In Captivity, Chats with a Mad Man: Hard Landing

(To get into the mindset of a crazy fellow [or at least, a different brand of crazy than I already am] can be a trying process. While characters flit to and fro in the brain, craziness is one that you may not want to spend a lot of time with–for obvious reasons. That said, over the weekend I was struck with an idea for a new segment, a series of short stories from the perspective of one of the aforementioned crazies addressing an unfortunate prisoner–though I suppose the real surprise will be that it’s something modern. Pirates may be involved…or I may have said too much.

So I give to you “In Captivity,” an internet exclusive. The following is free flow dialogue.  The images awaiting you will be what your own mind summons from its murky corners. Posting schedule for the additional chains in the story will probably be…whenever they deem it proper to pop into my head. Marvel, hiss, or shake a walker at me–but I hope you enjoy the step outside my usual domain.)

Damn, son. And they thought I was crazy. But there’s no crazy like American crazy, lemme tell you. Whoosh. Just like that. Sea howls and the sky roars and you know what it spits out of that diarrhea-streaked fishbowl? You, like you think you’re some merman or something.

Well the desert isn’t no place for a fishy, boy. Fish boy. Yeah. I like that. You ever think of yourself like a fish, eh? Where’s the rest of your school, fish? What’s that? I can’t hear you. Let’s try again: WHERE’S THE REST OF YOUR SCHOOL, FISH? Oh, you look scared, man. I know. You think I’m crazy. I tell you lots of people think that, you smile or nod your head? Oh, but they don’t say it to my face, so you just remember that.

You want to know where the rest of your school is? Swam, swam away for the summer. That’s what you all wanted to do. Turistas, eh? It’s a funny thing when you think about it. ‘Mama, papa, I just want to be anywhere but with you for a while, and don’t you worry, it’s just me and my cock and a lot of sun. I’m responsible!’ Now that’s love. You don’t get it’s about family. It’s always about family.

And so now where’d all that crazy love get you? Here. Washed up in the middle of the fucking desert. Never saw that coming when you decided to play explorer now did you? Never saw yourself in a cage, no.

But that’s what happens. Americans. You all think the ocean is just like everything else. Manifest Destiny. Some fat old man, he says it’s sea to shining sea but some point came around, and someone else came up and they said sea to shining sea damn well best include the seas themselves and look what happens. It’s one big fucking party!

That is, until you’re two hundred miles off shot, and the world’s all storms, and you’re huddled in the smell of your own piss on your knees praying oh God, oh God, for the sake of the stars and stripes and my fathers and my little semen children save me, I’m a good and faithful shit, and only when the water’s up over your head and the sun’s blotted out of your sky do you begin to finally realize real religion: if there’s a God, he’s one vindictive little shit, or he doesn’t wear a red, white and blue suit.

It’s not all about the shiny but—hey, you know, I like the shiny, so, it’s not all bad, yeah?

I think your friends probably learned that already too. When you hit the rocks, you know, you usually don’t die right away. It takes time. The blood runs out until you can’t move anymore, or the bones break and you can’t move anyway, and all you can do is take this time before the sun or the hunger kills you, wondering, just wondering: what about me? What about my life? Why did I have to be sliced open like a fish?

Wriggle, little man. It’s what fish do. And there’s only so long you can breathe out of water.

But it’s good you’re here, you know? That you let me find you. It’s good. Real good. Gives us time for lessons, see. And it gives me opportunities. There’s a lot of money in the pretty lilies, samaki. Real big. And it’s fun, you know? That’s what we’re gonna have. Real fun.

Now let’s get that gag in. It’s a long way and you stink, little fishy, and we wouldn’t want you to choke.

Hollow March Ebook Giveaway!

Announcement time!

As many of you know, this weekend includes the day of Mothers, or at least the United States version. It also includes a lesser known holiday, much more compact and dedicated to many less shinies than the former: my birthday. While I’m not a big pusher of my own holiday bliss, it did seem a good time to take the opportunity for a giveaway, so here I am with writer’s cap in hand.

All weekend long, eBook copies of my fantasy novel, The Hollow March, will be free to anyone interested in revenge-filled, character-raging, backstabbing, magic-dealing (can you even handle that many qualifiers?) literary goodness. Copies can be picked up through Amazon, and with luck, if there’s some book love going on there, the lovers will kindly poke other lovers of fantasy, or some fantasy loving mothers, and so on and so forth, starting a chain reaction of poking that either overload and implodes Facebook (sorry Facebook), or puts a smile on one little writer’s face.

