We are finally LIVE with our
fundraiser! The FROGDONUT ALLIANCE is up and running, and needs support at
every level! No, it’s not charity: we’re giving away cool perks aplenty, from
Scott’s awesome kitbash mech sculptures and my jewelry to our pro skillz at a
slight discount. Everything we raise goes toward moving me to Cheeseland, where
my fiance and I can collaborate in person, raise the dead, bring about the
zombie apocaly--- er. I mean, make cool
art together. Yeah.
We understand many of our friends
and family are in the same financial suck-it-in position as we are. But hey,
please pass on the link, and talk up the cause for us, huh? It’s good karma.
Plus, you’ll get to see us create wonderful weirdness together. It’s hella
better building skeleton props, freaky collages, and writing songs and stories
together when you’re RIGHT THERE to bounce ideas back and forth.
Not to mention, you really do
need more than two tentacles to perform the Elder God Raising Ceremony...
So please, spread the word! Chip
in a buck or five! Snigger at how goofy we look on camera! (No, we’re not
buying you popcorn to rewatch it again.)
More regular weirdness and
updates soon. Excuse me. Something’s banging on the walled-over well in the
basement again...have to go get some tuna from the store...
I’ve been wondering a great deal lately about the
intertwined concepts of time and happiness. I know folks who fill their
schedules with all kinds of activity, work or classes, things they believe they
need to do and, all too often, very
little they want to do. Until a few
months ago, I was in that rank. And believe me, it is pretty rank, that feeling of being trapped in your own life.
"And who told you to screw over all your contributors? Could it be, I don't know...SATAN?"
Aw, fuck, you say: don’t tell me she went and became born-again!
HELL NO. However, my outlook has changed. I’ve written very little this summer, partly due to
the lack of an air-conditioned, noncrowded environment (I am not one of those lucky souls who can
write on a bus, or really anywhere populated by loud, moving distractions), but
partly because I’ve been engrossed in other pursuits. This isn’t a bad thing.
In fact, this is the first time in my life that I haven’t sensed the Reaper
standing behind me, looking at his watch and then at my (lack of) personal
publication credits. I’ve done a little editing for others, some reading, some
art...and this is the first time in years I’ve been inspired to DO and to MAKE
stuff, and have done so. So, I haven’t been creatively idle, and I’m happy with
that, even though my writing has lagged.
Also, much of my time has been involved in dreaming and
planning for a future with my fiance. As he’s fantastically creative in ways I’ve
never considered before, he’s a marvelous inspiration; we toss ideas back and
forth like a deranged game of badminton every day. A great deal of time and
creative effort has gone into our Indiegogo campaign (which, fingers crossed,
launches later this week). So again: productive and enjoyable.
That’s nice, you say. Now what does that have to do with
the price of slaves in corporate America? Well...everything. The point is, I’m
not worried about meeting self-imposed deadlines anymore. I’ll get to it all.
And I’ll enjoy it. Even if I never
hit the bestseller lists, even if we have to scrounge for bill money, even if
we hold several odd jobs simultaneously. Because the majority of my and my
fiance’s time will be spent making art, exploring the world around us, and
enjoying each other. And this is what life should
be...for everyone.
Yeah, right, you say. That’s sweet and all. But some of
us have to live in the REAL WORLD.
What makes you think the real world has to be full of Mostly Shit You Don’t Want to Do But Have To?
But...job security! Retirement! Bills! Success!
The asshole of Success. Wait. Face of. I get those confused.
Yeah...fuck that. I’m not saying some of that isn’t
important. I’m saying people place far
too much emphasis on things they honestly hate. Whatever your spiritual
beliefs, we only have one shot at this
life. So many years between gaining some education and watching our bodies
decay. Decades are nothing. WHY ARE
YOU WASTING SO MUCH TIME DOING THINGS YOU DISLIKE? Why take classes you don’t
enjoy, just to “pad out” your schedule? Why toil at a job where your work isn’t
appreciated – or worse, is largely meaningless? Why fill up a day with so many
things that you have “no time” for stuff you actually enjoy? That’s madness. It’s
a madness that sucks us all in. The great lie of our society, for centuries,
has been driven like concrete pilings into the once-fertile swamps of our
imaginations: DO WORK YOU HATE BECAUSE OTHERWISE YOU WILL STARVE. (Variations:
Work Hard No Matter What Because if You Don’t You’ll Go to Hell; and If You Don’t
Have Tons of Money You’re a Failure.)
