We are excited to announce the official release date for the first novel in the Hazzardous Pay series. The Invisible Crown by Charlie Cottrell will be released on December 19, 2016. Pre-sale starts November 21, 2016. The cover reveal will be November 11, 2016. To be a part of the cover reveal day click here to sign up! Blog […]
There are basically two types of tent revivals.
First, there’s the hoopin’ an’ hollerin’, hallelujah-callin’ jumped up revivals, where everyone is dancin’ in the aisles and throwin’ their hands up in the air and shoutin’ praises. There’s lots of singin’ – some of it is even on-key – and folks sharin’ their stories and their joys and their lives.
The other kind is all fire and brimstone, hell and damnation and suffering eternal. You’re a sinful creature and you rightly belong in the deepest pit of hell for all of eternity. The preacher wants you to know you’ve done wrong, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do to overcome your depravity.
But they’ve both got the same message, the Good News, capital letters an’ all. In the good times tent revivals, it’s all about celebrating that fact, reveling in the joy of salvation. In the darker sort of revivals, it’s the spark of hope, the single lifeline to grab hold of an’ cling like the Devil his-own-self was tryin’ to drag you under into darkness. But you can only get there if you repent, if you accept your depraved nature and strive to earn that hope you can’t ever possibly earn.
When I was a kid, we had more of the latter kind of revivals than the former. My daddy wasn’t much for softness, either physically or emotionally. He’d hide us good when we did wrong – and my daddy could always find things you did wrong, even things you weren’t aware you’d done – and drive us hard even when we were doin’ the right thing. He drove himself even harder, though, preachin’ as though there was a fire in his belly eatin’ him from the inside out. He’d shout and holler and accuse, hurl invective and judgment from the pulpit like he was God sittin’ in judgment from His throne. My daddy’d sweat and spit and near as like to catch fire; he’d work himself up into a frothing lather, foamin’ at the mouth like a rabid dog, screaming at the depraved congregation.
And they’d take it, accept his judgments as God’s own truth. And they’d strive to be better folks. They believed every word my daddy told ’em, all evidence to the contrary.
When I was 16, daddy decided to try snake handling. He’d seen another preacher do it down in Okemah in early June, and he liked how it grabbed everyone’s attention. So daddy found a snake wrangler and bought a whole mess’a snakes and put them all in a glass case and brought them to the next revival.
Daddy was a good preacher, full of fury and fire and passion, but he weren’t the smartest guy around. He didn’t pay real close attention to the snake handler he’d seen, didn’t notice that the guy had only used harmless, non-poisonous snakes for his bit. Daddy missed that part, and ended up with a whole bunch of poisonous snakes. I dunno if the snake wrangler he used was stupid, too, or just didn’t care much for daddy’s preachin’, but he loaded daddy up with a couple dozen cottonmouths and a copperhead or two.
The night daddy tried out the snake handling, the tent was packed. Every makeshift pew – usually made with a couple of boards and a few barrels – was stuffed so full the boards sagged and groaned. People stomped and clapped and hollered along to the hymns, and the heat in the tent was so great that a couple of folks in the back passed out. Daddy said it was just the Holy Spirit takin’ hold of ’em, but of course he’d say somethin’ like that.
It was gettin’ towards the end of daddy’s sermon, and he was tellin’ everyone their faith weren’t strong enough. “But if you believe with all your heart and soul, the power of our Lord Jesus will descend upon you, and you can do wonders!” And he reached into that glass case and pulled out a handful of angry snakes. I remember watchin’ ’em writhe in his hands, coiling and hissing and lookin’ none-too-happy about the whole situation.
Of course, when a snake ain’t happy, it’s only got one way of lettin’ you know. An’ these snakes sure let daddy know. They sank their teeth into the flushed flesh of his hands and forearms, pumpin’ venom into him faster than the dickens. Daddy yelped and tried to rip them snakes off his arms, but it weren’t no use. They weren’t gonna let him go.
Daddy collapsed beside his pulpit and went into convulsions, shakin’ and shiverin’ like a body possessed. Folks cried out in fear and surprise; some figured it was the rapture, others thought it was demon possession, and some folks with a bit of know-how recognized it as the venom killin’ daddy. No one wanted to get near him, not with all those damn snakes sittin’ there, so we all just watched in fear and anguish as my daddy died.
We are looking for some amazing bloggers to participate in an upcoming cover reveal. It’s for the awesome short story BoyzNite By Xane Fisher. The date for the cover reveal is on June 15, 2016. Send us an email to email@example.com or click here to join our blog tour email list. Thanks! About BoyzNite: Law […]
Help my publisher show off covers as they get revealed! Mine will be several months from now still, but you can go ahead and get in on the ground floor with June 15’s reveal of BoyzNite by Xane Fisher.
A lot of my writer friends like to treating writing like any other job: there are deadlines, quotas to meet, specific goals to achieve. And I get that. If you just keep endlessly working on the same book forever, you’re never going to get to publish it any move on to something new. But I also feels like it gives short shrift to the creative aspect of what we’re doing here.
Everyone decries inspiration as a fickle, fleeting muse, as though waiting for it to make an appearance is a form of weakness in a writer and a sign that they’re not a True Author (TM). As if the only way to really, truly being a professional in the field is to spend each day putting words on the page, some good and some bad, and then going back and editing them to make them all polished gold or something.
