From the Bookshelf: The Jesus Injection by Eric Andrews-Katz

One of my happiest acceptances in late 2011 (and contributor copy arrivals in early 2012) was for a short, dark steampunk tale submitted to the brilliant editing team of Eric Andrews-Katz and Vince Kovar -- the latter, the driving force behind the Gay City series of speculative anthologies, the former a respected journalist and new novelist, both fiercely talented powerhouse scribes in their own rights. The fourth Gay City volume, containing my short story "The End of an Era", posited alternate histories (the latest, presently reading, will be chock full of creature features and things that go bump in the night). In notching the acceptance, my experience was further heightened by my introduction to their writing.  I've gotten to know both through our wonderful interactions following the book's release and via their work.  It is my pleasure to welcome back Eric Andrews-Katz, author of the engaging novel, The Jesus Injection, in which a hunky gay spy faces off against a host of threats, the personal, political, and potentially world-shattering.



Eric, The Jesus Injection is bold writing! Please share its genesis with us.
I wanted to write a parody of something meshing two genres that would normally not be mixed -- Buffy the Vampire Slayer was already written, and so I settled on a story about a secret agent that was gay. My partner and I were feeling very giddy and started coming up with names of characters. 'Agent Buck 98' was first, and then came Noxia von Tussell, and eventually Dr. Raven Evangelista. Everything snowballed from there.

The funniest thing is the title itself -- The Jesus Injection. I’ve gotten quite the uproar because people have assumed that somehow it’s going to be sacrilegious material. One person accused me of taking [his] ‘Lord’s name in vain just to sell my book’. He knew nothing about it except the title. I was hoping that having “A Buck 98 Adventure” on the book’s cover would discourage such thoughts. It’s truly a case of NOT judging a book by its title. Personally, I think Bold Strokes Books did an incredibly wonderful job with the cover! 

Take us into your writing lair -- tell us what your creative space is like.

We have a loft outside of the master bedroom in our townhouse, and that’s where I do my writing. I have my desk set up with my computer and printers etc., bookshelves behind me, and inspirational pictures around. It’s an open space so I feel very relaxed there and have a plethora of resources at my fingertips.

How did you come to the Muse?  Did you write stories when you were growing up?

I started writing as soon as I could hold a pen.  I remember writing my first piece in second grade and it got published in the school paper. As for my Muse (aside from my husband), it’s the Great God Pan! I started having dreams of Pan when I was three. They continued up until I was seven. Then he appeared and said, ‘you’re going to follow me the rest of your life’. I agreed in a heartbeat and he’s been an important part of my life ever since. I’m very particular about my Pan artwork, but I have many pieces and several of them are displayed in my work space.

Do you write longhand or compose on the computer.  How many drafts?  In other words, please share some insight into your creative process.

I almost always write on the computer. My brain goes too fast (I’m a Gemini) for my hands to keep up with if I write longhand. I taught myself to type when I was ten, and so can do that much faster. I never have a set number of drafts that I want to complete. For me, a story is complete when I’m satisfied with it. I’ll get an idea and mull it over in my mind for a while. When I’m ready, I’ll sit down and start writing. I usually don’t storyboard because I’m used to writing short stories. When I started my novel, I found it helpful to make outlines of what I wanted to happen and where in the story they were to occur.

If you could cast Buck in the movie version, he'd be played by...

Now this I’ve often thought about as its one of the fun parts of writing. I think someone like Ewen McGregor could play Buck. He’s metrosexual enough to pull off both masculine and feminine aspects of being a gay man. He’s already proven that he has a decent singing voice, and since he’s already done [what are considered] gay films, I don’t think it’ll be an issue. His movies usually include a nude scene, so that won’t be bad, either!

Wednesday, Lovely Wednesday

At some point in my journey, I realized I was not the kind of writer who liked being an island.  I'm more of a peninsula.  Oh, I love my alone time.  In fact, I'm notorious for 'nesting' in my home, working on my fiction, and having limited interactions with the rest of the real world beyond these fortress walls.  When I do venture forth, normally it's to enjoy a movie at the cinema with my squeeze or to shop for groceries. Sometimes it's only once in a full week, on Wednesday nights when I attend my writer's group meeting.

I joined this group in early 2011 when it met in the loud and chaotic cafe of the local big book retailer. Toward the end of the same year, facing greater hostility from the store's management over ridiculous reasons (not enough of us swiped membership cards on Wednesday nights, though all of us bought drinks, whole meals, and plenty of books and magazines there weekly) and getting elbowed out by other groups claiming the increasingly limited table space, we relocated to a small coffee and donut shop in a strip mall that, against all expectations and assumptions, has become to me proof of the Divine.  Despite no WiFi for laptops, brutal heat on one memorable July night when the air conditioning died, teeth-chattery cold on a recent January Wednesday, the occasional crazy customer, and robust coffee aroma that impregnates whatever clothes one wears to meetings, I have grown to love that venue like a home away from home. On most Wednesday nights, I arrive a few hours early, hopefully snag my favorite seat at the big round table beside the only public plug, turn on my laptop, and listen to music or favorite TV episodes on CD, like Space:1999 or Stargate Atlantis.  I order a drink, a bagel, uncap my pen, and the fresh pages flow. In December, I spent an entire pre-meeting visit jotting unwritten ideas on note cards as part of my end-of-year organization, getting the bones down on all those near-future adventures.  And it all felt like a blessing.  So much fun, it should be illegal.

But what has made Wednesday nights so unique and such a gift are my fellow writers, who routinely thrill, inspire, and captivate me with their newest offerings.  It has been my pleasure to see so many of them evolve and notch the first of what will amount to many publication credits. Though I'm frequently a zombie from the scalp down after six p.m. and hear the siren-song of my bed calling from across the miles, I am seduced by their prose, fall in love with their characters, and count my lucky stars for being in such talented company.  I completely believe that many of my comrades-in-pen will grace shelf space in that same big bookstore that didn't want our weekly visits.  One or two, I'm convinced, will become household names.  My writer's group is that good.

