Christopher Motz's Blog

It’s that time again, the lead-up to the release of another book! It’s always an exciting time for me, and I hope you’re as pumped as I am!

‘Tenants’ will be available for pre-order soon for your Kindle device, and will also be available to anyone with a Kindle Unlimited account. Paperback details will follow soon!

‘Linda Gianni is looking for a way out.

After a bad breakup, Linda finds
an ad in a local paper for rooms to rent at the Blackridge Apartments, a
beautiful turn-of-the-century building with charm and style. On the surface,
it’s exactly what she wanted, but some things are too good to be true.

As she struggles to cope with the
sudden changes in her life, she’s dealt blow after blow that further isolates
her and keeps her at the mercy of her landlord and mysterious neighbor, Audrey.

Blackout nightmares, hidden doors, and the disappearance of her closet friends only add to her confusion as she searches for answers and tries to unlock the secrets of the Blackridge.’

***

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The post ‘Tenants’ is coming soon! appeared first on Author Christopher Motz.

While I’d love to have some good reason for abandoning my website, the truth is… I don’t. I’m doing my best to try and catch up on the last year or so and make a more concerted effort to keep this page running and up to date. Soon, the page will be updated with all my current releases as well as information, news, and future blog posts. I intend on posting here regularly, as well as setting up a mailing list/newsletter so you know what’s going on in the mind of your favorite author. Am I being presumptuous?

I appreciate all the amazing feedback I’ve received for my work in the last two years and I hope you stick around to see what else is on the horizon. This includes a top secret anthology appearance in spring/summer, and the early 2019 release of my latest novel, ‘Tenants.’

My pre-readers have called my latest offering a mix of ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ with a touch of ‘The Sentinel’ thrown in for good measure. I’m very proud of this book and can’t wait to see your thoughts and opinions.

Would you like a taste?

Here’s an exclusive look at the first couple pages of ‘Tenants.’ This has not been edited, so bear with me.

***

Chapter 1

Linda Gianni stood in front of the Blackridge Apartments with a crumpled piece of notebook paper clutched in her hand. Of all the addresses she’d written down, the imposing, brick structure on Delaney Street was the only one remaining. She’d been waiting on the landlord for twenty minutes under a low, slate-gray sky, scanning the neighborhood for signs of life. A block away, a small pizza place stood out in the gloom, marked by a tacky, pink neon sign that appeared left over from the days of disco. The sidewalks were barren and most of the parking slots along the potholed street were empty. If there was anything going for this rundown section of town, it was the lack of traffic and an almost eerie calm.

She checked her watch and saw it was nearing five o’clock; the landlord was almost a half-hour late, and if he expected to show her the apartment, he was quickly running out of time. It would take her over an hour to get back to her parents’ house in Scranton, and she’d never been a fan of driving at night. The thick cloud cover had already dressed the surrounding buildings in a cloak of murky gray, and before long, Linda expected the fine drizzle to become a full-fledged rain.

Five more minutes, she thought, checking her cell phone to make sure she hadn’t missed the landlord’s call. Instead, she saw a half-dozen texts from an unknown number. It didn’t take long to figure out who had been trying to reach her.

WE HAVE TO TALK.

CALL ME.

WHY ARE YOU BEING SUCH A BITCH?

I’M SORRY!

GO TO HELL, LINDA!

PLEASE CALL ME!

The texts were all five minutes apart, no doubt sent by Christian Barnes, her ex-boyfriend and current stalker. He was part of the reason she stood on this lonely street, miles from where she’d grown up. Christian had a really difficult time taking no for an answer, and her parents were getting tired of midnight phone calls and random knocks on the door. They’d dated for three years when things fell apart, but Linda quickly discovered she was the only one that realized the relationship was over. Christian had hounded her incessantly, filling her inbox with hurtful messages followed by drunken apologies and professions of undying love.

It had ended in a restraining order after a physical altercation on her parents’ lawn, but Christian wasn’t taking it seriously; he saw it as a hurdle on their way to a happy reconciliation. Linda saw it as a well-defined punctuation mark on a three-year sentence.

She deleted the text messages and dumped the phone in her purse just as the streetlight overhead buzzed to life, bathing the sidewalk in a muted yellow glow. She looked up at the apartment building and shivered; it loomed over the street, devoid of any noticeable life. The windows on the first floor were all covered by green, peeling shutters; the six floors above were dark and seemingly abandoned. Weather-worn bricks appeared black in the failing light.

“Okay, pal,” she muttered. “I don’t have time for this.”

She stepped off the curb and walked to the side of her Prius, digging around in her purse and feeling for the plastic Snoopy attached to the end of her keyring. A pair of white headlights cut through the fog as a sleek, black Lexus slowed and pulled into the empty parking space behind her. She raised a hand to shield her eyes, feeling naked in the harsh glow. The engine stopped and the lights went out as a man exited the driver’s side door, whistling tunefully. He walked toward her as she blinked away the afterimages of the headlights; for a few seconds she could only ascertain his location by the rhythmic tapping of his approaching footsteps.

“Ms. Gianni?” he asked. “I’m terribly sorry for making you wait, but I was tied up on the other side of town. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“No,” she lied. “I’ve only been here a few minutes. You’re Mr. Sterling I presume.”

“You presume correctly,” he said, extending his hand, “but please, call me Albert, or just Al if you like.”

“Al,” she repeated. “I’m Linda. We spoke on the phone.” She shook his offered hand, taken aback by its softness and pleasant warmth. Based on this and his luxury transport, she assumed hard, physical labor had never been part of his daily routine.

“The apartment is still available?”

“Sure, sure,” he said. Linda tried placing the man’s accent. It had the hard edges of Germanic descent, but had softened over time. “It’s hard to find good tenants these days with the unfortunate state of our economy. People come, they look, some stay for a month or two, and I’m left holding the bag when they skip out on their last month’s rent.”

“Is there a lot of crime in this area?”

“Here?” he chuckled. “There’s not enough left in this part of town to satiate even a beginning petty criminal. You’re lucky to see a dozen people on any given day. Some find that creepy while others find it rather charming. I’m one of the latter. Who wants to live in a place where crossing the street is a daily adventure? People come here to get way from the bright lights and the loud parties. Everything you might need is only several blocks away: a clothing store, a grocery, a video game shop if that’s your thing. There are some wonderful restaurants in walking distance; I’d suggest Abruzzi’s if you’re in the mood for inexpensive Italian fare.”

Linda nodded and smiled, casually glancing at her watch.

“My apologies,” Al exclaimed. “You’re here for the apartment, and I’m prattling on about nonsense. Forgive me.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I was just hoping to get home before dark.”

“Ah, someone is waiting for you there? Boyfriend? Husband?” he asked, briefly looking down to see if she was wearing a wedding ring.

“No, nothing like that. I live with my parents right now,” she said, embarrassed. “It’s only temporary.”

“Understood. Sometimes leaving the nest is easier said than done.”

“Oh, it’s not that…”

“So, would you like to see the room?” he interrupted.

“Uh, yes. That would be great.”

Without waiting, Al Sterling hopped onto the sidewalk and approached the steep flight of concrete stairs leading to the front entrance. He stopped, bent, and snatched something from the sidewalk. He held it out in front of him and shook it between his thumb and forefinger with a jangle.

