Horrorhack's Library of the Damned

Vintage Horror Movie Review: Don't Be Afraid of the Dark (1973)

2010-08-15T16:09:00.000-07:00

As a kid, Don't Be Afraid of the Dark scared the ever-loving crap out of me. I think. At least, that's how I remembered it. Actually, to be honest, all I really remember is Kim Darby being dragged by her feet and little scary things running around her house. So you can imagine how excited I was to watch it again last night.

Um.

To start with, the opening titles used the same font as "The Mary Tyler Moore Show." I half-expected one of the little goblin guys to throw a hat into the air and freeze-frame. I guess back in '73 that font was all the rage, but now...let's just say it hasn't aged well.

But anyway, the movie begins with creepy whispers and a gorgeous house and then Kim Darby and her husband, Jim Hutton move in (and immediately hire a hotsy-totsy decorator, because that lime-green rug and avocado-green fridge aren't going to magically appear by themselves!) The handyman/exposition guy (William Demarest, the original crotchety old man) immediately goes into his "You can't open up the mysteriously blocked fireplace in the creepy locked room" spiel, conveniently not realizing that women are curious, stubborn, silly little creatures who just won't take no for an answer. Yeah, so what if the ash gate is BOLTED SHUT--why bother to give her an explanation for it. Just tell the broad to keep her nosy nose out of it and leave it at that. It'll be fine.

Of course, Kim Darby is going to pout and poke around and eventually get that stupid old grate unbolted (because she is a liberated '70s woman--at least that's what her husband has told her), but she accepts the fact that her dream of a cozy little firelit dungeon is beyond her reach, la-dee-dah, let's go fix dinner for hubby.

Cue spooky avocado-green lights (seriously, people...did EVERYTHING have to be avocado green?) and glimpses of weirdness and Kim Darby is already on the tremulous edge. Jim Hutton, of course, is the no-nonsense man of the house who has no time or patience for his silly wife's histrionics. Even when she SEES a tiny little monster hand grabbing her dress, he dismisses it--because after all, they have a uber-important '70s dinner party to host so he can get his promotion and he can't have his boss finding out that his wife is secretly a witch! (Nope, sorry...wrong trope).

Long tv-movie short, the little things from the fireplace have a serious jones for Kim Darby for some reason, and they pretty much gaslight her until Jim Hutton is about to keel over from apoplexy over her silly panic attacks. What's a concerned husband to do but fly off for an overnight meeting, leaving her alone in the very house that is terrifying her? It's for a promotion, people! Priorities!

I won't give away the ending if you haven't seen it, but...man, I sure did remember it being scarier than that. Now, the scariest thing in the movie was how much of a dick her husband was to her. He treated her like a stupid child for pretty much all of the movie--even waggling his finger at her when she does something that ruins his precious dinner party. I think if I were Kim Darby, I would've cut a deal with those creatures to pay hubby-dearest a visit one night. Then we'd see who was paranoid.

I remembered the creatures as being scarier, too. Instead, we get a prune-headed dude in the gorilla-suit last seen in Robot Monster. Actually, we get three of them. Not exactly an overwhelming army of the damned. In fact, if she'd just put on her sensible pumps and did the Mexican Hat Dance, she would've solved all her problems and burned off a few calories at the same time.

I mean seriously...scared yet?

Del Toro's doing the remake, which is due in 2011, and I've gotta say...it looks pretty freakin' good. And it looks like he's going to supply some backstory, too--like where the goblins came from, what they want, why do they live in a fireplace. Seriously, I craved exposition like chocolate. Why did her grandmother leave her the damned house in the first place if she wasn't supposed to let the goblins out? Why not just raze the place and salt the ground or something?

Anyway...my memories of the original have been sullied by cruel, cruel reality. It's not a bad movie, just a very dated and imperfect one. Don't be afraid of the dark...be afraid of the mini, prune-headed monkey-men in it.

Sincere Thanks (and Apologies)

2010-08-08T18:54:00.001-07:00

I am an idiot.

That's not a news flash. What IS a news flash (to me, at least) has been all the comments I've just found on this blog. Yes, I said JUST FOUND. You see, I've been under the impression that no one has been reading this blog and so I've drifted away from it due to the whole "life" thing. It's not an understatement to say I'm absolutely stunned by how many people have taken the time to post a comment.

So thank you. Thank you very much. And I'm very sorry I haven't thanked you all before now.

I hope you'll keep checking the blog for new posts every once in a while.

Now this is just ridiculous

2010-08-08T17:11:00.000-07:00

Ok, I'll be the first to admit that I love vampires. Honestly, I do. BUT lately my love for them has been on the decline. Why?

Friggin' vampire romances, that's why.

I've got nothing against romances. They're fine. But go to Amazon and do a search for 'vampires' and the first zillion titles that pop up are friggin' vampire romances. Not just Twilight, either. It's like everybody and their mother has decided to jump on the vampire romance bandwagon and write a damn book (and self-publish it, of course). Hell, even I wrote a vampire romance back in the early '90s.

And that's fine for people who like those things. Honestly, the whole "vampire romance" subgenre reeks of necrophilia to me (after all, those guys are DEAD, as in ceased to be, pushing up daisies, singing with the choir invisible). And come on, how are sparkly vampires attractive? I mean, really? And how is touching (or...urk...BEING touched by) cold, dead flesh even remotely erotic? The whole idea of it just grosses the hell out of me. I mean, other than holding an "after-glow" conversation, you might as well fool around with a zombie.

I miss the days when vampires were actually BAD GUYS. When they were only concerned with drinking blood and killing, not being emotionally available. I like my vampires to be beastial and cruel, not sensitive and lovesick. Gag. Nowadays, the vampire has been defanged by romantic fantasy, and that's just not right people. It's just not right.

Bring back Nosferatu!

Triumph! I am offensive!

2010-08-08T17:10:00.000-07:00

I think somebody bought my Kindle short story, "Snuffed," and returned it.

Yeah. RETURNED it. I wonder why...

I mean, it's only about a girl who can't be killed who starts doing hard-core snuff porn in order to make a living. What could possibly be offensive about that?

And yes, yes...I know there's an unkillable cheerleader on "Heroes," but c'mon, does anybody even watch that show anymore? It lost me after the second season. Actually, it lost me after the first episode of the second season. But I digress...

I'm just tickled purple that I might have written something offensive. Gosh. Who'da thunk it.

Book Tour 2009!

2009-11-24T10:25:00.000-08:00

So recently I did my first-ever book tour for my freshly published novel, "The Giving Season" (available now at Amazon and Pearlsong Press, btw).

Yep. Three libraries in three days. I felt like a rock star.

I'm joking, of course. I was lucky enough to be asked to participate in a traveling "local author" book fair by Michael "Put my books between King and Koontz!" Knost (just kidding, Mike), who is the editor of the Legends of the Mountain State books and the Probably-Going-to-be-Nominated-for-a-Stoker-Award Writers Workshop of Horror. We went to the three libraries in my county (including the one at which I work) and did a few Q&A sessions with students and the public. I sold a few copies of my books. Gave a few autographs (and felt like a total douche--after all...who am I?)

It was fun to go to the libraries and talk about writing. I realized that I don't get to talk about it nearly as much as I'd like. Could it be that I've actually found something that I'm...wait for it...passionate about? Wow...and here I've been thinking I was pretty much numb.

The experience made me wonder how many well-known writers take that sort of thing for granted. "Oh, ho-hum...yet another book signing. How many hundreds of copies will I have to sign today?" Or how many writers take it for granted that people want to actually hear their opinions on their writing (or anything, for that matter). I'm so used to people tuning out me and my crazy talk that it astounds me to think that anyone would actually be interested in listening to me speak.

I joked around and said that I felt like a "real" writer with a "real" book...but to be honest, I wasn't really joking. For years and years and years and years (and a few more years) I wrote in total solitude. No one (but an unlucky few) read my stories. No one cared. I was in a vacuum. To suddenly be in an environment where people not only asked me questions about my writing but BOUGHT MY BOOKS felt like culture shock.

Even more so when I did a phone interview with Peggy Elam, my publisher at Pearlsong Press. I'm totally not used to talking about my writing (yet somehow I managed to blab for a whole hour) so it was brain-busting for me to be asked questions about it. I don't know if anyone has actually tuned into the podcast (it's here, by the way) but my mind is still blown.

Maybe I need to get out more.

A few words about Twilight

2009-11-24T09:49:00.000-08:00

I'll come right out and admit it.

I like the Twilight books.

Go ahead and crucify me if you will. I've never been much for snottiness when it comes to books, and I'm seeing it in great big spades when it comes to Stephenie Meyer's writing. And it's pissing me off, to be quite honest about it.

Why? Because people are more than happy to criticize the books without taking the time to read them. Yeah, I know that's a groundbreaking concept: read the book first. I was like that at one time. I heard "glittery vampire" and tuned out. Vampires don't glitter. And who wants to read a vampire book written by someone who went to a Mormon college? I don't usually equate Mormons with great horror fiction. Yuck. Go peddle your teen romance elsewhere, lady.

I hate to admit that I was such a dick about it.

I watched the movie first ("Twilight") and was shocked that it was actually interesting. Maybe I was--gasp!--wrong. So I picked up the first novel in the series. And I liked it.

Me, the die-hard zombie/vampire/gorehound fan. I liked it.

I started noting all the criticism at about that time. Meyer wasn't a great writer. She didn't deserve all that success. People hated her and all she stood for. They'd hold book burnings of all the Twilight novels if they could get away with it. Even Stephen King said that Meyer "couldn't write worth a damn."

Wow. Talk about polarizing your audience.

My personal opinion about all the Meyer hate? Jealousy. Pure D jealousy. Yeah, that even goes for Stephen King.

Look at the facts: Twilight was Meyer's first novel. Her first shot out of the gate. And it got huge fast. She didn't toil in the salt mines of writing short stories for $.01 a word for years. She didn't "pay her dues" of writing novel after novel with no attention. You know...like the rest of us poor writing slobs.

She got lucky. Extraordinarily, terrifically, disgustingly lucky.

She had the right story at the right time, and found the right audience with the right characters. She was able to reach teenage girls (and a lot of grown women) with her romantic elements, as wild as they are. She. Got. Lucky.

That's not to take away from the work she's put into the books. Writing is difficult, and even if you have no respect for the writer herself, at least respect the work that goes into it. The Stephen King comments pissed me off, because he's been nailed hundreds of time by critics for the very thing he's accusing Meyer of: not being a good writer. And I like Stephen King, don't get me wrong. He's just not the greatest writer of all time. Neither is Meyer. And here's the secret: no one is.

Writing is a subjective thing. There are some wildly successful horror writers out there that I just absolutely can't stand. Does that mean they can't write? No. It just means I don't care for their stuff. Which is why it's wrong for anyone--especially fellow writers--to dismiss Stephenie Meyer so cavalierly. You know how hard it is to write and to try to get published, after all.

Will I catch hell for this? Probably not, because no one reads this blog and--even more than that--no one gives a particular damn about my opinion. But I'm coming out of the Twilight closet. I enjoy the books. I think Meyers has done a pretty good job with them. I congratulate her on her success.

And if you don't like it, then...well, bite me.

Yay! "Best of All Flesh" is a go!!

2009-07-25T18:04:00.000-07:00

I'm really thrilled to announce that my story, "Night Shift," is going to be included in the upcoming zombie anthology, "The Best of All Flesh." It was originally published in "The Book of More Flesh," the second book in the trilogy (of sorts) based on the "All Flesh Must Be Eaten" RPG. I'm honestly surprised that it made the cut, because there were a ton of great writers and super stories in the three anthologies. No false modesty here...I'm really stunned.

It's available for pre-order at Amazon (just click on the cover over there on the right and you'll zip right to it) and should be out in December 2009.

Hopefully, my romance novel, "The Giving Season" will be out around that time too. Yes. Romance novels and zombie stories. I am a very complicated woman.

What the hell's so "wise" about 'em?

2009-07-16T09:58:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've posted (for all NONE of you who read this blog), but I have a very good excuse: for the last month or so, I've been in massive, bone-pulsing, throbbing pain from my two lower wisdom teeth. Oh, it's been fun.

Back in May, I woke up one night to a eye-watering pain in the left side of my mouth. I'd been having some problems, but I thought it was my sinuses, since the pain/pressure went into my ear and throat. But that pain was nothing compared to what woke me up that night. To illustrate how much it hurt: I called around for a dentist the next morning. Yep...the pain was bad enough to drive me to a dentist. That's pretty bad.

And you know what's really fun? Trying to find a dentist who'll take an emergency. Every single ding-damn one I called was booked solid. By the time I finally found one who'd see me, I was ready to take a hammer to my jaw and take care of business myself.

But I did find one, and as soon as I sat in the chair (this is, by the way, after he made a few "WTF" comments about my weight--I mean really...WTF?) and opened my mouth, he took one look and said, "Nope, I can't help you. You're going to have to go to an oral surgeon."

*sputter* Excuse me, but wha? An oral surgeon? I just want the teeth pulled out. Do whatever you have to do, just GET THEM OUT OF ME!

X-rays are taken. Apparently my wisdom teeth are overachievers and are coming in under a "bony prominence" or some such thing. Basically, they're going to have to be cut out of my jaw. Great. $185 bucks later--and with NO PAIN MEDICINE--I walk out of the dentist's office and go home to make an appointment. This is, keep in mind, in late May.

So guess when my appointment's scheduled? July 1. So I got to have a good solid month of throbbing, aching, maddening, unending pain in my mouth. And lucky me, the pain hops sides from time to time, so both wisdom teeth get a good go at me. I've probably ruined my liver with ibuprofen and Tylenol, but damn...how could anyone be expected to have even a halfway normal life with that much pain? June was just a blur to me.

By the time I had my surgery, the pain had gotten to the point where it felt like a dull nail pressing slowly...oh, so slowly...into the raw nerves of my lower jaw. I had been nervous about the IV sedation I would be having for the surgery--I've never had any kind of operation before--but by July 1, I was ready to do whatever I had to do to make the pain go away. Christ, it was bad.

Cut to me waking up after the surgery. My mouth is packed with gauze. I can't feel anything below my nose--and oh, what blessed relief THAT was!--and I have a prescription for 20 tablets of Lortab to get me through the after-surgery pain. I'm warned about dry-socket, and after I pay my $600 bill (thank God for credit cards), I go home to recuperate. All's well that ends well, I think.

