I can’t play or sing a lick, but I’ve been lucky enough to have a few songs recorded by various singers/songwriters. This one hasn’t been, but it’s one of my favorites, so I’m keeping my hopes up it will happen some day.
when I first met Tracy she was walking the ledge outside my window, toes over the edge she tapped on the glass, threw me a smile that was a little bit crooked, a little bit wild she stepped through the window like she did it all the time said, hey how are ya, thanks I’m fine or so I’ve been told–then she started to laugh and that’s what I remember when I think about our past
she said, I used to walk the tightrope and swing on the trapeze well, not really, but don’t you think that’s a cool thing to be? did you ever tap dance ten floors up and know you just can’t fall? you know, I’d rather go crazy than never go anywhere at all
we talked that night for what seemed like hours but when she left I didn’t know a damn thing about her can’t really say that night was the start of some big love but that crazy girl with the crooked smile fit me like a glove Tracy had her problems, I knew that going in I could live with her addictions as long as I was one of them I get high on life, she’d say, but smiling when she said it there’s a lot of turns I’ve taken wrong, but I never will regret it
she said, I used to walk the tightrope and swing on the trapese well, not really, but don’t you think that’s a cool thing to be? did you ever tap dance ten floors up and know you just can’t fall? I believe I’d rather go crazy than never go anywhere at all
she’d disappear for days on end, never tell me where huddle in the corner, say, you know life’s just not fair from the giddy heights of ecstasy to the bottom of her soul Tracy was the pilot, but she never had control I knew one day her dance would take her too close to the edge I knew one day her fingertips would slip off from the ledge I knew our time together was a trip that had to end but I didn’t know how much it hurts to lose your dearest friend
Tracy used to walk the tightrope, and swing on the trapese and if she said she did it, well, that’s good enough for me I never learned to tap dance and ten floors is just too tall but I think I’d rather go crazy than never go anywhere at all
This is my attempt at a sort of noir song lyric. I always pictured Johnny Cash singing it.
smoke on the horizon, wind in the trees high whine of sirens following me back country roads, gravel and dirt tracks carry a full load, U-turns and switchbacks
I’m hellbound, and I can’t be found hellbound, holed up in hell town
smoke on the horizon, wind in the trees trying to get by but nothing is free across the state line, getting lost in the shadows biding my time, retreating from battles
travel at night, sleep through the day stay out of the light, finding my own way keeping in touch with the man with the money playing my hunches, sometimes it’s funny
I’m hellbound, and I can’t be found hellbound, holed up in hell town
smoke on the horizon, wind in the trees no one can follow what no one can see doing my work, each job as it comes wherever they lurk, just keep myself numb
slipping through shadows, feeling the fear nothing worth loving, nothing held dear
I’m hellbound, and I can’t be found hellbound, holed up in hell town hellhound, holed up in hell town
My coming of age, reading wise, happened throughout the 70s. That’s when I went from discovering The Martian Chronicles and I, Robot during the same week in my junior high library to becoming the hardcore science fiction and fantasy fan I’ve been ever since. A lot of the authors responsible for my lifelong journey are relatively household names, at least for folks who read within the genre. I’m thinking about golden age writers like Heinlein, Asimov, Bradbury, Clarke, Sturgeon, Bester, Farmer, and Pohl (to name just a few off the top of my head). And the “new wave” writers who came to prominence in the 60s and 70s, like Ellison, Silverberg, Malzberg, Dick, Russ, and Tiptree, Jr.
But a couple of the authors that really set my imagination ablaze, that solidified my love for the genre, don’t get talked about much these days. I don’t know why, and it doesn’t really matter. I’m sure someone will read these two names and say, “Hey, that’s my favorite writer!” That would make me ridiculously happy, because these are authors I truly love.
R.A. LAFFERTY Neil Gaiman once said that, for a while at least, Lafferty was the best short story writer in the world. I couldn’t agree more. His stories, many of which I read as I worked my way through the Orbit anthology series, are whimsically strange, wonderfully quirky, and all-together incandescent. I can tell a Lafferty story, even one I haven’t read before, within one or two sentences. He takes complex ideas, outrageous but humane characters, and startlingly original language, and whips it all together into something that should never work, but always does. He also wrote a bunch of excellent science fiction novels, some historical novels, and one of the finest books about Native American life I’ve ever read, Okla Hannali. But it’s his short stories—shaggy dog folk tales, darkly comic, undefinable—that should be remembered and celebrated.
TOM REAMY If R.A. Lafferty isn’t as well know as he should be, Tom Reamy really isn’t as well known as he should be. Like many other great writers, Reamy started out in fandom, including editing a well-regarded fanzine that made the final Hugo ballot more than once. When he started writing fiction, the stories came fast and excellent—he sold his first two on the same day. Altogether, Reamy wrote just thirteen stories and one novel. The stories—Twilla, San Diego Lightfoot Sue, The Detweiler Boy, Beyond the Cleft, and the others—are darkly imaginative, the literary stepchildren of Harlan Ellison by way of Ray Bradbury. Speaking of Bradbury, Reamy’s debut novel, Blind Voices, concerns a sinister traveling circus traveling through 1920s rural Kansas. It’s a richly imagined work that pairs nicely with Something Wicked This Way Comes. Sadly, Reamy died from a heart attack at just 42, which at least partly explains why more folks don’t know about him. Search his stories out, he’s that good.
In 2013 CBAY Books (which, I was happy to discover, stands for Children’s Brains Are Yummy Books) held their first writing contest, and I was the first winner in the Middle Grade category. The manuscript I won with clocked in at 15,000 words, but my wonderful editor, Madeline Smoot, suggested it would be a much stronger novel at 30,000 words. Turns out she was right.