“My keys!” Linda exclaimed. “I was looking for those.”

“Good thing I found them, then.” He dropped the keys into Linda’s outstretched hand with a sly grin. For the first time, she noticed that Al Sterling was a rather attractive older man. His hair was combed back and clung closely to his scalp; streaks of gray radiated from his temples and disappeared behind his ears. His eyes were the color of emeralds, topped by thin brows that were likely sculpted in a bathroom mirror. He wore a plain, but immaculately ironed button-down shirt, and black, pleated slacks. A gold chain hung around his neck and vanished into his shirt collar, where several curly strands of white hair peeked above the fabric.

Linda cleared her throat and looked away for fear that he’d see her lingering gaze and get the wrong impression.

He really is a good looking guy, she thought. The fine scent of his cologne touched her nose before being scattered by the breeze. If his clothes and his car were any indication, his cologne probably cost more than her entire outfit.

“So, how did you find the place?” Al asked as he mounted the steps.

“I saw the ad in the Gazette,” she replied. “The rent is surprisingly low.”

“Well, it’s a very competitive industry, as I’m sure you’re aware. Charge too much and your rooms remain empty, charge too little and prospective tenants assume there are rats in the walls. I assure you, there are no rats.”

Al opened the front door and walked inside as Linda’s purse buzzed with the muffled vibration of her cell phone.

Give it a rest, Christian, she thought as she entered. If this attempt at leaving her past behind was going to have any hope of success, she’d need to change her number immediately.

“Something important?” Al asked over his shoulder.

“No, no, nothing,” Linda replied.

This guy must have ears like a fox.

While she was busy considering the man’s supernatural hearing ability, she stepped into a room that quickly brought her out of her reverie. If she could have seen her face in a mirror, she wouldn’t have been shocked to see her mouth hanging open; catching flies as her mother was wont to say.

“Christ,” Linda blurted. “This is an apartment building?”

Al turned and smiled, clearly thrilled by her reaction. “It wasn’t always. It was built in 1922 as the Hotel DeMarco, but by the 1960’s, this town could no longer sustain a hotel trade. Those ramshackle motor inns started springing up all over the place, and suddenly people no longer cared about comfort. It changed hands several times before I got my hands on it in 1990, and I’ve been running it ever since as affordable apartments. I thought about calling it The Sterling, but I’m a man without ego. It seemed too… tacky.”

“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Linda said.

And it was.

She’d expected a grimy foyer, a small enclosure with cracked linoleum tile and smelling of the thick, acrid odor of thousands of smoked cigarettes, but instead she was treated to a massive room that wouldn’t have been out of place in a five star hotel in New York City. The ceiling arched thirty feet above her head, the plaster painted a clean, eggshell white. Art Deco designs accentuated the dozen large pillars that supported the floor above; four bronze and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling – one in each quarter of the room – with an even larger fixture centered directly in the middle, surrounded by a hand painted, golden sunburst. The floors were marble with a repeating, interwoven, gray and black design. It appeared to be a later remodel, with some styles seeming to clash, but it was still elegant and well-kept and had the faint, pleasant smell of fresh lilac.

“I’ll give a brief tour if you have time,” Al said. “There’s plenty to see, and although some parts of the building have been blocked off to tenants, there’s no lack of old-fashioned charm.”

Linda nodded without even thinking. It was too good to be true, and for five-hundred dollars a month it was an absolute steal. She dangled from the hook like a fish out of water, listening to his every word and waiting for the inevitable catch.

“You’re sure the price in your ad was accurate?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am. I haven’t raised the rent in fifteen years, and that price covers your electricity and cable as well. You’re responsible only for your own food and upkeep of your unit.”

“Upkeep?”

“If something cosmetic needs fixing, you fix it, or have it fixed. I think it’s only fair.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

“If I had a nickel for every time I had to clean blood from a carpet, or fish a shitty diaper from a toilet, I’d be a very rich man.”

“Uh huh.” Linda was paying very little attention. She had become transfixed by the strange pattern etched into the marble beneath her feet.

“Would you like to see the common room?”

Linda nodded and followed Albert Sterling, forgetting all about the time, and all about boyfriends intent on unwanted communication.

In that moment, she belonged to the handsome older gentleman, and hung on his every word as if it was gospel.

From then on, Linda had no doubt she’d do just about anything to become a resident of the Blackridge Apartments.

This was going to become her home, come Hell or high water.

***

Thanks for reading! ‘Tenants’ will be available in paperback and for Kindle (including Kindle Unlimited) Q1 2019.

The post Laziness Strikes Again! appeared first on Author Christopher Motz.

Every now and then, reviews disappear from the places they count most. In an attempt to right the wrong, here’s one of those reviews that vanished without a trace!

***

Let me tell you all about this book, Pine Lakes. It’s creepy, it’s horrifying, it’s a carefully constructed story of a couple who have been together twenty years and have since seen each other at their best and their very, very worst. It jumps back and forth from past to present and fills in the blanks of this relationship, one on which the entire book hinges. I felt like I understood these people by the time I finished. So I cared what happened to them. When a twist came up (and there were MANY twists), I gasped, I ground my teeth, I couldn’t wait to see if they would make it out alive.

Chris has a real knack for understanding human nature and why we do what we do. He has a gift for examining relationships, motives, the choices we make that we’re not always proud of after the fact and how those choices add up to the sum total of who we are. He also knows how to paint a pretty nasty scene full of characters I would NOT want to meet on a deserted road.

Do yourself and an indie author a favor and check this one out. You won’t be sorry!

**Heads up: One of the story’s main themes is loss, specifically the loss of a pregnancy and its repercussions. Tough subject. Just wanted to put that out there.**

Thanks Jennifer B. for the great review…at least now it will be seen!

The post Great Review For ‘Pine Lakes’ appeared first on Author Christopher Motz.

I’m offering this early chance to get a sneak peak at my upcoming novel, “Pine Lakes.” I’m nearly finished with the first draft, and I’m hopeful for a release in April. Check it out and leave some feedback. I’m very pleased with how this turned out, and I hope you agree. This has not been edited, so please forgive me ahead of time for my spelling and grammar issues.

Enjoy!!!!

***

CHAPTER ONE

Ted and Susan Merchant were still twenty miles from the Pine Lakes Resort when it started raining.

Ted’s restored Barracuda tore up the winding road, surrounded by tall trees and thick brush on either side. A thin guardrail was all that separated the road from a forty foot drop to the forest floor below. Susan looked out the rain-spattered window into the darkness beyond as she reached into her purse for a cigarette. This stretch of road always made her nervous, now compounded by the setting sun and the rain that was slowly wetting the asphalt surface. She lit her cigarette and blew out a cloud of white smoke that quickly filled the interior of the car. She cracked the window and took another deep drag.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Ted said. “I know this road like the back of my hand.”

“I know, but it always makes me nervous up here,” Susan replied.

Ted put his hand on his wife’s thigh and patted soothingly. They’d been coming to the Pine Lakes Resort once a year since they met in 1998, when they were both seniors in high school. It had been Ted’s idea. His family was vacationing in Pine Lakes for as long as he could remember, and when it came time for him to start a family of his own, the tradition remained. Susan fell in love with the place immediately, but the ride up the mountain always made her nervous. Driving in general scared her to death. She hadn’t had a driver’s license in years, not since her second year in college, not since that night on Interstate 81 when everything changed.

