Thanks for all the input on the cover photo.  I ended up choosing #3.  Then, I chose to not have any pic of me on the cover – but went for a cooler looking design that had more to do wiht the book.  But #3 will appear in the About the Author section inside the book.  Here is what the cover will hopefully look like (front and back) if the printer can get that large and dark of an image to show up on the cover without warping it (she’ll let me know).

I need help. The company that is printing the epic poem gives me the option to put a pic of myself on the back cover for free. Which shot should I use (keep in mind I can crop these):

A few weeks ago, driving across the middle of Illinois in the middle of the night (it’s my favorite thing to be in the middle of) Nick and I listened to my MP3 player as I drove.

 

“This is the play list for my White Wolf novel,” I told him – my novel about monsters and a strange sort of love story between a medical examiner and a corpse he falls in love with and sets off to avenge.

 

We listened to the dark tunes – the Rob Zombie, White Zombie, Nine Inch Nails, Alice in Chains, audio tracks of Poe, etc.  But then, a few of the “off” songs came on, sentimental love songs – R.E.M. singing “One I Love”, a love them by The Alloy Orchestra, “I Alone” by Anouk, UB40’s cover of “I Got You Babe.”

 

“What are those doing on this play list?” Nick asked.

 

“I put them in the mix,” I said, “to act as a sort of discord to the mood.  Imagine you just heard a dark song . . . then a happy love song comes on . . . now imagine it’s sung for a dead girl . . .”

 

A mischievous smile of realization crept across Nick’s face, “Ohhhhhhhhhhh . . . gotcha.”

Recently, someone apologized for mixing up my birthday with another day.

 

As a general note to all:  I am the LAST person that should be apologized to for this.  I am horrible with numbers and dates.  The only for-sure birthdays that I can recall, at any given time, are mine and my brother’s.  Other than that, it’s a crap shoot.  I might remember a birthday just in time.  I might totally forget.  A nifty internet sight might inform me of an impending B-Day.  So . . . my birthday well-wishing is very inconsistent.  But I try and show my friendship in other ways.

 

So don’t worry.  If you miss or have to ask me anything regarding a date I don’t take offense.  I think society is too wrapped up in numbers and too distracted from the the more important textures.  People walk around, as if on broken glass, terrified, paranoid of forgetting some date (when they first met, when the anniversary is, when the second cousin’s monkey’s uncle was born), our mind’s held hostage by calendars.  RELAX.  Let it go.  Buy a Mayan calendar and really confuse the stiffs.

 

I don’t recall numbers well, but I do ingrain images and feelings and laughs and crazy conversations like a trap (I just can’t always put a date to them).  I remember the first kiss, the conversation at the edge of a party, the dirty joke on the road trip, the words shared on a swing set after hours.

 

Personally, I think someone telling you that they are celebrating the fact that you were born, is a nice thought, on any day.  So go ahead and wish me a happy birthday in the middle of October – I’ll be tickled pink.

 

NOTE:  Josh will not actually turn pink.  His clothes may, in fact, get even blacker.  He will, however, smile.

Easter is now over.  See what the bunny does with his off time.

Dear Josh,

 

Well, you did it!  Bravo and well done!  You have created a hero and a love story–out of the strangest of characters!

 

As I have read and reread this epic and watched it being stitched together, sometimes knowing the parts taken from previous works, but never knowing its whole story until now, I have enjoyed watching you find your voice and, even more, be true to your vision—I am not only proud of your work but also proud of your presence in the work.

 

Bravo!  And hurray!  For Josh as well as his writing!

nancy

And some people, of a certain, religious disposition, sometimes comment on my stories or my macabre motif of clothing and décor and ask, “Why do you pursue this sardonic view . . . what’s with the twisted sense of humor?”  And I say, Well . . .

 

The best way to drive out the devil, if he will not yield to texts of Scripture, is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn.
                            —Martin Luther

 

The Devil . . . the prowde spirite . . . cannot endure to be mocked.
                             —Thomas More

Once you are tagged you MUST write a blog entry about your 6 weird habits/things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next six people to be tagged and list their names.

