Camping and Kayaking.

Carole and I are going camping and kayaking for a few days. To the mountains of Virginia. We hope to do some kayaking on the New River. We booked a campsite with the National Forest Service where we stayed back in 2009.

Nice campground with great facilities.

This place is called "Monster Rock".

We were there in late May in 2009, so the blossoms were still in the process of opening.

Hiking along a series of peaks called "the Seven Sisters".

I took this selfie on a trail that was once part of the Appalachian Trail. But the AT was rerouted because this section had too long a stretch with no reliable water source. It was a tremendous ridge hike with no drops into any deep gaps or valleys.

THE TROUBLE BOYS

I'm already busy on the next book in the series. Tentative title for now is THE TROUBLE BOYS. In the meantime, here are few more videos I made of various hikes I've been on and waterfalls I've seen.

Later!

Looking up at "the Attic Window" from the time I hiked inside of a mountain.

Work Ethic

I wrote my first novel on an electric typewriter. It took me nine months. Yeah, yeah...the whole "nine months" thing, but it's true.

Around the first week of May 2016 I started my latest novel. I don't recall the exact date, but in that first week. These days, of course, I use a very good word processor (as I have for decades, now) so work is easier. Today, I finished the new book. This is the quickest I've ever written a novel.

And, yes, I'm pleased with myself, and the work.

Without too much delay (I was also editing and revising the book every day), I sent it to my agent via email. With the first novel I had to make photocopies, box it up, and mail it to editors and literary agents one at a time. These days...just attach the file and click a button and it's on the other side of the planet almost instantly.

At any rate...I suppose I should get started on the next one, since what my agent and I want to do is pitch the book as the first in a series.

Work! I love it!

Advice from a Dead Writer

Years ago I bought a copy of ONE WHO WALKED ALONE, a biography of the last years in the life of pulp writer Robert Ervin Howard. This books formed the basis for the excellent movie "The Whole Wide World" starring Vincent D'Onofrio as Howard and Renee' Zelwegger as Novalyne Price Ellis, the author of the biography.

That book focuses on the emotional problems that beset Howard and which derailed the budding romance between Price and Howard. But from time to time along the way Price-Ellis reveals some details about Howard's work ethic and practices in his job as a writer. And for Howard it was a full-time job, and he was quite good at it. In his day he was the highest paid man in his town, even though he wrote for low rates for the adventure pulps. His output was astounding, so he kept earning even though the country was in the midst of the Great Depression.

And one thing that struck me in the book was an instance in which Novalyne Price explained that Howard actually spoke the lines aloud as he pounded out his stories on his typewriter. Initially, I found that this seemed a strange thing to me. But later, reading my own work aloud (after it had been put down), I would find clumsy passages that did not "sound" right. And so, I'd revise them until I had decided that the words flowed more easily and the lines made more sense. It was like having an objective reviewer standing by, I discovered.

These days I still actively do this. I've found it works best with dialog and when I'm working on a conversation I do try to recite the lines as they occur to me. How good does it sound? Have I chosen the right words to convey emotion, tension, situation?

Thanks to Novalyne Price and her biography of crazy old Two-Gun Bob, I found something that has helped me to create.

ONE WHO WALKED ALONE by Novalyne Price Ellis.

Haunted Bob Howard.

Novalyne Price.

The doomed romance translated to film in THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD.

How To Find a Good Self-Published Book

My first two hundred or so exposures to self-published books were--to put it mildly--negative experiences. I am still of the opinion that almost every self-published book is crap that should never be offered for sale or to be given the light of public display.

However, over the past six months or so I have managed to find some really good self-published novels. And, no, I'm not talking about the few that have been picked up by major publishers and put out in new formats with advertising behind them, etc. I read those, also, but I'm not referring to them here.

The books I've been finding are novels published and advertised the same way just about every such novel is promoted: via the Internet in ebook format and with all efforts at promotion done strictly by the author.

The way I have been able to find some good books is by doing a few things that had passed by me before. First of all, I ignore the five-star reviews. They're worthless. Cormac McCarthy is five-star. Charles Bukowski is five-star. Ernest Hemingway is five-star. Ray Bradbury, Ursula LeGuin...well...you get my meaning. When I look at reviews at all these days, it's to the ones with four stars and three stars. (I also ignore the one and two-star reviews because those are generally done just out of cruelty or to voice some political or philosophical or religious disagreement with the author of the book.)

