FTF! TN, LN, SL. TFTC!*

Damn. I'm bone tired from the past few weeks of regular physical exertion. Last year at this time, when I was this tired, it was usually from being stressed out.

No, this is a great kind of tired. I've been hiking from two to six miles a day, gone crawling under low footbridges, scaled forty-foot piles of boulders, been out on a forest trail in the middle of the night following tiny reflectors in my flashlight beam for miles on end, waded through plantations of poison ivy, tangled with forests of briers that left me lacerated and bloody, picked my way through deadfalls deeper and darker than Stephen King could imagine, encountered copperheads and black widows, and stumbled about in the dark trying to figure out how to get back to my car because I didn't enter a freaking waypoint.

So far, I've got 134 geocaches to my credit, and that's small potatoes. Most of the folks I've gotten to know in this sport have thousands.

I haven't been this worn out or satisfied in years. And the creative batteries are getting a really good recharging.

*First to find! Took nothing, left nothing, signed log. Thanks for the cache!

Winter Frights

I announced while back that David Montoya had accepted my story, "Sarcophagus," for Magus Press's Winter Frights anthology, but he has just announced the complete lineup. Here it is:

"Scraper" by Michael A. Arnzen
"They Know" by Kealan Patrick Burke
"Goners" by Eric Christ
"I'm Dreaming Of..." by James S. Dorr
"Feral" by JG Faherty
"In Heavenly Peace" by Darren O. Godfrey
"Diseaseater" by Michael McBride
"The Little Church of Safe Crossing" by Joe McKinney
"Chillers" by Lisa Morton
"Miriam" by Kim Paffenroth
"Sarcophagus" by Stephen Mark Rainey
"The Illusion" by Bev Vincent

Some good company here. You may check out David Montoya's "Magus Press Diary" here.

Catching Up

There's no time like your wife being in surgery to catch up on some reading.

No, nothing real major this time. Peg's eyelids were drooping to the point they were cutting off her peripheral vision, so they did a trim job. She's recovering nicely.

I have gotten hopelessly behind in my reading this year. I've spared way too little time for it, and my eyes have gotten so worn out from the intensive computer work I do at my office job (not to mention my writing) that even when I have time, I can't read very long without going cross-eyed.

But while sitting in the waiting room, I took a few books with me, and number one on the list was Beth Massie's Brazen Bull — which has been sitting on the top of the stack for way too long.

This is a nicely produced little chapbook from White Noise Press, with illustrations by Keith Minnion. And if you've ever visited Beth Massie's home, you'll know immediately where the cover art came from.

Ms. Massie's characters are people we know. No; actually, they're just us — normal people living lives with ups and downs, the latter of which have overtaken the people in Brazen Bull to the point that they are close to falling apart. Down the street, an odd set of neighbors has moved in, and from our family's "reasonable" perspective, they seem rather sinister.

The story unfolds through the eyes of Dorrie, a teenage girl with a good heart but a perspective skewed by the darker thoughts of her troubled father. He's not one of those ubiquitous terrible men that often populate horror tales; the dark thoughts that run through his head are thoughts any of us might have if suffering his circumstances. Some are born of prejudice, some are born of desperation. Massie brings everything down to a personal level, putting us, as readers, right smack in the middle of the family's plight, and it makes us damned uncomfortable.

The resolution left me feeling a little hurt inside. Not due to any shortcoming but due to my caring enough about the characters to hope for them. But no, this is a Beth Massie story. She's going to take you into the darkness and make you feel it. And if you know her work, you know this going in.

Brazen Bull is very short, and it feels as if it ought to be bigger, or a part of something bigger. That's not a bad thing — just a result of the tale drawing me in so thoroughly and kicking me around a bit.

I'm not sure whether copies of the chapbook are still available, but it's a nice little package. If you can find one, grab it.

Cache In, Trash Out

Yesterday morning, I headed out to the Peninsula Trailhead, not far up the road, and joined with about 30 other geocachers for a cache-in, trash-out event. This was a pretty major cleanup of an area that had become nothing less than a trash dump over the years. The city donated a dumpster for use (see above), and at the end of the event, it was filled to capacity. I found what must have been someone's idea of a cache 50 years ago: a stash of bottles buried beneath a network of tree roots, a couple of which were still filled with their original contents (though I dare not guess what the stuff was). A few of the bottles looked quite interesting, and one young lady kept at least one of them for her collection. One soda bottle was labeled "Mission California," and I have no idea what product it actually contained.

Afterward, I joined up with my friend Cindy (whom I used to terrorize...er, uh...work with) and her friend Aimee for about a five-mile trail hike and caching expedition. Found six, which gave me a total of 99; then last night, Mrs. Death, our friends Paul and Jamie, and I went out for a few more, so I hit the landmark 100, plus a couple.

A novel plot is coming together from all this, though a fellow cacher said, "I know the kind of stuff you write. You can't do that to geocaching. You just can't!"

Well...we'll just have to see where things go, won't we? I'll give you the coordinates when they're available.

It's Better to Forgive, Right?

Last night, I came about as close to doing something I'd regret as I ever have. Peg and I were heading down the highway near our house, and as we approached the pedestrian bridge down the way, I saw three kids hanging out watching the cars. Just as we reached the bridge, one of them shoved a rock or a large bolt through the steel mesh, which hit the top of my car just above the windshield. At the next exit, I turned around and went back toward the scene, and I saw one of the kids coming down the road; at least, I'm 99% certain it was one of the little bastards. I mean, logistically, it's barely feasible that anyone else could have been on the road where he was given the time and distance of my turnaround. But it's that 1% doubt that stopped me from getting out and flailing the little fucker with the bamboo stick I keep for geocaching. Instead, we called the cops, who came out, checked out the damage, and filed a report, which will accomplish a whole lot of nothing, but it was the more prudent course of action. Evidently, the gangs use that bridge as a hangout and charge tolls for people to cross.

I know I'm in a minority, but personally, I think we ought to institute a National Shoot a Gang Member Day. Everyone gets a freebie. Something tells me it won't fly, though.

Tonight we spent an enjoyable evening with the neighbors, getting in some caching and having a cookout. It was a great way to move on.

Shellfish Behavior

A royalty check arrived from Wildside Books today. How handy, as Mrs. Death and I went out to a nice gathering of geocachers at J. Butler's bar & grill this evening. I killed off a passel of steamed oysters, sank a few Bass Ales, and logged a couple of caches. Also found a good-sized pearl in one of the oysters and lobbed it at Mrs. Death. It wasn't big enough to either do damage or particularly endear me to her, but I enjoyed it and would probably do it again.

AFK

It's been one of those weeks, so I've been fairly scarce at the usual online haunts. Actually, getting away from the computer for several extended periods this week has been a much-needed tonic. After being shackled to the one at the office for way too many hours, I've felt compelled to keep my time on my home machine to a minimum. Instead, I've been using multi-billion dollar military satellites to find Tupperware in the woods, along with my neighbors, Paul and Jamie, who have been bitten by the geocaching bug. The exercise has been great, and the lacerations, bruises, poison ivy, and bug bites from traipsing through the woods in the middle of the night are really quite invigorating.

However, in a disturbing repeat of events from two years ago, these past few days I've had several insects of the not-so-tasty variety buzz right down my throat. The one that got me today was fuzzy, bitter, and alive in my esophagus far longer than was comfortable. And as I was out hiking on a trail sans water bottle or any such luxury, I had nothing with which to wash him down.