A truth, which I realize is far from new, but which only
hit me recently: it’s far better to be happy than wealthy. I barely get by. But
this is the happiest I’ve ever been. I’m able to let bullshit dealt by others
mostly slide off, whereas before I would’ve brooded for weeks. I’m impatient to
move, but not worried. It will happen, and soon. Oh sure, I’m in
love; the endorphins in my brain blah blah yakety schmackety blah blah. You
know what? That’s not what this newfound contentment is about. Love is
certainly part of that, but the overarching theme here, guys, is possibility. My misanthropy, twisted
imagination, and weirdness is of such a particular curve that I believed a “soulmate”
impossible for me. Yet we found each other, and within two days of talking,
knew we’d found The One. Odds were so against this, that it’s made me reevaluate
my beliefs about everything.
Except this. This still sucks ass.
It’s made me realize I don’t need to slave at anything I hate. I don’t need to get this creative project done like yesterday what the hell is wrong with you lazy cow. I have
perhaps 30 years of health left to me. Why
the fuck would I waste them doing things that don’t make me happy?
Why does anyone? What's that? You have REASONS, you say?
So, from a neophyte neoVictorian writer and happily
creative weirdo, take this and chew on it a good long while, peoples: Stop thinking you HAVE to do ANYTHING.
You ALWAYS have the option of not doing
it. Are there consequences? Sure. Now weigh those against how fucking
miserable you’re making yourself.
Is misery really the sane choice? How many years do you
have left? Forty, twenty, ten? Tomorrow?
Stop that shit right now. Do what makes you happy.
Wicked cool announcement coming soon about the fundraiser my
fiance and I have been determinedly crafting for several weeks! Yes, that’s
where I’ve been: mired in uncooperative WinDoze programs, discussing plans with
my love, and realizing my tonguetip still sticks out of my mouth when I’m
coloring intently.
I had hoped to have this campaign running a couple of weeks
ago...but things have repeatedly proven trickier than anticipated. However, we
WILL persevere! We will edit on the beaches! We will mix them in the towns! We
have nothing to pumpkin spice but PUMPKIN SPICE ITSELF!
Sabrina Zbasnik, author of scifi/fantasy/humor novels Terrafae and Dwarves in Space, has niftily invited me to participate in a
bloghop about my fiction. (Yes. Niftily. All this woman does is fucking nifty!)
I’ve chosen to focus on my steampunk work-in-progress. If anything you read
below intrigues you, please do hop over to my storyblog to read more!
Constructive criticism always welcomed.
1. What is the name of
your main character? Is she a fictional or historical person?
Holly Autumnson, last member of a formerly well-off merchant
family. Though she is clearly fictional, I’ve read a fair amount of Victorian
social history (American in particular) to get a feel for the society which has
shaped her existence before the story began. She’s been raised as a proper
young lady, although her father allowed considerably more scholarly education
than is typical for a Victorian girl, delving into the natural sciences,
languages, and philosophy where her peers would stop at arithmetic, grammar,
and crochet. At a bit over twenty years of age, she is well on her way to
spinsterhood, according to those peers...
2. When and where is
the story set?
In the fictional city of Concordia, State of Columbia Pacifica,
1899. Concordia stands where the prior city of Portland, Oregon, was wiped out
in a firestorm similar to the Great Quake and Fire in San Francisco. After a
deadly rain of meteorites over the earth, progress in steam engineering and
electricity has been superseded by technology based on “Dust” deposited in the Cataclysm.
So picture mutations, bizarre new engines of destruction, people trying to
impose Victorian social mores on a world gone freakish...oh, and flying kraken.
With pilots who bond with them.
No kraken, and the hats are wrong, but yeah, pretty much.
3. What should we know
about her?
Holly refuses to
conform to the placid, submissive role which polite society insists she
ought to assume. She doesn’t believe she’s inferior of mind to the men around
her. And she resents every attempt by allegedly well-meaning men to shield her
from the awful things happening. Horrible
things are going on below the civilized surface of Concordia, and although
Holly was dragged into it unwittingly, she’s now determined to expose the
truth.