“I would think you’d be used to this by now,” Ted said. “We’ve driven this road enough times to know it by heart.”

Susan shrugged. They had a similar conversation every year; it didn’t change a thing. She held the cigarette out to her husband and Ted took a quick drag, cracking his window as well. The Cuda was cherry now, he didn’t often let anyone smoke in her, but knowing how Susan got on these trips, he couldn’t tell her no.

“We have everything, right?” Susan asked, changing the subject. “Reservations? All our clothes? Money? Your shampoo?”

Ted laughed and nodded. “I don’t know about money or clothing, as long as I have my Breck.” It was just one of Ted’s many foibles. Special shampoo, special brand of socks, a certain kind of soft drink. His habits were hard to break, not like he tried. He was perfectly happy the way things were. To hell with change.

“My man is a strange one,” Susan joked.

“That’s why you love me!”

Susan leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Love wasn’t a strong enough word; she absolutely adored him with every ounce of her being. When their eyes met, she still felt that little tingle, that butterfly flitting around in her stomach like it was the first time they’d met. Twenty years and it felt the same as it had that first night, ditching their dates at the Senior Prom to walk hand in hand out at Tuscarora Lake. They just clicked. Moments like that were enough to carry anyone through the worst of life’s storms, and they had their fair share. She wouldn’t change it, not a thing.

“Cabin 105?” Susan asked.

“As always,” Ted said. Another of their traditions, same cabin every year, as if they’d claimed ownership. Every year since 1999, Ted would scratch a hash mark in the wood beneath the cabin’s bed, along with their initials and a crudely carved heart. So far, no one had noticed their eighteen scratches, soon to be nineteen. It was the first thing Ted did when they got to their cabin, always the very first thing.

“Are you going to try to write this year?” Susan asked.

“I don’t know,” Ted sighed. “No one wants to hear anything I have to say.”

“How will you know if you don’t try? You’re a good writer, I’m not just saying that.”

Ted laughed and patted her thigh again. “Maybe one day.”

Ted worked at the same distribution center for going on ten years. He didn’t love his job by any means, but it paid the bills. He’d flirted with the idea of writing a novel since high school, but he just never had the time or the ambition or the belief in himself that anyone would ever want to buy it. Several drafts of the nearly-completed manuscript sat on the closet shelf for the better part of a decade, collecting dust.

Rain lashed at the Cuda’s windshield and dripped in through Susan’s open window. She cranked the window closed and fidgeted with the cuff of her blouse. Damn, she hated this road. She’d tried to get over it for years, but as soon as she thought she had it under control, she looked into the forest buzzing by and instantly lost her resolve. The forest was creepy at night; she didn’t imagine anyone disagreeing with her. The Blair Witch Project really messed with her head. She knew it was just a movie, but having lived near the woods her entire life, she found herself peering into the shadowy trees for weeks after leaving the movie theater.

“It always feels so great coming up here,” Ted said, flicking the cigarette out the window. “A week away from work, away from the neighbors…”

“Don’t even get me started,” Susan laughed. “Crazy Anne was on her front porch having a conversation with a stuffed parrot yesterday.”

Ted laughed loudly and nodded. “I heard her the other day too, except it was her garbage can she was yelling at.”

“No!”

“I’m not shitting. She dragged it up her driveway and cursed at it for smelling so foul, said if it wasn’t willing to take a bath she was going to leave it on the curb.”

They both laughed; Susan’s nerves quieted. Ted always made her laugh, even when she didn’t want to. He had a knack for bringing her back from the edge of her own thoughts. Without him, she’d likely end up in padded cell.

They chatted back and forth as the sky grew darker and rain threatened to wash out parts of the road. Susan snapped on the radio and bobbed her head along to the newest Imagine Dragons track as Ted poked fun at her for her taste in music. Ted was Black Sabbath, Metallica, and Opeth all the way. New music hurt his ears; auto-tune made him cringe, and the sound of sampled drum tracks was enough to make him go on tirades.

“Lars Ulrich,” Ted yelled, “now he was a drummer. I don’t know what this other shit is all about.”

“Lars looks my Uncle Barry and plays drums about as well, which is to say he doesn’t.”

“The old stuff, the old stuff,” Ted said.

“You’re only as good as your last drum fill, dear.”

Ted laughed and agreed. “Times change.”

“You’re not kidding,” she said. “I found lines around my eyes the other day. We need to change that bathroom mirror before I break it.”

“Your lines are beautiful,” Ted chuckled, “all of them.” He slid his hand over and squeezed her inner thigh playfully. She swatted his hand and giggled.

“Eyes on the road, Romeo.”

Ted stared ahead dramatically, watching as the rain passed through the twin sets of lights ahead. “Just imagine what we’ll look like in twenty years,” he said. “I’ll be pushing sixty, likely bald, with a big beer belly hanging over my belt.”

“And I’ll be three-hundred pounds with a big old ass to match.”

“You’ll still be beautiful,” he said. “More to love.”

She slapped his arm and snorted laughter. Her face wrinkled as the radio switched to an old Lynyrd Skynyrd song. She reached out to switch the station as Ted grabbed her hand and pulled it away.

“No you don’t,” he said. “You never change Skynyrd.”

“I’ve heard this song a million times,” she said.

“And one million and one will be just as good.” Ted turned the knob slightly and sang along to “Simple Man” discordantly. Susan laughed and covered her ears.

“Keep your day job, this one isn’t working out.”

The Cuda turned a sharp corner, the rear tires hydroplaning in a deep puddle. Susan grabbed the door handle and pressed her feet tightly to the floor as Ted let off the accelerator. The skid stopped; Ted continued on at a slightly slower pace.

“It’s getting bad out here,” he said.

“Bad? Are you trying to kill us?”

“No worries, I know how to drive.”

“Slow down, you know I hate this road.”

“Already done Suzie dear. Relax. We’ll be at the lodge in fifteen minutes and you can drown your sorrows in a bottle of wine.”

“We can share a bottle,” she said, “or two.”

“Whatever you like. We have a week without worry or responsibility.”

The Cuda hit another deep puddle and slid across the road. This time, Ted over-corrected and swung the car into the opposite lane. Susan moaned, reaching out for the dashboard, as the vehicle swung around, tires squealing on the wet road. The Cuda punched through the guardrail at forty-five miles an hour; the front of the car crumpled as the hood swung up, smashing into the windshield and cracking it in a series of thick lines. Susan felt herself lift from her seat as the car soared into open space. Branches scraped the undercarriage and thumped loudly against the doors. She watched as a large branch reached out and removed the mirror from the outside of her door. The engine raced.

She heard Ted shouting next to her, turned and watched as he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. Everything ran in slow motion as the car bounced through the trees in a cacophony of screaming metal and breaking glass. The weight of the engine pulled the front of the car down, turning it into a speeding missile, the G-force pushing Susan back into her seat. She lost consciousness even before the Cuda slammed into the forest floor with a final, loud crump.

Susan sank down…

Deeper, deeper, deeper into darkness.

***

Susan opened her eyes and looked at the shattered interior of the car. It wasn’t her husband’s Barracuda, it was her roommate Barron’s Toyota Tercel. It wasn’t 2017, but 1999.

