A small kid, seven years of age, peeking around a hall corner at his local school.  He is looking at two friends, one a boy, the other a girl.  Standing with his two friends is the father of one of them.  The boy–Corner Boy is what we will call him for now–wears a silly grin, one that’s somewhat mischievous, but not in a bad way.

“What?” his male friend says.  He, too, wears a silly grin, but his is more knowing.

Corner Boy peeks at them because of the girl. He ducks behind the wall when he sees all three of them look his way.

Smiling, Dad leads the two friends toward up the hall, sneaking up on Corner Boy.  They round the corner and see him, silly grin and all.  They laugh.  The two boys pick at each other.  The girl knows it’s about her, but doesn’t seem to mind.

The three kids and Dad walk to their classroom, where Dad and son exchange a hug and a handshake.

“You have your own handshake?” Corner Boy asks.  His mouth drops open, as if it was something he had never seen before–a dad and son acting like they could be friends.

“Yeah.  I’ll show you,” Son says.  They do the handshake again, complete with smacking palms and bumping knuckles and a little finger wiggle at the end.  “You try it.”

Corner Boy shakes his head.  “No.  I don’t know how.”

Dad kneels down–he would regret that later, seeing how he has a couple of bad knees, one of which hasn’t been right for years–and he says, “Why don’t we do our own?”

“Okay,” Corner Boy says.

They slap palms once, knuckle bump, then do the finger wiggle.  Three simple motions.

Corner Boy smiles.  So does Son and Girl and Dad.

They go to class.  Dad walks away.

For the record, it’s the first time Dad saw Corner Boy smile, and at that point, he had known the child for three years.

That was this morning, May 16, 2013.

Rewind a month, back to April 18, 2013.

Before that day, Corner Boy had mean tendencies.  He was bossy.  He was also somewhat of a little bully.  Though Corner Boy and Son were friends, it was a volatile relationship, with Son being passive and Corner Boy being aggressive.

On the night of April 18th, Corner Boy’s dad tried to kill his mom.

He beat her.

He stabbed her multiple times with a box cutter.

He told her ‘I’m going to kill you now.’

He tried to cut her throat.

He ran over her legs with his car.

He told her, when he was done with her, he was going to kill their son.  That would be Corner Boy, the little child peeking at his friends with that silly grin on his face.

…

…

…

Take that in, folks.  Go back and read it again.  I left out a lot of details on purpose.

On the night of April 18th, Corner Boy’s dad tried to kill his mom. 

He beat her.

He stabbed her multiple times with a box cutter.

He told her ‘I’m going to kill you now.’

He tried to cut her throat.

He ran over her legs with his car.

He told her, when he was done with her, he was going to kill their son.

…

…

A few statistics for you.  Annually, over 36,000 reports of domestic violence are reported in the state of South Carolina.  An average of 33 women die from Criminal Domestic Violence each year in my home state.

Only 33, you say?  That averages to almost 3 women per month.  In my opinion, that is 33 women too many each year.  Let’s look at the number a little differently.  36,000 incidents reported a year equals 98.6 incidents <i><b>PER DAY</i></b>.

Let that sink in.

Those numbers make me sick–physically–to my stomach.  And that’s not including all the incidents not reported.

Corner Boy is in the second grade.  He spends his day at the same school, in the same classes, as my son–his friend–and the young girl he was peeking at.

After finding out about his dad, about how that man beat his mom for eight years–the entire length of Corner Boy’s life–everything made sense.  He did things based on what he saw.  He did things based on what went on in his family.  He did what he thought was accepted, what he didn’t know any better than to believe.  Why?  Because his dad acted this way toward his mom, and probably, him.

For the women out there who are reading this:  If you are in an abusive relationship, whether you are married to the person or dating them, please, get out.  Abusive men don’t change.  They will continue to be abusive.  They say, ‘I’m sorry.  It will never happen again.’  Then they get mad about something, and guess what?  It happens again.  And again.  And again.  They will take out their frustrations on you and your children.

Please, don’t believe that your child needs a father, and that the only reason you stay with him is so your child wouldn’t grow up without a daddy.  It is better for a child to not have a father in his life, than for that same child to see his mother (or themselves) beaten, raped, and/or murdered.

Because you have a child is NO reason to stay with a man.  It is the exact reason you should leave an abusive relationship.  If you don’t do it for yourself, then do it for your children.  They didn’t ask to be part of an abusive household.  Give them a chance.

For the men out there who might read this:  If you are one of those abusive men, you are a coward.  You are a punk.  You are weak.  That’s right.  Weak.  If you abuse your spouse/significant other, or your children, you are nothing.  You are not a man.  Men take care of their families.  Men take care of their children.

You want to know what a real man is?  My dad.  My dad is a real man.  He overcame a rough childhood, an abusive step dad, and not a mom who wasn’t much better.  He left home at a young age, and when he had children (four of them), he made certain to take care of us, to make sure we learned about life.  Not once did he beat us.  Yeah, we got spankings, but if you knew my siblings, you would understand, we deserved them.  After his children grew up, my parents adopted three of their grandchildren.  When he should be enjoying his retirement, he chose to be dad all over again, and doing a damn good job.  My dad is a real man.  He didn’t shirk his responsibilities, and he didn’t make excuses.  And he never abused us.

Men, if you’re not taking care of your family, if you’re beating your wife and children, and they are living in fear of you, then you’re nothing but a weak, spineless P.O.S.  Feel free to quote me.  You have no clue what type of damage you are doing to your family, especially the children.

After dropping my son off, I got in the car and headed for work.  I turned my MP3 player on.  The first song was so appropriate:  Father of Mine, by Everclear.  As a father, who often feels like I’m not good enough for my children, this song reminds me that there are kids out there who have it far worse.  I can’t give my children the things they want, and we don’t live in a nice house, and sometimes the cars don’t work right, and…and…and…and so what?  I give my children love.  I let them know Daddy is there for them, I protect them, I provide for them, I love them regardless of what happens.

There are so many children out there who are like some of the lyrics to that song:

Father of mine
Tell me how do you sleep
With the children you abandoned
And the wife I saw you beat
I will never be safe
I will never be sane
I will always be weird inside
I will always be lame…

That song always pisses me off.  Not because of what it is about, but because of the truth that comes with it.

Corner Boy was lucky.  So was his mom.  They are alive today.  I got to see him smile, to hear him laugh, to do a handshake with him, to watch him walk into his classroom.

But what if his mom wouldn’t have managed to jump out of the car?  What if she hadn’t been able to get to a stranger’s house who set her on the floor, called the police and got out his gun to protect her if needed?  The mother would be one of those 33 women killed each year in South Carolina.