4. What is the main
conflict? What messes up her life?
Her grief for the recent loss of her explorer-scientist
brother is interrupted by the brusque, enigmatic Dr Vonken, who barges into her
home and insists Holly is in danger from the founder and patron of Concordia,
Henry Villard. This sets off a series of frightening new experiences for her,
with powerful intrigues exposed, freakish abilities uncovered, and strange
friendships forged. Suddenly Holly sees that people she formerly regarded as
pillars of the community are more akin to monsters in the cellar, and no one is
what she thought they were...including Holly herself.
5. What is her
personal goal?
To learn everything she can about the power of the Dust: how
it’s used, how dangerous is truly is, why a benevolent politician would kill
for it...and what it’s done to her!
No no no. DUST, not Spice.
6. Is there a working
title for this novel and can we read more about it?
This will likely change, but at present the title is Autumnheart Stories, available for free
and in progress on my storyblog. Please
do read AND comment! I welcome feedback to improve successive drafts.
7. When can we expect
the book to be published?
Frog only knows. Summer heat trying to fry my laptop at home
(and repeatedly broiling my brain) has led to an hiatus in my writing and
posting chapters, but as soon as the whole tale is complete online (and yes, it
is all in my head), I’ll be revising,
editing, rewriting, and epublishing. My goal is to have it available in toto within a year.
Hmmm...whom to afflict next? *waves rubber voodoo snake
around threateningly*
I'm picking three, not five. Because it's fucking hot, goddammit. I tag Andy Click (of American Werechaun fame), from whom I’ve heard mutterings of sequeldom; Sophie Coulombeau, avid 18th century traveler and award-winning YA scribe; Marty Ketola,
screenwriter, podcaster, and fellow MSTie! Check back here for updates and
links to their responses.
Now...slogging into the heat... *takes two steps, melts into gooey wax*
Sorry for the long delay in posting...it’s been a chaotic
few weeks, with changes in the household, job changes, and other projects
taking precedence. But at last I give you: Fun with Dead People!
No, not quite THAT much fun. On the other hand, you don’t
have to worry about never being able to get the stench out of your Members Only
jacket.
During my college years, I lived in Montgomery, Alabama,
a city in the sweltering armpit of that fine regressive state. Though it does
have a good art museum and the Shakespeare Festival theatre – and AUM, my alma
mater – the coolest thing, by far, is the antebellum graveyard right in the
heart of the city, Oakwood Cemetery. Burials date from before the Civil War
through modern years, including the grave of Hank Williams, Sr., and a sobering
299 “unknown” soldiers from the south’s most bloody conflict. (I know. I
personally counted them.) Kind of strange to think of that many unidentifiable
bodies each given a headstone. I always wonder if their ghosts were pissed off
at the irony of being reburied with honors, but anonymously.
Among the park-sized grounds which sprawl over two very
full hillsides one may also discover a crowded, old-world-style Jewish burial
section; imposing mausoleums; and more Victorian sentimentality than you can
shake a mourning hair-ring at.
This was my absolute favorite hangout. I would frequently
take a book there to read for hours, or explore the seemingly endless
headstones on foot...the best way to “collect” a graveyard, as very little of
it will ever be accessible by hearse-roads. I preferred to roam among the
Victorian burials, as they often have the most elaborate memorials. Not for
nothing did Ambrose Bierce label mausoleums “the final and funniest folly of
the rich.” Certainly, the amount of marble, personalized statuary,
wrought-iron, and stained glass which make up whole neighborhoods of the
snootily deceased at Oakwood stagger the mind and the wallet. And yet I felt an
affinity for these crumbled husks, most of them forgotten in their family plots
as later generations married off and moved away. I’d scatter wildflower seeds,
take photos of the most elaborate (or most bizarre) statuary, and talk to them.
What? Yes, I enjoyed
being alone in a fine and private place, thank you. Hmf.
A Weeping Angel surveys her favorite magnolia tree
One March, a freak snowstorm blanketed the city...well,
okay. Drew a soft fluffy knit throw over the city and made it some cocoa. It
was only a couple of inches. But SNOW! In the DEEP SOUTH! While most denizens
ran around seeking firewood, s’mores, and condoms, I had one purpose: to see
how my beloved cemetery appeared in the clear air and whispering snowdrifts.