Until the numbness wears away. And then oh, my God...both sides are throbbing and aching and pulsing with agony and I'm bleeding so much I'm sick to my stomach from swallowing blood and my stitches feel like they're coming loose too soon and I can't eat anything and it's bad, so very bad, almost as bad as when the damn teeth were in my skull. I can't open my mouth very wide because it feels like I'm going to crack my jaw. This goes on for days and days. The Lortab does exactly shit for the pain, so I have to combine it with mega-doses of ibuprofen (sorry liver) and all I want to do is sleep until I don't feel anything because the pain is just so nagging, so nonstop, so constant that it feels like it's driving me insane.

More days pass. The pain becomes more manageable, but it's still hiding in the shadows, ready to spring at me whenever I eat something or tense my jaw (as I apparently tend to do when I sleep). Eating becomes a whole new fun thing, because removing the wisdom teeth has created handy dandy pockets to catch all kinds of food particles, which then irritate the living hell out of me until I'm able to rinse my mouth out. The taste of blood still lingers in my mouth, although by now I think it's just my imagination. I hope.

As I write this, it's been a little over two weeks since the surgery, and I'm still aching--although it's nothing like before. The pain now feels like it's deep in my jawbone, a dull pulse that has just sort of settled in for the duration. It's better than it was, but good Lord...it's still driving me nuts.

I found the cartoon (from www.peter-hodges.com) while doing a Google search and it pretty much sums up my experience. I'm just glad it's behind me now...because good grief, I don't think I could do it again. The blood...so much blood...

Dept. of Execrable Movies: Raimi Edition (SPOILERS)

2009-05-29T18:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, I must have sat through another version of this movie, because it sure wasn't the one that everybody seems to be raving over. It wasn't scary. It wasn't particularly original (a gypsy puts a curse on somebody who pisses them off...hmm, sounds a lot like "Thinner," methinks). And if this is supposed to be Sam Raimi's grand return to the horror genre, then he can stay the hell out, as far as I'm concerned.

I. Hated. This. Movie.

And when I say "hate," I mean hate with the fire of a thousand suns. Yeah, I'm surprised too. I figured I'd at least like it. It's Sam Raimi! "The Evil Dead" is one of my favorite movies of all time. How could it not be good?

Well, let me count the ways...

First of all, there's the problem of the main character--you know, the pretty blonde who denies an ugly old woman an extension on her bank loan and done gets herself all cursified. One of the most important rules of scriptwriting is HAVE A SYMPATHETIC MAIN CHARACTER. That way the audience actually gives a shit if she lives or dies or gets herself dragged to hell.

In this movie...not so much. Her boss leaves the choice up to her, and she chooses to kick the old woman out of her house so she'll seem all badass and tough and will get promoted. It's not like her hands are tied and she's really sorry, but she has no choice...blah blah blah. She wants the promotion, so she kicks out the old woman. Cut and dried.

There's a really great book on scriptwriting called "Save the Cat" (the irony in this will be apparent in a moment) that urges scriptwriters to insert one small scene in their script that will align the audience's sympathy with the main character. Maybe they save the cat from a tree. Maybe they do something nice for an old person. Whatever. It's a moment where they are funny or sweet or caring, and it's guaranteed to put the audience squarely on the character's side for the rest of the movie.

There's one moment in this piece of cinematic crap that totally destroyed any small shred of sympathy I had for the main character. It involved a teeny kitten, a big knife, and a cut to the outside of the house with an off-screen cat's screech. Why...WHY??? Why do you have your main character kill a kitten--even if she's trying to save her soul--midway through the movie? It was almost played for laughs (disturbing enough) but it was just unnecessary. After that scene, they couldn't drag that bitch's ass to hell fast enough.

And then there's Raimi's insistance on using his lameass slapstick. I like the Three Stooges too, but that kind of stuff has no place in a horror movie, even if you are attempting to add humor. It totally pulled me out of the movie and made me wonder who in the hell green-lit the script. I mean, it LITERALLY drops an anvil on a character's head. I kept waiting for somebody to do the Curley shuffle.

And let's not even mention the moment when a goat talks. Yes. Talks. A goat. By that point, I was doing the Sideshow Bob shudder.

Stephen King once wrote that when he couldn't go for the scare, he'd go for the gross-out. Okay. Fair enough. I've done it in my own writing more than once. Raimi, unfortunately, took those words to heart. There was more spit/worms/maggots/blood/formaldehyde/unknowable bodily fluids going into the main character's mouth than necessary for the plot. It was like Raimi decided that his audience was going to be made up of teenage boys who'd think it was super cool to watch a pretty girl get choked on thick goo while a toothless old woman gummed her open mouth. I've got nothing against disgusting stuff in movies, but come on...there's a limit.

Honestly, I cannot understand why this movie is getting so many good reviews. It's like Raimi's diehard fans are just happy enough to see his name on the screen, to hell with whatever follows it. One review called it a perfect summer horror flick. No. It's not. It's a horror movie for people who don't know what horror movies should (or could) be.

If Raimi had played it straight, if he'd cut out the dumbass slapstick and made the script a little more palatable, this might have been a good movie. As it is, he uses all his old "Evil Dead" tricks--shaky cam, zooms, quick pans to shock the audience, "possessed" objects, etc. and so on. It's all gimmicks, no substance.

The movie could have been good. If he'd made the main character sympathetic, the gypsy woman totally unlikable (instead of pathetic), and made good on the promise of showing the Lamia demon (instead of shadow silhouettes and quick glimpses), then maybe...maybe...it would have been scary. If it had really been, as the trailer says, about the fact that even a good person could be condemned to hell, then that would have been something for the audience to think about.

Drag the bitch to hell, see if I care. And take this damned movie with you.

I FINALLY figured out...

2009-05-18T07:12:00.001-07:00

...what Kate Gosselin's hair reminds me
of...

The indomitable Lola "I want to bear your children!" Heatherton (Catherine O'Hara) from SCTV!

Once seen, it can't be unseen.

Like the mountains are safe...

2009-05-07T13:11:00.001-07:00

Weird-ass dream

2009-05-05T05:48:00.000-07:00

I dreamed last night that I was lost on my old college campus. I was there to do some kind of library-related thing, and I couldn't find my class, so I kept wandering around looking for the right building. That was bad enough, but then I stumbled across a myopic little man who was making a delivery and asked if he knew where the building I was looking for might be. He said he was making a delivery there, so I could come along with him. Even in my dream, my gut said, "Whoa...hold on," but I went along with him anyway.

It was only 11:30am in the dream (I remember the time vividly, because my "class" was supposed to start at noon) but it was dark outside. I followed this little man across campus until we were at a completely unfamiliar place, and then he turned around and said, "This is as far as you're going" and pulled out a serrated knife. And then that little bastard stabbed me!

I remember being shocked and surprised and--above all--pissed off beyond all reason that he would dare do that to me. I grabbed the knife and turned it around on him and pretty much pulled a Jack the Ripper on his ass. Didn't kill him, but I dragged him around campus looking for a cop, leaving a trail of blood behind me. I remember looking at my knife wound in the dream and being grossed out, and feeling the pain from it.

According to an online dream dictionary, this dream means that I feel I've lost direction in my life and I'm pretty pissed off about it. This is what the site has to say about dreaming about being stabbed:

To dream that you have been stabbed, signifies your struggle with power. You may be experiencing feelings of inadequacy and defensiveness. Alternatively, you may be feeling betrayed as the popular phrase goes, "being stabbed in the back".

To dream that you stab someone, indicates your fear of betrayal and your untrusting nature. You may be too much on the defensive.

Me? On the defensive? Untrusting? Okay. Maybe.

I've had these kinds of dreams before, where I've been attacked (one time I was even shot in the gut) and beat the holy hell out of the person who hurt me. Where that comes from is a mystery to me; I've never been in a fight in my life. I've never even slapped anybody.

But apparently if anybody tries to stab, hit, and/or shoot me, I'll turn into a Tasmanian Devil of rage. Huh. Good to know.

"Popping Out Kids for Fun & Profit (but mostly profit)" by OCTOMOM!

2009-02-06T12:26:00.000-08:00

Well, hell...what a fool I've been all these years!

Why didn't I figure out earlier that the quick (not necessarily easy) way to be a multi-millionaire was to use my student loan money for in-vitro fertilization instead of a silly college education? Then maybe I could have squeezed out a litter of kids and made mucho money off of them. Silly, silly me.

I mean, look at Octomom (aka Octopussy, aka Nadya Suleman, aka Woman Who Should Have Her Uterus Revoked). She's 33 and had those octuplets, which means she's got Oprah slobbering all over her for an exclusive interview (to the tune of $2 million, according to the rumors) and so many potentially lucrative book/tv deals that she had to hire not one, but TWO PR flacks!

And here I am, idiot me, thinking that the way to get a book deal was to actually...oh, I don't know...write a book or something.

And even though her eight newest babies are lying in a hospital struggling to survive, Octomom somehow managed to spruce herself up for an exclusive interview with the Today show. What a brave little trouper!!! And she explained herself so well...she wanted a big family because poor widdle her was an only child and her family was all bad and dysfunctional.

Wait a second...would this be the same mother and father who not only had to declare bankruptcy to pay for HER bad investments and who have given her and her brood a place to live? Would THEY be the dysfunctional family she was referring to? Ooh...what bad, bad people!

But hey, it's okay because Octomom is a CHILD-REARING EXPERT now. Yep. That's her story and she's sticking to it (because that's the kind of TV show she's angling to get).

I'm sorry, I'm sure being pregnant is a wonderful miraculous miracle of miracle but come on...when it comes right down to it, it's a biological process that doesn't exactly take a lot of heavy thinking. Sperm meets egg, cell division commences, and voila...nine months later you have a baby. And yet, because she managed to get IVF so many times, she's an expert on raising kids.

My opinion? She's an expert in bullshit, and she's flinging it for all the world to enjoy.

I have a theory that this woman is nothing but a hoarder, the kind of person who would have a house filled with fifty cats if she didn't take to the IVF treatments so well. Her mother has said she always wanted a big family. Okay. Great. Can't blame a person for that. But what kind of irresponsible, unthinking, stupid asshole goes out and gets IVF when she can't even support herself...and then brings all the embryos to term because she wanted more kids?

And as for those poor octuplets...if a parent crammed eight kids into a tight space, made them share an inadequate amount of nutrition and didn't give them room to grow normally, wouldn't they be slammed into jail by child protective services? Octomom claims to have wanted all the babies, but obviously she's not thinking about what would be best for them, or else she wouldn't have put all their lives at risk. Even now, as they struggle to get through these first few weeks of life, there's a big chance that they'll have future health problems. If they make it.

But I'm sure that's the last thing on old Octomom's mind. She's already got it made. If some of the babies die now, well...too bad, so sad, but she's already got contracts in place since they're the longest surviving octuplets. And just think of the sympathy she might get if some of the babies die. Boy oh boy, won't people feel like jerks then! She'll be able to play the grieving mother card and make even more scratch by allowing Entertainment Tonight or People magazine to buy the exclusive rights to the funeral and the photos of her dabbing away tears while trying to be strong for the other children.

Maybe I'm being too hard on the poor dearie. According to her interview on the Today show (which she expected to be paid for, by the way), all of the expenses of having 14 kids is coming as a huge surprise to her. Of course it is! Who could have known that it takes money to raise and care for children? Who could have predicted that having octuplets would mean a shitload of hospital bills? No one could have known that in advance! Why, I'm sure Octomom believed that once she had her precious babies that angels would descend from on high and shower her with oodles and oodles of money. Doesn't that happen to every woman who has a baby?

Ugh. I can't imagine a woman being that fucking stupid. And yet...and yet...

All I can say is that it's a damn good thing for Octomom that I don't run things, because I'd have those kids taken away from her in a heartbeat. And it's not because she's a single mother. It's because she's proved herself to be too reckless and too self-involved to be a responsible mother. Those kids are going to be the ones to pay the price for all this, one way or another.

But what am I saying? Octomom's the child-rearing expert! Her children will grow up to cure cancer and solve world hunger and be the saviors of us all!!

Well...the ones who manage to make it through the first few weeks, that is.

But it's all good for Octomom. She's got her contracts and her PR people and her TV interviews to console her. And as we all know, as long as Octomom is happy and gets what she wants, that's ALL that matters.

Moldy Oldie

2009-02-04T20:55:00.000-08:00

What happened to January?

2009-01-31T12:56:00.000-08:00

Wow...time flies, don't it?

Well, since I'm writing this now, I guess it's safe to say that we all survived the New Year. Yay, us. I don't even remember how I spent New Year's Eve (not due to a surplus of partying, but due to not doing anything particularly particular. Maybe we watched movies?).

But anyway...here it is January 30 and a whole month has passed in a whirlwind of snow days from work, doctors' appointments, and new episodes of "24" on TV. I've been working on a script that I'm not allowed to talk about just yet (let's just say it's a "reimagining" of a beloved, non-copyrighted classic) and trying to keep warm. It's been unreasonably winterlike this winter. I didn't realize how much I'd depended on the Greenhouse Effect to keep wintertime temperate and moderately dry.

It's hard to believe it's February already. And even harder to believe is that my birthday is coming up in less than a week. *groan* Let me just tell you that it sucks to have a birthday in February. And here's a short list of reasons why:

It's too cold to have any kind of swimming party when you're a teenager (unless you're a member of the Teen Polar Bear Club, which I wasn't).
There's a more than good chance that a snowstorm will keep anyone from being able to attend your birthday party.
Ice cream cakes are painful.
Two words: Valentine's Day.

When I was younger (and unattached), this used to be particularly painful for my angsty, lovelorn self. Oh, the pain of turning another year older and being reminded that I am, once more, alone... (the previous sentence, by the way, should be read in a "Lost in Space" Dr. Smith voice). I used to be very attuned to Valentine's Day when I was younger. I'd see the VD cards and the candies and the flowers and yearn to the bottom of my little heart that one day February 14th would mean something special to me.

Blech.

Now that I'm older, wiser, bitterer, and WAY more cynically realistic, I've come to realize that Feb. 14th does mean something to me: it's the day before payday! Honestly, V-day absolutely doesn't bother me anymore. Being single doesn't bother me anymore either, but that's a whole 'nother post in and of itself. And having to face V-day just a week or so after my birthday REALLY doesn't bother me.