Last night, I attended what will be my last visit for a while.  Our little family is about to embark on a new journey to the grand old house in the hills we purchased, a hundred and fifty-odd miles from that strip mall that feels so much like home.  Being part German, I tend to not show much emotion (don't ask the many writer's group members who bore witness at my recent Sweet 1,000 Party, where I blubbed nonstop while reading from my 1,000th work of fiction, "Alibe's Story"; I'm not sure where the endless stream of tears originated -- in the story's subject matter or as a result of the occasion's scope. Maybe both).  But as I sat and wrote on my final Wednesday night in the coffee shop before the move, part of me was overwhelmed.  The other stemmed the waterworks by reminding me that I will return, and joyous reunions await in the not-too-distant future.  Already, plans are underway for a long weekend retreat to nearby Maine, where I and my fellow attendees will write, eat, read, and dream. We're hosting our maiden Sunday all-day writer's party up at our new home in May and, though I've already been invited to join a new local creative group in our soon-to-be adopted town that meets 2/10ths of a mile from my front door, I plan to pop down on Wednesday nights from time to time, just not as frequently.

Until then, I will love this new beginning and stately hilltop home to the fullest, write and polish and submit, and savor the many wonderful memories of my times at that table, with those outstanding writers and people, the finest of the fine, the best of the best.  Until we meet again, they'd better keep creating -- and save a seat for me!

The Number 1,000

(Upper Left, in honor of my 500th; Upper Right, for Number 100)

Though I have never been great at math, for me certain numbers are charged with as much power as the most magical of words.  311, for instance -- the number of men and women stationed on Moonbase Alpha in the late, great Gerry Anderson's outer space parable, Space:1999. From the moment I first picked up my pen, 311 or combinations thereof have acted as signals or portents around me. This past summer, the number in perfect sequence began appearing on license plates throughout my fair state of New Hampshire, at a time when I was gearing up for another number that has held awesome power over my life for a long time: the Number 1,000.

Many years ago, while watching a biography of the luminous Rod Serling, who wrote over 1,000 stories, short and long, and numerous scripts for both television and the big screen, that number lodged in my grey matter.  I had written some 200 short stories, novellas, and even a handful of novels by that time.  The impetus to reach 1,000 imprinted on my psyche, my soul, and for twenty-two years it became not only a goal, but a concluding point as well.  I believed that the millennium mark would punctuate the end of my journey, which I have so loved with all my heart.  It has been my reason for living.

On May 28, 1982, a humid and overcast Friday, I labored throughout that day's high school classes to complete my 100th work of fiction, a rousing Space:1999 novella called "Arrival to Palmeron."  Two stories earlier, I'd introduced a race of bellicose androids into my fan fiction continuation of the series. The Palmerons were based upon the many bullies and brutes who made my three and a half high school years miserable -- because they were artificial life forms, I could destroy them and bring them back, again and again (thanks to the Palmeron 'Personality Imprinter' construct), my own secret imaginary war against real world enemies.  I got in trouble for writing in Mr. Mills' chemistry class that afternoon.  I wrote on the bus.  I raced home and wrote, because my mother, bless her, was throwing a "Happy 100" party for me, complete with a guest list of my small but wonderful circle of friends. Diane Elaine Gauthier didn't have a lot of resources to draw upon, but she crafted an award certificate on a pilfered sheet of my typing paper, made the best cake in the history of cakes in celebration -- golden, with milk chocolate frosting, shredded coconut, and a cherry on top, the same cake I once mentioned was my favorite from boyhood birthdays growing up in the big woods of Windham, New Hampshire. And since this was a costume party, she had stitched together a mock-up of the uniform worn by Lorne Greene as Commander Adama on the original Battlestar Galactica, my second-favorite TV show.  To address the discrepancy of Adama's silver hair, she shook baby powder into my luxurious Lebanese Afro. Throughout that muggy May night, sweat poured, and liquefied baby powder ran out of my locks and down my costume.

(My Sweet 1,000 cake, in tribute to Number 100)

At the party, held in the basement of a house I haven't visited in a million light-years, I sat on the floor, careful not to drip onto the pages, and finished "Arrival to Palmeron" while records played on the record player, and my friends danced and ate and talked.  There was no alcohol involved, nothing illicit took place.  It was all very civilized when you consider it.  And incredibly fun. One for the history books, truly. It's part of my history that I am supremely proud of.

In February of 2000, during a horrible time in my life following my mother's death from the Big C, I reached what I assumed was the halfway point with another 1999 tale, a 300-page novel that again found the Alphans facing off against a new race of Palmerons on a vaster scale than ever before. Planetkill 6: Hands Across Space was the sixth installment of a monstrous eight-story series that tallied to nearly 1,500 pages by its conclusion.  All of my noteworthy numbers -- 1, 50, 100 -- had been 1999 fan fic stories, and so, too was 500.  My writer's group at the time commemorated the occasion with cake and an award plaque, which still hangs on the wall of my Writing Room, thirteen years hence.

In 2007, on the first of three weekend writer's retreats spent in the White Mountains with my group before resigning after sixteen years over the deplorable behavior of some new members, I penned my 700th, a 1999 novella called "Moon City".  Camped on a cozy sofa beneath my headphones with the show's emotionally-charged Year 2 soundtrack playing, tears flowed along with a continuous succession of fresh longhand pages.  The tears were misinterpreted for sadness by some of my fellow attendees, forcing me to put down my fountain pen long enough to clarify: I wasn't crying because I was sad -- I was supremely happy.  Writing is powerful stuff.

