I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for May, 2024 is The Letter and my contribution this month started out as a little short story, but then something surprising happened. I ended up writing what just may be the first chapter of something longer. The result is titled A Letter Discovered. Here’s how it starts:
Hazel McTavish found the letter tucked between the pages of a book in her local public library, a small, cozy brick building at the end of Maple Street.
Hazel was thirteen. She had discovered science fiction and fantasy in the school library her first week at Maple Junior High, a much larger, much less cozy building which squatted at the other end of Maple Street. She had spent the entire school year working her way through the SF&F section in the library, starting at the upper left with Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot and working her way down to the bottom right, finishing with Roger Zelazny’s Nine Princes In Amber.
Once the school year ended, Hazel started over alphabetically with the much larger public library SF&F collection. By midway through July she had reached the Ls, and it was when she was in the Ls that she found the letter. She was ensconced in her favorite threadbare, overstuffed chair that was perfectly positioned so that she could look out a window into the library courtyard and watch the hummingbirds flitting between feeders. She’d just sat down with a clearly much-loved hardback edition of Ursula K. Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea. She did what she always did before beginning a new book, particularly older volumes—she held it up to her nose and breathed deeply, inhaling the dry but earthy book smell. As often happened, she sneezed, jerking the book. That’s when the letter fell into her lap.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for April, 2024 is Dancing and my contribution this month is a poem titled Dancing About Architecture. Here’s how it starts:
Someone (and opinions differ as to who that someone is) once said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture, and I think I understand what they were trying to say— That describing any mode of creative expression with mere words on a page is at best an exercise in futility (how do you explain a series of notes that vibrate in tune with your soul) and at worst does a disservice to both your written word and the artform you’re attempting to elucidate.
But what if you could? Dance about architecture, I mean.
Here are many of the places my work has appeared over the years. This isn’t everything, but it’s everything I was able to put my hands on after scrounging through the bookshelf and magazine rack. I’m happy with the variety, and particularly pleased (embarrassingly so) that I placed a story in Highlights, everyone’s favorite dentist office magazine.
I was about to type not bad for an amateur, but then I remembered something. Last year was my 40th anniversary (I was the very first employee) at a small ad agency here in Cleveland, Rosenberg Advertising. They’ve been wonderful to work for, and kind enough to keep me gainfully employed, for which I’m forever grateful. Anyway…as part of the anniversary festivities, my coworkers prepared an infographic about my time here, and it included this tidbit—I’ve written more than a million words of copy in the course of my work. That is a lot of words. It includes ad copy, hundreds of tv and radio commercials, and more website copy and blog posts than I can comprehend, even though I’ve written them.
Add to that the other, varied writing projects I’ve been a part of, from greeting card sentiments to ESL test passages, and my conclusion is that, while I’m still a rank amateur when it comes to fiction writing, I’m probably not an amateur overall any more. And the fiction thing is coming along—there are three or four anthologies coming out this year that will include my work, which feels good. I’m definitely going to keep writing, and see where it goes.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for March, 2024 is Outside the Window and my contribution this month is a short story titled Paradise. I think this one has Twilight Zone vibes, and I’m happy with how it turned out. Here’s how it starts:
I found myself on the Deuce that night through a combination of loneliness, self pity, and drunkenness. I was nineteen, and Trina, the first, hell—the only— love of my life had dumped me that morning after yet another fight because I had lost my shitty bodega job. Dumped me? She had thrown me out of the Alphabet City walkup we shared, her right I guess, since her Wall Street father was paying for it. He hated me, which in retrospect I don’t blame him for one bit, so I’m sure the tearful phone call he probably got after I left pleased him.
I was actually jealous of him and her if you want to know the truth, even if he was an asshole. I had grown up in foster care, where love was measured by how big the check from Family Services was. Apparently, the checks weren’t very big. Trina’s dad loved his little girl, despite her choosing to live with a lowlife like me in a tiny flat. I couldn’t imagine someone caring about me that much. And yes, I know how pathetic that sounds.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for February, 2024 is Sunrise/Sunset and my contribution this month is a piece of flash fiction titled Life Ain’t Easy for a Vampire. Here’s how it starts:
Look, I know what you’re thinking: That’s bullshit. Vampires have it made. You couldn’t be more wrong, my friend, but it’s not your fault. You’ve been spoon fed a steady diet of totally made up mythology, half truths, and downright lies. I blame the writers—I’m looking at you, Bram Stoker and Anne Rice—and especially Hollywood.
Hollywood don’t know shit about vampires.
I don’t have much time here, which I’ll explain, but let me drop a little knowledge on you, tell you what they get wrong.
I’ll start with one of the big ones—all vampires are obscenely rich. That’s what you think, right? In the old days we lived in vast castles, with dozens of servants from the village down below to snack on. Then we took our drachmas, our deutsche marks, francs, and rubles, and we invested them over centuries. Got in on the ground floor with Apple. Now we live in penthouses, fly in private jets, have starlets delivered like DoorDash when we’re feeling hangry.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for January, 2024 is Cooking and my contribution this month is a culinary science fiction story titled A Dish Most Rare. Here’s how it starts:
My Chef de Cuisine called me into his office at the end of the night, which wasn’t unusual in and of itself. I’ve been his Sous Chef for nearly two years, and he often wants to discuss how that evening’s dinner service went—if one of the minor celebrities who called our small but bougie mountain town home had been in attendance and if their meal had pleased them; what worked and, God forbid, what didn’t; which kitchen staff were slacking and which were grinding; whether the saucier was still banging the garde manger. Shit like that. Chef wasn’t above a little kitchen gossip.