I don't know exactly what happened, but I'm glad it did. I'm not really cut out for the whole angsty lovelorn thing. It gets boring after a while.

But anyway...my birthday. Blargh. I know I'm getting more mature, because I've told my family that if it happens to snow too badly for anyone to come home for cake and presents, I'll just wait until the next week. For presents, mind you! It's not that I'm bummed out about turning 39 so much as simply stunned that I'm actually that old. That's a grown-up's age! I'm not a grown-up.

Actually, I'm rather looking forward to my 40s. My 20s were spent unhappily in college and then more unhappily unemployed for a couple of years, and then unhappily employed. I'm not saying that I walked around all gloom and doom all the time, but...there were some tough times.

My 30s were better. I quit my crap job and got a much better one as a library director. For the first six or so years of my 30s, I had a very enjoyable online relationship with a guy who I cared about a lot (but which ended, more or less, when I was about 36). I was gainfully employed for all but two months of my 30s, and I managed to start selling some short stories. Now, in my 39th year, my first novel will (I hope) be published in the fall. So...progress.

I freak out about my age only in terms of the physical decay we all face as we get older. More doctor visits. More problems. I do what I can, and I'm starting to take better care of myself than I ever did in my 20s or 30s, so hopefully that'll ease the transition into the 40s. I moisterize the hell out of my skin (you know that character Cassandra in the new Doctor Who series? The big flap of skin who constantly barks out for her lackey to "Moisterize me! Moisterize me!"? She's my hero).

I've got some big changes coming my way this year (a major surgery this spring/summer, for one), but hopefully this year will pass as most of my others have: quietly, calmly, nondramatically. I'll use this time to contemplate my life, my accomplishments, my future...and to get a head start on my total meltdown this time next year when 40 is actually staring me in the face.

Happy birthday to me. :)

Word of the Day: Novusannusphobia

2008-12-30T16:38:00.000-08:00

And it's that time of the year again.

For as long as I can remember, I've suffered from the dread "novusannusphobia," or fear of New Year's. Most people can go out and party and have fun on New Year's Eve. I tend to cower in the corner of my couch, watching the ball drop with a rising sense of fear and panic, waiting for the alien ships to descend from the skies or the explosions of mass bombs to detonate.

Yeah, I'm a real cheery person on New Year's.

All (okay, most) joking aside, I've never really liked the whole concept of New Year's Eve. It makes me nervous. Maybe it's because I've never been to a New Year's party. I don't know. I just know that it's always made me skittish, like I'm waiting for another shoe to fall and hit me upside the head.

Here's how my New Year's Eves have been spent for most of my life: pizza is ordered. Horror movies are rented. I sit up with whoever's home and not working that night and watch movies until three or so in the morning. At midnight, we stop the movie and watch Dick Clark drop the ball in Times Square, just to make sure nothing apocalyptic happens. Then, on New Year's day, we sleep late and eat cabbage rolls, and I force myself to eat a tiny bit of cabbage for good luck. The excitement, quite literally, does not stop in my house.

Remember back in 1999, with all the talk about the end of the world and computers becoming our new masters and New Year's Eve harkening the destruction of civilization as we know it? And remember how that didn't exactly happen? I watched TV endlessly that night, cringing as it turned midnight all over the world, wondering if the mother ships were going to finally appear or if my computer was going to spontaneously develop artificial intelligence and make me its bitch (well, even *more* of its bitch). And then....nothing happened. At least that one year I felt somewhat justified in my paranoia.

So that's your new word for the day, kids: novusannusphobia. File that one away next to "consiliumphobia" (fear of resolutions) and "victusterminophobia" (fear of diets).

But anyway...hope everyone has a happy new year and a good 2009...if we can just survive the night. Bwah-ha-hah!

More Tales from the Library of the Damned Idiots

2008-12-18T12:13:00.000-08:00

Anybody out there remember the days of ICQ?

Back in the late '9os, it was the go-to time-waster of the library director of my old library, as well as his henchman--er, assistant director. They would spend most of the day setting up illicit trysts (one of which, I heard, occurred in the library's own storeroom) and flirting with people online. I'd hear that damned "uh-oh!" alert in my dreams.

Not to say that I didn't get on ICQ myself. I did...I just didn't use it as an escort service. I never really liked the whole "chatting with strangers" concept, anyway (which makes me a complete freak of nature online, I know). But I did use ICQ...which is where this particular tale begins.

A little background: I was (still am/will always be) a goody two-shoes. Yeah, I'll admit it. I'm proud of it. I don't drink, smoke, pick up men, do drugs, whatever. I'm a very straight arrow. But it's not like I bragged about it or tried to put myself on a pedestal about it. That's just how I've always been. Which made me stick out like a sore thumb at the library.

The director and assistant director, for lack of better terminology, liked to "party." And as Eddie Murphy once immortalized in song, they liked to party all the time. And they didn't like the fact that I didn't join their reindeer games. Even though I'd considered them both friends, I didn't hang out with them after work, and I certainly didn't go out drinking or picking up men with them. So because of my tendencies to be so boringly goody-two-shoes, they decided to have a little fun with the lonely little wallflower.

A little more background: I'm not the type of woman who incites instant lust, which is just fine and dandy with me. I've been on this planet long enough to know how men see me, and I'm cool with it. Plus, I'm a little bit on the intelligent side and I'm not totally naive. Keep that in mind as the tale unfolds.

Anyway, one day I'm at my post at the front desk and I get an instant message on ICQ. I don't recognize the name, but the sender says that (and I'm paraphrasing from memory here) that he's seen me at the library and would like to get to know me.

Okay...already I'm suspicious.

I respond politely but I don't take the bait. I have a feeling this is a joke, and I'm not going to go along with it.

The guy writes back. He talks about how pretty he thinks I am, and how much he'd like to talk to me. Blah blah blah. By now, I know this is a bunch of BS.

This goes on for a few days. I'm not falling for it. The ICQ guy starts saying stuff about being in the library while I was there. He remarks on how he liked a sweater I was wearing and tells me what it looked like. He asks me why I left at a certain time. He's trying to make me think that he's watching me and that he knows me but I don't know him, but boy he sure is interested in me and would really like to date me.

By this point, I'm pissed off. I suspect the director and assistant director, because they're just cruel and sadistic enough to try to make a person like me think that she's got a secret admirer, just to pull the rug out from under me once I start believing it's real. I never thought it was for real, because as I stated above, I know how men see me, and I'm just not the type of woman who gets all kinds of spontaneous compliments. The creepy stalker aspect of it notwithstanding, I was angry because I suspected the AD (who I thought was a friend) and the director were working together to try to humiliate me.

I let them know that I thought it was them. I asked them pointblank. They denied it. The AD kept trying to convince me that it was for real. She really wanted me to buy into it (I don't know why she wanted to embarrass/hurt me so much) and I refused.

This went on for about a week or two. Then one night I had to close the library by myself, and while I was turning off all the computers, I saw that she had left her ICQ open on her computer in the workroom. And that the person she was talking to, a guy in another state, was unaware that she was gone for the day and was asking her questions about what he should say to me.

So...long story short: she, probably the director, and some guy she knew from out of state were working together to make me think that I was being stalked by somebody online. Great friend, huh?

I don't think I've ever been more angry in my life. I mean, I was pop-an-artery, blood-pressure-cuff-exploding furious. I confronted her about it that weekend (online, which seems only appropriate) and she tried to laugh it off as just a joke. Then it got ugly. We ended up not speaking to each other at work for months. The director loved the conflict at first (because he was a champion shit-stirrer), but when he started catching flack for it, he tried to order us to get along. Not hardly. I went to work, did my job, spoke to either of them whenever I absolutely had to speak to them, and that was that.

Funny, funny joke that was.

So when I read about the recent controversy about a girl who killed herself because another girl and her mother (and some other people) played one of those "funny" online jokes on her (the girl and her mother posed as a boy to try to make the other girl think he liked her, then turned on her to humiliate her), I'm of the opinion that the whole bunch of them should be punished to the fullest extent of the law.

And people wonder why I'm so cynical and distrustful...

Meme

2008-12-10T11:06:00.000-08:00

I've never really done one of these before...mostly because I'm afraid it will be utterly boring to anyone who reads this blog. But I'm stuck for something to write about today and this will help ease my brain into writing mode. So my apologies if you get bored--please check back soon for something hopefully more interesting. Remember, you can't have a meme without ME.

Name: Rebecca Brock. Almost was Jennifer, but my parents changed their minds. I don't think I seem like a "Jenny." I'm definitely more of a "Becky" or "Beck." I hadn't really noticed before, but it's a gosh-darn wholesome name, isn't it?

Childhood Ambition: It's pretty much always been to be a writer, ever since third grade or so. For a while, though, I thought I might be a doctor, probably an obstetrician, but that was based on me trying to impress my dad (who thought writing was a nice hobby but that I would need something to fall back on). Then I realized two important things about being a doctor: 1) I would have to dissect cadavers in med school; and 2) I would be spending a lot of time looking at strangers' hoo-ha's. My medical career died in that moment.

Fondest Memory: This one's hard, because I have a lot of good memories. I couldn't pinpoint which one was my fondest. So here's some examples of my good memories:

The Christmas my parents bought me the entire collection of Fangoria magazines up to that point (I think it was in the early 80s, so there were three or four year's worth of books) and hid them way under the tree so they could do that whole "Christmas Story" thing of asking me who that last present was for. I was thrilled with the present. It also allowed me to become pen pals with Erich, who is still a good friend to this day.
The time our family took a vacation in Maine and we ate at a place called "Lobster in the Rough"--a lobster shack out in the woods. Dad and my brothers had lobster, but since I didn't like it at that time, I had hot dogs with Mom. Those were some good hot dogs, too.
Just about every Christmas Eve that I can remember from childhood (and up to now, actually): my brothers and I would always wake up and hear Santa jingling his bells and rustling packages. One year, when we lived in a two story house, we sat at the second floor landing and listened to the grandfather clock chime every fifteen minutes, waiting for it to be time to get up (usually about five or so). Another year, my Dad almost got locked out of the house after playing Santa. That would be bad enough, but he was just wearing a robe and underwear when it happened.
The afternoon a stray cat decided to trust me enough to bring her newborn kittens to my house and I suddenly inherited a long-haired, black and gray tabby and her five beautiful long-haired white kittens. Those cats helped keep me from going crazy when I was going through a stressful time with work. Never doubt the healing ability of cats.
There's more, but I don't have the time to write them all out. Let's just say, this is making me realized I've been very fortunate.

Soundtrack: This depends on what I'm doing. If I'm writing horror, my soundtrack is probably a lot of Rob Zombie/Marilyn Mansion/horror movie score music. If I'm writing romance, it's all soft pop and love songs. Right now, I'm listening to a lot of Christmas music.

Wildest Dream: Sadly enough, I don't think I have a "wildest dream." My dreams are pretty reasonable--have enough money to get out of debt one day, find an audience for my writing, etc. If I had to say, though, I'd guess it would be to win a super massive lottery and have millions of dollars to give to my family and friends and charities, and go buy my farmland where I could run a no-kill animal shelter.

Proudest Moment: Maybe the day I made my first professional writing sale to "Book of More Flesh"? I don't know...I'm kinda proud of getting through the day sane, so my "proud" threshold is set pretty low.

Biggest Challenge: In total honesty, I'd have to say this would have to be my battle with my weight and my blood sugar, trying to get the first one down and the second one under control. Anyone who has been lucky enough to never have a weight problem should never have to know how hard it can be. It's a daily struggle.

Alarm Clock: I can usually count on one of three things waking me up at approximately the right time every morning: 1) my alarm (of course); 2) my dog, who needs to go outside at least three or four times a night; and 3) a phone call from an 800 number (probably a creditor). Every ding damn morning.

Perfect Day: Gosh let's see...it would be at the start of a vacation from work. Sleep until 10 or so, then roll out of bed to a perfectly clean and organized house. Work on crafting something for a few hours (crochet or sewing or something), eat lunch, spend the afternoon watching movies or catching up on an entire season of a TV series, eat dinner that someone else has fixed and will clean up after, putter around online for an hour or so, then write until one or two in the morning. If you haven't noticed, I'm pretty much a homebody. And boring as dirt.

First job: Blargh. Horrible. If the pits of hell had an insurance agent, this office would have been it. I was hired to help them with their filing (this was before they computerized) and all I could do was pull files and refile them. They didn't teach me how to take a claim or do anything else. After a week of this, I was miserable. Florescent lights that flickered. A local radio station that either played country music or read out funeral announcements. A boss who was a total dickheaded bitch. Miserable. A month later, I was "let go" because the other boss's son was off from college and needed work. Fine with me. I realized then that I'd rather be unemployed than unhappy.

Indulgence(s): Books, mainly. Lots of books. I'm a total greedy pig for books. Even if I'm not going to read them immediately, I want them in my possession so I can read them when I want.

Last purchase: Christmas presents. God bless online shopping.

Favorite movie: Again, I've got too many to narrow down to just one. I love horror movies (well, good ones, at least--I'm a vicious critic of substandard ones), so the George Romero zombie movies are my favorite, as well as "Return of the Living Dead,"and the "Dawn of the Dead" remake. I like comedies, too, the dumber the better sometimes. And romantic comedies. But not so much "chick flicks" like "Sex and the City" or anything with Renee Zellweger.

Inspiration: Sappy as it sounds, my family...especially my mom, because she totally remade her life after divorce (went back to school, got a good job, became independent). She showed me that a person can take care of themselves without depending on anyone else. That might sound more cynical than it actually is, but it's a good lesson.

My life is: still in progress, thank God.

My blog is: apparently read by somebody, since it's coming up on a thousand hits (and I know they can't all be mine, checking to see how many hits I've gotten).

Traditions Pt. 1

2008-12-06T09:51:00.000-08:00

Ah, Christmas. I love it. I really do. I've been extraordinarily lucky (fortunate, blessed, whatever you want to call it) to have the most wonderful family in the history of the world, and we have our Christmas traditions that we still try to follow every year when it comes to our Christmas tree.

One of our most important traditions is this angel tree-topper. It's been in our family for about 40 years now (my parents got it for their first Christmas together). Every year, I sweat bullets until we take the angel out of the box and see that she's still in one piece. This picture really doesn't do her justice. She's been on top of the tree every Christmas that I can ever remember.