In 2010, during one of the most difficult years of my life, something as uplifting in contrast occurred: I penned 100 works of fiction -- six novellas, three novels, a short script, the rest a mix of flash and short stories.  Through a devastating medical diagnosis, loss of work, and a house foreclosure, I wrote nonstop. I sold numerous stories and all of the novels penned during that time.  Writing ultimately saved our small family, each of those contracts, the big and the tiny alike, coming in when needed most.  And in July of that year, I penned Number 800, my 1999 novella, "The World at the End of All".

After two productive years in a new rented home, the Number 1,000 loomed.  I have a lot of ideas. They're my babies.  I write a lot, and try to finish everything I start, those worthy of publication, and those I pen only for my own enjoyment.  In other words, the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.  At one point, I released the notion that the Number 1,000 was an ending point.  I didn't, however, let go of the desire to make my 1,000th a 1999 tale, as all the other Big Numbers were, despite having mostly written out the universe over the course of thirty-seven years.  Seated in my Writing Room with episodes of Space:1999 playing on my laptop, I asked myself if there was one story I had yet to write, one I wanted to in honor of that powerful equation.  And I soon had an answer.

(With my lovely lifelong pal, CathyAnn St. Jean-Lemieux January 27, 2013
at my Sweet 1,000 Party)

Toward the end of 1999's run, actress Alibe Parsons appeared in three episodes as the moon bases's communication's officer, "Alibe Kurand." Parsons, also featured in the early scene of Aliens where Sigourney Weaver's "Ripley" suffers the nightmare of an alien ripping through her stomach, delivered an impressive and layered performance in her sparse time on screen.  I would write Alibe's back-story, starting in her grandmother's home north of Boston, when she first dons her Moonbase Alpha regulation uniform, and is told she will do great things during what is believed will be a short tour of duty.  I wrote through the emotional devastation after Earth's moon breaks out of orbit, followed through by penning narrative to all of the character's individual scenes in her three episode appearances, and then placed Alibe, seemingly alone, in a no-win scenario against the Palmerons. The story swelled to novella length.  I shared the Palmeron pages of "Alibe's Story", some 3,000 words in all, to a packed house during my Sweet 1,000 party's reading portion, and life came full-circle. Decades in the making, one of the biggest blessings of January 27, 2013 was the surprise attendance of my wonderful friend CathyAnn, who was there way-back-when on that muggy May night in 1982 for my 100th.

And so, the Number 1,000 was made manifest, not with trumpets or special effects, but chocolate coconut cake and special friends, real and imaginary.  Members of my talented present writer's group arrived en masse. We ate from a magnificent buffet spread, we sipped sodas and iced coffees, laughed and read and celebrated this magical gift we all love so dearly.  And the next morning, I picked up my pen and started work on Number 1001.  Number 2000, here I come!

The Fabulous Jan Kozlowski Reads at the Spookiest Little Bookstore in New England

(Jan Kozlowski, photo courtesy of Books and Boos)

You couldn't meet a nicer or more engaging author than the brilliant Jan Kozlowski.  And you couldn't experience a cooler Indie bookstore than the little shop among the tall pines, Books and Boos. Creative force-of-nature recently teamed with one-of-a-kind literary venue and treated a lucky audience to an unforgettable afternoon where books were celebrated, and the chill factor skyrocketed!

"Jan is so wonderfully down to earth and able to make friends with anyone. We had a lot of people stop in for her reading simply because they like her so much," says Stacey Longo, one half of the husband-and-wife team behind Books and Boos, and a talented scribe I've had the pleasure of appearing in print with on numerous occassions, most recently in the outstanding Anthology: Year One. "The night before the reading, Jan contacted us, as she thought reading from her new novel Die,You Bastard! Die might be inappropriate the day after the Newtown shootings. She was able to find another piece to read instead, and we collected donations that day for Sandy Hook. It was nice to feel like we were able to do something for the victims' families and survivors in our own state. It was an awesome afternoon -- we had food on hand, and a group of us just hung out, visiting and laughing and telling tales."

Jan shared a selection from her appearance in Hungry For Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance (St. Martin's Press, edited by Lori Perkins).  "I was really conflicted about what to read. Die, You Bastard!  Die! is dripping in human evil almost from Page 1, so I opted to go with my story "First Love Never Dies" from Hungry For Your Love. Most of the people in the audience had never heard it, including my husband's granddaughter, so I think it ended up working out for the best...or at least the best we could do on such a sad, sad day. We did end up raising about $80 for the Newtown Parents Connection, though, and I think it helped all of us to be among friends."

The fabulous Ms. Kozlowski, who I first met at 2012's Camp NECon, has been writing for as long as she can remember.

"My first memory is being about three and writing my grandmother a 'prescription' because she wasn't feeling well. It's interesting that I ended up working in both the medical and writing fields; sometimes I guess we're just wired for certain vocations," she says.  "Growing up I scored my first paycheck writing articles about raising tropical fish for my local newspaper at about the age of eleven and edited a nationally distributed newsletter, also about tropical fish, throughout my early teens. The writing took a back seat when I got my first 'real' job at Friendly's at sixteen and, other than working at the college radio station and writing and editing the ambulance company newsletter, I didn't do much more writing until I met my husband and he encouraged me to get serious about writing professionally.  So I opened up my own freelance writing shop, with sidelines in editing and research, around 1997. My clients have included: Poisoned Pen Press, The Society of Children’s Books Writers and Illustrators, The Senior Network, ConnLife, Strong Books, AOL, Hips & Curves, and Remilon."

Jan's short fiction also appears in the Ravenous Romance anthology Fang Bangers: an Erotic Anthology of Fangs, Claws, Sex, and Love, NECon e-books' Best of 2011 Flash Fiction, and Weird Noir (Fox Spirit Books) among others.  A nonfiction exercise of hers is featured in the Tarcher/Penguin handbook Now Write! Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror.

(photo courtesy of Books and Boos)

"Reading at Books and Boos was outstanding! Jason and Stacey are wonderful hosts, and being members of New England Horror Writers, as well as writers themselves, they know how to make their authors and customers comfortable and happy. They provided not only a wonderful space, but a warm and inviting atmosphere, complete with a yummy spread of snacks and enough books and novelties to keep everyone interested."

