The Best Place

Heading off soon to see wildlife. I hope to get some good photos on this trip. Florida remains the best place I know of on the east coast to view wildlife.

Curious manatee.

Key deer.

Osprey over our campsite.

In the act of laying eggs.

Gar.

Getting Ready for the Road

After a misadventure, we went to where we store the Casita to get it ready for vacation.

I moved the Casita to the back of the parking lot for better access to the water.

I had thought that the azaleas would have already peaked, but they likely have another day or so to prime color.

Frank did a kickass job with the azalea beds.

In the midst of stripping the old wax.

I always take photos of the back of the house. But Frank also did a good job of landscaping the front.

Ah, the Casita shines...well not like new, but almost.

Frank's Place

Last week we went to run some errands at Carole's mom's place. I often refer to it as "Frank's Place". Frank was Carole's dad. When he built his house he bought two lots instead of one so he would have extra space and wouldn't have to worry about pesky neighbors hemming him in. Also, it gave him room for the kick-ass gardens he used to plant. Frank didn't mess around when he did his garden. It was like a mini-farm. It was only about 1/4 of an acre and I know that doesn't sound like much...but it produced AMAZING amounts of food. All kinds of great vegetables. I miss that garden. When Frank died, that was the end of it.

One thing that Frank did when he built the house was to do his own landscaping. To that end he planted islands of azaleas and put in dogwood trees. The only things that mar the yard are a couple of camelia bushes and a holly tree. I hate both of those, and I don't think they were Frank's idea. Other than those, the yard is amazing when the azaleas and dogwoods are in bloom, which takes place roughly at the same time. Frank is gone, but the hard work he put into landscaping the glorious yard lives on. Last week it was just before peak for the blossoms. We'll be back out there on Sunday, but I fear peak will have passed by then. We'll see.

Until then, enjoy:

The vast tract of green on the left side of the photo is what was once Frank's garden. He would plant that side to side and end to end with all manner of vegetables. Tomatoes, beans, squash, potatoes, melons, corn, etc. Those were the days!

Our Casita, framed by the dogwoods.

Cats and Birds in the Yard

Between bouts of me versus the novel, I took the cats out yesterday for a stroll in the yard. I keep them leashed, both for their own security and to keep them from nabbing any unsuspecting birds.

Lilly tries to climb a tree to get a mourning dove.

It ain't happenin', chump.

Ah, dat boid is too small anyways.

Oo! What's that?!

I yam a gorgeous cardinal, and you're not getting me, either.

At Last: A Confederacy of Horrors.

Years ago a publisher got in touch with me, asking to do a collection of my short fiction. So I assembled such; editing and proofreading was completed. And then...the publisher lost air and went belly up.

Thereafter I set about trying to find a new home for it. Various publishers showed interest. Finally, one made an offer of publication. Time passed...and they vanished.

Off to the markets yet again. I passed the collection around from place to place, a publisher wanted to do the project, letters were exchanged, an agreement was reached and...yeah, they croaked. Todt. Kaput.

A couple of years ago a new publisher asked to see the manuscript. The editor in chief liked what he saw and sent me a contract (I actually still have that contract here, with me). And then...yep...outfit croaked. Dead eyes starin' at th' moon.

Then, last year, I heard from ST Joshi who is editing short story collections and such for several outfits. He asked to see the book. Stories were plucked out. Some stories were added. We arrived at a collection that contains about 85,000 words, some of it ancient reprints, some of it of more recent origin, and some of it wholly new.

This book has killt four publishers so far. Unless the jinx is permanent, A CONFEDERACY OF HORRORS will see the light of print in 2014 from Hippocampus Press. Not some self-published ebook. But actual, hold-the-paper-book-in-yer-hands print. A real book. The only kind of book for me.

The original cover art here was done by the late Harry Fassl. This artwork is unavailable, so new art will have to be commissioned by the publisher, Hippocampus Press.

On Writing: Oh, joy.

I love to write. I can't help myself. Sometimes the urge to create stories and novels is so overwhelming that I literally cannot stop. There are times when it's not only not a labor, it's so easy and comes so naturally that it's almost like breathing, or having a heart beat. And, of course, when the inspiration runs out and it becomes a job, I push on until the project is complete.