We also have a tradition of watching "The Wiz" while decorating our Christmas tree. I have no idea how this began, but I have a vague memory of it being on HBO in the background back in the early 1980s while we decorated the tree (and it was a good thing we did it earlier in the evening; after "The Wiz" I remember "It's Alive" being on). It's hard to describe how I feel when I hear the opening bars of the credits. It's like dozens of Christmases telescoping in on themselves, years of doing the exact same thing while listening to that exact music. None of us know how we began associating that movie with Christmas, but it's not the same without it. I'd say we've watched "The Wiz" while decorating the tree for almost thirty years. Wow.

This is one of my favorite Christmas ornaments. It was made for me a long time ago by a very good friend of mine, Erich Lubatti. It's an elf arm, and it takes a proudly prominent place on the tree every year. It's probably around twenty years old, believe it or not.

I'm a wanna-be Martha Stewart when it comes to this time of the year. I always have great and grand plans to make cookies and bake pies and cakes and sew and crochet ornaments...and sometimes I do. Most times I don't. Here, though, are some ornaments I've managed to make over the years.

What's a Christmas tree without the embodiment of all that is ancient and evil? Say "Ia!" to Christmas Cthulhu!

I made these two bad boys for my brother, Dave, who loves all things Tim Burton. Cross stitch, no pattern but my own. Thank you.

This fellow with the Colgate smile is Red Jack, a character that Dave created. I made a couple of versions of him last year. Not necessarily an ornament, per se, but he looks good stuck in the tree.

This is Melty, the sad snowman. Seems that the forgotten victims of global warming are the animated snowmen. I made two versions--one with the hat and one without. I might make some to sell (as well as some other ornaments), so if anybody's interested in having a Melty of their own, check out my Etsy page.

And here is the finished tree. Please excuse my crappy photography skills. It looks better in person.

Let the Christmas Season begin...

2008-11-30T17:09:00.000-08:00

Be you naughty, or be you nice?

Another video

2008-11-23T12:06:00.001-08:00

I'm loving this editing software. I just wish I had more clips to work with. Here's one that I just finished, in case you're a fan of Izzy/Denny on Grey's Anatomy.

I've discovered editing software

2008-11-23T00:34:00.000-08:00

It's not very good, but this is my first time playing around with this stuff. And so, of course, I thought I'd use one of my favorite topics: Jeffrey Dean Morgan. [Caution: video contains the f-bomb, in case you're skittish about such things]

A Little Quirkiness

2008-11-19T13:15:00.000-08:00

As long as I can remember, I've always written stories with a particular "cast" in mind. I'd base my characters on actors I liked and "borrow" their physical traits and imagine them in my head as I wrote my stories. Looking back on my old stuff, it's really weird (and strangely hilarious) to see who my celebrity crushes were at the time...because I had some real doozies.

You see, I grew up in the '80s. In a time when most girls my age were sighing over Tom Cruise in "Top Gun," I was more interested in Michael Ironside (who, incidentally, was also in "Top Gun" but is probably best known either for his work on the TV show "V" or as the guy who made somebody's head explode in "Scanners"). Mr. Ironside made more than a few guest appearances in my stories when I was a teenager--in fact, I was guilty of writing fan fiction before anyone ever knew what fan fiction was. He was just perfect in my stories, though--he looked like a mean son of a bitch (and usually played the bad guy), but in my stuff, he was always a nice guy underneath the glower. Even as a teenage girl, I had a weakness for balding older men.

Later in my teens, circa 1989 or so, I wrote a werewolf novel called "Wolf's Blood" with the stupendously original plot of an undercover cop who was also a werewolf (hey, back then it WAS a fairly original idea; I've been ripped off a half-dozen times since then...I'm looking at YOU, "Nick Knight"). Anyway, at that time I also developed an interest in the pseudo-metal group Winger (remember them? "Seventeen"? "Madelene"? Anyone?)

So can you see where this one's headed?

Yes. I will admit it now without shame or embarrassment. I cast Kip Winger as a werewolf cop in my novel. Robert Picardo was his partner. I forget who the love interest was, but the bad guy was Richard Lynch. Hey, laugh if you will, but in my head that was a pretty damn good cast. And Kip Winger was mucho good looking back then, all toothy and hairy and werewolfy. I defend my decision and stand by it. So there.

And at the other end of the hair spectrum, there was Mitch Pileggi, who blipped up on my radar back in '89 after I saw "Shocker." Yow. My poor innocent self was completely taken by that big, bald, angry man. He popped up in a few of my stories, usually as a heroic family man trying to save his kids...although I do have one special story where he's not such a nice guy. That one's been read by exactly three people (myself included in that count) and it's not for public consumption. Heh.

Once I started moving into romance novels as well as horror, I had to try to find more conventionally accepted role models for my characters...meaning, basically, that I had to try to find someone who would suit the status quo instead of my own peculiar tastes. I started writing romance seriously (sorta) back in 1993 when I was at school--I started working on the book that would eventually become "The Giving Season" (which will hopefully be published by Pearlsong Press next holiday season). Wow, did I go through the guys for that one. Nobody really felt "right" in the role. I think I even tried George Clooney in it once, and I don't even particularly like George Clooney. Gary Sinese did a brief stint in my head as the character. Jamie Sheridan. No one really clicked.

So I put that one aside and started working on a pirate time-travel story (that I'd originally started back in high school). Went through a lot of guys on that one too--Russell Crowe as the good pirate; Bruce Payne as the bad one (Payne, by the way, was the blonde terrorist in the movie "Passenger 57"). Peter Wingfield (Methos from the "Highlander" tv show, as seen on the left) as the good pirate; Adrian Paul (Duncan MacLeod from "Highlander") as the bad one--see the theme there? Again, I couldn't get anyone to fit the story. As a result, the stories faded into the background. If I couldn't sustain an interest in the characters, how could I expect a reader to do the same?

Time passed, as time often will, and I went back to the pirate story first. By this time, I had discovered Gerard Butler. Boing! Now is that the makings for a good pirate or what? And as the evil pirate? How about Clive Owen? Yup yup. Interest rekindled.

And then there's "The Giving Season" and my as yet untitled comagirl story. I needed a good hero, somebody kind and sweet and funny and handsome...but who could I use in my mental movie? Who could I possibly cast? Hmmm...

Enter the Jeffster. Jeffrey Dean Morgan, that is.

I could actually hear the click when I went back and imagined him as the character. Even weirder, it was like I'd written it with him in mind the whole time...even before I'd even seen him in anything. So Mr. Morgan has now become my new go-to guy for pretty much all my fiction, horror and romance and everything else.

(I'm laying claim to this unhealthy fascination with him NOW, by the way, before he becomes a huge movie star when "Watchmen" comes out next March).

When "The Giving Season" comes out next year, I'll owe a special thank you to Jeffrey Dean Morgan for the pure inspiration he unknowingly gave me. He helped me resuscitate a novel that was bound for the desk drawer and actually make it something publishable. I'd like to think that he shares a lot of the traits as my characters, but unfortunately I know that all too often, celebrities don't exactly live up to the standards we imagine for them. But still...I'd like to think he's that nice of a guy. He likes dogs, after all. How bad could he be?

So that's my weird quirk #9,203,495. I cast celebrities in my stories in order to make them more fun to write. Some people might find that interesting...but I kind of doubt it.

To Mom or not to Mom...

2008-11-19T10:16:00.000-08:00

This is going to be a serious entry on a serious topic. I apologize in advance. I'll return to my normal program of nonsensical twittery soon.

At lunch today at work, we were talking about taking in foster kids, and I realized that I have a very strong desire to be a foster mother. Maybe not right now, but at some point in my life. And it's funny, because I never had the biological alarm clock going off to have babies of my own. I never went through the baby rabies that many women my age have gone through. The thought of giving birth, frankly, scares the hell out of me, and I've never felt the burning need to pass on my DNA (wondrous though it may be) to future generations.

But...the thought of taking in kids who don't have anyone to love them and giving them a home and support and comfort and peace really appeals to me. I mean, the thought of it is bringing tears to my eyes as I type this. My brother used to work in a youth shelter and he would tell me stories of kids who were just used up and thrown away by the people who were supposed to protect them. The thought of it enrages me while breaking my heart at the same time. I'm a firm believer that "nurture" has far more to do with how a child grows up than "nature." A lot of these kids just don't have a chance.

I've always thought I would be a good mom, but I've also pretty much always known that the traditional family unit wouldn't be the route my life would take (you know, with a husband in the picture). If I could take in a foster kid or two, I'd probably spoil them rotten. And my mom, who doesn't necessarily want grandchildren, would be worse than me in spoiling them (not to mention my two brothers). Any child I fostered would be welcomed into a ready made family, with a loving mother, grandmother, and uncles (not to mention cats and dogs). And I would love those kids more than anything.

Right now, the option of being a foster mother isn't in the cards for me, but I hope that one day soon I'll be able to take some kids into my home. It's weird for me to think of being a parent, because for years I'd accepted the idea that it wouldn't happen for me, but I like the idea of being able to make a difference in someone's life and raise a child to be happy and healthy and secure. I know being a foster parent would be more difficult than I can even imagine, but it would be more fulfilling than just about anything else I can imagine, too.

Anyone who is reading this who might be able to take in a foster child--maybe your own children are grown and off to college, or maybe you have room in your homes and hearts for just one more--please consider contacting your state's foster agency and looking into being a foster parent. So many kids need someone strong and loving to protect them. Every child who finds a home may grow up some day to do great things. Give them the chance.

Serious entry complete. We now rejoin the nonsensical prattery already in progress.

Speaking of freaky religious horror movies...

2008-11-17T20:16:00.000-08:00

I've seen this movie, "Beyond the Door," exactly once. It was made in 1974, in the midst of dozens of "The Exorcist" ripoffs, and it freaks me out even more than "The Exorcist." Seriously. That's why I've only watched it one time. I really don't think I could make myself sit through it again.

More than likely, my imagination and memory has over-exaggerated the creepiness of the movie. The plot, in a nutshell, is fairly simple: a pregnant woman, already the mother of two, is possessed by the devil (or some random demon) and levitating puke-spewing follows. The woman is played by Juliet Mills, one of the most wholesome actresses to survive the 1960s. She starred in "Nanny and the Professor," for pete's sake! (She's also married to Maxwell Caulfield, who, you might recall, starred in the immortal "Grease 2" and not much else).

I actually have a copy of this movie sitting on my DVD shelf. My brother bought it, but I haven't dared to watch it yet. I remember all the parts I need to remember, and I don't care to see them again. I'd probably laugh at the utter badness of the movie now, but every time I think about slapping it in the DVD player, I remember snippets of the movie...like the scene where her kids' toys come to life and send them, screaming, into their mother's room, where they find her laying on her stomach BUT LOOKING RIGHT AT THEM! Yes, the classic 360 head move, done in a way that messed me up worse than the one in "The Exorcist."

Oh, and there's also the scene where she's levitating (vertically, if I recall) over the bed. I don't know if it was a glitch in the videotape when I saw it or if it was on purpose, but the film kept stopping and starting while she was doing all her floaty demon stuff. Very weird. I always had an unreasonable fear of watching "The Exorcist" and seeing Regan look directly into the camera at me (and yes, I saw "Repossessed" and was appropriately freaked out when Linda Blair did it in that movie).

Audiences today are so jaded and cool that "Beyond the Door" would probably not even register as a "real" horror movie. But to me, it's on the same creepiness level as "The Exorcist." Maybe even worse, because with the "name brand" movie, I know all the behind the scenes stuff with Dick Smith and the make up and the actors and all that happy crap. With "Beyond the Door," it's just a badly dubbed Italian movie that I know nothing about. Maybe Nanny DID get possessed while making the movie! (Okay, I know that didn't happen, but you get the idea).

Even if you can laugh it off, just look at the poster for this movie! Look at the eyes! They friggin follow you! This is from the golden age of exploitation horror movies, when the poster was usually better than the movie itself. This is the kind of poster that would have sent me screaming when I was a kid, if I saw it. I'm not that crazy about it now, as an adult.

I'd be curious to hear what other people think of this movie. Obviously, it's not as scary as I remember it to be (nothing is ever anything as you remember it to be). The thing is, it's just scary enough to make me not really want to watch it again to see if I'm right. Call me coward. Call me chicken. I just know I ain't sitting through it again.

Lose your appetite, not your soul

2008-11-16T17:08:00.000-08:00

See this picture? Back in the mid-eighties, a local restaurant used to have it hanging at one of the booths. You could sit down, eat a hamburger and fries, and contemplate the idea of the Rapture causing planes to crash into buildings and multi-car collisions on the highway. Fun stuff.

This painting really messed me up as a kid. I mean, it seriously creeped me out. I wish the image was larger, but if you look at the lower right, you'll see zombie souls rising out of the cemetery. You can only imagine the chaos and horror going on everywhere else in the city. Think that made the hamburgers go down easy? Think again, pal. Think again.

I remember when I first heard about the concept of the Rapture. One of my junior high friends was a mega-Christian, and she absolutely could not wait for it to happen. As she explained it to me, all of God's chosen (i.e. Christians who belonged to her church) would suddenly disappear in the blink of an eye and ascend to Heaven without dying. Dead Christians would be brought up out of their graves and the rest of us would have to live through trials and tribulations the likes of which we could not imagine.

Yikes. Color me freaked out.

The idea of the Rapture and the resurrection of the dead has stuck with me all these years. And it still creeps me out. So imagine how thrilled (really; not being sarcastic here) I was when I found this little ditty of a zombie novel: "The Dead," by Mark Rogers. The plotline is basically ripped from Revelations--the Rapture happens, good people disappear, the wicked and the agnostic are left to deal with pissed off resurrected people--and it's one hell of a good book. I much prefer it to many of the gazillions of other (mostly self-published) zombie novels on the market today.

I think the reason I like this book so much is because it really hits a nerve in me that most horror just can't touch. Vampires roaming around? Yawn. Werewolves? Boor-ing. Ghosts, goblins, monster? Snore. I'm not easy scared by horror movies, and I'm definitely not easy disturbed by horror novels. But if you add a religous element, I'm usually sleeping with the lights on for a while.

There might have been a point to this post at one time, but it's lost now. To sum up: the Rapture is scary business, and "The Dead" is a really great zombie book that I highly recommend. Ain't nothing scarier than religion.

Don't judge me!