Jason is author Jason Harris, Stacey's husband and co-creator of the Books and Boos experience.

"We were so lucky to find that spot. As soon as we saw the space, it felt right," says Jason who, in addition to his feature work for three Connecticut newspapers, also writes reviews for DVD Snapshot. "We spent a few weeks painting, doing trim work, setting up bookcases, and rearranging -- we still rearrange every week, trying to get it just right. In one room, we painted quotes from different writers around the top. We were hoping to do it in every room, but it wound up taking so long for me to do just one, now we're thinking about contacting the local high school to see if any of their art students want to finish that project up."

"For me, owning a bookstore always seemed like the ideal job," adds Stacey. "To be surrounded by the thing I'm most passionate about -- books -- sounded like heaven. It was the job I dreamed about while doing my regular day job. When we finally decided to get off our butts and pursue the dream, it was fortunate that we were so involved with the NEHW and the horror community. We knew we wanted to give shelf space to books that don't normally garner that kind of attention at places like Barnes & Noble. We were able to contact writers through the NEHW to let them know their book would have a home on our shelves, if they were interested. Being writers ourselves, we know how hard it is to get small press books into peoples' hands. We also got the word out to local artists that we had room for them, too. We now have paintings and professional photographs on our walls, etched bookmarks, hand-crafted cribbage boards, crocheted Cthulhus, hand-sewn blood stain pillows, and sculptures crafted from recycled flatware in the shop."

(photo courtesy of Books and Boos)

Books and Boos opened its doors on Tuesday, November 20, 2012, and in its short existence the shop at 514 Westchester Road in Colchester, Connecticut is already flexing its limbs.

"It seems like every day we need more shelves and bookcases," says Stacey. "We have a short-term plan to rearrange -- yet again -- to fit more books as needed. Of course, we'd love to get bigger, but that depends on how successful we are!"

"I would like to get authors of all genres into the store. If any author or speaker wants to do a reading, I welcome a call or email to talk about it," says Jason.  "I would like to have all kinds of presentations and talks. At the moment, I'm working on getting a person in who takes ghostly photographs, a woodcarving group, and a gentlemen who makes pens."

And, of course, an encore visit by the delightful Jan Koslowski is an event worthy of  marking up calendars!  Boos and Books can be contacted at: (860)861-6214.  

I Have a Secret

(In the Gertrude Stein Salon.  Photo Credit: Julie Foster Hedlund)

Actually, I have two.  But due to signed NDA agreements, at this point I'm unable to discuss the television series production team I've joined as a writer, or the national book award I'm judging.  I will, however, in due time.

Ever since I was a young boy lifting up the other telephone in my grandmother Lovey's house and listening in on adult conversations, I've had this thing for secrets. I write about them constantly -- family secrets, secrets that terrify, secrets that inspire.  In recent years, I've attempted to make my life that cliched 'open book' and often remark that if you're not interested, stop reading and move on to other peoples' stories. Still, I find it difficult to resist the attraction of secrets and mysteries.  More than twenty years after its broadcast on network TV and the big screen treatment that followed, I'm fascinated by, fixated on David Lynch's surreal glimpse through the curtains of a seemingly sane and simple American town called Twin Peaks.  There, the secrets were ominous, deadly.  And oh such fun.

So here's the latest news from my world regarding the things I can discuss.  In the past month, I was cursed with a crippling knot in my neck and one of those zombie colds popular at this time of the year. But the blessings far outweighed nagging ailments -- the world did not end on the Twenty-First of December (not that I thought it would), though after a fashion it transformed, as on that very afternoon, we learned that our offer on the new-old house we sought to buy was accepted.  A beautiful lady, we knew instantly that Xanadu was the home for us.  There, I plan to continue the prosperity I've enjoyed here in our present home, but in my new and, hopefully, final Writing Room.  One of my 2013 goals is to pen the writing manual that has haunted me for a few years now, If You Can't Eat It, You Don't Need It: A Starving Writer's Guide to Survival, a subject I'm something of an authority on.  My new home office is stunning, with wide antique pine floors reminiscent of the knotty pine walls of the enchanted cottage where I grew up.

(Welcome to Twin Peaks -- from my articles file)

In 2012, I traveled to three writing conferences, four writing retreats, and gave two readings -- one in New York City.  The total time I spent on the road enjoying these adventures tallied to almost three full months -- an entire season!  My most recent found me back at the wonderful When Words Count writer's retreat center, where it snowed daily and where I wrote some 10,000 words over the course of my four days, including the concluding pages of my novella "The Arsonist," a project I am most proud of.  While camped out in the luxurious Gertrude Stein Salon at WWC, I added up my 2012 word totals: 377,000 between fifty-two completed projects -- three novels, five novellas, the rest stories short and long.

While 2012 was a year of travel and adventure, I look forward to 2013 being one where I snuggle down in our cozy new-old home to write and complete even more of my stories, old and new alike, though the possibility of travel exists via the incredible promise contained within the TV series.  And the awards ceremony, held in New York City.  But again, I can't talk about those luminous and exciting facets in my writing career's orbit just yet -- they're still secrets.

Meet the Talented and Luminous James Ferace

Part bad boy, all bad ass, it was my pleasure recently to discover the words and passion of author James Ferace.  An exciting new voice in dark fiction and poetry, Ferace's work engages from the start, whether in short story format (Imago Mortis: The Stories of James Ferace) or verse (Somnambulism: The Poetry of James Ferace, containing eighty-eight original poems).  Blending elements of the Gothic, the Beatnik, the best of Poe and Kerouac alike, Ferace has created a compelling literary style uniquely his own -- and one not to be missed.

The Connecticut-based scribe invited me to his corner of old New England.  Join me for a glimpse into the wonderfully dark imagination of James Ferace.