Need a reminder what it’s all about? Check out The Hollow March-dedicated page on the right side of the screen.

And if you need any gift ideas, I’ll let you in on a time-honored secret among writers: reviews are the best method to a fellow’s heart.

For those unclear, that would be this book.

Meanwhile, the first stage edits from my editor (For the sequel, At Faith’s End), are nearly all integrated now, and that just leaves a couple more beta readers and another round of editing (consequently, I’ll be seeing Mr. Hartley again this weekend), between my side of that literary venture and completion. Is it time to start thinking cover art once again? Most probably. Stay tuned.

There will probably another arms flailing reminder of the giveaway on Friday, but I’m told it’s good to plan ahead. And now I leave, as ever, at your mercy, oh gurus of the Internet.

Poetic Measurements

I may have mentioned earlier in the week that the poetic muse was striking me again (it has been some time since our last encounter). Perhaps it’s all the sun, perhaps it was the drama of nature’s power on display a few weeks ago, or simply life being in a sustainable position at the moment. It could also be the steady march the next novel’s taking to completion–got initial edits back from the editor a week or so back, and it has set my creative mind into a furious spiral of scribbles (or his own rather strikingly wonderful bits of poetry he shared with me at the time–mark my words, he’s going places). So much to do.

Regardless of the source though, a frenzy followed, and numerous works were penned this week. So it seemed only good and right to toss out a sample this weekend. Thus I give you the short “Poetic Measurements”…

Poetic Measurements

The weight of a poet

lies perched upon a strand of hair:

a breath could shudder out the shape of it

yet the light could scarcely lay it bare.

Its power crawls in shadow

a textured investigation of the fall

clinging fractions of humanity endow,

wriggling whispers beneath the mortal pall.

Good News, Everybody!

Curse you, blue screen. Curse you.

For those who met my announcement a few weeks back with scorn, derision, or at least a quirked eyebrow or two, let it be known that the issues of technological explosiveness have since been corrected. After a few days of hyperventilating and making crude gesticulations at the fickle computer gods (You, Microsoft, are nothing if not Fickle; don’t ever tell me otherwise), the problem was identified, the cause rooted out, and my files secured. Also, a neat little back-up program was to (hopefully) prevent that terror from happening again, but it is what it is.

The writings have been saved. As has i-Tunes, though I suspect that interests you less. A fellow needs some Mumford and Sons for the writing process, though, among other things…

The Problem:

1. Norton. Norton. NORTON! It expired. It was reinstalled. Somewhere in between it had a heart attack looking at itself in the mirror and caused the blue screen of death. Suffice to say, a shiny (other) antivirus has been hunted down and installed.
2. Failure to back-up. My silly self (thoroughly chastised and thwacked at this point) had fallen into a regiment of “every month.” Well, when you get on a writing streak for a few weeks a month may not be enough now, huh?
3. Solved thanks to: the excellence that is a tech-savvy brother (also a writer, whom you may remember me mentioning before…*hint hint*).

So what now? Well, more writing, certainly. Despite my moans and groans in our previous meet and greet, the scribbling kept up strong during the last few weeks. Note pads and journals–they are a writer’s friend. Several new short stories (mostly comical–an odd binge for me–some dark; some sci-fi, some fantasy) have arrived, along with ideas for a stack more. Where they came from, who knows, but when the muse dances a jig on my back I certainly don’t complain. Likewise, I’ve dispatched another batch of those scribbles to some SpecFic mags, whilst my editor drums his way through to the final notes on At Faith’s End.

Also amongst the good news:

1. I got a gig that’s actually major-related! Huzzah! Copy editing was to be had during the week, of the freelance variety (coincidentally, hey, I’m on elance: https://www.elance.com/s/galfordc/), with a potential for more to come. Details on the lovely art and insights I got to see during that time will come once the end results are out and available for all to see. (Art Majors, be still your beating hearts.)
2. Joblessness has been temporarily corrected, at least through the month of April. More editing, this time for schools. Cubicles, computers, and essays for the classic 9-5 (alright, actually 8-4, but you know what I mean). It’s a start.

Suffice to say, they’re needed boosts. While the computer thing was a blow this month, there’s other things lurking behind the scenes as well. General joblessness is enough to stand anyone’s hairs on end after a while, but when you toss in medical things (yes, some are related to the recent poem), a person starts to feel like their day is nails on the chalkboard. Another doctor’s appointment in a few hours that will (hopefully) lead to corrections of at least one of this brand’s downswings, though.