This was something different. For one thing he asked me to close the door behind me, which he rarely does. He also had an open bottle of Michter’s Single Barrel on his desk, along with a half-full tumbler, also rare for him. Chef’s not much of a drinker.
I’m excited to announce a new anthology of original fiction coming soon: NATURE FIGHTS BACK. I’m lucky enough to have a story here, plus I created the cover—drawn with an Apple Pencil on an IPad using Procreate.
Here’s the back cover copy to give you an idea of what to expect:
For millennia humans have perpetrated an uneasy relationship with nature. Then we upset the balance, denying nature’s power. These stories—speculative fiction, horror, thrillers, and more—explore what happens when nature, long mistreated and disrespected, rises up to restore balance, taking back what humans have stolen from it. When nature fights back, the consequences can be deadly.
Includes tales spun by…Emily Ansell, Ian Martínez Cassmeyer, Chris Durston, Jay Heltzer, C.J. Henderson, Mara Lynn Johnstone, Estelle Parcoeur, Lucas Rosen, and David M. Simon.
All proceeds from the sale of this book will bedonated to Rainforest Trust.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for December, 2023 is A Place to Belong and my contribution this month is a children’s science fiction story titled Home From the Stars. Here’s how it starts:
My name is Ohio. Today I am going home for the first time.
I’m sitting on the floor in the middle of my empty room when Mom peeks in. “Come on, honey. It’s time to go.” I take one last look around. Everything has been packed up. Bits of tape are still stuck to the walls where pictures had hung.
I stand between Mom and Dad and wave goodbye to the pod that has been my home for 9 years, since I was born. Dad pushes the touch-pad and the door slides shut. The corridor is packed with people heading for the landing shuttle. “Okay,” I say, “I’m ready. Let’s go.” We join the crowd.
I feel my heart thumping in my chest. “Mom, I’m scared,” I say, shuffling my feet. “What if something goes wrong?”
Mom squeezes my hand. “Ohio, sweetie, you need to be my big, brave girl. Want to know a secret?” She bends down and whispers, “I’m a little nervous, too.”
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for November, 2023 is Innocence and my contribution this month is a song lyric titled Hit the Town. Here’s how it starts:
My old man drove me as far as the station, but he wouldn’t get out of the car. He shook my hand and palmed me a twenty, told me again I was straying too far. Every small town kid wakes up one morning with big city lights alive in his dreams, but you’re just an innocent boy from the farm, and those big city lights aren’t as bright as they seem. Go on now, son, your train is waiting, I know this is something you think you have to do, but take this advice along for the ride, someone gave it to me when I was a kid just like you.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for October, 2023 is Separation and my contribution this month is a grim little science fiction story titled The Testimony of Doctor Claire Haskell. Here’s how it starts:
This is the testimony of Doctor Claire Haskell, MD. It’s April thirteenth of the year 2056, and I’m recording this from a secret, undisclosed location. Since I’m sure you recognize my name, I’m also sure that you know why I’m in hiding.
I was responsible for the first successful fully-integrated human-computer hybridization. It occurred on February third, 2032, at the Cleveland Clinic Main Campus in Cleveland, Ohio. I say “I” as if I was solely responsible, and of course that’s not true. There were several other world-class surgeons besides myself in that operating room, along with an anesthesiologist, and assorted nurses, techs, and PAs.
But that’s not the whole story, either. In fact, this hybridization was actually a collaboration. You see, I had spent nearly ten years beating my head against the wall, attempting to make this a reality, before realizing I needed the assistance of a higher power. No, not God, whatever that means to you. Please. Although I’m sure after what’s come to pass that some would argue God is exactly what I mean.
The Kidlit Fall Writing Frenzy is a writing contest that I’m entering for the first time. Instead of a writing prompt, I was given a choice of image prompts, and I chose this one, a photo by Monstera Production on Pexels.com:
PUMPKIN MOON
Breathe deep. Can you smell that special scent that rides in on autumn’s golden coattails? Sweet and fragrant, equal parts fire and smoke, dry leaves and wet black dirt, tractor belch and wagon wheel grease, pumpkin pie and apple butter, all of it stirred by the wind and strong enough to spin your head around. Go ahead, have another whiff. There’s time enough before we move along.
Change hangs in the air like laundry on the line, and high above it all, shining like the high beams on night’s pickup truck, the Harvest Moon.
