Last Post...of 2009

Dear Kinky Water Buffaloes,

I greet you from my mound of wrapped presents.

So what's new? Well, I couldn't help myself and when I bought a few children's books as gifts for some youngsters, and couldn't help adding one that I wanted even though I have a long queue of them waiting to be read. I picked up Boneshaker by Cherie Priest. It's a zombie steampunk novel, which can only lead to bouts of awesomeness.

Watched two movies recently: Funny People and Avatar.

Both were good, although Avatar was excellent. Funny People features Adam Sandler in a dramedy role, with significant focus on the drama. This isn't the first time he's done drama. He had a very good turn in Reign on Me, which was very good but a little maudlin for me. Avatar is what it is. It's a blockbuster. The world realized by James Cameron is lush and beautiful and more than makes up for the average plot. If you go, go see it in 3D.

Some other books I read lately: Salem's Lot, Rage, The Long Walk.

They're all Stephen King books (I'm on a roll with them and reading somewhat chronologically), the latter two under the Bachman pseudonym. Salem's Lot, which is fairly slowly developed story about a vampire infestation, was easily the best out of those three. I've noticed his books have a lot in common, mainly tragedy. The writing is great, but at the end of the stories, I am always disappointed because no one has a happy ending. I'm not saying EVERYONE should live happily ever after, but maybe just one person...just one. The two Bachman books were only so-so. The writing is still there, but the stories don't draw you in as much. In Rage, the ending didn't make sense, and The Long Walk just doesn't have much plot to it. They both felt more like short stories than novels.

All in all, I've really enjoyed King's writing lately even though it's not generally what I like to read, which is anything with a dose of humor. What IS up my alley is another book I'm reading currently called An Abundance of Katherines by John Green. It's pretty funny so far. It features a new HS graduate who, while on a road trip with his best friend, ponders his breakups with his last 19 girlfriends, all of whom are named Katherine. He's a prodigy of sorts and tries to express his analysis in the form of a mathematical equation. Along the way, they meet some interesting people. Sounds like a good formula (*wink*) for success. I'm almost done with it, so maybe I'll talk more about it next time.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, and stay out of trouble (but not too much).

Matt

What's My Name?

Dear Gyrating Lemurs,

So, the holiday season is upon us. I think I've done (pretty much) all of my Christmas shopping. I even bought a few books as gifts for some kiddies. Go literacy!

There's been something I've been thinking about recently: pen names.

From what I can tell, there are a few reasons someone might use a pen name.

1. You've put out a couple novels, and though you love them, are immensely proud of them, the buying public has not shared your enthusiasm. You reinvent, re-brand, yourself with a new name and hit the market again.

2. You've been pigeonholed into a particular market/genre, but you have so many other ideas outside your published area. You write under a new name so your base won't get confused and pick up your new comic fantasy novel expecting a historical murder mystery.

3. You're hiding your gender. J.K. Rowling comes to mind. Of course, now everyone knows she's a woman, but in the beginning, someone thought that a female writer writing about magic and boy wizards was less appealing on the bookshelf.

4. You don't like your name. You've always wanted to be called Winter Gangleberry. Or maybe there's already well known person who shares your name. Maybe your name is Paris Hilton--not THE Paris Hilton--and you want people to take your writing career seriously.

So this is what I'm wondering: In this modern age with Facebook, websites, and more author reading events than you can shake a stick at, is there any room for anonymity? Because that's what a pen name is predicated on--that no one will find out who you really are until you want them to know.

Coupled with the fact that I've heard publicity is pretty much required nowadays to produce a marketable author, how many of the above reasons still apply or are even feasible?

I suppose one argument for it is that some people shop only at bookstores, with no outside information. They only look at the book on the shelf. And if the book only has your pen name, a generic bio, and a teaser of the story, that's all they will use for their purchase decision.

But then again, how many people still do that? Even if it is an inexpensive purchase, I tend to check into a book before I buy it. My shelf space is diminishing after all. I don't need to buy a book I won't like and have it take up room.

This all, however, really are just ruminations on a subject that will affect me very little until I get a book published. Very much the cart before the horse.

But it does make me wonder.

-Matt

What's Going On?

Dear Sentimental Ligers,

We had some snow, finally, here in New Hampshire. It took a couple minutes for me to switch my brain over to winter-driving mode. Luckily, the roads aren't too bad.