It has been almost three decades since I actively began to pursue selling my stories to real editors at real publishers. I did what any other writer did in those days, I found a list of active markets and submitted by work. Some writers are so frightened of rejection that they won't submit their work. I've never understood this kind of cowardice, but it's there, in spades.

Today, so-called "writers" don't have to submit anything. They can self-publish their crap and claim to be "famous writers". The days of running the editorial gauntlet and refining one's craft seems to be a dead issue.

One thing that I have never gotten from selling my work is a sense of joy. Yes, I want to sell my work. I want to make money. I want people to read the material that I spent so much time and effort creating.

But I've never gotten much of a sense of pleasure from seeing it in print. I'm not one of those people who freaks out and jumps up and down with excitement and a false sense of inflated ego when the books arrive. I leave that for other people. If that's what floats yer boat--yer welcome to it.

I did not freak out when I sold my first short story. That was to a major publisher (Tor Books) for a

hardback anthology (SCARE CARE) edited by a best-selling author (Graham Masterton). It was nice, but I did not feel any great pleasure and my brain was not flooded with dopamines.

So I figured maybe it would feel different when I sold some comic scripts. I finally did that, too, selling hundreds of pages of scripts to all sorts of comic book publishers, including Marvel Comics. Eh. It was okay, and I enjoyed cashing the checks...but I didn't run around rending my clothes and screaming about how great I was or how good it felt.

Then I figured, maybe I would get excited when I sold my first novel. That was something that had eluded me for long years. Despite having at one time a very high powered agent I just couldn't sell that first novel. So I kept writing novels and I kept submitting them (sometimes with an agent and sometimes without). I just knew that when I finally sold my first novel I would be filled with joy. When I sold THE FLOCK, I was pleased, but hardly filled with ecstasy. It was just part of a difficult process that had begun when I was in my mid-20s, and when it finally happened I couldn't generate any sense of euphoria over getting a paycheck for something that was, essentially, hard work--years of it.

I've now sold many, many short stories--I long ago lost count, but it's over 70, I think. I stopped counting when it became a rather pedestrian occurrence for me.

I've sold hundreds of pages' worth of comic book scripts (and learned, in the process, that the comic book industry is the nastiest of the various arms of publishing). Being in the industry never thrilled me and I drifted away from the format.

There have been just a few exceptions to the rule. I did get a big kick out of conceiving and selling an anthology to Arkham House Books. And I got a thrill from having a short story in THE BLEEDING EDGE and being allowed to do a signing event with the other authors, who included one of my idols, Ray Bradbury. Plus, my sale to Weird Tales completed a childhood dream, so that one actually pleased me no end. However, those were, as I say, exceptions to the rule.

I've now sold eight novels, two to a major publisher (Tor Books--the same folk who, ironically, published my first short story), and for me it's not a big deal. It's just something that happens after I've completed a work. It's cool...but those who are filled with a false sense of greatness...I just don't get it. All I want to say to them is "get a fucking grip and take the ego back about ten notches". I get my joy from writing by writing. And I get a sense of accomplishment when I sell the words I wrote. But I don't understand these jackasses who strut around bragging about their books--especially when their books and stories are self-published and generally don't deserve to be seen (the folk one of my pals calls the "self-pubbers").
 

An Unfortunate Career

For years I considered writing a book about a singer named Jimmy Ellis. I even had a hardback press interested in the project, but I found it tough sledding to gather necessary material for a decent-sized biography. It's possible I'll go back to it someday, unless someone finally releases a good book about him.

Yeah, they actually released this morbid piece of shit cover.

Ellis was a singer whose voice was uncannily similar to that of Elvis Presley's. If he wanted to, he

could sound so much like Presley that even Presley's biggest fans found it difficult to tell them apart. He was signed to a number of labels, mainly smaller ones, before finally ending up at famed Sun Records. Alas, he was convinced to put on a silly fucking mask and perform as a guy named "Orion" who, it was said, was actually Elvis Presley--or perhaps some kind of resurrection of the King. It was a sad decision and a terrible mistake on the part of Ellis and his management team.

Ellis as a clown.

The worst part of all of this is that--in his prime--Ellis had a very remarkable voice. At some point he finally stopped chasing the brass ring and retired to run a business in his native Alabama. And was murdered by an armed robber at that place of business.

