six months ago and no mention of a book had come up, nor had it last night. She no longer considered the great Jeffrey Dillan a part of her work, he supposed. She would never drop him, of course not, because if for any reason he decided to actually put something out, millions of dollars would rain down on everyone involved. So she never mentioned him writing, but she never mentioned him finding another agent, and Jeffrey was pretty much determined that she would never need mention his drinking, either. No one need mention that.

     Looking at the juice not yet poured and the vodka an inch deep in his glass, he thought (not for the first time) that it might be a problem. Not just yet, because obviously he hadn't had a drink last night, so he could stop if he needed—or at least put it to the side. Plus, what did it matter? He had no book in the hopper and he had the money to drink Belvedere for the rest of his life. He could probably even hire a little Mexican to come in here and squeeze fresh oranges for the juice if he wanted. The checks weren't nearly as big as they had been eight years ago, but were still deposited every single quarter.

     For a long time, Jeffrey had his work; now he had his drink.

     What scared him was that he seemed okay with his life now. He wasn't necessarily disappointed with the way life had turned out, wasn't desperately trying to find something to write about and wasn't hating the headaches when he woke up with them or the nights when he fell asleep on his living room floor staring at the ceiling fan with a beer resting on the carpet next to him. It was, more or less, comforting. It wasn't out of control, not yet, and maybe with some luck he could lounge around all day at his pool and drink his cocktails without developing cirrhosis of the liver or diabetes.

     He liked drinking and he was accepting the fact that he would never write again.

     Jeffrey poured the orange juice into the glass and didn't bother to stir it. He took a sip, relishing the sweet bitterness. What Lecia didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

     He walked into his living room and sat down on the couch.

     Oh, Matthew Brand, why did you have to go and get yourself caught?

     Jeffrey smiled at the thought. The two of them could have had a long life together if Matthew could have kept his mouth shut a little better. Matthew killing, creating his monstrosity, and Jeffrey following behind writing book after book. A real life Nancy Drew series. Instead the fucking idiot had gone and got himself caught a year after starting and now Jeffrey wasn't going to be writing any more books because how do you follow up someone like Brand? Even O.J. Simpson and all that hoopla looked as pale as an albino next to Brand.

     He thought about a follow up to The Devil's Dream, had even outlined the novel. He could focus on the lives of the families whose father's had been murdered, could focus on the science behind Brand's acts and where it was now (Jeffrey was pretty sure the government had taken what he'd done and began working on it the week after Brand was captured), as well as copy-cats that had sprung up after him. Jeffrey even pitched it to Lecia, who of course said yes. Again, the millions would rain down even if he shit on some paper and put it between two pieces of cardboard and shipped it out to bookstores. Without Brand the story just seemed empty. The thing that mattered most was gone; the energy that created the national furor was locked up, never getting out.

     "Jesus Christ," he sighed. "Stop thinking about it. Brand's gone, your career is gone, just sip your drink and maybe call over Rita in a little bit."

     He turned the television on.

     Jeffrey blinked three times in rapid succession, trying to clear whatever was in his eyes causing him to see things. Five years ago was the last time anyone had mentioned that name on television. Two years since anyone had put it in print. So why was Good Morning America showing it? The blinking didn't help and the words Matthew Brand didn't disappear from the screen. Jeffrey left his glass on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of what simply couldn't exist in front of him.

     When he brought his hands down, the words were still there.

     He put the three together.

     Matthew Brand Escapes.

     Jeffrey took the glass from the table and pulled long and hard from it, downing half its contents in one sip. He set it on his knee, took a few deep breaths, and then put the glass back to his lips and finished it off.

     He hadn't heard a word of what was being said on the television. His heart boomed and his lungs trying to catch up with the massive gulps he used to finish what was supposed to last him all morning.

     His phone rang, somewhere far off in another universe. It rang and rang, and then the answering machine picked up.

     "Answer the phone, Jeffrey. I know you're there and I know you're seeing this."

     Lecia. Matthew Brand's name on the television and Lecia on the phone. He was out, free, after Jeffrey had assumed him the same as dead all those years ago.

     He stood up from the couch and walked to the phone in the kitchen, Lecia's voice still yelling at him to pick up, to listen to her for just a second.

     "Hello?" He said, feeling both dazed and slightly buzzed.

     "You're watching this right? Your man is out. Running across the country, apparently. This is your book, right here, Jeffrey. You don't have to wait until he's caught to write it."

