C. Robert Cales's Blog: ScaryBob
August 8, 2015
zombies and aliens
Any reader who has enjoyed either of my novels already knows what I'm about to tell you. I'm a horror writer who creates paranormal thrillers. That I am. I'm also a gamer. I've killed way more than my share of zombies and aliens. After all that virtual combat I will offer these thoughts.
Zombies are stupid. Stay on your feet, don't get cornered and don't get surrounded. A gun might be handy, but you have to go for the head shot. Otherwise run.
Aliens carry guns. Big guns. They plan and they have really bad attitudes.
Rest assured. When I'm not writing I'm defeating the hordes somewhere in the universe and you may sleep well because of it.
Zombies are stupid. Stay on your feet, don't get cornered and don't get surrounded. A gun might be handy, but you have to go for the head shot. Otherwise run.
Aliens carry guns. Big guns. They plan and they have really bad attitudes.
Rest assured. When I'm not writing I'm defeating the hordes somewhere in the universe and you may sleep well because of it.
February 19, 2015
Ognian Georgiev interviews ScaryBob
Interview with Ognian Georgiev
1. Robert, what will readers find inside The Bookseller?
Across from Boston Common, nestled into the corner of a cobblestone mall, sits The Bookseller, a bookstore owned by a lovable rare book dealer and his wife, who runs a coffee parlor inside the store. The parlor is the morning greeting place for business people from around the mall where the complementary coffee is hot and delicious, the croissants are a quarter and the lively banter is free. George and Elizabeth lead a happy life surrounded by many friends. Their happiness is about to be shattered by a violent South American drug cartel with a new, high tech process for smuggling cocaine.
2. How did you decide to write the book?
I like to explain to readers that I was born with a triple dose of imagination. With no siblings to provide entertainment it flourished and quickly became my constant companion, always ready to take me away to unexplored worlds. At the tender age of ten I became addicted to the horror genre and when I was about sixteen my imagination started demanding an outlet. That’s when I decided to pursue the writing craft.
I tinkered with science fiction and political intrigue, but nothing was firing up my mind. Undaunted, I continued working toward the objective, sometimes simply honing my descriptive skills on random scenes absent of plot and character. When I wasn’t working on becoming a writer I was feeding my addiction to horror. I was driven to watch any movie with the slightest chance of delivering the next big scare, but much of what Hollywood was producing was remake and sequel dribble. There were so many times that I left the theater filled with disappointment and regret for wasting my money. I was leaving one such poor excuse for a scary movie on one particular summer afternoon. I left the theater grumbling to myself. Deep inside I knew I could create a better story. That was when I witnessed a three-way collision between my imagination, my love of horror and my need to write.
Writing The Bookseller wasn’t as much of a decision as it was a continuation of my imagination to create completely new and original stories. Any thought process affecting it took place years ago when I decided to give my invisible companion the freedom to invent and develop with very little overriding conscious control.
3. What was the greatest challenge during the writing process?
Under normal circumstances my imagination does all the work. In the work of story creation my input is limited to the basic premise. Idea in, story out, that’s how it works. I deliver my premise and then check back periodically to watch the short film clips that have been produced for me. After that I’m just a scribe doing my best to show readers what I’m being shown. So imagine my surprise when I was told that I had to speak and think like a rare book dealer. That required me to do a significant amount of research and that was a couple big steps away from my normal idea in, story out process.
4. Tell us something more about your main character. Is he/she close to someone in your real life?
George Saunders has a fascination with the written word that began when he read his first book and never faded. When he was young he carried a small diary where he kept a record of the books he’d read, a practice that created some friction with the other boys, who were more interested in bugs, snakes and baseball. There were a few black eyes and split lip or two until he decided to read up on self defense. After that the tide of respect turned his way. In high school his intelligence and accumulated knowledge became a valued asset among athletes on the cusp of scholastic disqualification. His tutorship saved more than one sport season from disaster. In college he studied classical literature and fell in love with Elizabeth Stratton. That summer the two of them were inseparable and before the snow fell he asked Elizabeth’s father for her hand in marriage. The bookstore across from Boston Common was a wedding present from his father-in-law thirty years before the story begins.
My imagination is far too active to pattern characters after real people I know. I create characters as effortlessly as some people slip on ice. Besides, I don’t know anyone as well educated as George.
5. How long did it take you to finish the story and publish it?
I began teaching myself to write by studying the works of my unwitting mentors and holding up their best as standards. I was completely anal about the quality of the story because it was my absolute intention to give something back to the horror genre. The process of teaching myself to write and creating my first novel took eighteen years. My second novel, from inception to completion took about five years. The second edition of The Bookseller took about three months. I suppose I’m getting faster, but speed has never been my focus. I’m more in tune with dynamic, intriguing plot and engaging characters with depth and life. I think I’m simply too meticulous about the story to put much of a time standard to it.
When I finished The Bookseller I had a small circle of readers waiting patiently, so I had fifty numbered, limited edition copies created and then turned my attention toward traditional publishing. During the next few months I was reminded of the lesson from my Devil Glass marketing days. Traditional publishers will not talk to a new writer unless they’re represented by an agent and an agent will not talk to a new writer. It’s a catch-22. Eventually I concluded that the effort was going nowhere, again. That was when I made a critical decision and started my own ebook publishing company, ScaryBob Productions, LLC. It was my way of maneuvering around what I saw as a major dysfunction in the publishing industry. I’ve positioned myself to be available to readers with digital devices all over the world. Now the challenge is to introduce myself to those readers. That introduction is the driver behind this interview.
6. Share some insights about your other novel, Devil Glass.
Devil Glass was a labor of love. From the beginning it was my absolute intent to create a story worthy of being my contribution to the horror genre. It was my vehicle for becoming a writer. It was originally a short story that I kept rewriting. It didn’t have the emotional punch I wanted and after completing the third rewrite I was no happier with it. It finally hit me. The story needed more character development, and at sixty-eight pages already, it was obvious that I had to write a novel. That was a sobering conclusion and I immediately understood my need for help. That was when I selected my two unwitting mentors, Stephen King and Anne Rice. Stephen taught me story construction, timing and suspense while Anne provided lessons on character development. They both gave me strong, vividly detailed characters, but it was Stephen who demonstrated how to pull the reader in with emotional attachment. I still remember Stu Redman and Larry Underwood from The Stand. They were my friends and when they parted in the desert to pursue their individual assignments Stephen broke my heart by telling me they would never see each other again. Agh! The agony! I was going to lose one of my buds. One of them was going to buy the farm and it took me days to find out who it was. The magic Anne Rice performed was no less impressive. She created the vampire Lestat, a blood thirsty, emotionless killer and then made readers fall in love with him. He became our hero as he drank the blood of evildoers. That can only happen with masterful development of the character.
Writing Devil Glass was pure joy, marketing not so much. I mentioned agents previously. The honest agent works hard to sell a story because it’s the only way to make money. However, there is another form of agent, the one who charges the writer fees for everything from reading and editing to envelopes and postage stamps. The Horror Writer’s Association calls them scam agents because they make their money through fees and have no strong incentive to sell the work. Yeah, one of them found me before I found out about them. Worse yet, Devil Glass slipped into the clutches of an abusive Print On Demand publisher where it languished without the nationwide promotion promised. My first assignment as Creative Director at ScaryBob Productions was to break that smoke and mirrors contract. I recovered the publishing rights to Devil Glass, but only after I fought a war in the editorial columns of newspapers across the country, but that’s another story. That publisher is still out there, waiting for the next unsuspecting author, but they’ve changed their name several times, so overt warnings to fledgling writers would be of no use. In lieu of that warning I will offer my advice. Read the entire contract and if you don’t understand it, take it to somebody who will.
7. Who are you?
I’m ScaryBob.
My wife and I moved into a beautiful condo in Bowling Green, OH. The huge master bedroom was a loft design with double windows on the stairway landing. Mary voiced her desire to have our bedroom downstairs and it took me about that long to claim the loft as my writing and video game room. My claim stuck, but even more surprising was that she left the decorating to a horror writer. The landing windows provided an abundance of light, but it was a dark place with gargoyles, hanging plants and dark pictures. It was my comfort zone, the place where I ruled.
One weekend two of our granddaughters, about 9 and 11, came to stay. At some point during their visit they were on the landing under the double windows, on the very threshold of my dark kingdom, playing some game marked by much whispering. I took note of their presence and then went back to the Playstation, where I was painting the ground with alien blood.
Eventually it came time for them to leave and we drove them home. We kissed them goodbye in front of their house, waved to their parents and pulled away. I hadn’t driven very far when Mary looked over at me and said that she had something to tell me, but I had to swear that the information she was about to divulge would never cross my lips. She had promised the girls to keep their secret. I crossed my heart and pledged to take the information to my grave. After securing my promise she explained that the girls had been playing a made-up game on the landing under the double windows. It was a game in which they were protecting the world from a horror known as Grandpa Evil. Oh, my God, I howled with laughter. I loved it. I wanted to use it, but I had sworn to hold the secret. Shortly thereafter my imagination rewarded me for my integrity and ScaryBob was born.
Sorry Girls. Some secrets demand to be shared.
8. What are your writing habits?
In that period when I was teaching myself to write my habits were very structured. I wrote every night from 7:30 to 9:00. I would first read over the previous few pages before moving on to write fresh material. Any given section was reread multiple times and each time there were minor tweaks and adjustments. It was like a rolling editorial process. Years later my routine is much less structured. I still work at writing every day, but now the time slot is somewhat fluid.
I’ve mentioned my imagination, right? I have come to believe that the entire tale is constructed and stored in some corner of my mind by my imagination, which then meters it out to me as I write. Occasionally I take a wrong step when I’m working, something that threatens Its master plan. When it happens I get shut down flat with the dreaded writer’s block. I’ve learned to search the recent material for the misstep. I always find my mistake and when it’s corrected the creative flow always returns. When you think about it, that’s just a little creepy. Maybe I’ve been possessed by an alien ghost with a deep desire to make readers sleep with the lights on.
Are you satisfied with the sales of your book?
I’m waiting patiently for the uptick. The truth is I’m just starting. Devil Glass and the first edition of The Bookseller have been available for some time, but there has always been something wrong with the equation. With the release of the second edition of The Bookseller I suspect things will change. This interview is part of my end game. I’m introducing myself to readers and offering them a look inside the imagination that, at times, leaves me stunned.