But if you’ve lived in these parts since tall trees were saplings, you know there’s another name for the Harvest Moon, a secret name. It’s passed down from grandfather to father to son, whispered in the corn rows, told in hay lofts and sugar shacks. Mothers tell their daughters as they tuck them in at night, sealing the secret with a kiss. If you stand on the edge of a wheat field cloaked in a blanket of stars, stand very still, you’ll hear the name rumble out from deep within the earth: the Pumpkin Moon.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for September, 2023 is Obsession and my contribution this month is a song lyric titled I’d Rather Go Crazy (Than Never Go Anywhere At All). Here’s a taste:
When I first met Tracy, she was walking along the ledge outside my window, her toes over the edge. She tapped on the glass, then threw me a smile that was a little bit crooked, and a little bit wild. She stepped through the window, like she did it all the time, She 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’m remembering 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.”
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for August, 2023 is Rivalry and my contribution this month is a short story titled Nemesis and Narcissus. Here’s how it starts:
My plan is set, my players in place. I need only set the wheels in motion to take that insufferable bore Narcissus down a peg. If all goes well, it will be glorious.
Stealthy as a cat, I slink between the olive trees that crown a bluff overlooking the sparkling blue waters of the Aegean. I spy him right away in his favorite spot, lounging languidly on the shore, gazing rapturously at his own reflection. Narcissus is nothing if not predictable. I raise and twirl one finger, signaling my collaborators to be ready, and stride down the hill.
Not surprising given who he is, Narcissus doesn’t notice me until I tap him on the shoulder. He tears himself away from his reflection just long enough to glance in my direction, and sniffs contemptuously. “Ah, Nemesis. I thought I smelled the stink of jealousy and desperation, and here you are.” As usual, he attempts wit, and only makes it halfway there.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for July, 2023 is Making History and my contribution this month is a short story titled 11 Days, 25 Minutes. Here’s how it starts:
Hey, everyone! Thanks for joining me as I attempt to make history. So, here’s the deal. Back in 1963, a seventeen-year-old kid in San Diego stayed awake for 11 days, 25 minutes. That’s just over 264 hours if you do the math. He did it under controlled conditions, for a science fair. That world record has stood unchallenged for 60 years. You know what I have to say about that?
Fuck him. I’m going to crush that record. I’m shooting for 13 days, and all of you fine people get to watch every second of it.
It’s going to work like this. I’m talking to you on a laptop, and behind me is the back half of my bedroom, with my TV and gaming setup. To my right, your left, is a bathroom. You won’t be able to see inside, ‘cause that would be gross, but I’ll keep the door open so you can hear that I’m awake. Otherwise I’ll be visible at all times—gaming, watching TV, reading, posting on my socials, and of course chatting with all of you. This stream will keep running 24 hours a day.
This dorm fridge here next to me is stocked with water and Monster. Gotta stay hydrated, and I gotta stay awake. I’ve got bags full of snack essentials—Combos, Cool Ranch Doritos, Snickers, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, Double Stuff Oreos, and Peanut M&Ms—plus, my mom has agreed to make me three meals a day. She’s not the greatest cook in the world, so with any luck she’ll Door Dash me some Chipotle a couple of times.
Otherwise it’s you and me for the next 13 days. Let’s synchronize watches, or smartphones. It’s exactly 9:30am Eastern Daylight Time on July 6th, 2023. I got a solid ten hours of sleep last night, and I’m ready to go. Let’s get this party started!
Back in 2005 I reached one of the pinnacles of my writing career up to that time—I had a story, “Tough as Daisy,” published in everyone’s favorite dentist office magazine, Highlights for Children. It got even better a little while later, when a surprise package was delivered, an author of the month award from the magazine. Each month, the editors of Highlights choose a favorite story, and I was lucky enough to receive it.
It’s a little hard to make out, but it reads: Highlights for Children Author of the Month David M. Simon “Tough as Daisy” January 2005
It’s a little beat up, a little worn, but after nearly 20 years I’m still ridiculously proud to have been chosen.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for June, 2023 is Running Away and my contribution this month is a song lyric titled Follow. Here’s how it starts:
My pick-up truck 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 my trail to the love that’s inside me Leave that life behind and start everything new
I’ve joined a talented group of writers as a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for May, 2023 is Regret and my story is called Bagged. Here’s how it starts:
PAUL HAD PLENTY TO REGRET, but it was at least partly the witch’s fault.
There were other contributing factors. Paul’s friends had convinced him that a new club in the Industrial Flats was the place to be for a steamy summer night costume party. Regret number one. They had goaded him into wearing the wool Sherlock Holmes costume that was now causing him to sweat and itch uncontrollably. Regret number two. And alcohol had been involved; definitely regret number three.
It was the sight of the witch across a dance floor crowded with trendy, costumed partiers, however, that had caused his present, and absolutely regretful, predicament. He had caught just a glimpse of her; alabaster skin, raven black hair that refracted the spinning lights like a prism, the flash of a slim yet curvy body between the folds of her black satin cape. Beneath the cape a Moebius strip of leather, lace and chrome that revealed more than it concealed. Her boots were leather, intricately laced; wickedly high heels that pulled the sleek muscles in her calves taut. She held a mysteriously oversized black leather purse protectively against her body.
The witch was dancing by herself, spinning in slow, looping circles. Her body seemed to catch and hold the music, like each note was her own private lover.