Yes, gaak.

On the publishing front, Blue Devil Island has been remaindered by Thomson Gale/Five Star, so I ordered a bunch of copies to make sure I have some for future needs. And—gods willing—Other Gods ought to be appearing from Dark Regions in a few short weeks. Huzzah!

The Deluge

Next person who says we're still in the middle of a drought, I'm going to swat them in the head. If we're still short of water, it's due not to lack of rain but the flood of human beings into the area. We've gotten so much rain in the past few weeks I can't get the water out of my shoes. Even the ones put away in my closet.

However...

Rain does not stop the dedicated geocacher. I spent the weekend in Martinsville placing a number of caches, included one multi-stage cache, wherein the cache-seeker has to find a number of micros, each of which contains clues to the next location until they reach the final treasure (the most valuable bit of which is a Three Stooges golf ball). I was out Friday night till after midnight (in the rain, with no shoes) setting up the caches in uptown Martinsville, then most of the day Saturday. I dropped another one out there this morning.

Best thing of all though was encountering several geocachers today who were out looking for my hides. What a great bunch of folks; it was a real pleasure to meet them, and I hope we'll run into each other again in other secret places.

I also made time to go hiking and find a few caches myself (yes, in the rain, dammit), work up some promotional stuff for Other Gods (which will probably be out within the next month or so), spend time with my mom, and get together with my friends, the Albaneses.

Peg stayed home with the cats, so I'm sure she's had more than her hands full.

I've also committed to being a guest at ZombieCon III in Chapel Hill (October 25—the weekend before Halloween). Time and location to be announced, so stay tuned.

It Knows About You

Well, of course your cat does. That's what cats do. They know things. But tonight, we're talking about the Fugue Devil. If you know about it, it knows about you. And that usually spells trouble. Okay, not usually. Always.

Recently, Mr. Jack "Trouble" Kincaid, took a break from chopping wood (which he doesn't mind) and composed a couple of ambient monstrosities based on my story, "The Fugue Devil" (which will be appearing, along with its sequel and other weird horrors, in my upcoming collection, Other Gods).

I present the mp3s here, with Jack's permission.

It Knows About You

Heart of the Fugue Devil

I find these nice for playing in the dark while things are otherwise quiet. Nice atmosphere.

But now that you know about the Fugue Devil, and it knows about you, well...

'Tis better for cats to know.

#

When not being menaced by cats and Fugue Devils this week, I've been tearing up Greensboro hunting geocaches. Along with Mrs Death and our next door neighbors (the Travelin' Farm Family), I've racked up a fair number of finds this week, including a few that had me pretty well flummoxed for several days. I really enjoy getting out and seeing parts of town that I've never seen in my 20 years here; walking (sometimes considerable distances) every day, sometimes on sidewalks, sometimes on wooded trails, sometimes through creeks; and having to think creatively, usually to figure out just how the hell somebody came up with such a devious hiding place.

Tonight was a good one. It was raining in sheets, but the Farm Fam and I went straight out there, made a few finds (looking like drowned rats -- happy drowned rats, of course) , and then went out to Fisher's Bar & Grille for beer and chicken wings. At least the rain kept the muggles away.

April Fools Day

I fooled not a single soul today.

Five Out of Six...

...geocaches found after work today (plus one first thing this morning). Lots of hiking and bushwhacking involved, but it is teh awesome.

Remember Kill Jack Haringa Day in Your Blog a couple of weeks back? A number of these blasphemous blog entries, including yer own Damned Rodan's, will soon be appearing in a POD anthology, compiled by Nick Kaufman, titled Jack Haringa Must Die. Who'd have thunk such an offbeat idea might end up spreading not only to bunches o' blogs but into print—as if it were some kind of sincere tribute to Mssr. Crankypants? Holy Haringa, Batman.

Help

A slightly revised version of one of my earliest short stories, "Festival of the Jackal (Off Broadway)," will be appearing in the anthology Help, the proceeds from which will go to Preditors & Editors owner Dave Kuzminski's legal defense fund. On the off-chance you're here and not familiar with the case, "agent" Barbara Bauer ("agent" being in quotation marks because...well, take a guess) and Publish America have filed civil suits for libel against Mr. Kuzminski after he brought to light numerous (very well-founded) allegations against both and filed certain complaints, which riled the plaintiffs evidently no end. Preditors & Editors has a long and laudable history of keeping writers informed about the ever-expanding ranks of scammers in the publishing business, and I suppose it's inevitable that Mr. Kuzminski's unflinching efforts to expose the unscrupulous for what they are has made him the perfect target for retribution.

More info may be found here: Preditors & Editors lawsuit

Help is being published by Eric Enck and edited by Craig Phillips, with cover art by Daniele Serra. It's due to press in early May; there will be an electronic version as well. I'll post details about its availability when the details are available.

The Hunt

Not for eggs but for microcaches. In lieu of the traditional Easter egg hunt, Mrs. Death and I went out geocaching this afternoon. Found five in fairly short order, signed the logs, and re-hid 'em; only a thousand or so left to go in town. Today, the neatest one was in Green Hill Cemetery, a very old graveyard with loads of character. And no, the cache was not in a grave; no one wants to have their cache muggled by a corpse.

Pounded out a short-short tale this afternoon that I've been mulling over for a few days. Had an idea that was almost coming together, and today it finally did. Done, submitted, and fingers X'd.

This is the first Easter in I don't know how many years—probably since I lived in Chicago in the 80s—that the whole family didn't get together for at least the day. Circumstances conspired to keep us apart this year, but I did get to see my mom and brother (and find geocaches) last weekend. That was nice.

The grass got high this weekend. I foresee mowing in the nearest of futures...

The Pinocchio Lady

Sometimes I miss the days of making prank phone calls.

When I was between the ages of 10 and 15, give or take a decade or so, I was the diehard crank caller. Generally just harmless fun—you know, of the "I'm lost at the supermarket and I can't find my momma" ilk. Now and again, I made calls that made me feel bad later, such as when I presented myself as "Mother Bell" from radio station WDUM and promised the call recipient ten dollars for saying "hello" when he or she answered the phone. I got a lot of mailing addresses that way, and it grieves me to think that people were once so trusting. Needless to say, they never received a penny, and for this particular sin, I flagellated myself appropriately in later years. Or at least I allowed my wife to.

My favorite, though, was a series of calls I made in the summer and fall of 1973. I was 14 years old and was learning that I had inherited my dad's temper. Unlike Dad, I sometimes enjoyed acting on it and paying back tenfold certain people who offended me.

There was once a woman called the Pinocchio Lady. I found her by misdialing my friend Charles's phone number. When she answered, I thought it was his mother, so I asked for Charles. "Charles?!" exploded a very cranky, high-pitched, nasal voice. "There ain't no Charles here. And don't you ever, ever call this number again."

Ah. A challenge. Well, I called back the number I thought perhaps I had dialed by mistake, and sure enough, that was it. "Oh, it's you again!" she wailed. "I TOLD YOU TO NOT CALL HERE!"

"You sound like you have a really big nose," I said. "Are you the Pinocchio lady?"

"Pinocchio lady? I don't know what that is. You hang up RIGHT NOW and don't you EVER call back here again!"