I put up this video on YouTube because all other versions of this song were rather murky from a listening perspective. He cut this tune for the TV series McCloud, which starred the late Dennis Weaver. Weaver's patented catch phrase on the show was "there you go". The production company commissioned a song, and Ellis was chosen to put voice to it. It was even released as a 45rpm record and, as I recall, did manage to chart, but never got very high on those charts. Which is a shame because it's a pretty good tune that deserves a wider audience.

"Far from the Galactic Hub"

Years ago I would sell short-shorts to various markets  What they refer to these days as "flash fiction". There was a market then...I haven't even looked to see if there is anymore.

Here is one that failed to find a home back in those old days. It's just been sitting in the proverbial trunk gathering dust. A little dark science-fiction tale.

"FAR FROM THE GALACTIC HUB"
by
James Robert Smith

     He'd been forced from the herd long ago. And so he'd been drifting the outer reaches for many cycles, far from the Hub. He was alone. 
      
     And then. 
     
     He heard her. He listened to her plaintive call, the unmistakable sigh of first yearning. Initially, he thought that he was mistaken, that he had been alone for so long that he was imagining things. But the sigh came again, that quick burst and the faint prickling of her desire tickled across his receptors so that he turned toward her, spinning his mass effortlessly in the void so that he could seek her out.

     With a slow pulse he thrust himself toward that place where she waited; and he wondered how she could have come so far from the Hub. This was not a normal thing in the life of a female, but his lust and desire for companionship overruled that curious fact.

     For many cycles he wondered if he were not deluding himself. But as he continued to pulse, to increase the velocity of his mass, he felt time and again her call, each more intense than the one before. Truly, this female yearned for him as fiercely as he for her. He tacked away from the Hub, farther than he ever had, and he pushed past lonely systems, aiming for a certain yellow point of light that grew as he surged toward it. She was calling.

     In a while, after traveling through this desert void, but feeling her calls, her sighs that grew sometimes to panting moans, he saw her, small and perfect against the mass of this backwater star around which she was anchored: so tiny and perfect and blue.

     He corrected his path and pulsed again, sending his great mass toward her. How would she receive him? Would she accept his advances?

*

     In a desperate effort, the men of Earth launched an armada of nuclear missiles at the Texas-sized mass that seemed to be coming toward Earth. They could not destroy it, they feared, but perhaps it could be deflected away. In the skies, ten thousand megatons detonated against its gray mass as it broke the plane of the orbit of Mars. 

 *

     Ah, he needn't have worried. He heard her call, felt the soothing glow of her lust as he came within a unit of her. She wanted him, her thrusting foreplay was exciting. Such a teasing, delicate kiss! Excellent. He would reciprocate.

     He opened his gills and loosed his passion. The ladies always enjoyed a big, sloppy one.

BLOOD ON THE PLAINS

My old friend Roy Aiken's book is about to appear from Severed Press. I predict it's going to be a huge hit. If you like apocalyptic horror fiction then you'll enjoy this one. With the bonus that BLEEDING KANSAS is far more literary than your average zombie novel.

Keep your eyes peeled for the book at your favorite online bookseller!

Derek Grace is so far out on the edge of foreclosure and homelessness he can’t afford to kiss his wife goodbye. Too much is riding on this second interview in Kansas City. Yet every third person seems to have what Claire has, a nasty cold that gets nastier—and so widespread that services and infrastructure, including the airlines, are down shortly after Whitman’s arrival.

When that same pestilence reanimates the dead to seek living flesh Derek Grace is 600 miles from the last two people in the world he cares about, trapped in a city ruled by the hungry dead. All of Kansas stands between Derek Whitman and home.

Times like these a man can’t help but make a name for himself. Derek Grace loses a career and finds a calling in BLEEDING KANSAS.

Coming Soon from SEVERED PRESS.

Coming soon from Severed Press: BLEEDING KANSAS by Lawrence Roy Aiken.

Who Created. Who was the Thief?

Who created what is widely regarded as "The Marvel Universe"?