The brightest and most thoughtful and honest of the reviews that I read have four-star approvals. Anything else is generally bullshit. It's a fact.

Also, I don't listen to the recommendations from friends. Sorry, but this has pretty much been a complete bust for me. Why do my pals always do this? Word of mouth ain't all it's cracked up to be. They tell me there's a thriving business books about dinosaur-on-woman-bestiality. One man's treasure can obviously be a pile of turds to my way of thinking.

The next thing I do is read the excerpts that are generally offered online. And I don't mean just the first line or paragraph or even page. I got suckered by some great opening pages. Sometimes it takes a bit more than that to prove quality, and some people know how to create a hook but not a competent novel structure. So I try to read as much of the sample as is offered. If I'm still interested after that, I've probably found a good book and I'll take a chance on the purchase.

Now, I don't mean to say that I have found self-published books that are completely brilliant and flawless and destined to become classics of the form. I haven't done that, yet. Even among traditionally published novels that kind of quality is very rare. But what I have been able to do in the past few months is find a small number of entertaining and well constructed novels that are self-published.

So...maybe there's hope for the technique after all. (And, yes, I admit to giving a few self-published books five-star reviews because, frankly, I was just thrilled to finally locate really good self-published novels. But to be honest, I haven't found any Hemingways in the mix.)

Computer Heist by Michael P. King. Just one of the decent self-published novels I have read recently.

On Cruise Control.

One reason that I have not been updating the blog routinely is that I am working to complete my newest novel. It's nice when everything is meshing so perfectly. Sometimes you have to dig deep to recreate the initial enthusiasm that you had for an idea that initially hit you and filled you with inspiration. Not so with this newest project. I keep wondering why I hadn't thought to write such a piece in the first place.

I feel like I'm just a few days away from finishing this one up. We'll see where my agent can market this one as soon as I write "THE END" on it and do some edits and re-writes.

Later, dear readers!

At work.

Work

Once again, I want to mention here that writing is work. Often, it's very hard work. Most of us get into the gig of creating fiction because it's fun and we'd do it no matter what. But that's not always the case--the pure fun part--and that's when it becomes work that's not a lot different from other jobs. The only good thing about it being that it's a job that you want to have and that you enjoy doing, no matter the toil of it.

Years ago, about the third year I was into the job of delivering the mail for USPS, I used to deliver to an old guy who would be sitting out on the cluttered porch of his bungalow scribbling away in notebooks. I'd say hi, and he'd say hi, then I'd wander off and he'd keep scribbling in one or another of his notebooks.

One day as I was delivering the mail I heard a faint call for help as I got to the door. The voice was so faint that I thought for a second that I had imagined it. So I knocked on the old guy's door and I heard the voice a little louder. "Help."

I was getting ready to smash the door in when I heard the lock disengage. I opened the door to find him sitting on the floor, looking like a bag of bones in clothes that looked to have been made for a man three sizes larger. "Water," he croaked. The city had apparently cut off his water for lack of payment and he was quite actually dying of thirst.

This was in the days before I owned a cell phone so I was left to run from house to house knocking on doors to ask for someone to call the cops or an ambulance. This being a working class neighborhood, everyone was at work. I passed a Duke Power truck with a lineman in it and I asked him to radio for help, which he did.

Finally, I found him some water and brought him a glass a woman in a house half a block away gave to me. He took that, and soon the cops arrived, then an ambulance. For most of the rest of the week I was kind of an emotional wreck.

A few weeks passed. The tiny little bungalow where he lived remained empty. He never did return. But distantly related family arrived to empty it out and put it up for sale, since the property values were soaring and the real estate there was moving fast. I still went up on the cluttered porch to deliver mail that someone picked up for him. One day I noticed trash bags up where the old fellow used to sit, his ink pen in action. Three or four big black plastic bags. I could see that they were full of the notebooks I would always see the old dude working on.

To Hell with it, I figured. What would it hurt to look at one, since they were all bound for the trash. So I opened the first one at hand.

Tight, scrawled lines written in ink. Letters so tiny it was extremely difficult to read them.

It was a novel.

They were all novels. Four garbage bags full of handwritten novels scribbled over what I assume were years and years as a single man grew into an old drunk abandoned by one and all, quietly hunkered down in that tiny bungalow with those notebooks and cans of beer while he scribbled away, living on social security checks, in the house his parents had left for him.

