Writing in the Dark

Sunday, January 22, 2023

A Matter of Perspective

One of the most basic lessons fiction writers learn is how to handle point of view. We’re told that it’s a vital aspect of story – if not the most vital – and that there are three basic types: First Person, Second Person, and Third Person (divided into Omniscient or Limited). We’re told a few more things. That First Person can be hard to control because your narrator could tell the story in any order he or she wants or veer away from the narrative entirely. That readers don’t like Second-Person stories and they don’t sell (which is bullshit; I received an acceptance for a second-person story today). That Third-Person Omniscient is even harder than First Person to control, and that readers prefer Third-Person Limited the most, as long as it doesn’t get too immersive.

I’m not here to dispute any of that. I am here, however, to tell you that there are three other points of view -- or perhaps a better word would be perspectives -- which writers may employ instinctively or learn to use as they gain experience, but which they aren’t consciously aware of. There may be creative writing teachers out there somewhere who are cognizant of these viewpoints and teach them, but I don’t know of any. I’ve learned them by writing a lot, trying to understand how I use them, and then trying to figure out how to clearly and succinctly explain to others how to use them. And as a matter of fact, I just figured out that last piece this morning – it was my Doc Brown Flux Capacitor moment – hence this blog entry. I’ve named these points of view Observer, Participant, and Experiencer, and they have more to do with how an author imagines characters as they write than they do with narrative voice. They’re about what happens in the writer’s head during composition that allows us to create the illusion of character perspective. And unlike the traditional three voices of First, Second, and Third Person, these other points of view can be used separately or in combination, depending on the effect you want to create. I’d even go so far as to say that these three points of view are perhaps more important than the three traditional ones because they describe what writers themselves imagine – or should imagine – as they write.

Allow me to elucidate . . .

Observer

Interviewers often ask me what’s the most important advice I can give to new writers, and my answer is always the same. People grow up being passive absorbers of media such as movies, TV shows, YouTube videos, etc., and these media make no imaginative demands on their audience. We don’t have to do anything but sit, watch, listen, and let information flow into us. Even people who read a lot still consume thousands of hours more of undemanding visual media throughout their lives. So when people decide to try their hand at writing fiction, they instinctively write from the viewpoint of a detached, passive observer, and their stories are dull and lifeless. “Writers need to write with a more immersive point of view,” I tell interviewers. “Their words need to stimulate reader’s imaginations.”

Observer point of view is different than just consuming media, though. With Observer point of view, the writer imagines themselves watching events play out before them, describing only what they see and hear.

There are times when the Observer point of view works well all by itself. Fairy tales, myths, and stories for preschool-age children are often written like this, presented through the detached voice of an unnamed narrator. One summer day, Busy Bunny was hopping along the main trail through the Forest of Fun, happily singing a song to herself. Little did she know that her pleasant day would soon become quite unpleasant, thanks to the arrival of Grumpy Goose.

Observer point of view can also work well by itself in experimental fiction, creating a distancing effect that keeps readers off-balance, especially when combined with a Second-Person narrative. But Observer point of view is best when it’s combined with Participant and Experiencer, otherwise you’ll end up writing a summary of a story instead of an actual story.

Participant

Participant point of view is when a writer imagines a character interacting with other elements in the story, such as the setting, physical objects, other people, animals, etc. The difference here is that the writer also imagines participating. Whenever an interaction takes place, the writer describes it with somewhat vivid detail, detailing the character’s physical response more than a mental one.

Bob gripped the shovel and chunked its blade into the cold, hard earth.

An Observer would write something like Bob started digging. The Participant point of view is more vivid, implying strength of touch (gripped), strength of impact (chunked) and cold, hard earth adds more detail to the sense of impact, and cold adds a sense of temperature. The writer’s imagination is now participating in what the character is doing, but only in a limited way. Participant point of view does sometimes dip into a character’s thoughts, feelings, and reactions, but only to a small degree, since the writer is primarily imagining themselves – via their character – doing the physical action.

Experiencer

Experiencer point of view is when a writer imagines themselves experiencing everything that occurs in a scene, especially what takes place inside a character.

A single bead of sweat rolls down Jane’s spine, causing her to shiver.

Not real, not real . . .

A high-pitched whine like buzzing mosquito wings drills deep into her ears. She winces, eyes narrowed, jaw tight, and fights against the pain.

Not real, not REAL!

“But it is.”

She doesn’t recognize the voice, but she hears the mockery in its words, feels the dark delight underlying them, and she knows she is lost.

This example is vivid, atmospheric, and impactful (even if I don’t know exactly what’s going on in this mini scene), but it’s entirely internal. Everything is what Jane is experiencing, and while this gives the reader clues to what is happening (or might be happening) in the outer world, the details occur solely in Jane’s psyche.

As effective as Experiencer point of view can be, the danger is that it can go so far into a character’s head that it becomes nearly unreadable stream of consciousness, the apex of which is a novel like James Joyce’s Ulysses – widely considered one of the most challenging texts ever created. (And certainly not a book most people would read for fun.)