I’ve joined a talented group of writers as a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for March, 2023 is Anticipation and my story is called Delphine’s Pillow. Here’s how it starts:
THE SWAMP WAS DIFFERENT in Ohio, different from what they’d crawled through in Louisiana.
Down there they were wet more often than they were dry. They’d be waist deep in the muddy water, weaving between cypress trees draped with Spanish moss. Snakes big around as a man’s arm hung from the trees, and the hot, thick air hummed with mosquitoes.
Third night on the run a gator took Leon. Leon was six. One minute he was stepping down off one of the rare dry, grassy hillocks where they had stopped to rest, trying not to lose his footing on the slick cypress roots and go under. Then an alligator had its jaws clean around his narrow chest and started to roll, tail thrashing, roiling the water, red blood mixing with the brown.
Judah planned their escape for months, starting right after his wife Mina died of an infection that went bad. The overseer had begun to take an interest in his daughter Delphine, not yet thirteen. Judah would not abide that. He gathered what food he could—they would have to make it through the swamp and all the way to the station in Jackson. An old woman named Maria had helped keep an eye on Delphine after Mina died, and Judah promised to take her and her grandson Leon along.
The four of them slipped away quietly the night of a party at the big house, losing themselves in the festive chaos. Judah had the food and the clothes on his back, Maria a small bible. Delphine carried a burlap sack that held her mother’s pillow.
I’ve joined a talented group of writers as a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for February, 2023 is Circularity and my story is called TwelfthTime’s the Charm. Here’s how it starts:
DYING HURTS. DON’T LET anyone tell you different. The thing is, it doesn’t matter how you die—drifting off to sleep in your comfy bed after an excellent meal and a snort of brandy to warm your belly, or being torn apart by a pack of rabid honey badgers—it still hurts like the dickens. That’s because when you die, your soul, or whatever it is you call the invisible thing that makes you you—don’t go there, I’m not about to have that argument—it separates from your body. No, separates isn’t a strong enough word. It’s ripped from your corporal body, it’s cleaved away, it’s torn out at the roots. And take it from me, my friend, that fucking hurts.
I see that look on your face, you’re wondering how I could possibly know that. Tell ya what, buy me a fishbowl of Genny and a pickled egg from that jar behind the bar, and I’ll tell you my story. It’ll be well worth the six bits, that’s a promise.
This past fall I joined a talented group of writers as a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for January, 2023 is False Promises and my story is called The Coyote and the Hitchhiker: A Noir Fable. Here’s how it starts:
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THE BOBCAT HAD BEEN hitchhiking for hours.
His last ride, a long haul trucker with a load of sheet metal, dropped him at the Ely turnoff. Not a single car had passed since then. Now the two-lane highway seemed to levitate from the waves of heat shimmering off the blacktop. The Nevada sun looked like a swollen blister ready to pop, an irritation in the cloudless western sky.
The bobcat’s paws left sweaty prints in the breakdown-lane gravel as he walked. He carried a scuffed nylon duffle bag that seemed to grow heavier with each step.
When a low hum infiltrated his consciousness, the bobcat glanced back. A plume of dust stained the sky. The hum became a throaty growl, the dust plume morphed into a low-slung red sports car chewing up asphalt. The bobcat held up one paw and tried his best to look friendly, non-threatening, and slightly pathetic all at once. The car thundered past, then the driver stood on the brakes, fishtailing onto the berm. He threw it into reverse, and after the tires found traction the car slid to a shuddering stop next to the bobcat.
The bobcat admired the car while the driver reached across the passenger seat to roll the window down. It was an absolutely cherry condition Plymouth Roadrunner, the engine shaking like it could barely be contained at idle. The bobcat leaned his head into the window, and the icy kiss of air from the interior made him swoon with pleasure.
“Where ya heading, friend?” The driver was a coyote, the silver hairs wreathing his snout betraying his age. He slouched in his seat like it was a chaise lounge, his left paw draped over the leather-wrapped steering wheel, Ray-Ban Wayfarers obscuring his eyes as he looked at the stranger.
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To read the entire story, and all the other stories from this talented crew, check out the January A Muse Bouche Review, available here:
My year in writing was, considering the apocalyptic shit storm 2022 has been, pretty good. No, I won’t be quitting my day job any time soon for my first national book tour, but that’s not the point for me. I write because it gives me enjoyment and a sense of satisfaction, because it’s another outlet for creativity besides drawing and I can use all of those I can get, and because, at least some days, I think I’m not bad at it.
Drumroll please, here are 2022’s highlights:
The big one for me was the release of my first novella for adults, The Wild Hunt, in August. Late last year Canadian author Renée Gendron presented me with an intriguing idea—that we would each take our linked stories from the Heads and Tales anthology and turn them into novellas. The result was The Wild Hunt, a 36,000 word novella that I’m truly proud of. It’s part of the Wild Hearts and Hunts duology that Renée and I wrote together. It’s a historical supernatural war story, the myth of the Wild Hunt—berserker warriors and their hounds from hell, heralds of war—transposed to the battle for Fort Detroit on the U.S./Canadian border during the War of 1812. The Wild Hunt leans hard into fantasy and horror, and if that kind of thing is your jam, you might like it.