     Jeffrey turned and looked at the television across his house, different pictures of the murderer being thrown up on the screen. This is your book. He hadn't drunk his life into a state of semi-retardation yet. He hadn't trashed his computer upstairs. He could still write.

     "Brand's not finished," Jeffrey said.

     "That's even better. I mean that in the kindest way I can, but for your writing, it's a blessing. What do you think? Is this book material?"

     He didn't listen to anything she said. He was inside his own mind, remembering, recalling what he had written about Brand, what he learned from him. The man wouldn't stop, not ever. Brand wasn't going to go away. He wouldn't slip into Mexico and live out the rest of his life quietly, maybe teaching a college class somewhere. Brand's life, at least the ten years after his son died, were dedicated to that boy. He hadn't repented. He wasn't remorseful for the people he killed or the families he ruined. He was single minded like a shark, except instead of blood he wanted his son. He had no other purpose for living, no other reason to be outside of the science-fiction cell they kept him in. He was out and...where was he heading? Where would he go first?

     "Lecia, I have to get off."

     "Wait, wait! What are you going to do?"

     "I have to figure out where he's heading."

* * *

     Jeffrey pulled into the self-storage unit (Climate Controlled in large orange letters written across the building), parking his car in front of the garage he had rented for the past eight years. Everything he'd ever collected on Matthew Brand was inside it, filed away with a large tarp of plastic covering his notes in order to keep dust from settling. He hadn't been here since he locked it all those years ago, hadn't had any desire to dredge up the glory days. He collected checks and that was the only reminder he needed about his time spent learning of Matthew Brand. Coming in here would simply have reminded him of what he once was and would no longer be.

     He stepped from his car, his buzz full on now from the drink he chugged at the house. It made him happy, sure, but that wasn't the only reason he felt like today was the best day he had seen in some time. He felt reborn, like opening this garage was going to allow him a resurrection, the same as Christ when someone rolled away that huge boulder from the garage they kept him in. He could find Matthew Brand; the answers were all filed away inside the storage unit—meticulously filed. If Brand was on the mission his arrest had stopped him from completing, which he was, then where he needed to go would be housed inside here. No one in the world knew the man, knew what he wanted, better than Jeffrey.

     He walked to the garage door, put the key in, unlocked the deadbolt, and lifted.

     The smell of paper and dust long forgotten flooded out. Air that hadn't moved in years finally having a bit of freedom, yearning to mix with its family outside.

     Jeffrey walked in, turning the light on by flicking a switch on the wall. A large, clear tarp covering boxes that went twenty feet deep, plastic things with lids on top of them. A few were stacked on top of each other, but he had tried to keep from doing that too much in case—

     Well, in case he needed to look through some of this stuff.

     He placed his hand on the plastic tarp stretched across everything and pulled, using both hands to open up the part of his life he'd left so long ago. He pushed the tarp out into the parking lot, not concerned a bit if it blew away.

     He walked into the weeds of paper and opened the first box.

The Devil's Dream: Chapter Five

So, for long time readers, this won't matter too much. However, if you haven't read anything from me, I'm going to post a chapter of The Devil's Dream every week on here. So if you're bored at work, or your spouse is angry with you at dinner, pull the site up and start reading. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Five

The first night without Allison and Jerry already wasn't sleeping. He spoke to her around ten and told her he was getting in bed, which he had, but now he just lay there with the television on in front of him. Around midnight, the Brand stories began. He couldn't remember what he had been watching, maybe reruns of Friends, but it was broken up by a news alert.

     He changed the channel, wanting to stay away from it, but that did little as every channel he went to had basically the same story.

     Matthew Brand escaped from The Wall.

     Matthew Brand last seen in Texas.

     Somehow though, they managed to take those two sentences, the only thing they really knew, and stretch them out into hour-long segments. They weren't simply going to report the news and let it go until more information arrived. No, they were going to whip the public up into a frenzy. He left the television on, unable to find anything worth watching and unable to fall asleep. He thought about grabbing the book off the nightstand, but he finished it last night and didn't want to restart it.

     Might as well learn about what Allison was up against. He remembered a good deal of it, more than he thought when she woke him up this morning telling him she had to go. He was already sure that every major station would have some kind of recounting of Matthew Brand's life playing within the next couple of days.

     What Allison was up against.