Tell us about yourself, James.

Well, I've been writing since I was about twelve.  I'd always been plagued with horrible nightmares ever since I was a child and I used writing as a form of therapy.  However, it wasn't until many years later, at the urging of my friend, artist Steven Lapcevic, that I start putting my work out there more.  So around 2009 was when I released my first eBook, Eternamente.  I was very pleased with the response, so I continued releasing eBooks until 2011, which is when Imago Mortis was published in paperback.  I've also written for several magazines (under a pseudonym) and I was also profiled in the October 2010 issue of Pulse Magazine in the article "Inside the Dark Mind of Writer James Ferace."  Poetry had always been my first love when it came to writing, rather than fiction, so it was at the urging of my editor to put together a poetry collection, Somnambulism, which was released much later the same year as Imago.  It didn't have quite the impact, however, as poetry is a bit of a tough sell.

Take us into your home office/work space -- what is it like?
Believe it or not, my work space is usually just me sitting on my bed with my laptop.  Nothing fancy.  I usually dream up most of what I write, so it's appropriate, in my opinion, that I also turn it all into fiction while sitting in the same space where most of it comes to me.  My room is small, but I prefer it that way.  It's cozy and everything is practically within arm's reach.  I'm a big fan of film, so there are several posters adorning the walls, such as ones for David Lynch's Eraserhead, my favorite film, Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver, and David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch.  I also have art by Francis Bacon, etc., which inspires me.

What does a typical James Ferace writing session involve? Tell us about your creative process.
Usually, I just sit down with a cup of coffee or tea, take a deep breath, close my eyes for a minute or so, and let the ideas just flow.  Once in a while, I'll put on a film for inspiration -- usually a silent film so that I'm not too distracted.  On a rare occasion, I'll even go to a library and write in longhand in a notebook.  The silence coupled with being surrounded by the works of so many fantastic authors throughout history sometimes breeds creativity in me.  This isn't often, but I'll sometimes even keep my eyes closed as I'm writing.  It sounds strange, but that's when I feel I'm most in tune with my subconscious and I feel that aids in the whole process.

In Imago Mortis, your short story collection, you go to one of my least favorite and creepiest places on the planet: the cellar. Did your nightmares inspire you to write the stories in the collection?
Strangely enough, rather than coming from some deep-seated desire to create it, the collection came from so many people telling me they wanted to read my stuff on paper, rather than in eBook form.  It seemed like a daunting task at first, which it was, but I'm happy I did it now.  As much as I hope people appreciate my odd little creations on their own, I think there's some benefit to absorbing them all together, as well.  Reading it now, in retrospect, I would have removed certain stories and arranged things a little differently, so that the whole thing flowed better and turned out a tad more cohesive, but...I'm still proud of it as a first effort.  I was surprised at the response to it, honestly.  There were things contained within its covers I thought people would have me run out of town for writing, but then I spoke to many individuals who said those were their favorites!  I'm pleased, though.  I'm pleased that my material can affect people the way that it does.  As you mentioned, I tend to go to some pretty dark places and it's always an honor when someone's willing to go along for the ride.

What do you have in process?  New releases?
After Imago and Somnambulism, I returned to writing eBooks.  Somewhere along the way, though, came All the Ills of the Flesh, which was basically Imago and the poetry collection together, with some new material thrown in, but in a hardcover package.  Of the three items I have published in physical form, I'm most proud of that (and I owe a lot of that to my fantastic editor, Amy Wells).  But, right now, in addition to several new eBooks, I'm also working on a brand new softcover collection which is a sort of Imago Mortis, Vol. II, if you will.  I'm hoping to have that done by the new year.  I'm extremely pleased with the way it's turning out and I think it's going to be superior to its predecessor in every shape and form.  Reading through it, I also noticed that I feel I've grown a lot as a writer, something which also pleases me.

What was your EUREKA! moment -- when you knew you were a writer?
I always wrote.  I wasn't aware that I was 'a writer,' however.  I think that moment came when I finally exposed others to my work and saw their reactions to it.  Because anyone can put a bunch of words down on paper and that can mean to them whatever they want it to, but...when people started seeing this stuff and conveying that it actually moved them, disturbed them, sickened them, or made them cry, that's when I knew.  It was literally one of those 'I was born to do this' moments.  So I guess it wasn't really one particular instance, but several which slowly built up over time.

Presented for Your Approval, ANTHOLOGY: YEAR ONE

(photo credit: Henry Snider)

Over the summer, between writing retreats, conferences, and adventures, I submitted two short stories to editor Mark Wholley, who was reading for an anthology open only to writers who had attended the Freshman experience of November 2011's Anthocon.  The anthology, appropriately titled Anthology: Year One, would be launched at this year's multi-genre celebration.

A Saturday night, months later, I paused the Hollywood blockbuster playing on our flat-screen in the living room (Snow White and the Huntsman, I believe) to refresh sodas.  I moseyed into my Writing Room to find an acceptance on one of the two stories, my short and creepy tale, "The Guests."  I was beyond thrilled and struggled to get through the rest of the movie.  I wanted to be in this project.  And I was.

The idea for "The Guests" came to me on a humid June afternoon, a Wednesday, in one of those thunderclaps of inspiration where a story takes shape, fully formed.  I saw, quite clearly, a woman X'ing off days on a calendar in red ink as she and her husband prepared for the arrival of holiday guests.  Only it turned out that though the motions seemed normal, an element of wrongness quickly grew apparent, for these guests were not your average in-laws or siblings.  I sat down a few hours before due to depart for my writer's group's weekly meeting, put pen to paper, and dashed off the first draft in one sitting.  I then read it to my fellow scribes, who dug it.  So did the luminous Mister Wholley, as he chose it to appear in a stellar Table of Contents in the conference's official literary companion.

Many of my fellow authors shared the back stories behind their contributions to the amazing read that is Anthology: Year One.