That strikes me as a bit disingenuous. Each of us started writing because we were struck with some bit of inspiration. Maybe it was just a scene, or a character, or even a word or phrase. Maybe it was a line of dialogue, or the brief description of an action or something. We all started from a place of inspiration, not a place of discipline. And while I think it’s great that some writers can crank out words every day without concern for whether or not they’re good words (or they’re words that can be fixed in editing), I’d still rather take my time, maybe not get something on the page every day, and make sure I put down the right words the first time ’round.
And maybe that’s arrogance on my part. Maybe I’m not being as clear here as I’d like to be. Writing about writing is always fraught with hand-wringing and sounding full of yourself. “The Process,” y’know. I always roll my eyes when creative folks talk about their Process. It sounds so pretentious. And I’m sure talking of inspiration sounds that way, too. It’s a lot more down-to-earth to talk about being a writer through the self-discipline of writing. You sound like a human, or like anyone could do what you do if they just built that discipline themselves.
But I’m not sure that’s true. Maybe it’s a bit elitist, but not everybody can do everything, even with discipline. I could practice every day, hire the best trainers and go through intense regimens, and still never be a better basketball player than LeBron James or Michael Jordan. I could push myself to practice for hours a day, doing riffs and runs and arpeggios, and never be as good a guitar player as Prince was. Those are (or were) all highly-disciplined people who spent years honing their crafts, but they started with the inspiration. I’m just saying maybe we shouldn’t discount that part quite so much. Discipline without inspiration is just so much hard work for nothing.
Whenever I tell someone new that I’m having a novel published, the question is inevitably asked:
“Oh? What’s it like? What’s it about?”
And I get to sit there for a second like a twit trying to come up with a concise, clear way of describing it. I usually go with something like, “It’s a hard-boiled detective novel with bizarre sci-fi science elements and ninjas. And an ape-in-a-suit named Vinny the Pooh.”
I’ll tell you, the weird looks I often receive in return aren’t reassuring. Maybe my description is lacking? I struggle with describing my creative endeavors, whether they’re comics or stories or poems or songs or freestanding dioramas portraying the inevitable betrayal and death of a beloved Joss Whedon character in one of his shows.
Part of me wants to be able to just say, “Here, read the first chapter. That’s what it’s about. That’s what it’s like.” Unfortunately, I can’t carry around copies of the first chapter for that specific purpose; I’m pretty sure the administration would start to give me funny looks if I upped my copier use that much.
It’s probably best if I just come up with a snappier, more effective description. I’ve been trying out the term speculative noir to describe the story, though that’s drawn some confused looks, too.
I like the term, though. It encapsulates basically everything you need to know: speculative fiction is all about near-future tech and science and society, and the weird ways things are similar to and different from the future. Noir, of course, hearkens back to the works of Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler, or films like The Maltese Falcon (a Hammet story, if you don’t know) or Touch of Evil. There are shifty characters, individuals with dark secrets, and a central character who doesn’t so much have a character arc as he has a drinking problem and a curiosity that he can’t shake even though it threatens to get him killed all the time. And hell, that’s Eddie Hazzard through and through.
Sure, I still have to explain what I mean with speculative noir, but once I have it does a pretty good job of getting my idea across.
Of course, I still have to mention the ninjas. Because, c’mon, ninjas.
I’m an unapologetic Bob Dylan fan. I’ll even listen to the crappy late ’70s/early ’80s born-again Christian albums that everyone agrees are absolute crap. But my favorite, the one that I could listen to over and over again for the rest of my days, the one that would be in my “Desert Island Discs” top ten, is Highway 61 Revisited.
Yeah, it’s kind of the obvious choice. With “Like a Rolling Stone,” it’s guaranteed to be one of the best-known of Dylan’s albums, standing alongside his earlier folk albums and Blonde on Blonde as the ones that all the casual fans know about and probably have.
But I’m not some hipster who thinks popularity makes something bad. There is, I think, a good reason that so many people like this record: it’s just really damn good. Peak Dylan, firing on all cylinders and writing with a passion and a fire that could barely be contained. From the first firecracker snare shot of “Like a Rolling Stone” to the plaintive harmonica wail that brings “Desolation Row” to an end, Highway 61 Revisited is everything I ever wanted in a rock and roll record. Dylan is by turns thoughtful, aggressive, playful, and mystical, tapping into a mythic America that seems somehow more real than the actual one.
Though I’d deny it until my dying day if someone asked me directly, I am a bit obsessed with my appearance. Over the past few years, I’ve become something of a clothes horse, building up a vast array of shirts and pants and shoes that I can mix and match to create a variety of (what I consider) stylish outfits.
I do a bit of accessorizing, too, but only on my left hand.
That may sound strange, but there’s a totally legitimate reason for it.
See, for as long as I’ve worn any sort of accessories (specifically, watches, which I wore habitually for pretty much all of middle school, high school, and college), it’s always been on my left hand. When I got married, the wedding band naturally went on the left ring finger. For a time, I wore my Fitbit on my right wrist, but it always felt weird and I always had to take it off when I played the guitar, since it would hit the strings and add lots of extra steps I hadn’t actually taken as I strummed. So, I put everything on the left hand, ’cause it’s the one that doesn’t do all that much. My right hand is for strumming, drawing, and writing. Wearing stuff on that wrist/hand just gets in the way. But the left wrist feels natural and comfortable, and I don’t end up with those extra unearned steps.
So, if you ever see me and my left wrist/hand seems over-accessorized compared to the right, you know the reason. It may be a strange, silly reason, but it’s the one I’m sticking to.