     The words echoed through his head like it was a canyon. As if his wife was going into hand-to-hand combat with Brand. She was directing a massive team trying to monitor his whereabouts and all his communications. She wasn't up against anyone. She was leading a large force against one man, and for some reason, that made Jerry just the slightest bit bitter. Maybe it was because by the time Allison called tonight, her daughter was already in bed. Maybe it was because Marley didn't even ask today if she'd be able to talk to her Mom. Maybe it was because he sat here unable to sleep because she had left again.

     He closed his eyes, took a big breath, and let it out slowly.

     None of that was fair. He knew her career when he asked for her hand. He knew what it entailed. None of this was a surprise to him. Even so, this time felt different. It felt like what was supposed to be a rare thing. The type of manhunt that made careers. These were becoming a regular part of their lives. He didn't mention it to Allison this morning because she knew as well as he, but this was the third in a year. The third time she'd left him and Marley and gone off to another life that he couldn't ever truly understand. Most spouses, they could relate to a day at a job. They could relate to the reason the spouse went to that job. Bills to pay, mouths to feed, and the all-consuming struggle to make ends meet. Not in their case though. This wasn't about meeting ends each month, not for Allison—he understood that part—what he didn't understand was the nearly fanatical dedication for this job. The willingness to sacrifice almost everything if need be for it.

     It was dawning on Jerry, after fifteen years of marriage, that he might not understand his wife. That he might not know the person he slept next to each night.

     "Stop," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the drone of the television. You know Allison. You're just upset because Marley and you are here and she's not. That's all.

     He reached for the remote and turned the television off. Brand would be on until Allison brought him in and there wasn't any need to sit here and watch it tonight. Just lie in the dark until you fall asleep.

     Eventually his worrying stopped and he found the sweet darkness of rest.

* * *

     Ten years had passed since Jeffrey Dillan wrote a book. Eight years since it was published. He didn't need to write another book, didn't really need to do anything ever again as far as money was concerned, but that didn't mean he didn't want to.

     He had tried to write. Three separate times. Three separate murders in which he went to three different towns and interviewed hundreds of people. Jeffrey did the leg work, knew the murders inside and out, knew the murderers as if he were their parents, and nearly wept for the victims. Months on each project, collecting hundreds of pages of notes, all for naught. He sat down to write countless times, on each of the novels, and for a few days the words would come—once they even came for a week. Then they stopped, just dried up. He thought it was something inside him for a while, that he had lost the ability that he honed since the age of twelve. It took him three novels to understand he had nothing to do with it. Matthew Brand commanded his writer's block. After The Devil's Dream what was the point of continuing? What could he have to say, writing about second rate murderers, that hadn't been said before? There were no other Matthew Brands, so there were no more books for Jeffrey.

     After the third try, he put away the notes and retired.

     He still wanted to work, to reignite that passion that had consumed so much of his life. He couldn't though, so instead he drank. It was a slow process, replacing the research and writing with the bottle, but it was a process that he enjoyed. If he wasn't going to be writing, he might as well do something else fun. At eight in the morning, he had a bottle of vodka and a bottle of orange juice sitting on the counter. His head didn't hurt because he took it easy the night before. He'd gone to dinner with his agent, out of friendship rather than any hope of a book. He last spoke to Lecia six months ago and no mention of a book had come up, nor had it last night. She no longer considered the great Jeffrey Dillan a part of her work, he supposed. She would never drop him, of course not, because if for any reason he decided to actually put something out, millions of dollars would rain down on everyone involved. So she never mentioned him writing, but she never mentioned him finding another agent, and Jeffrey was pretty much determined that she would never need mention his drinking, either. No one need mention that.

     Looking at the juice not yet poured and the vodka an inch deep in his glass, he thought (not for the first time) that it might be a problem. Not just yet, because obviously he hadn't had a drink last night, so he could stop if he needed—or at least put it to the side. Plus, what did it matter? He had no book in the hopper and he had the money to drink Belvedere for the rest of his life. He could probably even hire a little Mexican to come in here and squeeze fresh oranges for the juice if he wanted. The checks weren't nearly as big as they had been eight years ago, but were still deposited every single quarter.

     For a long time, Jeffrey had his work; now he had his drink.