Observer, Participant, and Experiencer combined

These writer-as-imaginer points of view can be used as the only ones in a story, but a blend of them is most effective. Here’s an example, broken down by type:

Observer PTV:

John sat on the kitchen floor, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his knees. He looked at Marcy leaning against the sink, her arms crossed, a slight crease between her eyes.

Participant PTV:

“You’re angry.”

“No.”

“It’s obvious. You’re doing that little frown you always do when you’re mad.”

“Little frown? Don’t infantilize me, you arrogant fuck.”

Experiencer:

Her words hit him like a slap. He shouldn’t have said it – said little – but it had slipped out. Maybe he’d subconsciously wanted to provoke her, to goad her into losing that icy self-control of hers. If so, he’d succeeded, but he’d never heard such loathing in her voice before. Was this how she really felt about him? He feared it was.

He tried to speak, but his throat was tight and dry, and he couldn’t force out any words. Not that he had any idea what to say. Maybe it would be better if he kept his damn mouth shut so he could keep from making things worse than they already were.

Observer:

Marcy turned her back on him, gripped the edge of the sink, and looked out the small window into their backyard. She said nothing for several moments, then “Grass needs mowing.”

Encouraged by her neutral tone, John stood.

Experiencer:

He wanted to go to her, gently put his hands on her shoulders, lightly kiss the back of her neck in apology. But the pain in his head was intensifying, the vision in his left eye already beginning to blur.

Observer:

“Okay,” he said, and headed for the back door.

And when we put the pieces together:

John sat on the kitchen floor, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his knees. He looked at Marcy leaning against the sink, her arms crossed, a slight crease between her eyes.

“You’re angry.”

“No.”

“It’s obvious. You’re doing that little frown you always do when you’re mad.”

“Little frown? Don’t infantilize me, you arrogant fuck.”

Marcy turned her back on him, gripped the edge of the sink, and looked out the small window into their backyard. She said nothing for several moments, then “Grass needs mowing.”

Encouraged by her neutral tone, John stood.

“Okay,” he said, and headed for the back door.

This shifting between imaginative points of view is what my mind does when I write fiction. I’ve been writing for forty years, and I do this instinctively, without bothering to label the bits and pieces as I go, but in the end, I weave a tapestry of different levels of immersion in a story that hopefully brings my tales to life for the reader.

To learn how you use these points of view – Observer, Participant, and Experiencer – take a selection of your fiction and highlight each in a different color. The pattern you see will let you see how you interweave the points of view throughout your work, and if you see too much or one or not enough of another, you can try adjusting your proportion the next time you write. You can also take a selection from a writer you admire, highlight their Observer-Participant-Experiencer pattern, and see how they do it.

Yeah, First, Second, and Third Person are important tools, but Observer, Participant, and Experiencer points of view will help you imagine like a writer when you build a story, and that may well make them the most vital fiction-writing tools of all.

DEPARTMENT OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION

Forthcoming Writers’ Workshop with Apex Publications

On March 10 at 6 pm EST, I’ll be conducting a workshop on Managing Pace and Tension in Fiction. It’ll be 90 minutes long and it’s limited to 25 participants. You can register at the following link:

https://www.apexbookcompany.com/products/managing-pace-and-tension-in-fiction

My Next Horror Novel is Up for Preorder

My next novel for Flame Tree Press is A Hunter Called Night. It’ll be out May 9, 2023, and it’s available to pre-order now!

A sinister being called Night and her panther-like Harriers stalk their quarry, a man known only as Arron. Arron seeks refuge within an office building, a place Night cannot go, for it’s part of the civilized world, and she’s a creature of the Wild. To flush Arron out, she creates Blight, a reality-warping field that slowly transforms the building and its occupants in horrible and deadly ways. But unknown to Night, while she waits for the Blight to do its work, a group of survivors from a previous attempt to capture Arron are coming for her. The hunter is now the hunted.

Order Links

Flame Tree: https://www.flametreepublishing.com/a-hunter-called-night-isbn-9781787586345.html

Amazon Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Hunter-Called-Night-Tim-Waggoner/dp/1787586316/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1668832377&sr=1-1

Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/Hunter-Called-Night-Tim-Waggoner-ebook/dp/B0BN6T1GTN/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1670004562&sr=1-3

Barnes and Noble Paperback: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-hunter-called-night-tim-waggoner/1142487192?ean=9781787586314

NOOK: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-hunter-called-night-tim-waggoner/1142487192?ean=9781787586352

Scheduled Appearances

Scarelastic Book Fair. Scarlet Lane Brewing. McCordsville, Indiana: February 28.

Authorcon 2. Williamsburg, Virgina: March 31-April 2.

Stokercon. Pittsburgh: June 15-18.