What are you doing to promote your book?
The Bookseller deserves nationwide promotion in the mass media, but I could never afford the cost of such a program, so I turn to social media focused on readers and writers, such as Goodreads. I’ll use interviews like this one to introduce myself to the world of readers, tell them of my imagination and invite them to sample its prowess. The truth is easily discovered with a mouse click. The preface to The Bookseller beckons to readers waiting for the next story to rock their world.
When will we see your next novel, Reincarnology?
I was on track to have the story completed by the end of 2014, but in October I met Rachel Verdi, the charming woman behind OddModicum. I nicknamed her the Voodoo Queen of Editing. Our collusion produced the second edition of The Bookseller. That temporarily delayed work on my third novel. I expect to spend a little time on this launch and then I will be back at it. Maybe Reincarnology will be available toward the end of 2015.
What is your daily job besides writing? Does it contribute to your creativity?
I no longer work, but for years I was a quality assurance engineer in the defense industry where I made my contribution to the M1 series battle tank. After that I built Jeeps in the same capacity. What I can say about my work life is that I tapped into the same imagination, hence creativity that drove me as a writer. It developed quality systems as effortlessly as it created stories. With my working days behind me I spend my time writing and playing violent video games where blood flows freely, whether it be alien or zombie. Does all the killing help my creativity? I like to think so. The games keep my mind flexible and young.
You know it’s been a good day of killing zombies when there’s nowhere to step except on rotting flesh and oozing brain matter.
As a specialist in horror thriller, which are the three key points of the genre to keep the reader turning page after page?
I had two elements right off the top of my head. I had to look around for the third one. Plot and character are two distinct elements, which by themselves don’t hold much explosive potential. All plot and no character development is flat and lifeless, all character development and no plot is boring, but somewhere in the middle magic happens. Those were the two that were obvious to me. The third one took some thought, but after pondering the question I concluded that the third leg of the stool had to be suspense. It takes an intriguing, well thought out plot, well defined characters offering an emotional bond, and gripping suspense to keep readers turning pages well past their bedtimes.
If you could ask yourself one question in this interview, what would it be?
Clearly, your writing process is a little different from what the average reader thinks. Do you use outlines, notes or any other aids that seem stereotypical of writers?
I use no aids that a reader might expect to see. In On Writing Stephen King wrote about outlines. He said that creating an outline was like building railroad tracks. Those rails force your creative locomotive along a predetermined path, which stifles creativity. When I begin a story it’s like I’m taking a road trip between New York and Los Angeles. I know where I’m going, but I don’t know which roads I’m taking until my imagination shows me. It’s not uncommon for me to be surprised by the dialog or actions of my characters. I’ve had minor characters step forward and offer something truly unique to the story. Who am I to reject such initiative. It’s very entertaining, except when it’s not. Sometimes sacrifices are demanded. I try to resist by pointing out that a great deal of time was spent on character development or I really like the character or I don’t want to. My objections are always ignored and the story is always better for it.
1. Robert, what will readers find inside The Bookseller?
Across from Boston Common, nestled into the corner of a cobblestone mall, sits The Bookseller, a bookstore owned by a lovable rare book dealer and his wife, who runs a coffee parlor inside the store. The parlor is the morning greeting place for business people from around the mall where the complementary coffee is hot and delicious, the croissants are a quarter and the lively banter is free. George and Elizabeth lead a happy life surrounded by many friends. Their happiness is about to be shattered by a violent South American drug cartel with a new, high tech process for smuggling cocaine.
2. How did you decide to write the book?
I like to explain to readers that I was born with a triple dose of imagination. With no siblings to provide entertainment it flourished and quickly became my constant companion, always ready to take me away to unexplored worlds. At the tender age of ten I became addicted to the horror genre and when I was about sixteen my imagination started demanding an outlet. That’s when I decided to pursue the writing craft.
I tinkered with science fiction and political intrigue, but nothing was firing up my mind. Undaunted, I continued working toward the objective, sometimes simply honing my descriptive skills on random scenes absent of plot and character. When I wasn’t working on becoming a writer I was feeding my addiction to horror. I was driven to watch any movie with the slightest chance of delivering the next big scare, but much of what Hollywood was producing was remake and sequel dribble. There were so many times that I left the theater filled with disappointment and regret for wasting my money. I was leaving one such poor excuse for a scary movie on one particular summer afternoon. I left the theater grumbling to myself. Deep inside I knew I could create a better story. That was when I witnessed a three-way collision between my imagination, my love of horror and my need to write.
Writing The Bookseller wasn’t as much of a decision as it was a continuation of my imagination to create completely new and original stories. Any thought process affecting it took place years ago when I decided to give my invisible companion the freedom to invent and develop with very little overriding conscious control.
3. What was the greatest challenge during the writing process?
Under normal circumstances my imagination does all the work. In the work of story creation my input is limited to the basic premise. Idea in, story out, that’s how it works. I deliver my premise and then check back periodically to watch the short film clips that have been produced for me. After that I’m just a scribe doing my best to show readers what I’m being shown. So imagine my surprise when I was told that I had to speak and think like a rare book dealer. That required me to do a significant amount of research and that was a couple big steps away from my normal idea in, story out process.
4. Tell us something more about your main character. Is he/she close to someone in your real life?
George Saunders has a fascination with the written word that began when he read his first book and never faded. When he was young he carried a small diary where he kept a record of the books he’d read, a practice that created some friction with the other boys, who were more interested in bugs, snakes and baseball. There were a few black eyes and split lip or two until he decided to read up on self defense. After that the tide of respect turned his way. In high school his intelligence and accumulated knowledge became a valued asset among athletes on the cusp of scholastic disqualification. His tutorship saved more than one sport season from disaster. In college he studied classical literature and fell in love with Elizabeth Stratton. That summer the two of them were inseparable and before the snow fell he asked Elizabeth’s father for her hand in marriage. The bookstore across from Boston Common was a wedding present from his father-in-law thirty years before the story begins.
My imagination is far too active to pattern characters after real people I know. I create characters as effortlessly as some people slip on ice. Besides, I don’t know anyone as well educated as George.
5. How long did it take you to finish the story and publish it?
I began teaching myself to write by studying the works of my unwitting mentors and holding up their best as standards. I was completely anal about the quality of the story because it was my absolute intention to give something back to the horror genre. The process of teaching myself to write and creating my first novel took eighteen years. My second novel, from inception to completion took about five years. The second edition of The Bookseller took about three months. I suppose I’m getting faster, but speed has never been my focus. I’m more in tune with dynamic, intriguing plot and engaging characters with depth and life. I think I’m simply too meticulous about the story to put much of a time standard to it.
When I finished The Bookseller I had a small circle of readers waiting patiently, so I had fifty numbered, limited edition copies created and then turned my attention toward traditional publishing. During the next few months I was reminded of the lesson from my Devil Glass marketing days. Traditional publishers will not talk to a new writer unless they’re represented by an agent and an agent will not talk to a new writer. It’s a catch-22. Eventually I concluded that the effort was going nowhere, again. That was when I made a critical decision and started my own ebook publishing company, ScaryBob Productions, LLC. It was my way of maneuvering around what I saw as a major dysfunction in the publishing industry. I’ve positioned myself to be available to readers with digital devices all over the world. Now the challenge is to introduce myself to those readers. That introduction is the driver behind this interview.
6. Share some insights about your other novel, Devil Glass.
Devil Glass was a labor of love. From the beginning it was my absolute intent to create a story worthy of being my contribution to the horror genre. It was my vehicle for becoming a writer. It was originally a short story that I kept rewriting. It didn’t have the emotional punch I wanted and after completing the third rewrite I was no happier with it. It finally hit me. The story needed more character development, and at sixty-eight pages already, it was obvious that I had to write a novel. That was a sobering conclusion and I immediately understood my need for help. That was when I selected my two unwitting mentors, Stephen King and Anne Rice. Stephen taught me story construction, timing and suspense while Anne provided lessons on character development. They both gave me strong, vividly detailed characters, but it was Stephen who demonstrated how to pull the reader in with emotional attachment. I still remember Stu Redman and Larry Underwood from The Stand. They were my friends and when they parted in the desert to pursue their individual assignments Stephen broke my heart by telling me they would never see each other again. Agh! The agony! I was going to lose one of my buds. One of them was going to buy the farm and it took me days to find out who it was. The magic Anne Rice performed was no less impressive. She created the vampire Lestat, a blood thirsty, emotionless killer and then made readers fall in love with him. He became our hero as he drank the blood of evildoers. That can only happen with masterful development of the character.
Writing Devil Glass was pure joy, marketing not so much. I mentioned agents previously. The honest agent works hard to sell a story because it’s the only way to make money. However, there is another form of agent, the one who charges the writer fees for everything from reading and editing to envelopes and postage stamps. The Horror Writer’s Association calls them scam agents because they make their money through fees and have no strong incentive to sell the work. Yeah, one of them found me before I found out about them. Worse yet, Devil Glass slipped into the clutches of an abusive Print On Demand publisher where it languished without the nationwide promotion promised. My first assignment as Creative Director at ScaryBob Productions was to break that smoke and mirrors contract. I recovered the publishing rights to Devil Glass, but only after I fought a war in the editorial columns of newspapers across the country, but that’s another story. That publisher is still out there, waiting for the next unsuspecting author, but they’ve changed their name several times, so overt warnings to fledgling writers would be of no use. In lieu of that warning I will offer my advice. Read the entire contract and if you don’t understand it, take it to somebody who will.
7. Who are you?
I’m ScaryBob.
My wife and I moved into a beautiful condo in Bowling Green, OH. The huge master bedroom was a loft design with double windows on the stairway landing. Mary voiced her desire to have our bedroom downstairs and it took me about that long to claim the loft as my writing and video game room. My claim stuck, but even more surprising was that she left the decorating to a horror writer. The landing windows provided an abundance of light, but it was a dark place with gargoyles, hanging plants and dark pictures. It was my comfort zone, the place where I ruled.
One weekend two of our granddaughters, about 9 and 11, came to stay. At some point during their visit they were on the landing under the double windows, on the very threshold of my dark kingdom, playing some game marked by much whispering. I took note of their presence and then went back to the Playstation, where I was painting the ground with alien blood.