     What scared him was that he seemed okay with his life now. He wasn't necessarily disappointed with the way life had turned out, wasn't desperately trying to find something to write about and wasn't hating the headaches when he woke up with them or the nights when he fell asleep on his living room floor staring at the ceiling fan with a beer resting on the carpet next to him. It was, more or less, comforting. It wasn't out of control, not yet, and maybe with some luck he could lounge around all day at his pool and drink his cocktails without developing cirrhosis of the liver or diabetes.

     He liked drinking and he was accepting the fact that he would never write again.

     Jeffrey poured the orange juice into the glass and didn't bother to stir it. He took a sip, relishing the sweet bitterness. What Lecia didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

     He walked into his living room and sat down on the couch.

     Oh, Matthew Brand, why did you have to go and get yourself caught?

     Jeffrey smiled at the thought. The two of them could have had a long life together if Matthew could have kept his mouth shut a little better. Matthew killing, creating his monstrosity, and Jeffrey following behind writing book after book. A real life Nancy Drew series. Instead the fucking idiot had gone and got himself caught a year after starting and now Jeffrey wasn't going to be writing any more books because how do you follow up someone like Brand? Even O.J. Simpson and all that hoopla looked as pale as an albino next to Brand.

     He thought about a follow up to The Devil's Dream, had even outlined the novel. He could focus on the lives of the families whose father's had been murdered, could focus on the science behind Brand's acts and where it was now (Jeffrey was pretty sure the government had taken what he'd done and began working on it the week after Brand was captured), as well as copy-cats that had sprung up after him. Jeffrey even pitched it to Lecia, who of course said yes. Again, the millions would rain down even if he shit on some paper and put it between two pieces of cardboard and shipped it out to bookstores. Without Brand the story just seemed empty. The thing that mattered most was gone; the energy that created the national furor was locked up, never getting out.

     "Jesus Christ," he sighed. "Stop thinking about it. Brand's gone, your career is gone, just sip your drink and maybe call over Rita in a little bit."

     He turned the television on.

     Jeffrey blinked three times in rapid succession, trying to clear whatever was in his eyes causing him to see things. Five years ago was the last time anyone had mentioned that name on television. Two years since anyone had put it in print. So why was Good Morning America showing it? The blinking didn't help and the words Matthew Brand didn't disappear from the screen. Jeffrey left his glass on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of what simply couldn't exist in front of him.

     When he brought his hands down, the words were still there.

     He put the three together.

     Matthew Brand Escapes.

     Jeffrey took the glass from the table and pulled long and hard from it, downing half its contents in one sip. He set it on his knee, took a few deep breaths, and then put the glass back to his lips and finished it off.

     He hadn't heard a word of what was being said on the television. His heart boomed and his lungs trying to catch up with the massive gulps he used to finish what was supposed to last him all morning.

     His phone rang, somewhere far off in another universe. It rang and rang, and then the answering machine picked up.

     "Answer the phone, Jeffrey. I know you're there and I know you're seeing this."

     Lecia. Matthew Brand's name on the television and Lecia on the phone. He was out, free, after Jeffrey had assumed him the same as dead all those years ago.

     He stood up from the couch and walked to the phone in the kitchen, Lecia's voice still yelling at him to pick up, to listen to her for just a second.

     "Hello?" He said, feeling both dazed and slightly buzzed.

     "You're watching this right? Your man is out. Running across the country, apparently. This is your book, right here, Jeffrey. You don't have to wait until he's caught to write it."

     Jeffrey turned and looked at the television across his house, different pictures of the murderer being thrown up on the screen. This is your book. He hadn't drunk his life into a state of semi-retardation yet. He hadn't trashed his computer upstairs. He could still write.

     "Brand's not finished," Jeffrey said.

     "That's even better. I mean that in the kindest way I can, but for your writing, it's a blessing. What do you think? Is this book material?"

     He didn't listen to anything she said. He was inside his own mind, remembering, recalling what he had written about Brand, what he learned from him. The man wouldn't stop, not ever. Brand wasn't going to go away. He wouldn't slip into Mexico and live out the rest of his life quietly, maybe teaching a college class somewhere. Brand's life, at least the ten years after his son died, were dedicated to that boy. He hadn't repented. He wasn't remorseful for the people he killed or the families he ruined. He was single minded like a shark, except instead of blood he wanted his son. He had no other purpose for living, no other reason to be outside of the science-fiction cell they kept him in. He was out and...where was he heading? Where would he go first?