Guess who called the Pinocchio lady day in and day out for many weeks. Yes, and when I told my friend Charles about this, he happily joined in the fun. We took turns calling and recording them with my little Lloyds cassette tape recorder. Usually, I'd start out pleasant, with something like, "Hello, have I reached the E****'s residence?" When the affirmative reply came, I'd holler, "No, I haven't! I've reached the Pinocchio lady!" One time, I told the poor woman I was going to cut off her long nose with a cross-cut saw, and that was how I learned some of the words that I use today when I'm really peeved.

Finally, one day, a gruff male answered. When I asked if he was the Pinocchio man, he said that he actually wasn't, but that he was going to have the phone tapped so he could find out who we "damned little pests" were. That scared me a little, so I didn't call back for a couple of days.

Eventually, we grew tired of this sport and moved on to calling the parents of kids we didn't like and telling them that their children had stolen some copies of Playboy magazine from the local newsstand and hidden them under their mattresses. (I have no idea how many of them actually got caught with hidden copies of Playboy.)

Over a decade later, when I lived in Chicago, one day, just on a whim, I dialed the Pinocchio lady's number (it was still firmly etched into my memory, and I still remember it to this day), and when Mrs. E****'s familiar voice answered, I almost...almost...followed through with the cruel quip, "Hey, Pinocchio lady. Remember me? I'm out now!"

But I didn't. Some wee smidgen of maturity had taken a bit of the pleasure out of injecting a little misery into some innocent person's life.

If Mrs. E**** is still alive (something tells me she's not, as she sounded not only big-nosed but rather old back in the 70s and 80s), she does have my sincerest apology. I was just a kid doing what kids do, and sometimes that's not so nice.

Of course, there's always the possibility that, on some level, she had as much fun being a Pinocchio lady as we had turning her into one. I rather hope so.

Nothing in Life Is Certain Except Death From Taxes

Gaah. I hates me some income taxes. Been working on them the last couple of nights. Looks like we're pretty much breaking even this year—which is better than paying the government a bundle, but on the other hand...no extra spending money.

Did some enjoyable nighttime geocaching with Mrs. Death this evening. Went around some of the nearby business areas at which little microcaches have been hidden. Had some success—most notably finding a nanocache the size of a pencil eraser stuck to a beam on the back of a building. At one location, we found what we thought would be a cache, but it was not a cache, so we immediately put it back and vacated the premises, in case the not-quite-a-cache belonged to some hooligan named Luigi, who might have been spying on us from a distance.

Returned home and immediately heard the clatter of gunfire from the street behind us (which is not all that uncommon an occurrence); we're pretty sure it wasn't Luigi, though, as we're both still around to be taxed to death.

Stellarcon Done, More Caching In

Stellarcon turned out pretty good this year, though it started off slowly on Friday evening, with a non-existent audience for what I thought might be an intriguing panel—"Zines: All the Reasons NOT To, and Why You'll Do It Anyway." Now I can only imagine how many misguided souls are going to go off half-cocked to start a magazine, when—if they had bothered to come to the panel—they could go off cocked, locked, and thoroughly fucked up.

Saturday began with one of Allen Wold's writing workshops, in which the participants write the hook to a short story in a hundred words or less. Overall, not bad stuff this year, though the workshop was situated not in one of the usual conference rooms but in a suite on the second floor—which meant we panelists had the privilege of running the workshop while standing or leaning against the wall instead of sitting in plush leather chairs. Thanks a million.

The rest of the panels I was on were well attended. The "Kaiju" panel, moderated by former Stellarcon organizer and major Godzilla fan Bill Mann, was a hoot and could have gone on for several hours. My booksigning turned out to be a good one; in fact, I ended up signing quite a few autographs over the course of the weekend. Not sure what's up with that. (Maybe my work attracts masochists?)

Finally, my deepest apologies to those who came to my reading last night only to find the author a no-show. He was stuck at a dinner event that stretched out far longer than anticipated, with no wheels of his own to get him back to the hotel. I trust no one was so broken-hearted that they will stop buying my books forever, or turn into Klingons, or something similarly radical. It would not have been an entertaining experience anyway; after such a severe and prolonged bout with bronchitis, my voice was actually beginning to fail by 8:00 PM last night.

All things considered, Stellarcon has outgrown the High Point Radisson, and I wish the organizers would bring it back to the downtown Greensboro Marriott. I realize it's more expensive, but the High Point hotel is hopelessly inadequate, with its two feeble elevators (sometimes necessitating a wait of fifteen minutes or more just to go up or down a single floor), no stairs available from the first floor, the slowest restaurant service in the southeast, inadequate parking facilities, and no other eating/drinking establishments of any worth within reasonable walking distance. I cannot imagine that there aren't better alternatives to this pain-in-the-ass location for a con.

Today, I went out and about geocaching in Martinsville. Found two nice ones and hid my first cache, in a neat location just outside of town; it should be listed on the geocaching site within the next few days. I've found just about all the Martinsville caches now (there are a couple of others I'll get to soon). There are only several hundred in Greensboro, though, so I doubt I will exhaust them anytime soon.

There were two in close proximity to the hotel in High Point, but as it rained the whole time, I didn't go out looking for them.

How to Thoroughly Devalue the Limited Edition of Your Upcoming Book

In my case, sign the signature sheets.

Done, and shipped back to the publisher. In fact, cover artist Wayne Miller and I met for dinner last night, and he signed the sheets for the lettered edition. So Other Gods is that much closer to completion, and I expect that by May it will be running loose on the streets. Almost certainly, I will have copies to take to Mo*Con with me in June. I can bean unsuspecting passersby with them.*

*For this activity, I shall require the hardcover edition.

StellarCon Schedule

I'll be a guest at StellarCon/DeepSouthCon at the Downtown Radisson in High Point, NC, this weekend (3/14–3/15). In case you're dead-set on avoiding me at all costs, here's my schedule.

Friday
"Zines: All the Reasons NOT To, and Why You'll Do It Anyway"
9:00–10:00 P.M.

Saturday
Allen Wold's World of Writing (Writing Workshop, reservations only)
11:00 A.M.–1:00 P.M.

"The World of Kaiju"
2:00–3:00 P.M.

Signing (with Val Griswold-Ford)
4:00–5:00 P.M.

"How to Annoy Your Publisher"
5:00–6:00 P.M.

Reading ("The Jack-o'-Lantern Memoirs")
8:00–9:00 P.M.

I won't be there on Sunday, so that may be your safest bet to attend. For those unable to run away fast enough, I'll look forward to seeing you. If you're not careful, I'll devalue your books with an autograph.

Clockses

In this day and age, resetting the clocks is stupid. Daylight Savings Time or the other, I care not which, but it oughta be left alone. So there.

It's Kill Jack Haringa in Your Blog Day

So...

Since dressing himself that morning, Haringa had felt his pants getting crankier, so it seemed appropriate that he assuage their orneriness by getting them laid.

"We prefer virgin wool," they told him. He shuddered, for they were either unaware or cared not at all about his deep-rooted aversion to sheeply things. But with his ass having been chapped so thoroughly over the course of the day, he was beginning to think a woolly solution might yet be acceptable .

He remembered that the missus often shopped at Wictoria's Sucret, and it was odds-on that they would have something to satisfy his drawers' virginal cravings. Thus, he set out with guardedly high hopes, trying his best to ignore the discomfort as his pants rode up time and again.

"I would like something in virgin wool," he said to the saleslady, who responded with a questioning look. "It's not for me, it's for my pants," he explained.

The rather stern-faced young woman glanced down, raised an eyebrow, and conjugated something silently. "So, they're quite cranky, are they?"

"It's their nature."

"How did you find us?" the woman asked. "We're not on any map."

