Claudia Chastain's Blog
December 31, 2016
Happy (scary) New Year!
Though I can think of few things more frightening than the year of 2016 itself, my resolution for 2017 is to do just that. This story is loosely based on a tale an old friend told me years ago. It rolled around in my head for decades until I decided to put my own flourish on it. Here's to 2017; may it be scarier than 2016, but only in the good ways.
- The Wild Thing -
Ken scuttled down the hallway like a wounded crab, clutching at the crotch of his tighty whiteys in a desperate bid to avert disaster. It was their first night in the new house. Sheer exhaustion from moving furniture all day, coupled with a few well-earned beers at supper had launched the patron of the family into a sleep so deep that he almost hadn’t emerged from it in time to save himself from an incident which he would never have lived down.
No time to flip the lights, or even the toilet seat. Ken barely got the waistband of his drawers clear of the violent stream of urine that erupted from him. He threw his head back in ecstasy and blew a squeaky moan of relief toward the heavens. Though his eyes were half-closed in the afterglow of the glorious release, he caught movement in his peripheral vision. He jerked involuntarily toward it, splattering the last remnants of pee across the toilet seat and tile floor. Cursing inwardly, because he already knew what the movement was, he stuffed his damp penis into his underwear and turned to see the outline of his son, Cooper, bathed in shadow at the far end of the hallway.
“Hey buddy,” he stage whispered, hoping not to wake Holly. It had taken he and his wife more than an hour to convince Cooper that there was nothing to be scared of in the new house, and another two before the boy’s pitiful cries for glasses of water and stories and one last tucking in had finally ceased. Yet there he stood again, like the Michael Myers of bedtime, ever returning to murder his parent’s sleep. Michael Myers in tighty whiteys just like is own, no less. Ken noticed with annoyance that Cooper had also stripped out of the pajamas he’d cried for, even though it had taken Holly a half an hour to locate and unpack them.
Little shit.
He immediately felt a pang of shame with this thought. It was completely understandable for a seven-year-old boy to have anxiety about moving into a new house, and sleeping in a different bedroom for the first time. Even after Cooper was born, Ken and Holly had remained in their tiny apartment far after the family had outgrown it, pinching pennies to save up for their dream home. Everything they’d squirreled away had been sunk into this house, and Ken hoped they’d never have to move again. This was it. Casa de Forever. The end. The next move would be to a nursing home or to the grave. Cooper would get used to it. He had to. Resigning himself to spending the rest of the night smashed into a twin bed with a pair of frozen feet lodged into his kidneys, Ken started toward his son.
Cooper slowly raised his pale, naked arms above his head and hooked his fingers into claws. His obscured features twisted into the silhouette of a snarl. He bent his right knee and raised it high, until it almost touched his skinny chest. Then he took a long, exaggerated step toward his father.
Ken stopped, irrational terror rooting him in place. It’s Max, he thought abruptly. From “Where The Wild Things Are”. Holly read that book to Cooper at least four times tonight. That’s why he wanted those footed wolf pajamas so badly. He wanted to pretend he was Max.
That was it. Had Cooper still been wearing the pajamas, Ken would’ve seen it right away. Cooper was sleepwalking, maybe dreaming that he was Max and that his unfamiliar new bedroom had been transformed into an exotic jungle of which he had just been crowned King of the Wild Things.
Cooper lowered his head and growled softly, like a dog readying to bite. He raised his left leg and waved his hooked claws in the air above him, comically threatening. Then he took another giant step toward Ken. Suddenly the threat wasn’t so comical. How a scrawny kid play-acting in his underwear was scaring him, Ken couldn’t understand. But it was.
Cooper thrust his talons high and leaned forward, raising his right knee until it seemed to touch his cheek. Then he stretched his leg out very slowly, and took another impossibly long step forward.
Stalking. He’s stalking me.
“Coop?” Ken wheezed. Vaguely, he felt a drop of urine streak down his thigh and pool at his heel.
Cooper’s mouth spread into a wide, feral grin. His face was no more than a wisp of black smoke marred by two shining white orbs and a glittering half-moon. He raised his left knee shoulder-high, preparing to bring it down like the axe of an executioner.