I realize there’s little physical substance going along with this article, but it’s an update piece–mostly wanted you all to know I hadn’t quite dropped off the face of the earth. With luck, I shall be doing some lurking about in days to come, and will have some more substantial posts to come. Meanwhile, hope everyone’s spring is gearing up (Wednesday, fools) for a better opening then it is here. In Michigan, they’re predicting the next four days shall be given over to the snow.

Point of reference: at this time of the year last year it was 80 degrees. Winter is determined to stalk me.

White Walkers optional. (24 Days of Christmas – The King in the North http://awhoreslies.tumblr.com/tagged/%2Achristmas)

Too Much, Too Quick

Apparently technology knows when you’re back on a horse, reaching for stars (in this analogy I suppose the horse would also have to be a Pegasus, but I’m actually alright with that). After a very sorry attempt of a southern trek Friday, having encountered horrendous roads and some nasty bits of lake effect snow, I returned this weekend and burrowed myself in some more writing. Encountered big scary words last night, in the midst of said writing.

It was everyone’s favorite: Hard Drive Crash.

Not just any old affair, either: it was blue screen of death quality. While most things (remain) relatively intact, in checking through my external memory bits, I have found a number of major things that did not survive. Anything accomplished in the last 3 weeks, for example. Thank goodness I sent out copies of At Faith’s End on Friday, for example–otherwise half the edits would be lost to the darkness. All the new writings I had begun, notes, ideas, as well as dear sweet Photoshop, and the most recent copy of my resume.

That, suffice to say, hurts. A lot. It’s not as bad as it could be, but for someone that’s been struggling with writer’s block and a fitful, uphill struggle in general with their creativity for a while now…it’s still disastrous. Religious folks might take it for a sign, I suppose. Divine or Alien presence trying to tell me something.

Well. I’ll no doubt head back to the drawing board. But those ideas are gone. I’m wavering and reeling and it’ll take a bit. I’ll go back, but for a while, blogosphere (and I know we were just getting to know one another again), I’m probably going to recede.

Here’s hoping your week’s starting off better than this silly little scribbler’s.

 

Take that, Grindstone!

From At Faith’s End:

“ Fever made a crossroads of the flesh. Iron bound it down. Iron, after all, was the ages old remedy for witches’ magic. Or so the old wives claimed.

Sweat made a sheen of her olive skin, sun and stone her only companions. And the woman, hovering at the edge of it all. Charlotte could see it through her eyes, yet she had the prescience of her own sight as well. Abandonment. This was all that remained to her. Even the keep would not hold the witch now.

Clouds bled the horizon of its precious light. She sat among the rocks, watching as the distant sky lit with nature’s solemn trill.

She did not remain to listen to Usuri’s own tears fall. ”

~Charlotte, Chapter 16

 

Happy Valentine’s, everyone!

Insert Fantasy visual of a Book Cover here. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The above, my friends, is what people where I come from call a tease. It also happens to be an excerpt out of the second novel in The Haunted Shadows series, At Faith’s End, specifically from one of the Charlotte-centric chapters. I offer it as a means of announcement: I can now proudly say the first stage editing of the beast is nigh finished. What of it remains should be completed over the course of a very long car ride in the wee hours of the morning to come (to be explained later).

What does that mean? Editors, check your in-boxes this weekend, as I’ll be sending copies your way. You too, beta readers. Presumably, the pestering, somewhat addle-brained (but hopefully loveable?) act of a nervous writer will shortly follow. My condolences.

Final word count: 178K-ish. Another beefy entry into the fantasy genre, but it also means it’s a good deal shorter than the first, curiously enough. As in, about 20K words shorter. Let’s see if I can resist adding another scene or two into the mix once all the peer reviews or over, shall we?

(For those that need to catch up, take a look at the first book in the series: The Hollow March)

I would also like to send congratulations (they’re not really belated, because I already congratulated her on more personal notes!) over to Mrs. Emmie Mears—a fellow writer—for recently wrangling herself an agent. They can be wily and slippery devils. If you get the chance, swing by her blog and give her a round of applause yourself—and keep an eye on her. She’s going far, I tell you.

Sadly, not all the news today is good news, though. For those of you that didn’t catch my tweet on the matter, my sister-in-law’s mother passed away suddenly yesterday, after a long struggle with cancer. I’ll be driving down south in the early hours of the morning tomorrow to pay my respects and support to both my brother and sister-in-law. As such, my presence over the weekend shall likely be the barest flicker of a candle’s light, at best.