 

1)      Every time I enter a bathroom with a shower, I have to pull the shower open and look before I do anything else.  It’s a compulsion.  Not a super powerful one (if you said “Josh, don’t check the shower and I’ll give you 5 bucks,” I would resist) but strong enough that I do it most every time.  I’m sure it stems from some childhood-Hitchockesque-fear.  It’s not that I’m actually afraid that I’ll find something if I open the curtain.  I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t.  Perhaps it’s because, growing up, I had a water bed – which means I never had a space under my bed – which means I never had monsters under my bed.  Incidentally, Dr. Perkins likes to theorize that this is the reason I write the things I write about . . . to make up for lost time.

 

2)      I have a pet serpent that I talk to . . . even though she doesn’t have any ears.

 

3)      I think Reality TV is a sign that society is ready to fall.

 

4)      Dangerous weather conditions (severe thunderstorms, hail, tornados, etc.) turn me on.

 

5)      Being of mellow and fluid disposition, I have oceans of patience for people and animals . . . I have NONE for objects.  An object, device, or appliance that does not work properly infuriates me.  I will yell at, curse, and browbeat an object into working properly (I tend to do this when I’m alone with said item).  And I know, I KNOW, that the device isn’t malfunctioning because it’s damaged, illused, or lacks batteries . . . but because it is being lazy.

 

6)      I feel relaxed and restful in libraries, cemeteries, and old movie theatres playing silent films and all for the same reasons.

 

Let’s see, I’ll tag some people:

 

-Jerry

-Dee

-Jeramie

-Amy

-Genenda

-Alex

Tomorrow is my birthday . . . is jut snuck up on me.

 

I’ve been asked, by a few people, what I plan on doing for the b-day.  Originally, I had contemplated going down to Central IL and celebrating . . . but my novel deadline is fast approaching and I don’t think I can afford another weekend+ of travel.  Because, the thing I want most for my birthday is a published novel and a fatty advance.

 

So, I guess I’ll do some small amount of celebrating tomorrow and do a bigger bash of fun with friends, on a much belated birthday after the novel deadline (which will be the beginning of June).

 

And just what am I writing?  Well, it’s a novel about monsters and strange Lovecraftian horrors and crime and mystery and a bit of deep noir set in White Wolf’s World of Darkness setting.  But, past all that, it’s a macabre sort of love story, on the other side of entropy.  If I had to sum it up with song lyrics . . . I think Torrie’s bro’s band does nicely:

 

“CADAVER” by Lucigen

 

strained stare in a new light

and a walk among the dead

in the moonlight

I know it’s strange but will you

try and realize this time

I could never paint you in memories

though I promised you my eternity

I could die with everything in harmony

with your golden eyed cadaver

falling over me

 

showering down in the window

leak the stars dust into your pillow

and I’ll whisper something

you will never know

forever these feelings will drift with me

all the currents will singe

with your purity

and with the strength

of a thousand antihistamines

and your golden eyed cadaver

falling over me

 

when do you suppose

they’ll come after you

will they come fro me

when they have recovered you

I’ll be the same as I was

when I endangered you

you’re a golden eyed cadaver

I’m in love with you

“From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.”

          –Edgar Allan Poe, “ALONE”

  

Lately I’ve felt listless, withdrawn, and distant – very alone-in-the-crowd.  This isn’t really a new thing.  I’ve always been a bit aloof, emotionally self-reliant (sometimes to a fault).  Not that I’m a cold person . . . maybe more like a particularly affectionate cat.  So no, nothing new, just lately it’s felt a little . . . hollowing.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been busy with the books and writing thing and away from friends and only around long enough for a few drink or a fun night out.  I don’t remember the last, in depth, conversation I’ve had – one that takes long enough to cut past pleasantries and dig into some meaty pathos or content.  I’m feeling starved.

 

But I’ll halt here, while this remains out loud introspection, before it gets into realms of whining or complaining.  The sardonic humorist in me won’t allow that.  I don’t have too many complaints right now and, as I mentioned, recently, in my thesis Forward:  “Brooding, unchecked, becomes spiritual masturbation.”

 

Back to work.