And, no, I did not rescue the bags of novels. It just wasn't in the cards for me to do that. If his family didn't care enough to salvage the material, I certainly didn't have the time or space to do it.

A few days later the bags and all the contents of the tiny little house were gone and the place was scrubbed clean. Later on it was painted, some minor landscaping was done. The house went on the market and sold very, very quickly.

I doubt much of anyone remembers the old guy sitting there alone on that cluttered porch, spending his evenings guzzling beer and his days writing novels that, as far as I know, no one else ever read.

Who knows?

Local Cred.

Sometimes I don't give enough credit to the beauty of my current home state of North Carolina. But Carole and I do a lot of touring and vacationing right here within our state's borders. Granted, I don't think our state park system is as robust as it should be, and I would like to see more wilderness areas created and an expansion of National Forest recreation areas. But you could pick and choose places to hike and bike and kayak here and spend years getting it all done.

We certainly have no shortage of natural beauty. Sea coasts. Lakes. Rivers. Whitewater. Mountains (the highest in the eastern USA). Waterfalls. Long-distance hiking trails. Wilderness areas. And so on.

So, here's to the outdoor activity potential of North Carolina!

Plenty of opportunity for rock climbing!

You want views? We got views.

Good ol' Stone Mountain!

Return of the eastern elk.

Coyote in Cades Cove.

The return of the elk!

Revised Video.

I've been going through and adding to and revising some of my travel videos of campgrounds and hiking trails in various states. I just completed a trio of them detailing an October 2011 trip to a state forest campground (Kumbrabow) and a National Forest campground (Seneca Shadows) in West Virginia with added footage and photos.

Kumbrabow State Forest.

Part One.

Mill Creek Falls.

Seneca Rocks.

Part Two.

Dolly Sods Wilderness.

Part Three.

Short Story Markets.

I don't write short stories as often as I once did. This is something that I've covered in my blog in times past, but I think it bears another brief visit.

Among the reasons that I don't work that often in short form is that I prefer to work on novels. Just for my own pleasure I prefer to create the skeleton of a more complicated story and spend a few months fleshing it out. It's just that I'm a happier writer working on novels than I am on short stories.

Another factor is that there are just not very many places where a person can sell a short story. It's no secret that the markets for short stories has gradually diminished since the 19th Century, and through the 20th Century, until today when it is almost impossible to find places where one can sell fiction in the short form. There are a few magazines around that publish short stories, but the competition for a place in them is stiff.

Even since the relatively recent days of my youth the markets have shriveled to the point of no return. Professional magazines that paid decent rates have vanished at an alarming rate. And even the days of semi-professional periodicals has continued to decline until on a few are left. I have been told to contribute to a few newer magazines and at least one revival of an old title, but when I inquire about their pay rates, I have been horrified to learn that they only pay a few bucks, and sometimes not at all. One particularly nasty woman who publishes a horror rag requires that all writers send her their stories "for the love", with no chance of payment of any kind.

Fuck that.

Some of my friends who self-publish have suggested that I go that route--that I self-publish my short stories. But I continue to resist the self-publishing platform. I'll still write short stories, but nowhere near the number that I did when I was in my 20s and 30s. And I suppose that I will try the few remaining professional markets when I do have something that I want to contribute.

 

Even the magazines from the 80s have faded and vanished.

Pay the Freaking Writer.

It's in the Air!

It's almost summertime again. The world is...green. The humidity reigns, bringing moisture everywhere. All around us the land is afire with trillions of insects screaming endlessly for sustenance. And what is that in the air? What is that sound? That smell?

It's the summer of zombies!

Get yer zombie horror on!

THE LIVING END by Yours Truly.

THE NEW ECOLOGY OF DEATH by Me!

THE COALITION Zombie Trilogy under my pseudonym Robert Mathis Kurtz.

SAGA OF THE DEAD SILENCER Part One by my pal, Lawrence Roy Aiken.

Book Two in the Dead Silencer series (Book Three coming soon!) by me mate, Lawrence Roy Aiken.

Fresh Air Barbecue.

When I was a kid I would often ride with my parents on trips between Macon GA and Atlanta GA and sometimes to points north such as Ellijay GA. All places where my parents had homes or businesses or both.