Where to Find Me Online

Want to follow me on social media? Here’s where you can find me:

Website: www.timwaggoner.com

Twitter: @timwaggoner

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tim.waggoner.9

Instagram: tim.waggoner.scribe

Blog: http://writinginthedarktw.blogspot.com/

YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZEz6_ALPrV3tdC0V3peKNw

Saturday, January 7, 2023

AI "Authors"

In 1984, I was a college student working on my BS in secondary education. The education department brought in a speaker – whose name I can’t recall – to talk to us about the future of education. One of his main points was that education should be focused on the current needs of people. He postulated that in the future, such core skills as writing and mathematics might no longer be necessary. After the talk, several of my friends were skeptical (and more than a little pissed off) at the idea that what they considered vital subjects might not be taught in the future.

“Most of us don’t know how to hunt, or ride a horse, or make butter, or thousands of other skills that used to be important,” I told them. “Why is it so hard to imagine future education might focus on the skills needed by future people?”

(I didn’t say it that well, I’m sure, but that was gist.)

Well, it’s 2023, and that future is now, or almost-now.

I’ve been aware of the discussion of artificial intelligence programs that can generate art or writing based on a prompt in only a few seconds. While the art programs draw on established images (in other words, plagiarize), the writing ones draw on so many different samples, it’s more like they’re influenced by them than directly plagiarizing them. CHATrpg is the writing AI I’ve heard the most about, and today I ran across the following article on the web:

“CHATgpt, Artificial Intelligence, and the Future of Writing” by Glenn Geher, Psychology Today: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/darwins-subterranean-world/202301/chatgpt-artificial-intelligence-and-the-future-of-writing

Here’s a link to CHATgpt so you can check it out if want.

CHATgpt: https://openai.com/blog/chatgpt/

I’ve seen warnings that these AI programs will sound the death knell for original art produced by humans – and maybe sooner than we think.

Curious, I set up an account at Openai and entered a couple prompts into CHATgpt. Following are the two samples that resulted, one fiction, one nonfiction. It took only seconds for each sample to be generated. Because Glenn Geher’s fiancé asked CHATrpt to write an article in his writing style as a test of the program, I thought I’d try the same.

PROMPT: WRITE A 1000 WORD HORROR STORY IN THE STYLE OF TIM WAGGONER

As the sun set on the small town of Millfield, a sense of unease settled over the streets. The usually bustling main street was empty, save for a few brave souls hurrying home before darkness fell. No one wanted to be caught outside after what had happened the previous night.

It had started with the usual things - strange noises in the night, shadows moving in the corners of the eye. But then people began disappearing. At first, it was just a few homeless people and drifters passing through. But as the days went on, even long-time residents of Millfield began to vanish.

The town council held an emergency meeting to discuss the situation. Some suggested hiring a group of mercenaries to hunt down whatever was responsible, while others proposed calling in the national guard. In the end, they decided to bring in a lone investigator - a man by the name of Jack.

Jack arrived in Millfield the next day, a tall, broad-shouldered man with piercing green eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. He listened patiently as the town council told him about the disappearances, and then set off to begin his investigation.

As he walked the streets of Millfield, Jack couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. He could feel eyes on him, even when he turned to confront them, there was nothing there. It was as if the very air was alive with malevolent intent.

He spent the next few days talking to the remaining residents, trying to piece together what had happened. Most of them were too terrified to be of much help, but one old man told him a story that sent a shiver down his spine.

The old man claimed that a group of people had stumbled upon an ancient burial ground on the outskirts of town. They had disturbed the graves, waking something ancient and terrible. It was a creature of the night, with glowing red eyes and teeth like knives. It had taken the grave-robbers and anyone else who had gotten too close.

Jack knew he had to see this burial ground for himself. He set out that night, his gun loaded and at the ready. As he approached the graveyard, he could feel the presence of something ancient and powerful. He could hear the faint sound of chanting in the distance, as if a group of people were performing some sort of ritual.

He cautiously made his way through the graves, trying to stay as quiet as possible. He could see the glow of firelight up ahead, and he knew he was getting close. As he approached the source of the light, he saw a group of people standing around a large stone slab.

On the slab was a body, its skin drained of blood and its eyes staring blankly at the sky. The people were chanting in some ancient language, their faces twisted with malice. Jack realized with horror that they were performing some kind of dark ritual to bring the creature back to life.

He didn't hesitate. He raised his gun and fired, taking out as many of the cultists as he could. The rest scattered, running off into the night. Jack approached the stone slab, his heart racing. He knew he had to destroy the creature before it could be resurrected.

As he reached out to touch the body, he was suddenly grabbed from behind. He struggled and fought, but it was no use - he was no match for the strength of the creature. It dragged him away, into the darkness.

The last thing Jack saw before everything went black was the creature's glowing red eyes, and the triumphant smile on its face.

The town of Millfield was never the same after that night. People whispered of the creature that walked the streets, taking

This is where the program stopped generating text, but the story is almost finished.