Eventually it came time for them to leave and we drove them home. We kissed them goodbye in front of their house, waved to their parents and pulled away. I hadn’t driven very far when Mary looked over at me and said that she had something to tell me, but I had to swear that the information she was about to divulge would never cross my lips. She had promised the girls to keep their secret. I crossed my heart and pledged to take the information to my grave. After securing my promise she explained that the girls had been playing a made-up game on the landing under the double windows. It was a game in which they were protecting the world from a horror known as Grandpa Evil. Oh, my God, I howled with laughter. I loved it. I wanted to use it, but I had sworn to hold the secret. Shortly thereafter my imagination rewarded me for my integrity and ScaryBob was born.
Sorry Girls. Some secrets demand to be shared.
8. What are your writing habits?
In that period when I was teaching myself to write my habits were very structured. I wrote every night from 7:30 to 9:00. I would first read over the previous few pages before moving on to write fresh material. Any given section was reread multiple times and each time there were minor tweaks and adjustments. It was like a rolling editorial process. Years later my routine is much less structured. I still work at writing every day, but now the time slot is somewhat fluid.
I’ve mentioned my imagination, right? I have come to believe that the entire tale is constructed and stored in some corner of my mind by my imagination, which then meters it out to me as I write. Occasionally I take a wrong step when I’m working, something that threatens Its master plan. When it happens I get shut down flat with the dreaded writer’s block. I’ve learned to search the recent material for the misstep. I always find my mistake and when it’s corrected the creative flow always returns. When you think about it, that’s just a little creepy. Maybe I’ve been possessed by an alien ghost with a deep desire to make readers sleep with the lights on.
Are you satisfied with the sales of your book?
I’m waiting patiently for the uptick. The truth is I’m just starting. Devil Glass and the first edition of The Bookseller have been available for some time, but there has always been something wrong with the equation. With the release of the second edition of The Bookseller I suspect things will change. This interview is part of my end game. I’m introducing myself to readers and offering them a look inside the imagination that, at times, leaves me stunned.
What are you doing to promote your book?
The Bookseller deserves nationwide promotion in the mass media, but I could never afford the cost of such a program, so I turn to social media focused on readers and writers, such as Goodreads. I’ll use interviews like this one to introduce myself to the world of readers, tell them of my imagination and invite them to sample its prowess. The truth is easily discovered with a mouse click. The preface to The Bookseller beckons to readers waiting for the next story to rock their world.
When will we see your next novel, Reincarnology?
I was on track to have the story completed by the end of 2014, but in October I met Rachel Verdi, the charming woman behind OddModicum. I nicknamed her the Voodoo Queen of Editing. Our collusion produced the second edition of The Bookseller. That temporarily delayed work on my third novel. I expect to spend a little time on this launch and then I will be back at it. Maybe Reincarnology will be available toward the end of 2015.
What is your daily job besides writing? Does it contribute to your creativity?
I no longer work, but for years I was a quality assurance engineer in the defense industry where I made my contribution to the M1 series battle tank. After that I built Jeeps in the same capacity. What I can say about my work life is that I tapped into the same imagination, hence creativity that drove me as a writer. It developed quality systems as effortlessly as it created stories. With my working days behind me I spend my time writing and playing violent video games where blood flows freely, whether it be alien or zombie. Does all the killing help my creativity? I like to think so. The games keep my mind flexible and young.
You know it’s been a good day of killing zombies when there’s nowhere to step except on rotting flesh and oozing brain matter.
As a specialist in horror thriller, which are the three key points of the genre to keep the reader turning page after page?
I had two elements right off the top of my head. I had to look around for the third one. Plot and character are two distinct elements, which by themselves don’t hold much explosive potential. All plot and no character development is flat and lifeless, all character development and no plot is boring, but somewhere in the middle magic happens. Those were the two that were obvious to me. The third one took some thought, but after pondering the question I concluded that the third leg of the stool had to be suspense. It takes an intriguing, well thought out plot, well defined characters offering an emotional bond, and gripping suspense to keep readers turning pages well past their bedtimes.
If you could ask yourself one question in this interview, what would it be?
Clearly, your writing process is a little different from what the average reader thinks. Do you use outlines, notes or any other aids that seem stereotypical of writers?
I use no aids that a reader might expect to see. In On Writing Stephen King wrote about outlines. He said that creating an outline was like building railroad tracks. Those rails force your creative locomotive along a predetermined path, which stifles creativity. When I begin a story it’s like I’m taking a road trip between New York and Los Angeles. I know where I’m going, but I don’t know which roads I’m taking until my imagination shows me. It’s not uncommon for me to be surprised by the dialog or actions of my characters. I’ve had minor characters step forward and offer something truly unique to the story. Who am I to reject such initiative. It’s very entertaining, except when it’s not. Sometimes sacrifices are demanded. I try to resist by pointing out that a great deal of time was spent on character development or I really like the character or I don’t want to. My objections are always ignored and the story is always better for it.
July 24, 2014
Meet My Character Blog Tour
Ben Starling. What a truly amazing person, Oxford educated, boxing champion, marine life advocate, author, and now I find out that he’s a photographer and artist, too! Seriously? Yeah, I’m afraid so. He’s making the rest of us look bad, very bad. Check him out here http://www.ben-starling.com and here https://www.facebook.com/ben.starling and here tonyriches.blogspot.co.uk/2014/07/gue...
Ben passed me the torch for Meet My Character Blog Tour. Thanks Ben.
On with the show.
1. What is the name of your character? Is he/she fictional or a historic person?
Jack Michaels is a fictional journalist working for CBS news, but his backstory is painted on the canvas of real history. The plot about the discovery of an alien technology circa 1625 is fictional. I hope.
2. When and where is the story set?
The major part of the story setting is contemporary, but the first chapter is circa 1625. Jack also details his own story with significant time spent in 1970.
3. What should we know about him?
Jack was at a journalist convention in Las Vegas when he was contacted by a stranger who claimed to be on the run from assassins. There was a four-hundred year old secret he had to give the world.
Jack has the secret. He must get it to the world, but he no longer knows who he can trust.
4. What is the main conflict? What is it that messed up his life?
Jack has discovered a four hundred year old secret. They already killed his source and thought they killed him. He’s missing from a murder scene and a detective with LVPD is looking for him. They want to arrest him. The assassin just wants to kill him.
5. What is the personal goal of the character?
Jack Michaels is sitting on the biggest story in the history of humanity and needs to get it to the world. The secret society that has been hiding the alien technology for nearly four hundred years will do anything to stop their secret from being exposed. Jack is staying one step ahead of the Las Vegas cops and the assassins. He clearly understands that he no longer knows who he can trust.
6. Is there a working title for this novel, and can we read more about it?
I was forced to invoke the new word clause in my Poetic License. I coined a new word for the title, Reincarnology.
This blog tour is an introduction to Jack Michaels, CBS journalist, retired. Within that introduction readers will get some insight into Jack through his own words.
7. When can we expect the book to be published?
Before throwing a Frisbee it’s prudent to avoid predicting its flight. It’s best to lead with watch this! My goal is to have the story finished by the end of the year. After that it’s only a matter of getting it formatted and added to the ScaryBob catalog.
Meet Jack Michaels, journalist, retired from CBS. Somebody just tried to kill him and they will continue because he has discovered their four hundred year old secret.
It’s difficult for me to know where to begin this story. I could start with the visit from a stranger, the man who told me he was over four hundred years old, the one who had a secret that had to be told. I could begin with the conversation I had with that haggard man dressed in tattered clothing, the one who described himself as a walking dead man. I could begin with the story of the last two hours of his life as we sat at the table in my Vegas hotel room, the room where my life almost ended as the last breath escaped from his lungs.
I could start with Las Vegas, but I might be perceived as a crackpot telling an unbelievable story. I cannot let that happen. The truth cannot be perceived as fiction, lost in the vastness of the written word and so I begin with my own story, because I am not so much different from any of you.
I was a typical baby-boomer kid. I grew up watching Howdy Doody, Mighty Mouse and Heckel & Jeckel. I remember the joy of my first Saturday Christmas. Cartoons and Christmas in one day was almost more fun than I could handle. Tearing the wrapping paper from a Christmas present while I watched Mighty Mouse defend his rodent brothers against cat thugs was the best life had to offer a four year old. I waited patiently for the next Saturday Christmas. I was seven when I learned the horror of leap year and its effect on the annual progression of established holidays. The next time my magic Saturday came around I was more interested in loosing my virginity.
That's the beginning of Jack's story.
As a journalist he has an obligation to the rest of the world to expose the secret.
They know he has their secret and he's a dead man when they find him.
Reincarnology coming soon.
The next author in the chain is my friend K. P. Merriweather. She loves writing fantasy, science fiction, psychological thrillers and her answers to writer’s block are trashy novels and video games. Kim will be posting her Meet My Character piece to her blog on Monday, August 4th at http://www.majestikmultimedia.com
If you’re late grabbing this chain forged by gifted writers go back and check out
Eva Vanrell at http://evavanrell.com/2014/07/14/meet... Oh, what a master storyteller she is, but don’t take my word for it.
ScaryBob
Ben passed me the torch for Meet My Character Blog Tour. Thanks Ben.
On with the show.
1. What is the name of your character? Is he/she fictional or a historic person?
Jack Michaels is a fictional journalist working for CBS news, but his backstory is painted on the canvas of real history. The plot about the discovery of an alien technology circa 1625 is fictional. I hope.
2. When and where is the story set?
The major part of the story setting is contemporary, but the first chapter is circa 1625. Jack also details his own story with significant time spent in 1970.
3. What should we know about him?
Jack was at a journalist convention in Las Vegas when he was contacted by a stranger who claimed to be on the run from assassins. There was a four-hundred year old secret he had to give the world.
Jack has the secret. He must get it to the world, but he no longer knows who he can trust.
4. What is the main conflict? What is it that messed up his life?
Jack has discovered a four hundred year old secret. They already killed his source and thought they killed him. He’s missing from a murder scene and a detective with LVPD is looking for him. They want to arrest him. The assassin just wants to kill him.
5. What is the personal goal of the character?
Jack Michaels is sitting on the biggest story in the history of humanity and needs to get it to the world. The secret society that has been hiding the alien technology for nearly four hundred years will do anything to stop their secret from being exposed. Jack is staying one step ahead of the Las Vegas cops and the assassins. He clearly understands that he no longer knows who he can trust.
6. Is there a working title for this novel, and can we read more about it?
I was forced to invoke the new word clause in my Poetic License. I coined a new word for the title, Reincarnology.