"Dead reckoning."

"Angora?"

Haringa glanced down as one of his cuffs rose to attention. "Acceptable."

The woman handed him a bundle of fuzzy pink fabric. It was soft to the touch, though vile in every other way. His hands were shaking as he took it from her.

"Mind you don't get seduced."

"It's for my pants."

"Yeah, that's right. That's $49.97, including tax."

He paid with cash, as a credit card bill from Wictoria's would arouse suspicion at home.

Alas, it mattered none at all, for when Haringa reached home, the missus was waiting for him. When she saw the relaxed crease in his trousers, she gonged him in the head with her frying pan.

They buried him pantsless, in an ungrammatical coffin. The angora was never seen again, but it wasn't long before Joshi, many miles distant, began to look pained.

Wacky Packages

If you're an old fart like me, you might remember Wacky Packages. They were cards and stickers produced by Topps that depicted popular products of the day—with a bit of a twist. Clever and irreverent, they ended up plastered all over our school, our books, our bicycle seats, our lunch boxes...you name it; anywhere you could stick a Wacky Packages sticker, there you'd find one. I remember getting a set on Halloween (1968, I think it was) and being grossed out by the image of an adhesive bandage—"Band-Ache" brand, it was called—graphically ripping the skin off the back of some poor fellow's hand. A picture of bugs hopping out of a hole in an ugly woman's head, which appeared on the front of the "Spray Nit" hair infester spray can, just about put me off my Halloween dinner (which was a Hardee's hamburger). After seeing masses of worms crawling around inside the "Skimpy" peanut butter jar, I pretty much lost my taste for peanut butter for several years.

But I loved those cards something fierce. They were special. The art was irresistible, the play on real products was brilliant, and kids who had Wacky Packages stickers on the covers of their school notebooks were guaranteed to be cool.

A while back, I went looking on the Internet for info about Wacky Packages, and I found a few good sites, the best being www.wackypackages.org, which features a complete index of the sets, along with images. If anything, I probably have more appreciation for these things than I did back in the day; there's little I'd love more than to find some of those cards buried within the boxes of ancient goodies that remain in the attic back at the old homestead, though I fear they've long since vanished. (I'm pretty sure I traded at least some of them away for Hot Wheels cars, which, back in the day, made perfect sense, though nowadays I'd much rather have the cards than the cars.)

If you have a soft spot for irreverent and slightly icky fun stuff, check out the Wacky Packages index. If you're old like me, maybe they'll bring back some enjoyable memories.

As for other events, this afternoon after work, I went seeking a few geocaches here in town (there are thousands of them). Most of the ones in this area are micros, meaning they're tiny cylinders, cleverly hidden, containing log sheets to sign when you find them. I found three of the five I was seeking; the areas where other two were located were brimming with muggles (non-geocaching indigenous personnel), which precluded any searching. I shall have to venture forth at an hour when muggles ought to be fewer and farther between.

Down by the River

Spent a few pleasant hours this morning geocaching in Martinsville with Peg. We drove out to Fieldale, a nice, rural community in Henry County, and hiked the relatively new rail trail along the Smith River, where we located the geocache we were hoping to find. It was an ammo box filled with a fair number of goodies; I left an autographed copy of Love in Vein II, which features my story "Bloodlight"; took an ambulance Transformer toy; and logged the visit in the cache log.

Then we headed to uptown Martinsville, had coffee at The Daily Grind, and just for kicks located a couple of benchmarks, which are geodetic survey disks embedded in the walls of buildings, bridges, concrete posts, etc. There are several other geocaches in this area that I'd like to find, so I may make another trip out and about this afternoon.

Geocaching has turned out to be a very enjoyable activity, and it gives Peg and I something to do together, at least when it's terrain that she can manage. It's also giving me some good material for a new novel I'm formulating. Some intriguing possibilities here.

Almost Didn't Make It Into Work Today

Couldn't brush my teeth.

Our Mail Carrier Was Very Considerate Today...

...and left a bunch of good stuff. Received an anticipated royalty check without having to nudge the publisher even a single time, which is both rare and rightly appreciated. My contributor copy of Shroud issue #1 showed up, which looks damn good; I'll look forward to delving into the contents. And several copies of Blue Devil Island, which Five Star has released as a large-print paperback, also arrived. So it was a good mail day.

Thanks, nice mail delivery lady!

There Shall Be No Deathrealm

I keep having these dreams that I'm editing Deathrealm again, and things keep going horribly wrong. I've just sent an issue to press, and the printer informs me his rates have tripled. The cover art comes late and it's all wrong, so I have to replace it with a lolcat. The layouts get misdirected to China and they print the issue in Chinese.

Since I work in the publishing business by day and have all these wonderful resources at my disposal that, if they were my own, could make Deathrealm such a very smashing thing, I guess it's only natural that some deep, dark part of my brain likes to fantasize about resurrecting the old beast. Not to mention the fact that for the last couple of years, I've been getting subtle and not-so-subtle hints from the world at large that it would be soooo nice if Deathrealm were to come back. Sometimes I almost believe it.

Then I have these dreams, and I realize that the situations in these nightmares are child's play. Back in its day, getting the real thing done was a big, frustrating, fatiguing, and expensive job, and nowadays, it would be all that and more. So in spite of how gratifying it would be to be at Deathrealm's helm again, I'm going to let the old bugger remain at rest.

Of course, if someone were to lob a hundred grand at me, we might could talk, but somehow I'm not really getting this vibe. Go figure.

UDDER GODS now up for pre-order

Moooo yeah! Ready for pre-order, my upcoming collection of very scowy tales from Dark Regions.

Ye olde book description:
"Spanning a career of over 20 years, the 16 tales in Stephen Mark Rainey's Other Gods depict an alluring yet macabre world, rendered by one of the horror genre's most vivid imaginations. With settings ranging from the remote backwoods of Virginia to the urban wilderness of Chicago, the veneer of Rainey's world appears familiar, even comforting; yet, beneath its surface, ancient, malignant powers lurk, ready to spring forth and destroy any who discover them. Laced with humor and recounted by a captivating voice, the tales in Other Gods wait for you with open arms—but beware, for they are also laden with darkness. And in that darkness, danger waits."

What one scary writer says:
"Stephen Mark Rainey is a master at grounding horror and terror in a time and place. His stories are effective because he understands character, as well as the motivations of both his people and his monsters. And, in a field often tinged with cynicism, Rainey shows us that monsters can also be fun. One of our best contemporary storytellers."

—Scott Nicholson, author of They Hunger

Available in three editions:
Lettered hardcover, signed by author and cover artist Wayne Miller ($150.00)
Limited edition signed hardcover ($45.00)
Trade paperback ($19.95)

P.S. There aren't really any cows in this book. Sorry.

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Order Other Gods from Amazon.com

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The James Bond 007 Soundtrack Revue

A few years back, as some of you may know, I put together a Web site dedicated to the music of the James Bond movies. (Yes, I am indeed still a big ol' 007 freak.) Over the years, I've collected the soundtrack albums to all the films, so on the Web site, I have set up a page for each album/movie, which features a synopsis of the film, a review of the score, cast and credit listings, and song lyrics. Since I created the site—in 2003, I believe—it's mostly sat idle, though it regularly gets dozens to hundreds of daily hits. In fact, the last time I think I even visited the place was last year, when I added a review page for Casino Royale. This week, since I've been ill and mostly homebound, I decided to give the old thing a bit of a face-lift. Nothing too extravagant, just something to bring it a little more in line with the character of my personal Web site. If you're at all a Bond fan, you might enjoy checking it out. Drop in at The James Bond 007 Soundtrack Revue.