This summer my short story Rat and Roach, which won the 2021 F(r)iction Magazine Spring Literacy Contest, appeared on their website. This might be my favorite short story I’ve written so far, and you can read it here: https://frictionlit.org/rat-and-roach/
Back in 2021 I connected with a bunch of like-minded writers on Twitter, and we released a couple of well-received anthologies of short stories. These are some of the kindest, most talented folks I’ve ever met, and I’m happy to say that not only have we stayed together as a group and planned more work together, we’ve decided to formalize our relationship. Coming in 2023, Roaring Tulips Press is a publishing collective we’ve put together to publish our own work, and eventually that of others. I’ve already written several new short stories for anthologies we have planned, and I’m hoping my chapter book, In Search of Ancient Underwear, will see the light of day. Here’s the current website, with updates to come: https://roaringtulips.com/
Finally, this fall I became a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, an online literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new for each monthly theme, which is great. I feel lucky that I’ve found yet another group of talented, dedicated writers to work with. You can check it out here: https://ambreview.com/
I think that’s it for now. I have a lot planned for next year, including another duology written with Renée, and the aforementioned work with Roaring Tulips. Let’s hope that 2023 is somewhat less shit stormy than 2022.
When Canadian author Renée Gendron presented me with an intriguing idea—that we would each take our linked stories from the Heads and Tales anthology and turn them into novellas—I found myself staring at my monitor, head in hands. The story I was working with was a historical supernatural war story, the myth of the Wild Hunt—berserker warriors and their hounds from hell, heralds of war—transposed to the battle for Fort Detroit on the U.S./Canadian border during the War of 1812.
The problem for me was that my story was relatively self contained and complete. I quickly came up with a prologue of sorts, set decades before when my main character was a young boy. As I wrote that new opening chapter, things presented themselves, symbolic elements that I thought might be useful later in the book. How? I wasn’t remotely sure. More monitor staring.
The trick for me, the thing that broke the story open and let it breathe, was realizing that I did not have to stick to my historical period. I decided to lean hard into fantasy and a healthy dollop of horror, to let my imagination run wild. I made sure that all the historical aspects of my story were historically accurate, relatively speaking, but for the rest of it I decided to have fun. Those symbolic elements became recurring motifs, and in one case a full-fledged character that was a joy to write.
This is Book 2 of the Wild Hearts and Hunts duology, in that it shares a place, time, and a couple of characters, but both books can be read completely independently.
The result of all this is The Wild Hunt, a 36,000 word novella that I’m truly proud of. It’s now available on Amazon in paperback or e-book, free with Kindle Unlimited. You can find it here:
All in all, 2021 was a pretty good year for me, writing wise. Sure there were plenty of disappointments. I have several children’s books (a chapter book and three picture books to be precise) that haven’t found homes yet, and I think they’re pretty damn good. Early next year I’m planning on having the chapter book ripped apart by pro editor Chapel Orahamm, and then back out they all go. I collected a lovely bouquet of rejection letters from various magazines, but that’s actually a net positive, because that means I was submitting, which I think is about as much fun as dental surgery without anesthetic. I submitted a decent amount in 2021, and will force myself to keep it up in 2022.
As far as successes go, here they are, in no particular order…
TREETOWN, IN THE ANTHOLOGY OUTSIDERS: SHORT STORIES BY OHIO’S BEST WRITERS
My short story Treetown was chosen for this anthology of Ohio writers. It’s one of my favorites that I’ve written, and it’s not horror, science fiction, or fantasy. It’s the story of a touch old guy and how he comes to terms with his wife’s death. Here’s a link to the anthology: https://www.amazon.com/Outcasts-Short-Stories-Ohios-Writers/dp/1633375463
RED WINGS, ON THE BLOODGUTSANDSTORY.COM WEBSITE You can read this story here: https://www.bloodgutsandstory.com/post/red-wings-free-fiction But here’s the thing—I love this story, but it is all kinds of fucked up. Read at your own risk, but please give it a read if I haven’t scared you off.
THE WILD HUNT, IN THE ANTHOLOGY HEADS AND TALES: THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY
This one started with an idea from writer/editor Chapel Orahamm—what if pairs of writers teamed up to reinvent classic myths and legends from opposite perspectives. A group of us from the Twitter writing community joined together under his leadership and paired up. Canadian author Renée Gendron transplanted the legend of the Wild Hunt to the U.S./Canadian border during the War of 1812. I had a great time with this; so much so, in fact, that I’ve agreed to work with her and expand our two story halves into a novella. Uncharted territory for me, but I love a challenge. I also created the cover art. Here’s a link to the anthology: https://www.amazon.com/Heads-Tales-Other-Side-Story/dp/1737400200/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=heads+and+tales&qid=1639446734&sr=8-1
A VISIT FROM THE SLAYMAN AND THE RIDGES, IN THE ANTHOLOGY WELCOME TO SIMMINS, DETECTIVE SPENCER
Orahamm, along with a bunch of the same writers and a few new ones, dove back into a new project. This one was a true collaboration amongst all of us. We invented Simmins, a small mountain mining town in North Carolina, created some shared characters, then all wrote stories of holiday horror set in the month of December, 1998. I have two stories in this one—A Visit From the Slayman, which attempts to give a slenderman-like character a new mythology; and The Ridges, which starts out as a Hallmark channel “meet cute” kind of story, and then ends not so cute at all. I also did the cover here. This one was just published. It’s available as an e-book now, and as a print edition any day now. Here’s a link: https://www.amazon.com/Welcome-Simmins-Detective-Spencer-Orahamm-ebook/dp/B09NB41516/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Welcome+to+Simmins%2C+Detective+Spencer&qid=1639071111&sr=8-1
RAT AND ROACH, WINNER OF THE F(R)ICTION SPRING LITERARY CONTEST IN THE FICTION CATEGORY
Okay, this one is special. Not only did I win the short story category in this contest, which I understand is a pretty big deal, but my category was judged by Stephen Graham Jones. Jones has quickly become one of my very favorite authors. His two most recent novels, My Heart Is a Chainsaw and The Only Good Indians, are modern horror classics. Rat and Roach is a story of addiction and horror set on the streets of Cleveland, my home town. It will be available to read sometime soon. I’m extremely proud of this one.