I sincerely hope this sample wasn’t written in my style! It’s simple summary with no dialogue, character interaction, vivid description, or emotional core. Its plot is a bland adventure that could’ve appeared in the pulps of the early twentieth century. The sample does employ some basic techniques of horror fiction, though, and as I said earlier, it was generated in only a few seconds, so that was impressive. I wouldn’t accept this from one of my creative writing students, however.

PROMPT: WRITE A 750 WORD ARTICLE ON WRITING HORROR IN THE STYLE OF TIM WAGGONER

Writing horror fiction can be a thrilling and rewarding experience, especially when done in the style of Tim Waggoner. Waggoner is known for his ability to blend elements of horror, fantasy, and science fiction into his stories, creating a unique and unsettling atmosphere that keeps readers on the edge of their seats. If you're interested in writing horror fiction in the style of Tim Waggoner, here are a few tips to get you started:

1) Start with an unsettling premise: One of the key elements of a successful horror story is the ability to set a creepy and unsettling tone from the very beginning. Waggoner is particularly skilled at this, often starting his stories with a premise that is already unsettling or unusual. For example, in his story "The Night Marchers," Waggoner begins by introducing a group of people who are being hunted by ghostly figures that only appear at night. This immediately sets a tense and eerie mood that continues throughout the story.

2) Use descriptive language to create a sense of fear: Waggoner is known for his use of vivid and descriptive language, which he uses to great effect in his horror fiction. By using descriptive language to paint a picture of the creepy and unsettling events taking place in your story, you can create a sense of fear and tension that will keep readers on the edge of their seats.

3) Use the supernatural to create a sense of the unknown: Another key element of Waggoner's horror fiction is the use of the supernatural. By introducing elements of the supernatural into your story, you can create a sense of the unknown that is both scary and intriguing. In Waggoner's story "The Night Marchers," for example, the ghostly figures that are haunting the characters are both frightening and mysterious, adding to the overall sense of horror.

4) Don't be afraid to go dark: Waggoner is known for his willingness to go to dark and disturbing places in his horror fiction, and this is something that can really set your story apart. Don't be afraid to explore the darker corners of your imagination and push the boundaries of what is considered "normal" in horror fiction.

5) Remember to balance horror with other elements: While horror is the main focus of Waggoner's stories, he also incorporates elements of fantasy and science fiction into his work. By including these other elements, Waggoner is able to create a more well-rounded and interesting story that keeps readers engaged. Consider incorporating elements of other genres into your horror fiction to add depth and complexity to your story.

Overall, writing horror fiction in the style of Tim Waggoner requires a blend of unsettling premises, descriptive language, the supernatural, and a willingness to go to dark places. By following these tips and focusing on crafting a well-rounded and engaging story, you can create horror fiction that is as thrilling and unsettling as the works of Tim Waggoner.

I meant for the program to write an article IN my writing style, not use my writing as an extended example of how to write horror. I almost deleted the sample and tried again, but I decided to leave it since it shows how important entering the right prompt into the program is. I’ve never written a story called “The Night Marchers,” so I don’t know where the hell that came from, but if this was a paper for a lit class – or a short article someone posted on the web – a teacher or reader might think this was a good article/essay.

On one hand, the information is generic horror how-to advice, but a number of the phrases are reminiscent of language reviewers have use to describe my work, which was unsettling to see – especially since, as I said earlier, this sample took only seconds to generate.

So will these AI programs spell doom for human writers and artists? I sure hope not (but as a human writer, I would say that, wouldn’t I?). I do know these programs will only continue to become more sophisticated as time passes, which means the writing and art they produce will continue to improve. Maybe creative artists will go the way of buggy-whip makers when the automobile was invented. Or maybe we’ll do what painters of realism did when photography was invented and develop new styles of painting.

Will writers use AI to create books for them? Sure. It’s already happened: https://bookriot.com/ai-used-to-published-childrens-book/#:~:text=Ammaar%20Reshi%2C%20a%20product%20design,began%20selling%20it%20on%20Amazon.

I know one thing: I’ve made my stories by hand my entire life, with word processing programs and the Internet (for research) my only technological aids. And I’m going to continue writing my own words my own way until I die. So what can we do to compete with AI “artists”? My suggestion right now is to develop your own individual style as much as possible, to make art you feel passionate about, and to invest your work with as much humanity as you can. Your vision, your voice is what will make your work stand out from the rest, whether that other work is created by humans or AI’s. People who use AI to generate their art will produce bland, generic work, the equivalent of bad fast food. Hopefully, there will be at least some people in the future who will prefer a more substantial meal, one that feeds both mind and soul.

Hey, an old writer can dream, can’t he?

DEPARTMENT OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION

SCHEDULED APPEARANCES

Scarelastic Book Fair. Scarlet Lane Brewing. McCordsville, Indiana: February 28.

Authorcon 2. Williamsburg, Virgina: March 31-April 2.

Stokercon. Pittsburgh: June 15-18.