“Cooper, wake up!” Ken yelled, no longer caring if he woke Holly.
Cooper hissed, a slobbering, canine sound, and darted into his bedroom.
Ken dashed into the room after his son, terrified that…what? He didn’t know exactly, just that he needed to see his son safe and sound in his bed, even if it meant that Ken himself would have to spend the night wadded up uncomfortably there too.
And he saw just that. Cooper lay in his bed, snoring peacefully, a strip of drool drying on the zippered collar of his footed wolf pajamas.
- The Wild Thing -
Ken scuttled down the hallway like a wounded crab, clutching at the crotch of his tighty whiteys in a desperate bid to avert disaster. It was their first night in the new house. Sheer exhaustion from moving furniture all day, coupled with a few well-earned beers at supper had launched the patron of the family into a sleep so deep that he almost hadn’t emerged from it in time to save himself from an incident which he would never have lived down.
No time to flip the lights, or even the toilet seat. Ken barely got the waistband of his drawers clear of the violent stream of urine that erupted from him. He threw his head back in ecstasy and blew a squeaky moan of relief toward the heavens. Though his eyes were half-closed in the afterglow of the glorious release, he caught movement in his peripheral vision. He jerked involuntarily toward it, splattering the last remnants of pee across the toilet seat and tile floor. Cursing inwardly, because he already knew what the movement was, he stuffed his damp penis into his underwear and turned to see the outline of his son, Cooper, bathed in shadow at the far end of the hallway.
“Hey buddy,” he stage whispered, hoping not to wake Holly. It had taken he and his wife more than an hour to convince Cooper that there was nothing to be scared of in the new house, and another two before the boy’s pitiful cries for glasses of water and stories and one last tucking in had finally ceased. Yet there he stood again, like the Michael Myers of bedtime, ever returning to murder his parent’s sleep. Michael Myers in tighty whiteys just like is own, no less. Ken noticed with annoyance that Cooper had also stripped out of the pajamas he’d cried for, even though it had taken Holly a half an hour to locate and unpack them.
Little shit.
He immediately felt a pang of shame with this thought. It was completely understandable for a seven-year-old boy to have anxiety about moving into a new house, and sleeping in a different bedroom for the first time. Even after Cooper was born, Ken and Holly had remained in their tiny apartment far after the family had outgrown it, pinching pennies to save up for their dream home. Everything they’d squirreled away had been sunk into this house, and Ken hoped they’d never have to move again. This was it. Casa de Forever. The end. The next move would be to a nursing home or to the grave. Cooper would get used to it. He had to. Resigning himself to spending the rest of the night smashed into a twin bed with a pair of frozen feet lodged into his kidneys, Ken started toward his son.
Cooper slowly raised his pale, naked arms above his head and hooked his fingers into claws. His obscured features twisted into the silhouette of a snarl. He bent his right knee and raised it high, until it almost touched his skinny chest. Then he took a long, exaggerated step toward his father.
Ken stopped, irrational terror rooting him in place. It’s Max, he thought abruptly. From “Where The Wild Things Are”. Holly read that book to Cooper at least four times tonight. That’s why he wanted those footed wolf pajamas so badly. He wanted to pretend he was Max.
That was it. Had Cooper still been wearing the pajamas, Ken would’ve seen it right away. Cooper was sleepwalking, maybe dreaming that he was Max and that his unfamiliar new bedroom had been transformed into an exotic jungle of which he had just been crowned King of the Wild Things.
Cooper lowered his head and growled softly, like a dog readying to bite. He raised his left leg and waved his hooked claws in the air above him, comically threatening. Then he took another giant step toward Ken. Suddenly the threat wasn’t so comical. How a scrawny kid play-acting in his underwear was scaring him, Ken couldn’t understand. But it was.
Cooper thrust his talons high and leaned forward, raising his right knee until it seemed to touch his cheek. Then he stretched his leg out very slowly, and took another impossibly long step forward.
Stalking. He’s stalking me.
“Coop?” Ken wheezed. Vaguely, he felt a drop of urine streak down his thigh and pool at his heel.
Cooper’s mouth spread into a wide, feral grin. His face was no more than a wisp of black smoke marred by two shining white orbs and a glittering half-moon. He raised his left knee shoulder-high, preparing to bring it down like the axe of an executioner.