And it was stunning.
The wind had crafted beautiful paintwork with the snow
all night, and in the grey daylight, all was still, cool, and delicately iced.
Headstones bore caps like petit-fours. Wrought iron fencework boasted new
fretworking of purest white. Angels beseeched heaven for some gloves and
scarves, is it too much to ask since they have to keep watch over some schlep’s
grave forever until the acid rain
eats them, for crying out loud. Everywhere, snow coated trees, graves,
monuments...and the hillsides.
The really, startlingly steep hillsides, terminating in a ravine you’d have trouble
climbing back out of if you missed the footbridge, assuming you didn’t trip and
hit your head on one of the granite stones on your way down and solve the
problem of ever getting up the hill again. And on these scary-steep
hills...kids were sledding. I have no
idea who the hell in Montgomery, AL even had the prescience to own a sled, but there they were, dodging
graves, whooping and laughing. Despite my love of the overblown artifice of the
Victorians, this use of the graveyard
was the best I’ve ever seen.
Hey you dadgum kids! Keep it down up there! We're tryin' to discuss the War of Northern Aggression!
My advice to any of you within reach of an amazing cemetery,
be it on sacred grounds or secular forty-five-degree slopes: become familiar
with the place. Walk its paths, learn its names. Sow flowers, and take photos,
and know every weird statue and tragic lamb by heart. Make it yours.
That way, you’ll know exactly which spots to drag your
sled to when it snows. Not to mention the best escape routes when the dead claw
their way up to express their annoyance with all that dadgum laughing.
Ah, summer. The time every year when my thoughts
naturally turn to cooler weather, changing leaves, and
pumpkin-flavored-everything. Unfortunately, for over a decade now, I haven’t
been able to enjoy the first two items on that list without traveling; Tucson
doesn’t have autumn. (It doesn’t have seasons, either. Sorry, “hot/dry,
warm/dry, hot with occasional showers” don’t count as “seasons,” sandpeople.)
I’ve always loved Halloween, but every summer I obsess over it even more, as a
means of temporary mental escape from Arrakis. (And not a wormsign for months.)
I collect books and magazines featuring Halloween
projects, but not the cutesy 2.5-Kid-Family Surburban-Dweller crap. Weird shit is what grabs my attention
and whips it around like a nightgaunt with a new chew toy. Today I’m sharing a
bit of that with you, Lucky Readers. We’ll start with old-timey crap which must
have been quaint in the day, but now comes off more like wtf were these people even thinking.
Silly hats optional.
Halloween Merrymaking:
an Illustrated Celebration of Fun, Food, & Frolics from Halloweens Past by
Diane C. Arkins is valuable not only for the tons of photos of old-school
decorations crammed into it for the wonderment of any Halloween ephemera
collector, but also because it features a number of photos which prompt
thoughtful reveries on just how stoned our grandparents must have been every
October. This features chapters on home decor (think more corn than Children of, and enough pumpkins to
stock your trebuchet for a week’s siege), costumes (who knew crépe paper could
be made to look so ridiculous?), teacup fortunes and more. Covering the period
from the late Victorian era through the turn of the century and into the 1930s,
the cards, decorations and paper goods reproduced in the book’s many
illustrations prove once and for all that our ancestors’ celebrations were
indeed as cheesy as we thought and then some.
I’ll admit, I’m a sucker for this brand of cheese. I love
that vintage-style decorations are back in vogue (á la Martha) simply because I
find them adorably strange. A popular party help text from the 1910s through
the ‘30s, Dennison’s “Bogie Book,” showed hausfraus of middle America how to
use its crépe paper products to make their own honeycomb-tissue pumpkins, pipe-cleaner-armed
goblins, and cutouts of black cats and witches to haunt their laundry rooms and
dinner tables. Much of the festivities shown have a decidedly amateur-crafty
flair, like a precocious but not-yet-skilled four-year-old exhibiting on Etsy. Especially
fun when you realize that extant items from the period sell for fantastic
prices to collectors. Not that I would ever buy them. (I can’t afford any...)
Scariest Fact: this party was BOOZE FREE!