Fast forward to 2014, and Trapped In Lunch LadyLand was born. Did my life change? Was I able to quit my job and become a full time author? Nope. But having a published novel was way up there on the bucket list. I had a book signing event at my local Barnes & Noble (no indie bookstores in my neck of the woods, unfortunately), which was a blast.
The very best part of the whole publishing experience, though, was doing school visits. I did a bunch, reading to kids from kindergarten through fifth grade, taking questions, and generally being flabbergasted by just how smart and funny they were. Kindergartners wanted to know what kind of pets I have, and told me in great detail about theirs. By fifth grade they were asking how advances work.
So what’s Trapped In Lunch Lady Land about? Here’s the elevator pitch:
Josh and Patty Anne aren’t exactly the best of friends (ok, they detest each other), but after they both end up trapped somewhere beneath their school in a land made completely of school cafeteria food, they quickly learn they have to work together if they want to survive. With the help of some unusual friends they meet along the way, the two must brave countless dangers unlike anything in the normal world. If they can survive the skybeater, the canisaurs and the tater-tot throwing ladle monsters, Josh and Patty Anne might just make it home alive.
Interested? Know an eight to eleven year old boy or girl who might be interested? You can check it out on Amazon at:
Here’s another wallpaper border I did, in markers and colored pencils. These borders were all incredibly time consuming—this one was 12’x6″, drawn to size—but fun to do.
Because I read a lot of science fiction and fantasy, and because a lot of science fiction and fantasy writers struggle to contain their imaginations to just one volume of work, I have read, and continue to read, quite a few book series. It could be worse, actually. I don’t read much epic, heroic fantasy, where series often seem to run into double digits.
And, for the sake of this post, I’m only going to mention series that are on-going, with new books still to come. If not, this would be a very different list, with trilogies like The Lord of the Rings and His Dark Materials, and series like John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War and Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone novels.
In keeping with this narrow focus, here are a few of the on-going book series I love. In some cases, I’m all caught up and waiting impatiently for the next book. For some of these, I’ve started the series recently and have a wonderful backlog to work my way through.
WAYWARD CHILDREN, OCTOBER DAYE and INCRYPTID, all by SEANAN MCGUIRE The only thing more impressive than McGuire’s prolificness (Is that a word? If not, I’m going with it anyway.) is her talent. Her Wayward Children novellas have redefined portal fantasy. The story of what happens to children when they come back from fantasy worlds, each book is a perfect gem of lyrical storytelling, unfettered imagination, and sometimes heartbreak. There are currently five books in the series, with a new one coming this year. The October Daye novels are urban fantasy at its best, set in a beautifully realized San Francisco, at the intersection between the human and fairy worlds. October herself is a private investigator with one foot in each camp. I’ve read the first four of the twelve novels so far published, and I can’t wait to read more. The InCryptid novels are also urban fantasy, and concern a family of cryptozoologists, who for generations have been trained to keep the peace between humans and cryptids, the mythological creatures who live secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, among us. I recently read the very first novel in the series, Discount Armageddon, so I have at least four more to go to get caught up.
HAP AND LEONARD by JOE LANSDALE Hap and Leonard are best friends and running buddies. They’re not exactly criminals, although they sometimes stomp all over the line, and they’re not exactly lawmen, although they work as private investigators in later novels. Through twelve novels, several novellas and a bunch of short stories, Hap and Leonard cruise the backroads of East Texas, getting into scrapes and raising hell. The books are violent, scatalogical, and uproariously funny as long as you’re not easily offended. There are also three seasons of an excellent Hap and Leonard TV series now available on Netflix.
SANDMAN SLIM by RICHARD KADREY Sandman Slim is part human, part demon, and all badass. This series is set in a Los Angeles alive with all manner of monsters, angels and demons, with detours to heaven, hell, and all points in between. Kadrey has a real gift for magic and mayhem, and he backs it up with a deep knowledge of religious mythology. Stark (Sandman Slim) is a deeply flawed and altogether original character, and his cast of supporting characters are all equally engaging. The next Sandman Slim novel debuts this year.
These are just a few of the series that make me happy. You really can’t go wrong with any of them!
This drawing is all that survives from my first, fumbling attempt to write and illustrate a picture book. I never submitted it anywhere, but I learned a lot working on it.
I first became aware of Cassandra Khaw and her novel The Last Supper Before Ragnarok on Twitter, where folks whose opinion I respect, many of them authors, raved about it. Turns out they were absolutely right!
One thing, though, right off the bat. Reading this novel was a sometimes disorienting experience for me. I felt like I was dropped into the middle of the story, and there were things I had to puzzle out, connections I had to make, character motivations I had to work to understand. As it turns out, that’s on me, because The Last Supper Before Ragnarok is actually the third novel in a trilogy, Gods & Monsters. I’m generally (okay, always) a stickler for reading a series in order, so I have no idea how I missed this. I blame my Kindle, where I tend to skip over the stuff I’d probably notice on a book cover.
Also as it turns out, it didn’t really matter, because I loved this book. What’s it about? Glad you asked! A ragtag group—a quasi-immortal chef who keeps dying but can’t stay dead, a god killer, a snake woman assassin, and a prophet, along with the entire internet personified as a young woman—road trip in search of the father gods, the ancient deities, in order to stop ragnarok. Apocalyptic mayhem, and several meals, ensue.
