So I just finished reading Tom Pitts' new novella,Knuckleball. It's a quick read that manages to pack a lot of information in its limited space. We are thoroughly introduced to a handful of characters whose lives will unfortunately intertwine as a result of a tragic shooting. The drama of solving the murder of a police officer unfolds and is then brought to what seems to be a satisfactory conclusion. Except, of course, this is not a glossy version of reality. This is the kind of fiction where truth intrudes more than it ever could in non-fiction. The novella ends on an ambiguous note appropriate to the tone of the entire story. Justice has many faces, and sometimes, those faces don't fit so well within the parameters of the law. If you're like me, if you can't stand tidy endings where little birds land on a windowsill and sing zippety-fucking-doo-dah, you'll enjoy Knuckleball.
So for some reason, Blogspot won't let me comment on my own fucking blog. Someone asked about rates for GRINDHOUSE FICTION, here's the deal: We're doing the commie, profit-sharing method. Everybody involved gets an equal cut of the gross profits for a year. After the first year, any profits will go toward the production of future issues.
This is based on my experiences with PULP MODERN. When PM started, I came up with the profit-sharing idea. I made the mistake of writing into the contracts that PM would go out of print after a year simply because I couldn't imagine dividing pennies on a back issue five years down the road. The result is that nobody can get the first four issues of PM now, which has led to some harsh criticism of yours truly. After a year, profits on a particular book die down to almost nothing, so it seems best to put whatever profits come in toward the project itself.
So Craig T. McNeeley, co-editor of the new GRINDHOUSE FICTION series, has all the details you need:
Remember back when this country was free and you could go and see a triple feature of Charles Bronson delivering justice on the big screen like God intended?
We do too.
We are seeking a few good men and women for new anthologies of Grindhouse Fiction. Novellas inspired by films such as Escape From New York, The Exterminator, Don't Answer The Phone, I Eat Your Flesh, I Drink Your Blood, I Spit On Your Grave, and many more. We want you Dirty Marys and you Crazy Larrys. Let freedom ring.
Here's what you've gotta do: send a query letter to doublelifepress (at) gmail (dot) com by April Fool's Day with a synopsis of your novella. If we like what you've got, we'll ask for the rest. Make sure your submissions are 15-20,000 words in length and don't forget the popcorn.
So Uncle B's Drive-in didn't quite make it. That doesn't mean there isn't a home for low-budget fiction. Craig T. McNeeley and I are putting together a new project called GRINDHOUSE FICTION. Each issue will contain three novellas, roughly 15 to 20 thousand words. We will have a call shortly for queries, so start thinking up some grimy, sleazy fiction that cuts through the veneer of all that fancy shit the tea and biscuit crowd consumes in effort to avoid facing the real world, and get that shit written! First issue is scheduled to be released on July 4, 2015, and the deadline for queries will be April 1, 2015. More information on the way...
Uncle B’s Drive-in Fiction is, like so many drive-in venues,
closed for good. No longer in print. I’ve done what I can to keep this problem
child alive and nothing seems to help. I believe it suffered the same fate as
the Grindhouse movie from a few years back. Too much for one volume. I sent
copies to reviewers who thanked me kindly and then never reviewed the book.
Even if they hated it, they could have said so. I suspect that reading the
entire thing was a daunting task and most of them said ‘fuck it,’ threw it in
the garbage, and moved on.
And what a shame that nobody gave this book a chance. Matt
Funk’s contribution won an award. David James Keaton’s contribution eventually
morphed into The Last Projector. It also had ace stories from Garnett
Elliott and Jimmy Callaway.
I supposed the lesson learned is, don’t weigh down a reader
with too much at once. If I had to do it all over again, I’d easily limit the
stories to between 5000 and 10,000 words and maybe cut the number of writers
down to three. Oh well. You can get copies of the book for dirt cheap at
So I've been reading essays by that old prick Harlan Ellison. I am reminded of why I started PULP MODERN in the first place--to provide a journal for pulp writers where there were some form of payment. The communist, 'let's share in the profits' thing didn't work. I've been giving contributor copies since I stopped the initial payment plan. I'm losing money in the process. Putting Pulp Modern out is a labor of love at this point, but I'd like to try, once again, to raise its status ever-so-slightly by offering payment.