Honestly, the only gripe I have about this book is that
although there are hundreds of great photos, many of them are reproduced in tiny size on page sidebars. What’s up
with that? Sure, the history lessons in each chapter are informative and cool,
but really, what we wanna see are big goofy photos of our great-gramps
frolicking with pretty gals, all of them dressed as rejects from a Halloween
taping of The Price Is Right. MOAR
PIKSURES!
The next two books are both by marvellous sicko Tom
Nardone: Extreme Pumpkins and Extreme Halloween. Yeah, get those lame
Mountain Dew X-Games analogies outta your heads: this stuff is fun. You’ve undoubtedly seen the
cannibal pumpkin and the puking pumpkin by now, as these have been around a few
years. Nardone’s the guy who invented them, as well as a host of other
screwed-up projects designed to freak the hell out of the Jehovah’s Witnesses
who stop by your house during October. The projects he presents are creatively
twisted, and best of all, he outlines steps and materials needed with a sense
of humor and even a nod to OSHA. (Though only a passing nod, like, Hey, bro, gonna douse this pumpkin in
kerosene and light it up like a Tiki torch, cool?)
All the jack-o’lanterns in this book are worthy of
sitting on your doorstep (or maybe the front yard...some are pretty gooey,
watch your step through the guts there), but my faves are the “Property
Defender Pumpkin” (who stands like Mad Max over the corpses of those he’s slain
to emerge the bloody champion of all pumpkinkind), and the “Moldy Beard
Pumpkin.” The latter is simple but gruesomely effective: half-carve it, and let
parts of it grow mold. Display proudly! Each of these spawns numerous other
ideas, as all good creative weirdness ought to. (Ooo...rotted cannibal zombie
pumpkin...)
In his followup book, Extreme
Halloween, Nardone shows off more creepyfun pumpkin designs, many of them
on a grand scale (pumpkin yard Nessie! Scorpion pumpkin!) and also shares
time-honored pranks great for creeping the hell out of neighborhood kids (or
adults with harvest corn too far up their butts). At least two of these involve
a jump-out-n-scare, but they’re inventive and well-presented. There are
instructions for making a pulley-operated yard ghost and a block-party-sized
BBQ’d dead body (formed of enough meats to make your local butcher love you).
Party food more disgusting-looking than anything you’ll find in cutesy
grocery-store magazines. And, again, inspiration for your own creepdom on every
page.
Nardone has a site with more of this freakshow stuff.
Great for haunters on a budget and those who like to dream big but don’t want
to simply buy pre-made stuff from Fright Catalog. (Yes, I’ll do a post on home
haunt sites soon! This one’s about books.
Deal.) I personally would love a big glossy coffeetablebook full of pics of
home haunt projects from hundreds of artists; if anyone knows of such a book,
please drop a comment to let me know!
Sorry for the long delay in posting, guys... I recently
took on a second job, so now I work two
with completely irregular schedules. But it’ll all be worth it to get up north,
where I can indulge my fetish for falling leaves and cool winds for real instead of having to rely on my
imagination! Now... *turns fan on high and eats a cinnamon donut* back to the
pumpkin orgy...
*************
UPDATE: Rick Gualtieri has a new Bill the Vampire book
out! Goddamned Freaky Monstersis now
available for purchase! WTF are you doing here still? Go BUY IT AND SUCK IT
DRY!
Next time on Victorian Zombies: fun with dead peeps!
Last week, Sue London generously invited me to participate
in a bloghop about my writing. I know I’ve fallen behind on everything the past
couple of weeks, but I was determined to apply the crop smartly, tuck and roll, and lurch back
into gear in a bold melange of happy mixed metaphors! So here goes.
1. what am I working
on?
Currently, I am heading into the second act on my serial
steampunk novel, Autumnheart (which I’ve been offering on my storyblog as I
write it, in an experiment to see if I can stay far enough ahead of myself);
also a dark-comedic horror novel, Wendigogo. One or the other of them (dare I
hope both?) WILL be finished this year, no matter what!
Also, editing The Haberdashers series more...when Sue finishes Robert’s
book! And my new association with the insanely brilliant (and possibly,
delightfully insane) love of my life, Scott, promises a burst of
creativity and very likely collaboration, as he’s an astounding author among
other things. No, you haven’t heard of him (unless you've recorded music in Hotlanta). You will. Ohhh... *evil chortle*
you will.