The photo above is of John Barry, 007-composer extraordinaire.

On the Auction Block

One of the schools in Martinsville is having a fund-raising auction, so I offered to donate a copy of The Last Trumpet in case there are bidders with sturdy hearts. As it turns out, it's not just the book on the block; I go along with it. A reading, a little dinner party, and a whole lotta horror. Sounds like fun, so I hope some brave soul will put up a bid.

I've been sick with a nasty flu bug all week long. I took a flu shot in the fall, but I hear the strain that's going around tends to laugh at such feeble precautions. It's been a bad one—high fever, aches, lots of congestion. Yesterday, I couldn't even get out of bed without losing my balance. Much stronger today, and the congestion is slowly clearing up, but I'm still a long way from a hundred percent. Man, I don't remember getting so sick with these bugs in my younger years. Sometimes this aging business really doesn't sit well with me. Peg's been doing poorly this week too, but hopefully the weekend will help turn things around. Allison's coming home for a visit, so that'll either do our spirits good or push us over the brink of insanity.

Caching In

A most satisfying weekend, though it included some slight physical injury. Peg and I went up to my old hometown in Virginia and stayed at my friend Lynn Pritchett's guesthouse in uptown Martinsville. Beautiful old house, and we pretty much had the run of the place. Peg got the best therapeutic massage of her life, and I went out geocaching. Had some luck, as the photo to the right shows: found a cache hidden off a neat little trail through town, known as the Rail Trail, which runs along old, disused rail beds and will eventually become part of a long trail between Martinsville up to Philpott Lake (where we have done some excellent camping). I placed a copy of my novel, Balak, for some lucky geocacher, though I suspect that if he or she reads it, they may end up never wanting to find another cache.

Peg and I had an excellent dinner (seafood linguini for me) at Rania's restaurant and retired fairly late in a huge and very comfortable bed in the house's most opulent guest room. I'm pretty certain the house is haunted, but after the late dinner and accompanying martinis, I was too laid back to go investigate the rappings in the spooky old attic.

Still, I got up at the crack of dawn this morning and headed out geocaching again, this time at the city park, where a small cache is hidden. Alas, this time, no luck; I found the precise location with no problem, but there's about four feet of old, dead leaves piled around there, and whilst digging about, my bum leg bummed out on me, as it's been known to do from time to time. The tendon in my left knee seems to go nonexistent, my leg bends at a sideways angle, and down I go. In this case, I went down hard, and I had a pretty good, half-mile limp back to the guest house. I'm treating it now with an ace bandage and a hard martini, and I think it's beginning to work. (Getting up and down the stairs without spilling the martini, I will confess, is a bear.)

After my tumble, Peg and I had lunch with my mom, and then we retired back to the old homestead, where the electricity promptly went dead for a couple of hours as winds hit 50-60 mph and made a mess of the woods behind the house. Fortunately, the tree that fell just above the driveway missed my car, but it wasn't by much...

Back home now, and tomorrow's another friggin' work day, but I'm thinking another medicinal martini really might be in order.

R. I. P. Barry Morse

If you were ever a fan of Space: 1999 back in those glorious '70s, you no doubt remember Barry Morse, who played the stern but kindly Prof. Victor Bergman. Or going back further, in The Fugitive television series, he won his fame playing detective Philip Gerard, always hot on the trail of David Janssen's Richard Kimble. Morse actually appeared in hundreds of television, movie, and stage productions, including The Twilight Zone (both the original and revival shows), The Changeling, The Winds of War, War and Remembrance, The FBI, The Invaders, and plenty more. In fact, one source estimates he played over 3,000 roles in his long and steady career since 1942.

Barry Morse passed away on February 2, at the age 89. He had lived in his own home up until three days before he died. For many years, I felt that, apart from my brother, I was about the only soul in the world who even knew his name. I'm so glad to have found in more recent years that he was actually known and highly regarded by a fair legion of fans and admirers.

Way back in the 70s (again), my grandparents had a friend who looked remarkably like Mr. Morse. In fact, if you put the two in the same room, you might be hard pressed to tell which was the real Prof. Bergman. Whenever we'd see this gentleman, my brother and I would holler, "Barrrryyyy!" and the old fellow would always look a bit flumoxed.

Leave it to us young 'uns.

Barry's moved on to the brighter lights, but he is missed. Godspeed, good sir.

Beth Massie's HOMEPLACE

Beth Massie is known for writing a wide variety of types of fiction — from cutting-edge horror to historical drama to young adult adventure tales. In general, Ms. Massie's horror fiction tends to be very dark and frequently centers around characters with severe warpage of the mind. It's almost a surprise to find that Homeplace is about as traditional as traditional gets — at least when you're talking about haunted houses, ghostly goings-on, long-dead witches, and small-town settings filled with small-town characters.

Very slight spoilage follows.

Her life in something of a meaningless rut, artist Charlene Myers retreats to her ancestral home, known as Homeplace, deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, to restore herself. She has vague memories of unpleasantness there as a child, but once she settles in, that old perception takes on a new and disturbing vividness — particularly when she finds that a number of the locals believe that Homeplace was once home to a rather nasty witch and that Charlene must surely be following in those old witchy footsteps. A young lawyer named Andrew Marshall, himself a relatively recent transplant to the small town, befriends her and offers her emotional support as she experiences one inexplicable event after another — at least until Charlene herself begins to behave in such bizarre fashion that even he must doubt her sanity. Finally, however, the supernatural power in the old witch house sweeps up the both of them, and neither knows the means to either combat or escape it.

I've always been a little put off by characters who talk to themselves. It's usually a cheap and too-obvious means for the author to explain the character's motivation or propel one scene to another. Charlene talks to herself quite a bit, and at first, it hit that sensitive annoyance nerve I have right behind my left ear; fortunately, it doesn't take long to realize that it's part of her psychological makeup, a symptom of her emotional and physical isolation. Charlene is a somewhat damaged character, but not so far gone that you either pity her or write her off as hopeless. She has occasional moments of sullenness that make one want to smack her around a bit, but most often, she redeems herself by facing the issues confronting her with reasonable pragmatism.

Andrew is a closet novelist, and not a very good one. There are numerous excerpts of his writing, which in abstract ways reflect his thoughts on the goings-on around him. The snippets are a little overdone at times, and I think Ms. Massie included them just to convince us readers that, yes, he really is trying to write, rather than expect us to take her word for it. I might have striven to find a happy medium, but it's really a small matter. As a character, he is both believable and sympathetic (despite his being a lawyer), and his perceptions of Charlene help to define her character as much as his own.

In classic fashion, Charlene goes up against the evil that inhabits Homeplace, and the showdown is part High Noon, part It, and the stakes are high for all involved. After a relatively slow pace since page 1, the supernatural big gundown comes on fast and hard, almost jarringly so. From there, events again play out a bit slower as we move toward the end. On the whole, it all works, showing that Ms. Massie is well-versed in plot-pacing and generating atmosphere. Given the events of the story as a whole, the resolution gives us exactly what we might expect. No silly contrivances, no boogies suddenly jumping out of shadows to clue us in that it's not really over. In that regard, it's a successful means of wrapping up the drama.