Please keep their family in your thoughts. For more information on this broad and terrible group of diseases, as well as the struggle against cancer, I encourage you to visit the website of Cancer Centers of America.

Setting the Mood

The writer is an oddity in this world for a simple reason: he is more than the personality of self, but a soul that must be capable of tapping into a hundred different personalities as the pen may guide him. The writer, matched perhaps only by actors, artists, and spies, must have the capability to tap into the inner workings of the mind and breathe life into characters that are nevertheless nothing like him.

Biting. Sparkling, drooling, or just plain snarling, it’s still not cool. (Photo credit: virginsuicide photography)

Remember that little detail the next time someone sneers and calls your labors child’s play. Also refrain from biting. People don’t like biting very much.

Yet the problem with this arrangement is that, often enough, we find ourselves at the whimsy of moods. Fickle things, really, but they can be the key difference between a well-written scene and a downright enthralling one. I would never council a writer not to write simply because he doesn’t feel quite into character—that’s the beauty of editing, of the multiple drafts we must insist upon our craft—but it can make things difficult. Some characters may be so inherently different—perhaps so dark, or so flamboyant—that our own minds cannot begin to connect with them on a regular basis. The mood—their mood—may strike us once in a month, once in a year, and if we do not throw ourselves at their scene in that time, we may never capture perfectly that essence for which we so strive.

I know, I know. You’re thinking: Chris, why are you making this sound almost spiritual? Are you high?

We are notoriously fickle people, us writers, and this is the reason. We have to be. Our moods roll with the wind, and our writing with it. Though we can train ourselves to perfect the skill of our pen, the creativity behind it ebbs and flows as the storm upon the sea—we never know quite when and to what means it will gather.

Fortunately, there are ways to help manipulate ourselves. To manipulate the moods and personalities we so crave. While nothing’s ever certain, they can help:

1. Music . Why do you put the Barry White on when you know that special someone’s coming over? Because deep down everyone knows that music stirs the heart and moves the emotion to the beats. A sad song can drag us down to the deepest depths of mortal despair. A fast song can revitalize a weary body. A smooth song, peppered with those deep, low notes and reverberating bass well…be still those quivering legs. Probably also relevant to your Valentine’s Day interests.
2. Travel. I don’t mean a road trip—although that might not hurt either. Simply, I mean get outside. Go to your favorite place. Climb a mountain. Sit down in the local coffee shop. Walk the lonely streets. Different places, different people—these things can strike a chord as sure as that picture of a sandy beach you stare every day at your work desk.
3. Read. Watch. Listen. Tell me this is self-explanatory.
4. Drink. Oh come now, surely you knew this was going to be here somewhere. While I’m not advising that you go out and get yourself royally bombed (be sure someone else has possession of both your keys and any Text Message-capable devices), there is something to be said for the mental tweak such beverages bring. They’re mood affecters—it’s what they are made to do. Have yourself a sip, let the liquid do its work. Don’t overdue it–just one or two. At worst, you relax (never a bad thing for a writer), at best you unlock the very best level of the creative flow. Just be sure to go back and edit extra carefully in the morning.

A little trip can go a long way.

Ideas: The Race to Completion

Distraction, distraction, distraction—

Idea!

Distraction.

Having a touch of ADHD, my mind has the unfortunate knack for bouncing around in a thousand different directions at one time. Ideas are a plentiful harvest, but they’re as distracting as they are engaging. It becomes hard to sift through, to settle down, and address a single point.

Relevance: I want to finish writing At Faith’s End. After that, I know I need to get to the third and final chapter of that saga, but I may need to take a little break before I pop into that little scene. Idea overload, and if I don’t get some of them at least started on paper, my brain is likely to reach critical mass and internal combustion, I am told, is an incredibly unproductive way to approach any day.

So. At Faith’s End is very nearly done. On my initial end, anyhow. Beta readers, editors, keep your eyes open—it’s coming at you soon. Curiously, it came out a good bit shorter than the first—though I imagine that’s probably better by most estimations. The wordiness—I do have a knack for it.

For Updates: Follow me on FB?

But I also have another novel in mind. Not in Lecura (the same world as this Haunted Shadows trilogy). Not even fantasy. Probably overplayed but—apocalyptic. As in, still happening, not post. And no, there would be no radioactive zombies. It would take place in America, though vague on specific settings. Main character? Probably a sniper. Thoughts? Concerns? Pleas of: oh God, Chris, no?