“Cooper, wake up!” Ken yelled, no longer caring if he woke Holly.
Cooper hissed, a slobbering, canine sound, and darted into his bedroom.
Ken dashed into the room after his son, terrified that…what? He didn’t know exactly, just that he needed to see his son safe and sound in his bed, even if it meant that Ken himself would have to spend the night wadded up uncomfortably there too.
And he saw just that. Cooper lay in his bed, snoring peacefully, a strip of drool drying on the zippered collar of his footed wolf pajamas.
November 16, 2016
Free Stuff! (spoiler: it's my book)
Download "Ancient Affliction" for FREE on Kindle, November 16-17! Sink your fangs into the first book of the Origin of the Undead series for the rock-bottom price of your soul! :)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01JXZVBT6
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01JXZVBT6
November 13, 2016
Free Book Promo
To anyone who has my book on their to-read shelf, I'm going to run a free promo on Wednesday, November 16 and Thursday, November 17. Download and enjoy!
https://www.amazon.com/Ancient-Afflic...
https://www.amazon.com/Ancient-Afflic...
November 8, 2016
Election Day, holy God!!!
(Just a little fun to brighten this terrifying election day!)
Election Day Apocalypse
Archon and Anzu sat shoulder to shoulder, anxiously anticipating each nugget of new information that flashed on the television monitors before them.
"It doesn't matter," Anzu muttered for the hundredth time today, the millionth since the whole thing had started. "Either way it goes, we both win."
The young girl who was flicking a thin paintbrush across Anzu’s mouth halted. "Please be still," she said meekly. "Or I will have to redo your lips."
"Gah," Archon growled. The man who had been applying Archon's spray tan stopped abruptly, just in time to keep the orange chemical mist from spurting across his bared teeth. "I don't care who wins, so long as I never have to wear this damnable makeup again. Honestly, I don't know how women stand to do this every day."
Anzu laughed, causing her carefully applied lip paint to crack. "Clearly, there's a lot you don't know about females."
Archon grinned, feeling the thick makeup covering his face ripple dangerously as well. "If it doesn't matter who wins, why did you pull that little gem out of your ass at the last second? Sexual harassment? How cliché."
"Just trying to keep it interesting.”
“Bullshit,” Archon spat, eyes narrowing. “You want to beat me!”
“No one is beating anyone. We’re on the same team. Why do you keep forgetting that?” Anzu said. “Besides, if there was no drama, if neither of us were putting up a fight, the people might catch on to our plan.”
Archon's grin faded. His face grew stony and serious. "Our plan," he echoed. "Are you absolutely certain it will work?"
Anzu frowned. The makeup artist started to protest the abrupt movement, but Anzu waved the girl off. "You two, leave us."
"Ma’m CNN is requesting -,"
Anzu sprang at the girl with the speed of a striking cobra. Eyes like smoldering coals glared from sockets that had suddenly gone gray with corruption, despite the heavy flesh-colored makeup that had been applied around them. The girl squealed and bolted from the room, the spray tan guy hot on her heels. Anzu slowly settled back into the chair. She took a few deep breaths, and the gray rot under her pale skin began to recede. When she had control again, she turned to Archon.
"Auditor Thalia has assured me that there are no loopholes."
"That's what the last auditor said."
Anzu cocked her head to the side. "Do you think that after the example we made of him, an Auditor would dare make the same mistake again?"
The image of Auditor Belizum's stinking, smoking carcass, weighted down in silver chains at the bottom of his coffin flashed through Archon's mind. "Perhaps we should take Auditor Thalia on a field trip to Belizum's quarters, just to make sure?" he mused.
"It's already been done," Anzu snapped. "She's clear on the consequences of failure, but there will be no hiccups this time. Not now that we know that an invitation to my blood slave will not transfer to me."
"Are we certain that an invitation to you, or to I, will extend to those whom we have made as well?"
Anzu sighed. “According to the rubrics of the Covenant, The White House is an extension of all of the homes in America. Just as all of those I have turned are an extension of me. Including you.”
“And vice versa.”