I enjoyed Homeplace a lot, in large part because the setting Ms. Massie builds is so close to places I've known and cared about in Virginia. (She and I have trodden a lot of the same ground over many years.) The characters are people we might meet on the street, some of whom we'd like and some we wouldn't. In the time it took to read the novel, I enjoyed myself quite a bit. Definitely time well spent.

Click here to view Beth Massie's Homeplace book trailer.

Pitfalls

I originally posted the bulk of this blog as a response to another, but it's a subject that I feel worthy of rehashing—particularly given the number of enterprises out there whose aim is to divorce a struggling writer from his/her hard-earned dollaros.

There's always lot of heated posturing on the subject of self-publishing, but in certain circles, it's come to something of a head in the last few days. I see no point in bringing locales and personalities into it; most of the problem with such heated debate anyway is that anything meaningful on either side gets lost in the clashing of egos and the trading of witticisms. That's all well and good, but it rarely accomplishes much. (Not to say it can't be fun from time to time.)

For the serious, non-hobbyist writer, getting read (a.k.a. getting published) is no simple task. The hurdles are considerable, and if you're here reading this, there's a good chance you know many of them firsthand. You have to submit. You have to wait. You have to accept criticism that sometimes isn't kind (and sometimes worse). You have to wait some more. Once your work's been accepted, you have to make sure you've got a good contract. You usually have to wait to get paid. Sometimes things happen in the business world—small press, big press, it makes no never mind—that cause the venue you were about to bust into to go bust overnight.

In the early years of the 21st century, alternatives to traditional publishing are blossoming and beckoning, and oh, so tempting because they cut out much of that painful, rigorous editorial process.

Beware.

Even the best authors out there benefit from working with good, professional editors (emphasis on professional). The absence of one is just one of many nasty pitfalls in self-publishing. While there is certainly the occasional jewel among self-published works, the vast, vast majority of them would never make it out of any half-decent editor’s slushpile. Having edited a major small press magazine (Deathrealm) for a decade as well as several professional anthologies, I can tell you right now that most folks who like to call themselves “writers” are simply not fit to do so. I find it rather hellish to even imagine retail bookshelves filled with such unfiltered dreck—and with price tags on the covers! Recently, just for my own edification, I’ve read a few of examples of self-published works, and I have to tell you...it’s a mess. People, editorial processes exist for a reason, and if you’ve indeed been through it, I trust you can appreciate why any writer worth his salt would want a good editor. Lord knows I do, and in my time, I’ve been fortunate enough to work with many, many good ones (and unfortunate enough to work with a handful of bad ones).

Thus, it’s easy to see why self-published books carry such a negative stigma. Also easy to see why bookstores seldom carry them, reputable reviewers rarely review them, and book buyers usually barely glance at them. Little is more laughable than to see the term “best-selling” applied to some self-published book. Best-selling compared to what? Everyone loves to point to John Grisham, Mark Twain, and all kinds of well-known names as successful self-publishers. Guess what: major minority we're talking here. Too often from a different time period altogether. For every shining success story, one can only guess at how many thousands of utter flops exist—the only winners being the Lulus and iUniverses who rake in the dollars from all the hopefuls. To be a successful writer, you've got to be a successful businessperson. Multiply that many times over if you're running the business of publishing yourself. Are you going to actually be able to write your next book while you're playing entrepreneur in a field stacked against you?

Another trap that I personally find rather galling: lately, I’m seeing “reviewers” who expect writers to pay them to review their books. God in heaven, what next? How can a review for which money has changed hands possibly be objective? If you, as a writer, pay a reviewer (who sells you on the premise because it will help you "sell, sell, sell") and then get trashed, what has the experience done for you that couldn't have been done better by simply workshopping the manuscript—or getting feedback from a legitimate editor? Yes, you may pay a publicist to get yourself more exposure, but that’s not buying a “review.” A glowing review for which you've paid means pure diddly to anyone. A review in Publisher's Weekly means something. A review in Library Journal isn't shabby, particularly if they give you a nice one. In the speculative genre, reviews in Science Fiction Chronicle, Tangent, Cemetery Dance, and others are nice enough, and if you really think that review blurbs are going to help you out, then at least with these you've got something reasonably credible on your side. And they don't cost you more than a copy of your book (in fact, in general, they cost the publisher an advance copy; another benefit of having a real one).

Note: please avoid confusing self-publishing with Print on Demand (POD). If you don't know the difference already, you shouldn't be reading this. Go research. Is very easy.

I’m an active member of HWA. I don't see it as an “old-boy’s club”; it’s a group that promotes professional pay for professional writers. Period. It’s hardly a perfect organization, but its “exclusivity,” if one wants to call it that, is there because it’s intended to promote professionalism—in terms of dollars and cents. It’s not for the casual hobbyist writer. As writers who work, we are looking to get paid to write by publishers who have the resources to acquire, edit, publish, and market quality fiction.

Just to clear up a misconception that came to my attention: an advance, at least from any reputable publisher, is not a loan. It’s just what it says it is. If your title doesn’t earn out, you may have difficulty getting as large an advance in the future, and if you regularly fail to earn out, then the publisher may not be so eager to continue carrying you. But you don’t give that advance money back to them. I would never deal with a publisher who expected the writer to return a portion of it. After all, while authors can be expected to publicize and push and help sales along, it’s the publisher’s job to sell the title. Failing to earn out isn’t solely the author’s fault.

As for me and why you might even care to listen to my opinion...well, no, I'm no best-seller; I'm no celebrity; and I'm not particularly rich from writing. But I've got a lot of years of working with editors, publishers, and other writers, in the big presses and the small presses. I make money writing, sometimes enough to make a real difference in my standard of living. No fame, but I have at least a modicum of recognition in the field, and at least to some, a certain amount of credibility that comes from lots of time dealing with professionals in the business.

Writing itself is a tough endeavor; marketing yourself is perhaps even tougher. Yes, the publishing landscape is changing, and innovative approaches, from the top down, are both necessary and part of the business. One thing that doesn’t change, though, is that the editorial process exists for a reason. A very solid reason. Writers who defy it do so at their own risk, and that risk is pretty grave, if you ever expect to have a real career.

Here's a link or two to articles and blogs on the subject that I feel are noteworthy and even balanced. Perhaps when I've got a tad more time to dig, I'll add a few more.

Random Humbugs to Round Off the Year (Storytellers Unplugged)

Self-Publishing: Perils, Pitfalls, and Possibilities

True Stories About Publish America

SFWA POD FAQ

Okay, it's time for my dinner. I go away now.

HPLHS's The Whisperer in Darkness

Most folks who have read a word I've ever written, fiction or otherwise, know that I'm a die-hard fan of H. P. Lovecraft's work. A couple of years back, the H. P. Lovecraft Historical Society released on DVD their silent version of Call of Cthulhu, which may be, to date, the best screen adaptation of Lovecraft. This has been floating around for a while, but I thought it worth mentioning that the same gang is putting together a talkie version of The Whisperer in the Darkness, which is easily one of Lovecraft's eeriest tales. The trailer—just a teaser, actually—makes it appear that the HPLHS guys have nailed it again. I'm not sure what the release date for Whisperer is, since, unfortunately, the Web site indicates nothing of the kind, but at least for the time being, this is my most-anticipated DVD release.

Hurry the hell up, guys.