The steaming Toyota sat crookedly, down the embankment along the passing lane of Interstate 81 South. Susan and Barron were on their way to a Spin Doctors concert in Wilkes-Barre when they were pushed off the road by a swerving eighteen-wheeler, forcing them down the grassy stretch between the oncoming lanes. The Toyota slammed into a tree, popping the airbags, causing Susan to black-out at the moment of impact.

They’d been planning the trip for months, Barron having purchased tickets the day they went on sale. The band’s popularity had waned since the early nineties, but Barron remained one of their most faithful fans, seeing them several times a year on each of their tours. Susan remembered “Two Princes” from the radio, but was ignorant of most of the band’s recorded output, she’d only gone because Barron wouldn’t let her hear the end of it.

“You’re going to love it,” Barron had said. “Their singer’s last name is my first name,” she’d squeal, “and he’s so sexy.”

“It’s the band with the bee girl in their video, right?” Susan asked.

“No, no, no! Bleck! That was Blind Melon! They’re garbage!”

Barron took her music seriously.

The band’s latest album was on the car’s CD player when it careened off the side of the highway; Barron had been singing along loudly when the trailer merged into their lane, pushing them onto the rocky shoulder. It all literally went downhill from there.

When Susan came to, she pushed the deflated airbag out of the way and looked down, taking stock, rubbing her hands over her legs, her arms, her ribs, making sure she was still in one piece. She was going to be sore for a while, and likely have a hell of a headache, but otherwise she seemed fine.

“Where’d you learn how to drive?” Susan croaked, looking over at Barron.

Barron didn’t respond, didn’t move. Her eyes were wide open and the side of her head bulged freakishly. A thin trickle of blood ran from her nostrils; her mouth was open in a final, silent shout.

“Oh, Barron, no,” Susan said shakily. “No, no, you can’t.”

Susan reached out a trembling hand and touched Barron’s arm. She hissed and pulled away, tucking her arm close to her chest. Barron’s skin had an unfamiliar texture, if felt wrong. Cool. Lifeless.

“Oh, no. No, no, I don’t fucking accept this,” Susan screamed. “Wake up, damn you. Wake up, please,” she cried, “we’re going to be late for the concert. The singer is so damn cute.”

Barron’s eyes stared as blood dried on her chin. She wasn’t waking up ever again.

Susan hugged herself and wailed piercingly. She hadn’t even known Barron before college, but in the short time they shared a room, they’d gotten close. Almost like sisters. This was unacceptable.

“Move goddamn you,” Susan shouted. “You’re not dead! Stop playing around. You can’t be dead.”

Barron didn’t move. Barron was dead. No amount of cajoling would change that.

Susan grabbed Barron’s shoulder and shook her; Barron’s head tilted and thumped against the broken driver’s side window, resting in the crater her skull had formed during the collision. Susan screamed again and looked away from her friend’s misshapen skull. She had a sudden urge to vomit.

“Ma’am,” a voice shouted. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

Susan turned her head slowly and peered at the man through her window. An EMT gazed at her through the glass as pulsing red and blue lights bombarded her blurred vision, making everything look like it was viewed through a kaleidoscope.

Her trip to the hospital was lost in a daze, the treatment of cuts and abrasions forgotten, the concerned faces of her family watching over her felt like a dream.

Only when Ted arrived did she feel again. She held him tightly, cried on his shoulder, asked him question he could never answer. She needed him, needed to feel his warmth, his comforting hands on her fevered skin. She’d never needed anything so much in her entire life.

Ted didn’t leave her side.

Susan struggled with classes the following semester, never quite able to clear her mind of the accident and of Barron’s eyes staring lifelessly into the world beyond. It haunted her nights and caused her days to run together into an endless swamp of exhaustion. She couldn’t step foot into a vehicle for three months after the accident without trembling uncontrollably and hiding her eyes in the crook of her arm.

Her license expired in 2002 and she never got another. Her days of driving were over. Call it fear, call it PTSD, call it superstitious nonsense; whatever it was, it was final.

And fuck the Spin Doctors for being the soundtrack to her nightmare. She never liked them anyway.

Thank God for Ted. His selflessness, his calming voice, his devotion to bringing her back from the precipice of her depression.

When Ted proposed to her in May of 2000, she shouted ‘yes’ before he could stand from bended knee. Yes she’d marry him, love him, cherish him, until death did them part.

In seventeen years, she’d never regretted her decision for a single second. Her love ran deep, like the pure, cold waters flowing through the aquifer.

It was indestructible.

Ted and Susan forever.

***

Ted lifted his head and groggily looked through the broken window. The Barracuda was little more than twisted scrap. One headlight stared drunkenly into the darkened forest, illuminating a small patch of wet brush. Beyond that, the forest was pitch black.

He jumped at the realization of what had happened and turned to Susan, his neck sending fingers of pain down his back. He fought back a cry and reached a bloody hand out to his wife, rubbing her cheek lightly with his fingertips.

“Susan? Susan are you okay?”

Her eyes fluttered open and her mouth turned down in a rictus of pain. She hissed through swollen lips and looked over at Ted, who was now grinning happily. It could have been worse.

“Are you hurt?” Ted asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said, “but I can’t move my legs. They’re trapped beneath the dash.” She tried to pull them from beneath the dashboard, but they were pinned between it and the crumpled firewall. Ted nodded. It was the same on his end. To add to his confinement, the steering wheel had been pushed back, leaving only inches between it and his chest. The radio was spitting nothing but static; the engine pinged and hissed as it cooled, giving off thick clouds of steam that hung in the air above the crash site. Fat raindrops pattered on the roof as they fell from the thick canopy above.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry Susan, I’m so sorry. I should have listened, I should have slowed down.”

“There’s no point being sorry now, what’s done is done. We need to figure out how the hell we’re getting out of here.”

Todd grunted and pulled on his legs, trying to free them. There was some give, but not nearly enough. He banged the steering wheel with his palms and cursed under his breath.

“Stay calm, dear. Panicking isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“Says the woman who’s afraid to drive.”

Susan shrugged and offered a thin smile.

The lone remaining headlight flickered and went out with a pop.

Ted groaned and put his head in his hands. “Goddammit,” he uttered. “Goddammit to Hell.”

“You’ve always been a man of such profound thought,” Susan laughed.

“Are you seriously making jokes right now? You realize we’re trapped down here, right? That we’re probably forty feet below the road?”

“I know that,” she said, “but someone is going to see the broken guardrail and know that we’re down here.”

“That’s optimistic.”

“Would you like me to scream and carry on?”

“Obviously not,” he said. “Save your breath. No one would hear you anyway.”

“My head is throbbing,” Susan moaned. She reached up and rubbed her forehead, her fingers came away covered in a thin coating of blood. “I think I might have hit the dash.”

“Oh, Suzie, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault we’re down here.”

“I’m not blaming you,” Susan said.

“Well I’m blaming myself. I should have slowed down or pulled over. I thought we could beat the rain and get to the lodge before dark, but I was wrong.”

They sat in silence and listened to the rain. It was soothing. Ted wanted to close his eyes and let the sound take him away, down into merciful sleep, but his common sense told him that closing his eyes was the wrong thing to do. If he had a concussion or some other head injury, closing his eyes could mean they’d never open again. He cleared his throat and opened his eyes wide to stave off his sudden exhaustion.