While I don't have the resources other journals do, I will now pay 1/4 a cent per word for stories.
Not since the first issue of Pulp Modern have I had such a tough time choosing which stories to include. There were literally dozens of choices of amazing material. I had to pass on a lot of great stories. Here's the line up for issue number eight, which is all about America's third favorite past time, drugs:
Daniel Nathan Horn
Joseph S. Pete
Look for issue eight in early December. I'm going to put the appropriate care in the kindle version and release it roughly the same time, though it will be a bit more expensive than usual (2.99 instead of .99).
Long time no post. Stuff has happened. Here's what it is:
This week, Profane #1 was released. This is a journal put together by Patrick Chambers and Jake Little. They're soldiers in the war on stupidity (with regards to free speech) and publish fiction and poetry (and "creative non-fiction") that doesn't adhere to the oppressive "standards" of the Polite Police. The first issue includes my short story "Trouble at the Renoir," about a high school teacher trying to enjoy an adult film at a porno theater in the 1970s. Hilarity and danger ensue.
While it's been out for some time, you should know that I also have work in the first issue of Dark Corners. This is a pulp journal put out by Craig and Emily McNeely (I apologize if I fail to mention others working behind the scenes there). It includes my short story "Columbus Day," which is a joyful romp through the Minnesota countryside with some meth junkies and a couple of yuppies. Fun for the whole family.
I continue to work on editing my film Kato Therapy. It goes slow, but it goes. It is what it is, low-budget, but, goddammit, the story makes sense, nobody's hanging over my shoulder telling me to change shit so that the story doesn't make sense, and, most important, my girlfriend, who is my toughest critic, watched the first seven minutes and said she was impressed.
I hate to be that person who says, 'I got news, but I can't tell you!' However, I got news, and I can't tell you!
Finally, don't forget the theme for the next issue of Pulp Modern is 'dangerous women.'
I'm just about finished putting together Pulp Modern #8. Look for it in December.
So the deadline for issue 8 has passed. I'll be picking through the last two dozen submissions this weekend. I can already announce that the drug issue will be plus-sized. So many good stories (a lot of stories I had to pass on even though I enjoyed them). It's going to be a big, strange trip.
That leads us to issue 9. The theme is: Dangerous Women. Be they in crime, horror, science fiction, or westerns, I want to see women shaking up the status quo and raising hell. I also want to see more women contribute stories to Pulp Modern. There are many ways for women to be dangerous, the femme fatale is just one. Get creative, get subversive, get writing!
So I gotta make a movie every seven years. A feature-length movie, that is. My first two films sucked, mostly because there were money people standing over my shoulders making changes I didn't approve of and, surprise surprise, caused the movies to fail one way or another. I know what mistakes I made on those pictures, I'm not blaming any one person, but after the second fiasco, it became clear to me that I needed to not only be the writer and director, but the executive producer (i.e., money person) as well in order to get a coherent, cohesive feature film made. I finally achieved that this summer (seven years after the second film, which was shot seven years after the first). It will take me a year to edit and polish this new movie, but it will be worth the wait.
One of the biggest mistakes I made back in 2000 was letting someone else produce Mr. Id, my first feature film. My original intention had been to shoot it on video and cut it with equipment I had access to at my job. Then I let someone talk me into letting them produce it for several hundred thousand dollars. The movie was doomed from that point on. For the second film, Beverly Hills Massacre, I asked a colleague at Crenshaw High School to produce the film for 10,000 dollars. I said it could be done that cheaply. Initially, my colleague believed me, raised about ten grand, and then started listening to idiots in Hollywood who told him the film would never be distributed without a "name" attached to it. Doom.