This blog tour is an introduction to Jack Michaels, CBS journalist, retired. Within that introduction readers will get some insight into Jack through his own words.
7. When can we expect the book to be published?
Before throwing a Frisbee it’s prudent to avoid predicting its flight. It’s best to lead with watch this! My goal is to have the story finished by the end of the year. After that it’s only a matter of getting it formatted and added to the ScaryBob catalog.
Meet Jack Michaels, journalist, retired from CBS. Somebody just tried to kill him and they will continue because he has discovered their four hundred year old secret.
It’s difficult for me to know where to begin this story. I could start with the visit from a stranger, the man who told me he was over four hundred years old, the one who had a secret that had to be told. I could begin with the conversation I had with that haggard man dressed in tattered clothing, the one who described himself as a walking dead man. I could begin with the story of the last two hours of his life as we sat at the table in my Vegas hotel room, the room where my life almost ended as the last breath escaped from his lungs.
I could start with Las Vegas, but I might be perceived as a crackpot telling an unbelievable story. I cannot let that happen. The truth cannot be perceived as fiction, lost in the vastness of the written word and so I begin with my own story, because I am not so much different from any of you.
I was a typical baby-boomer kid. I grew up watching Howdy Doody, Mighty Mouse and Heckel & Jeckel. I remember the joy of my first Saturday Christmas. Cartoons and Christmas in one day was almost more fun than I could handle. Tearing the wrapping paper from a Christmas present while I watched Mighty Mouse defend his rodent brothers against cat thugs was the best life had to offer a four year old. I waited patiently for the next Saturday Christmas. I was seven when I learned the horror of leap year and its effect on the annual progression of established holidays. The next time my magic Saturday came around I was more interested in loosing my virginity.
That's the beginning of Jack's story.
As a journalist he has an obligation to the rest of the world to expose the secret.
They know he has their secret and he's a dead man when they find him.
Reincarnology coming soon.
The next author in the chain is my friend K. P. Merriweather. She loves writing fantasy, science fiction, psychological thrillers and her answers to writer’s block are trashy novels and video games. Kim will be posting her Meet My Character piece to her blog on Monday, August 4th at http://www.majestikmultimedia.com
If you’re late grabbing this chain forged by gifted writers go back and check out
Eva Vanrell at http://evavanrell.com/2014/07/14/meet... Oh, what a master storyteller she is, but don’t take my word for it.
ScaryBob
July 13, 2014
My Writing Process Blog Tour
Ben Starling asked me to join the Writing Process Blog Tour, share my writing process. I will, but I want to mention Ben first. It’s difficult to read his bio without being impressed. Oxford educated, boxing champion, passionate about marine life and author. Ben, you’re making the rest of us look bad.
You can check Ben out at www.facebook.com/ben.starling.author
What am I working on?
My third novel, Reincarnology. The title is the slang for an alien technology discovered circa 1625. It’s a twelve hour process that produces a twenty-something clone who retains all memories. They’ve kept the secret for nearly four hundred years while they recreated themselves periodically, accumulating wealth, power, influence, developing secret technology. The existence of Reincarnology has been leaked to a journalist. If they can’t stop him they will end the need to keep the secret by killing all of us.
How does my work differ from others in its genre?
If someone were to read some of my scenes taken out of context they might think I write horror, but I don’t. Horror has a tendency to be plot driven with only enough character development to let the reader know who the zombies are eating.
My style of horror, if you insist on calling it that, is character driven with something creepy slithering around in the background.
It’s possible to shock or scare a reader with unexpected images of blood and gore, a body falling out of a closet or a sheet covered corpse in the morgue sitting up, but scare is fleeting.
Fear is different. It slips into the reader’s guts, almost unnoticed and begins growing slowly. The reader may be oblivious to the fear until it starts chewing and clawing its way out.
A writer cannot induce fear unless there is effective character development. Readers must meet characters offering an emotional bond. When the bond is accepted the door to fear pops open.
Why do I write what I do?
For that answer I need to introduce you to It. Apparently the off switch on the imagination pump malfunctioned and I received a triple dose before they shut the system down. That overdose of imagination is It.
I grew up an only child and with the absence of siblings to provide entertainment It flourished, becoming my lifelong companion, always ready to play whatever game.
The summer I turned ten my dad and I were going to the movies weekly. I saw many movies that summer, but I only remember the name of one of them, The Horror of Dracula. I didn’t make it through the entire movie. Somewhere in the midst of fangs to the throat, blood sucking, severed heads and stakes to the heart I reached my saturation point.
I asked my dad to take me out of the theater, which he did, but the strangest thing happened when I was back out in the summer sunshine. I looked back at that dark theater and it hit me. Getting the crap scared out of me had been great fun.
When I was about sixteen I turned to the writing craft. I considered making movies, but startup costs were prohibitive, even to my teenage mind. Pen and paper, on the other hand, were dirt cheap. Given my income level at sixteen I chose the less expensive path.
Writers are not born, they’re made through hard work and obsessive focus. My first efforts at writing produced nothing short of dribble. Oh God, it was awful. Yeah, the writing was bad, but It had a gun to my head and it was either my fingers or brains on the keyboard.
Given that kind of incentive I continued working at becoming a writer and when I wasn’t doing that I was feeding my addiction to horror.
Horror movies. There’s a boat load of crap out there.
I was leaving one such poor excuse for a scary movie, grumbling to myself that I could produce a better story. It was at that precise moment that I witnessed a three-way collision between my imagination, my need to write and my love of horror.
That’s the long answer to the original question. The short answer is that I love horror and I have an imagination with no off switch. If I don’t do something with the stuff I’ll get very sick. My imagination with no outlet would be a very scary thing.
How does my writing process work?
I’m into spooky stuff, but it’s possible that my writing process is the spookiest of all.
I start with a basic idea. With my first novel, Devil Glass, it was an ancient artifact with a doorway into another world populated by winged predators. With my second novel, The Bookseller, the basic idea was a reincarnating nonhuman spirit responsible for many of the great atrocities in history.
Basic idea, characters, I turn everything over to It. Periodically I watch the short film clips that have been prepared for me.
I have come to believe that the complete story is already written, stored in some file and is being metered out to me a bit at a time.
This is very entertaining except when it’s not. I’ve killed some good characters, but not all were by design. Sometimes a sacrifice is demanded.
I try to stand my ground. The character is too good to kill. I have too much work invested in the character. I like the character. My protests are always ignored and the story is always better for it.
I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I take a misstep that threatens Its master plan. When it happens I get introduced to a good case of writer’s block. I’ve learned to go back over the last couple pages, find my misstep and fix it. Once the correction has been made the creative flow returns.
That’s a snapshot of my writing process, but I need to say one more thing about It. When I read It is a real pain in the ass, always looking over my shoulder, weighing the plot, pointing out the missed opportunities and, of course there are always those places where It would have said it differently.
Maybe I’ve been possessed by an alien ghost, enslaved, forced to write by a thing that loves the notion of giving readers nightmares.
That’s a creepy thought.
My Writing Process Blog Tour continues with Michael Brookes on July 21. Michael is an author and a video game producer. He will explain his writing process on his blog at:
http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/
Over to you, Michael.
I’m also sending it back to our resident boxing champion, Ben Starling, for something new on July 21.
http://ben-starling.com/blog/
Back to you, Ben
ScaryBob
You can check Ben out at www.facebook.com/ben.starling.author
What am I working on?
My third novel, Reincarnology. The title is the slang for an alien technology discovered circa 1625. It’s a twelve hour process that produces a twenty-something clone who retains all memories. They’ve kept the secret for nearly four hundred years while they recreated themselves periodically, accumulating wealth, power, influence, developing secret technology. The existence of Reincarnology has been leaked to a journalist. If they can’t stop him they will end the need to keep the secret by killing all of us.
How does my work differ from others in its genre?
If someone were to read some of my scenes taken out of context they might think I write horror, but I don’t. Horror has a tendency to be plot driven with only enough character development to let the reader know who the zombies are eating.
My style of horror, if you insist on calling it that, is character driven with something creepy slithering around in the background.
It’s possible to shock or scare a reader with unexpected images of blood and gore, a body falling out of a closet or a sheet covered corpse in the morgue sitting up, but scare is fleeting.
Fear is different. It slips into the reader’s guts, almost unnoticed and begins growing slowly. The reader may be oblivious to the fear until it starts chewing and clawing its way out.
A writer cannot induce fear unless there is effective character development. Readers must meet characters offering an emotional bond. When the bond is accepted the door to fear pops open.
Why do I write what I do?
For that answer I need to introduce you to It. Apparently the off switch on the imagination pump malfunctioned and I received a triple dose before they shut the system down. That overdose of imagination is It.
I grew up an only child and with the absence of siblings to provide entertainment It flourished, becoming my lifelong companion, always ready to play whatever game.
The summer I turned ten my dad and I were going to the movies weekly. I saw many movies that summer, but I only remember the name of one of them, The Horror of Dracula. I didn’t make it through the entire movie. Somewhere in the midst of fangs to the throat, blood sucking, severed heads and stakes to the heart I reached my saturation point.
I asked my dad to take me out of the theater, which he did, but the strangest thing happened when I was back out in the summer sunshine. I looked back at that dark theater and it hit me. Getting the crap scared out of me had been great fun.
When I was about sixteen I turned to the writing craft. I considered making movies, but startup costs were prohibitive, even to my teenage mind. Pen and paper, on the other hand, were dirt cheap. Given my income level at sixteen I chose the less expensive path.
Writers are not born, they’re made through hard work and obsessive focus. My first efforts at writing produced nothing short of dribble. Oh God, it was awful. Yeah, the writing was bad, but It had a gun to my head and it was either my fingers or brains on the keyboard.
Given that kind of incentive I continued working at becoming a writer and when I wasn’t doing that I was feeding my addiction to horror.
Horror movies. There’s a boat load of crap out there.
I was leaving one such poor excuse for a scary movie, grumbling to myself that I could produce a better story. It was at that precise moment that I witnessed a three-way collision between my imagination, my need to write and my love of horror.
That’s the long answer to the original question. The short answer is that I love horror and I have an imagination with no off switch. If I don’t do something with the stuff I’ll get very sick. My imagination with no outlet would be a very scary thing.
How does my writing process work?
I’m into spooky stuff, but it’s possible that my writing process is the spookiest of all.