“Of course. So when one of us takes the White House, it will grant all of us an open invitation to every home in America. Voila! Blood shortage solved.”
“Stupid archaic vampire laws. The whole system needs an overhaul.”
“It is a law of nature, not of man. You should be pissed at ADT and their cheap security systems.”
“Cheap, but effective enough to keep us out.”
“I’ve got a guy at ADT who’s working on it,” Anzu snapped.
Archon shifted restlessly in his seat. “Another one of your guys on the inside, huh? We’ve seen how that worked out.”
Anzu fought to control her remounting anger. "The requirement of an invitation into one's home is exclusive to the vampire. We should have known that an invitation to a normal human, blood slave or no, wouldn’t work. The assumption was a failure on all of our parts, not just mine.”
"Hmm, yes. But at that time your blood slave was our best chance to get into office. No way you'd have been elected at that point." Archon said, ignoring the scowl Anzu threw his way. “William was a fabulous orator. The people loved him.”
“I get it, I get it. The loved him, they hate me,” Anzu groaned.
“They hate me too,” Archon said.
“They hate you more,” Anzu said.
“Which is why you’ll win.”
“Or you will. As I said, either way, we both win.”
“The vampires win.”
“And humanity loses,” Anzu said with a wry smile.
Archon shook his head and chuckled.
"Politics.”
Election Day Apocalypse
Archon and Anzu sat shoulder to shoulder, anxiously anticipating each nugget of new information that flashed on the television monitors before them.
"It doesn't matter," Anzu muttered for the hundredth time today, the millionth since the whole thing had started. "Either way it goes, we both win."
The young girl who was flicking a thin paintbrush across Anzu’s mouth halted. "Please be still," she said meekly. "Or I will have to redo your lips."
"Gah," Archon growled. The man who had been applying Archon's spray tan stopped abruptly, just in time to keep the orange chemical mist from spurting across his bared teeth. "I don't care who wins, so long as I never have to wear this damnable makeup again. Honestly, I don't know how women stand to do this every day."
Anzu laughed, causing her carefully applied lip paint to crack. "Clearly, there's a lot you don't know about females."
Archon grinned, feeling the thick makeup covering his face ripple dangerously as well. "If it doesn't matter who wins, why did you pull that little gem out of your ass at the last second? Sexual harassment? How cliché."
"Just trying to keep it interesting.”
“Bullshit,” Archon spat, eyes narrowing. “You want to beat me!”
“No one is beating anyone. We’re on the same team. Why do you keep forgetting that?” Anzu said. “Besides, if there was no drama, if neither of us were putting up a fight, the people might catch on to our plan.”
Archon's grin faded. His face grew stony and serious. "Our plan," he echoed. "Are you absolutely certain it will work?"
Anzu frowned. The makeup artist started to protest the abrupt movement, but Anzu waved the girl off. "You two, leave us."
"Ma’m CNN is requesting -,"
Anzu sprang at the girl with the speed of a striking cobra. Eyes like smoldering coals glared from sockets that had suddenly gone gray with corruption, despite the heavy flesh-colored makeup that had been applied around them. The girl squealed and bolted from the room, the spray tan guy hot on her heels. Anzu slowly settled back into the chair. She took a few deep breaths, and the gray rot under her pale skin began to recede. When she had control again, she turned to Archon.
"Auditor Thalia has assured me that there are no loopholes."
"That's what the last auditor said."
Anzu cocked her head to the side. "Do you think that after the example we made of him, an Auditor would dare make the same mistake again?"
The image of Auditor Belizum's stinking, smoking carcass, weighted down in silver chains at the bottom of his coffin flashed through Archon's mind. "Perhaps we should take Auditor Thalia on a field trip to Belizum's quarters, just to make sure?" he mused.
"It's already been done," Anzu snapped. "She's clear on the consequences of failure, but there will be no hiccups this time. Not now that we know that an invitation to my blood slave will not transfer to me."
"Are we certain that an invitation to you, or to I, will extend to those whom we have made as well?"
Anzu sighed. “According to the rubrics of the Covenant, The White House is an extension of all of the homes in America. Just as all of those I have turned are an extension of me. Including you.”
“And vice versa.”
