Writing Updates and the Undead

So, I abandoned my blog for a while so I could focus on writing and growing an awesome beard. Don't ask me how blogging interfered with my beard growth...it just did. I'm now back to give you some updates of awesomitude.

I finished my first and second drafts of my novel. I am now tweaking it a bit, fixing some minor little mistakes, and adding in a few things that come to me in the middle of the night. I've woken up at 4am three or four nights in a row with some detail that would make the book just a touch better. It has been exhilarating and obnoxious.

Some of you know I've decided to self publish. I'm not even going to try the traditional publishing route. I think ebooks and indie publishers are the wave of the future. If you really want all my reasons, I'll do another post about it.

The major problem with epublishing is you need to completely reformat your book to make it work. This process is not simple, easy, or fun. I was a little overwhelmed by the whole concept of redoing my novel with html, so I thought I'd do a trial run first with some short stories.

But, as I focused on my novel, those short stories didn't get finished. I started to worry. I needed some practice before I did my novel. I dug through old folders and found what I needed.

A few Christmases ago I wrote a gag zombie guide for my friends and family. I still had it saved on my computer. All I needed to do was remove any reference to people I know directly and all the stuff about St George, Utah. I added a few more pictures, hand drawn of course. Then I started the reformat process.

Agony. That is the word. I formatted it and put it on the previewer. Nothing looked right. My pictures didn't appear. My fonts were too big or too small. Spaces popped up in the wrong places. I had nonsense bits of code that didn't translate into words. I formatted it again. Nope. My pictures all looked black. My font sizes still insisted on doing strange and forbidden things. I tried again. Better. Again. Better. One more time. Pretty good. I saved the whole thing as an epub file.

Then I made a cover.

I think it turned out pretty well considering I don't have much experience doing much more than my silly cartoons on here.

I am now proud to say my zombie guide is available online for real people to buy. Check it out now if you're interested, just 99 cents may save your life someday.

Here for Amazon's kindle.

Here for B&N's Nook.

Very soon, I'll have it available in print for $6.99 and I'll keep you updated.

I am now pretty much ready to get my novel out there. I figure about a month for me to reformat it, get a cover, and get it out there. I'm not above asking for help to spread the word. Please, my blogger friends, lend me your blogs. I am hoping to do a few interviews, guest posts, and talk a bit about the book or the characters for you. If you are interested, let me know.

I will be grateful forever and I'll work out some incentive as we get closer. I'm thinking a couple signed copies of Zombies at the Door and a couple of my novel, The Crystal Bridge that will go out to a randomized few people from those who help.

Abandonment and Apple People

When I was seven, my family took a trip to visit my grandparents. I was an odd kid and I would spend hours in the back yard pretending it was a jungle or a dark forest full of trolls, warlocks, and ewoks. I mixed scifi and fantasy even then.

In the darkest back corner of the yard stood an old crab apple tree. The green fruit fell everywhere, but were too green and bitter to use for anything. I found a use for those poor neglected fruit. I put faces on them and made them my friends.

I gave them arms and legs, hair, and then got even more elaborate.

I soon discovered that after I punctured the skin and they baked in the summer heat interesting things happened.

They shriveled up and I liked the character it added. Soon I had whole families of crab apple people. The fresh ones were young and the shriveled ones were grandparent or grisly pirates. They argued, went to war, fell in love, had children, forgot birthdays and anniversaries...just like you would expect crab apple people to behave.

Sometime in the midst of playing, I realized I couldn't hear anyone. I checked the back door, locked. Front door, locked. Sliding glass door to the basement, locked.

My grandparents lived in Ogden. There was some festival in Salt Lake that my parents wanted to go see. They gathered the brood together and then someone thought to ask what everyone was thinking...cause I'm awesome.

One of my siblings chimed in with a very well informed answer after not bothering to check in the least.

I was not. Thank you, unknown sibling. Karma will find you.

I checked all the door several times. I was hungry and thirsty. I wanted in. Most seven-year-olds might have just curled up in a corner and cried. I never was most children. An image flashed into my brain. My salvation. I remembered seeing a window cracked, a can stuck in to hold it open, my salvation.

Of course, this window was to the second floor bathroom. Someone had stuck it in there to help air it out. Why? Well...when four adults and six or seven kids all use one bathroom...you know what I mean.

Now, how to get to the second floor? The old clothesline, of course.