I don’t want to know the numbers on how many children die from abuse each year.

His father is currently in lock-up, awaiting trial for criminal domestic violence (the third time he’s been arrested for this), and attempted murder.  I hope he goes to jail for a very long time, and the other inmates find out about what he did.  They don’t like these types of things in prison.  They will show him what it’s like to be in his wife and child’s shoes.

We need to shine a light into the dark world of Criminal Domestic Violence.  We need to bring these people out of the shadows for the world to see.  We need to support the victims of CDV, let them know they are people with value, that they are not damaged goods.

I think about my son’s friend.  He was fortunate.  Maybe there was an angel watching over him.  But how many women are not so fortunate?  How many children live in fear of an abusive parent or guardian?

It has to stop.

It has to stop…

Growing up in the suburbs of Montreal wasn’t easy for Tall Goth Girl – especially considering she wore black against neon colors, loved gloomy tunes instead of pretty boy bands, and preferred everything horror rather than rainbows and butterflies. From early on, the dark called to her and tainted her world with skeletons and ghosts.

After years of bullying and torment, Tall Goth Girl decided to drop the black cloth and adhered to society’s perception of acceptance. Never giving up her dark music and darker thoughts, she tried really hard to ignore the whispers calling her to go back to her black roots, but ignoring them only brought nightmares of ghouls and revenants.

So what was Tall Goth Girl to do? Rebel against her own self and ignore her calling to write dark horror in a world of gore and spooks? No, screamed the creatures of the night. Finding a voice buried for so long proved difficult at first, until inspiration struck violently and Visitors’ proses shaped into recalls of haunted nights and unexplained phenomena.

Short stories published in magazines and anthologies weren’t enough for Tall Goth Girl, as she suffered greatly of the writing disease and its side-effects of published rush and award nominated syndrome. So she wrote about the night and its habitants, about characters embracing the darkness and others fighting it – she wrote about girls and monsters.

Against all odds and beasts, Tall Goth Girl’s first collection of novellas is published by DarkFuse, a small press perfect for writers allured by dusk and doom. But what did she learn through the process of life and writing? Taming yourself to be something you’re not never works out, cause your true self comes through whether you want to or not. Embrace the darkness, especially if it’s part of your soul.

She, who likes dark things never grew up. She never stopped listening to gothic, industrial and alternative bands like when she was fifteen. She always loved to read horror and dystopia and fantasy, where doom and gloom drip from the pages.

She, who was supposed to make films, decided to write short stories, novelettes and novels instead. She, who’s had her films listed on festival programs, has been printed in a dozen anthologies and magazines since.

She, who likes dark things prefers night to day, rain to sun, and reading to anything else.

Who is she? Anne Michaud, author of Girls & Monsters.

She blogs: Anne Michaud, Writer

She Facebooks: Anne Michaud

She tweets @annecmichaud

Girls & Monsters at Amazon

Girls & Monsters Goodreads page

Giveaway!! Softcover copy + The Monster Collection Skellies, 5 pieces handcrafted by the author: GIRLS & MONSTERS Giveaway

WordPress Giveway

The winner will be announced during the Live Chat on release day, April 30th at 9PM east.

We would get these books, take them home and spend all afternoon reading them. I often read mine several times in the course of the week. Rarely did we miss an opportunity to go get comics. It’s one of those memories I cherish from my childhood. We would take the comics back (or most of them, anyway) and get a store credit. Mrs. Laura and Mr. Al were great about making sure we were able to get new comics when we came in. Dad was, too.

Let me stop here for a second.

We would take the comics back and get a store credit.

Keep that in mind for later.

We didn’t have a lot of money when I was a kid, so these little trips that my dad would make with us were like birthday or Christmas moments to us. I knew that they were special and that Dad was doing something kind and generous because he loved his boys and he wanted us to enjoy one of his great passions: reading. Store credit was important. Larry and I would look at the piece of paper Mrs. Laura filled out with a dollar amount, and then we would choose our comics based on that number. It was the ultimate in getting the most for your money.

Back then we got books any way we could: going to the book store on Edmund Highway, yard sales and flea markets. Occasionally a book would be given to us.

I was an avid reader as a kid, but very slow about it. I’m still very slow in reading today, but not because it takes me a while to comprehend, but because I take in each sentence, each paragraph, and I picture the story as it unfolds.

Fast Forward a little now.

I’m much older and Mrs. Laura and Mr. Al are gone, as is the bookstore we frequented so often as children. I don’t read comics like I used to. Instead I read other books, mostly novels and short story collections.

I am also a writer. I’m not a mid-lister or even a low-lister. I’m just a writer who wants to see my work published and who wants to see my stories in the hands of readers. If that means my stories need to be e-pubbed, then I’ll go with that. If that means they need to be in print format, I’ll go with that. If that means both, then so be it. My goal is to entertain readers, to find that happy medium of writing enjoyment and fulfillment, as well as giving readers something they want to read and something they will remember.

The publishing world is constantly changing. Thirty years ago, e-books were an unfathomable concept. Today, print books seem almost prehistoric. Thirty years ago, there were no e-zines or websites where you could submit short stories or novellas or even novels. There were physical addresses, not e-mails, and you had to print your manuscript out, put it in a big envelope or box and mail it out to agents, editors and publishers. It was a lot harder to get noticed back then.

Today, getting published is easier. You can do it all yourself with the e-pub world (and the print world for that matter). Many call it vanity or self publishing. I lean toward the self publishing term, because that is really what it is. We can call it Indie, meaning Independent publishing. I’m good with that as well.

With Indie or self publishing, or even traditional publishing, it comes down to one thing for the writer: how much are you willing to work at it. Writing is work. Writing is hard work. Don’t be fooled by some of the success stories out there:

I’ve never written anything before and this just popped in my head so I wrote it and now I’m a bagillionaire and am loved by the masses.

There are very few folks that can just sit down, pen a story and have it do phenomenally well, and that’s going the traditional route. It’s tougher going the Indie road, which is narrow and crowded with every other Indie writer out there. People shove and push and elbow their way along the streets of Storyville, peddling their wares on Facebook Avenue, Twitter Street, Pinterest Boulevard, Tumbler Road, Goodreads Circle, Blog Trail and a whole host of other places.

Readers have a ton of choices these days. The Big Six no longer really control the business. Sure, they still have a huge stake in it, but readers can go to Amazon or Smashwords or Pubit and a few other sources and browse items and titles until they find what they are looking for.

I’ve said these last 900 words or so in order to address something that is going on out there right now, and sadly, I am guilty of it.

Reading is not what it used to be. There are other things that are fighting for the consumers’ attention (especially children). Video games and the internet and television are easy distractions, and for children, probably a little more entertaining than when I grew up and books and an imagination were all you needed to escape the world for a while. Attention spans are shorter.