To keep from traveling on the boring Interstate all of the time my parents would often jump off to ride a state highway. Because, face it--Interstate highways are not known for beauty and variety. If you ride the backroads you get to see isolated parks and rivers and lakes and encounter quirky villages tucked away in the country.

One spot that would always cause us to pause in our journeys was a restaurant called Fresh Air Barbecue in Jackson, Georgia. The place was legendary by the time I was a kid. We'd pull over into their big parking lot, go in and usually order sandwiches and chips to go, with drink. I know everyone says this a lot, and everyone has their favorite barbecue joint...but the barbecued pork at Fresh Air is the best I have ever tasted. It is indescribably delicious in every way. No barbecue I have ever tasted comes close.

So, when Carole and I were staying at Indian Springs State Park, we made sure to ride up to the old Fresh Air Barbecue and order a couple of meals. Carole was dubious about my stories concerning the unmatched quality of the barbecue, but she was soon singing their praises, too.

I had not been there in decades, and the flavor of their food was everything I had remembered.

Seriously. If you ever get even the slightest chance to eat at this place, do it. The world's best barbecue.

The place hadn't changed! Pretty much as I recalled it.

Fresh Air Barbecue. The best 'cue I've ever tasted.

I love it when something remains much the same as it has existed since my youth.

The same sawdust floors at the outdoor benches and tables.

Even the interior was the same.

Do yerself a favor: get you some barbecue here.

Driving to Find Snow.

When you live in a town that rarely sees snow, or even cold winter weather, you sometimes have to take the initiative to find a place to play in the snow.

So it was one day when Carole and I jumped in the truck and headed to the North Carolina high country to find some real winter weather. We were not disappointed.

At Carvers Gap on the NC/TN border.

Sometimes you have to drive a couple of hours and 4,000 feet higher.

Be Yourself, Not Like Someone Else.

Most writers I know are self-conscious and pretty darned critical of themselves and their work. This is a good thing in some ways, but should be kept to a minimum. I also know some writers who are totally ego-mad and who do not look upon their work with a critical eye at all. This is also a bad thing, except in the rare occasions in which they actually deserve the praise they lavish on themselves. But this latter is an extreme rarity.

For years I would worry that I was not only not creating fiction as well as I could, but that my work didn't measure up to what I read from my favorite authors. This is probably the worst thing that a writer can do to himself. The chances are that your favorite writers are pretty damned good and display tremendous skills and stunning insight. (There are exceptions. You may have no taste and your favorite writers are awful, in which case you're safe and sound.)

The thing is--to make a baseball analogy--some authors are like Hank Aaron and can crush the ball out of the park on a regular basis. There are those rare dudes who can slap a homer all of the damned time. These folk are rare. For me, such folk are Hemingway, Bradbury, McCarthy, Gifford, Bukowski. Don't try to match what they do, because likely you're going to either end up producing thin, watery copies of their styles; or you are going to fail miserably and create something that doesn't deserve publication.

The past couple of months I have been reading a lot of science fiction from the 1950s, much of it written by some truly talented authors; men with well-deserved reputations for excellence. However, I was surprised when most of these stories were not the sparkling gems that I had read from their pens over the years. Slowly, as I read the volumes, I realized that in general they wrote stuff that was entertaining, but mediocre. They were professionals in every way, so the stories were almost never what I would call "bad". But mostly they were only barely over the line into territory that I would call "fun", but hardly brilliant. And definitely not home runs. A couple of triples were in there. Some doubles. A whole lot of singles. And a few walks.

So here's what I took out of all of this.

Don't try to slam a homer out of the park every time you sit down at the old screen. Sure, it happens. And it happens a lot if you're the equivalent of the best among us. But if you're not, then just sit there and work on the project and get it out to the markets where it will hopefully see print. Be happy with sliding into third, or getting a stand-up double, or a close reach to first base on a bobbled catch in the outfield is even okay.

Work at it. Be a journeyman. Hone your skills. Eventually, you'll hit some homers. You might even become a star.

On Writing.

Writing is a pretty damned sedentary occupation. One sits for hours at a desk and pours their imagination onto a page or a blank screen. I've heard it's easy work for some, but it has rarely been such for me.

That said, you can get really fat in a brief time if all you do for activity is fire up the brain cells and do little else. Fortunately I love being outdoors, so I find myself in various places where I can play. And if your exercise is also one of your favorite pastimes, then what a great combination.