So, after chatting with Pablo D'Stair on Facebook (Pablo made a film for about zero dollars that is now going to play at the Munich Underground Film Festival), I decided to shoot a feature film on my little Canon ZR600 dv camera. Lots of folks think it's crazy. Whatever. I shot the film, it's "in the can," as they say, and now I will spend a year in post production. This time around, I didn't worry about money, I didn't worry about all the shit that folks in L.A. worry about with regard to making a movie. That purity of action, I believe, will result in a film that actually makes sense.
So LitReactor is having a crime fiction contest. You can go there and read stories and rate them and comment on them. I've entered a story called "The Ralph's at Third and Vermont." This story seems to fall into a style I've developed since finishing the MFA program where I put disparate moments together and let the reader figure out why they're related. I find it interesting that my genre (vs. literary) fiction leaves much more space for experimentation (in the MFA program, the only experimenting seems to be messing with verb tense and POV) than so-called literary fiction. Anyway, it's good to be writing the kind of fiction I prefer to write without fear of some MFA literafia cult descending on me and calling me worthless for writing fiction where stuff actually happens.
But enough about my work, let's talk about me. Just kidding. Please follow this link and read and rate my story. Even if you don't like it, feedback is always a good thing. Thanks.
So, after a spring and early summer of battling the most psychotic bureaucrats I've ever encountered, I've managed to put this issue together. And let me tell you, it's a doozy. There's refined fiction, raunchy fiction, sentimental fiction, and even a little bit of the stuff that might make you angry when you read it. A salad bar of pulp fiction for you to read on the beach or in your cubicle or in a factory or wherever you'll be spending the next few weeks. Please get your copy now and let the writers know what a fantastic job they've done. As always, I truly believe Pulp Modern just gets better and better with each issue and this one lives up to that expectation.
Good news this morning--I received word from Shotgun Honey that a very bizarre piece I wrote has been accepted there. In the meantime, however, feel free to stop by The Flash Fiction Offensive / Out of the Gutter Online and give a quick read to my story HAPPY THOUGHTS. It's a nice shot of dystopian "paranoia" for your Monday morning!
With evil bureaucrats and insane, hyper-sensitive morons doing everything they can to destroy me, I somehow managed to put together PULP MODERN#7! But make no mistake, the stars are the contributing writers, which include PM regulars such as Chris Rhatigan, Richard Godwin, Edward A. Grainger, and Mike Sheedy as well as some stunning work by first time PM writers such as Ken Miller, Gerald So, and Patrick Chambers. Thieves and liars. Should be available by next week (with a kindle edition showing up some time later).
So Mila Kunis has decided men shouldn't say "we're pregnant" when their wives or girlfriends are expecting a baby. What would sound better? "She's pregnant," like she did it all by herself? My girlfriend told me she'd slug me if I said something like that.
This points to a larger problem I've noticed in modern America. Figurative language is dying. That's bad news for writers. What Mila Kunis is either too dense, too stupid, or simply too young and ignorant to understand, is that a man saying "we're pregnant" when his wife/girlfriend is pregnant is simply a figurative phrase with no ill intentions. Now, cultural critics and other bored, upper-class (generally) white folks will say that buried somewhere in there is some nefarious double-meaning, or some such shit. After five years of graduate school, I'm convinced all that shit is exactly that: shit. Bullshit, to be more precise. In the case of "we're pregnant," it's a matter of the man showing solidarity with his wife/girlfriend. How the fuck anybody could consider that a problem is beyond imagination.
Then again, look around this country. Crazy and stupid have gotten together and created the most dangerously uninformed generation ever.
I weep for the future.
Now, back to my writing, for which I make no apologies should I use a phrase, metaphor, or simile, that dummies like Mila Kunis don't have the brains to comprehend.
To recap, here are the latest places you can sample the kind of fiction I prefer to write (you know, stories, where something happens, etc.).