“Of course. So when one of us takes the White House, it will grant all of us an open invitation to every home in America. Voila! Blood shortage solved.”
“Stupid archaic vampire laws. The whole system needs an overhaul.”
“It is a law of nature, not of man. You should be pissed at ADT and their cheap security systems.”
“Cheap, but effective enough to keep us out.”
“I’ve got a guy at ADT who’s working on it,” Anzu snapped.
Archon shifted restlessly in his seat. “Another one of your guys on the inside, huh? We’ve seen how that worked out.”
Anzu fought to control her remounting anger. "The requirement of an invitation into one's home is exclusive to the vampire. We should have known that an invitation to a normal human, blood slave or no, wouldn’t work. The assumption was a failure on all of our parts, not just mine.”
"Hmm, yes. But at that time your blood slave was our best chance to get into office. No way you'd have been elected at that point." Archon said, ignoring the scowl Anzu threw his way. “William was a fabulous orator. The people loved him.”
“I get it, I get it. The loved him, they hate me,” Anzu groaned.
“They hate me too,” Archon said.
“They hate you more,” Anzu said.
“Which is why you’ll win.”
“Or you will. As I said, either way, we both win.”
“The vampires win.”
“And humanity loses,” Anzu said with a wry smile.
Archon shook his head and chuckled.
"Politics.”
November 2, 2016
Book Review: A Subtle Agency, by Graeme Rodaughan
A Subtle Agency by Graeme RodaughanMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Wow, what a wild ride!
After Anton Slayne is forced to watch an unspeakable execution, he manages to escape and is forced into hiding in order to thwart those who seek to use him for their own means. In exile, he meets Gang Wu and his daughter Li, who prepare him to battle inhumanely powerful enemies. The mystery is, why is everyone after Slayne anyway?
If you like action, the fight scenes in this book are flawlessly choreographed and so beautifully detailed that I’m having trouble getting them out of my head. Especially one near the end of the book (no spoilers) with the deliciously evil General Chloe Armitage. The detail was so vivid, it was like watching a movie in my head. This story definitely left me wanting more. Who or what is Anton Slayne? Will the Red Empire accomplish their mission? Will Chloe Armitage accomplish hers? (Whatever that shady hag’s endgame is, I hope she fails epically!)
With authentic characters and non-stop action, it’s easy to get swept into this story. Be prepared to settle in with this one. Highly anticipating the next installment in this series.
View all my reviews
September 2, 2016
Friday Fun: Three Wolf Moon T-shirt reviews Review:
This is not a book, but it's a body of work (an anthology, if you will) that's given me hours of giddy reading pleasure. This collection of over 3,000 reviews of the Three Wolf Moon T-shirt (which happens to be the official uniform of my people) left me breathless with laughter and on the verge of exile because I wouldn't stop reading it aloud in public. I'm sincerely saddened that I stumbled upon it too late to meaningfully contribute. Reviews are still being posted to this day, though they lack the hilarity of the originals, which you'll find under Top Rated.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/reviews/...
https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/reviews/...
August 30, 2016
Does Science Kill The Magic?
Picture, if you will, the Lady Igraine kneeling naked before a stone hearth. She dabs her forehead with a fragrant mixture of herbs and oils, whispers the arcane words and stares into the flames. The image of Uther Pendragon appears, hunched over a leather war map. Suddenly, his head snaps up, eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare as he sees the disembodied vision of his Lady. Igraine has risked her life to send her soul out of her body and across the vast expanse of distance and time to warn her love of Gorlois' impending ambush.
Now picture this:
Lady Igraine kneeling before the stone hearth, typing furiously on her iPhone.
Igraine: Uther, GTFO!!!
Uther: New phone, who dis?
Igraine: (.)(.)
Uther: Send nudes.
Igraine: Srsly?
Uther: ...
Igraine: Just GTFO. Gorlois is coming to kick your ass.
Uther: LOLZ. K, thx
Igraine: smdh
In “Excalibur”, Lady Igraine risks forbidden magic to save her lover. Today that’s called Skype. Basically the same thing, right?!?