“The Cuda is totaled,” he sulked.

“I know baby, I’m sorry, but we can always get another car.”

“Not this one,” he said. “This one is special.”

Susan nodded. Ted worked on restoring the Barracuda for the better part of a decade, buying parts when he could afford them, spending most of his free time in the garage, working in there on his days off, covered in grease and sweat, knuckles bloody.

It had been a bone of contention between them for some time.

***

Ted had been looking for a classic car to restore ever since he was in high school. The problem was always money. Either he found well-kept or restored models whose owners had unrealistic ideas of worth, or they were in such terrible shape, they’d have to be rebuilt from the frame up. The Barracuda was somewhere in the middle.

The black interior was untouched, and apart from torn rear seats and a busted speedometer, wouldn’t require a lot of labor. For a vehicle that had rolled off the assembly line in 1970, Ted thought this was a great selling point. The exterior was another matter. Rust on top of rust, missing taillights, dual exhaust that looked like it had been run over by a tank. The front bumper and grill were missing entirely; the rear window had a nest of spider-webbed cracks; dents and dings and gouges peppered every inch of the body. The hefty 383, with four-barrel carb under the hood, hadn’t turned over in a decade.

“Tell me you didn’t pay a lot for this heap!” Susan moaned as she entered the garage.

“What do you consider a lot?” Ted asked, grinning.

“I’m thinking a pack of cigarettes and a case of Miller should have covered it.” She kicked the flat rear tire and a shower of rust rained down from the wheel well and onto the concrete floor. “My Lord,” she sighed. “The first strong breeze and this thing is going to blow away in the wind.”

“Not at all,” Ted exclaimed. “This is fine, Detroit rolling steel.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to be rolling anywhere,” Susan said, “unless it’s on the back of a flatbed.”

Ted waved her off and circled the car, a gleam in his eye. He ran his hands over the faded and pitted paint, once called Jamaican Blue Metallic.

“No one likes a smart ass, Suzie.”

“No one likes an impulse buyer, either,” she retorted, “except maybe the guy who took your money and laughed all the way to the bank.”

“What do you know about cars anyway? You won’t even get your license.”

“That’s not fair,” she muttered.

She was right, it wasn’t fair. After what happened to her, Ted was surprised she’d even step foot in a car again. He walked around the Plymouth’s hood and hugged her tightly, rubbing her back.

“I’m sorry, you’re right, that wasn’t fair. I’m just so excited,” he said. “I’ve wanted a classic for as long as I can remember.”

“I know, I’m sorry too.”

“My father used to have an Impala, an old one, a ‘64 I think. Cherry red, white interior. I loved that car when I was kid and always assumed one day it would be mine. I came home from school one day and it was gone, and in its place was a brand new Buick Skyhawk. A fucking Skyhawk! Who does that? From that moment on, I knew I wanted some old muscle, not some four-cylinder box.”

“Does it make you happy?” Susan asked. She pushed him away at arm’s length and looked him in the eyes.

“Well, yeah,” Ted said. “It’ll make me happier when it’s finished.”

“This isn’t going to be another of your projects that sits and collects dust, is it? Like the shelves you’ve been meaning to hang in the back bedroom for two years.”

“No, no, this is different. This will be something we’ll be proud of. We can take it up to Pine Lakes every year, show it off to the old couples.”

Susan laughed and looked at the car again. There were some pretty lines buried beneath all that rust and dented metal. “By the time you finish it, we’ll be the old couple.”

“That’s okay isn’t it? At least we can grow old gracefully, and we’ll have a sick ride.” Ted leaned in and kissed Susan on the lips, lingering only briefly before going back to poke and prod at his purchase.

Ted didn’t finish the restoration until ten years later, almost to the day. The Barracuda could have been a show car. The original blue paint had been matched as closely as possible; the chrome gleamed; the 383 growled like an angry lion. Ted drove them around town, windows down, smiling as people watched them pass, waving, gawking at the beauty he’d resurrected from the grave.

Ted had gotten the sick ride he always wanted.

***

“You never told me how much you paid for this thing,” Susan said.

“What? Does it matter now? It’s a total write-off,” Ted replied. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pulling at his legs again, hoping he could free up enough wiggle room to get out of the crumpled vehicle. He felt his left foot move a little before giving up his struggles. He needed to keep up his energy if they were going to get through this.

“Are you okay?” Susan asked.

“Yeah, I think so, I’m just trying to free my legs. Can’t you?”

Susan tried again to no avail. She was trapped.

“It’s getting cold,” she said, shivering.

“Lucky it’s not December, or they’d find two icicles down here.” Ted turned as much as he could and looked into the back seat. A black travel bag had slid onto the floor behind Susan’s seat. Stretching, he grabbed the handle with his fingers and pulled it closer, unzipping the bag and pulling out Susan’s hooded sweatshirt. He unfolded it and tucked it around her upper body. She smiled appreciatively.

“Thank you, babe,” she said.

Ted grunted. He was irritated. Not at Susan, not at the cold, at the entire miserable situation. He’d been driving since he was sixteen; he should have never lost control of the Cuda, it was an amateur mistake, he was above that.

“I guess we really do have to figure out how we’re getting out of here,” Ted said. “Our injuries don’t seem life threatening, but people have died like this before. Do you remember? A few years back? They found that car off the road in the Poconos?”

“Do you really think this is the best conversation to be having right now?” Susan asked.

“Yes, I do. We have to know what we’re up against here.”

“We’re trapped in a fucking car in a rainstorm,” she said angrily. “That’s what we’re up against.”

“We don’t have food or water,” Ted said sternly. “Do you want to die of thirst forty feet from the road?”

Susan grumbled and turned away. There was nothing to see outside. The forest was pitch black. “I’ll listen to suggestions,” she said.

“At least one of us has to get out,” he said. “Go for help.”

“Brilliant!” Susan shouted. “Did you think of that one off the top of your head? It just came to you?”

“You know what, Sue? You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

Ted called her Susan most of the time, and Suzie when he was feeling playful or excited. Calling her Sue meant he was pissed off. He had other words he used when he was really pissed off.

Ted shifted in his seat and dug a hand into his pocket, feeling for his cell phone. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. Ted wasn’t what one would call a ‘tech head.’ He didn’t have a cell phone of any kind until he was nearly thirty years old, and only because Susan had bought him one and made him carry it. He didn’t like being connected to everything all at once. His father had been the same way when Ted was growing up. They didn’t have a microwave until the mid-nineties; the same applied to their telephone, which still had a dial ten years earlier. His father thought answering machines were the most ridiculous invention ever. ‘If people have something important to say,’ he’d grumble, ‘they can just call back.’

Although agreeing with his father on technology, he was suddenly thrilled that Susan had made him carry the cell phone. It was likely the only thing that would get them out of there.

“Son of a bitch,” Ted spat. The screen on his Samsung was shattered; the phone wouldn’t even turn on. “A lot of good a cell phone does when it breaks so damn easily.”

“We were in a car accident.” Susan spoke slowly, as if to a child. “I told you a dozen times not to keep your phone in your front pocket. I’m surprised it wasn’t broken before now.”