Reading needs to continue to be entertaining and not work. Which brings me to one of the trends of Indie publishing and traditionally published authors as well: making readers work.

Recently, one of the writers over at Book Riot wrote an article about what readers owe authors: Readers Don’t Owe Authors #%*!. I’ve read it, followed the links to other articles, and to be honest, I’m kind of sad right now. No, not with what the writer states, but because she is right.

As a writer, I want readers to read and enjoy my books. I would also like it if they told their friends about it (especially if they liked it), but they don’t have to. There is no obligation that they should have to ‘like’ my author page on Facebook or Amazon or Goodreads. There is no obligation for them to post a book review and give me however many stars they want to. There is no obligation for them to write poignant blogs based on their experience of reading my book: OMG, you need to pick this book up!

As writers, we ask so much of our readers. We ask them to choose and purchase our book among the millions of others out there. Many of us are unknown, making the risk of getting something substandard a lot higher (at least in the minds of the readers). We ask them to stick with a story long enough to get into it and then ask them to suspend disbelief that, yes, vampires do sparkle when sprayed with Unicorn dust and women can look at men through their lashes. We ask readers to trust us, to trust that we will not cheat them in the end and have them walk away from the experience of reading our books with a good taste in their mouths. We ask them to believe that our words are worth the price tag we put on them.

Let me say this: It is my job as the writer to engage you, the reader, and to hold your attention all the way until the end of the story (or collections). It is my job to give you something you will want to talk about, that you will want to share with others.

Understand something fellow writers, we do not pay the every day, average reader to read our books. Sure, we may pay professional review services to read and review the book and share their thoughts with the world, but we don’t say, ‘hey, Reader, here’s a hundred bucks. Read my book and tell everyone about it.’

At least, I don’t. I can’t afford to, even if I wanted to.

Readers read because they want to. Readers read for enjoyment. They don’t read with the idea of leaving book reviews, and posting all over social media sites and blogging about it. Readers read because they enjoy the experience. Readers are not our personal marketing department.

As a writer, I admit that there are times I have failed to market my books as well as I should. Whose fault is that? Mine. It’s not the readers’. If I want my work to sell more, I have to market my books better. Sure, if a reader wants to help by spreading the word or leaving a review or however they choose to help, then I will be more than happy to let them. If that’s what they want to do, then go for it. But, it’s not my place to tell them that I need help promoting my book and if they liked my book, then, by George, tell the world.

It takes time to promote our books, and not many of us like to do it. So, why ask our readers to do it for us?

Writing is work. It’s hard work. Marketing is work. It’s much harder work. That is my job.

So, with all that said, I would like to apologize for my part in the whole, ‘let’s get the readers to help market my work’ scenario. It’s not your job. It’s my job. If I don’t do it well enough, then my books don’t sell. I won’t say don’t help writers you like, but I won’t say, if you don’t buy my book and tell the world about it, then you are hurting us writers. That’s BS in it’s truest since.

A reader’s job is to read. That’s it. And even then, it’s not their job, but their desire, what they enjoy doing.

I go back to the comic books I read as a kid. I go back to all the writers out there who had to make it in the business without social media or the Internet or e-books and self-publishing. Sure, word of mouth helps, but I’m certain Stephen King didn’t say, ‘will you please help me sell my books to your friends by liking it and reviewing it and whatever else you can do would be awesome.’ I can’t imagine having the time to write reviews or post on social media about all the books/comics I read growing up.

I’m not going to tell any reader not to help, because, as a writer, I appreciate when someone does like my work and when someone does think enough of it to tell others or leave a review for it. That’s the general principal behind most marketing, to sell a product so good that people will just want to buy it and then tell their friends about it and use that word of mouth to help sell things. By all means, spread the word. But I’m not going to ask you to do any of the work. That’s my job, and that’s the job of every other writer out there. And I’m certainly not going to tell you, the readers, that if you don’t purchase my work, then you aren’t supporting me. Again, BS in a pure form.

There are those websites that say things like, 20 Ways You Can Help Your Favorite Writer or Support a Writer, Buy A Book. Whatever. There is one way that you can help your favorite writer, and it’s the only one that counts. Read their work. My books haven’t sold particularly well, but I know that those who have bought them have, for the most part, read them, and enjoyed them.

I want readers to pick up one of my books and enjoy them. I don’t want them to feel like if they read my books then they have to write a review or like the Amazon page or blog about it. If they want to, go for it, but I don’t want them to feel obligated to do so—that takes the enjoyment out of reading, and we should never want to take that from them.

Readers don’t owe us a thing, but we owe them. Yes, we do. We owe them a big thank you for taking the time (and money in many cases) to read our work. Thank you to anyone who has picked up either Along the Splintered Path or Southern Bones.

The only thing I am going to ask of the readers is, please, don’t steal my work (or anyone else’s). Other than that, if you see my book at the library or a yard sale or the flea market, pick it up for that quarter or fifty cents. If someone gives you my book, just say thank you and don’t worry about whether or not I could have made money off of you purchasing the book. Readers read and that’s what I want them to do with my work. Anything else they want to do with my books after they’ve read them is really up to them. That includes going to an old bookstore on a stretch of road where a middle-aged couple sales used books and credits the kids when they return books. Maybe one of those kids will see my book and want to buy it, and maybe they would like it and decide to keep it instead of turning it back in for a store credit and a comic book.

Until we meet again my friends…

I listened.

And listened.

And listened.

Everything was muffled. I could hear myself breathing, but not actually hear the exhales and inhales. It was like the sound was coming from within my head, not from outside of it. I took a couple of steps and I could hear the echoes of my footsteps. Much like the sound of my breathing, it felt like it was coming from inside my head, inside my body, each step a reverberation from the bottom of my foot, up my legs and spine and into my brain, but not coming from my ears at all. I spoke, couldn’t hear what I had said.

Before I go any further, I must explain to you that I am deaf in my left ear–have been since I was a wee little lad full of health and stuff (as Rick Grimes would say). So, to have my right ear ‘pop’ and things suddenly become muffled was a little scary.

The next morning I made my way to the doctor. He probed and looked, checking the ear out. I had an ear infection, something I haven’t had since being that little lad full of stuff. It was apparently pretty bad.

‘Have you had any pain?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Any fever?’

‘No.’

‘Interesting.’

Interesting? When a doctor says that word, it is NOT interesting, but probably something you don’t want to know about.

‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.

‘You’ve had this for a while. You should be in a lot of pain and should have had a high fever by now.’

That night I was sick. High fever. Chills. My head hurt. My right ear hummed with a ringing like Cicadas on a late spring night. It was as if the doctor had predicted it. I took the medication prescribed to me and went to bed.