WHERE TO FIND ME ONLINE

Want to follow me on social media? Here’s where you can find me:

Website: www.timwaggoner.com

Twitter: @timwaggoner

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tim.waggoner.9

Instagram: tim.waggoner.scribe

Blog: http://writinginthedarktw.blogspot.com/

YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZEz6_ALPrV3tdC0V3peKNw

Friday, December 23, 2022

Time in a Bottle (or in My Case, a Box)

My papers – notes, drafts, correspondence, page proofs, copies of published work, etc. – are going to be archived by the University of Pittsburgh Library System Horror Studies program. You can check out the program here: https://horrorstudies.library.pitt.edu/

It’s a great honor to have my work preserved at a university – and how cool is it that the University of Pittsburgh has a Horror Studies Program? I’ve spent the last few weeks going through forty years’ worth of material, printed as well as digital, packing it into cardboard boxes and getting ready to ship it. It’s been a real trip down memory lane, and I was surprised by how much unpublished stuff I’d saved that I have little to no memory of writing. I created shipping lists for each box, and while some items were self-explanatory, such as copies of published novels I’ve written, other items required some explaining. For example:

Nonfiction: “Shop Smarter, Not Harder,” Columbus City Scene, Summer 1999. This was a weird situation. I wrote an article for a small company that employed freelance writers and then marketed their articles to publications. I was assigned to write an article about the Tuttle Crossing Mall in the Columbus area. The company used my opening paragraph, but they cut the rest, then had someone else write an entirely different article. They still used my byline, and they never paid me.

I included the magazine because it counted as published work (sort of) and because it says something about the bizarre publishing situations writers encounter sometimes. Will the university library want it? Who knows? But I sent it anyway.

In an email, one of the university’s Archives and Special Collections librarians said that the purpose of archiving my work is so that it will be “preserved and made available to students, teachers, scholars, historians and fans.” Do I truly believe that future generations will pore over my work and find some manner of divine enlightenment in it? It’s a great honor to have my work collected and preserved by the university, but I don’t have that large an ego. I think it more likely that my work will end up housed forever and never looked at again, much like the Ark of the Covenant at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. But by sending my work to the university, I’ll create the possibility that it might have some type of positive impact in the future. That’s better than my family tossing it all into a dumpster after I die, or worse, dragging it around with them until they themselves die, and someone else finally decides to get rid of it. It’s a message in a bottle, which you could say about anything writers write, I suppose. Sometimes I feel as if soon after birth, I was thrown into a dark, bottomless pit, and I’ve been falling ever since. And as I fall, I’m writing as fast as I can and hurling the pages upward in hopes that they’ll make it out of the hole and someone will find and read them.

So why did I feel it was time for my work to be preserved like this?

This March I’ll be 59. That’s the age my mother was when she died, so it’s not surprising that I’ve been thinking about my mortality a bit more than often lately. (I’m a horror writer; mortality is always on my mind one way or another.) And I’ve been in two serious car accidents in the last year – both at the same section of highway and at the same time of day. (I’m going to avoid that stretch of road from now on!) While both of my cars were totaled, I was fortunate not to have been injured either time. But the thought that I could’ve died each time wasn’t lost on me. I’ve written a lot over the last forty years, and along with copies of my published work, I have a ton of notebooks filled with text (I handwrote my first drafts for years), along with printed material from the early days of my career, when everyone printed things out as well as saving them digitally. That’s a lot of junk for my wife and daughters to deal with if I suddenly died, and I didn’t want to saddle them with that responsibility.

A few months ago, I created a file folder of information I titled Tim’s Death Stuff for my relatives. It contains a list of all my passwords, contact info for my agent, my web designer, my publishers, etc. It also contains an author’s will, as well as a book for an author’s heirs to tell them what they need to know after their loved one’s death. Compiling that information got me thinking about what else I needed to do to prepare my family, and finding a home for all my writing-career materials seemed like the next logical choice.

What did I learn from packing those sixteen boxes for the archive?

1) I used to give up on my work way too early. I already knew that I often gave up on stories or novels after a couple rejections, but I was surprised by how many novels and stories I gave up on before finishing – or which I did finish but for some reason never submitted to publishers. I’m sure some (maybe a lot) of those stories were better off never seeing the light of day, but others might’ve been successful if I’d given them more of a chance. Legendary science fiction editor John Campbell once said, “The reason 99% of all stories written are not bought by editors is very simple. Editors never buy manuscripts that are left on the closet shelf at home.” But on the other hand . . .

2) I’m glad self-publishing wasn’t as easy in my early career as it is now. I finished my first novel in 1983 when I was 19, and if Amazon had existed back then, I’d have uploaded that motherfucker to their site seconds after typing THE END. I would’ve continued writing, and I would’ve hopefully continued improving, but I wouldn’t have had the same impetus, the same drive to improve if I wasn’t working toward the goal of placing my work with traditional publishers. I don’t mean to pick on any indie writers reading this. I just talking about myself. I may not be a famous bestseller, but I know I’m a better writer because of the highly competitive nature of traditional publishing. And after looking over some of my earliest work, I’m grateful it wasn’t published! If you’d like to check out on of my earliest stories – and one with a holiday theme – and get an idea of how far I’ve come in the last four decades, You can read "Scary Christmas” toward the bottom of this post.