The real star here is Khaw’s prose. Thrilling, muscular, violent and anarchic, her language shimmers and shouts. There are laugh-out-loud moments of humor that punctuate the propulsive plot, and quietly heartbreaking moments as well. The Last Supper Before Ragnarok travels some of the same ground as Neil Gaiman’s masterpiece American Gods, but it definitely does not suffer in comparison. This novel could not be different in outcome or execution. Khaw is a writer of uncompromising skill, and she’s distilling real magic here.
I wish I had read this trilogy in correct order, but make no mistake, the first two novels will be heading to the top of my TBR pile.
There are a lot of novels I’ve discovered, either by accident at the suggestion of others, that I think deserve a wider audience. Give these books a read, and give them some love!
LIVES OF THE MONSTER DOGS by Kirsten Bakis I found a used paperback copy of this in a little bookstore in Greenwich Village, and was intrigued enough by the cover to take it home. Best decision ever. As it turned out, this was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, so it’s not exactly unknown, but I never hear it mentioned. Isolated deep in a forest compound, a cruel but brilliant surgeon creates a race of monster dogs. Through Island of Dr. Moreau style experimentation, surgical butchery, and genetic engineering, the dogs gain human intelligence, the ability to speak and walk on their hind legs, even prosthetic hands. When the dogs overthrow their masters and make their way to New York City, they are at first the talk of the town. And then they are not. This entire novel is steeped in an at times unbearable melancholy, yet I couldn’t put it down. A true original.
THE DOLPHIN PEOPLE by Torsten Krol A group of Germans near the end of World War II, enroute to a remote jungle outpost, crash land in the Amazon jungle and are taken in by a stone-age tribe. Whatever you think happens next based on that beginning, I guarantee you are wrong. This is the damnedest fever dream of a book, chock full of hallucinatory passages, nazi proselytizing, and a bravura sequence involving genital surgery that had me shaking my head in wonder. Pure, unadulterated lunacy of the finest kind. Look, just read this book and see for yourself.
TENDER MORSELS by Margo Lanagan The very first piece of fiction by Margo Lanagan that I read was the short story “Singing My Sister Down“. If you haven’t read it yet, stop reading this and go find it online, I’ll be here when you get back. It’s a revelation. Lanagan has several collections of short stories, all of them excellent. Her novel The Brides of Rollrock Island is a stunning take on the selkie myth. But I digress. Tender Morsels tells the story of a young woman (a girl, really) who escapes her brutal life in a small village by living in her own personal fantasy world, where evil can’t reach her. That’s the bare bones, but it doesn’t come close to describing the wonders Lanagan achieves here. She writes about tough subjects like rape, abortion, and even quasi-beastiality in the heightened, evocative language of fairytales, walking a tightrope I think few authors could pull off. Lanagan is one of our very best writers, and Tender Morsels is one of my favorite novels ever.
DR. RAT by Willaim Kotzwinkle In some circles, William Kotzwinkle may be best known as the author of the E.T. novelization. For others, it’s his novel The Fan Man, or his short story collection Elephant Bangs Train. Not me. For my money, his best work, his crowning glory, is the batshit crazy Dr. Rat, the story of the world-wide uprising of animals against humans, narrated by an insane laboratory rat. Part sustained howl against animal experimentation and the subjugation of animals by people, part war story as whales, elephants, and all the creatures of the wild go on the attack, and all of it filtered through Dr. Rat’s extraordinarily skewed intelligence. One of the best examples of an unreliable narrator I’ve ever read. There are moments here where Kotzwinkle’s language is positively incandescent.
My SUV gave up the ghost just outside Junction City Left it there, no burial, I guess death is never pretty Walked twenty miles through corn and wheat as far as the horizon I know that it’s good exercise, but I wish I was still drivin’ Sad and sleepless in a Motel 6, waiting for the break of day Out of luck, and that damn girl is still half a state away
She said, Call me a dreamer, call me a fool Prove that you love me as much as I love you Come climb a mountain and lay down beside me Follow the trail to the love deep inside me Leave that life behind and start everything new
Come on, she said, let’s run away and keep on running for a while I shook my head and silenced her with an absent, condescending smile She was gone next morning, left behind a map from Triple A That led to Colorado, where she wrote, “I’m heading this way” And she left behind a letter that cut right to the heart And I knew I better hit the road ’cause she had a good head start
So here I am with thumb outstretched and not a car in sight But I think I crossed into Colorado sometime late last night There’s a mountain in the distance that I know I’ll have to climb You know, it’s worth the trouble if it makes that dreamer mine
She said, Call me a dreamer, call me a fool Prove that you love me as much as I love you Come climb a mountain and lay down beside me Follow the trail to the love deep inside me Leave that life behind and start everything new
Back when I was designing rubber art stamps, my local stamp store (Hi, Ginny!) asked me to teach a class in coloring. Turns out, once stampers do their stamping, they sometimes like to color the resulting work. It also turns out that folks in the stamping community are uniformly delightful people, and the classes were great fun to do. This is a handout I prepared for the class, outlining some tips, and techniques that work for me. They may work for you as well.
Seanan McGuire is so prolific, and so good, that it’s downright intimidating. She writes fantasy, science fiction, and horror (and for all I know tractor manuals) with equal excellence, under both her name and Mira Grant. Her fantasy work is audaciously imaginative, her science fiction grounded in solid, believable science, and her horror terrifying.
McGuire has several ongoing series (did I mention she’s prolific?), all of them excellent. The October Daye novels are urban fantasy at its best, set in a San Francisco where the lands of Fairy and humans intersect in exciting and delightful ways. The Wayward Children books are, in my opinion, the new yardstick against which all portal fantasies will be judged. And the InCryptid novels, of which Discount Armageddon is the first, are a whole other species of urban fantasy.