“Fine, you were right. Okay? Can we please stop picking at each other and figure this out?” Susan nodded. Ted was right. Arguing over petty bullshit wasn’t going to accomplish anything. She reached out and put her hand on Ted’s arm. He was trembling. He patted her hand, apologized, and kissed her on the cheek

“Can you reach into my bag again?” she asked. “My phone is in there, it might had survived the crash.”

Ted quickly turned and rifled through the travel bag, pulling out a few bags of unsalted peanuts and a digital camera, before resting his hand on the cool plastic of her cell phone.

He gave it a cursory glance to make sure it was undamaged and handed it to her. She turned the phone on and waited. It chimed musically as the screen came to life. The phone didn’t have great service, but more than enough to connect a call.

“I’ll call Beth,” she said. Beth was one of her best friends, and likely the closest to the accident scene. She pressed the ‘call’ button and listened as someone picked up on the other end almost immediately.

“Hello?”

“Beth,” Susan shouted. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear your voice. Ted and I were in a car accident. I need you to call the police.”

“Hello?” Beth repeated. “Is anyone there?”

“Beth? Yes I’m here! Did you hear me? Call the police. Tell them we’re in the woods off the Old Branson Road, about fifteen miles south of the Pine Lakes Resort. Did you get that? Pine Lakes.”

“Joe? If this is you screwing around, so help me God.”

Joe was Beth’s most recent ex-boyfriend, one very fond of kinky sex and using his hands to make a point. He’d been calling her dozens of times a day for the last two weeks, sometimes pleading, sometimes screaming and threatening. Beth was just about ready to change her number.

“It’s Susan, not Joe,” she shouted. “Aren’t you hearing what I’m saying?”

“I can hear you breathing you sick bastard,” Beth cried. “Don’t call me again, I mean it!”

The line went dead.

“Beth? Beth? Goddammit!”

“What’s wrong?” Ted asked.

“She couldn’t hear me. She hung up.”

“Try again.”

Susan re-dialed the number and listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. Eventually it went to a computerized message letting Susan know that Beth’s inbox was full. “Shit!”

“Call someone else,” Ted said. “Call your parents, call my parents, call Wal-Mart, just get us the hell out of here. Better yet, call 911.”

“My God, I didn’t even think of that,” she laughed nervously. She dialed the emergency number and waited for the operator to pick up. It rang three times, four times, five, and no one answered. “What the hell is wrong with this thing?” she shouted.

“What’s happening?” Ted asked.

“It’s not connecting. It rings but no one answers.”

“Give it to me,” Ted said, reaching toward her. Susan put the phone in his hand and sighed loudly.

“Do you think I don’t know how to use a phone?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “Maybe it’s muted or something.” Ted pressed a few buttons, checked the phone’s settings, looked at the signal strength, and dialed his parents’ number.

He listened to it ring. No one picked up and there was no machine to leave a message.

He cursed under his breath and called his friend Harold. Harold was always home. He was forty years old, a life-long pothead, and a die-hard video-gamer. He only left his couch to get beer or answer the door for the pizza delivery man. He hadn’t worked in a decade, ever since he tore his shoulder to hell in a job-related injury. Harold wasn’t faking, his shoulder was still a mess, which gave him an excuse whenever anyone asked him about his affection for sticky bud.

Harold’s voicemail picked up after three rings.

“Harry it’s Ted, listen carefully. We wrecked the Cuda on Old Branson Road on the way to Pine Lakes. We’re about fifteen, twenty minutes south of the resort. We’re off the road and we’re trapped in the car. For some reason, Suzie’s phone isn’t connecting with 911, so we need you to let someone know we’re here. We’re not hurt bad, but we can’t get out. Call me the second you get this. Better yet, call 911 first, then call me back.”

Ted disconnected the call and looked at the screen. The signal was still good and the battery was almost fully charged. He was confident it wouldn’t take long to hear from Harold. If he and Susan could get the hell out of the woods before morning, they could put this entire unfortunate affair behind them. The sooner the better.

“Harry will come through,” Ted said. “He’s probably just taking a shit or something.”

“Lovely,” Susan said, grimacing.

The phone chirped in Ted’s hand, signaling that a voicemail had been left.

“Why didn’t it ring?” Ted asked.

“I don’t know, it’s never done that before. Maybe it was damaged in the crash.”

Ted put the phone on ‘speaker’ and tapped the button to check the voicemail. A few seconds later, Harold’s friendly, but completely stoned drawl filled the car.

“Hey man,” Harold’s voice spoke, “I don’t know if something’s wrong with your phone, bro, but I think I just got some weird message from your old lady.” Harold’s voice went silent, almost like he was waiting for a response before realizing he was talking to an answering machine. “Like, I think it was her number, man, but the message was all messed up. Like static. It sounded like there was a voice in there, but it was super far away.” Another pause. “Anyway, call me back when you get this. I’ll be playing the new ‘Resident Evil’ game. Dude! Sick!” Harold laughed and the message ended abruptly.

Susan shook her head and rolled her eyes. She wasn’t one of Harold’s biggest fans. She always thought he was a little on the odd side. A nice enough guy, but he still acted like a teenager.

Ted mumbled something nasty under his breath and dialed Harold’s number again. On the second ring, Harold answered.

“Dude? Is that you? What’s up with the…”

The line went dead.

Ted pulled the phone away from his face and looked at it with a frown; the screen had gone dark.

“What the fuck?” he shouted. “Piece of crap!”

“Calm down,” Susan said. “Give it to me.” Ted handed it over and crossed his arms, agitated and acting like a petulant child. Susan nearly laughed, but figured if she did it would only upset him more. She touched the phone’s screen, pressed the button to turn the phone on or off, even removed the battery and tried to restart the device. Nothing. It was completely dead.

“That’s just great,” Ted said. “Now what are we going to do?”

That’s when they saw the lights in the forest.

END CHAPTER

***

THANKS SO MUCH for checking out my preview of “Pine Lakes.” Leave me some feedback and keep checking back for news and updates on this story and others throughout the year!!

The post An Exclusive Look At The First Chapter Of My Upcoming Novel, “Pine Lakes.” appeared first on Author Christopher Motz.

I just came across an old internet post from this day in 2013, when the book was book was finished but sitting idle, and when mom was still cheering me on from the sidelines. Reading this, I find it pretty amazing that most of the ideas hadn’t changed over the period of time between 2012 and the book’s eventual release in 2016. I hope this little essay gives you insight into where I was at the time…professionally and mentally!! I haven’t corrected any spelling, grammar, or punctuation…I have enough editing to do today

The idea of alternate dimensions, parallel universes, and other realities is certainly not a new one. King has done it, Keene has done it, even Koontz has touched on it. It’s an idea that fascinates me, and the core concept of “The Darkening.” For those who have read it, you know what I’m talking about, and for those who haven’t, I won’t offer up any spoilers. My first novel goes into detail about the start of my mythology, and although everything I write is not going to be directly linked to it, the theory will continue throughout my work. Let me give you an example.

I’m currently bashing through a new novella – that seems like it wants to become a full novel – that is set in the same town and school as my novel…on the same date and time as a matter of fact. The working title is “Classroom Etiquette” but that may change as I move along. In this tale, I weave in some very familiar ideas and faces, but we know immediately that it’s not taking place in the same reality or timeline as the novel. Confused?