Yep. I shimmied up that pole, ducked through wire, pulled my skinny frame up the T, and scalded the crap out of my hands on the hot tin edge of the roof. I slipped and fell, catching myself on the wires, and climbed back up. Bravely I licked my hands and tried again, pushing past the pain. Moments later I stood on the roof, triumphant.

I made my way to the window.

Now, the tricky part. The reason a can sat on the ledge was this window did not like to stay open. I pushed the can through and heard it fall with a loud thud to the tub below. Then I had to catch the window before it closed completely.

I lifted with those little stick arms that genetics gifted me, muscles strained and rippling like hot summer air. I managed to make a hole large enough to squeeze into, but once I no longer lifted on the window it slammed closed...or as closed as it could get with my chest in the way. I wriggled my way further into the room, dangling above the tub.

Finally I worked myself most of the way in, but my feet got caught.

Safe at last. I made myself a sandwich, got a glass of water, and waited for my family to realize their mistake. They did not until they arrived. My mom called the house, not really expecting me to answer.. I did and recounted my tale of woe.

I never made it to that festival...but neither did my siblings. Karma much? I think so.

Pills for Valentine's Day

I haven't finished a comic again for this week. I know...slacker, right? Sorry. I know I've let my blogging duties slide down the priority list. I've had a lot going on. What? Thanks for asking.

I built a playhouse for my sister and her kids. See. Bask in its awesomeness that flows from it in rippling waves.

Designed myself, insulated, solid, and pure awesome.

I also created four mini lightboxes for my wife to give to several girls who are graduating from high school. My wife teaches them at church, so she wanted them to have something unique and personal. I did little landscapes of the St George temple with Dixie hill in the background. That way they remind them of home wherever they go.

They were my first attempt to go cordless. These have batteries and an led. The back is frosted plastic so they can tape a picture to it and have that glow too. I like them, kinda retro modern. I hope the girls like them too.

I also changed out a toilet all by myself. Seriously, do you know how disgusting that can be? I only gagged a couple time, but managed to hold it together and get the job done. Here is my new dual flush space toilet that I picked up for just under a hundred bucks at Restore. It qualifies for a seventy-five dollar rebate too. I rock.

So, yeah, I've been busy. This isn't even counting all the hard work on my novel. That project is nearing completion and gets harder and harder to do the closer I get, like running a marathon uphill during a hail storm on the hottest day in July. No wonder most people who start a novel never finish. I will finish though, conquer, stand proud atop of the hill of my manuscript...and then start the rewrite process. Painful.

I also got a stain out of my wife's pants that she was sure would never come out. I am that awesome.

In place of a comic this week, I leave you with another bit of short fiction. I wrote this around eight or nine years ago. I know it is rough and lacks a lot of the elegant prose you have all come to expect from me...right? But, it is one of my first real attempts to get into the head of my character. It gave me chills as I wrote it and, in my opinion, nailed the voice down.

I don't want you all to think these bits of writing are in any way a consolation prize. I work hard on them too, often much harder than I work on my funny comics. This one is in no way funny, just to warn you.

Enjoy.


Pills for Valentine's Day

I sit on the bathroom floor, head against the cupboards below the sink, feet against the door. The old, metal bends near the bottom, dented over the years by my pushing against it. I kick when I’m frustrated, but usually I just hold the world outside. This bathroom has always been my escape. I remember when I was little and had to lay down to be able to keep my feet against the door. Now I have to kick off my sandals or high heels to be almost comfortable.


I actually don’t know whether I’m holding something out or in sometimes. The first minute is always the worst, heart pounding as everything piles against the door. My legs shake and burn, but I have to keep them tight until the pressure against the door stops. Only then can I relax, feel sane, feel real again. Then I sit inside for hours, calmly breathing the cooled air as it slips over the cold ceramic sink.

Lately I’ve been holding my past in and the springtime air out. Spring disgusts me. Everyone triumphs the renewal of life, ignoring how dirty this renewal is. Mold, rain, pollen, dust, heaving liquid filth, frolicking. I don’t ever remember frolicking or wanting to for that matter. Rot and decay start in springtime, winter is clean, without smell.

That and everything yells during spring, birds, cats, dogs, people. Twitterpation season. And what is the beauty behind a baby flying around, shooting people with poisoned arrows? Doesn’t anyone else know that Cupid rhymes with stupid.

I hate Valentine’s Day. Some people call it “Single Awareness Day,” but I don’t hate it for that. I always seem to have a boyfriend, just never good ones.