I'm writing a series of books that gives a medical (albeit fictional) explanation for a disease that has given rise to the myth of vampires (and eventually, zombies, ghouls and who knows what else). My question is, does a logical, scientific answer to an age-old legend kill the romanticism of it? That mysticism that is so alluring to readers? In my mind, it makes the idea more plausible, and therefore more attainable, if transforming into a slavering bacon monster is your thing (cause it sure is mine). But is the vampire’s bite more alluring than, say, the mosquito’s, if it accomplishes the same thing (eternal bacon monster status)?
I have to admit, Merlin’s crones gathered around a cauldron and spying on his enemies has more appeal than the lot of them stalking Instagram and Facebook to gather info.
Now picture this:
Lady Igraine kneeling before the stone hearth, typing furiously on her iPhone.
Igraine: Uther, GTFO!!!
Uther: New phone, who dis?
Igraine: (.)(.)
Uther: Send nudes.
Igraine: Srsly?
Uther: ...
Igraine: Just GTFO. Gorlois is coming to kick your ass.
Uther: LOLZ. K, thx
Igraine: smdh
In “Excalibur”, Lady Igraine risks forbidden magic to save her lover. Today that’s called Skype. Basically the same thing, right?!?
I'm writing a series of books that gives a medical (albeit fictional) explanation for a disease that has given rise to the myth of vampires (and eventually, zombies, ghouls and who knows what else). My question is, does a logical, scientific answer to an age-old legend kill the romanticism of it? That mysticism that is so alluring to readers? In my mind, it makes the idea more plausible, and therefore more attainable, if transforming into a slavering bacon monster is your thing (cause it sure is mine). But is the vampire’s bite more alluring than, say, the mosquito’s, if it accomplishes the same thing (eternal bacon monster status)?
I have to admit, Merlin’s crones gathered around a cauldron and spying on his enemies has more appeal than the lot of them stalking Instagram and Facebook to gather info.
August 27, 2016
Critical Crucifixion : A love story
1993. The year that Pearl Jam, cargo shorts and Doc Martens reigned supreme. I was a freshman Zoology major with a secret more shameful than not understanding the lyrics to “Daughter”; I wanted to be a writer. Against the neutral backdrop of biology and chemistry courses sat one shining jewel that I’d wedged into my schedule, unbeknownst to my college advisor: Creative Writing.
The course was taught by Dr. Lavers, an approximately ten-thousand year-old professor who rode a pennyfarthing bicycle to class and who wore an elbow-patched tweed blazer at all times. I even saw him in it at the gym once. No lie. It was all part of his “Gandalf’s gainfully employed brother” persona, one that inflamed within me an inexplicable yet undeniable crush.
On the first day of class, Dr. Lavers read to us from his latest work, a collection of essays about his childhood and other incredibly boring stories. This should have been a red flag signaling me that our literary tastes were not aligned and to drop the course while I could still get a refund. But drop I did not. No. Dr. Lavers was a genius from whom I could learn how to be a serious writer. I listened intently to his tedious lectures with sparkles in my eyes and ears, thinking that perhaps I could even teach him a thing or two. Spice up the class. Rock his world. Singe his wizened brows with the fiery inferno of my incendiary style.
Prepared to wow his elbow patches off with my neo-King prose, I feverishly worked on my first assignment, a short story written from the perspective of a cancer patient who dies in the arms of his pregnant wife. Next thing the guy knows, he’s being squeezed through a vaguely familiar canal that turns out to belong to his recently widowed wife. He’s being reincarnated as his own son, get it? Pretty horrible, though his mother’s milk induces amnesia and neither will ever know the truth on a conscious level. That way they will always be together. So, sweet as well as horrible. As I read the last lines of my story for the class, I raised my eyes expectantly to Dr. Lavers. He stared back at me, stroking his bristly white beard in thoughtful meditation. After what seemed like a Lavers lifetime (10k years), he finally gave his assessment.
“I didn’t like it.”
And that was that. He simply did not like it. Not only did he not like it, he didn’t even find it worthy of an actual review. A one-star rating without the courtesy of even telling me why he thought it sucked. At that point the rest of the class fell upon me, tearing apart my work. Their critical crucifixion meant nothing, though. My heart was obliterated. I was dead inside. The May-December romance that never was never would be, and I could finally admit to myself that I didn’t like his work either.