Discount Armageddon introduces us to Verity Price and her family of cryptozoologists, who for generations have been trained to keep the peace between humans and cryptids, the mythological creatures (some would say monsters) who live secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, among us. Verity is a fascinating badass—traveling the rooftops of New York City in her strip club cocktail waitress uniform, bristling with weapons, sarcasm always at the ready. Did I mention that in addition to monster protecting/fighting, Verity is a competitive ballroom dancer?
Meanwhile, New York’s cryptids are disappearing at an alarming rate, and Verity must figure out why. Her life becomes even more complicated when a member of The Covenant of Saint George arrives in town. The life mission of The Covenant is to eradicate every cryptid in existence, which puts him on a collision path with Verity. Mayhem ensues.
This is a fast-paced, exhilarating, and often very funny romp of a novel. The characters, both human and cryptid, are well-developed. We get to meet several other members of the Price family, each of them a badass in their own right. McGuire has done some first-class world building here—always believable, no matter how outlandish. This was the first InCryptid novel that I’ve read. I’m thrilled that there are now a bunch of books in the series, because I’m ready to dive back into this world.
I like poetry as much as the next fella. I even write some myself. But there’s something about a perfectly written song, a set of lyrics that speaks to your head and your heart, words that ride a melody like a longtime lover (or a brand new one), that makes me want to put pen to paper.
Here are some lyrics that speak to me, and, to be honest, lyrics I wish I had written. These were the first songs that came to mind. I’ve just scratched the surface. There are so many more, and I’ll probably do this again.
NEW YORK, NEW Y0RK Ryan Adams
I remember Christmas in the blistering cold In a church on the Upper West Side Babe, I stood there singing, I was holding your arm You were holding my trust like a child
CAR WHEELS ON A GRAVEL ROAD Lucinda Williams
broken down shacks engine parts could tell a lie but my heart would know listen to the dogs barkin in the yard car wheels on a gravel road child in the backseat about four or five years lookin’ out the window little bit of dirt mixed with tears car wheels on a gravel road
RICH MAN’S WAR Steve Earle
Bobby had an eagle and a flag tattooed on his arm Red white and blue to the bone when he landed in Kandahar Left behind a pretty young wife and a baby girl A stack of overdue bills and went off to save the world Been a year now and he’s still there Chasin’ ghosts in the thin dry air Meanwhile back at home the finance company took his car Just another poor boy off to fight a rich man’s war
THE ONLY FLAME IN TOWN Elvis Costello
But you blew hot and cold Turned my heart to a cinder And with each passing day You’re less tender and more tinder Now you’re not the only flame in town
32 FLAVORS Ani Difranco
and god help you if you are an ugly girl course too pretty is also your doom cause everyone harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room and god help you if you are a phoenix and you dare to rise up from the ash a thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy while you are just flying back
EVERYBODY KNOWS Leonard Cohen
Everybody knows that you love me baby Everybody knows that you really do Everybody knows that you’ve been faithful Oh, give or take a night or two Everybody knows you’ve been discreet But there were so many people you just had to meet Without your clothes Everybody knows
TENNESSEE Arrested Development
Outta the country and into more country Past Dyesburg and Ripley Where the ghost of childhood haunts me Walk the roads my forefathers walked Climb the trees my forefathers hung from Ask those trees for all their wisdom They tell me my ears are so young Go back, from whence you came My family tree, my family name For some strange reason it had to be He guided me to Tennessee
WHEN I WAS A BOY Dar Williams
I was a kid that you would like, just a small boy on her bike Riding topless, yeah, I never cared who saw My neighbor come outside to say, “Get your shirt,” I said “No way, it’s the last time I’m not breaking any law.” And now I’m in a clothing store, and the sign says less is more More that’s tight means more to see, more for them, not more for me That can’t help me climb a tree in ten seconds flat
I drew dozens of zoo animals for a publishing company that creates products for zoo and museum gift shops. These were so much fun to do! Here are a few samples:
When I talk about my writing here on the blog, I’m talking about fiction writing. Whether writing for kids, or writing science fiction, fantasy or horror for adults, fiction is my favorite pool to splash around in.
What I don’t talk about much here is my day job, which I’ve done now for almost forty years. I’m creative director for a small, close-knit ad agency here in beautiful Cleveland, Ohio (And no, I’m not being sarcastic. I love this city, except for the weather.). Funny thing is, if I add up the minutes, I spend more time writing for work than I do at home. Don’t get me wrong, my main gig is graphic design, but in any given week I write radio and TV scripts, website copy, blog posts, print copy—the list is long. My co-workers are aware of my fiction writing, and insanely supportive, which is very cool.
The questions I find myself asking are these: Does the fiction writing make me a better advertising writer? Does the advertising writing make me a better fiction writer?
I don’t know for sure, but I think the answer to both questions is yes.
My fiction tends to the fantastic, to flights of fancy, often to humor. I lean on my imagination pretty hard. I would argue that all those things come into play when I’m writing advertising copy, because I try to look past the first, more mundane ideas, and aim for somewhere near left field. I might be selling sewing machines, or home heating and cooling systems, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find a fun and unique way to make that sale. The skills I’ve learned writing fiction help me do that.
Conversely, When I sit down to write fiction, the skills I’ve learned writing advertising copy come into play. I’ve had to learn to make a point clearly, succinctly, in as few words as possible, to describe something so that the mind’s eye can see and understand it. I find this really helpful when writing action scenes in particular, the ability to keep all the pieces moving without the story desolving into a muddy stew of imprecise verbs.
So, in a word, yeah. I think writing a lot makes me a better writer in both my day and night jobs.