Anyway! What news do I have to report? Not much, really, but I felt I should post something. Anything to get away from the absolute painful chore of thinking of Christmas gifts. I need a personal shopper. I'll give you money. Make all the purchase choices for me, thank you very much.

So I finished my first real life writing workshop just recently. I've been in an online workshop for a while now, but it's the first time I've participated in one face-to-face with honest to goodness breathing people. So, what's the verdict? Was it worth the money?

I say, yes.

Did it make me a better writer? Possibly, marginally. That is not to say I can't use improvement. I surely do. But that only comes from continual reading and writing. Practice makes perfect, or at least moderately average. I think writing workshops--at least ones that last only a few sessions--help improve individual pieces of writing through the feedback process, but the only way it could improve a writer's overall writing is if they are just starting. In my opinion, it is during those early times when a lot of the improvement comes, and benefits a very great deal to supportive feedback.

All things being said though, I really enjoyed the workshop. Not only were there some great members that I looked forward to sharing my stories with every other week, but the structure of a writing class really forces you to, well, WRITE. To often, when I'm left to my own devices, I will undoubtedly put a DVD on or play a video game or futz around on the internet for several hours. While this is generally entertaining, it is horribly unhelpful for the writing process. I am a born procrastinator. Having a structured class forced me to write during every class and gave me the push I needed to fine tune stories at home in preparation for the next class. I look forward to the next class, schedule permitting.

I thought I'd take some time discussing some of the books I've read recently too. Two of the better ones: How to Break a Terrorist and Breathers: A Zombie's Lament. How to Break a Terrorist is a non-fiction book written by Matthew Alexander (a pseudonym), who is an Air Force interrogator who with the help of a whole interrogation team in Iraq, was able to find and take out Zarqawi. The pacing of this story is impeccably and thrilling. Alexander weaves in his philosophy of modern interrogation techniques (empathy, understanding local cultures, etc.) with the action is wonderful. I forgot at times that I was not reading a novel. Alexander champions these new techniques with conviction. He believes that a good interrogator needs to leave all feelings at the door. He/she needs to enter the room a blank slate, an actor that confirms to whatever the detainee needs him/her to be. The trick is to manipulate them into thinking that they are giving information for their own benefit, whether it is for a good word with the judges or just to assuage some sense of guilt. I highly recommend this book.

As for Breathers. What can I say? This book has everything I love in a novel: comedy (dark at most times) and zombies (inherently dark) in a tight package. It is billed as a zomromcom, zombie romantic comedy. It's a real fun time and tells the story of a recently zombified young man who has become accustomed to his new zombie existence. He lives in his parents' basement and goes to a Zombies Anonymous group to cope with his new undeadness. The only gripe I had was the tone in which is ended, which felt incongruent to the rest of the story, but it was a fun ride nonetheless.

I'm currently reading Little Green Men, which I have been looking forward to for a while. It's one of the few Christopher Buckley books I've yet to read. I'm only a third of the way through, but it doesn't feel up to par with his other work. We'll see how it goes!

What else? Hmm. I've been reading some of Kathy Reichs's Temperance Brennan novels because I like the show Bones, but surprisingly, the books are nothing like the show. The only thing they share is the name of the protagonist, although the nickname Bones is no where to be found in the books. Regarding the books, they aren't the most well written of their genre, but they are an interesting distraction. If you like authors like Patricia Cornwell or Tess Gerritsen, you should give Reichs a try.

This post is turning into a much longer one than I had anticipated (and probably fraught with typos, but I'm not going to proofread. It's the rebel in me). But a few more reading tidbits:

I've come to appreciate Stephen King. I find he's mischaracterized as a horror writer. His work tends to be supernatural or paranormal, but there are only hints of horror in most of his stories. Recently, I've read Carrie and The Dead Zone, which were both wonderful. They're very well written, with a depth of tragedy that I didn't expect. Check them out.

Also, check out Suzanne Collins young adult series, The Hunger Games. Only the first two books are out (third and final one next year), but they are great reads. Kids thrown in a last man standing death match? Killer idea, bad pun intended.

Next on the reading list:
Darling Jim
An Abundance of Katherines

On the DVD/TV front, there are too many shows/movies that I've watched to really get into it. Netflix is my video God. For the moment, I've completely caught up with The Big Bang Theory, which is laugh and a half. If you enjoy watching geeks bumble through attempts at social interaction, check it out. I watch it for tips.