I don’t know if I just felt so bad that I was able to sleep through the night, but I do know that it is the only night I have slept through since. You see, the medicine has one side effect that has reared its ugly head: it gives me a massive amount of energy and wakes me in the middle of the night.

‘Hey,’ it says as it taps on my forehead with its invisible finger. ‘Get up. I want to play.’

When my eyes open, I am wide awake. There has been no going back to sleep over the last week or so. Most mornings four o’clock is the wake up hour and laying in bed just makes things worse. So, I get up. I’m not tired, but I would like to sleep just a little longer.

Since this happened a little over a week ago, some folks have had their fun with me, moving their mouths without actually speaking. They look like they belong in a cheesy Japanese film involving Godzilla or bad ninjas. For you folks, just remember, I have a revenge list and your names are right there at the top.

The medicine has helped get rid of the infection (I guess–I’m no doctor, so I really don’t know) and some of the hearing has come back, which is a relief. The eardrum should heal in time, but it may take longer than I really want it to. If it were up to me, it would have healed on Tuesday, March 26th.

To help you understand how I hear things right now, place a seashell to one ear and cover the other one (or put an earplug in it) and ask someone to talk to you. It sounds like someone is speaking under water. It’s annoying. The ringing of the ear seems to cut right through my skull and play jump rope with my brain. The headache has been constant.

It’s frustrating.

There is only one real way to describe how all of this has made me feel: cut off. That’s an accurate term. I can hear people talking, but their voices are muffled. Forget listening to music unless I want to put earphones on, and I really don’t think that is a good idea right now. It’s as if someone cut the volume way down and I’m struggling to hear what is going on around me. I’m tired of saying, ‘what?’ ‘huh?’ ‘I didn’t hear you.’

I hear wind.

I hear those Cicadas.

If there is one silver lining to this it’s that I will be able to use this in a story; the pain, the closed off from the rest of the world feeling, the ringing Cicadas. You better believe I will use this. Being a writer who likes to focus on how his characters feel, this is research in its purest form.

It’s not like I haven’t been through this before (something worse happened as a wee little lad, you know, full of stuff), but this is different. I was a kid then and didn’t have a job where I need my hearing in order to know what to do for folks. It’s been frustrating, but it will get better.

For now, I take the medicine, sleep for three or four hours a night and get up to a world of muffled sounds. And I file these feelings away in the cabinets in my mind. As a writer, you bet this will be used later on. That’s what we do. We observe, make mental notes, then come back to whichever note we need when the time comes. It’s what we do.

Thank you for reading, and until we meet again, my friends…

Go ahead, beat your head against the desk. I’m wrong, right? I have to be wrong. There are a lot of things that are worth doing that are easy. Okay. Sure. Maybe so, but were they easy to start with?

Riding a bike. Was it easy the first time you hopped up on that two-wheeler and began to peddle? For most of us that answer is no.

How about the first time you drove a car? Was that easy? Maybe for a couple of folks, but for most, probably not. It takes time to learn all the nuances to driving, including always paying attention to your surroundings and the other drivers around you.

Did you ever play sports? Was it easy while you were learning how? Probably not.

Some people are gifted. They don’t have to put forth much effort to accomplish something. But those people are few and far between. Most of us have to work at things to become better, to succeed.

I go back to my opening sentence: Nothing worth doing is easy.

How about I change that a little?

Nothing worth being successful at is easy.

Oh my. I just stirred the hornet’s nest, didn’t I?

To be successful at something, you have to work at it. It’s not going to be easy. Things don’t come naturally for all of us. Most of us have to think things out, come up with a plan and then execute that plan in hopes that things will turn out the way we, well, planned. Often things don’t pan out. That’s life.

The late Jack Curran was known to say, “The road to success is always under construction.”

Curran was a very successful high school basketball and baseball coach for Archbishop Molloy. He coached at AM for 55 years and he knew a little bit about success. He knew that in order to be successful, you had to constantly work at it. Just because you succeed once doesn’t mean you will do so again. Curran knew that as well.

There is another thing that goes with that road to success: starting. You can never be successful if you don’t actually try. You have to start something in order to find out if you can do it. Do you want to be a musician? You have to try an instrument before you can be one. Then you have to find the instrument that fits you. You can’t do that if you don’t first try. Of course, if you don’t try, you can’t fathom success.

Do you want to be an athlete? You have to try a sport to see if you want to pursue it, if it is right for you. If you don’t try, you can’t succeed.

Do you want to own your own business? Yeah, that’s right. You can’t do so unless you look into it and then attempt to do it.

I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to see my work get published. For a long while I didn’t pursue that dream of being a writer. I was nervous. What if no one liked my work? What if it doesn’t sell? What if someone blasted my work? It was daunting, to say the least.

Then when I discovered I might be able to do this after all, I learned it’s a lot of work. It’s not easy. But you know what? By having to work hard at this, when one of my stories gets picked up or someone reviews one of my collections and likes it, it’s that much more rewarding for me for having put in the effort to pursue something I wanted to do.

Let me encourage you–all of you–to chase what dreams you have. Big or small doesn’t matter. If you want to be successful at something, you have to first try it and then pursue it and then keep working at it. Nothing worth doing is easy. Nothing worth being successful at is easy. And, as Jack Curran would say, the road to success is always under construction.

So get to work, get to paving that road.

Until we meet again, my friends…

Seriously, I’m not Catholic so I don’t understand Ash Wednesday. Whether I understand the day or not doesn’t matter. What does matter is something that happened many moons ago when my lovely wife and I first got married.

Picture this: A young couple walks into a grocery store to pick up a few items. She goes one way while he goes the other. As he walks by this elderly man (he may have been pushing the 80 years mark) who seems to have something on his forehead. The young man gives it a quizzical look and wonders why hasn’t anyone said anything to this gentleman about the dirt on his forehead.

[[Scene break.]]

I’m sure many of you can guess where this is going, but let me add a couple of things to this:

The grocery store was in a well to do type of area in Columbia. An area where people generally look down their noses at those who are not like them (and especially those who do not dress or talk like them). I was not a fan of that particular grocery store and I certainly wasn’t a fan of the attitudes that were often found inside. Seriously. There were times I would dress in my rattiest cut-off jean shorts and a t-shirt with all sorts of holes in them and go inside just so I could watch the reactions of all the uppity folks. It was priceless. And fun.

Second, my wife, Cate, had mentioned several times previous to that moment for me to try to be nicer to folks, to try not always looking like I was angry. She had a point. I did always look mad back then, but in my defense, most of the time I didn’t realize it.