That’s it, my year in writing. My goal in 2022 is to keep writing, keep submitting, and hopefully, find homes for more of my word babies.
Hey Dave, you may be asking yourself, you’re reviewing a book, why is this post in the writing section of your blog? What gives?
Glad you asked!
Author’s World Builder is a notebook for fiction writers, and it’s exactly what the title suggests—a well-thought-out, detailed, even exhaustive resource to help writers build their fictional worlds from the ground up. I’ve worked with Orahamm on a couple of projects and can attest to the fact that he’s a talented writer and editor, and that’s evident of every page of this meticulously designed notebook. It’s made to be interactive, with plenty of lined pages for you to take notes and build your world one brick at a time.
Orahamm starts with the big questions—what’s your title, your main idea, your themes, primary audience, and genre? Then, over the course of more than a hundred pages, he helps you flesh out your characters, setting, plot—everything down to the smallest detail. Does your world contain magic? What sort of magic system is in play? What are the politics, education, economics, geography, and so much more. All the questions are here for you to answer, and as you do, your fictional world emerges fully formed.
Orahamm has created an essential tool for writers of fantasy and science fiction, but I would argue that it’s equally valuable for writers of most genres, from mysteries and horror to historical fiction, even family dramas. It’s the perfect way to keep track of your characters, all the little details that give a book depth.
As a writer, I’ve always been a pantser—I usually start writing with only a general idea of where I’m going to end up. I never outline. This notebook may change how I work.
Author’s World Builder is available now on Amazon. As an added bonus, Orahamm has created several different covers, to help you differentiate between your various WIPs. If you’re a writer, this is a must-have.
I posted several days ago about the comic strip Roland Napoli and I created back in the 80s, Lunapurd—he as artist and me as writer. I only had a few strips to show, but it turns out Roland has all of them, and was gracious enough to scan them and send them my way.
So, over the next couple of months I’m going to occasionally post some more strips. Even if the pop culture references are dated (the 80s, remember), I’m extremely proud of what we accomplished. As always, Roland’s artwork is perfect.
I met my friend Roland Napoli in high school. He was then, and continues to be to this day, one of the best cartoonists and illustrators I have ever met.
Sometime in the 80s we decided to take a couple of characters he had been drawing for years and build a comic strip around them. The result was Lunapurd, the adventures of two cute aliens who crash land on earth, landing in the well of a mountain woman named Eunice. I wrote the strip and Roland drew it. We put together six weeks of strips, including Sunday strips and dailies.
It was a huge amount of fun. Unfortunately, we were young, inexperienced, and had no concept of how to actually pitch the strip to a syndicate, and the idea eventually died. I recently came across a few of the strips in my files. The pop culture references are out of date, as they’re more that 30 years old, but I remain extremely proud of what we came up with, particularly Roland’s artwork. Nice job, Roland!
Why am I posting this in the writing category? Well, I don’t have a general category, so there’s that. But also, I’ve been a movie fan for as long as I remember, and the visual storytelling that is cinema’s stock in trade has no doubt informed my writing. Even so, I’m not writing about movies here, except tangentially; instead, here are three small stories about things that happened inside movie theaters, all from decades ago, that I have never forgotten.
June, 1975. I’m 15, seeing Jaws for the first time. The theater is packed of course, because it’s Jaws, the movie that invented the summer blockbuster. Like always, I’m sitting where I always sat before my body betrayed me and made it too uncomfortable, third row center. Next to me is a young kid, maybe 7 or 8—way too young to see Jaws, but Mapletown Theater, my decrepit local theater of choice in Maple Heights, Ohio will sell tickets to anyone with a pulse—and he’s by himself. He’s got a jumbo pop (it’s Ohio, that’s what we call it)) in one hand and a popcorn in the other, because Mapletown, like many movie theaters back then, does not have cup holders. The kid looks scared, but he’s holding his own. Until the scene. You know the scene. An empty rowboat, and then a head rolls out of a hole in the bottom. In a movie with few jump scares, it’s the biggest. The kid next to me screams and throws both hands up in the air, drenching several rows behind him in a tsunami of pop and popcorn. Not only did it break the tension in a way that Steven Spielberg would not approve of, it brought the house down.