2008-11-09T10:27:00.001-08:00

I've been adding music to my mp3 player and I'm sudden gobstricken by the weirdness of my tastes in music. I'm not kidding. "Eclectic" just isn't a strong enough word to describe it.

I should pause to mention that I'm not cool when it comes to today's music. In fact, I'm supremely irritated by new bands that have oddball, pretentious names ("Death Cab For Cutie" is one example that instantly springs to mind). I don't know who is considered hot or what underground bands the kewl kids are listening to, and frankly, I don't care to know. My musical tastes have been ridiculed my whole life, so I'm thick-skinned when it comes to criticizing how not with-it I am. Oh, I'm such a music nerd. Boo friggin hoo.

Here's what's on my Zune at this moment:

Soundtracks:
"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" (yeah, I admit it)

Selected songs from "House of 1000 Corpses" ("Pussy Liquor" is my favorite) and "The Devil's Rejects" ("Freebird" gives me the creeps, for some weird reason)

"Across the Universe"

"Phantom of the Opera" (the Gerard Butler version--yowza)

"Swing Kids" ("Sing Sing Sing" is the best big band song, ever)

"What's Love Got to Do With It" (the Tina Turner bio--love "Rock Me Baby")

"South Park: the Movie"

A few songs from "The Punisher"

"Bye Bye Birdie"

Robert Rodriguez's "Planet Terror"

A Danny Elfman block of "The Nightmare Before Christmas," "The Corpse Bride," and "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory"

Joss Whedon's "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog"

"Hairspray"

"Xanadu" (the original movie, not the godawful play)

Various Artists

Prince--"Let's Get Crazy," "Batdance," "Kiss"

"Boingo" (entire album)--Boingo (I highly recommend this, by the way)

"Number 1s"--Beatles (because I love them so)

Various Madonna songs from the recent past ("Hung Up," "Frozen," "Deeper & Deeper," etc.)

Katy Perry--"Hot & Cold," "I Kissed a Girl"

Bloodhound Gang--"The Bad Touch"

Limp Bizkit--"Behind Blue Eyes"

Robbie Williams--"Angels"

Smashing Pumpkins--"The Beginning is the End is the Beginning" (the cool song from the Watchmen trailer)

Tracy Bonham--"Mother Mother"

Evanescence--"Call Me When You're Sober," "Going Under," "My Immortal"

Marilyn Manson--"Tainted Love," "Personal Jesus," "Beautiful People," others

Johnny Cash--"The Man Comes Around" (used in the great title sequence of the "Dawn of the Dead" remake), "God's Gonna Cut You Down"

Britney Spears--"Womanizer," "Gimme More," "Piece of Me," others

Ramones--"Blitzkrieg Bop," "I Wanna Be Sedated," others

Peggy Lee--"I'm A Woman," "My Man"

Various other songs: "Down With the Sickness," "White Rabbit," "Gold Digger," Nickleback songs (yeah, Nickleback, I admit it), etc. and so on.

So that's just a sampling...I also have a lot of disco on my laptop, as well as more soundtracks ("Land of the Dead," "Deep Blue Sea," "War of the Worlds," "300," and many many more). I love '80s music and I like a lot of classical music (especially if it's all dark and ominous). My tastes go all all over the spectrum. I like what I like.

I guess in a way, I'm a music snob in that I can't stand it when people claim to never listen to Top 40 pop or think that as soon as a band gets famous, it sells out. Please. As I said...I like what I like, and I don't apologize for loving the "Sgt. Pepper" soundtrack, or for knowing all the words to most of Britney Spears' songs. If that makes me a music nerd, then so be it. I wear my badge of dorkiness with pride.

Yet Another Weird Dream

2008-11-08T16:36:00.000-08:00

Okay...this one, I can't blame on the NyQuil.

I realize that hearing about other people's dreams is about as interesting as watching dust gather, but the dream I had last night freaked me right the hell out. I mean, I woke up actually a little scared. That rarely happens to me, folks.

In the dream, I was on a plane, sitting in the middle of the row, and all of a sudden I could feel myself becoming possessed. I'm talking "Exorcist" level possession. Levitating, head-spinning, green-puking, monster-faced possession. And I couldn't do anything about it. I could feel the demon taking over, and all I could do was watch it attack the people around me. Remember...I was ON A PLANE. Can you imagine what that would be like, to be sitting next to someone who all of a sudden morphs into a demon-faced puke slinger?

I tried to fight it, and I think I eventually got it under control/out of me. Or so I thought. The freakiest part of the dream was after I was off the plane and I walked past a window. I glanced over and instead of my normal reflection:

I saw this, instead --->

Yeah. That's a double take I'll never forget.

(Although I do see a certain similarity about the nose...my eyes are much less mucus-yellow, though)

Blast from my past

2008-11-07T11:24:00.000-08:00

Last night I had a dream about a boy I liked in grade school. I think this was the end effect of taking NyQuil before going to bed, but it was weird nonetheless, because I literally have not thought of this guy for many, many years.

Like I said...weird.

The guy's name was Larry England, and we were friends pretty much throughout grade school. In each grade, he would either sit in front of me or I would sit in front of him and we'd always get in trouble for turning around and talking to each other. He was a mini-jock (he played in the pee-wee football leagues in grade school) and I was already a nerd, bringing books and magazines to school every day, but for some reason we got along really well. Of course, I had a crush on him, but so did every other girl in the class. But he wasn't friends with every other girl in the class, so I had a slight advantage.

I've been thinking about grade school all day today because of this dream. I remember that back then, when a boy and girl liked each other, they'd "go together," with the boy traditionally being the one to ask the girl to "go with" him. That was a big thing, back then. It really got popular when we were in fifth grade--that's when everybody started to pair off. Well, everybody but me. I was the girl who brought books (without pictures!) to school everyday, after all.

I have one crystal clear memory of grade school that--I realize in retrospect--perfectly predicted the way all my relationships with guys would go for the rest of my life. It was sixth grade. Larry had just broken up with his girlfriend, Shannon, and the rumor buzzing around class was that he was going to ask another girl to go with him. Because this was way before I turned cynical and pessimistic about all things pertaining to the male species, I thought surely *I* would be the one he liked. After all, we talked all the time and were really good friends and obviously he would ask me to go with him now that he'd broken up with Shannon, right?

Well...

Cut to gym class. Nobody's really doing anything, so I'm standing in the gymnasium talking to my sorta friend Kim, who was the wealthiest girl in the class and, subsequently, pretty popular. So we're standing there gabbing and here comes Larry. My heart leaps into my throat. This is it! I'm finally going to have a boyfriend! He's going to ask me to go with him and I'm going to say yes and it's all going to be so great!

He comes up to us. Says hi to me. Looks at Kim. Asks HER if she'd go with him.

I'm standing there like I've been kicked in the gut, totally gobsmacked. Kim? But he never even talks to Kim! When did he start liking Kim? What just happened here!? I thought he was going to ask ME to go with him! Wait...what?

Heartbroken, I sat on the swings alone at recess, singing "Hopelessly Devoted to You" to myself (because I loved all things pertaining to 'Grease' and wanted to be just like Sandy) and feeling miserable. Was I still friends with Larry after that? Of course. Did he talk to me more than he talked to Kim? Yeah, buddy, he did. That made me feel a little better, in a weird way.

After grade school, he went to a different junior high than me because of where he lived. After that, we were at the same high school, but by that point, too much had changed. He had gone on to play football in jr. high and high school, so he ran with a totally different crowd. Plus, too much time had passed since grade school. He'd made new friends and was in different classes than me. I don't think I ever spoke to him in high school, sadly enough. Of course, by that time I was a full-fledged nerd and he was a football player, and we all know that the only time those two social groups meet are in bad '80s teen movies.

But that's the story of my friend Larry and me. I wonder if he remembers me at all. I was the girl in grade school who brought Famous Monsters and Mad Magazines to class and once wrote a sequel to Halloween 2 in which everybody in the class was killed by Michael Myers. You know...the weird girl who sat behind you.

Apparently my subconscious mind remembers him. Wherever he is now (probably married with a couple of kids, like everyone else I graduated with) I wish him well.

Not to get too political, but...

2008-11-05T11:47:00.000-08:00

VOTE

2008-11-03T22:16:00.000-08:00

It's been a long, hard eight years, people. Is there a light at the end of the tunnel? Yes, but it's too soon to know if it's a freight train coming our way (apologies to Metallica).

So get out and vote. And remember...you can't bitch later if you don't vote today.

Regan MacNeil SO needed this!

2008-10-22T13:16:00.000-07:00

Like, ohmigod, last night I totally IM'ed Captain Howdy and he was, like, so super stoked to talk to me again. He, like, asked me if I had, y'know, a boyfriend and I, like, said, "No way!" and he, like, said, "Well, I want to hang out with you!" and I was, like, "Sure, okay, whatevs!" and he was all, like, "Kewl beans. See ya soon! LOL!"

So, like, now I'm waiting to see if he's going to, like, show up or something. Mom's, like, downstairs having some dumb party with her ancient friends and she, like, wanted me to come down and say hi and be all cute and stuff. I want to stay up here in my room and, like, ride my bed some more (totally more fun than Space Mountain!) but I guess I'll go down and say hi to that stupid astronaut she's trying to, like, impress. I'm, like, so TOTALLY pissed!

Luv,

Regan!

Tales from the Library of the Damned...Idiots (pt. 1)

2008-10-20T13:01:00.000-07:00

Settle down children and I'll tell you a tale of horror and damnation.

I'll tell you the story of the Hickville Area Public Library (names changed not to protect the innocent, but to protect my innocent behind from a lawsuit). <Cue scary music, lightning flash, and evil laughter here>

In the summer of 1997, I was--to be completely honest--going crazy. I'd graduated from college with my BA (English) in December 1995 and I couldn't even get arrested in Hicksville. I put in applications everywhere and heard nothing--I was over-educated and under-qualified, with no experience and no social/political connections. It was a bad situation, made worse by the feeling that I had done all the things I was supposed to do (went to college, got good grades, earned my degree) and now that I was ready for my reward for all that good citizenship, the world had to decided to tell me to cram it in my cakehole and moved on.

Meanwhile, I stayed home every day (I didn't drive at that point--like it would matter; I didn't have a car) and took care of my grandfather, who could be extremely difficult some days. I didn't even have any cats at that time. Every day blended into the next. Time passed slowly, yet with a horrifying speed. Remember...these were the prehistoric days when the Internet was fresh and new and a novelty not to be found in every home, and email and blogs and forums were weird words that no one really understood yet. It was a really terrible and dark time, and when I think back on it now, it's like years of my life were just swallowed up by a black hole.

Being unemployed and virtually useless really affected me deeply. I knew I was losing my mind when I lost my shit one day because an 8 hour videotape of "Weird Science" (the tv show) was messed up.

Yeah. "Weird Science." I had a crying, snotting hissy fit over "Weird Science." I'd bought my one-way ticket to Crazytown.

But that's a whole different therapy session. Back to the story: in 1997, I was unemployed and desperate. I mean, DESPERATE. Hicksville didn't even have a Wal-Mart back then, or else I would have been working there. So one day, in the local paper, I happened to look at the personal ads and there it was: the portent of my doom:

Hicksville was getting a public library (its first EVER) and it was hiring.

Because I loved books and reading, and because I had a BA in English that was doing me about as much good as tits on a snake, I thought I'd interview for the job. The interview was just chock-full of stuff you're not supposed to do during interviews, like asking me if I was married (no) or if I had kids (no) or if I was planning on having kids (oh, HELL no). After the interview, I volunteered to help out at a book sale (not because of my civic-minded duty--I just wanted first crack at the books) and I think that helped me cinch the deal.

I interviewed for the director's position, but unbeknownst to me, it had already been filled by a political appointee (much more on this later). In fact, I didn't even know I'd gotten the damn job until I had to break down and come out and ask if I'd been hired. That should have been my first warning. That and the fact that the job was 20 hours a week ("But you'll become full time as soon as we get settled!") and minimum wage. No insurance. No vacation days. No sick days. No benefits. No retirement.

What a dream job! Of course, I was thrilled.

The director of the library was a short, trollish man who I will dub "DK" (the letters "or" or "ic" could be inserted in there and perfectly reflect the man). He was a sweaty, red-faced guy with prematurely gray hair and beard and a face that could generously be called "textured" (acne scars beneath the scar of a car accident caused by his drunk driving; what a winner!). DK thought, however, he was the most charming gosh-darn guy on the face of the earth. Everybody was his buddy...especially teenagers. More on that later, too.

I'm naturally skittish around people, but DK seemed nice enough at first. There were three library assistants (me, K, and L) and we all got along well. The job was massive at first: I was hired in July, and we were expected to open a combination public/middle school library by the end of August. That meant that all of the books had to be entered into the database. All the hardback novels had to be wrapped (that plastic cover that library books always have). All the cards had to be made for the students. All the books had to be shelved. It was hard work.

But I loved it. Loved it. I finally felt like I'd found the place where I was meant to work. I was surrounded by books and by co-workers who I came to view as friends. It was my first real job, and it was a perfect fit.

School started, students flooded the place, and still I loved the job. These were the days before Internet filters, so we had to do a regular "Porn Patrol" whenever someone reported kids looking at porno sites. My favorite incident came when a kid was busted red-handed looking at a site called "Boobopolis." His excuse? "I was doing research on breast cancer."

Uh-huh. Riiiiight. I saw what those guys were doing with their hands, kid, and it wasn't giving those women breast exams.

For that first year, things were wonderful. I wasn't working many hours, but I didn't have many bills back then. I was the Story Hour Lady on Saturdays, and I'd read stories and do crafts with little kids. We all got into the routine of running a library. Not a one of us had ever worked in a library before, so we all went into the job at the same skill level. We learned the computer system together. We learned librarianship together. Again, let me repeat and emphasize: We were all on the same level.

I loved my job so much that I'd go in on my days off just to volunteer. I liked hanging out with DK and K and L, and we had a friendly, family atmosphere. I considered myself obscenely lucky to have a job that I liked so much.

And then, as they always do, all good things came to an end.

--To be continued--

Feeling Better

2008-10-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

I got all the bile and outrage out of my system with that last post, so I'm feeling much better today.

The only problem is that I have absolutely nothing to talk about. So here's a cool picture.