Now, back to the story, but try to remember, uppity grocery store and being nice to others as you’d have them be nice to you.

[[Back to the action.]]

The young man stares at the smudge on the older man’s head, still curious about why no one had told him about it. If you like you can picture one of those soap opera men standing there thinking, yet their thoughts are out loud and full of bs.

The young man didn’t quite put his hand to his chin and look at the invisible camera with a quizzical expression. And his thoughts didn’t sound like a bad Adam West voice over. Yet, he did wonder: Why, oh why doesn’t someone tell him about the smudge on his head? Why, oh why did someone even put that smudge on his head? Maybe he rested his forehead on a dirty table. Maybe I should say something. I certainly would want someone to tell me if I had dirt on my face.

And so it was to be that the young man caught up with the older gentleman at the frozen meats section of the store.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he says in his most polite voice. ‘You seem to have some dirt on your forehead.’

At this point, everyone in television land probably knew what would happen next, and they would have been right.

After the gentleman looks to him, the young man reaches up and wipes the smudge off of his forehead.

The young man had done something nice. Nice, for crying out loud! His young wife would be so proud.

The elderly man’s eyes grow wide and his mouth pops open. There was no need to thank the young man. The look of surprise on his older counterpart’s face said all that needed to be said. Yes, the young man had done something nice and had left the older guy speechless…

… until the litany of four letter words explodes from the elderly man’s mouth.

Confusion ensues as the young man backs away, hands out in front of him, not sure what he had done wrong. Several people turn to watch as the older man berates the younger one. Finally, the yelling ends and the young man finds his way back to his lovely wife.

‘I’m never going to be nice to anyone ever again,’ the young man says when he finds her.

‘Why?’

He relays the story to her only for her eyes to grow as wide as the elderly man’s and her mouth drops into an O.

‘It’s Ash Wednesday,’ she says.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a Catholic thing. It’s the first day of Lent.’

That told the young man very little, to which his wife (who was raised in a Catholic household, though whether they were practicing Catholics was a subject of debate) explains in a little more detail.

‘How was I supposed to know that?’

‘So the guy was mad?’

‘Honey, he lost his religion over it.’

The young man reiterated his original statement to his lovely wife, ‘I am never being nice to anyone ever again.’

The moral to this story is simple: Never wipe a smudge off of anyone’s head. Let them walk around with that ash on their foreheads and let others wonder, why, oh why doesn’t someone wipe that dirt off of his head?

Oh and there may be a reason that some folks are just not nice to others. In the words of Paul Harvey, ‘Now you know the rest of the story.’

I enjoy first person stories, but so many other folks, including editors, do not. Why is that? Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe the use of ‘I’ is used a bit too much in these stories. I know there have been many pieces that I have read where ‘I’, and not the story itself, became the complete focal point. Yes, in first person the story is about the ‘I’ or the ‘We’, but it shouldn’t be the sole focus. If it is more about the narrator and less about what the narrator is saying, or the story he/she is telling, then the ‘I’ becomes redundant and annoying.

It’s hard to write a first person piece and not use/over use the ‘I’. But with practice, you can make that ‘I’ less about the narrator and more about the story. When I first wrote the story, The Woodshed it was all about the narrator, all about his plight with the monster that was his father. That’s not a terrible thing—the story was about a young man, Kyle, who couldn’t escape his past—but the way I told it made the ‘I’ the focal point and not the story. Every other sentence was me, me, me, me. The story was lost on the narrator.

I rewrote The Woodshed numerous times before coming up with the version published in 2012 in the short story collection, Along the Splintered Path. (Yeah, a little bit of shameless self-promotion there.)

After the rewrite, the story sounded much better. Take a look:

We lived in the back woods of the North Carolina Mountains. Our property extended as far as the eyes could see and our legs could carry us. Trees surrounded us in every direction and there was a pond down the hill and around the bend. It was pretty country for those who lived there. If you were a stranger it was just as dangerous as it was beautiful. Father made sure that anyone and everyone knew the land was ours, running off trespassers with his shotgun, warning them to “stay off my land,” and “if I see yah again I’ll bury yah where I shoot yah.”

Once I was under the porch burying my penny jar when a stranger pulled his jeep alongside the house. He got out and started up the steps. Before he could reach the door Father greeted him with his old shotgun, the one he called Babe.

You can tell right away that the story is first person, but you can also see the narrator is moving the piece along, and not hung up on himself. Sure, he mentions ‘us’ and ‘our’ and begins to tell about this one incident, buy you immediately know they live out in the country and that, during that one incident, he is under the porch and a stranger has just pulled up in a jeep. You get a sense of direction.

Writing first person is nothing more than telling someone about something that happened to you. A first date. A speeding ticket. Applying for a job. However, you can’t just make it about YOU. In first person, you have to also make it about the reader.

It’s easy to tell a story when standing by the water cooler or talking on the phone to someone who knows you. There are details that are not needed in those cases. However, when writing a story and telling it to complete strangers, you have to do it a little differently. I call it the “Picture This Mentality.” Just because you can see it in your head, doesn’t mean the reader can. You have to help them picture it.

This goes back to the old school way of writing. Back before the advances in technology brought us cars and planes and television and the internet (oh my!) writers delved into the details of stories. If you lived in America, there was a good chance you had no clue what Africa looked like or what England was like. There was a good chance, unless you were a soldier, that you had no clue what being in the trenches in a war was like. So the writers of that time gave the readers great details in order for them to picture the story.

Writing in a manner that gives the readers a good image (yet not an overdone image) helps the readers fall into a story, helps them get to know the narrator a little more without that person talking explicitly about themselves.

Whenever I go into the PTM, I state simply: ‘Picture this, if you will.’ From there I set up the scene and then go into the story. It allows me to describe to the reader in enough detail (again, without drowning them in descriptions) the scenery and what is going on so the story can come more alive. It also helps me to take the focus off of the ‘I’.

Still, a lot of folks don’t like these types of stories. Though I took a guess with the last bit of rambling, I have another thought on it. Bear with me for just another minute.

In my newest work in progress, my main character is an older black male who is from the south and who spent eight years in prison back in the seventies. He’s not a dumb guy, and he keeps to himself for the most part. He speaks in a dialect that is not heavy southern, but is dialect, none-the-less. His grammar is not perfect—far from it—but I wanted to make him as realistic as possible, so he talks the way he talks.

I can hear all the editors out there cringing now.

Let’s back up a step: I’m a notoriously slow reader. I like to picture what is happening and I like to get into the characters’ heads. I like to see it from their eyes, feel it through their skin, hear it with their ears, smell it with their noses, and taste it with their tongues. If they are hurting, I want to be in there with them and feel that pain. So, when I read, I am slow about it, because I really dive into the water, so to speak.