If we stick with the theory that there are a multitude of other universes – a multiverse – and that versions of ourselves exist in each and every one of them, the idea becomes a bit clearer. While I’m typing this, a version of myself may be being eaten by crows in another reality. Perhaps in another I’m not a writer, but a mechanic. This is the theory that is currently driving my writing, one that is very exciting for me, and allows me to revisit characters from other works…perhaps even ones who who are no longer living in our current reality!

My latest novel, “The Farm,” is not directly linked to my mythology, but as we go along, we’ll see that everything is in someway connected, even if just a location, a name, or a mention of an event from one of my previous works. The novel I’m working on, again with a working title of “Miranda,” will have a very brief connection to the first novel, although you won’t have to read them both to know what’s going on. Let’s just say that ALL KINDS of things are floating around in the endless void of space…and not only are they angry, but they’re always looking for ways to get rid of human pests.

Future works, including a novella entitled “The Border Train” and a haunted house novel entitled “The Haunting of Cold Rock Hall” will further tie into the mythology in exciting and horrifying ways, and I can’t wait to get them into your hands so you can see exactly where I’m going with this idea.

Finally, there will be a loosely-based sequel coming in the future where we revisit Elmview and see what time has done to her. I’m looking forward to walking those streets again, and I hope you are too. Just a word of caution: Elmview isn’t for tourists or thrill seekers. The lights are out, but there’s definitely someone home.

Come with me and bring a few friends…and don’t forget your flashlight.

The post Alternate Realities – Where Do We Go From Here? A Look At My Mythology. appeared first on Author Christopher Motz.

I’m not going to ramble on about celebrity deaths – no one is going to forget losing Carrie Fisher, George Michael, Glen Fry, David Bowie, or any other name on the awful list created in 2016. It was a rough year for certain, and being the realist that I am, 2017 may be just as awful. The thing people need to realize while they’re mourning one of their favorite stars is to remember that they’re still HERE to mourn. It’s very sad losing a celebrity we’ve grown up with, but at the same time, you’ve made it!

I’ve lost friends this year – a very close friend that I called brother passed away from cancer at the ripe old age of 37. We never know when it’s time to catch the bus and we’re very rarely prepared when it arrives, but the key is NOT waiting for the ride, but enjoying the one we’re on!

With the release of my book in October, I’ve met some amazing people in the indie community: authors, promoters, bloggers, designers, etc. What was once a scary proposition has become much easier, and although I won’t be selling my house and moving to warmer climes, I still feel a very real sense of accomplishment every time I receive feedback on work in the form of a personal message, a social media post, an Amazon review. It makes it all worthwhile sitting in front of a computer for hours a day, pecking away at a new new story, setting up advertising, etc. When people appreciate what I do, it becomes clear that I’ve chosen the right path, and you made 2016 an awesome year for me, amid all the turmoil and personal tragedy, I can still say I’ve followed a dream and made it happen!!

You were all there every step of the way!!

In 2017, barring any unforeseen circumstances, I plan 2 novels and perhaps another novella. The current novel project is about 25% done and should see completion in March. Today, however, is one for wrapping up the previous year and planning for the next!

Happy New Year my friends!

Drinks are on me!

The post A Brief Wrap-Up Of 2016! appeared first on Author Christopher Motz.

I’m not here to talk about those well-known gems we’ve all seen and loved for the last few decades, I’m talking about the ones that went so far under the radar (and for good reason) that no one seems to recall them ever happening in the first place. I’m not just talking about the billion “Children Of The Corn” sequels, or the mess that is “The Mangler,” I’m talking about the stuff that no one seems to recall ever happening in the first place.

We can start with “Carrie.” Everyone remembers the original film from 1976 with Sissy Spacek and Piper Laurie, but how many of you remember the awful sequel released in 1999? Our main character just happens to share a father with Carrie White, and has the same ability to burn shit down.  “The Rage-Carrie 2” has since been destroyed by film critics, even with the somewhat cool return to the burned-out school from the first film, and Amy Irving reprising her role as Sue Snell. Even worse was the 2002 television remake that was meant to act as a backdoor pilot for a Carrie television series!! Well, if you’ve seen it (and I’m sorry if you have) is there anyone who wanted to see more? The ending was obviously completely different, in which Carrie White lives to fight another day…the series would have followed her trials in helping others with strange abilities. Luckily, this never materialized. Finally in 2013, we got the final piece of this puzzle, with a re-imagined film starring Chloe Grace Moretz and Julianne Moore…and even though it’s pretty close to the source material and has a decent cast, this one still pales in comparison to the original.

“Salem’s Lot” was originally release as a television mini-series in 1979, and although parts looks a bit dated today, and some of the acting is questionable, it still carries enough scares and creepy moments to be one of King’s better TV adaptations. The problem arises in the awful and nearly unknown sequel released in 1987, “A Return To Salem’s Lot.” In this gem, we return to the town from the first film…and that’s about it. The story crossover is laughable…just because vampires still exist in town, does not make this worth checking out. No one cared then, and no one cares now. This brings us to the final television adaptation in 2004, another 2 part miniseries, this time featuring Rob Lowe, James Cromwell, and Donald Sutherland. The story remained mostly the same, but the timeline was modern, bringing the tale to a new audience. I’m not in love with it, I don’t hate it, it’s just there. I’m only mentioning it here because I feel that most people who’ve seen the original didn’t even know this one existed.

How can we forget “Firestarter” from 1984, starring a young and cute-as-hell Drew Barrymore? The special effects look pretty rotten by today’s standards, and even the original can’t be saved from being a bit dull at times. However, in comparison, the first film is a gem compared to the rotten 2002 sequel miniseries, “Rekindled.” Forget that the acting is pretty piss-poor to begin with, even with screen legends Dennis Hopper and Malcolm McDowell along for the ride, but it’s hard to overlook that they changed most of the story from the first film entirely. How is John Rainbird alive? How? This update / remake / hot mess was a Sci-Fi Channel original, and fails on every level.

For fear of making this post a novel-length work, here are just a few other atrocities you may have missed over the years:

Pet Sematary Two – starring Ed Furlong and Clancy Brown, 1992. Pretty much a sequel in name only.

Let us not forget that “Sometimes They Come Back” was followed by two pointless sequels creatively titled Sometimes They Come Back Again and Sometimes They Come Back For More in 1996 and 1998.

Okay, enough. Obviously everyone wants a piece of the action and a chance to update or re-imagine a Stephen King story, but there have been so many fails over the years, it’s hard to know what to look forward to anymore. The next year or two seems to be filled with new adaptations, both on the big screen and on television, including a re-made It, a television version of The Mist, a TV tie-in series for the film The Dark Tower, the first adaptation of Gerald’s Game, and a television version of the Mr. Mercedes trilogy. Seems there’s no end in sight for Stephen King films…but how many of them will become forgotten? Time will tell.

The post A Few Words On Stephen King Films appeared first on Author Christopher Motz.

Rest. Those moments we take for ourselves in between being responsible adults. There’s simply never enough time in the day to accomplish everything we’d like to, yet we NEED to for fear of burning out. Especially this time of year when everything goes into overdrive.