I would love to get some other opinions here. Do you agree? Disagree? Let me know!
Here are the bare bones: Two female time-traveling agents, Red and Blue, from the opposing sides of a war raging across time and space. They are, each of them, the very best at what they do, traveling up and down a vast complexity of multiple timelines, altering events both mind-bogglingly large and infinitesimally small. They commit the wholesale slaughter of entire armies, then change the path of a single wandering monk. Both are playing an unfathomably long game that stretches across thousands of years.
If you read the above description, you might mistake this novella for rather old-fashioned, hard science fiction, something that could have been written by Heinlein, or maybe Bester.
Nope. This is a different and much wilder animal.
See, as they work the timelines, braiding and unbraiding events, the agents become aware of each other. They begin to leave notes, letters, for each other to find, at first taunting, then showing a certain grudging respect for each other’s skill, and finally, haltingly, love. This Is How You Lose the Time War becomes, at least in part, an epistolary novella, and the most unusual, ravishing love story I’ve ever read.
Take, for instance, those letters I mentioned. Yes, some are written by quill, in longhand. But some take forms by turn whimsical and scarifying—in birds, in seeds, in lava flows, in words that can be ingested into the body.
What sets this novella apart, and one of the reasons I think it was recently nominated for a Hugo, is the language. El-Mohtar and Gladstone are working in rarified air here. The words leap and dance off the page, incandescent, intoxicating, alive. There were moments here where I was a little adrift, not exactly sure what I was reading, and I never gave a damn. I just went with the flow of the story, let it wash over me, and came out the other side.
Whatever I say, I can’t possibly do This Is How You Lose the Time War justice. Just read it, fall in love with Red and Blue, and get lost in the best possible way.
I posted these to my Twitter a while back, but I think they’re worth a blog post. I was hired to design haunted house facades by a company that fabricates them for the industry. These were a ridiculous amount of fun to work on. I call these Victorian Skin, Cannibal Farmhouse, and Haunted Hill.
I’ve done a decent amount of magazine illustration work over the years. Here are a few samples. These originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Now & Then, Gold & Treasure Hunter, and New Renaissance.
Look at you now, sprawled out on the floor. Tried to reach the bathroom only made it to the door. When you left last night you were looking so fine, I would have told anybody I’m so proud that he’s mine. Now your tie’s around your head and your shirt’s buttoned wrong, and I can see from your position that your underwear’s gone.
You were too drunk to remember, and now you’re too cool to care, and you’d like to ask me what you did but baby you don’t dare. Now, that lipstick’s such a pretty color, but it’s not one you should wear. You were too drunk to remember, and now you’re too cool to care.
The cops left here about an hour ago. From the story they were telling me, you put on quite a show. I understand the bloody nose– sounds like you saw some stars. But where’d you get that haircut, and where the hell’s the car? You left home with a Rolex– Now you’re wearing Mickey Mouse. From the buzzing cloud above your head, you’ll have to be deloused.
You were too drunk to remember, and now you’re too cool to care, and you’d like to ask me what you did but baby you don’t dare. My bags are packed, I’m leaving, and I would probably tell you where, but you were too drunk to remember, and now you’re too cool to care.
My bags are packed, I’m leaving, and I would probably tell you where, but you were too drunk to remember, and now you’re just too cool to care.
Portal fantasy is a well-loved trope in the literature of the fantastic. The basic idea—a person (or persons), almost always a child, is transported to another world through some sort of magical door, or mirror, or rabbit hole— has been around forever. From the Alice books to The Chronicles of Narnia, from Howl’s Moving Castle to Peter Pan, from The Wizard of Oz to Cat Valente’s Fairyland books, from Percy Jackson to Akata Witch, portal fantasies exist because they provide such a useful entry point, such a sturdy scaffold on which to construct a magical world.
To all of those books, even your most treasured, I say make room. Seanan McGuire’s Wayward Children series, of which Come Tumbling Down is the fifth entry, has set a new standard in portal fantasies. The first novel, Every Heart a Doorway, asked an intriguing question—what happens to all those children when they return from magical worlds. In that novel we were introduced to Eleanor West’s School for Wayward Children, the place those children end up when their parents don’t know how to deal with them, and to several of the kids now trying to make their way through our drab, disappointing world after having left the magic behind.
Through the subsequent novels—Down Among the Sticks and Bones, Beneath the Sugar Sky, In An Absent Dream, and now Come Tumbling Down—we visit some of those worlds and see them through the eyes of characters we’ve come to know and care for. The stories are by turns funny and heartbreaking, whimsical and terrifying, and always deeply humane. McGuire has a true gift for thoughtful inclusion. Even in the most outlandish of circumstances, her wayward children are all fully realized characters, their virtues balanced by flaws, their pain and yearning always deeply felt. McGuire’s world building is rigorously thought out. Even her nonsense worlds make internal sense.
I realize that this review of Come Tumbling Down hasn’t really talked about the novel much. That’s okay. You should know that it continues the story of twins Jack and Jill, who we’ve already met in Every Heart a Doorway and Down Among the Sticks and Bones. You should also know that Come Tumbling Down is just as satisfying. My suggestion is that you read all the Wayward Children books, in order preferably, as each one does build, sometimes in subtle ways, on the last.
If a very few years McGuire has become one of my favorite writers. She’s nominated for several Hugo awards this year, including one for In An Absent Dream. Her novel Middle Game, also nominated, was one of my favorite books of 2019. McGuire is prolific, and has several series ongoing, but don’t be afraid to dive right in. The Wayward Children series is a great place to start.