I start with a basic idea. With my first novel, Devil Glass, it was an ancient artifact with a doorway into another world populated by winged predators. With my second novel, The Bookseller, the basic idea was a reincarnating nonhuman spirit responsible for many of the great atrocities in history.
Basic idea, characters, I turn everything over to It. Periodically I watch the short film clips that have been prepared for me.
I have come to believe that the complete story is already written, stored in some file and is being metered out to me a bit at a time.
This is very entertaining except when it’s not. I’ve killed some good characters, but not all were by design. Sometimes a sacrifice is demanded.
I try to stand my ground. The character is too good to kill. I have too much work invested in the character. I like the character. My protests are always ignored and the story is always better for it.
I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I take a misstep that threatens Its master plan. When it happens I get introduced to a good case of writer’s block. I’ve learned to go back over the last couple pages, find my misstep and fix it. Once the correction has been made the creative flow returns.
That’s a snapshot of my writing process, but I need to say one more thing about It. When I read It is a real pain in the ass, always looking over my shoulder, weighing the plot, pointing out the missed opportunities and, of course there are always those places where It would have said it differently.
Maybe I’ve been possessed by an alien ghost, enslaved, forced to write by a thing that loves the notion of giving readers nightmares.
That’s a creepy thought.
My Writing Process Blog Tour continues with Michael Brookes on July 21. Michael is an author and a video game producer. He will explain his writing process on his blog at:
http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/
Over to you, Michael.
I’m also sending it back to our resident boxing champion, Ben Starling, for something new on July 21.
http://ben-starling.com/blog/
Back to you, Ben
ScaryBob
July 8, 2014
ScaryBob
Readers won't get many cute stories from me. I'm more into serving up healthy doses of the jitters, the creeps, the willies and the heebie jeebies.
Permit me to change gears and deliver something cute, the origin of my nickname, ScaryBob.
My wife and I moved into a condo in Bowling Green, Ohio. The master bedroom was a beautiful loft with double windows on the stairway landing.
Mary voiced her desire that our bedroom be downstairs and it took me about that long to claim that master bedroom as my writing and video game room. My claim stuck. Even more surprising was that she left the decorating to a horror writer. I had gargoyles, hanging plants, scary pictures. The double windows on the landing provided an abundance of light, but the room had an atmosphere of darkness. Dark and spooky was my comfort zone.
Two of our granddaughters, about 9 and 11 were staying the weekend. I was in my room writing. Okay, fine, I was playing video games. The girls were on the landing under the double windows playing quietly.
The time of their visit came to an end and we took them home. We dropped them off, waived to their parents and pulled away. We hadn’t gone very far when Mary said she had something to tell me, but I had to swear that the information would never cross my lips. She was intent on protecting the promise she had made to the girls. I swore, crossed my heart and pledged to die if I broke the promise.
With my promise secured she went on to tell me about the made-up game the girls were playing on the landing under the double windows, right there on the very threshold of my dark kingdom. They were playing a game in which they were protecting the world from some horror named Grandpa Evil.
Oh, how I laughed. How I loved it. I wanted to use it, but my promise had been made. I had to take Grandpa Evil with me to my grave. It wasn’t long after that my imagination rewarded me for my integrity and ScaryBob was born.
Permit me to change gears and deliver something cute, the origin of my nickname, ScaryBob.
My wife and I moved into a condo in Bowling Green, Ohio. The master bedroom was a beautiful loft with double windows on the stairway landing.
Mary voiced her desire that our bedroom be downstairs and it took me about that long to claim that master bedroom as my writing and video game room. My claim stuck. Even more surprising was that she left the decorating to a horror writer. I had gargoyles, hanging plants, scary pictures. The double windows on the landing provided an abundance of light, but the room had an atmosphere of darkness. Dark and spooky was my comfort zone.
Two of our granddaughters, about 9 and 11 were staying the weekend. I was in my room writing. Okay, fine, I was playing video games. The girls were on the landing under the double windows playing quietly.
The time of their visit came to an end and we took them home. We dropped them off, waived to their parents and pulled away. We hadn’t gone very far when Mary said she had something to tell me, but I had to swear that the information would never cross my lips. She was intent on protecting the promise she had made to the girls. I swore, crossed my heart and pledged to die if I broke the promise.
With my promise secured she went on to tell me about the made-up game the girls were playing on the landing under the double windows, right there on the very threshold of my dark kingdom. They were playing a game in which they were protecting the world from some horror named Grandpa Evil.
Oh, how I laughed. How I loved it. I wanted to use it, but my promise had been made. I had to take Grandpa Evil with me to my grave. It wasn’t long after that my imagination rewarded me for my integrity and ScaryBob was born.
April 20, 2014
Carlos Ramirez interview
This is Jack Michaels with a rather chilling interview with Carlos Ramirez at his fortress chateau in the mountains on the West coast of South America where Peru and Chile meet.
It was one of those last minute calls. There was the opportunity to interview someone of great interest. I was on call, the guy in the barrel. I had plans, but when CBS calls there is no refusal. Three hours later I was on a plane going from New York to South America with a list of questions for someone, but I had no idea who this person was. I had questions and a set of instructions that would eventually take me to a boat. My first stop was Rio. From there it was a flight to Paita, Peru. After that travel was by boat across the rough waters of the Pacific to the desolate coast between Peru and Chile.
I first saw the chateau from probably five miles out. It was high in the mountain and yet seemed close to water. It looked like something out of a James Bond movie except darker. A modern version of Castle Dracula. When we finally made it to the pier I was exhausted from fighting the motion of the powerboat. We were met by armed men and I was taken to the elevator at the back of the pier. The doors were set in the stone face of the mountain.
It was an express elevator and my stomach didn’t come back for some time afterward. When I exited the elevator I was met by other armed men who were silent as we moved past exquisite porcelain statutes of six samurai complete with what looked to be real katanas in various strike positions. I was led past paintings and sculptures that gave the place the feel of a museum. Finally my escort stopped and pointed to a set of double doors.
I entered the study cautiously and closed the door behind me. The click of the latch could have been the hammer of a gun being pulled back. A gun like the many I had already seen on the pier, up the express elevator and everywhere else. The sound sent shackles up and down my spine. He was sitting behind his ornately carved mahogany desk, black Armani suit, black shirt, blood red tie. At that moment I could have easily bolted, but being the professional journalist that I am I managed to control myself.
He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. A table to my left had a glass of water next to an exquisitely detailed nineteenth century Moser wine glass with an etched silver and gilt band along the rim.
I sat down, showed him the tape recorder as a courtesy and turned it on as I set it next to an antique pearl handled cork screw.
“Refreshments,” he said as he gestured to the table. “The wine is from sixteenth century France, a Frontignac. If you would like anything else please tell me. I have everything here,” he said with an all inclusive sweep of his arms. “You need only to speak the words and I will call for it.”
“Thank you, I’m fine,” I said. “Shall we get started?”
He responded with a nod of his head.
What is your name?
“That’s a tricky question for me. There have been so many, but for clarity I will focus on this incarnation. Carlos Ramirez.”
I shifted in my chair unconsciously and then tried to hide it. This incarnation? Who in God’s name did they send me to interview?
Please tell us a little about yourself.
“I have been described as a drug lord. Some have said that I am a child molester. Others have accused me of murder. Maybe all of that is true,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. He peered out the window, out at the blue horizon of the Pacific. After a moment he returned his cold dark eyes to me. “But that is only the tip of the iceberg. I am a nonhuman spirit. I have had hundreds of past lives. I have billions in treasure. I’ve left bloody footprints across the pages of history. I remember everything, every woman, every enemy, every treasure, every life stripped away in combat.”
I swallowed hard and then cleared my throat. I tried to bring my focus back to the interview.
Describe your appearance in 10 words or less.
He stood, arms outstretched palms facing me. “Latin. Tall, dark, handsome. Long grey ponytail. Golden teeth,” he said, flashing a brilliant smile as he returned to his chair.
Do you have a moral code? If so what is it?
"Moral code? You waist my time with such foolishness,” he said with a dismissive gesture.
“Yes, I am Carlos Ramirez, but the world has known me by other names, such as Cain. I murdered my brother. As Attila the Hun I killed or enslaved perhaps millions as I swept across Asia. I was Caligula. I brought ruin to the Roman Empire with debauchery. Vlad the Impaler. Ah yes, Vlad. I remember looking out across what I had named the Forest of the Impaled.Twenty thousand Turkish prisoners put to the stake. Some had given in to their fate and were hanging limp in their impalement, birds crying, feasting on the dead flesh. Some continued to struggle in vain, trying to free themselves from the stake, fighting off the birds. Others cried out in their agony, too weak to struggle, too gone to resist the birds that went for the softest meal first. I have no need to mention Blackbeard the Pirate, Jack the Ripper or Adolf Hitler, do I? You ask if I have a moral code? I do not,” he said as he leaned forward, placed one hand on his desk and tapped his index finger. “I carry a pearl handled straight razor,” he said as he swept the other arm out from under the desk, index finger extended and stopped just short of my face. I could see his well trimmed, well manicured fingernail as a rock steady finger pointed at me. “I am quite willing to reach across the desk and slit your throat if you show me further disrespect.”
My heart was in my throat. Part of me wanted to leap from the chair and run, but I had to stay calm, detached. I forced myself to relax.
What would you say are your strengths and weaknesses?
“My strengths?” he said, flashing his golden smile again. “I am eternal. I have treasure beyond the wildest dreams of the Vatican. I skip from life to life through time. Kill me and I will be reborn as a baby, grow through yet another tiresome childhood, but I remember everything and when I am old enough to hold a knife I will track you down. I will cut you long, wide and deep. You will suffer greatly and when you beg for death I will deny you. That’s all hypothetical, of course,” he said with a flip of his hand. “Who would want to kill someone so charming and handsome?”
“My weaknesses? Ha! Beautiful women,” he said with a sudden gleam in his eyes. “The loves I have had. They are countless. Wars have started over my indiscretions. I have faced firing squad, guillotine, gallows. What are those things to me except a momentary aggravation? I love a woman until she is used up and then I replace her with a young one. The young ones are so eager for my wealth, my power, my drugs. When they reach twenty-five or so they get so fixed in their ways. They think they know everything about a man’s desires. They are difficult to teach. Ah, but the young ones,” he said as he raised his index finger. “So pliable, so eager to be taught.”