While I’m 100% certain that my writing was terrible (I was 18 and a zoology major, ffs), I realize that no matter how spectacularly written, Dr. Lavers would not have *liked* the story itself. He was a septuagenarian who preferred rose-colored memoirs about little boys carrying lunches to school in metal pails. He was never going to dig a story about a reincarnated husband/son, or my subsequent tales about machete-wielding clowns, time travel or killer army worms. By the same account, I would never enjoy his writing. Respect, yes. He was an accomplished and decorated author who had earned his keep. But like? Meh.
I learned some important lessons about being a writer that day. First, don’t shirk your day job (or in my case, your zoology classes). You may not have what it takes right away, maybe not ever. So do what you’re good at in the meantime and do what you love until maybe you get good at that too.
Second, it’s okay if everyone doesn’t like your work. It’s even ok if only a few people do like it (see: don’t shirk your day job). People have their likes and dislikes and for the most part, genre loyalty is a gap that cannot be bridged. Aim to entertain people who share your passion, and you’ll have a better chance of hearing, “I liked it.” And maybe even getting a review that doesn't break your heart.
The course was taught by Dr. Lavers, an approximately ten-thousand year-old professor who rode a pennyfarthing bicycle to class and who wore an elbow-patched tweed blazer at all times. I even saw him in it at the gym once. No lie. It was all part of his “Gandalf’s gainfully employed brother” persona, one that inflamed within me an inexplicable yet undeniable crush.
On the first day of class, Dr. Lavers read to us from his latest work, a collection of essays about his childhood and other incredibly boring stories. This should have been a red flag signaling me that our literary tastes were not aligned and to drop the course while I could still get a refund. But drop I did not. No. Dr. Lavers was a genius from whom I could learn how to be a serious writer. I listened intently to his tedious lectures with sparkles in my eyes and ears, thinking that perhaps I could even teach him a thing or two. Spice up the class. Rock his world. Singe his wizened brows with the fiery inferno of my incendiary style.
Prepared to wow his elbow patches off with my neo-King prose, I feverishly worked on my first assignment, a short story written from the perspective of a cancer patient who dies in the arms of his pregnant wife. Next thing the guy knows, he’s being squeezed through a vaguely familiar canal that turns out to belong to his recently widowed wife. He’s being reincarnated as his own son, get it? Pretty horrible, though his mother’s milk induces amnesia and neither will ever know the truth on a conscious level. That way they will always be together. So, sweet as well as horrible. As I read the last lines of my story for the class, I raised my eyes expectantly to Dr. Lavers. He stared back at me, stroking his bristly white beard in thoughtful meditation. After what seemed like a Lavers lifetime (10k years), he finally gave his assessment.
“I didn’t like it.”
And that was that. He simply did not like it. Not only did he not like it, he didn’t even find it worthy of an actual review. A one-star rating without the courtesy of even telling me why he thought it sucked. At that point the rest of the class fell upon me, tearing apart my work. Their critical crucifixion meant nothing, though. My heart was obliterated. I was dead inside. The May-December romance that never was never would be, and I could finally admit to myself that I didn’t like his work either.
While I’m 100% certain that my writing was terrible (I was 18 and a zoology major, ffs), I realize that no matter how spectacularly written, Dr. Lavers would not have *liked* the story itself. He was a septuagenarian who preferred rose-colored memoirs about little boys carrying lunches to school in metal pails. He was never going to dig a story about a reincarnated husband/son, or my subsequent tales about machete-wielding clowns, time travel or killer army worms. By the same account, I would never enjoy his writing. Respect, yes. He was an accomplished and decorated author who had earned his keep. But like? Meh.
I learned some important lessons about being a writer that day. First, don’t shirk your day job (or in my case, your zoology classes). You may not have what it takes right away, maybe not ever. So do what you’re good at in the meantime and do what you love until maybe you get good at that too.
Second, it’s okay if everyone doesn’t like your work. It’s even ok if only a few people do like it (see: don’t shirk your day job). People have their likes and dislikes and for the most part, genre loyalty is a gap that cannot be bridged. Aim to entertain people who share your passion, and you’ll have a better chance of hearing, “I liked it.” And maybe even getting a review that doesn't break your heart.