Also funny, Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I enjoyed this movie because I'm not a big Monty Python fan (blasphemy to some, I know). I am still not a huge fan, but this movie left me in stitches many times, including one scene where King Arthur fights a black knight who steadfastly and stubbornly refuses to concede defeat even as his limbs are hacked off one by one (not as gruesome as you'd think). It does end rather strangely though, but definitely worth a watch.

Until next time,

Matt

Found Treasures

Dear Stupendous Zombies,

Another story for you all today. A boy in a museum store finds an extraordinary item.

Enjoy.

-Matt


"A Fool's Bargain" By Matt Mok

The glint of metal catches Sam's eye, even through the throng of bodies milling about shopping for museum souvenirs. The gift shop occupies the greater part of a level and it takes him several minutes to wend his way through the crowd, craning his neck to catch brief glimpses of the light.

There's a table. And a man. And in his calloused hands he holds what has drawn Sam from across the room.

The knife catches the light from the overhead fluorescent fixtures on its blade and temporarily blinds him. When he opens his eyes again, he sees that the man has taken notice. He tosses the knife side to side, his elbows resting on the table, then holds it up as if he has just realized that it's there.

"Do you like it?" he says.

The knife is so thin and sharp that Sam almost loses sight of the blade. The handle is worn with age and the steel looks discolored at closer inspection. But this is still more interesting than following the rest of the class on their field trip and he is glad he decided to wander off on his own.

"Do you work here?" he says.

"Of course," the man says, pointing to his name tag. "You know, this is a special knife."

"Why?"

"It belonged to an Egyptian pharaoh, thousands of years ago. It's magic."

Sam looks at the man, the skepticism most surely plain on his face. "What does it do?"

The man rubs his stubbled chin. "Well..."

"You don't know?"

"Wait! It has something to do with the way you use it, I know that much. Do you want it? It's a bargain at fifty dollars."

Sam has five dollars in his pocket, but he doubts it's even worth that much. "Show me," he says anyway because he is bored and has nothing else to do.

"Show you what?"

"How to use it."

"I think it's something like this," he says and loops his finger into the hole in the knife's handle. He proceeds to twirl it round and round and Sam, suddenly unsure if he should be standing so close, shrinks backward.

"A ha!" the man says excitedly. "I remember now." In mid-twirl, he flings the knife up into the air, so high that is seems it might hit the ceiling. It comes hurtling down, twisting and somersaulting, with a thud, the knife blade embedding two inches into the wooden table.

"Hmm. That should have worked," he says, scratching his head.

Then, a voice calls out.

"Sam! Where have you been?" Mrs. Hanson cries. She drags him away before he can explain himself. "When your mother hears about this..."

"But there's—" He twists his arm and looks back.

"But what?"

But he says nothing because the man with the knife and table is gone. In his place is a display of fossil keychains.

Weddings and Monkey Business

Dear Writerly Rhododendrons,

I have two stories for you today. One has been workshopped online and submitted to a few places with lukewarm responses, and I'm just not in the mood to send it out anymore. The other one, "Bananas," is more recent and also workshopped, but in an in-person workshop. I think it's missing just a little bit something, but I think it's funny, so here it is.

Until next time, whenever I think of something interesting to say. It might take a while.

-Matt


"The Last Wedding"

The news came three months before the wedding. His wife and daughter considered postponing, told him that the time for celebration could wait, that the planning would keep everyone busy and he deserved to have peace, even if for a little while. With the smile that he had employed throughout the ordeal, he said no; it was because he only had a short time left that he wanted to see it through. He would see his only daughter get married. The sickness might take his life, but it wouldn't take this.

Invitations went out. Planning resumed. Everyone went through their routines, the only thing keeping them going was the serenity he seemed to exude. He told them he accepted his fate, had made peace with it, and once that happened, each new day was a gift.

The day came. Family and friends came from all parts of the country, some from farther away. They had decided to have the wedding at the house because it was getting hard for him to get around. Flower arrangements gracefully adorned the backyard. A live jazz band played in the background. A multi-tiered pearl white cake was on display, waiting to be cut. It was perfect and he felt his eyes moistened, but held back fearing his tears be mistaken for sadness.

On that beautiful Spring day, he almost looked healthy if you hadn't known how fit he used to be. For the first month after the news, he was still able to run everyday. Now he used a cane, although he managed without one on this day. The family had kept the news from everyone, but the guests seemed to know something was wrong, even if they didn't know what. They saw his wife paying more attention to him, frequently by his side. They saw his enigmatic smile, but it seemed different, weaker. His clothes fit loosely on him and his gait was unsteady. Whispers and rumors cast a pallor on an otherwise joyous day.