Does your world have religion or other spiritual beliefs? If so do you follow one of them? Please describe (briefly) how this affects your behaviour.
“It’s the religion of drugs. The desire for my product drives the world as does the need to stop it. It is a constant struggle not unlike the mythical battle between good and evil. We improve our smuggling methods, the dogs of law enforcement improve their detection methods. Back and forth. But now my men have handed me this new smuggling method that will tip the scales in my favor for many years to come. It will be rapturous. Ah, such a gift. The White Lady will stroll the streets of America unseen and she will pile wealth upon wealth. She will give me power over the world.”
Dear God, don’t slip and tell me what it is and then kill me because I know too much.
Do you travel in the course of your adventures? If so where?
“Yes, of course I travel occasionally for pleasure. As a drug lord they come to me here at my chateau. The Spanish discovered the network of caverns going up into the mountains from where the toe of the Andes dips into the Pacific. They built a network of steps and platforms allowing them to move up into the mountain and gain a tremendous sight advantage. The Nazis refined the network with an elevator leading to a grand chateau. I obtained the chateau and refurbished it with modern technology from surveillance and security to an Imax movie theater and video conference room. It is the very heart of my drug cartel. On my walls hang art of the masters,” he said as he gestured to paintings hanging on the walls of the study. “Some of which the world has never seen. Below the chateau, built into the mountain I have a cache of arms that keeps the American CIA from sticking their nose where it does not belong. Below the armory is a museum with a display from every life I have lived. There is little reason for me to travel, but occasionally I do. For a beautiful woman.”
Do you have any relationships you prize above others? Why?
“Ah, Roberto. Loyal beyond question,” he said as a smile touched his lips. “He follows orders regardless of anything. My Margareta, my Little One, my concubine. I threw a grand party at the chateau for all of my legal associates. I sent Margareta and her sister on a shopping trip to Paris. The party was the kickoff for a competition to locate a bookstore in the perfect location. I’m going to sell books,” he said and laughed. “Wild Danny was one of the call girls working my party. I hadn’t planned to meet anyone new, but Danny was exceptionally beautiful. Olive complexion, flawless body, long dark hair. Amazing, talented mouth, lips and tongue. Clearly Margareta returning from Paris was going to be a problem. I sent Roberto to Paris. I told him to see that she did not suffer. He carried out my orders even though he liked her. He had to kill one of her security team, but he had no choice. He covered his crime by burning a crowded Paris hotel to the ground. When he returned he dealt with her family, the Roman Empire method of assassination. I rewarded him well for his loyalty.”
My stomach lurched to one side and tried to crawl up my ribcage. I fought to maintain my composure. I was feeling a little lightheaded. I had to pull myself together. Don’t show fear, I told myself.
Please give us an interesting and unusual fact about yourself.
“Yes, I suppose I haven’t mentioned much about Jack the Ripper,” he said as he relaxed back into his chair. “I killed those eight Whitechapple whores in London. I left their mutilated bodies to taunt the police. I was tiring of the game. I had murdered over four thousand women across Europe and Asia and nobody was on my trail. The game must be entertaining, no? They still don’t know that I was Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward, first son of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, grandson to Queen Victoria.”
I don’t know why I didn’t faint on the spot. I was probably too scared to pass out.
What form of politics is dominant in your world?
“Democracy, Monarchy, Theocracy, does it matter? They all try to stop me, stop my product. My submarine was under construction, nearly complete. They destroyed it. They killed my men. They will pay the price for tormenting me for a long time. Even now assassins continue to track judges and politicians. It was Eduardo who developed the new process for me. Ah, I was livid about my submarine, but Eduardo gave me the gift that will help me forget.
“It was Santino, the one in charge of security, who allowed the government dog to infiltrate my inner circle. The filthy mongrel led to the destruction of my submarine. He was strapped into my chair, begging for death, but I denied him,” he said, raising his index finger again for emphasis. “I stabbed more holes with the hat pin, enlarged the holes with the salted rattail file. Oh, that bastard suffered. When I tired of the work I slit his throat slowly with a very dull knife. Santino paid the price for his failure, too, but not then. Everyone knew he was under a death sentence, but I took my time fulfilling it. I waited patiently and then, when the time was right I made an example of him in front of my inner circle.
“All of my men clearly understand my expectations. If the alarms sound alerting of an attack, my men come, draw weapons from the armory and kill the intruders. It doesn’t matter how the attack comes. We have pistols, assault rifles, sniper rifles, RPG’s, Stinger missiles for aircraft, TOW missiles for armor plated vehicles. They have a fine choice of weapons to select from. Anyone who fails to arm themselves and fight dies by my hand. Summary execution. Bullet to the brain,” he said as he pointed his gun shaped hand to the back of his head.
A cold chill went down my back and kept going. I had goose flesh everywhere. Goose flesh and a gnawing fear that I was in great danger.
Within your civilization what do you think is the most important discovery/invention?
“The history of drug smuggling is evolution in motion. Survival of the fittest. Fast cars, fast boats, small aircraft flying under the radar. Eventually the CIA and DEA always improves their detection methods. In response we get better at what we do. Hollowed out logs, secret compartments, drums with false bottoms,” he said waving his hand. “Candles,” he said, raising his index finger. “We once mixed liquid cocaine with melted wax and made candles. The candles were melted at the destination point and the liquid cocaine recovered. All of these methods have eventually fallen to improved detection methods. Ah, but now Eduardo has invented a process that will be secure for years to come. Such genius! Eduardo, always thinking, always improving. The bad blood between him and Roberto was distressing. Roberto loved his little sister and Eduardo took her into bad company and got her killed. It made no difference to him that Eduardo tracked down every man involved and made them suffer before they died. Roberto pleaded with me to let him gut Eduardo, but I refused. I continued to refuse. After the debacle with my submarine I demanded a new method of smuggling. I forced them to work together and see the result? Oh, how I wish I could share the details of this brilliant gift, but the CIA might read this interview”, he said and laughed, flashing his golden smile. “I made them work together and they produced a masterpiece. You see. I make men better, no?
“They make me better, too,” he said as he leaned forward. “They make me happy. Now I will be able to ship product right under the noses of the CIA and DEA. They could see my shipments and never suspect,” he said flashing that dazzling smile again.
Honestly, I was afraid of Carlos. I don’t know if he was who or what he claimed. I can only tell you that everything about Carlos Ramirez was terrifying. His manner, his coal black eyes, his golden teeth. I feared I would come to an unspeakable end, fed to the fish, but he remained a gentleman. He offered to show me his museum, but I’m afraid I would have been completely unnerved to the point that I might have fainted. I declined, but I didn’t have the option with the armory. Never before have I seen that many weapons, that much ammo in one place.
A few minutes later we were back on the elevator, plummeting toward the bottom. The water rocket that had ferried me to his fortress was waiting with his man at the helm, engine running, boat rocking with the waves. I was happy to board it, to brace myself as the engines came to life. I looked back once. He was still standing there on the end of the pier watching us. For an instant I feared that it was all a ploy and that the boatman was going to take me back.
He didn’t. I made it back to Paita and then back to Rio. I’m back in New York now, back in my condo, out on my fourteenth floor terrace overlooking Central Park.
My contact with Carlos Ramirez left me with a strange emptiness, something I couldn’t quite describe. I gazed down at the park, the little figures going about their normal day and it hit me. I was never going to live in the same world again.
I’m going to San Diego over the fourth. I’ll feel better when I see Mary, hold her in my arms. The others in our surfing family will help in my recovery, too, but I’m afraid the ship has sailed on completely normal. Completely normal is no longer possible. Not any more. Not after that.
This is Jack Michaels with CBS news signing off.
May 17, 2004
Author notes:
Book(s) in which this character appears plus links
Carlos Ramirez is from The Bookseller
https://www.goodreads.com/scarybob
The journalist Jack Michaels is from Reincarnology, a novel nearing completion.
Author name
C. Robert Cales
Website/Blog/Author pages etc.
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
The Bookseller ASIN: B005KMBHAK
http://www.amazon.com/Bookseller-C-Ro...
A special note from the author:
I have some characters who are very upset with me because they think the interview should have gone to them. What can I say? I made a management decision. That works with most of them, but not with George Saunders, my rare book dealer. He is livid. He’s demanding equal time. I can usually reason with these people, but when they present a valid argument I’m usually screwed. George wants equal time, pointing out that it was his bookstore Carlos wanted to acquire. He also pointed out that of all my characters he is the one who has gone though the greatest change. Yeah, I know exactly what he’s talking about, but there are some things I shouldn’t share with you, at least not right now.
So, if you’re interested in me sending Jack Michaels to interview George I will, but you should ask so I know you’re interested.
ScaryBob
It was one of those last minute calls. There was the opportunity to interview someone of great interest. I was on call, the guy in the barrel. I had plans, but when CBS calls there is no refusal. Three hours later I was on a plane going from New York to South America with a list of questions for someone, but I had no idea who this person was. I had questions and a set of instructions that would eventually take me to a boat. My first stop was Rio. From there it was a flight to Paita, Peru. After that travel was by boat across the rough waters of the Pacific to the desolate coast between Peru and Chile.
I first saw the chateau from probably five miles out. It was high in the mountain and yet seemed close to water. It looked like something out of a James Bond movie except darker. A modern version of Castle Dracula. When we finally made it to the pier I was exhausted from fighting the motion of the powerboat. We were met by armed men and I was taken to the elevator at the back of the pier. The doors were set in the stone face of the mountain.
It was an express elevator and my stomach didn’t come back for some time afterward. When I exited the elevator I was met by other armed men who were silent as we moved past exquisite porcelain statutes of six samurai complete with what looked to be real katanas in various strike positions. I was led past paintings and sculptures that gave the place the feel of a museum. Finally my escort stopped and pointed to a set of double doors.
I entered the study cautiously and closed the door behind me. The click of the latch could have been the hammer of a gun being pulled back. A gun like the many I had already seen on the pier, up the express elevator and everywhere else. The sound sent shackles up and down my spine. He was sitting behind his ornately carved mahogany desk, black Armani suit, black shirt, blood red tie. At that moment I could have easily bolted, but being the professional journalist that I am I managed to control myself.
He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. A table to my left had a glass of water next to an exquisitely detailed nineteenth century Moser wine glass with an etched silver and gilt band along the rim.
I sat down, showed him the tape recorder as a courtesy and turned it on as I set it next to an antique pearl handled cork screw.