November, 1976. I’m 16, seeing Carrie for the first time. I’m back at Mapletown, because to them an “R” rating is just a suggestion. It’s the very last scene of the movie. Sue is bending down to place flowers beneath the cross that read Carrie White Rots in Hell, and…and…the film breaks. The sound continues, so I can hear Sue screaming, but no visual. I had read that there was a shocker of an ending. Could this be it? I had to go back the next night and watch it again, just to see that hand thrust up out of the ground.
December, 1986. I’m 26, seeing Platoon for the first time with my then girlfriend, now wife Carrie. We’ve got tickets for a special early screening, which, as it turns out, is filled with Vietnam veterans. And for the next couple of hours, we watch the movie, absolutely, but we also watch the crowd. It’s both sobering and exhilarating. The vets, many in wheelchairs, are totally involved. They laugh knowingly, and sob uncontrollably, and I think to myself, I have never felt as much of a connection to a movie as they do, then or to this day. It put Oliver Stone’s storytelling on a whole different level for me.
There’s a strange (to me at least) current that runs through the Twitter #WritingCommunity every once in a while, and that’s writers who proclaim that they don’t read, and further that they don’t need to be readers to write. This is an alien concept to me. I began to write, way back in junior high, because the books I was reading made me want to tell my own stories. I can’t imagine doing one without the other.
So yes, the best writing advice I know is to read. But, it’s more than that. It’s to read with an open and curious mind, and also with a critical eye, to try to see behind the curtain and understand how the magic happens. That’s not to say that reading should be homework. I frequently find myself lost in a good book, coming up for air hours later, a little dizzy, my heart full, my head in a different place than it was when I began reading. I’m saying, let yourself be carried away by excellent writing, but take notice, if you can, of what makes the writing excellent.
Further, in my experience at least, you can learn different things from different authors. Some examples: Seanan McGuire, Neil Gaiman, Angela Carter taught me that there is power in the deceptively simple language of fairy tales, beauty and terror as well. Speaking of terror, Shirley Jackson, Stephen King, Clive Barker, Paul Tremblay, Gabino Iglesias, Chuck Wendig, and countless others taught me that words can be deployed like a scalpel or a bludgeon, and that both will keep you up at night. Joe Lansdale, and Elmore Leonard before him, taught me that in the right hands, dialogue can sing or sting or make you erupt in laughter. In fact, it can carry a story all on its own. From Joe Abercrombie, and Joe Lansdale again, I learned that violence in general, and fight scenes in particular, whether hand to hand combat or clashing armies, can have a visceral, kinetic energy that carries the reader along. From authors as diverse as R.A. Lafferty, Ray Bradbury, Alix E. Harrow, V.E. Schwab, and Tamsyn Muir, I learned that language can be transfixing, breathtaking, even transformative.
I could go on and on. Great writers not only teach me, but give me something to aspire to. I’m not there yet, not even close, but I know in my heart that reading will make me a better writer. That’s the best advice I can give.
Heads and Tales: The Other Side of the Story is a new anthology of reimagined myths, legends, and fairytales, that I’m lucky enough to have a short story in. The stories in the anthology are presented in pairs, with each pair telling their tale from opposite sides—Theseus and the Minotaur, Hansel & Gretel and the witch, you get the idea—with sometimes wildly reimagined settings.
In my case, Canadian author Renée Gendron and I took the myth of the Wild Hunt—berserker warriors and their hounds from hell—and transposed it to the battle for Fort Detroit on the U.S./Canadian border during the War of 1812. Mine is a supernatural war story, Renée’s is a supernatural romance, and they work together in what turned out to be very cool ways. I’ve never collaborated like this before, but besides being an excellent writer, Renée was great fun to work with. All in all, an awesome project to be involved with.
This all came about because editor Chapel Orahamm had an idea back around the beginning of the year, and the Twitter #WritingCommunity coalesced around it. Working with the other talented writers, communicating with them, and learning from them, has been a uniquely worthwhile experience, one that’s made me eager to participate in other projects of this kind.
One other thing—I was also given the opportunity to design and illustrate the book cover as well, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I created the art using an Apple pencil and Procreate. The more I work with digital tools, the more I’m excited by the possibilities.
If you have an interest in folklore, mythology, fairytales, or just plain good fiction, give this one a try.
To top it all off, all proceeds from sales will go to support The Trevor Project.
Heads and Tales: The Other Side of the Story will be available in both paperback and e-book beginning July 1st, but is available for pre-order now on both Amazon.com and Barnesandnoble.com.
Maybe it’s my age (a little shy of 61), or maybe it’s because my youngest kid (hi, McKenna!) will be 21 in a couple of weeks. Maybe it’s the sense of overwhelming dread and mortality we’ve all been marinating in for the past year. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling introspective, and thought I’d take a ramble on back through my sort of, sometimes, writing life.