This wasn't lost on the father of the bride. He saw the strange looks. He saw conversations take on a different tone when he got close. He noticed all this and it just wouldn't do. This was unacceptable.

When everyone was seated in the yard for the ceremony, he took a microphone and welcomed everyone to their house. He beamed charismatically, walked through the crowd, patting friends on the back, delivering corny jokes. For a moment, everything felt normal again. The gloom lifted. People smiled. Some laughed. When he was done, he went back to his seat and his wife patted his hand and told him he was wonderful.

When it came time for the father-daughter dance, he took his daughter by the hand and told her she looked beautiful and how proud he was of her. Then the music came on, a much more exuberant number than expected, and he broke out into a lively rendition of the Macarena. The crowd roared and clapped in approval as the new bride looked on with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. After the applause subsided, he signaled to his co-conspirator, the DJ, to put on the planned music. As father and daughter swayed on the dance floor, she laughed and called him a loser.

The dance floor opened and his new son-in-law took over. Partner-less, he motioned for his wife to join him. It took some convincing, but she could never resist him. As they danced, arms intertwined, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. Please don't die, she said, choking back tears. She lifted her head from his shoulder. He looked at her, smiled, and kissed her on the head.

Later that night in the shower, when everyone had gone, a heavy weight fell from his shoulders. As the water cascaded onto his face, he thought of how grateful he was to have been able to walk his daughter down the aisle, but his mind wandered. He was prepared for death, but not for what he would miss. He thought of his wife's touch. He thought of the smell of grandchildren. Strength eluding him, tears began to flow, mixed with water and went down the drain. He could hold back no longer. He would let it all out, because he would not do it when someone could see him.

His wife asked him how he was when he came into the bedroom. He smiled, kissed her gently on the lips, and told her everything was fine.




"Bananas"

Cable access television show host is surely not something one aspires to be, least of all Sonny. No, this was a stepping stone for him, merely another rung on his scale to the top of the show biz ladder. He has too much of a talent, he told himself, to be wasting away in his podunk fucking town. He was made for better things, like the Armani suit he wore, not that anyone has the courtesy to notice. It was an extravagance, yes, but you dress for the career you want, not the one you have.

"Sarah," Sonny said sweetly to the production assistant, "could you please move that a little?" The bright lights in the cramped studio were blinding. He felt like he needed sunscreen. "Thanks." But it hadn't been moved much, still felt like he was baking underneath a fucking tanning bed. He smiled, showed his happy face, because you never let them see you angry. The big break could come at any time and angry is unattractive.

Sonny was about to sweat through his clothes. He peeked into a small mirror he kept behind the desk, a last minute check before going live, grimacing when he noticed a wrinkle around the corner of his left eye that he hadn't seen before. He loosened his perfectly knotted tie and hoped he wouldn't have to suffer incompetence much longer. He would need hiring and firing control when he hit it big. It was the surest way to guarantee quality.

I can't be too far now, Sonny thought as he stared into the camera lens. Two years on this damn talk show had come and gone, but he finally had a good guest. He'd lost count of the number of times he had to sit across from every Tom, Dick, and Sally in town trading inane pleasantries. Sometimes they didn't even have the class to dress decently. Television was no place for sweatpants!

Someone from the newly opened zoo was coming by with animals. They did it all the time on Conan and Leno. Audiences ate that shit up and Sonny thought that it might just be enough to get noticed, to get a foot in the door.

"Sonny. You're on in one, two..." said Sarah, then held up three fingers. The camera's light glowed red, signaling the start of the Sonny's live broadcast to anyone who just happened to tune to Channel 73 and had absolutely nothing better to do with their time.

"Hello again," Sonny said, smiling his expensive porcelain Veneer smile. "We have a great show for you today. Graham Singer is here from the Middleborough Zoo with some our friendlier, furrier friends."

A man in his twenties—a good ten years younger than Sonny—in a T-shirt and jeans walked out. He had a strong jawline that Sonny craved, the kind that stars were made of. Sonny noted to himself to focus the interview on the animals. No sense in giving the man any more screen time than necessary.

In the man's hand was a rope leash. On the end of it was a sheep.