3) I explored a lot of different types of writing. Early on, I wrote science fiction, fantasy, and horror short stories, some serious, some humorous. My first novel was a fantasy adventure (inspired by Piers Anthony’s Xanth books), my second was a science fiction adventure (inspired by Doctor Who), and my third was an urban fantasy (although we called them contemporary fantasies back then), and it was the most original of the lot. In college, I wrote a science fiction play, a horror musical (without any music – I’m no composer) inspired by The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and an absurdist play which I produced and directed for a class. I also worked for a local weekly newspaper writing articles, and during my senior year I served as the editor for the campus literary magazine. In grad school, I wrote a couple more fantasy adventures and various SF/F/H stories, and after graduation I wrote three humorous fantasy novels – one in which God was a computer and Satan was an embodiment of entropy, one about a realm where all the gods of humanity co-existed, including modern ones like Freud, Darwin, and Einstein, and one where all the bizarre tabloid stories that appeared in publications like the Weekly World News was true. After that, I wrote a couple more traditional fantasy novels, I focused on writing nonfiction and humorous articles for a while, and I wrote a couple mysteries. All of these were the works I completed – there were more that I started and never finished. As time went by, publishers and readers responded most favorably to my horror, so I started focusing on that, trying to come up with my own unique subject matter and style. The point is I never stopped moving. I was always in motion as a writer, always exploring, always trying this or that. Was this good? I’m not sure. I had a lot of fun trying my hand at different kinds of writing, but I always got depressed when I didn’t much a great deal of success at any of them (until I focused on horror, of course). I’d like to think it made me a better writer – maybe more suited to writing media tie-ins which can be in any genre – but this wandering about may have delayed my development of a professional career. I’m really not sure.

4) Nothing I’ve ever written was wasted. As I began assembling my work – so much of it unpublished or unfinished – I realized that all of it was material that I was using to create my archive. It all had a place ultimately, one I couldn’t have imagined when I started writing seriously at 18. And of course this reinforced the truth that every word I’ve ever written has led me to where I am now as a writer, regardless of whether it was ever published or not. It all had purpose.

5) My career isn’t over yet. As I’ve been cruising steadily toward my 60’s, I’ve started feeling like maybe my writing career is winding down. I’ll be retiring from my teaching job in six years, and I guess I started thinking about retiring from writing too, without really realizing it. And I am weary of the never-ending push-push-push of a writing career – the dozens of novel proposals I’ve written that haven’t sold yet (most of which will likely never sell) but which my agent keeps sending around, the constant marketing of my work on social media (and feeling like all I’m being is an annoyance to people), editors who now ghost me or my agent (a comparatively recent development in the publishing world) . . . But as I worked on gathering and collating my archive materials, I saw that the first twenty years of my career were my early development as a writer, and my second twenty years were my development as a working professional. If I’m lucky, I’ll live for a while longer – maybe even another twenty years or more. I don’t know what the next stage will be for me, or if there will even be a next stage, but I’m more determined than ever to keep telling stories and writing articles.

6) There is no one path. I’ve known this for years, but working on my archive reinforced it. Every writer creates his or her own path as they go, and no two are exactly alike. One of the dangers of social media is that you can be fooled into thinking something is wrong with your path because it isn’t exactly like that of someone else whose posts you read. I have a much better sense of my particular path now, and I can see myself in it. In some ways, my path might be my ultimate creation. Same for you.

Thinking about preserving your own writing legacy? Here are some resources that can help.

· Here are all the things in my Death Stuff folder so you can create one of your own: A signed document called Last Wishes For My Literary Estate After My Death that spells out how my literary executors are (my wife and two daughters) and exactly what I want to have happen with my work when I’m gone. A document called Info for Heirs that lists all my various passwords and info on online accounts, agent contact info, etc. A complete Bibliography in case my heirs wish to republish any of my work, along with a list of awards and my author bio that they can give to publishers/media. A copy agreement with the University of Pittsburgh Library System Horror Studies program.

· I also have a copy of a book in my Death Stuff file: The Author Heir Handbook: How to Manage an Author Estate by M.L. Ronn. Ronn also wrote The Author Estate Handbook: How to Organize Your Affairs and Leave a Legacy, which I bought for myself (which is where I got the ideas for what to put in my Death Stuff File).