A Few Words About Rejection

2008-10-19T11:20:00.000-07:00

Before I write anything else, I want to assert that I am not bitter. Some people might read this and dismiss it as sour grapes or jealousy. It's not. Trust me.

I received my rejection today. Not a surprise, as I knew it would be coming. I think I've mentioned before that my style of writing is a world away from the style of the editor of this anthology. The previous story of mine that he actually accepted into an anthology was done so grudgingly--and I know this because he told me. It was a zombie story that he thought was too "intense." Why it made it into the final cut, I'll never fully know, but he definitely let me know that he really didn't think it deserved to be there.So today, after almost two months of waiting for a reply, I get my rejection. Here it is in it's entirety:

Thanks for sending this in, but I'm going to pass on it
I apologize for taking so long to get back to you

And that's it.

Now I've been in the writing game for a long time, and I've received my share of rejections, but this is laughable. If this had been a submission to a big publishing house, I could understand the brevity and cut and paste anonymity of it. I wouldn't expect any kind of personal note from an editor who might have had to wade through hundreds of hundreds of submissions.

But this is a rejection from an editor who has worked with me before, who (I thought) I had a professional relationship with (however tenuous). This is a rejection from someone who received 268 submissions to the anthology--which, I realize, is a lot of work to get through but...isn't that his job? Isn't that what he's getting paid to do?

I've held my tongue on this subject until my rejection was official, but this editor (whom I will not name, due to professional courtesy) has allowed his "power" to get to his head. He has continually updated his blog with the statistics of how many rejections he has sent out so far, and each blog post has attracted a multitude of ass-kissing hopefuls who think that maybe if they make a personal connection with the editor, he'll look upon their story more favorably. These brown-nosers have also posted with gobs of admiration and love for his previously published writings--again, with the hope that maybe if they scratch his back, he'll return the favor.

After the final announcement is made regarding who was accepted into this anthology (several of whom, I know, will be friends of the editor), I plan to check out the Stoker nomination form. You see, when an author has a book up for recommendation for a Stoker nomination, the person who recommends that particular book has his name added to the list. It's very easy for, say, a person editing an anthology to periodically check the list of names attached to his own nomination to see if any of them match the names on the stories submitted for the anthology.

You see where I'm going with this, right? I'm not saying that's how it is, but...it's just something I plan to check on, just for my own personal edification.

As I do more professional writing, I'm seeing very clearly how the whole "networking" thing goes. Lots of ass kissing. I've even done it myself, I'm sorry to say. Not anymore, though. I don't want a story accepted for an anthology just because the editor is a buddy, or because I recommended his work for a Stoker. I want my stories published because they're good. Lately, I'm not seeing too many good stories being published. The reason? The incestuous network of "you do me and I'll do you" writing buddies.

Again, I know this probably sounds like the bitter rantings of a failed writer. I might get some responses along those lines. I'm ready for that. But I know this: I'm happy with the way I write. I write the kind of stories that I like to read. I'm slowly building a career that I'm proud of, because I know that my writing is being published for its merits, not because of who I know or whose ass I'm willing to kiss.

This rejection ultimately means nothing to me but several months of time wasted waiting for a response. The publisher of the anthology is pretty much a "good ol' boys" outfit (there's not one novel in their catalog that is written by a woman) and I've long since gotten sick of the gratuitous "Oh, you're so great! Now tell me how great I am" nature of the postings on their forum. I'm done with them--not that they'll notice I'm missing. They'll be too busy congratulating themselves on their own awesomeness.

You'll notice I didn't mention any names in this post (or in previous posts regarding this anthology submission). I'm not writing this to bad mouth anyone or to try to influence the two or three people who actually read this blog. I'm writing this to get it out of my system, and to let any potential writers out there know that writing is as cut-throat a profession as any other.

Ultimately, I don't mind the rejection as much as I mind the lack of professional respect. I'll go on to publish more things, so the loss of one anthology is pretty much not an issue. But I'll remember how this was handled, and I'll continue to write about it for anyone who cares to read about it. I don't kiss ass anymore. I don't barter my ethics or self-esteem for a publishing credit.

Maybe I'm cutting my own throat professionally by posting this. Maybe nobody will ever read it. That's okay. If I never get published by a mainstream publisher again, that's all right, too. I know my worth as a writer.

FREE PDF COPY OF "ABOMINATIONS"

2008-10-18T10:23:00.001-07:00

That's right. Absolutely free. No strings attached. To celebrate Halloween this year I've decided to give away free PDF copies of Abominations from now until Nov. 1.

Why am I doing this, you might ask? Well...to be honest, I crave feedback. I want to know what people think of my writing. All I ask in return is that if you like my stuff, you might write a quickie review of Abominations on your blog or website and drop me a link.

So just send me an email, leave me a message, whatever you want to do and include your email address and I'll zap you out a PDF copy of Abominations.

Harvesting Memories (An Ology Reprint)

2008-10-16T18:15:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This article originally appeared in Ology magazine (http://www.omnibucket.com/).

There always seems to be something in the air when October rolls around that affects me deeply when it comes to writing.

When I was a kid, I used to think that October was somehow magic for me. I started writing scary stories when I was in third grade, and October was just absolutely my time to rock. It was a time when it seemed entirely possible that a maniac psycho might come after me on Halloween night, or the creepy woman in the house across the road might kidnap trick or treaters to roast with some carrots and potatoes. In my neck of the woods (southern West Virginia), it was a time of the year when the trees were almost at their peak fall colors, when the skies were gray more often than blue, and the night seemed to creep in earlier and earlier every day. And if you’ve never been in rural West Virginia on a moonless autumn night, then you’ve never really seen darkness. Stephen King might have made Maine the horror capital of the United States, but I submit that West Virginia could give it a run for its money.

Growing up, writing my scary stories and dreaming my dreamy little dreams, I always felt a special connection with October. I’ve never been a sunshiny kind of person who glories in the summer and frolics in the spring. I prefer the quiet darkness of autumn and winter, when it seems just a bit easier to create my horror stories. Maybe it’s just me being my usual morbid self, but there seems to be a solemn undertone to even the occasional sunny October days. There’s a sense of death and loss in the air, of great change on the wind. It’s a time for reminiscing, remembering Halloweens past and years long gone. It’s the one time of year that I most miss being a child.

I try to keep the feeling of October in my mind all year long, because it’s my inspiration as a writer. If I can communicate the sense of loneliness, of darkening skies and chilling breezes that I remember from the Octobers of my past in my horror stories, then I’m satisfied. If you write, then I encourage you to try this exercise: try to remember an October day from your childhood. Picture it like a movie in your mind and describe everything you see and smell and hear. Then let the memories flow. Think about favorite Halloween costumes or particularly memorable pranks you pulled on your friends. Think about the things that scared you at that time, real or imagined. Let yourself write in a stream-of-consciousness kind of way, without worrying about plot or character or grammar. Just resurrect the child that you used to be and let it live again on the page.

That’s one of the hidden gifts of being a writer that no one really talks about: you have the power to time-travel. You have the ability to go back in time and revisit your youth, reliving it as it happened or changing it to the way you wished it had happened. You have the power to reshape your memories into those of your characters, to allow your alter egos to live lives you’ve created out of your deepest dreams or darkest fears.

Of course, this doesn’t just hold for horror writers. Whatever your genre, try to remember the bits and pieces of your past that influenced your decision to write. Time travel to your past and revisit your life. And write it all down, get it all on the page.

Then use those moments to give your own characters life. Use those moments to connect with your character, to make him or her real to you. Make your character an extension of yourself. If you share your memories with your characters, you share part of your soul with them. You make them come alive. And your readers will recognize their own lives in your words. Even if you throw a flesh-eating creature into the story, it will still resonate with your reader as being real, because you’ve imbued your character with your own reality.

You don’t have to create everything you write about out of thin air. You can frame your stories in your own background, your own memories. Put a little piece of yourself into your fiction. Don’t be afraid to share yourself with your characters. You are the one who will breathe life into your characters.

Don’t be scared to bare yourself in your writing. Use your memories, your fears, your hopes, your dreams. Cloak them in a thin veil of fiction, but use them to create characters that aren’t just words on a page. As a writer, you have an opportunity to do something that very few people have the courage to do: create a reality that’s all your own.

Have the courage to harvest your memories and use them in your writing. And above all, never be afraid of what you might create.

This is me right now...

2008-10-15T19:57:00.000-07:00

The Steward really means it too, people!

2008-10-10T18:25:00.000-07:00

Evil League of Evil Application: The Steward, A.T.H.U.G. Union from TheSteward on Vimeo.

Why I'm Still Single: One Theory

2008-10-10T11:20:00.000-07:00

If TV and movies have taught me anything, it's that in any M/F relationship, the female is the one who is serious and grown-up and adult, while the male gets to act like a teenager and be goofy and eccentric. The female has to suffer through the male's immaturity while acting as the anchor in the relationship. She's the vegetarian, he's the junk food junkie...blah blah blah.

Okay. Whatever. But how many times has the situation ever been reversed? How many times have you seen the female in the relationship as the one who collects toys or plays video games or likes to slack off watching marathons of TV in her pajamas?

I'm hearing crickets, so I'm guessing you came to the same conclusion as me.

You see, that's my problem (well, one of them) right there. In many ways I'm as mature as a woman my age has to be: I have a steady job, I pay my bills (more or less) on time, I buy my own groceries and take care of my animals on my own. Yep, grown-up city right there.

But at the same time, I read comic books, I still buy Mad magazine, I collect toys (zombie figures and various dolls, mostly), I play video games, I watch a lot of trashy TV, I eat junk food. My office at the library--where I'm the director, which means I basically run the joint--is filled with weird posters (like "Attack of the Zombie Librarians") and a bunch of odd toys. I usually hate so-called "chick flicks" (unless they star an actor I have a crush on...I'm talking to YOU, Jeffrey Dean Morgan) and prefer to watch action or horror or science fiction. I'm as big of a nerd as any guy could ever be.

Gosh, I wonder WHY some fella hasn't swooped in to snatch me up yet.

Now I know that lately it's all cool to be a nerdy girl...as long as you're still hot underneath all that nerdiness. You know what I mean...the glasses come off and the babe is revealed. It's the dream of most nerdy guys to find a girl who likes to play D&D or collect Star Wars figures, as long as she looks like Wonder Woman underneath her ironic t-shirt.

The problem arises once you're over the age of 30 and you're STILL a nerdy girl. Suddenly I guess it's not that cool for a female to still like all that stuff. After 30, women are expected to switch gears into baby mode and start salivating over the idea of popping out kids. We're supposed to start settling down (if we haven't already) and be the level-headed ones who bring our immature husbands/boyfriends down to earth for their daily reality checks.

Not me. I'm well over the age of 30, I'm sad to say, and I still have the mentality of a 12 year old. I'm not ashamed of it, but it does make me a little different than most women my age who have gotten married and had babies and have settled into a comfortable middle-age. Hell, it makes me different than most MEN my age who have done the same thing. Two of my best friends are guys who have settled down and had children, doing the whole happy family thing with mature, responsible women.

And me? Well, I have cats. And a lot of vintage Mad and Cracked magazines. And a buttload of toys.

What happens when it's the woman who is the immature one? Does there HAVE to be that duality of one mature/one immature partner in a relationship? Can both people be immature, or does one of them have to be the "parent" (which is what the situation reminds me of, to be honest). I'm pretty much past my prime child-bearing years, so no kids for me...which means I'm free to be this immature for the rest of my life.

*sigh* I don't know. Maybe some people are meant to be single. Maybe some women are too goofy to be involved with anyone. I don't know if I'd want to inflict myself, with all my weirdnesses and books and comics and toys and cats, on some poor guy who's used to being the slacker in the relationship. We'd fight over who got to read the new comics first, or who gets to keep the zombie toy on their desk.

It is what it is, I guess. Everything for a reason and all that. Meanwhile, I'm going to keep on collecting my books and toys and dolls and not worry about it too much. I'm getting too old to give a damn.

Announcing my retirement...

2008-10-08T10:08:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had one of those days (weeks, months) when you just feel completely discouraged? To the point where you throw your hands up in the air and say to the Universe, "Fine. Whatever. See if I care."

Welp, that's just about where I'm at right now.

Sadly enough, I can't even seem to give my book away for free. I can't get anyone to review it (all of the recent queries I sent out have bombed). I can't get anyone to read it. And since I'm not the type of writer who can shamelessly promote herself and her writing easily, I'm just going to back away from the pursuit of publication for a while and let all the young turks have it. I'm just going to quietly try to finish up some long-abandoned stories and write for myself, without sending anything out for submission.

It's hard to describe why I feel this way without coming across as bitter or jealous, and while I'll admit to feeling both of the above, they're not the only reasons I'm going to stop submitting for a while. It's not even the rejection, because God knows I'm used to that. I think it's the total indifference that's bothering me the most. And that's probably just my bruised ego talking. It's not like I expected to self-publish a collection of horror stories and take over the publishing world, but I guess I'd hoped to do a little better with it than I've done. I don't know. It's hard to explain.

So...after I receive my rejection from my latest submission (and I know it's coming), I'm going to gracefully bow out of the rat race and just scribble my little stories at home where I'll be the only one who reads them. Maybe I'll get some stories finally finished. I hope so. I just know it'll be nice to not feel guilty if I don't write or if I don't submit to a particular anthology, and I hope that my feelings of jealousy and envy will ease off a little as I see other writers pounding their chests and proclaiming their literary superiority to the world (okay, I admit it'll take a little longer for the bitterness to go away).

I just need to remember that being a writer isn't about how many publishing credits you have. It's about putting words on the page, whether or not any eyes but your own ever read them.

How to make me laugh

2008-09-30T13:50:00.000-07:00

I've discovered over my thirty-*cough* years on earth that there are certain things that are absolutely guaranteed to make me laugh. I don't mean just an amused giggle. I mean the kind of laugh that makes my brother call me "Wheezy."

One of these things is the use of the joke: "jazz hands!"

Whatever the context. However it's used. It will make me laugh like a hyena. See the picture above for an example of what I think is HI-larious.

Also, whenever a guy is called a "bitch" or a "douche." Again...don't know why I think it's funny, but I do.

And this absolutely kills me. Everytime. Every last freakin' time.

I loves me some balletic violence.

The REAL ladder to success...

2008-09-29T18:36:00.000-07:00

Werewolves? There! Wolves!

2008-09-26T11:37:00.000-07:00

What has two thumbs and loves werewolves?