When I read a first person story, within the first couple of pages, I try to get into character, much like an actor. I try to put myself in the narrator’s shoes and the voice in my head reading the story to me, becomes someone else’s (like an audio book, I guess). It is the voice of the character trying to assert itself in the telling of the story. By doing that, I become part of the story and it makes those first person pieces so much more enjoyable.

Do readers do that? Do editors do that? Am I the only person who does that and does it make me some kind of weirdo?

If you have never tried to form an image and a way of being for a character in a first person story, then give it a try, especially if you don’t like that type of narration. It may help you come to enjoy it. Maybe not. But it never hurts to give it a shot, right?

Before anyone writes me nasty comments (and please feel free to if you wish to have a conversation on the subject), allow me to say that this is me speculating on possible reasons why many folks don’t like this perspective. This is not something researched and I didn’t do any surveys. These are just my thoughts on the subject. ‘Nothing more,’ sayeth the Sparrow.

I’ve always enjoyed writing in the first person perspective. If something in this blog helps you come to enjoy reading that point of view, then that’s awesome. If not, well, that’s okay as well. At any rate, I have a story that needs to be worked on and it’s time to get into character.

Until we meet again, my friends…

On Facebook I always see people posting about their successes in the writing world. You know, things like ‘hey my story just got accepted at such and such anthology,’ or ‘I just signed with an agent,’ or even better, ‘my novel was just picked up by The Most Awesome Publisher In the World.’ These are all great things and I enjoy reading how people have had success in the business.

You know what I don’t see a lot of? Go ahead, guess. I’ll give you three chances, and your first two don’t count.

I don’t see a lot of the failures. People just don’t post about them. I don’t see much about the books not being picked up, the short stories being rejected, the agonizingly excruciating process of seeking out agents and sending out queries. It’s as if no one wants anyone to know something of theirs wasn’t good enough for someone else.

Let’s face it, we all have those stories that no matter how good we believe they are, folks just don’t pick them up. It’s just the way it is.

Sure there are some out there who post about their rejections, but not many. Again, it’s like no one wants anyone to know about their failures.

Not me. I want the world to know about my failures in writing. I want them to see that, ‘hey, I was rejected,’ and ‘guess what? I was rejected again.’ It happens, so I decided at the beginning of the year to post my failures—not my successes. Sure, I’ll post some of the successes when they happen, but I want to embrace those rejections.

Let me clarify something here: I do NOT like rejection letters. I hate them. I loathe them. But they are part of the business and part of being a writer. If you don’t get rejections, then you’re probably not sending out any work.

A little statistic for you:

Since 2008 (and not including 2013’s stats) I have submitted 337 stories to various markets around the world. In that time frame I have had 98 acceptances, 192 rejections and 47 stories where I either never heard from the publisher or the publication folded.

To extend these numbers:

Acceptance rate: 29%
Rejection rate: 57%
Other: 14%

An acceptance rate of almost 3 out of every ten isn’t too shabby, but that means 71% of the stories were not accepted.

I won’t lie and say that I’m okay with those numbers, but truth be told, it could be worse.

Stick with me a little longer.

Before the beginning of the year, I set some goals for myself. One of those goals was to submit at least 52 stories this year. At one a week, I would reach the goal easy enough. I’m well on the way to that number—I have already submitted 15 stories.

I have already been rejected 5 times. I have one acceptance. That’s not a very good percentage. Not even close to the 29% mark I managed for the previous five years. The math is easy enough to do: Six responses, five rejections, one acceptance equals an acceptance rate of 16.7%.

Rejection. It’s part of life. It’s part of writing.

A great analogy for you:

The other day, a young lady where I work mentioned that she saw my posts on Facebook about the submissions and rejections. She said something to the effect of:

Writing is like applying for a job. You can’t take it personally when you don’t get the job.

I’ve pondered this and, yes, she was right. You might be qualified for the job, but sometimes there are other folks that are more qualified than you are. There are also instances where the job you applied for you are not suited for. Sometimes you even have what the job is looking for, but you are missing one or more qualities in the type of employee being pursued. Sometimes you are overqualified for a position. There could also be hundreds of people applying for that ONE spot.

And, just like not taking it personal when you don’t get a job, you can’t take it personal when you get rejected by a publisher or agent. It’s going to happen. No one that I know of has ever had a perfect submission rate.

Sure, acceptances are great, and I look forward to them just like anyone else. Yet, rejections keep you grounded, keeps you working hard. If you don’t have to work hard, you get complacent and lazy.

For me, thanks to a friend at work, I have a different perspective on the process. Each submission is a job application. When you think about it, that’s not too far off. You fill out an application with all of the pertinent information in order to get a job—a paying job.

When you submit a story, you edit and clean it up and you send it out in hopes of getting an acceptance, generally an acceptance that pays you. Just like a job. Sometimes you get the job, sometimes you don’t. Celebrate those times with your friends, shout it out to the world and bask in the glow of the acceptance. On the same token, celebrate the jobs you don’t get, don’t be ashamed of the rejections. If you can celebrate them, it makes it easier to deal with and easier to stay optimistic during those dry spells where acceptances are few and far between.

Here’s the trick: when you don’t get a job you want, don’t give up. Keep applying. Keep going to interviews. Keep putting your best foot forward. Eventually, you’ll get the job you want.

Do you see the similarities? Write. Edit. Submit. When you get a rejection, write, edit and submit again. You can’t give up because you get a rejection. If you do, you’ll never get an acceptance.

Until we meet again, my friends…

I would like to give you an example of this, and then I would like to tell you a story.

The example is: I worked late last night, filling in for one of my co-workers. As I walked down the hall, I glanced into a conference room as I went by the open door. The window shades were up and the city was aglow in lights. I could see Gervais Street Bridge lit up on both sides with white globes glowing in the dark. It was, for a lack of a better term, breathtaking. I stopped for a moment and just stared out the glass. When I walked away, the beginnings of a story that I have titled, Ledge began to form. It’s my current Work In Progress.

Now for the story.

I had a Paul Harvey moment this morning. If you don’t know who Paul Harvey is, I strongly suggest you look him up on Youtube and listen to any one of his The Rest of the Story segments.

I was in the kitchen of the hospitality department at work, chatting with a co-worker as he made himself a cup of coffee. The young lady who heads hospitality was in there as well. As me and this co-worker talked, I saw her do something out of the corner of my eye.

“Stop with the Twelve Chairs for a moment,” I said to the co-worker (Twelve Chairs is a Mel Brooks film based on a Russian comedy, or so I learned today).