2. how does my work
differ from others of its genre?
Autumnheart is steampunk less reliant on mechanical marvels
(though there are a few coming in, especially once the war factory really gets
rolling) than character relationships. Sure, there are a few conventions
strolling through its pages: mad science, Victorian social mores, actual
history woven into sheer fiction. There’s also a healthy mongrelizing dose of
dark fantasy, political corruption and rebellion, sexism and prejudice of the
era tempered by protagonists rising above these smog-laden clouds.
Wendigogo started out as comic horror but is veering into
darker territory...funny, but in the way that the original “American Werewolf
in London” is funny. Although it's bloody, it's unpretentious, a bit silly in premise, and it certainly doesn't feel like either straightforward shock-horror or comedy-forward work. Ultimately, it may be compared to the old saw about life
handing you lemons...except the hero may decide the best way to deal with that
is to be the blender.
3. why do I write
what I do?
It amuses me. It lifts me. It’s goddamn fun! Granted, I hope it's commercially successful, once it’s
polished. (Insert .gif of Sam Sykes mouthing BUY MY BOOK here...) But I
wouldn’t even be bothering with these genres if I didn’t enjoy reading them as
much as writing them. I grew up feeding voraciously on darker tomes. Then my
parents took “The King in Yellow” away and banished the Undergrubs, and
although my life was substantially less entertaining, at least the neighborhood
fauna was safe to come out of hiding again. However, my gaping soul was then
free to be filled with the likes of Bradbury, Poe, Bierce, and Shel
Silverstein. I have no illusions about matching the masters. I’m just having
fun writing what I want to write.
4. how does my
writing process work?
Ideally, well after dark, I set up my laptop on my bed, with
a drink at hand and usually a nom of some kind. (Rarely alcohol; my drunk
writing is for shit. Screw you,
Hemingway.) I pull up notes and photo references, and start my playlist over my
headphones. I reread the last chapter at least; if it’s been more than a couple
of days, I’ll skim back through the story, especially scenes pertinent to what
I’ll be tackling next. Then it’s crack the knuckles, pet the badger skull for
luck, zone out in the music and off to the races!
Ungh. Erk. Edits. Grammar. BWAAAHHHH!
I dislike formal outlines, but I do make extensive plot
notes, which helps me keep track of the cast as I begin moving them around the
board more. I have ultimate motivations and objectives of the major players in
mind at all times, but remembering just how
I intended them to clash or resolve is easier with notes! Right now, for
Autumnheart, I have several files of tidbits of Victorian history
from the 1860s-1880s, a ton of Oregon and Portland-specific history, research on several real persons of the
era in the Pacific Northwest, and photos, photos, photos. Oh, also notes on
giant squid, planetary catastrophe on an extinction-level scale, steam and
early electrical technology, and lolcats. Because F.U. I like lolcats.
Bloghop RSVP
Continuing the chain letter to the next four people who must write a blog post using these
questions or suffer a rain of frogs for the next forty days (and believe
me, though that sounds cool, after
day twelve you’re thinking Fuck, there just really aren’t enough ways to cook frogs), I hereby pass the torch to:
1. Troy Blackford: author of "Booster & Reeves: Night of the Revenants", an insanely good
zombie story AND Jeeves & Wooster parody; Strange Way Out; and numerous other novels and short stories. I
once traded him a signed copy of his novel Critical
Incident (and a gruesome fictional death in another book) for some Joe Hill
ephemera.
2. Sabrina Zbasnik: talented comic fantasy author ("Terrafae"; Dwarves in Space) and gifted
painter of haunted trees. If you’re not following her on Twitter, you are seriously
missing out. The snark levels in her everyday commentary have destroyed three
Soviet Geiger counters already.
3. Rick Gualtieri: he of Bill the Vampire fame (Sunset Strip;
Hunting Bigfoot; et alias). Recently, also has proven his mettle in single
combat versus the Deep Ones in his cellar plumbing.
Their entries to be up before or on the following Monday
(the 19th). I’ll post links to theirs in the comments for this entry
once they’re up. *readies batches of Colorado river toads for delivery*