Yup, that's right...THIS GUY...er, gal.

Werewolves are the most underappreciated of all the supernatural monsters, in my opinion. They get no respect--rumors abound that they have fleas, that they spend too much time "cleaning" themselves (if you know what I mean), that they aren't housetrained. Everybody's all goo-goo over vampires, but werewolves? Where's the love?

I've always preferred werewolves to those fancy-shmancy vamp types (maybe it's because I like animals better than most people). In fact, I think they're superior to vampires. Werewolves are human most of the time; like some women, they only turn into monsters once a month (oh, unclench...I'm a woman, I can make those jokes). They can have a semblance of a normal life, if they want. They don't have to have "thralls" (or whatever vampires call their bitch-boys) to protect them while they sleep. And anyway, just look at the fella in this picture. Do you honestly think a namby-pamby, lacy-collared, blood-sipping, goth-wannabe, Anne Rice vampire could take this bad boy in a fight?

Didn't think so.

EDITED TO ADD: Not that I don't like vampires. I do. Really, I do. If they're the right kind of vampires (and by that I mean feral, dirty, animalistic, crazed...you see where I'm going). I'm talking "Near Dark" vampires instead of "Interview with a Vampire" (I mean really...Brad Pitt? Tom Cruise? Come on, people!). But more ranting about this topic later.

The guitar solo's my favorite part...

2008-09-26T11:29:00.001-07:00

Clicky clicky here

I'd totally make the same call...

2008-09-26T11:23:00.000-07:00

From here (I highly recommend you check it out).

Friday Bitchery

2008-09-26T10:41:00.000-07:00

A small bitch, if you will...

It absolutely annoys the ever-loving snot out of me the way "name-brand" authors who write books that fall squarely into the "genre ghetto" (i.e. horror or romance) are hailed as ground-breaking when they're really just writing a pulp novel.

For example: Cormac McCarthy's The Road. Have you read it? Know what it's about?

A guy and his son are on "the road" after the world ends, trying to survive. Horror ensues.

It's the same premise that has been the basis for many a paperback horror novel and short story, including the incredible Swan Song by Robert R. McCammon. But because it's written by a mainstream author (and, thus, "literary" and far superior to the common dreck put out by mere horror writers) it is somehow acceptable to critics, who slobbered all over it.

Then Oprah, the Great and Exalted, chose it for her book club, so immediately more people read it than Swan Song. These are people who would never--oh, my stars and garters, never!--think to read a horror novel because it's hackneyed crap that untalented writers sell to the great unwashed masses who don't know any better. And they loved it. They adored it. They couldn't stop praising it.

Even though I was highly disgruntled over this "literary" writer usurping the territory of my genre, I read The Road. And you know what? Not that impressed. My general opinion was a solid, "Eh...I've read better." But because McCarthy is so adored by critics (and Oprah), he was hailed as a ground-breaking genius for writing something that's been done (and done better) many times before.

Grr...

So if you've read The Road and thought it was the best piece of post-apocalyptic fiction you've ever read, I highly recommend you check out Swan Song, or Earth Abides by George Stewart, or Warday by Whitley Strieber, or any number of really great zombie novels that have been published recently. Dip your toes into the genre pool and see how you like it.

And while you're at it, quit being such a damn snob.

One of the most awesome things I've ever seen...

2008-09-23T21:16:00.001-07:00

Oh, yes...I shall crochet this. It will be mine. This, I foreswear!

No more blue milk...forever

2008-09-23T21:13:00.000-07:00

Amazon Sales Status as of Sept. 24, 2008

2008-09-23T20:49:00.000-07:00

Woo-hoo! I'm 4,940,249 in Books! With a bullet!!!

Ick...ew...blargh...

2008-09-21T11:56:00.001-07:00

Puppies!

2008-09-21T10:22:00.000-07:00

From the great Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal webcomic.

Little Miss Crabby Face

2008-09-17T17:30:00.001-07:00

The sequel to this smasharoo #1 hit didn't do too well. For some reason, people just didn't like singing along to "Little Miss Bitchy Ass."

Prudes.

Waiting...

2008-09-11T08:32:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm still in limbo over my story submission. I've heard that if it's in the rejected stack or the maybe pile, an email notification would have gone out almost immediately. Which means I'm probably smack dab in the middle of the "have no clue" pile.

I really have no expectations of making it into this collection. If I do get accepted, it will be a surprise to me, because I have the sneaking suspicion that my story probably isn't what they're looking for. I tend to write strictly meat-n-potatoes stuff--no deeper meanings, no allusions to real life stuff, no overarching themes. Basically, I'm a pulp fiction writer. I like action. I lose interest when reading a novel if the writer spends two pages describing how a character feels, or 700 words describing a tree. I realize that some people enjoy that sort of thing, but as a reader, I'm too impatient. I want to get on with the good stuff. I'm the same way as a writer.

If anybody's read any of my stories, you probably realize exactly what I'm saying. I was raised on EC Comics, Creepy Magazine, horror comics like House of Mystery, and Stephen King novels. I like to start a story with a catchy opening and keep the momentum going until the end. Whether or not I succeed in doing that is a matter for my readers to decide. I just know that I write what I like to read.

I've already made peace with my rejection, should it come. I'll just take my story and go home...and then expand it for my own collection of zombie stories. Nyah! So there! It would be super neato keen to be included in the anthology, but I've learned from years of writing that it won't be the end of the world if I'm not. Because as we all know, the end of the world be be wrought by zombies. Or the particle collider in Switzerland. One or the other.

Dawn of the Pac-Man

2008-09-10T19:28:00.000-07:00

How writers feel 90% of the time...

2008-09-10T18:22:00.000-07:00

Mmmm...more blood clots please!

2008-09-02T18:05:00.000-07:00

Tooth or Dare

2008-09-02T17:58:00.000-07:00

Last night I had one of those incredibly pleasant tooth dreams. See that lovely picture to the left? That's what I dreamed my mouth looked like, only there were more shards and jagged pieces of teeth. No blood. No pain. Just chipped and broken teeth and my dreamself thinking, "Oh, my God...I don't have dental insurance!"

But that was merely prelude to the climax of the dream, when I started spitting whole teeth into my palm. It looked like I had a handful of Chiclets. The freak out, it did commence.

The psychology/dream websites I checked today say that dreaming about losing teeth can mean all kinds of stuff, from fear of change to a feeling of embarrassment to a sense of having "said too much." Whatever. I just know that all friggin day today, I've been surreptitiously running my tongue over my teeth just to make sure they were all there.

WHEW!

2008-08-30T12:33:00.000-07:00

As those who know me in real life know, I have been working on a short story submission for the past week (I started writing it on Monday). The anthology has been intimidating the crap out of me because Jack Ketchum is going to have a story in it and he is one of my favorite writers of all time. His book, 'Off Season,' was one of my inspirations for horror writing when I was growing up. When I heard that he was going to be in this particular anthology, I knew I had to do whatever I could to submit something.

This was back in June. Maybe earlier than that. The editor wouldn't start accepting submissions until August 1, and the reading period (and submission period) would end on August 31.

I sweated over this. I could not come up with a good idea, and I literally felt time getting away from me. All through June and July, I thought, 'Hey, I've still got some time.' Then August came, and I thought, 'Okay, it's getting kind of close, but I work pretty good under pressure.'

Then, all of a sudden, it was the last week of August.

I started writing the story on Monday, basing it on an idea I'd had a while back. The first day's writing went pretty well, and so I wrote a little bit every day. Until Thursday. I hit a wall. Hard. Face-first kind of hard. I wrote myself into a corner and I had no idea what to do next. I only had a vague notion of how the story would end, and I couldn't get to it.

I tried not to panic about it. The story was on my mind at all times. My house (even now) became a complete mess. Laundry is still piled up in the bathroom. There are no clean towels anywhere. Underwear is at a premium. I would come home from work, open the laptop, and stare at the screen and try to think of what to write.

And then I realized what I was doing wrong. I wasn't having fun with it. And when a writer isn't having fun writing a story, the reader knows it. It feels labored and false and tiresome. So I tried to think of what would be fun to describe, what would be fun to imagine. And I hope I put it into the story.

Now I've never had a baby, but I'd have to imagine that writing a story is similar in a lot of ways to being in labor. It can totally engulf you, to the point where the pain of creating is almost unbearable. You push and labor and sweat and curse and then, suddenly, it's over. Congratulations, ma'am, it's a story.

I submitted the story just a few minutes ago, and I have no idea what the editor is going to think. He's a good guy who accepted another one of my stories for a previous anthology by the same publisher, so I hope I have a little bit of goodwill on my side.

But even if I'm rejected (as I feel I'm likely to be, given how last minute this story was), it's okay. It's okay because I had a goal of submitting my story to this collection, and I met my goal. Being published would, of course, be great. But I've learned over the years that the most important thing is to just try. Even if you're 99.9% sure it's not going to work out for you, you can still say that you tried.

So yeah...I did it. I wrote an almost 8000 word story in five days. Whether it's any good or not remains to be seen. But it's written, and it's submitted, and now we'll have to just wait and see.

I Always Suspected...

2008-08-18T10:28:00.000-07:00

Tell me what you see in this picture:

The end days will be wrought by none other than the Angel of Despair, the Crown Prince of Chaos...

Behold: Bozo of the Apocalypse!

'Cause Knowledge is Power!

2008-07-27T07:35:00.000-07:00

Mmmm-mmm, EVIL!

2008-07-25T00:31:00.000-07:00

And on the side, a PB& Jellied Eyeball sammich! Yum-o!

"The Stand": Now in comic-book form!

2008-07-25T00:25:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time I read The Stand. I was probably 10 or so, and I was knocked right the hell out. I loved it. It started me on my rabid love of end o' the world books/movies, and it (and later, Robert R. McCammon's Swan Song) are the gold standard to which I personally measure apocalyptic fiction.

I loved the mini-series and thought the casting was spot-on, with the exception of Molly Ringwald as Fran. The only problem was...it was made for TV. Which meant that the true horror of Captain Trips--bodies rotting in the streets, death and violence everywhere--was made more palatable for the masses. Plus, the tunnel scene--one of the creepiest scenes ever written--was nowhere near as scary as it should have been. M-O-O-N...that spells lost opportunity.

But now, the good people at Marvel are releasing The Stand as a comic, although graphic novel would seem to be more fitting for something so serious. I mean, look at what Captain Trips REALLY does:

Nasty business, eh?

Cue me doing my happy fangirl dance. Yay!

(Picture from AICN)

Do! NOT! Want!

2008-07-25T00:24:00.001-07:00

Holy crap...look at this:

"The Exorcist" is the only movie that has ever REALLY gotten to me, and by "gotten to me," I mean "messed my ass up." I saw it at the theater when I was 4 years old and I truly believe that it is the reason I have such a love of scary movies and a healthy fear of Ouija boards today. That said, there is NO FREAKIN' WAY I would have these toys in my house. Absolutely not. Who's to say that at night, when you're asleep, Regan wouldn't crawl out of her bed and sneak underneath your covers, creeping up your legs and belly until she's sitting right on your chest, watching you with those yellow eyes and smiling and flicking her black tongue over her lips as she waits for you to wake up...

Crap. I'll be sleeping with the lights on tonight.

Good job on the toys, NECA. TOO good. I'll forward my therapy bills to you.

"Death Race"--now with hot chicks!

2008-07-25T00:21:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the trailer for the remake of "Death Race 2000" (now called, simply, "Death Race")?

I'm not sure what I think of it. On the one hand, it does have a lot of explosions and fancy driving and Ian McShane. But on the other, it stars Jason Statham, late of "Crank," the only movie I have EVER walked out on in a theater.

I'm sure Jason Statham is a decent guy, but I absolutely cannot sit through a movie where he's the star. I keep hearing about how great "The Transporter" is, but I've attempted to watch it three or four times now and I always lose interest after 15 minutes. And "Crank"...good God, don't get me started on that. It probably has some fans out there, and God love ya if you're one of them, but that was the worst piece of crap I've ever had the unbridled displeasure of spending five bucks to see.

Another thing that irritated me in the trailer for "Death Race": the female inmates brought in to navigate for the drivers in the race. Did anybody else notice that they were all, to a person, hot chicks? What happened? Was there a mass riot by Victoria's Secret models? Where were the 300 pound matrons who could flatten your head with one pounding of a meaty fist? Where were the skeletal crack hos? Where were the unwashed murderers who cut off their husband's tallywhackers after he demanded sex one too many times?

Instead, every one of the female prisoners--like all female prisoners in action movies (I'm looking at YOU, "The Condemned")--are gorgeous and stacked. The only concession to the grittiness of prison life is the glowy sheen of sweat shining on their perky boobs.

Makes me want to shank a bitch.

You have nothing to watch but "Fear Itself"

2008-07-25T00:17:00.000-07:00

Man, this show has gone COMPLETELY under my radar.

I like to pride myself on knowing what's going on with new TV shows, especially if they're in the horror genre (which is easy, since there are so few) but "Fear Itself" has gone totally unnoticed by me. Has this show even been promoted? Maybe it's just me being uninformed. As usual.

Anyway, I caught an episode of "Fear Itself" on Hulu.com the other day (by the way...I HIGHLY recommend this site for old episodes of TV shows). It was a zombie episode, "New Year's Day," written by Steve Niles, and I was shocked by how much I liked it.

The plot itself was simple: a party girl wakes up at 4am after a less than pleasant New Year's Eve party and discovers that while she was out of it, the world has gone to hell. An explosion at a chemical plant has set free a chemical that changes peoples' DNA (turning them into my much beloved zombies) and everybody's out to take a bite out of life. She just wants to get to her boyfriend's apartment, and along the way she gets to have all manner of undead fun. And there's a twist ending, to boot!

I'll probably go back and catch up on "Fear Itself" pretty soon, given the strength of that one episode. I usually don't have high hopes for TV horror because it's so anemic and defanged (especially when it's on network TV), but maybe, just maybe, this series will be fairly good.

Maybe.

End Times Sign #49,208

2008-07-25T00:08:00.000-07:00

Cthulhu.

What do you think when you hear that mysterious yet weirdly spelled name? Ancient evil rising from the depths of the sea? Tentacles unfurling, cold eyes surveying mankind's world and seeing its destruction? Abominations from deep space? Tori Spelling fighting its evil, apocalyptic cult?

Wait. What?