I once ate a whole bag of candy hearts, not the ones with words on them, nasty things made out of eraser dust, but the little, hot, red ones. I locked myself in the bathroom to hide from Momma holding her out with my feet. When the shaking stopped I crawled into the tub and ate the hearts one at a time.

The tub was dirty. If you squinted hard it looked like black ivy climbing all over. I chewed each heart for the first half of the bag, but my mouth was burning too much to chew the second half. I swallowed what was left one by one. I didn’t like them, they hurt, but each one made me feel real again. So, I kept eating them even when the tears came, making the ivy sway and crawl along the walls of the tub. Each little heart was a pill, making the numb go away for a few seconds, making me a normal little girl.

Momma’s current two-week to three-month boyfriend had been babysitting for a while. His name was Jake and he decided to “share something special” with me for Valentine’s Day. I ate a spicy heart and could focus on the heat gliding down my throat instead of the things he’d had me do. My tongue burned and my nose dripped into the filthy tub, keeping me alive inside until the bag was empty. Then I was forced to think again.

I puked fire onto the bathroom floor. The candy clawed its way out like each heart had hundreds of Momma’s fake fingernails. Twisted, sharp debris swam with whole hearts in a bloody lake on the curling, yellow linoleum. I covered it up with toilet paper and hid in a closet the rest of the day, until Momma found me. She beat me with a fly swatter, not the rubbery, swat end, but she turned it around to use the wire handle. I welcomed the pain that made me real once more. I thought I deserved it for what I had taken from her. She made me clean up the bathroom floor, but I cleaned the whole bathroom instead, tearing down the ivy walls. I scrubbed for hours, drowning myself in the chemical air.

Launa was smarter than me then, though she’s probably dead now. She ran away. I think she was fourteen or fifteen. She thought that by leaving she wouldn’t end up like Momma. Maybe it worked, I haven’t heard from Launa in three years.

Momma got herself beat to death about two years after Launa left by some new boyfriend. They found her in the trash behind a bar after she was missing two days. My sister came home from somewhere that spring to take care of me. I don’t know how she knew about any of it.

She disappeared four years later. I was completely alone before I even graduated from high school. Momma and Launa at least left me the suffocating house and, with it, my bathroom. So, sometimes, when things get numb again and I need to feel real, to feel sane, I sit on the clean bathroom floor, feet against the door, and trace a pink stain over and over again in the linoleum with my left hand.

Unicorn Poop

I remember being lied to as a child. I was told I could be anything, do anything. Work hard and get an education and life will reward you with all your dreams and wishes. I was also promised a flying car. Lies.

Somewhere above us is a dream factory. Unicorns are working hard squeezing out our marshmello dreams. These dreams roll down the rainbow conveyor belts and drop magically down upon us. Somewhere along the line my conveyor belt has slipped. Somewhere up there rainbow belts are falling to the cloud floor, dreams are crashing into one another, fires are igniting, alarms are sounding, and unicorns are running around crazy with hard hats and marmalade extinguishers.

In all honesty, I do believe in education and hard work. I don't believe that all your dreams can come true, but some can. You can't wait for the rainbows to drop them on you though. You have to have a plan.

I had a plan once. Get a degree in English Literature, get a Masters, teach college, get a PhD, write and teach. I got sucked into the hotel industry while I went to school and was perfectly content to do so for a while. Then the plan slipped. Now, I am working 50 to 60 hours a week, my cholesterol is out of control, I never get weekends or holidays off, and my soul hurts. I barely write and I never get to teach. I am looking for the exit. My soul cannot take the crushing much longer.

My dream is to write, draw, carve, paint, design, teach, and refinish furniture. Random, I know, but it could work. I would also like to be fabulously wealthy. Like I said, you can't have all your dreams. I am letting the wealthy thing go...and the flying car, though begrudgingly.

My wife and I have implemented our plan to break me out of the hotel industry. We are dropping to basic cable and will no longer eat out. Sacrifice is painful, but chafes your soul much less than self compromise. This should save us anywhere from $3,000 to $5,000 a year. This money will go towards debt and savings. Once we have our credit cards gone and about $7,000 in savings, I am safe to take some risk and jump into making money on my own through my random talents. I have the business license already set up to refinish furniture. I can write and paint all I want once I have the time as long as I actually sell my stuff. This is the plan and we will stick to it this time. No allowing for distracti...ooooohhh...look at that shiny...No! No distractions. We will make these dreams a reality if I have to climb up there and wrestle them from those sticky dream-master's hooves.