Marianne Halbert on "When Betsy Whispers": "As part of my day job, I travel to our local prisons from time to time. One snowy day, I left early in case the roads were bad. I arrived early, with time to kill. They were in the process of opening a new museum. There was a wall of shanks, and a letter written by a fourteen-year-old Charles Manson when he'd been at the boys' school. But what drew my attention was the chair. Ancient, yet elegant, untouchable due to the glass that separated us, she sat. Some states refer to their electric chairs as 'Old Sparky'. For some reason, in Indiana, she's 'Old Betsy'. She whispered to me, and planted the idea for my story, 'When Betsy Whispers'."

Stacey Longo on "Cliffhanger": "'Cliffhanger' came about when I was stuck at an employment law seminar all day, listening to two lawyers drone on about Connecticut's paid sick leave law. I was thinking about how nice it would be to push one or both of them into the Grand Canyon. So, while my boss thought I was diligently taking notes, I outlined the story that would become 'Cliffhanger.' And yes, the married couple in the story is named after those two tedious lawyers!"

Timothy P. Flynn on "A Day at the Bookstore": "Back in 2007, I was in the process of ending a fifteen-year relationship with my wife (together for ten, married for five) because my alcoholism and depression were just out of control. I hit the rock bottom that many talk about but yet never seem to face. My life needed a change or I was going to die. I finally took the plunge into a detox center at Hampstead Hospital. All I knew up until that point was being drunk. I had always loved writing and books, but had no clue how to pursue it. So I became more depressed because I suppressed my passion for writing. I made one promise to myself once I go out and was sober: I would follow my passion and have a dream.

I tried a dating site to look for a possible relationship. My search focused on a woman who enjoyed Horror, books, and movies. Common interests were the most valuable commodity now as my soon to be ex-wife never read a damn book in her life. This is how I met Barbara. We talked online for a few weeks before finally meeting: our first in person date? At the Salem, New Hampshire Barnes and Noble, yes a bookstore! I don’t know about the rest of you, but after being with one woman for such a long time, the first time you meet a new love is very exciting. We talked about books, various authors, movies -- mostly Horror, her college choices, and life stuff. I had such a great time talking about things I cared about; with a coffee in my hand instead of a beer.

The funny story about the poem is that I have no written copy of it anywhere. A few days after meeting Barbara, I opened up my email, and proceeded to write this poem in the space. It was written in a fury, the images just shot from brain to hand, no editing. I hit send and waited to hear a response. A few hours later, she responded with nothing but admiration for what I created for her. I wrote it for her, solely for her and had no intention of anyone ever seeing the poem. I don’t even have the account anymore that I used to write that poem; hence the only copy of its existence was lost to cyber land.  Barbara was so moved by my writing of this poem that the next time I saw her; she presented me with a surprise. The gift was a beautiful framed copy of the poem. She printed it out, blew it up, designed some fancy fonts and border to it and gave it to me. It had to be the nicest thing anyone had done for me in a very long time. To this day, besides this poem being published in Anthology: Year One; the only existence this poem was even written at all resides on my desk in my office."

T. T. Zuma on "The Old Man": "'The Old Man' was inspired by Tom Piccirilli.  I had attempted a few times before to write a noir-influenced story and never had much luck at it.  Everything I wrote seemed to hinge on a cliché, or I wasn’t able to pull off that tough guy attitude in my main character that Tom is so damn good at. Then one day while driving to work, I came to the bridge located in the center of my hometown and I saw an old man fishing off it. My imagination kicked in and later that evening I started the first draft of 'The Old Man.'  Reading it the next day I thought it sucked.  The characters were stereotypes and the plot wasn’t very original.

Pic had told me once that when he wrote a story all he had in his head was maybe the first line or the first paragraph and once those were written, he would then let the story take over and see where it brought him.  I decided to try and do the same thing.  After using the same first paragraph, I rewrote the story letting my characters take me on their journey instead of the other way around.  I hadn’t the slightest idea that my private eye was really a mob enforcer on the run or that the antagonist wasn’t some tough-talking gorilla but a young, scared kid.  As a result of these changes came a new ending which not only took me totally by surprise, but I thought perfect.  When I had finished rewriting the story, it didn’t suck anymore.

Once finished and then vetted by my first readers I had another problem, who publishes noir short stories anymore?   I held onto it for over a year. When Anthology: Year One announced a call for submissions, I thought it the right anthology and I rushed to send it to the editor, Mark Wholley. Thankfully he accepted 'The Old Man' and I am proud that it found a home in this anthology."

K. Allen Wood on "She Cries": "The title 'She Cries' has been with me for a long time. Back in the early ‘90s, as a young teenager, I used it as the title to the following poem:

She came to me in the night.

Her body seemed to move, sinewy, with the mist,

swirling, gathering at my window.

She coursed through my mind, bristled close to my skin,

leaving sweet beads, hope-filled.

Then she was gone.

That night, awake, I spoke a dream aloud:

'There is reason we return from the bitter darkness.'

Ignoring the poetic merit presented above, which should be easy because I’m fairly confident there is none (I don’t even know what that poem is about anymore), that was the first time I used the title. Later, it became a song. More recent, I used it as the name of a music project. You can hear one of those songs, a cover of an old System of a Down demo. And most recent, it was the perfect title for a short story I’d written, so I used it yet again.

Those two words together --'she cries'-- have always resonated with me, for one reason or another. Specific to the short story, however, which now appears in Anthology: Year One, a fine collection of tales from authors who attended the very first Anthology conference in 2011, the idea came to me after a friend broke down one night while drinking. 'I just want you to hold me,' she’d said in part that night. 'I want to feel safe.' The words haunted me for a long time, because she’d peeled back the layers and had given me a glimpse of the dark things that pulled her strings. But she didn’t want to cut those strings; she just wanted to use me. 'She Cries' doesn’t touch upon that moment specifically, but it does explore her psyche a bit, in that it features a haunted woman who isn’t strong enough to let go of the darkness that controls her; and because of that, those unfortunate enough to truly care about her or try to help often find themselves heartbroken -- or worse. The metaphor probably isn’t as clear for the reader because I know the history of and the catalyst for the story, but I’m confident that knowledge isn’t necessary for one’s enjoyment of the tale."