Yep. Apparently Tori "My-Daddy-Had-Nothing-To-Do-With-My-Career" Spelling is starring in CTHULHU (why does it seem like it should have an exclamation point?), from Regent Releasing. Check out the website HERE. Go ahead. As ever, I'll wait for you.

So...did you watch the trailer? All I could muster up was a shake of my head and a "wooooooow" of unutterable sadness. Looks pretty craptacular to me.

And not one tentacle did I see! Not one!

Granted, I might be coming down a little hard on it. After all, S.T. Joshi--who knows Lovecraft's work better than anybody--says it's the best adaptation to date. Hmm. Perhaps. Too soon to tell. I just can't get over the Tori Spelling-ness of it all.

It's supposedly coming out in theaters in August. Which probably translates to one theater in L.A., for one week, before it hits DVD.

Blech.

(Thanks to Bloody-Disgusting.com for the horror news)

Scary in a WHOLE 'nother way...

2008-07-25T00:05:00.000-07:00

I made this. It's wearable. You might not be able to slash teenagers with it, but you can give 'em hell if they have a wool allergy.

...and in the "Creeps me the hell OUT" department...

2008-07-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the trailer for "Mirrors" yet? Pop over to the movie's website and check it out. I'll wait.

Now was that not the coolest thing you've seen in a while? Mirrors, man. They creep me out.

Can't wait for this one. How can you resist a movie that has a scene like THIS in it?

Good times, good times.

"The Crappen--"...nah, it's too easy

2008-07-24T23:59:00.000-07:00

I'm not an M. Night Shyamalan fan.

I remember when "The Sixth Sense" came out and everyone started saying he was the second coming of Hitchcock. What a TWIST! Everybody was so damn impressed with the twist ending that they forgot to notice that the rest of the movie was...well, a little bland. In my not-so-humble opinion, it could have been much creepier if there had been more dead people for the kid to see. The whole part in the middle when he sees Mischa Barton's ghost puking and then solves her mysterious death seemed like a pilot for a series on ABCFamily.

But it was a pretty good movie. I liked it okay enough.

Until I saw the DVD commentary and he revealed that the color red in scenes with Bruce Willis denoted his ghostiness.

What. The. Hell?

Ugh. The pretentiousness, it burns.

So then "Unbreakable" came out, and M. Night was still riding high on the goodwill from "Sixth Sense." And it was utterly, utterly unmemorable. Seriously. Do YOU remember what the movie was about? Something about super heroes and Bruce Willis and I think Samuel Jackson did something or other in it. But critics adored it, M. Night's fans continued to worship him, and he got the green light for "Signs."

Ah, "Signs." How I wanted so much to like that movie. I really did. Despite my deeply held belief that M. Night is a douche, I wanted to love a movie about crop circles and alien invasions. And the movie started out so promisingly, with creepy sounds on the baby monitor and big crop circle arrows directing the aliens to "ATTACK HERE!" and that footage of the alien at the birthday party. Good stuff. Even I'll give him that.

But then...

But then M. Night decided that the whole "show don't tell" adage when it comes to movie-making is a bunch of crap, because he decides to move all of the action of the movie OFF the friggin SCREEN! Okay, yes, I know the emotional center of the movie is a man trying to defend his family and recover his faith; yeah, that got shoved far enough down my throat for me to get it. But come on...at least throw us a bone and show us some of this stuff happening all around the world by flashing some news footage or something. It reminded me of a stage production of "Dracula"--all the characters talking about really cool, scary stuff that ALREADY HAPPENED to them.

I won't even get into the whole water thing. Seriously, M. Night. Water? After dropping that anvil in your glorified cameo about having a "feeling" that they don't like to be around water, you actually went there and made THAT the thing that defeated the aliens? At least in "Alien Nation," it was salt water that the aliens couldn't take.

But even then...I can watch "Signs" when it's on TNT and see bits of it that I really like. The "last supper" scene, for example. Mel Gibson, for all his failings and flaws as a person, can act his ass off when he wants. I can see moments of the movie that it could have been.

So after "Signs," I was obviously ripe for the picking. I saw "The Village" at the theater.

That was when I was convinced that M. Night was so full of shit he squeaked.

I loved the idea of monsters terrorizing a village. I loved the idea of being afraid to go into the woods or out of the boundaries of the village because "they" would get you. I loved the idea of the monsters randomly rampaging through the village to pick off the easy prey. All that stuff would have made a really good movie.

But, of course, M. Night had to have his damned TWIST. Oh, no...you sillies! It's not really monsters terrorizing the village! It's just people dressed up like monsters! And it's not really an 18th century village! It's just a really elaborate historical theme park stuck in the middle of Pennsylvania! Ha-ha! Gotcha!

While watching the movie, I figured the twist might be something like that...but I thought it would be much cooler, like Brice Howard would come out of the woods and discover that the rest of the world had been destroyed in a nuclear war. Not that a bunch of over-protective hippies decided that the old ways were better and went off to churn butter in an animal preserve.

Argh. I vowed at that moment to never--and I mean NEVER--go to the theater to see another one of his movies.

So when "Lady in the Water" was released, I wasn't suckered into it. I'd read the book, The Man Who Heard Voices, and I pretty much knew what kind of cinematic crap to expect. Again, he could have done something really cool--a mermaid-ish creature from another world? Monsters coming after it to drag it back? Sounds good to me!--but he didn't deliver. Of course, how could he, when he had to create his own character as a writer who becomes the savior of mankind through his brilliance?

"Lady" flopped like a goldfish dumped onto a tile floor, which didn't surprise me. In fact, it vaguely gratified me to see that people were finally getting wise to M. Night. Of course, it wasn't his fault that the movie bombed. Audiences just weren't mature or enlightened enough to understand his deeply philosophical film.

Uh-huh. That's why. Not because of stilted dialogue or cutesy characters or overbearing egotism on the part of the writer/director/star-in-his-own-mind. Okay. Sure.

When the trailers for "The Happening" first started popping up, I'll admit I was intrigued. I'm a sucker for an end of the world movie, and the vague, ominous threats in the previews looked interesting. The fact that M. Night wrote and directed it made me wary, but then again...end of the world, people! Sure, the title looked better suited for a freakazoid, psychedelic '60s hippie-fest, but the poster, with its abandoned cars and empty road, got my attention to the point where I considered breaking my vow and going to see it when it was released.

Thank God, my better sense prevailed. I read the reviews after "The Happening" opened. Of course, die-hard M. Night fans liked it, but since I'm not one of their number, my hackles went up. I read more reviews. All of them were bad. Any director who tries to make the whispering of the wind in the trees ominous needs, obviously, to think long and hard about what kind of movie he's making.

I can't comment on "The Happening," because I haven't seen it yet. I might rent it when it comes out on DVD. Actually, I'll Netflix it, so I don't feel like I'm actually shelling out money to see it. I have a bad feeling I'll have that same sense of "Oh, God...why?!?" that I felt when watching "Signs." So much potential to be good, ruined by so much undeserved ego.

M. Night Shyamalan's biggest failing as a director is that he got too much too soon. His first movie was such a big success that it set an impossibly high standard for every other movie that would follow. He was too praised, too rewarded at too early a stage in his career. I firmly believe in the whole "paying your dues" ethic, and he got a free pass (although one could say that he's paying them now).

I'm not saying that he's not a capable director. He has moments of brilliance, and he has created some truly memorable scenes. But he's bought into his own hype. He's paying too much attention to the fans who think he can do no wrong and not enough to the critics who know better. A little hubris goes a long way, and he's got enough for the entire graduating class of UCLA's film-making department.

He might be getting on the right track now, though, since he's not going to be writing his next film, "The Last Airbender" (which sounds like a euphemism for a fart, but maybe that's just me). He needs to step away from the word processor and concentrate on the aspect of his career in which he actually shows promise. Just direct the movies, M. Night. Put down the keyboard and nobody'll get hurt.

And get over your damn self already.

New "Nightmare" re-do--We are not impressed

2008-07-24T23:57:00.000-07:00

So they're remaking "Nightmare on Elm Street."

First thing that pops into my mind is simply...why?

Then I remember...there's money to be made in rehashing the '80s. Silly me. I forgot that the "chosen ones" (i.e. the favored movie-going demographic) weren't even born with the original "Nightmare" came out in 1984. These are audiences who think the "Saw" and "Hostel" series are the gold standard in horror movies (and I just shuddered as I wrote that).

Anyway. Remaking "Nightmare." Good idea? Probably not. Mostly because they more than likely won't do it right. They'll hire hot actresses and actors to scream and flail around in blood, and some no-name to play Freddy (because I don't think they're going to bring Robert Englund back as Fred Krueger--their mistake) and they'll say it'll have a "dark tone," which means the deaths will be excruciatingly gross and violent and try to outdo Eli Roth's Grand Guignol wanna-bes.

And who is going to write this "re-imagining"? Wesley Strick.

What? You've never heard of Wesley Strick? Yeah, me neither. Apparently, though, the dude wrote "Wolf" and "Cape Fear," along with a bunch of movies you've probably never seen. Personally, I intensely disliked "Cape Fear" and thought it was over-rated hooey (I mean, really...sucking Robert DeNiro's finger is supposed to be erotic? Try unhygienic. Yuck.) and "Wolf" just bored the snot out of me. Jack Nicholson, no matter what role he's playing, is always Jack Nicholson. It's distracting.

But I digress. Will the "Nightmare" remake make money? Oh, yeah. It'll make a lot, just based on the fact that people will go see it just to bitch about it. Will it be as good or creepy as the original? My gut tells me no. Resoundingly no. Horror movies nowadays are too slick, too self-aware. Audiences know what's coming.

I don't envy Strick his position as screenwriter for this, because he's got a big ol' pair of shoes to fill. All I can say is that they'd damn well better keep the glove the same, or else they'll have a mutiny on their hands.

"Watchmen"--Oh, God...YES!

2008-07-24T23:44:00.000-07:00

If you haven't watched this trailer at least five times by now, you're not truly a comic geek and you should be ashamed of yourself. Seriously. Consider yourself shunned, Charlie.

Check out the trailer HERE at the official website. Cool, ain't it?

And let me just add that Jeffrey Dean Morgan, the current imaginary love of my so-called life, is playing The Comedian (aka: the guy in the robe who goes flying out of a window). Good casting? Yes, I think so. I mean...just look...

YOWCH. The pretty, it hurts.

The music is pretty amazing, too. Smashing Pumpkins. "The Beginning is the End is the Beginning." At least something good came out of the cinematic abortion that was "Batman & Robin." Batnips indeed.

Ah, comic books and graphic novels. How I love thee.

"2012": Bend over and pucker up

2008-07-24T23:41:00.000-07:00

I believe Whitley Strieber.

I do. I think he was abducted by aliens. I believe him.

As a writer, I have to admire his willingness to come right out and claim that he was abducted, with all the probing and prodding and public scorn that his admission entails. That takes some cojones. Of course, I tend to believe in aliens and all that jazz myself, so it's not really such a leap of the imagination for me to think that he's been touched by an alien.

That said, I've just read his newest book, 2012: The War for Souls and I was really impressed. The premise is a little hard to condense into a brief review such as this--parallel dimensions, alternate earths, aliens who want to break on through to the other side (i.e. OUR dimension)--but it gave me the type of book I've been craving for a long time: the alien invasion book.

As a sidenote: I love me some alien invasions. "War of the Worlds" is one of my favorite movies (1950s version and the Tom Cruise version...yeah, I said both). In my eyes, you can't go wrong with ominous motherships hovering above cityscapes and beams of light floating cattle and rednecks into the sky. The problem is, there aren't enough books that have that kind of plot. Aliens are always advanced and trying to save humanity from itself, or compassionate and caring "angels," or supernaturally intelligent beings. Blah blah blah. I want aliens who come to Earth with cookbooks titled "To Serve Man." I want rampaging, "Independence Day" aliens who don't give two craps about humanity, except to wipe us out and/or serve us for brunch.

So right away I got into 2012. The alien invasion scenes are creepy. Really creepy. Don't-wanna-go-outside-after-dark kind of creepy. My kind of book.

If you're late to the conspiracy theory party, by the way, a lot of people believe that the world will end on December 21, 2012 because the Mayan calendar ends on that day. As for myself, eh...I dunno. It could end tomorrow for all we know, because the Schmuck Who Shall Not Be Named might decide to go out in a flame of glory rather than as a lame duck. It's a crap shoot. I give credit to Strieber, however, for capitalizing on this fear and making a pretty damn good novel out of it.

Fully reviewing this book would mean giving away some plot twistiness, so I shan't go there. This is just intended to be a half-assed review, anyway. The end of the book gets weird, so read closely to keep up. I would have liked more evil alien stuff, but that's just me.

So final verdict: if you like aliens, read this book. And if you're a cheap bastard, wait until late November, 2012, and check it out of your local library. You've got a 50/50 chance of not having to return it before your late fees kick in.

So three vampires walk into a bar...

2008-07-24T23:38:00.000-07:00

The first vampire pulls up a stool and orders Virgin's Blood, on the rocks.

The second vampire sits down and asks for a Blood and Tonic, hold the tonic.

The third vampire smiles and asks for a mug of hot water. The bartender frowns. "Hot water?"

"Yes," the vampire says as he pulls a soggy tampon from his pocket. "I'm making tea."

Welcome to my website. Now's the time to bail out.

Still here? Great. My name's Rebecca Brock and I'm a horror writer. And a librarian. But mostly a horror writer. And a romance writer. I just like to write, okay?

Blogging is something that I've flitted around for years. A misfire here, a failed attempt there. I couldn't seem to get into it. Until I realized that I was writing about the wrong subject. Nobody wants to know about ME. Some bloggers have interesting lives. I don't. I'm a librarian. We're constitutionally bound to be boring.

So it hit me...I'll write about what I love.: HORROR. Horror films. Horror novels. Horror writing. Alas, it is a love/hate relationship, because there is so much suckage in the world of horror that it's becoming hard to remain faithful. So I'll be ranting about that too.

I'll write about the books and movies I love. Things that you should read and watch, if you've any sense in your head at all. If you don't agree with me, that's fine too. My tastes aren't for everyone. (I'll defend the film version of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club Band" to the death!).

So if you're still reading, welcome aboard. Go out and buy my book ("Abominations," available at Amazon and other fine online reading establishments) and then come back. I'll wait.