Before I go much further, I have to explain what I saw. The young lady peeled the top off of a half and half container. You know what I’m talking about, right? Those little cups that hold liquid creamer in them that you pour into your coffee. She then raised the small container to her mouth, downed it like a shot and threw the cup away.

Weird, right?

Ahhh, but not so fast. There’s more to it than that.

You know what she did, now, here’s the rest of the story:

As a young child, both she and her brother spent a lot of time with her grandparents. They were picked up from school by her grandparents, and spent summers at their house, and went to breakfast where coffee was served, and yes, the two little kids were allowed to have some.

It wasn’t just the coffee that the kids enjoyed. It was the creamer. The little .375 ounce containers that looked like white boiler pots that you could see the liquid shaking around inside held, not creamer to the Siblings Duo, but sweet deliciousness. They would get their cup of coffee with breakfast and pour the creamer in, carefully peeling back the top so not to spill any on their fingers, or worse yet, the table where a napkin would have to be used to clean up the droplets instead of a tongue. They would pour what looked like milk into their cups, stir it around a little, and then drink the coffee down, albeit slowly at first until the heat had cooled enough for guzzling.

As the coffee became less and less in the cup, the two children would add more and more of the half and half until, before long, the cup no longer held any traces of coffee, except maybe a hint of aroma. And they would drink all the fatty happiness that was the half and half in their cups. And their grandfather would let them.

Yes, their grandfather let them.

Their mother, however, wasn’t too fond of the children drinking the creamer down like that, either in little shots straight from the plastic cup, or bigger ones from a coffee cup. ‘It’s not healthy,’ she would say and would not allow it. No, her children were not going to have any of that yumminess.

But there was still grandfather.

You see, grandparents are just parents of the parents of the children their children brought into the world. And the sole purpose for parents whose kids have children of their own, is to spoil them, and then send them home, sugar-highed, caffeine-wired, toy-bought, cartoon-watched, goofed-off-all-the-day-long, so that their children could sow what they reaped from their own childhood. Yes, grandparents often spoil their grandchildren in ways they would have never done with their own kids.

And the Sibling Duo’s grandfather was no different. If he turned a blind eye to their constant opening and pouring of the half and half’s into the cups to the point that they would have stacks of empty containers on the table when they left, only he and those grandchildren would ever know. That was their little secret.

For the Sibling Duo of brother and sister, it was their treat, their little tradition with Grandfather.

As we grow nearer to the completion of this story, let me now tell you that not too many years ago, this great man passed away, leaving behind these two wonderful now adult grandchildren who still have a fondness for half and half–straight up, folks, not in their coffee.

This brings me back to the moment in time where two male co-workers were discussing a film by Mel Brooks as the young lady first peeled the top away, and then tossed back the creamer like a shot of whiskey, before throwing the container into the trash. You see, she wasn’t mimicking the actions of someone in a bar, or even just downing the semi-sweet delightness that is half and half just for the heck of it. No, as you will come to know shortly, there was a reason for this quick action, glimpsed by her co-worker.

You see, as explained earlier, her grandfather allowed both her and her brother to partake of the half and half as kids. Now, as adults, and with their grandfather no longer around, it is a tribute to him, a way of honoring him. Each morning, when the young lady in question makes a cup of coffee, she takes a .375 ounce container of half and half and downs it in memory of a great man she loved, a great man who taught her a lot about life, love and, yes, happiness. And that happiness is a half and half at the breakfast table as a little child…

To steal from Paul Harvey, now you know the rest of the story.

I told you that story in honor of, not only my friend’s grandfather, but my friend as well. In life you have to hold onto those little things that make you happy, hold onto the good memories of childhood that helped shape you. In turn, you can hold onto those you love, even when they move on.

After hearing that tale, my mind–being that I’m a writer–instantly said, ‘hey that could go in a story’. I even joked with her about using it. But, after thinking on what she told me, I thought it would be better served, not as a part of a story, but as a reminder about life, about what to cherish and what to let go, about what and who to hold on tight to.

I’m reminded of the recent Bud Light commercials that play during football games. Fans are shown doing all sorts of odd things, but the commercial boldly states, it’s not weird if it works.

What the young lady did this morning struck me as weird at first, but after hearing her story, it’s not weird at all. It’s a pretty cool way of remembering someone, and I’m glad I saw her in the act of remembrance. So next time someone does something that you think is odd, take a step back and think about my friend and her tribute to her grandfather. There’s a story behind everything, and if you don’t know the story, you may misconceive someone’s actions.

Until we meet again, my friends…

AJB

1/16/2013

Half and Half, the Rest of the Story

One of those friends is a young lady who writes a zombie series and runs a website dedicated to the zombie sub-genre. She is a pleasant woman who has an insatiable desire to write, to tell stories, and like the rest of us, she’s putting herself out there for the world to love and criticize. Such is the life of a writer.

Her name? Julianne Snow, and she graciously agreed to an interview with Herbie and me. Granted, she doesn’t care much for needles, so Herbie had to leave them home, much to his dismay.

Now, if you don’t mind, follow us if you will into the world of Julianne Snow.

HH: Who is Julianne Snow?

JS: As I sit here trying to think about what to say, I’m struck by how hard of a question that actually is. How do I want to the world to perceive me? Does that world actually perceive me in that way? Should I embellish bits and pieces to make myself sound more interesting or am I interesting enough all on my own?

You asked, so you’re going to get the most honest version. I am a thirty-something year old (Oh God! Where did my 20s go??) author striving to make my world a better place each and every day. I write horror, so generally my day is not as bad as those of my characters. Am I classically trained in the art of prose? Heck no, but I do have two degrees and I have written tonnes of academic papers and two theses, so I think I have the basics covered.

I am Canadian, extremely proud of our spelling of specific words, and trained in all of the correct usages for the phrase ‘eh?’. I have travelled, though not extensively, and found myself to be open and willing to experience new and wondrous things.

I have a distinct love for Zombies, which originated at age six with a viewing of Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. That grainy, black and white masterpiece solidified so many things in my young mind; a love for horror and that of the Undead. I absorb (read: watch, read, craft, write, etc.) anything Zombie related and I am currently working on my first Zombie cross-stitching project – it’s a hand reaching out of the dirt –and plan to create more embroidered masterpieces (because deep down, I know it will be a masterpiece).

I am the creator and author of Days with the Undead, which started off as an online serial, but I have added more to the story and have begun to release the sagas as a series of books. Days with the Undead: Book One is currently available with Book Two coming out in the spring of 2013.

I have also penned a number of shorter stories which can be found in various anthologies from Open Casket Press and Sirens Call Publications with a few more awaiting deliberations. You can even find some of them on either of the two blogs I maintain, but you may have to go digging for them a little bit.