· The Author Estate Handbook: How to Organize Your Affairs and Leave a Legacy: https://www.amazon.com/Author-Estate-Handbook-Organize-Affairs/dp/B09QNX2MMH/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1671822647&sr=8-2-spons

· The Author Heir Handbook: How to Manage an Author Estate: https://www.amazon.com/Author-Heir-Handbook-Manage-Estate/dp/B09TDW94FD/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1671822872&sr=8-1

· Neil Gaiman created a great template for an author will a while back. You can find a link to a PDF of it here, along with some good advice from Neil: https://journal.neilgaiman.com/2006/10/important-and-pass-it-on.html

SCARY CHRISTMAS

(Written at age 18)

Jerry panted as he hid in the dim alley. Rats and roaches vied for what little food they could get out of the filth that filled the metal and plastic garbage cans that lined the alley walls. Jerry hoped with all of his might, which was considerable for a sixteen year old, that no one heard the old man scream. The last thing that Jerry needed was to spend Christmas Eve in jail on a murder rap. His heart pounded in his head, the world blurred for a second and Jerry realized that he was crying. Shit, why the hell was he crying over an old drunk? The dumb sonofabitch was asking for it, stumbling out of the bar like that, singing at the top of his lungs, and waving all that money around. Hell, the old man probably had wanted to die; why else would he make himself so conspicous in the middle of the night in this part of town unless he had a death wish?

Jerry froze when he heard the sirens. Seconds became moments and moments became Little subjective eternitites as the sound grew and peaked, only to fade away. Jerry released the breath that he had been holding and watched as the winter cold made it visible.

He ought to be far enough away by now, Jerry thought, and he took out the crumbled wad of green that had, only a few minutes ago, been in the wallet of a merry old drunk man. Jerry had taken a few seconds to remove the money from the wallet instead of panicking and running with it like so many others did. That was how you got caught. No, Jerry was much sharper than that, much more calculating. If they found the wallet on the body without money they would be suspicious, but Jerry had left a twenty there to throw them off. Twenty dollars was not an unreasonable amount of money for a man to have left on Christmas Eve after spending the night in a bar; indeed, it was more than most left with. Jerry had been careful to move the wallet around in the snow with his shoe to remove or at least blur, his fingerprints. He then used on old pedce of newspaper to return the wallet to its proper place in the old man’s coat pocket. Jerry knew that all this would have been mere foolishness on his part if he had actually gone through with his plan and bashed the old geezer in the head with the hunk of pipe that he carried for “insurance”. As it was, the drunk was frightened enough by Jerry when he leapt out of the alley that the old man’s heart did all the work for him. Not that he thought that the cops wouldn't be able to pin it on him somehow. Not if they knew that he had been there, which Jerry hoped, they never would.

Jerry couldn't believe it. When he finished counting he knew that he was now the proud owner of roughly 350 dollars. What that dumbass had been doing with that much money around here Jerry would never be able to figure out...not in a thousand years. A considerably less amount of time on earth than he had left.

Jerry lived by himself in his mother's apartment. She had left six months earlier to move in with some black guy across town. Not that Jerry gave a shit. He hated the bitch anyway. He especially hated the demands she used to make of him...especially when he had hit puberty, but that was something that he didn't like to think about. Yeah, if anyone had asked him, he would've replied that he was glad that his mother was gone. Jerry had stopped on the way home and had bought himself a bottle of whisky. A cheap bottle, but then Jerry would have been unable to tell the difference between good and bad whisky anyway. Besides it all tasted like shit to him. All he cared about was what it did to him.

Getting the booze hadn't been a problem. He knew the store owner well enough to know that the old bitch was terrified of him. Jerry, while not the most muscular boy in the city was enough to give people twice his age pause. He stood at six foot even and had broad shoulders, the kind which would've made him a good football player. That is if his school had a football team and if he still went to school. Jerry had just about finished climbing up the stairs when a rat, a particularly big and ugly one, which was saying a lot for the building in which Jerry lived, ran across his feet. Startled, Jerry dropped the bottle of whisky, which he had taken a few hits of on the way up the stairs, and watched as his plans for a merry, if numb, Christmas shatter and spill across the floor. He stared at the broken shards for a moment, wondering wheather or not to go back to the liquor store and try and scare the old bitch into giving him another bottle. It wasn't worth it, he decided...maybe next week. He still had a handfull of pills and a joint or two left in the apartment. He would just have to make due with them.

A few hours later Jerry was sleeping of the effects of his little private Christmas party. And in his sleep of stupor and numbness and short circuiting nerves, he dreamed.

He saw the old man's face, only this time it was frozen at the exact moment that his heart had decided to give out, and Jerry had the chance to study it in more detail. It was a round face; round and wrinkled. It kind of remined Jerry of a flesh colored orange. One that for some reason, had a nose, eyes, ears and a mouth. Something like a Florida version of Mr. Potato Head. The man's hair was white and stringy. In way it looked like someone had taken the orange-head and glued old white yarn to it. Jerry would've laughed at such a face, if it wasn't for the expression of pure animal terror that lit up the eyes. It was an expression that Jerry had seen before, in the eyes of his brother just before he had died from the knife wound that had sent their father to jail. It was the look that Jerry sometimes saw in rats when he had them trapped. They had that same look in their eyes when they saw Jerry's booted foot coming down on them. Things began to change in Jerry’s dream now. The old man was lying there, just like he had left him; stone cold dead, small piles of snow forming a kind of shroud around hm. Then the snow near the old man's hand stirred. No, the old man's hand that had stirred. Then before Jerry knew it, the old man was pushing himself, slowly and haltingly to his feet. He stood there like he was dazed or spaced out. Then Jerry saw the old man's face. It was white. Bloodless. Dead. And, if Jerry read the look in the old man's unseeing eyes right, it hated.