How the hell do some of these writers do it? I see some of those authors in my genre, big and small, cranking out books, anthologies, blogs, stories…all while attending conventions, book signings, etc. It’s hard enough for me to get a good 3,000 word day, and by the time I’ve managed to put that together, it’s time for bed, work, socializing…showering! I love doing what I do, but it’s very easy to fall into a trap with writing, and with trying to establish yourself in a place that’s already packed to the ceiling with others who are on various steps of the same ladder.

“The Darkening” came pretty quickly, simply because it was around for so long. “The Farm” was written in a matter of weeks. The newest novel will take me about 3 months from beginning to end…3 months!! It may not seem like a lot, but that’s 3 months where certain other aspects of my daily life are going to have to sit in the back and be quiet. Once that book is sitting happily on Amazon, or in your hands as a pretty little paperback, it’s time to not only promote the hell out of that work (and the ones that came before it), but also start the next 2 or 3 projects so that I have a steady stream of writing on the market!

It’s not an easy feat. Luckily the ideas are coming fast and furious…there’s not much of a chance I’ll be drying up any time soon, but there are going to be periods of time where I need to disconnect and reboot the old computer. Burning out is the last thing I want to do, especially as I slowly build a readership of folks who are waiting for the next book.

With that said, enjoy your holidays any way to you see fit…mine will consist of a ridiculous amount of food and an even more ridiculous amount of alcohol! I’ll still be around for the next couple weeks, but in a somewhat diminished capacity as I forge ahead with the new book!

Take care of yourselves!

The post Give It A Rest appeared first on Author Christopher Motz.

So, as I was cruising around on Facebook the other day, as I’m known to do – way too much, I might add – a memory popped up, and at first I had no idea what it was. Turns out in 2012 I had a movie review blog that I’d completely forgotten about. Amidst a few terrible reviews of films that I wouldn’t recommend to anyone, I found a brief discussion regarding my novel and what its status was at that time. I discussed some of this in the back of “The Darkening”, but it was rather interesting to see a slightly younger me discussing the plot and theme and lack of knowledge on how to publish.

Below is the blog post from 2012 – to any fans of “The Darkening”, this may be interesting…or not! You decide!

***

My First Novel – A Brief Discussion – Part 1

(December 2012)

*****

Well, as anyone here who knows me will attest, I haven’t really said much at all about this novel I’ve been babbling about for the past year.  I’m not one to talk about my work, because in my head I don’t think I truly accomplish what I intend when I start putting pen to paper.  Not to mention that my grammar and punctuation can be downright scary at times.  I’m guessing that’s why editors exist, but what the hell do I know?  The world of publishing scares the shit out of me!

The history of my novel goes back to my final days in High School, right around 1998.  I had always wanted to be a writer, and I was always tossing ideas around for one story or another.  This was years after I had started writing songs for bands I was in at the time.  Let’s just say that writing some bad lyrics about sex demons, fast cars, bad relationships, and magical realms with fictional battles is MUCH different than trying to put together a full story, one that makes sense and is actually interesting to the reader.  I’m still not sure if I accomplished that or not.

So, the idea came out of a horrible dream I had about one of our local buildings that had a reputation for being haunted.  It had been abandoned for years, and everyone had their own version of what awful things had taken place there, although history will tell you that nothing had ever happened there of real importance.  Every town has a few spots like this, and no one cares if the stories are true are not, as long as the proper mystique is built up for the location.

The dream starred little old me, alone and scared inside this building at night.  As the dream went on it became more sinister, and as I walked around looking for an exit, the walls around me began to crumble.  Behind the walls pulsed the veins and organs of a living being – the building was alive and aware of my presence, and it wanted to take me to my own version of Oz.

The walls eventually faded and I could see the outside clearly – people passed by, cars drove up the street, stray dogs sniffed around in the gutter for scraps of food – yet no one knew I was there.  I could look out and see what as once my world, but I knew that I was no longer in our world, but some other world where I was forever trapped in an invisible cage.  I was scared shitless, but it was then that the idea for my book truly began.  I knew as far back as 1998 that my work would incorporate different realities, different worlds, different versions of people within those worlds.  Back then it sounded crazy, but in the years it has taken me to sit down and decide to write the thing, the idea itself is no longer a very new one.

The idea of parallel universes has existed in theory and in fiction for a very long time.  Stephen King is possibly the best example of this.  His “Dark Tower” series is what really made me initially want to explore that kind of story.  The mythology he created in those books is the linchpin for everything else he has ever written.  Another of my favorite authors, Brian Keene, has also established a very cool and very cohesive mythology behind his writing.  Both of these authors have the same idea of a ‘multiverse’ and both have their own way of expanding on it.  The television show “Fringe” also deals with multiple realities and different versions of a single character existing in versions of each one and possibly in different times within those realities.  Complicated shit when you get right down to it, but the story lines for such ideas are infinite.  I’m adding my ‘multiverse’ to this ever-expanding idea and hope I’ve done so in a way that not only makes sense, but also has some original ideas that haven’t been used before.

At 388 pages, my novel, originally titled “Through The Veil” and later changed to “Grayworld”, has bounced around in my head for a very long time, before a lot of these ideas were popularized, but hey, you snooze you lose.  The original title stuck for years, only being changed at the last minute because it no longer suited the book.  The new title I liked for a week or so before I decided I didn’t like that one either.  Titling a book seems to be harder than writing most of it!

The manuscript, which was only about 125 pages long in 1999, introduced my mythology and some of the characters I wanted to explore, but life kept getting in the way.  It sat untouched for a long time before I went back and decided to give it another shot.  This was in 2004.  I took the 125 pages I already had, re-wrote most of it, added some characters, expanded on my mythology, and worked my way up to 170 nearly new pages.

Then it sat again!

As time passed,I became more and more scared that my vision was already being done elsewhere, and that I didn’t have much to add.  Once I got over that, and realized that pretty much every author out there has ‘borrowed’ ideas from someone else, I said “Fuck it!” and decided to continue anyway.

How do you format a manuscript?  Get an agent or publisher?  No fucking idea – I’m still nowhere near 100% sure how it all works, and for a long time I wouldn’t write because of this.  I didn’t want to write something and then have no idea at all what to do with it!

Eventually I learned enough – not nearly enough to be confident in starting the process rolling, but confident enough to finally finish it.  I finally did just that in October of this year!  At just under 100,000 words, this became my first completed novel.  It was like giving birth –  and I’m saying that having no fucking idea what I’m talking about, but let’s just say it wasn’t easy!

Formatted properly and safely tucked away in my manuscript box, I was then thrilled when the above-mentioned author, Brian Keene, offered a service to new authors, where he would read your book, edit it for story, give some ideas, and send it back with an idea of what to do next.  Not many authors take the time out of their own busy schedule to offer such a service, and I jumped on it once.  Just to say that Brian Keene has read my book is very cool – unless it comes back to my house with a letter telling me to never write again, that my story is awful, characters bland, and my mythology about as interesting as dryer lint.

So anyway, there’s just a bit of an idea of the history of this damn thing.  It was nearly 15 years in the making, and I honestly hope that Mr. Keene at least thinks that this thing has some merit.  If not, I guess I’d better start thinking about another line of work.

Garbage man sounds good!

C.

Keep reading for Part 2 if you care at all about my silly little book.  If not, then feel free to continue with your copy of the “Martha Stewart Story.”  Intriguing to say the least!

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