     "Lecia, I have to get off."

     "Wait, wait! What are you going to do?"

     "I have to figure out where he's heading."

* * *

     Jeffrey pulled into the self-storage unit (Climate Controlled in large orange letters written across the building), parking his car in front of the garage he had rented for the past eight years. Everything he'd ever collected on Matthew Brand was inside it, filed away with a large tarp of plastic covering his notes in order to keep dust from settling. He hadn't been here since he locked it all those years ago, hadn't had any desire to dredge up the glory days. He collected checks and that was the only reminder he needed about his time spent learning of Matthew Brand. Coming in here would simply have reminded him of what he once was and would no longer be.

     He stepped from his car, his buzz full on now from the drink he chugged at the house. It made him happy, sure, but that wasn't the only reason he felt like today was the best day he had seen in some time. He felt reborn, like opening this garage was going to allow him a resurrection, the same as Christ when someone rolled away that huge boulder from the garage they kept him in. He could find Matthew Brand; the answers were all filed away inside the storage unit—meticulously filed. If Brand was on the mission his arrest had stopped him from completing, which he was, then where he needed to go would be housed inside here. No one in the world knew the man, knew what he wanted, better than Jeffrey.

     He walked to the garage door, put the key in, unlocked the deadbolt, and lifted.

     The smell of paper and dust long forgotten flooded out. Air that hadn't moved in years finally having a bit of freedom, yearning to mix with its family outside.

     Jeffrey walked in, turning the light on by flicking a switch on the wall. A large, clear tarp covering boxes that went twenty feet deep, plastic things with lids on top of them. A few were stacked on top of each other, but he had tried to keep from doing that too much in case—

     Well, in case he needed to look through some of this stuff.

     He placed his hand on the plastic tarp stretched across everything and pulled, using both hands to open up the part of his life he'd left so long ago. He pushed the tarp out into the parking lot, not concerned a bit if it blew away.

     He walked into the weeds of paper and opened the first box.

It Follows: Movie Review

So, hadn't even heard of this little gem until I got on RottenTomatoes last night. If I had cable or paid attention to any kind of mainstream media, I might have known. Alas, off the grid is the way to go--or at least not paying the people that create the grid.

This movie is fantastic. The premise is unbelievably scary; I'm shocked that it hasn't been done before.

I'll break it down without any spoilers. Basically, there is this thing that follows you. It walks, and it walks slowly, but it never, ever stops walking. Why does it start following you? Well, it's kind of like the most lethal STD ever. If you have sex with someone that it is already following, you catch it, and it comes after you. How do you get it to stop? Gotta pass it like the clap. 

Here's the thing, though. Even if you pass it on, if it gets a hold of the person you passed it to, and kills them, guess who it starts following next? Yeah. You. The STD that doesn't quit giving. 

The originality in this film is more than a breath of fresh air; it's like stepping out into an arctic tundra. No cheap thrills, no gross out blood and guts, just an impending doom that there is nothing you can do to stop what's coming for you. 

Death.

It's coming. Always. And eventually, it'll find you.

Go see the damn movie.

Probably Shouldn't Have Written The Singularity

I'm about 90% positive that when I go wide with The Singularity (meaning, I start putting money behind the books in marketing), negative reviews are going to pour in. I kind of considered this when I started writing it, but didn't care. 

The book is dark, much darker than The Devil's Dream--and that's saying something. The Devil's Dream, at its core, was a story about love and maybe redemption. The Singularity, at its core, focuses on one question: does humanity deserve free will? It's not a new question by any means, and if I add anything to the discussion, it might be a different view of the extremes to both sides of the answer. 

In doing that though, the book became very, very dark. And the whole time, I tried to stay true to what I wanted to add to the free will discussion--that humanity can be a very, very evil thing. That maybe the case which says we shouldn't be allowed free will is actually stronger than the opposite. I couldn't do that with redemption. I couldn't do that through love.

I couldn't stay true to the story by creating heroes full of hope, and villains who necessarily lost (no spoiler alert, because I still don't know how the thing ends). However, people hate this stuff. I got a one star review today because the story was too dark. I don't care about that, but I just wonder if economically, was it a dumb move? Maybe.

I had to write it though, I think. I needed to see it through, for myself, if no one else. Why can't people dig dark, depressing, novels with little to no redeeming characters? ;)

Like dark stories? Get it here for free: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Apple