Peter N. Dudar on "The Strange Medicines of Dr. Ling": "My grandfather was the general manager of the Washington County Fairgrounds in upstate New York for many years, and during those hot summer days when the carnival rolled into town my brother and I were allowed to spend the week in his trailer, right inside the fair.  A great portion of my childhood was spent soaking in carnival life -- riding the rides, playing along the midway, breathing in the myths and mysteries of the fair.  There's two faces to a carnival: the fun, vibrant, excitement of a bigger world suddenly appearing in your small town; and the cold, terrible reality of people and animals being exploited to make a quick buck.  You never needed to pay a ticket for the freak show.  You only needed to see those old-time carnies, the ones missing a hand or a leg from some carnival tragedy, to feel that same level of discomfort.

I wanted to write a story that captured these feelings from when I was a kid, the way Bradbury had with Something Wicked This Way Comes, or F. Paul Wilson had with his wonderful anthology Freak Show.  Only, as an adult, I wanted to capture a portion of something almost everyone could empathize with.  In this case, what would you be willing to trade off to be rid of something you could no longer tolerate living with...say, a bad headache?  With a little creative magic, I devised an old-fashion spirit wagon, operated by the strange and sinister Dr. Ling.  And once the bad doctor appeared, the story pretty much told itself.  Even now, long after the story was written, I can almost hear the sound of his flute playing in my head and it takes me right back to my own childhood."

Jennifer Allis Provost on "Stir the Bones": "My story was inspired by several real life events. On June 1, 2011, Western Massachusetts was hit by a tornado; luckily, my home wasn't damaged. But it got me thinking about what it would be like to be trapped in my basement, just me and my husband and the dog...

The supernatural events mentioned are all true, to a point. The woman we'd bought the house from did have eight different men living with her over the course of ten years, and she did raise the basement floor by two feet with concrete. The scissors really did fly across the kitchen to open a bag of pet food, though it was cat food, not dog. And, the kitchen cabinets really did take a flying leap off the walls.

Of course, everything mentioned didn't happen; we weren't trapped in the basement, for one. In reality, if we were trapped I wouldn't just be with my husband and dog, but twin toddlers, two cats, and a parrot as well. If everyone had made an appearance, this short story might well have become a novella. Also, other than my overactive imagination, there is no evidence of bodies under the basement floor. Then again, how would I detect them underneath all that concrete?"

John Grover on "Bog King": "I have to credit the inspiration to my story to my partner. He is a geographer and historian and in his day job he edits world history textbooks.  He sent me an article on the bog kings of the Celtic tribes. Back in those days when the tribe decided the king’s reign was up they would ritually murder him and put his body in the local bog to insure the return of spring after the winter and to be the guide of the moon goddess since the king represented the sun on earth.

The article detailed how archeologists or scientists had exhumed the bodies of Celtic kings from the bog and had discovered the bog had preserved the bodies so well they were able to tell what their last meal was, what oils they’d had in their hair, how old they were, how they were killed and many other things. After reading this, of course, my writer’s imagination took off and I instantly began thinking of 'what if' scenarios and the story was born. I imagined a young king figuring out what his fate was about to be and getting the jump on his own blood-thirsty tribe, but the tale did not end there. I crafted a tale where the king flees into the very bog that was to be his final resting place and the tribe that will not rest until he gives the ultimate sacrifice for them -- his life. They will go to unthinkable lengths to make sure spring returns the following year."

Roxanne Dent on "The Legacy": "I was thrilled to learn my short story about greed and murder with a twist in Victorian times sold to Anthology: Year One.   Knowing my story was accepted into their first print anthology was exciting.  I got to read a section of it at the November conference, which was wonderful with fabulous speakers, the Goth singer Voltaire, and numerous panels and talks.  This year I kept winning books in a raffle and [my sister] Karen won a fabulous painting.  I love Anthocon and the people behind the conference and the book, which I’m sure, will be the first of many."

Scott Christian Carr on "The Jesus Bomb": "I didn’t want to kill Jesus again. I’d already done this once (God forgive me) in Hiram Grange and the Twelve Little Hitlers -- murdered the manic, pizza-munching, razor-clawed conspiracy theorist Ypsilanti Christ (who was hanging out and blogging with Little Hitler #8, until Mr. Grange put a quick and bloody end to them both).

           

I didn’t want to kill Jesus… again. But even after 12 Lil’ Hitlers had gone to print, I couldn’t shake the idea of another skewed Christ -- couldn’t get Him out of my mind: Googly-eyed, staggering and swaying, all Hippied-out in Birkenstocks and bathrobe, lobotomized and brainwashed, wearing a T-shirt bearing the immortal scripture, I’m With Stupid (complete with an arrow pointing up to the Heavens).  Oh, and a nuclear bomb strapped to His chest.

A character too good to throw away, and too insanely sacrilegious to use almost anywhere else -- it is a true testament to the strength of the series, that Hiram Grange’s universe was the best (if not the only) place that this tragically flawed miracle-bungler could find a home. And so, diving back into Mr. Grange’s world, it not only made sense, but seemed somehow apropos, that there was room enough (God forgive me, again) for more than a few Christ killings.

And just like that, the short story, The Jesus Bomb was birthed.