Oh God, Sonny thought. What is this? A fucking petting zoo? Where were the big ticket animals? Bears, lions. That's what people wanted to see.

He clenched the muscles in his jaws, his lips locked into a perma-smile. "Graham," he said, taking his hand in a firm grip. "Nice to meet you. Who's this we have here today?"

"This is Cindy. She's two."

"Beautiful, just beautiful," Sonny said and groaned inwardly as the man spewed his litany of sheep factoids. They're great in a stew, he thought. How about that for a fact?

The sheep was followed by an anteater (not exactly cuddly and endearing) and an owl, that Sonny discerned wasn't of the stuffed variety because it blinked. Resigned to the underwhelming turnout, he said, "And do you have anyone else here with us today?"

"We sure do," Graham said. "Bring Jeremiah out," he said to someone offstage.

A woman carried out...a monkey and places it on Dr. Dolittle's lap.

"So, this is Jerry. He's a capuchin monkey," he said and Sonny began to sweat. Of all animals, why did it have to be a goddamn monkey? The little beast climbed onto Graham's shoulder, started picking through his hair.

"What, uh, what is he doing?"

"He's grooming me. It's a social act, keeps them clean."

Clean, Sonny thought. Don't monkeys throw shit at one another? That's not very clean, is it? He wondered what would happen if it threw some of its digested breakfast at him. Can they show that on television?

Then he noticed the monkey stop and stare at him with its beady eyes. He resisted a shudder.

"What else can you tell us about this little guy?" Sonny was on autopilot now, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. And there they were again, those beady little eyes, staring at him. Those cold, murderous eyes. He felt a tremor course its way through his body, settling into a tick under his right eye. What was it looking at? Monkeys can be vicious, many times stronger than an adult man. One tore a woman apart just last week in Connecticut. He should have insisted on security when the producers had refused.

Sonny was busy contemplating his death by monkey when he realized that there was a banana in his hand. "If you just hold that," he heard Graham say," and Jerry will..."

What Sonny would later describe as a savage attack went more like this: The capuchin hopped onto the desk, looked uncertainly at Graham and then reached for his treat. Sonny's natural reaction—as anyone's would be—was to drop the banana, jump back, and yell, "Get that fucking monkey off of me!"

Silence descended on the studio. Sonny looked up to find the camera's red light is still on and Sarah's mouth frozen open.

His reaction video was replayed on every network entertainment and news show. The "Monkey Dude" viral video amassed fifteen million views in its first week online.

Sonny got his wish. He became famous.

Library-Envy

Dear Graveyard Children,

I have a relatively small library--just around 100 books at the moment. I use the public library often and haven't started buying books until the last couple of years. As it is, I buy more than I should. My "To Read" list is growing faster than I can read. Even still, I am running out of shelf space.

So when I saw pictures of Neil Gaiman's library, my heart skipped that figurative beat. OMFG. Amazing.

It would be all sorts of awesome to have such a large library with all those reading nooks, but I have to wonder. How many of those books would I have actually read if I amassed such a collection?

Matt

Howdy

Dear Lethargic Labradoodles,

I have a new story today. I'm not really sure what to do with it, so I might as well post it here. Enjoy!


"The Cold Embrace" By Matt Mok


Peter headed in the direction of Stella's excited cries, the only other sound being his skis sliding through the soft snow. He found the Black Labrador barking, bounding in a circle, kicking up the white powder that blanketed the mountain. She came to Peter, tail wagging furiously.

"What'd you find?"

She ran back to the spot and barked twice, pawing at the ground.

"Good girl," Peter exclaimed and offered her a treat. He planted an orange flag, a stark contrast to an expanse of white. He looked back at the advancing figures just coming over the hill and pointed at the flag, only moving on when they acknowledged his signal. "You think you can do it again?" he asked Stella.

Stella put her nose to the ground, found another intriguing scent, and bolted off. He caught up with her again, planted another flag, and hurried after once more. This happened several more times. Each time, Peter gave her another treat and praised her, though with less exuberance as the day dragged on.

When they were done, he sat with her near one of the snowmobiles. Stella laid down next to him with her tongue hanging out, panting a cloud of steam from her mouth. Peter watched the avalanche rescue crew in their red parkas as they secured another lifeless body onto the sleds. Stella had found seven that day, one of them still clutching a ski pole.

The dog yawned and looked up at her master. Peter stroked Stella's head, which was damp with perspiration from a hard day's work.

"Good girl," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.