The New Frontier

My contributor copies of Frontier Cthulhu arrived in the mail today, so I smiled for a while. It's the new Chaosium anthology edited by William Jones, featuring my collaboration with Durant Haire, "The Terror From Middle Island" (which originally appeared in Dark Wisdom magazine). Chaosium still puts out a nice-looking product, and they sent me a check, which helps temper some long-standing ill feeling going back to Song of Cthulhu,which I edited in 1997 and came out in 2001. This actually looks like a really nice volume, so when I get done with Mr. Jones's previous effort (Horrors Beyond II), I think I'll dive into this one.

I've spent the last couple of days giving my Web site a considerable facelift, going for improved readability and such. If you get a chance to check it out, I'd love to get any comments, particularly if you see areas that need improvement.

'Tis here: The Realm of Stephen Mark Rainey.

Burglars Bite

Our next-door neighbors were gone this past week, so Thursday about midnight, I go over to let out their dog. While Lucky goes winkle, I notice over at Turk's, the adjacent neighbor's, a bicycle lying on the driveway behind his pickup truck. Then I see a flashlight moving around inside the truck, the light revealing a figure wearing a stocking cap. I calmly collect the dog, deposit him inside, and return to my house to call 911. This done, I retrieve ye trusty ol' attitude adjuster (pictured), and wander back toward Turk's. Of course, at this point, the hamburglar has vanished. I alert Turk to the evident break-in, and he finds that his truck has been ransacked. Fortunately, there was little of value in it to begin with, and all that appears missing is a handful of change.

With commendable response time (about three minutes), the police arrive on the scene, take my witness report, and go about the neighborhood searching for a burglar on a bicycle. As the officer said, no doubt some brainless crackhead trying to scrape up enough cash to get another fix.

When I head back home, the missus has the camera out, snapping away, and takes a shot of the frustrated hunter.

Oh, I do dislike burglars. I dislike them intensely. Of course, I can only use the attitude adjuster if I feel threatened, but then I'm sensitive that way.

Mo Horrors, Mo*Con

My contributor copies of Elder Signs Press's Horrors Beyond 2 anthology arrived today; another fabulous job by William Jones and ESP. Very attractive hardcover and trade paperback. "Stories of Strange Creations," the book is subtitled. The stories are about unusual devices, and one can be pretty well certain that they're mostly unpleasant. The devices, I mean.

HB2 contains my story, "The Ghost Lens." Also features William C. Dietz, A. A. Attanasio, John Shirley, Richard A. Lupoff, Robert Weinberg, Paul S. Kemp, Jay Caselberg, Gene O'Neill, Alexis Glynn Latner, E. Sedia, David Niall Wilson, Lucien Soulban, Paul Melniczek, Tim Curran, C.J. Henderson, Greg Beatty, Michail Velichansky, Ron Shiflet, John Sunseri, and William Jones.

Writer, Sinister Minister, and horrific host Maurice Broaddus has officially announced Mo*Con III, which I will be attending as a guest this summer. Other guests of honor include Nick Mamatas, Matt Cardin, Lucy Snyder, Tina Jens, Chesya Burke, Kim Paffenroth, and Bob Freeman.

Mo*Con III will be held June 13–15, at The Dwelling Place, 7440 North Michigan Road, Indianapolis, IN 46268.

Late addendum: My contributor copies of Doorways magazine #4, which features my story "A Tale of the Terrible Dead," arrived today as well. Looks like a good time to turn out all the lights and read some ramblings by the Rainey.

Well...leave at least one reading lamp on, anyway.

OTHER GODS Cover Is in the House

Artist Wayne Miller sent the cover art for Other Gods this evening. Pretty dang sharp.

I rather like. I've also set up a new info page on my Web site: Other Gods

In the sad news department, Maila Nurmi, best-known as horror hostess Vampira, star of Ed Wood's Plan 9 From Outer Space, has passed away at the age of 86. It took Tim Burton's Ed Wood for me to gain any appreciation whatsoever of Plan 9, but I always did have kind of a soft spot for Ms. Nurmi. May she rest in peace.

Hidden Voices

If you're hanging out in this neighborhood, it's a near-certainty that you're into creepiness. Because, yes, thanks for asking, I certainly am.

Many years ago, my good friend and fellow scrivener of scariness, William R. "Mr. Bill" Trotter, gave me a tape of some dark music he thought I might enjoy. Among the many excellent selections were Ingram Marshall's Hidden Voices, which may be the eeriest piece of music I've ever heard. Much like Ennio Morricone's Carpenter-esque soundtrack to The Thing, Hidden Voices, when played in an otherwise silent, dark room, is almost enough to make me turn on all the lights in the house and put on some lighthearted death metal.

It's a disconcerting, minimalist composition, featuring mostly human voices, distorted and warped, that conjure up a nightmarish yet strangely beautiful atmosphere. To my mind, it's the perfect soundtrack for Lovecraft's "Dreams in the Witch House."

Back in the mid-90s, I played this piece for my at-the-time co-editor of Deathrealm, Dani d'Attilio—who was also a budding writer of no little talent. As a writing exercise, we both wrote stories based on the impressions that the music left us with. Her story was so different from mine that one would never guess the source of inspiration was the same for both; yet, an astute reader might be able to discern emotional peaks and valleys common to both, which corresponded to the musical flow. I liked her story, which she actually titled "Hidden Voices," well enough to run it in Deathrealm #27 (Spring 1996—the issue that was banned in Canada because of Ian McDowell's wonderful cover art). My tale was "Silhouette," which appeared in Cemetery Dance #24 (Summer 1996), and was subsequently reprinted in The Best of Cemetery Dance. (It will also be appearing in my upcoming collection, Other Gods, from Dark Regions Press, this spring.) To this day, I think "Silhouette" may be the creepiest story I've ever written, due entirely to the powerful inspiration of Marshall's music.

Hidden Voices is difficult to find on CD anymore; it's on an album titled Three Penitential Visions/Hidden Voices, which includes three other tracks. For Christmas, I received a nice iTunes gift certificate, and I was thrilled to find that the entire album is available on iTunes for $9.99 (in fact, you have to purchase the entire thing; you can't get just the individual tracks). It's well worth it; Hidden Voices is by far the strongest and most distinctive composition on the album, but the others are none too shabby. If you've got a hankering to listen to something that will likely raise the hairs on the back of your neck, Hidden Voices is the ticket.

The Inevitable Recap

These days, if there's any significance whatsoever to the calendar flipping over to a new year, it's nothing I particularly care for. I never make resolutions, I don't expect things locally or globally to suddenly get all better now just because it's not last year anymore, and I have to start compiling crap for doing my taxes. My next birthday, assuming I get to it, adds another number to my age; okay, sure, I'm thrilled to have gotten this far, but I'm certainly older in body than in mind. Aging really ought to stop somewhere between 33 and 41, and then you're good from here on out. Ha ha.

Make no mistake, I have much to be thankful for, and I truly am. In 2008, I have a new book to look forward to (Other Gods, due in the spring from Dark Regions), and a couple of other deals that, if they work out, should be sweet indeed. I'm writing fiction as prolifically as I ever have, and I'm selling it regularly and profitably. My family has always been close, and those of us who are left have only grown closer in the past year. And New Year's Eve is usually pretty nice because we spend it with good friends. Tonight, we're going to party with our friends the Andersons and the Vinsons. Better folk there aren't.