For any who are interested, I am currently at work on my third Hiram Grange novel (the second, Hiram Grange and The Twelve Steps will hopefully be out in 2013): Hiram Grange and the Twelve Apostles. God forgive me (can I get an Amen?), but as of this writing, I have no plans to murder Christ a third time…"

Andrew Wolter on "The Green Hour": "I've always been intrigued by the stories surrounding the consumption of absinthe. Was there truly a 'green fairy' and did those who partake of the jade-colored liquor hallucinate as if on some bad acid trip? Were such claims mere drunken ramblings or the subject of old wives tales? A year before 'The Green Hour' was published, I attended the very first AnthoCon convention in which Ted Breaux (a renowned expert on the subject) offered a workshop on the preparation and history of absinthe. Immediately after attending Breaux’s informative class, I was instantly inspired to write an absinthe-related tale and already had the title in mind. While I wanted to incorporate the history revolving the liquor, I longed to explore a modernized myth as well. What really occurred in those moments when this mysterious alcohol impaired all judgment? As my goal in writing this tale was for readers to truly experience my main character’s absinthe-induced state, the entire content of 'The Green Hour' was written during several sessions in which I was heavily under the influence of absinthe." 

Kevin Lucia on "Lament at Sundown": "'Lament at Sundown' began, ironically enough, with a good-natured, running gag in one of my high school classes. Several of my honors students had this running joke with one of their mates -- a student of an Arabic/Middle-Eastern background (but fully, whole-heartedly American) -- that she was Native American. This led to random references to hunting buffalo, scalping, pow-wows, and fire-water, whenever the time seemed right: in the middle of conversations, tests, class discussion...pretty much whenever. It became our class's version of the time-honored 'That's what she said' joke.

Now, I know what you're thinking -- how could I allow such cultural insensitivity in the classroom? But, I knew these students well -- had known this one student's family for over ten years -- and it was clear that everything was offered in good fun (and I checked with said student, several times). Sure enough, for Halloween, the student in question came into class dressed in full-tilt Native American garb -- headdress and tomahawk and all -- and proceeded to 'scalp' several of her fellow students for their insolence. 

This, ironically enough, on a slow day, led to a discussion about my writing process. They asked how I came up with new stories, and I told them I tried to draw as much inspiration from life as possible. I then referenced their running gag and said: 'Here's the thing: you guys have all been really kind and laid-back about this, it's obviously a joke between old friends. But what if it WASN'T? What if there was meanness and violence behind it, and what if...what if...the victim, a female, decided she wasn't going to take it anymore? Was going to take matters into her own hands?' And thus, this story -- in its earliest form -- was conceived with the help of these ten students. This story deals with other things, also. The helplessness I sometimes feel as a teacher, in trying to touch students' lives...and failing, so often. Also, it's a hard look at how fear and prejudice and even racism start as very small, innocuous seeds, sprout, grow into something dark and deadly...often claiming those most innocent."

Tracy L. Carbone on "The Imaginary Solution": "I wrote 'The Imaginary Solution' several years ago to purge some bad feelings about a painful childhood similar to the one the main character experienced. There were embellishments of course and exagerrations, but the Bialows were real. Their elderly poodles, the constant scent of cleaning solution in the house, and 'The Doctor' always in the other room coughing. As a child, this couple disturbed me. They were the oldest people I had ever seen, so aged that I wondered how they could be alive. The smell of Pine Sol and Mrs. Bialow's hands have stuck with me, just waiting for a spot in the story. 

Until the call for submissions for Anthology was announced, I'd never tried to send this story anywhere, unwilling to expose myself or my life, even if it was cloaked in fantasy. But this seemed the perfect venue for it so I decided to send it along. I am glad it found a home."

David Bernard on "Appledore": "As any Yankee already knows, Appledore is the name of one of the Isles of Shoals off the coast of New Hampshire and Maine (although Appledore's neighboring island, Smuttynose, is more fun to say). Of all of the ghost stories along the New England coast, and there is no shortage of them, the one tale that always intrigued me was the ghost of Blackbeard’s bride who walks Appledore, guarding hidden pirate treasure. The deceased Mrs. Blackbeard’s story has not grown over the decades like other stories where details become attached to the story with later retellings. I remedied to fix that oversight.

Here’s a confession, I like writing fiction, but not nearly as much as I enjoy my nonfiction projects. I like researching odd topics and my fiction writing tends to rely on real names, dates and places to guide the story. With that in mind, 'Appledore' relies on historical details from Haverhill, Newburyport and the Isles of Shoals to move the story along, much in the same way local poet and folklorist John Greenleaf Whittier used Hampstead folk figures like Goody Cole to tell his tales. This is not to say I’m in the same league as Whittier, even if I look just as spiffy in a beard as he does."

Trevor Schubert on his internal artwork: "For the image 'Seaweed Inferno" -- this whole thing started (like more than a few images do) drawing with my children. In particular, I remember it was Spaceman/aka astronauts with my six-year-old daughter. I’ve always been fascinated with the similarities between the ocean and space, so much is constantly changing, moving and evolving, so much undiscovered. It might be initially considered a dark or morbid scene, however my intent was to consider the fact that the unfortunate explorer in this scene now has an eternity to watch his surroundings play out. The 'evolution' of space to sea in this drawing was an easy one; convincing my daughter this was acceptable however, that was a different story 

Regarding 'Evil Pumpkin' -- as a child of the 80's, growing up with every possible ghoulish and monstrous movie you could imagine, not that super-duper digital stuff,  the classics born from latex, paint, and maybe a little silicone, however I’m quite sure it was mixed up in a bowl, not a valley. This might sound a little hypocritical of me considering I have in fact been a digital artist for the past decade, however the majority of my images start from a old fashioned paper and pen and are occasionally pulled from a deep-seeded foundation of 'jump out and scare you' horror creatures, thanks to a trusty VCR with a remote that was most likely only an optional feature on our family’s model. Or lost years ago. I just remember that when one of those monsters popped up you had two options: either get up and run out of the room, or shut your eyes and hope for the best, because we all know that physically walking towards the thing to shut it off was never going to happen. I became a pretty good sprinter, my imagination's just gotten better at chasing me."