“Refreshments,” he said as he gestured to the table. “The wine is from sixteenth century France, a Frontignac. If you would like anything else please tell me. I have everything here,” he said with an all inclusive sweep of his arms. “You need only to speak the words and I will call for it.”
“Thank you, I’m fine,” I said. “Shall we get started?”
He responded with a nod of his head.
What is your name?
“That’s a tricky question for me. There have been so many, but for clarity I will focus on this incarnation. Carlos Ramirez.”
I shifted in my chair unconsciously and then tried to hide it. This incarnation? Who in God’s name did they send me to interview?
Please tell us a little about yourself.
“I have been described as a drug lord. Some have said that I am a child molester. Others have accused me of murder. Maybe all of that is true,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. He peered out the window, out at the blue horizon of the Pacific. After a moment he returned his cold dark eyes to me. “But that is only the tip of the iceberg. I am a nonhuman spirit. I have had hundreds of past lives. I have billions in treasure. I’ve left bloody footprints across the pages of history. I remember everything, every woman, every enemy, every treasure, every life stripped away in combat.”
I swallowed hard and then cleared my throat. I tried to bring my focus back to the interview.
Describe your appearance in 10 words or less.
He stood, arms outstretched palms facing me. “Latin. Tall, dark, handsome. Long grey ponytail. Golden teeth,” he said, flashing a brilliant smile as he returned to his chair.
Do you have a moral code? If so what is it?
"Moral code? You waist my time with such foolishness,” he said with a dismissive gesture.
“Yes, I am Carlos Ramirez, but the world has known me by other names, such as Cain. I murdered my brother. As Attila the Hun I killed or enslaved perhaps millions as I swept across Asia. I was Caligula. I brought ruin to the Roman Empire with debauchery. Vlad the Impaler. Ah yes, Vlad. I remember looking out across what I had named the Forest of the Impaled.Twenty thousand Turkish prisoners put to the stake. Some had given in to their fate and were hanging limp in their impalement, birds crying, feasting on the dead flesh. Some continued to struggle in vain, trying to free themselves from the stake, fighting off the birds. Others cried out in their agony, too weak to struggle, too gone to resist the birds that went for the softest meal first. I have no need to mention Blackbeard the Pirate, Jack the Ripper or Adolf Hitler, do I? You ask if I have a moral code? I do not,” he said as he leaned forward, placed one hand on his desk and tapped his index finger. “I carry a pearl handled straight razor,” he said as he swept the other arm out from under the desk, index finger extended and stopped just short of my face. I could see his well trimmed, well manicured fingernail as a rock steady finger pointed at me. “I am quite willing to reach across the desk and slit your throat if you show me further disrespect.”
My heart was in my throat. Part of me wanted to leap from the chair and run, but I had to stay calm, detached. I forced myself to relax.
What would you say are your strengths and weaknesses?
“My strengths?” he said, flashing his golden smile again. “I am eternal. I have treasure beyond the wildest dreams of the Vatican. I skip from life to life through time. Kill me and I will be reborn as a baby, grow through yet another tiresome childhood, but I remember everything and when I am old enough to hold a knife I will track you down. I will cut you long, wide and deep. You will suffer greatly and when you beg for death I will deny you. That’s all hypothetical, of course,” he said with a flip of his hand. “Who would want to kill someone so charming and handsome?”
“My weaknesses? Ha! Beautiful women,” he said with a sudden gleam in his eyes. “The loves I have had. They are countless. Wars have started over my indiscretions. I have faced firing squad, guillotine, gallows. What are those things to me except a momentary aggravation? I love a woman until she is used up and then I replace her with a young one. The young ones are so eager for my wealth, my power, my drugs. When they reach twenty-five or so they get so fixed in their ways. They think they know everything about a man’s desires. They are difficult to teach. Ah, but the young ones,” he said as he raised his index finger. “So pliable, so eager to be taught.”
Does your world have religion or other spiritual beliefs? If so do you follow one of them? Please describe (briefly) how this affects your behaviour.
“It’s the religion of drugs. The desire for my product drives the world as does the need to stop it. It is a constant struggle not unlike the mythical battle between good and evil. We improve our smuggling methods, the dogs of law enforcement improve their detection methods. Back and forth. But now my men have handed me this new smuggling method that will tip the scales in my favor for many years to come. It will be rapturous. Ah, such a gift. The White Lady will stroll the streets of America unseen and she will pile wealth upon wealth. She will give me power over the world.”
Dear God, don’t slip and tell me what it is and then kill me because I know too much.
Do you travel in the course of your adventures? If so where?
“Yes, of course I travel occasionally for pleasure. As a drug lord they come to me here at my chateau. The Spanish discovered the network of caverns going up into the mountains from where the toe of the Andes dips into the Pacific. They built a network of steps and platforms allowing them to move up into the mountain and gain a tremendous sight advantage. The Nazis refined the network with an elevator leading to a grand chateau. I obtained the chateau and refurbished it with modern technology from surveillance and security to an Imax movie theater and video conference room. It is the very heart of my drug cartel. On my walls hang art of the masters,” he said as he gestured to paintings hanging on the walls of the study. “Some of which the world has never seen. Below the chateau, built into the mountain I have a cache of arms that keeps the American CIA from sticking their nose where it does not belong. Below the armory is a museum with a display from every life I have lived. There is little reason for me to travel, but occasionally I do. For a beautiful woman.”
Do you have any relationships you prize above others? Why?
“Ah, Roberto. Loyal beyond question,” he said as a smile touched his lips. “He follows orders regardless of anything. My Margareta, my Little One, my concubine. I threw a grand party at the chateau for all of my legal associates. I sent Margareta and her sister on a shopping trip to Paris. The party was the kickoff for a competition to locate a bookstore in the perfect location. I’m going to sell books,” he said and laughed. “Wild Danny was one of the call girls working my party. I hadn’t planned to meet anyone new, but Danny was exceptionally beautiful. Olive complexion, flawless body, long dark hair. Amazing, talented mouth, lips and tongue. Clearly Margareta returning from Paris was going to be a problem. I sent Roberto to Paris. I told him to see that she did not suffer. He carried out my orders even though he liked her. He had to kill one of her security team, but he had no choice. He covered his crime by burning a crowded Paris hotel to the ground. When he returned he dealt with her family, the Roman Empire method of assassination. I rewarded him well for his loyalty.”
My stomach lurched to one side and tried to crawl up my ribcage. I fought to maintain my composure. I was feeling a little lightheaded. I had to pull myself together. Don’t show fear, I told myself.
Please give us an interesting and unusual fact about yourself.
“Yes, I suppose I haven’t mentioned much about Jack the Ripper,” he said as he relaxed back into his chair. “I killed those eight Whitechapple whores in London. I left their mutilated bodies to taunt the police. I was tiring of the game. I had murdered over four thousand women across Europe and Asia and nobody was on my trail. The game must be entertaining, no? They still don’t know that I was Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward, first son of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, grandson to Queen Victoria.”
I don’t know why I didn’t faint on the spot. I was probably too scared to pass out.
What form of politics is dominant in your world?
“Democracy, Monarchy, Theocracy, does it matter? They all try to stop me, stop my product. My submarine was under construction, nearly complete. They destroyed it. They killed my men. They will pay the price for tormenting me for a long time. Even now assassins continue to track judges and politicians. It was Eduardo who developed the new process for me. Ah, I was livid about my submarine, but Eduardo gave me the gift that will help me forget.
“It was Santino, the one in charge of security, who allowed the government dog to infiltrate my inner circle. The filthy mongrel led to the destruction of my submarine. He was strapped into my chair, begging for death, but I denied him,” he said, raising his index finger again for emphasis. “I stabbed more holes with the hat pin, enlarged the holes with the salted rattail file. Oh, that bastard suffered. When I tired of the work I slit his throat slowly with a very dull knife. Santino paid the price for his failure, too, but not then. Everyone knew he was under a death sentence, but I took my time fulfilling it. I waited patiently and then, when the time was right I made an example of him in front of my inner circle.
“All of my men clearly understand my expectations. If the alarms sound alerting of an attack, my men come, draw weapons from the armory and kill the intruders. It doesn’t matter how the attack comes. We have pistols, assault rifles, sniper rifles, RPG’s, Stinger missiles for aircraft, TOW missiles for armor plated vehicles. They have a fine choice of weapons to select from. Anyone who fails to arm themselves and fight dies by my hand. Summary execution. Bullet to the brain,” he said as he pointed his gun shaped hand to the back of his head.
A cold chill went down my back and kept going. I had goose flesh everywhere. Goose flesh and a gnawing fear that I was in great danger.
Within your civilization what do you think is the most important discovery/invention?
“The history of drug smuggling is evolution in motion. Survival of the fittest. Fast cars, fast boats, small aircraft flying under the radar. Eventually the CIA and DEA always improves their detection methods. In response we get better at what we do. Hollowed out logs, secret compartments, drums with false bottoms,” he said waving his hand. “Candles,” he said, raising his index finger. “We once mixed liquid cocaine with melted wax and made candles. The candles were melted at the destination point and the liquid cocaine recovered. All of these methods have eventually fallen to improved detection methods. Ah, but now Eduardo has invented a process that will be secure for years to come. Such genius! Eduardo, always thinking, always improving. The bad blood between him and Roberto was distressing. Roberto loved his little sister and Eduardo took her into bad company and got her killed. It made no difference to him that Eduardo tracked down every man involved and made them suffer before they died. Roberto pleaded with me to let him gut Eduardo, but I refused. I continued to refuse. After the debacle with my submarine I demanded a new method of smuggling. I forced them to work together and see the result? Oh, how I wish I could share the details of this brilliant gift, but the CIA might read this interview”, he said and laughed, flashing his golden smile. “I made them work together and they produced a masterpiece. You see. I make men better, no?
“They make me better, too,” he said as he leaned forward. “They make me happy. Now I will be able to ship product right under the noses of the CIA and DEA. They could see my shipments and never suspect,” he said flashing that dazzling smile again.
Honestly, I was afraid of Carlos. I don’t know if he was who or what he claimed. I can only tell you that everything about Carlos Ramirez was terrifying. His manner, his coal black eyes, his golden teeth. I feared I would come to an unspeakable end, fed to the fish, but he remained a gentleman. He offered to show me his museum, but I’m afraid I would have been completely unnerved to the point that I might have fainted. I declined, but I didn’t have the option with the armory. Never before have I seen that many weapons, that much ammo in one place.