2007 has had more than its share of rockiness, particularly in its opening months. Peg had surgery right after Christmas '06 and had to function at far less than full capacity for many moons thereafter. In February, my mom was diagnosed with uterine cancer; thankfully, the resulting surgery seems to have taken care of it all. In March, my daughter suffered a blood clot in her lung and had to be hospitalized. Our little cat Charcoal, whom I loved dearly, died of a tumor in April. An unprecedented number of old friends of the family have suffered extreme health problems; a few have passed away. Just a few weeks ago, my good friend Bruce "Boo" Smith died. As we get older, death becomes a more prominent figure in our lives. It takes some doing to deal with him.

But the latter months of 2007 have been largely among the most personally satisfying times I've known for many years. I've been able to spend a good amount of time at the old homestead in Virginia, getting in long, meditative walks; exploring places I've never been; and spending quality time with my mom. Old friendships have been renewed and/or re-invigorated. Peg and I have had some great times of sharing. I got to see my daughter at Thanksgiving; missed her at Christmas, but our time together has reinforced how special she is to me—more than I ever realized when she was just a wee young 'un.

I think, in the overall scheme of things, 2007 made me a better, stronger person. Didn't much like the way life has of going about such things, but nobody ever said it would be a picnic. Still, I might just be happy to settle for a tad less personal growth in 2008.

If you've spent any time here at my blog or, even better, reading my fiction, you have my gratitude, and my hopes for a good year to come. Bless you.

I Think It's Gonna Be a Long, Long Time

Mercy, I haven't seen this one in a long time. I remember when it first aired, and I asked my roommate to please drive nails into my head with a baseball bat.
On a happier note: Of my story, "The Ghost Lens," which appears in Elder Signs Press's new Horrors Beyond II, anthology, writer Matt Carpenter had this to say:
"I have liked just about every short story of (Rainey's) that I've read. 'Ghost Lens' was another winner, describing a weird discovery that allows its user to see into the very fibers of a person's existence, making a mockery of modern medical imaging, and also allows the healing of all ills. But as you look through the lens, something looks at you, sizing you up...One thing I like about Rainey's stories is that the characters are so well drawn, coming to life on the page."
I'll take it.

I Loves Me Some Christmas

Always have. In fact, the time of year between Halloween and the new year is always my favorite. Well, Halloween being Halloween, it just rates anyway. But Thanksgiving and Christmas are the two times of year that my family comes together and renews its closeness.

This year, things were a little odd for Christmas. My daughter couldn't make it home because of her work schedule. Then my wife came down with a nasty respiratory bug (which she did not catch from me, despite her claims to the contrary) and wasn't able to come to the old homestead in Virginia and celebrate with my mom, my brother, and me. So I came back home early yesterday to spend time with the sickie—who, thankfully, is feeling much better today (which is good, since she has to work).

Still, the quality time with Mom and me bro was truly fine. In the last few years, the channels of communication between us, which at one time were sometimes strained, have opened considerably, and their presence in my life is a true blessing. And last night, just being here alone with Peg was wonderfully revitalizing.

Gift-wise, we had a pretty good haul this year. For all my love of books, I find that movies still are my true excitement in the entertainment field, and some real gems arrived this holiday: the deluxe box set of Twin Peaks; the box set of They Call Me Trinity/Trinity Is Still My Name (a couple of my all-time favorite comedies); the box set of the Planet of the Apes movies; Count Dracula (the BBC production with Louis Jourdan, which is my favorite screen adaptation); Battlestar Galactica: Razor, and Latitude Zero, one of Toho's damn cool SF flicks from 1970—and the DVD includes both the U.S. and Japanese versions, along with a bunch of cool extras.

And I got Peg the box set of American Gothic, which she really loved during its initial run on TV in the early 90s (as did I; in fact, for my Dark Shadows novel, Dreams of the Dark, I pretty much patterned the character of Thomas Rathburn after Gary Cole as Sheriff Buck in AG).

So, despite the absence of the young 'un and Peg's illness, we had a dang good Christmas overall. I really hope next year that we'll all be healthy and able to get together. I still love this holiday, just as I did as a kid; and these days, what with life being so tenuous and unpredictable, spending quality time with the family—whichever among us are able to gather—is all the more special.

I hope there were wonderful times for everyone. And that some of the special goodness of Christmas carries through for the rest of the year. Blessings to you.

Musical Monkey Shines!

I received a treasure today.

The first record album I remember listening to as a wee young 'un was Walt Disney's Musical Monkey Shines. A collection of "western, circus, and nonsense songs for children," it features selections ranging from the wistful (the ballad of "Toby Tyler") to the utterly wacky ("That Crazy Place in Outer Space," sung by Annette Funicello). Fess Parker, of Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone fame, croons a few winners, too: "Pecos Bill," "A Cowboy Needs a Horse," and "Good Night, Little Wrangler."

I don't know if there's even a handful of folks to whom these old songs would have any meaning—though I suppose there must be a few, since the rare copy of the LP on Ebay generally goes for an extortionate price. But I have vivid recollections of my dad rocking me in his arms in the evening while this record was playing. In fact, those may well be my earliest memories (apart from the most bone-chilling night-horror of my youth, which I think I've related somewhere in a past blog; no doubt, I'll relate it again one of these days). My brother also has fond memories of the album, as we've both been actively seeking a copy for years and years.

I have no idea what happened to the old record that we owned all those years ago; I suppose it got tossed out with lord-knows-what other old relics. I had pretty much resigned myself to never hearing those old songs again, since the album seems such a rarity. But then, a couple of weeks ago, a copy turned up on Ebay, in a lot of 20-some Disney records from the early 60s. What a trove! I put in a reasonable bid, expecting to be outbid more or less immediately.

Nope. I won the thing. And today, the albums arrived. So this evening, I made myself the king of hot-pepper martinis, turned out the lights, and put that sucker on.

To some, I suppose, just bunch of maudlin claptrap. To me, it was heaven. Some of the true delight of childhood came roaring back to me. I could see my dad again as clearly as if he were alive today. So much power in that silly old music.

I think that may have been the best gift I could have asked for this Christmas season.

OTHER GODS Scheduled for Spring 2008 Release

Received the contract and check from Dark Regions Press today for Other Gods, and it's been added to Dark Regions' Web site, so I reckon it's about as official as official gets. It's scheduled for a Spring 2008 release. Sixteen tales to send you off in a fright by yours truly. Cover art by Wayne Miller, intro by Elizabeth Massie. Go for it.

The bug seems to be on its way out, so I think I'm all set to make merry for the holidays. Hope you are too.

Just What One Needs Going Into the Holidays....

A blasted cold bug.

Got the icky congestion, low-grade fever, achy joints, light sensitivity, the works. Came home early from work, loaded myself up with meds, got in bed, and stared at the ceiling.

Tried to hash out some details for the current story-in-the-works, but even that was futile. Some of the patterns in the ceiling are kind of interesting, though.

I Love This Book

Got a royalty check today for my story ("Bloodlight") in Love in Vein II, a 1997 anthology edited by Poppy Z. Brite. Not a big check by any means, but a check nonetheless. Royalties have been coming in regularly for this book since its release, some of which have been rather sizable, making "Bloodlight" the short story for which I've earned the most money. In retrospect, it's only a fair tale; not one that's particularly representative of my work as a whole. But the antho is decent, and I'm damn glad to have had a piece of the action.

Here's to Poppy and vampiric erotica—a subgenre for which, at one time, I swore I would never write (mainly because I saw so much crap of that ilk submitted to Deathrealm back in the day). I'm so glad I changed my mind.

But...I swear...I will not write a zombie tale. Ever. Really.

Oh, crap. I just got an invitation to write a zombie tale.