Anyone who reads this blog regularly has probably realized that I read mostly genre stuff, specifically science fiction, fantasy and horror. Once in a while, however, I don’t mind a good, taut thriller. Karin Slaughter’s The Last Widow is part thriller, part police procedural, and an altogether fun, sometimes nerve-wracking read.
The Last Widow concerns a terrorist attack, an off-the-grid white supremacist group, kidnapping, and an undercover government agent. Slaughter does a lot of things really well here. She seems to have a deep knowledge of how law enforcement works on both the local and national level, from city police to government agencies including the Georgia Bureau of Investigation and the CDC. Everything she details rings true. Grudging cooperation, inter-agency squabbles, heroics and bone-deep weariness, it’s all there.
The terrorists’ plan, particularly given the current state of the world, is relevant and terrifyingly plausible.
One final thing I’d like to mention is pacing. Slaughter does something I found extremely effective, almost cinematic. Bear with me as I digress here. Did you ever notice when watching Goodfellas that in the final quarter of the movie, as Henry Hill’s life unravels, the pacing accelerates, the scenes are shorter, choppier? Slaughter’s chapters in The Last Widow start out long and dense, and then get shorter, punchier, almost breathless, toward the end. It works like gangbusters.
Lulu has a plastic Jesus on the dashboard of her car she likes to think that maybe he protects her Lulu sees the eyes of angels when she looks up at the stars she says that sometimes late at night the statue smiles at her
Lulu has a radio on the nightstand by her bed she spins the dial, searching through the static Lulu hears the voices of the saints around her head she says that if they ever stop it would be so tragic
Lulu had a mother, hung herself in Lulu’s room promised everlasting joy if she would join her soon promised that the hand of God would pull her from the tomb people say that Lulu’s mom was crazy as a loon now they say the same about Lulu
Lulu has a bible that she carries like a shield she parries each attack with verse and chapter Lulu reads aloud from it as she walks across the fields she says what others think just doesn’t matter
Lulu has a television, the on/off switch is crossed with tape she says the devil lives behind the screen Lulu turned it on just once, a very bad mistake now she sees the devil in her dreams
Lulu had a daddy, used to visit Lulu’s room Lulu would lay very still and look up at the moon finally he just up and left, and not a day too soon people say that Lulu’s dad was crazy as a loon now they say the same about Lulu
Lulu has a scrapbook filled with clippings from the paper she says the rapture hides between the lines Lulu says she doesn’t really care if people hate her the earthly ones are the only ties that bind
Lulu has a journal where she keeps her secret thoughts she sits each night and writes ’til long past dark Lulu keeps it locked up tight, afraid that she’ll get caught she says she fears the dog that doesn’t bark
Lulu had a boyfriend, never came to Lulu’s room the time he spent with Lulu was like watching a cartoon he only ever held her hand, but people just assume people started saying he must be crazy as a loon he would never say the same about Lulu
People seemed to like the sketches I posted before, so here are some more. I didn’t mention it last time, but these are two-page spreads, with an open area for text on each spread.
Another round of favorite opening lines. Some of these are long, some very short, but all of them not only draw you in and make you want to keep reading, but tell you what kind of book it’s going to be.
THE PRINCESS BRIDE, WILLIAM GOLDMAN:
This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it.
CARRIE, STEPHEN KING:
Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not at the subconscious level where savage things grow.
THE MARTIAN, ANDY WEIR:
I’m pretty much fucked.
THE HOBBIT, J.R.R. TOLKIEN:
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.
GOOD OMENS, TERRY PRATCHETT & NEIL GAIMAN:
It was a nice day. All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn’t been invented yet. But clouds massing east of Eden suggested that the first thunderstorm was on its way, and it was going to be a big one. The angel of the Eastern Gate put his wings over his head to shield himself from the first drops.
2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, ARTHUR C. CLARKE:
Behind every man now alive stand thirty ghosts, for that is the ratio by which the dead outnumber the living.
A HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY, DOUGLAS ADAMS:
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES, JOHN KENNEDY TOOLE:
A green hunting cap squeezed the top of the fleshy balloon of a head. The green earflaps, full of large ears and uncut hair and the fine bristles that grew in the ears themselves, stuck out on either side like turn signals indicating two directions at once. Full, pursed lips protruded beneath the bushy black moustache and, at their corners, sank into little folds filled with disapproval and potato chip crumbs. In the shadow under the green visor of the cap Ignatius J. Reilly’s supercilious blue and yellow eyes looked down upon the other people waiting under the clock at the D.H. Holmes department store, studying the crowd of people for signs of bad taste in dress. Several of the outfits, Ignatius noticed, were new enough and expensive enough to be properly considered offenses against taste and decency. Possession of anything new or expensive only reflected a person’s lack of theology and geometry; it could even cast doubts upon one’s soul.
THE BOOK OF LOST THINGS, JOHN CONNELLY
Once upon a time – for that is how all stories should begin – there was a boy who lost his mother.
No idea why I never finished this, as I like the direction it was heading. But, that ship has sailed and I’m not going to finish now. I think it’s worth sharing, however.
I worked on a picture book set in Kenya for the same publisher I did the Galapagos book for. The project fell through, but here are some of the sketches. This was fun—so many animals!
Do you remember the TV show Inside-Out Boy? It was an excellent piece of claymation that ran on Nickelodeon for a few years in the late 80s/early 90s. Fast forward to a couple of decades ago, and I had an idea for some new stories set in the Inside-Out Boy world. Not content to sit on an idea I liked, I wrote a few spec scripts, and hunted down the production company that had produced the original series. As it turned out, they liked it. We started talking about the possibility, and it was a slim possibility, that we could move forward with the idea. Then…then 9/11 happened, and they were in New York, and that was it. But I still like the idea. Here’s one of those spec scripts.