Before I started writing, I had to start reading, and that happened my first week in junior high, when I found I, Robot and Martian Chronicles on the top shelf of my school library’s small science fiction section. By eighth grade I had read all the books in that section (including, if I remember correctly, about 87 Andre Norton novels) and had graduated to my local public library. I had also decided to try my hand at writing, starting with poetry.
In ninth grade I wrote a 25 page collection of poetry, and starting branching out with short stories. In my senior year, my English teacher (hi, Mr. Belden!), who I’m still friends with on Facebook, created a special class for me, where I could spend one period per day in the library writing stories and receive credit for it. By the end of high school I had won a couple of Scholastic Writing Awards with those short stories, and it was pretty much decided. I was a writer, at least in my own mind, and I was going to keep on writing.
I kept writing through my late teens, both poetry and short stories, but I submitted only sporadically. This has been a running theme throughout my life. I hate the entire process of submitting, and I downright suck at it.
I spent the first couple years of my twenties in the U.S. Army, which you wouldn’t think would be conducive to writing. Luckily, Fort Carson, Colorado, where I was stationed, had a post newspaper with a circulation of 30,000, and when I arrived there they were in need of a cartoonist and journalist. I spent those two years happily drawing cartoons and illustrations, and writing movie reviews and feature stories. The paper’s civilian editors were damn good, and they taught me a lot.
Fast forward a bunch of years, where I was still writing but not submitting much at all. I started working for a small Cleveland ad agency as a graphic designer in 1983, got married in 1989 (hi, Carrie!), and my son Eric was born in 1993. That’s when I began writing for kids, something I love and still do to this day. In 1999 one of my children’s stories was a top ten finisher in Writer’s Digest’s annual writing contest. I felt like I was on to something.
I submitted a picture book manuscript to the 2000 contest and the jury, led by the amazing author Kelly Milner Halls, chose it as the grand prize winner. I won some cash, and more importantly, a trip to NYC to meet with three editors of my choice. Weirdly, by the time the trip happened I had already sold the manuscript, to Smallfellow Books in Los Angeles. That’s when I discovered just how much of a crap shoot publishing is, because through a series of misadventures by little book, titled Up Ned’s Nose, was not, and still hasn’t been, published. I chronicled the story in more detail here: (https://davewritesanddraws.com/2020/01/16/so-close-and-yet-the-two-decade-journey-of-a-single-manuscript/).
I kept writing, mostly for kids but some fantasy and horror for adults as well, submitting off and on. In 2006 everyone’s favorite dentist office magazine, Highlights for Children, published my short story Tough As Daisy. This was, and still is, one of my favorite things that’s ever happened to me. I’ve since sold them another story, but it hasn’t appeared in print yet.
My publication credits during this time are a mixed and varied bag. I sold short stories to several horror anthologies. I wrote a bunch of song lyrics, even though I can’t play or sing a lick, and had several recorded by local musicians. I wrote ASL test passages, and greeting card sentiments.
In 2013 CBAY Books, a small publisher in Texas, held a writing contest, and by coincidence I had just finished my first longer work for kids, a 15,000 word chapter book. My book, Trapped In Lunch Lady Land, won the contest by a comfortable margin, and the prize was a publishing contract. I was beyond excited. Funny thing, though, the editor thought it would work much better as a 30,000 word middle grade novel, and I had roughly two months to double my word count. Turns out she was right. Lunch Lady Land was published in 2014. I had a book signing at my local Barnes & Noble, and I did a bunch of school visits, which might be the most fun I’ve ever had.
Meanwhile, I was now creative director at that same ad agency (38 years next month) and besides doing graphic design, I was taking on more and more of the writing work. I’ve now written hundreds of tv and radio scripts, reams of ad copy, and countless blog posts for a variety of clients. I’m surprised at how much I enjoy this new and different creative outlet.
In the fall of 2019 I started this blog, and that took up a fair amount of my free time. By the time the pandemic reared its ugly head, I had not been writing much fiction, but that all changed. Suddenly, since we couldn’t go anywhere or do anything, I realized that if I didn’t do something to occupy my time, I would make myself, and my wife as well, crazy. I discovered the joys of writing to submission calls, and started writing short stories again. More importantly, I started submitting with a vengeance, not just the new stuff, but older stuff as well. I’m even tracking my submissions, with dates and everything. Yes, I know that’s how you’re supposed to do it. No, I never really did before.
I also started a RedBubble shop, Fan-Tasm, which features artwork inspired by iconic books and authors. A perfect marriage of my favorite things.
I have a story due to appear sometime soon on an extreme horror website. I’m a little worried about people reading that one, it’s a doozy. I’m participating in the Two Sides of the Story anthology, teamed up with a wonderful writer from Canada (hi, Renée!). At last count I had more than two dozen short stories, kid’s stories, picture books, and a chapter book out on submission.
I have no more excuses keeping me from writing it, so the YA novel I’ve been thinking about for a couple of years is finally going to happen. I hope. It terrifies me a little, because I’m going to write it in first person, and my main character is a 17 year old girl. No idea if I can pull that off, but I think it want to try.
My writing life has been sporadic, in fits and starts, with just a few successes along the way. But I figure, as long as I keep writing, I’m a writer. That’s good enough for me.
Dave Writes and Draws 