This year I gained a fair amount of weight (almost 20 pounds at one point--most of which I have thankfully shed) because I've spent so much time at this desk and so little time getting much needed exercise. It doesn't help that my wife is one of those women who cooks pretty much every day and prepares excellent meals.

Some writers I know get treadmills or build little indoor gyms in their homes. That's cool. But it wouldn't get me outside, even if the treadmill is in front of a window so that you can pretend you're out in the fresh air and sunshine. That's not for me.

As I mentioned in my last post, writing is like an obsession for me. Sometimes it burns white-hot and I couldn't stop myself if I wanted to. The words come and they have to be placed on the page. More often, it's just plain hard work with little inspiration and the application of a lot of sweat-of-the-brow. It's after such tough bouts of effort when I have to open the door, walk out into the light of day, and get some real exercise.

Work work work work work work work.

A man outstanding in his field.

Two Obsessions.

I have two obsessions in my life. One of them is writing, and the other is my pursuit of outdoor activities. The workday world has always pulled me in the opposite direction of both of these interests. One has to earn a living, in my case as a laborer, and that often makes it difficult to find the time to create or to retreat to a wild area where I can find solitude and peace.

Since I mainly write in seclusion, I find a similar peace when I create stories as I do when I hike or kayak to a far, isolated place to be surrounded by nature. And the journey to find quiet and to listen to the sounds of the wind in the trees or the calls of birds, absent of the growl of machinery helps to spur my imagination which, in turn, spins the wheels that grind the fiction.

I hope to always be an outdoorsman. If I could not walk into a deep forest or hike to the top of a peak separated from the cityscape, I would be lost. Similarly, if I was robbed of the pleasure to write stories and novels I would find myself in a great deal of pain.

So if you don't see me for a while or hear from me, be assured that I'm either creating a new story, or sitting quietly in a forest somewhere, observing the movements of Mother Nature.

Heart Rock at Pinnacle Park in Sylva, NC.

Climbing to the Pinnacle in Sylva, NC.

A CONFEDERACY OF HORRORS By James Robert Smith.

One Trip, Three Campgrounds.

We ended up staying at three different campgrounds on our latest road trip to Florida. Heading right down from Charlotte, we drove straight on to the Suwannee River State Park in the northern part of the state, pretty much out in the middle of nowhere. The park was quiet with some nice scenery and excellent access to the Suwannee River. We have nothing but good things to say about any of the parks and the campgrounds that we used.

After about a week at Suwanee River SP, we headed westward and slightly north toward the Florida/Georgia border where we got a spot at Three Rivers State Park. This one is on the shores of the man-made Lake Seminole, which is an attractive body of water full of fish, waterfowl, and big alligators. It has so many alligators that they don't allow swimming. Again, the camping experience was flawless and our hats are off to the park and its employees.

After a few days there we packed up and headed toward Middle George where we got a spot at Indian Springs State Park. I had spent many a day there as a kid when my parents would take me, and staying there brought back some good memories. Again, this park is well maintained and quite beautiful and has extremely nice amenities with some interesting historical aspects.

Two days there and we finally had to load up and zip on back to Charlotte, NC and home.

All three state parks and their campgrounds come highly recommended. Suwannee River State Park. Three Rivers State Park. And Indian Springs State Park.

Our campsite at Suwannee River State Park. The site was relatively level. We did see a few sites in the park that are not level and which should likely be avoided. The sites here have full hookups, including sewer. It's so nice not to have to use the dump station when you pack up to leave.

Nicely landscaped campground. The bathhouse is located at the front of the campground and includes sinks, flush toilets, hot showers, and laundry.

Breakfast with our sometimes camping friends, Bobby and Sharon Childers.

Our campsite at Three Rivers State Park. Very level campsite. Water and electric hookups. No sewer hookup, but a nice dump station that was really easy to use.

The dam that forms Lake Seminole on which Three Rivers State Park is located.

Bull gator not far from our campsite at Three Rivers. This is one reason you can't go swimming in Lake Seminole.

This is our campsite at Indian Springs State Park. Again, a nice, level site. Gravel surface with landscaping timbers. Water and electric hookup, plus cable TV service. Wooden patio and a very nice picnic table. The bathhouse was located just across from our campsite and had sinks, flush toilets, hot showers, and a laundry.

The rocky shoals at the entrance to Indian Springs State Park.

Indian Springs State Park and the nearby High Falls State Park.