If you have not read Sugar Cookie's at PULP METAL, please do so and comment. It's a period piece, which is a joke I've attached to it since it takes place in the 1960s and involves menstrual blood. Don't read it while you eat, by the way.
"Little People," a story where I actually demonstrate some empathy for the victim, can be found in the amazing new issue of ALL DUE RESPECT. In addition to some fine fiction by some outstanding writers, there are interviews and book reviews, making ADR one of the very best journals out there.
Finally, if you haven't done so, head on over to BEAT TO A PULP and catch my latest Haggard, Indiana story, No Hard Feelings.
I write these stories to entertain readers, so please, entertain yourselves!
I've already read this thing on Kindle. Never mind that I have a story in this issue. There's a host of great fiction, some amazing interviews (including an interview with Mr. David Cranmer), and reviews pointing you to other books you should be reading. This one's a classic, all involved in the production of it should be proud of themselves. You may now (and should now) get your paperback version at Amazon.
Difficult to believe it's been three years since I had a story at Beat to a Pulp, but that's exactly the amount of time I've been in Real Writer Hell, aka, the mfa program at a university I despise so much I'm ashamed to put it on my resume and I sure as hell won't mention it here. But enough about that...
I'm back on the right track, writing stories I want to write, as opposed to lifeless shit the "literary" types deem appropriate. The story at BTAP is called No Hard Feelings. It takes place in the fictional town of Haggard, Indiana, a place I've written about several times and will write about a whole lot more. Please enjoy!
I’ve just learned that my friend Steve Parlavecchio died
yesterday. I don’t know the
circumstances. He was 43 years old. I tried to contact Steve a couple of weeks
ago on Facebook. He didn’t respond. I wish like hell that he had.
Steve starred in my first feature film, Mr. Id. The film is not very
good, but Steve’s performance is outstanding.
It’s the only reason to watch the damn movie. Before we shot the movie, I told Steve to
watch every Bogart movie he could find.
He did. And he channeled Bogart
like he was the man’s ghost. There’s a
particular scene where he’s confronting a woman who owes him money and refuses
to pay with cash. If you close your eyes
when you watch that scene, it’s hard to believe it’s not Bogey and Bacall going
at it. I guess Steve was a bit of a
method actor because he really took to the Bukowski lifestyle (the character he
played, Jack Maggot, was based on Bukowski) during the shoot—drinking a lot and
trying to score with every woman on the set.
He didn’t act quite so wild in his normal life (though there were nights
in Los Angeles I had to wrestle his car keys from him and insist on driving,
something he absolutely hated).
I walked off the set of Mr.
Id halfway through the shoot. It was
the nastiest crew ever assembled for a movie and the producer made it clear
that I didn’t have his support. Steve
was the only person who tried to keep me from leaving. He said I’d regret it and, ultimately, he was
right. My “career” as a movie director
never quite recovered.
For reasons Steve would never make clear, his career never
went to the places it should have either.
He starred in Amongst Friends,
an independent film about Jewish kids getting into crime, directed by Rob
Weiss, who was one of the creators of Entourage. For a few moments in 1993, it looked like
Steve would become a big name in Hollywood—this was the final, glorious year of
Sundance, when independent films actually were independent—but something
happened. Steve refused to star in big
budget movies, and I think that hurt him.
His only other major film was Bandwagon,
which a lot of people like. He made
other movies (including Mr. Id), but
he never achieved the success I think his talent deserved.
When I lived in L.A., things were often difficult and I had
few places to go where I could commiserate with other people who were
struggling to pay their bills and find a way into the movie business. Steve was the only reliable friend I had
there. He was a typical actor with
typical actor foibles, but I could see that, underneath the shields he put up
to maintain the attitude required to survive in Hollywood, he was a very good
person. It’s very sad to know his
kindness is no longer a part of this world.
Just discovered The Fall Creek Review, an eclectic site that seems to have a little of everything. Today it's got a poem by Keith Rawson that most of the folks I grew up with can probably relate to. Check it out.