Jerry awoke with a start. he sat in bed for a second before he realized that he had wet himself. Jerry climbed out of bed and almost fell down. his head was still spinning, partly from the drugs, partly from the dream. Shit, but that had been one mother of a dream! If Jerry had been a little less cynical, he might have thought that the dream was caused from guilt. Jerry never felt guilt. . .not about anything. He stumbled out of one where an old mattress served as his bed and stumbled into the other, which served as everything esle. Jerry stumbled once more and this time ended up in a pile on the floor. Luckily he had landed next to what he had come in he looking for. He didn't own a television, but he did have a radio that he had taken from some punk or other. Jerry flipped it on. It was tuned, as it always was to his favorite station. They always played songs about sex and drugs and cars and all the other things that made life worthwhile, Jerry wondered if he had any pills left, then thought better of it. Better lay off for a while, especially after a dream like that! Jerry had seen things before of course when taking drugs. That was part of the fun of it, but somehow, nothing that Jerry had ever seen had seemed as real as that. Jerry dismissed such thoughts from his mind and instead concentrated on a song about girls with big breasts who happened to get off on a particular style of car.

Jerry started when he heard someone call his name

jerry.....

What the fuck? Had Rico or one of his gang come around here to hassle him! That was just what he needed right now! Jerry got up haltingly and made his way to the door, picking up a ball bat on his way. If Rico wanted to fuck around Jerry would show him some fucking around! Right upside his skull. Jerry stopped and listened at the door.

jerry.....

Now that he was closer, Jerry wasn't sure that there was any voice at all. It sounded more like the wind...or something out of a dream. A dream. Jerry suddenly realized that he was sweating. And shaking. What the hell did he have to be afraid of? Jerry threw open the door, the bat held high. There was nothing there. He looked around for a couple of seconds , until he was satisfied that no one was there. Swearing he closed the door. Lousy dope...Just what until he got his hands on that little punk that sold it to him!

A rat stood in the middle of the bare room when Jerry returned. He smiled. Now this was exactly what he needed to take his minds off things! Jerry tightened his grip on the bat and ad vanced on the rat. He had met some pretty mean rodents in his life here, so he wasn't especially surprised when this one didn't run. No, this was one of the arrogant ones, the kind that liked to try and stare you down. This was just fine with Jerry. The more arrogant they were the better... all the more fun to watch the little peckers go squish. Jerry raised the bat. This was going to be good. But before he could bring the wooden bat down, the rat had attched itself to Jerry's leg and was gnawing away. Dark blood spilled into the rat's mouth and all over the floor. He screamed and swung the ball bat at the rodent only to connect violently with his Leg. Jerry howled as he hit the ground. The rat, who had leapt away at the last minute, went for his eyes. In seconds one eye was a mass of blood. Jerry clawed frantically at his face. He caught the rat and crushed it in his hand. He flung the handful of smashed fur and guts into the wall, where it stuck for a second before sliding to the floor. Tears welled out of the one good eye that he had left. His whole face had gone numb with pain.

jerry.....

There it was again, that damn voice!! Only this time it filled Jerry with a vauge sense of something that he would’ve once called hope. Whoever it was, maybe they would help him to get to a hospital, or at least call an ambulance. Jerry rose, slipped once on his own blood, and staggered to the door, leaving a trail of gore in his wake. He threw open the door, saying something about help.

No one was there... yet Jerry could swear that he still heard the voice. The hole where Jerry's eye had been was bleeding even more now, and the tears in his other eye obscured his vision.

jerry.....

There it was again! Jerry stumbled into the hallway, hoping and for the first time in his life praying, that someone, anyone, was out there. Hell, even Rico would help him now. He'd have to!!

Through his haze Jerry thought that he saw someone. Funny, he hadn't a second ago...that didn’t matter though. This person, whoever it was would help him. Jerry was sure of it. Jerry reached out imporingly.

"Help...m-me....” The person, the old man, smiled.

Jerry’s eyes cleared and he saw who it was standing in the hallway. Most of all, Jerry saw the eyes...the eyes from his dream. Dead eyes. Jerry turned to run, blood welling anew, splattering all over, filling his good eye. He turned and ran…

He bounced seven times before he died, and nine before he cam to a rest at the bottom of the stairs. The old man stood at the top of the stairs, smiling his grimace of a smile. He looked down at the twisted, wet mess at the bottom of the stairs.

“Merry Christmas Jerry...and a Happy New Year.”

DEPARTMENT OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION

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