A few minutes later we were back on the elevator, plummeting toward the bottom. The water rocket that had ferried me to his fortress was waiting with his man at the helm, engine running, boat rocking with the waves. I was happy to board it, to brace myself as the engines came to life. I looked back once. He was still standing there on the end of the pier watching us. For an instant I feared that it was all a ploy and that the boatman was going to take me back.
He didn’t. I made it back to Paita and then back to Rio. I’m back in New York now, back in my condo, out on my fourteenth floor terrace overlooking Central Park.
My contact with Carlos Ramirez left me with a strange emptiness, something I couldn’t quite describe. I gazed down at the park, the little figures going about their normal day and it hit me. I was never going to live in the same world again.
I’m going to San Diego over the fourth. I’ll feel better when I see Mary, hold her in my arms. The others in our surfing family will help in my recovery, too, but I’m afraid the ship has sailed on completely normal. Completely normal is no longer possible. Not any more. Not after that.
This is Jack Michaels with CBS news signing off.
May 17, 2004
Author notes:
Book(s) in which this character appears plus links
Carlos Ramirez is from The Bookseller
https://www.goodreads.com/scarybob
The journalist Jack Michaels is from Reincarnology, a novel nearing completion.
Author name
C. Robert Cales
Website/Blog/Author pages etc.
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
The Bookseller ASIN: B005KMBHAK
http://www.amazon.com/Bookseller-C-Ro...
A special note from the author:
I have some characters who are very upset with me because they think the interview should have gone to them. What can I say? I made a management decision. That works with most of them, but not with George Saunders, my rare book dealer. He is livid. He’s demanding equal time. I can usually reason with these people, but when they present a valid argument I’m usually screwed. George wants equal time, pointing out that it was his bookstore Carlos wanted to acquire. He also pointed out that of all my characters he is the one who has gone though the greatest change. Yeah, I know exactly what he’s talking about, but there are some things I shouldn’t share with you, at least not right now.
So, if you’re interested in me sending Jack Michaels to interview George I will, but you should ask so I know you’re interested.
ScaryBob
April 17, 2014
Eaten alive
Eaten alive. Think about that for a moment. Think about the utter horror, whether it be crocodile, bear, lion or something you've never seen before. Big cats usually kill their prey first and then consume them in a bloody struggle for the best parts. Not so with bears, crocodiles and other things.
When claws or talons slice open flesh it happens in the blink of an eye. Slice, not exactly, more of a rip that might be infinitely more painful than a knee kissing rough concrete, bouncing, sliding, chewing up flesh, exposing the knee cap.
Knee on concrete is over in an instant, leaving the victim to deal with the lingering screams of damage nerves. Teeth in flesh, tearing, ripping and it's just starting. The suffering and horror are beyond our ability to cope. Insanely fast thoughts run with the pain and panic.
They say the best chance of surviving a bear attack is to play dead. Just let then rip away bloody chunks of flesh and bone. Don't scream. Dead things don't scream. They don't struggle either. They just lay there.
So the bear eats a little, but bears have very short attention spans and soon wonders over to a bush of luscious berries. But suppose this bear was really hungry. You play dead, it continues to eat. Do you begin to struggle when you feel real death straddles up next to fake death?
Are you hard core horror fans satisfied with the picture of the hungry bear, the victim faking death? Nah… I can up the ante.
You were on a walk, enjoying nature, walking with your twin brother. Together you learned how to play T-ball. Then it was the Boy Scouts. A few years later you started building fast cars together. Not long after that a pair of sisters, three years apart, come into your lives. Oh, yeah, that walk, it was a short cut. You were both going to watch the younger sister play in a softball tournament.
Your brother was in the middle of the sentence when he saw the bear cub. He never saw mother bear. She took him right next to you like a Linebacker taking a Quarterback.
Sorry, the blood, the breaking bones, the screams, I had to turn away. Did you run or try to save your brother?
How do you feel about that bear attack now?
SaryBob
When claws or talons slice open flesh it happens in the blink of an eye. Slice, not exactly, more of a rip that might be infinitely more painful than a knee kissing rough concrete, bouncing, sliding, chewing up flesh, exposing the knee cap.
Knee on concrete is over in an instant, leaving the victim to deal with the lingering screams of damage nerves. Teeth in flesh, tearing, ripping and it's just starting. The suffering and horror are beyond our ability to cope. Insanely fast thoughts run with the pain and panic.
They say the best chance of surviving a bear attack is to play dead. Just let then rip away bloody chunks of flesh and bone. Don't scream. Dead things don't scream. They don't struggle either. They just lay there.
So the bear eats a little, but bears have very short attention spans and soon wonders over to a bush of luscious berries. But suppose this bear was really hungry. You play dead, it continues to eat. Do you begin to struggle when you feel real death straddles up next to fake death?
Are you hard core horror fans satisfied with the picture of the hungry bear, the victim faking death? Nah… I can up the ante.
You were on a walk, enjoying nature, walking with your twin brother. Together you learned how to play T-ball. Then it was the Boy Scouts. A few years later you started building fast cars together. Not long after that a pair of sisters, three years apart, come into your lives. Oh, yeah, that walk, it was a short cut. You were both going to watch the younger sister play in a softball tournament.
Your brother was in the middle of the sentence when he saw the bear cub. He never saw mother bear. She took him right next to you like a Linebacker taking a Quarterback.
Sorry, the blood, the breaking bones, the screams, I had to turn away. Did you run or try to save your brother?
How do you feel about that bear attack now?
SaryBob
April 16, 2014
Vampires
I don't write about vampires, although I love reading about them. Anne Rice and Lestat. Nothing else need be said.
I write about things people have never seen before, like the concept of Antitheus Vitrum and the winged predators from beyond in Devil Glass. Like the violent reincarnating nonhuman spirit in The Bookseller.
But if I did write about a vampire his profile would look like this:
He has been with humanity from the beginning. He consumes the blood of his victims, leaving no trace of his presence. He does not create other vampires and he is not invisible to a mirror. He has no aversion to garlic or crucifixes. These are all legends he started to help hide his presence among the living.
He sleeps in a coffin at night and is allergic to the sun.
He also falls in love. Deep passionate love that could last for years, but only makes it a few weeks when the bloodlust overpowers the love. It always ends with death by loss of blood.
His days in the coffin are tormented by the vivid memory of each love, each death, each utter heartbreak. So much heartbreak. He cries tears of blood during the day and walks the streets at night, sometimes feeding, sometimes falling in love.
That nightmare from ScaryBob to you.
Maybe I should write about a vampire.
Nah…
ScaryBob
I write about things people have never seen before, like the concept of Antitheus Vitrum and the winged predators from beyond in Devil Glass. Like the violent reincarnating nonhuman spirit in The Bookseller.
But if I did write about a vampire his profile would look like this:
He has been with humanity from the beginning. He consumes the blood of his victims, leaving no trace of his presence. He does not create other vampires and he is not invisible to a mirror. He has no aversion to garlic or crucifixes. These are all legends he started to help hide his presence among the living.
He sleeps in a coffin at night and is allergic to the sun.
He also falls in love. Deep passionate love that could last for years, but only makes it a few weeks when the bloodlust overpowers the love. It always ends with death by loss of blood.
His days in the coffin are tormented by the vivid memory of each love, each death, each utter heartbreak. So much heartbreak. He cries tears of blood during the day and walks the streets at night, sometimes feeding, sometimes falling in love.
That nightmare from ScaryBob to you.
Maybe I should write about a vampire.
Nah…
ScaryBob
Devil Glass
Based on a very small percentage of reviews it's apparently possible to have a complete disconnect with the story. The reason is very simple and it was laid out on my previous post about paranormal thrillers.
If a reader doesn't care about the characters my brand of horror will be a complete miss. I don't go for cover to cover mayhem with body parts, blood and oozing brain matter staining the pages.
I do cover the page with blood and body parts occasionally. I can do it right next to masters of the horror genre, but that's not how I get to the reader. I get to the reader via the emotional connection with the characters. A reader who connects with characters will find my brand of horror very potent. Readers who could care less about the characters and only want to see the boogeyman will be less than enthusiastic about the work.
Do you want to turn pages, building a relationship with characters and becoming involved in their lives or do you want to open the book, jerk the closet door open and stare at the horror inside? It makes a difference. If you want zombies in the front yard as soon as the story begins you're better off looking at a different author.
I do what I do. If you want to ride along hop aboard. If you object to my writing style wait for the next bus because I won't change to make you happy.
If a reader doesn't care about the characters my brand of horror will be a complete miss. I don't go for cover to cover mayhem with body parts, blood and oozing brain matter staining the pages.
I do cover the page with blood and body parts occasionally. I can do it right next to masters of the horror genre, but that's not how I get to the reader. I get to the reader via the emotional connection with the characters. A reader who connects with characters will find my brand of horror very potent. Readers who could care less about the characters and only want to see the boogeyman will be less than enthusiastic about the work.
Do you want to turn pages, building a relationship with characters and becoming involved in their lives or do you want to open the book, jerk the closet door open and stare at the horror inside? It makes a difference. If you want zombies in the front yard as soon as the story begins you're better off looking at a different author.
I do what I do. If you want to ride along hop aboard. If you object to my writing style wait for the next bus because I won't change to make you happy.
April 15, 2014
The paranormal thriller
Some scenes from my novels, taken out of context could cause readers to take exception to my notion that I don't write horror.
A great deal of horror has a tendency to be plot driven with only enough character development to help the reader identify who the zombies are eating.
The paranormal thriller, on the other hand is driven by well defined characters who quickly become the reader's new friends. It is my absolute intention as a writer to give the reader characters they become attached to, fall in love with. In most cases. Sometimes the reader hates the character and wants them to die a horrible and painful death, but that's the point. I engage the reader on an emotional level, whether it be hate, love, fear, sorrow.
The Bookseller
A great deal of horror has a tendency to be plot driven with only enough character development to help the reader identify who the zombies are eating.
The paranormal thriller, on the other hand is driven by well defined characters who quickly become the reader's new friends. It is my absolute intention as a writer to give the reader characters they become attached to, fall in love with. In most cases. Sometimes the reader hates the character and wants them to die a horrible and painful death, but that's the point. I engage the reader on an emotional level, whether it be hate, love, fear, sorrow.
The Bookseller