Inside-Out Boy In:
The Grass Is Always Greener On The Inside-Out
SCENE:Bird’s-eye view of a suburban neighborhood at dusk; kids playing, lawns being mowed. This wholesome vision is shattered by the sound of a—
YOUNG GIRL’S VOICE
Help! Leave me alone, you bullies!
CUT TO:An access alley behind a garage with garbage cans, etc. Two punky looking teenage boys are teasing a cute young girl (Carla). They have taken her bike.
CARLA
Give me back my bike or I’ll tell my dad!
BOY A
Ooooh, I’m really scared! She’s gonna tell her daddy!
BOY B
Not if we put her in a garbage can…come on, Stu, let’s get her…
They approach her menacingly.
CUT TO:Close-up of Carla, looking terrified, as the shadows of the boys fall across her. She trips and falls.
CUT TO:The two boys approaching, from Carla’s P.O.V.
VOICE FROM OUT-OF-FRAME
Hey! Why don’t you dorks pick on someone your own size!
The punks look around puzzled.
BOY A
Who said that?!
VOICE FROM OUT-OF-FRAME
I did!
Inside-Out Boy leaps down from the garage roof, landing on top of a garbage can. He waves his arms and sticks out his tongue at the boys, making loud noises, exploiting his inside-out-ness. The punks become scared little kids and run away screaming. Inside-Out Boy watches them go.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Hah, that’ll teach ‘em.
I.O.B. turns back toward Carla, and really sees her for the first time.
CUT TO: Close-up of Carla’s face as I.O.B. sees her…she’s a blonde vision, light radiating from her face.
CUT TO:Close-up of I.O.B.’s face with a dumb smile and faraway eyes. He is clearly smitten.
CUT TO: I.O.B. kind of shakes himself, realizes he’s staring. He reaches to help Carla.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Here, let me help you up.
Carla recoils from his touch, tries to hide the look of revulsion that crosses her face but does not succeed. She scrambles to her feet, keeping her distance. This is one girl who does not think I.O.B. is cool.
CARLA
No, no, that’s okay. I’m fine, really.
Carla hurries past him, jumps on her bike. She pedals away, one bent wheel squeaking.
CARLA (OVER HER SHOULDER)
Um, thanks and everything.
CUT TO: Close-up of I.O.B. He realizes what has just happened.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (TO HIMSELF)
Wow, she was scared of me. I, I think I grossed her out!
CUT TO:I.O.B. walking home, slumped and dejected, as indignities are heaped upon him. Dogs and cats follow him, sniffing. A bird lands on his head, begins to peck. An elderly woman carrying a big pie to her neighbor sees him, screams and flips the pie up in the air; naturally it lands on his head.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (HOWLING TO THE HEAVENS)
I’m tired of being inside-out!
A gopher pops his head out of his hole, sees I.O.B., lets out a loud EEEK and dives back into his hole. I.O.B. hangs his head and sighs.
DISOLVE TO:The next day at school, I.O.B. sits in class, still grumbling. His teacher enters with Carla in tow, and I.O.B. perks up immediately.
TEACHER
Class, say hello to your new classmate, Carla Calloway.
CLASS (HAPHAZARDLY)
Hello, Carla…
TEACHER
Carla, why don’t you find yourself a seat.
I.O.B. realizes there is an empty seat next to him. He looks at Carla and smiles hopefully. Carla sees him and ducks her head. She heads for a desk on the opposite side of the room. I.O.B. drops his head on his desk.
DISOLVE TO:I.O.B. eating lunch with his best friends; Darcy, who lives next door, and Thomas, a bit of a nerd who thinks of I.O.B. as his own personal science project. I.O.B. gazes longingly across the cafeteria at Carla.
DARCY (TO THOMAS)
What’s with him?
THOMAS
He’s in love with that new girl, Carla, but she thinks he’s gross!
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Shut up, Thomas!
Darcy looks daggers at Carla. She’s been carrying a quiet torch for I.O.B. for years. She thumps I.O.B. on the head to get his attention.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Huh? Ow! What?!
DARCY
If Blondie over there can’t see what a cool guy you are, even inside-out, then she’s not worth the time of day!
INSIDE-OUT BOY
You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re my friend.
DARCY
Ooooh!
Darcy storms off, upset.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
What’d I say?
THOMAS
Man, you really have a way with the ladies.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Shut up, Thomas!
DISOLVE TO:Later that day, after school. I.O.B. and Thomas sit on the playground swings, talking.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Where’s Darcy?
THOMAS
She went home. She’s still cheesed off at you. You know she kind of likes you, right?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
You’re crazy! Me and Darcy have been friends forever!
THOMAS
Yeah, whatever.
They sit in silence for a moment, I.O.B. deep in thought.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Hey Thomas…I don’t want to be inside-out any more. Can you find a way to change me back?
THOMAS
Are you sure?
INSIDE-OUT BOY (DETERMINED)
Yeah, I’m sure.
THOMAS
Well, I love a challenge. Let’s go to the lab.
DISOLVE TO: Thomas’s room. It’s a nerd’s paradise, with computers, test tubes, Bunsen burners, etc. Thomas is wearing a lab coat, the pocket bristling with pens. I.O.B. looks apprehensive.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Now what?
THOMAS
(WITH A BIG SMILE ON HIS FACE…
HE’S BEEN WAITING TO DO THIS FOR A LONG TIME)
We have to run some tests.