So to sum it all up into a few words, I’m a Canadian Horror Author with a penchant for the Undead. I suppose I could have given you that version to start with, but how much fun would that have been?

HH: I’m a fan of zombies as well and have been working on a series for the last couple of years. Having said that, what do you find is the hardest part of creating a series and maintaining it, especially one based in the world of zombies when so many stories and movies are currently out involving the not-so-loveable shamblers?

JS: At the moment, I am no longer posting aspects of the Days with the Undead saga online, but the hardest part of it was finding the time to develop a story and then put it all together for posting. My posting schedule was such that I was writing and posting a new segment each and every day or every couple of days. Getting the word count was not difficult; I never concerned myself with that aspect. The problem was more in finding the time to sit down and develop the story in a direction that could sustain the saga for additional days after that.

When you write a book, you have an idea of where the story is going and if not, you can always go back and flesh out the bits that need to be there to make the rest of the story follow a logical and continuous path. When you’re posting something online, you’re working within such a short deadline: you need to write and edit before you can post. It was hectic, but I loved it.

I’m never short of ideas, even within the Zombie genre, but I do find it hard to come up with story arcs that have never been encountered before. I think I have a few, but it’s hard to say for certain because I have not read or watched every Zombie related piece out there – close to it, but certainly not all. I found it easier to create my characters and the general conflict, letting everything develop from that point.

HH: Though you love zombies, they aren’t the only things you write about, right?

JS: Good heavens, no! I definitely write in other genres of horror as well. At the moment, I have three non-Zombie related stories in anthologies with a few more in different stages of the decision process. I’m a regular contributor to an online dark and edgy literary magazine entitled The Sirens Call and I’m currently working on a number of stories for different projects as well, so there will be plenty more from me in the future if you’re not a fan of the Zombie sub-genre (though I have no idea why you wouldn’t be…).

Heck, I’ve even had my first acceptance for a romance themed anthology. Sometimes the muse hits you in the right way and the call is something you need to answer. I enjoy writing and while horror and Zombies may be my first loves, they are certainly not my only ones.

HH: The Sirens Call? Can you tell me about that?

JS: The Sirens Call is the dark and edgy literary bimonthly online magazine that is put together by Sirens Call Publications. Generally, each issue is themed and authors, artists, and photographers are invited to submit any work that fits that month’s theme. They’ve actually just released December’s issue, which is themed ‘frozen’ and they’re giving it away for free! It’s a wonderful project to be a part of and I love the mix of talented authors from different genres that make up each issue.

HH: For free? Would you mind sharing the link with all of those in Type AJ Negative land?

JS: Absolutely! You can find the link by visiting the Sirens Call Publications website.

HH: Can you tell me about the writing process for you? Are you one that outlines or do you fly by the seat of your pants?

JS: The process of writing for me is something very organic. Usually it starts with an idea or a line of dialogue and the story builds in my mind before I have the opportunity to sit down and write it. Submission calls are also very inspirational to me – sometimes I write stories without the inspiration of a call, but if I’m going to submit to an anthology or magazine, I let the words of the call guide me in the right direction. I think it’s extremely important and helps your chance of acceptance if you pay attention to what the publisher is ultimately looking for.

As for being a planner or a pantser, I’m a pantser during approximately ninety percent of the stories I write. The other ten percent of the stories are planned down to most of the details. Don’t get me wrong, the stories I write by the seat of my pants do have to hit on certain aspects for the story to progress, so there is a small amount of planning but it’s extremely minimal. In fact, most of the time, I have no idea how I’m going to join elements of the story together until my fingers start to fly over the keys.

HH: That’s interesting. For the most part I fly by the seat of my pants as well, but for me I never write specifically for an anthology or a particular publication. I used to, but I found many topics limiting and my stories like to stretch their legs.

Being a writer, I like to say my stories have to ‘breathe’ in order to live and there are various things I do during writing to try and make them come alive. Are there any particular things you focus on when writing a story to make them as believable as possible?

JS: I think having characters that are relatable adds a significant level of believability to any story that I write. Without the connection between character and reader, the story is going to be an extremely hard sell. Even if your character is a villain, adding an aspect or two of vulnerability can help to make them a little more palatable in the loosest definition of the word. No one wants to like the villain, but sometimes when you’ve created the perfectly flawed character, the readers cannot stop themselves from liking them just a little bit. Let’s face it, sometimes good people do bad things…

Generally I concentrate on one central main character and tell the story from their point of view. Other points of view are necessary in some cases, and I concentrate on each one as I bring them together into a cohesive whole. A misplaced perspective can destroy a great tale and I work hard to make each one that I present authentic.

I also find that writing what I know is the easiest way to keep things straight. Each of my stories contains a small aspect of myself that I can rely on to draw inspiration from and help me to keep the different story lines organized and complete.

And then there are those other times that I just write with abandon and see what comes out at the end. Those are certainly some interesting stories…

HH: Do you ever see yourself in your stories?

JS: I see parts of myself, but I’m never a complete character. At times, the similarities are akin to a situation that I have dealt with or a particular quirk that I have. In others, certain traits are amalgamated along with others into a character to the point that readers would have no idea that a part of myself was even included. I believe that many authors put bits and pieces of themselves into their work, whether it’s subconsciously done or completely transparent. It makes for a better read, in my humble opinion.

HH: I agree that putting parts of ourselves into our work makes the stories much better and less one-dimensional. A couple more questions and we’ll wrap up. Who is your favorite character that you’ve created and why?

JS: Such a hard and unfair question! They’re all my favourites! After thinking for a moment and coming to terms with the thought of singling out one of my creations, I’m going to choose Julie. In so many ways, she’s exactly like me (name aside and all of that). We share some of the same history and she is the ultimate embodiment of survivalism. That’s something that I really relate to in more ways than one.

HH: We have our favorites, though we’re supposed to love them all the same, right?

JS: In a way that’s true. Our characters are ‘people’ that we end up spending inordinate amounts of time with – we craft them into who we want them to be and do our best to help our readers form the right opinions and emotions concerning them. It’s hard to pick a favourite.

HH: Julianne, where can we find you? Facebook? A blog? Amazon?

JS: Oh I can be found in lots of places! I’m on Facebook with both a personal page and a fan page, on Twitter. I can also be found on Goodreads, Google+, and my Amazon Author Page. I blog in numerous places: WordPress – Days with the Undead and The Flipside of Julianne; Tumblr – The Randomnes of Julianne. I think that’s everywhere you can find me.

HH: Julianne, thank you for hanging out with us today. We hope your future is bright with many words and publications and zombies.

To the readers out in Type AJ Negative land, drop a comment in the section below and/or visit Julianne at any of the links provided above. Thank you for reading, and until we meet again, my friends…