The amazingly simple answer is this:

Most of it was created by a man named Jack Kirby. Nobody helped him. He sat at his drawing board and created, wrote, and illustrated almost every superhero at the company that came to be known as Marvel Comics. He created (with no help from anyone else):

The Fantastic Four (which did contain a re-imagined version of The Human Torch which was created by Carl Burgos).

Iron Man.

The Incredible Hulk.

The Mighty Thor.

Ant Man (who later became Giant Man).

The Wasp.

The X-Men.

The Avengers.

Sgt. Fury/Nick Fury.

The Silver Surfer.

Captain America (co-created with Joe Simon).

And all of the associated characters that went along with each of those main characters and titles.

It could even be argued that he created the Marvel version of Daredevil. The character's name was stolen from Lev Gleason (a company that had gone out of business). But the character images and concept was by Jack Kirby. The first issue and its origin story was written and illustrated by Bill Everett.

It's said that Kirby first suggested a character named Spider-Man, but his concept was rejected.


The other major creator at Marvel was Steve Ditko. He created, in those early days, the few things that Kirby did not. These were:

The Amazing Spider-Man. Once Kirby's version was rejected, the name was handed to Ditko who conceived, wrote, and illustrated the comic character we came to know as Peter

Parker/Spider-Man. No one helped him. He didn't need any help.

Dr. Strange. Again...no one helped Steve Ditko create Doctor Strange. He did it on his own with no help whatsoever from anyone.

Steve Ditko also revamped the character Iron Man when he was briefly assigned the comic when Kirby was too busy to do it. In the very brief time Ditko was there, he created Iron Man's sleek, re-imagined gold and red armor. This is the iconic Iron Man that has remained largely unchanged since that time (well over 50 years ago).

And, of course, Steve Ditko created all of the associated characters who surrounded both his Spider-Man and Doctor Strange creations.

There is no "co-creator" for these men. Their ideas were basically stolen from them. Billions of dollars of profit have been generated from their works. If we can't properly credit them as the sole creators of that work, at least the party that now controls those properties can do the right thing and acknowledge that they have rights to a respectable portion of the vast sums of income generated from their work.

CHARLTON ACTION #11!

I picked up the first part of Ditko's STATIC book from Charlton. This was one of the last comics that Charlton published before they ceased operations and robbed Ditko of a reliable publisher. This was also one of the last relatively coherent books that Ditko would create. There was a hiatus after Charlton closed when the character did not see print, but eventually Ditko would see the adventures continue at Eclipse Comics.

The only time the book was published in color was during the two issues it appeared in CHARLTON ACTION COMICS #11 and #12. Having seen the character presented in both black & white and color, I have to say that I prefer it in color. I've already written a deeper essay on the character and the series, so I'll let that stand for now.

Two of the last superhero comics from Charlton.

Peaks of Otter Lodge reopening.

Well, sometimes we get some good news in the world. One of our favorite National Park lodges in the south is reopening. It closed in the Fall of 2012 when the concessionaire refused to renew its option on the property. The National Park Service put the concession up for bids and there were several takers, one of which will be chosen to reopen the lodge this summer.

Carole and I have always enjoyed our stays at the lodge. It was sad to see it close its doors, and I really do wish that the Park Service would stop leasing these properties to concessionaires and just run them as part of the Park Service with Park employees. That way, we wouldn't have to see the kind of situation that we witnessed with the Peaks of Otter Lodge last year.

The last time we stayed there it was in the winter. The weather that weekend was cold with alternating rain, freezing rain, sleet, snow...you name it. I had a great time hiking the mountains and wandering around looking for waterfalls while Carole relaxed at the lodge.

It will be good to get back there again some time.

Rear of the lodge and the edge of the lake.

The view of one of the three "Peaks of Otter". They are Sharp Top, Flat Top, and Harkening Hill. Two of them (Sharp Top and Flat Top are over 4,000 feet in elevation. All are fun to hike and I've done the trio.

The upper reaches of Sharp Top coated in ice and sleet.

Here I was at the nearby Apple Orchard Falls. Well worth the drop into the gorge and the steep climb back to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Just a short distance from the lodge.

Appropriately, we drove through a fierce ice storm on the way home. This was at one of the overlooks and high points along the Blue Ridge Parkway. The Park rangers were closing up the Parkway behind us each time we wen through a gated intersection. It was a good thing we had four-wheel drive.