Collage of scenes, one dissolving into the next, as I.O.B. is subjected to all manner of silly tests while Thomas takes notes. He’s poked and prodded with odd-looking instruments. He’s hung upside-down and spun in circles. He hops on one foot while holding a goldfish bowl in one hand, balancing an umbrella on his nose and singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”
CUT TO: Thomas pressing the ENTER button on his computer keyboard, while I.O.B. looks on, exhausted.
THOMAS
Keep your fingers crossed, here it comes.
A sheet of paper slides out of the printer. Thomas picks it up, not letting I.O.B. see it.
THOMAS
Hmmmm…why didn’t I think of that?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
What? What’s it say?
THOMAS
You have to swing up over the bar backward.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
You’re kidding…
THOMAS
Nope.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (WITH CONVICTION)
Let’s do it.
DISOLVE TO:The swing set. I.O.B. takes his seat as Thomas and Darcy look on.
DARCY (STILL MAD)
I hope you know what you’re doing. What if you turn inside-out again? You’ll end up being a big gooey mess.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
I’m already a big gooey mess…besides, that’s not going to happen, right, Thomas?
THOMAS
Um, right. At least, I don’t think so. So, you ready?
INSIDE-OUT BOY (HOLDING ONTO THE CHAINS)
Yep.
Thomas and Darcy get in front of I.O.B. and each grab a side of the swing. They back up, pulling the swing forward as far as they can.
THOMAS
On three. One, two, threeeeee!
They rush forward, flinging I.O.B. backwards. The swing goes up in a big arc, almost parallel to the ground, before heading back.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Almost, keep pushing!
Thomas and Darcy keep pushing, the swing inching higher and higher.
CUT TO:Close-up of I.O.B. as he finally loops over in slow motion, upside down, chains slack. As he comes over the top he begins to transform, turning right–side out. He comes to a bouncing stop, looks down at himself and lets out a loud
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Yeah! It worked!
Thomas and Darcy join him in cheering.
THOMAS
I knew it would work! At least, I was pretty sure. Science triumphs again!
DARCY
So now what? You going go tell your family?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Yeah, they’re really gonna be surprised!
DISOLVE TO:Mom and dad hugging I.O.B. in a stranglehold.
MOM
Oh honey, we love you no matter what. Plus, now I can take the plastic off the furniture.
CUT TO:I.O.B. with his little sister, Shelly. She pokes him experimentally.
SHELLY
Hmmm. You’re not sticky anymore. I’m gonna miss that.
She looks at him with a frown, then bursts out laughing and hugs him.
SHELLY
Just kidding!
CUT TO: I.O.B.’s big brother Steve. He looks I.O.B. up and down, then bops him on top of the head and walks away.
STEVE (OVER HIS SHOULDER)
Inside-out or not, you’re still a dweeb.
I.O.B. sighs, rubbing his head, then smiles.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (A LITTLE SARCASTICALLY)
There’s no place like home…but now there’s a certain blonde girl I have to go see.
DISOLVE TO:I.O.B. in a jacket and tie, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He’s obviously nervous as all get-out as he walks up the porch steps of a nice house and rings the doorbell. Carla answers the door. She looks at him dismissively through the screen door.
CARLA
Can I help you?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Um, yeah, I mean yes. (HOLDS OUT THE FLOWERS) These are for you.
CARLA
Who are you?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
It’s me, the kid who saved you when those older boys took your bike. I guess I look a little different now. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to go to a movie or something.
CARLA
As if. So you’re not inside-out any more, I still don’t owe you anything. You really thought I’d go out with you? Yuck!
Carla slams the door in I.O.B.’s face. I.O.B. slinks away, crushed, and the night just gets worse. He runs into the elderly woman who had the pie before and tries to scare her out of spite. She hits him with her umbrella. A gopher pops up out of his hole and bites him on the ankle. Finally, as he crosses an alley, the two punks from before grab him up, pulling him into the darkness. We hear loud banging sounds, then the punks exit the alley, dusting off their hands, laughing.
CUT TO:I.O.B. in a garbage can, banana peel and miscellaneous trash on his head.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (DEFEATED)
I guess there’s only one thing left to do…
DISOLVE TO:The playground, late at night. I.O.B. peeks up from behind some bushes, scanning the playground. He zips from bush to tree like a ghost, making his way toward the swingset. When he’s sure the coast is clear he gets on the swing.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Here we go again!
I.O.B. begins to swing, higher and higher. As he climbs into the sky, his determined frown is gradually replaced with a smile. Finally, with a triumphant yell, he loops over the top and turns back inside-out. He leaps off the swing, plants his feet and raises his hands into the air.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Inside-Out Boy is back!
DISOLVE TO:The next day in the school cafeteria. I.O.B., Thomas and Darcy are sitting together, I.O.B. inside-out as can be. Thomas is shaking his head.
THOMAS
I just don’t get it. I can’t figure out why you turned back inside-out.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (WITH A SLY SMILE)
It’s a real mystery all right.
DARCY
So what’d your family say?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Oh, you know. Steve bopped me on top of the head, Shelly loves me no matter what, and Mom put the plastic back on the furniture. I guess life is back to normal. So who wants to hit the playground for some kickball?
THOMAS
I’m in. Darcy?
DARCY
You guys go on, I’ll be there in a minute.
Darcy reaches into her pocket and pulls out a big, juicy worm.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Darcy, what’s that for?
DARCY
That Carla girl is looking a little pale. I think she needs more protein in her diet, so I’m gonna add this to her spaghetti.
Darcy and Thomas high-five.
THOMAS
You go girl!
DARCY
No one messes with my boy—best friend. (SHE BLUSHES)
CUT TO:Close-up of I.O.B., a big embarrassed smile on his face.
Dave Writes and Draws 