There are also some short stories I need to get around to tidying up, possibly more relevant to any fantasy interests out there—the short stories The Haunted Shadows is based on, actually. The Company of the Eagles. As you can probably guess, it’s a little more focused on who it followed, each is sort of serialized adventure-wise, but taken together paint the whole of around a year in Rurik Matair’s exile. It would likely be released in two collections.

And that’s for starters. I want to write scifi. I know this. I want to dig my hands in and mold that side of my imagination a little more—novellas, another novel, lord, but I do love to get off track.

It’s a curse. Somehow, it probably ties into the fact that I’m so very good at reading that it can be a distraction to the writing.

The following Public Service Announcement brought to you by stoic Mr. Fane.

Also: snowpocalypse. Particularly if you’re in the northeast. These are the times you wish you still had snow days.

Or quite possibly lived in Hawaii.

Of Author Pages and Fantasy Updates

Yes, I am slowly insinuating myself across the Internet. Call me Zerg, or what you will.

It’s a short one for you today, folks. Just wanted to send out a few notices. To those that might be interested, I finally got up off my lazy-author-bum and made an Author Page on Facebook, so if you enjoy the site, my ramblings, and (hopefully!) my writings, you can show support here: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Chris-Galford/408973352523706. It includes contact information, as well as links to all the other myriad places you can hunt me down.

For those of you that weren’t aware,  a page was already set up for my Fantasy works specifically, at The Hollow March. On the one, you’ll get links, notifications, and discussions in my own snarky brand of rambling this site has hopefully already conditioned you toward; at the other, you’ll receive any book-specific updates I may have.

Let me also take this opportunity to give a status update. Between job hunting (again), and the mine work before that, and indeed the move to Michigan, my writing progress notably slowed for a while there. I’m not just talking blogging, I mean the actual sit down and type until your fingers brand fantasy scribble fest that is the production of the next book in the Haunted Shadows trilogy.

I can now report it is coming along well. The book is written. Its ditches are dug and battle lines drawn. First stage editing is approximately 3/4 of the way complete, and then I’ll be doing the rounds, sending it to editors and beta readers. Consequently, if any fans of The Hollow March are potentially interested in the latter role, try hitting me up. Depending on how many have already undertaken the position, and based on our chat, I’ll see what I can do.

Have a lovely a weekend! If you’re like me, it will probably be spent snow-covered.

Is Poetry Dead?

The Seeds and Fruits of English Poetry, oil on canvas. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let me clarify: it’s not me asking. It’s the Washington Post.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/compost/wp/2013/01/22/is-poetry-dead/

Is good Lord Byron rolling in his grave even as we speak? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Alexandra Petri, one of the paper’s pundits, investigated the assertion in an article last week (which I just discovered now).  And I quote: “Poets are like the Postal Service — a group of people sedulously doing something that we no longer need, under the misapprehension that they are offering us a vital service.” What’s more, the article goes on to quote playwright Gwydion Suilebhan in delivering the dramatic title of this post: “Poetry is dead. What pretends to be poetry now is either New Age blather or vague nonsense or gibberish. It’s zombie poetry.”

By her own estimation, in fact, there is “no longer, really, any formal innovation possible.”  That world-shaking revelations such as “Howl” or “The Waste Land” are no longer possible in a world where high production movies, video games, and other media are able to do everything the poet can do, but better.

Petri, naturally, was using this as a parallel point to journalism, which if any of you have been following the course of in recent years, is in very dire straits itself. If poetry is dead, then what of journalism?

Personally, I think it is exactly like journalism–in the regards that there will be a struggle for a time, a chaotic crumbling of identity whereby everyone is scrambling to rediscover just what it can be. But is it dead? Will it die? Certainly not. The identity will change. The nature of it will change, and find new ground. But I dare say–nay, I dare hope–this old dose of the literary, stalking us from the very dawning of civilization, is so engrained in us that it could never truly, utterly die.

So poets, journalists, I ask you, what do you think? What are your insights to this, and where do you think things are heading?

Related articles

• 10 Reasons Poetry’s Not Dead (flavorwire.com)
• Pretzels&BullFights ~ Open call for Poetry Submissions, a dVerse Anthology (dversepoets.com)
• So What If Poetry Is Dead? (elizabethkateswitaj.net)