So I spent the last three months researching and designing an online course at the college I teach at called Fantasy, Horror, and Science Fiction Literature. In the process, I had to revisit the original pulps for all three genres and my love and fascination with writing that is truly imaginative was rekindled. I fucking love these magazines. Is there anything on the newsstand today that rivals Amazing and Astounding? Weird Tales? No. Not even close. Bringing back a culture of fantastic fiction through pulp publications was a goal of mine five years ago and I failed. I failed miserably.
Pulp Modern's first two issues approached what I had originally set out to do. After that, the journal (there's a problem right there--calling it a journal instead of a magazine) started to veer in odd directions. People noticed and hardly anybody submitted stories until I went to the "themed" issue idea. Well, this was all fine and dandy, but again, it was far away from my original intentions. That's not to say that every issue of Pulp Modern wasn't its own little masterpiece. I love issue five, the variety of stories in it was amazing. The JFK issue looked like something 20-year old Alec Cizak would have produced, full of paranoia (see Joe Clifford's story for an example) and all out rage, not to mention the highly imaginative pieces by Chris Rhatigan and Mav Skye. Stories in the drugs issue earned praise from Otto Penzler's assistant who helps put together the Best Mystery Stories anthologies (or something like that). And the last issue, when I went all crime all the time, was wall to wall great crime fiction. I'm proud of every issue of Pulp Modern and the writers who contributed should be even prouder of the work they produced. But Pulp Modern was inflicted by the sensibilities (or lack thereof) of the academy. The very name, Pulp Modern, suggested "postmodern" work would be acceptable. And I certainly did publish some stories that could fall under that category. But I feel that alienated the genuine genre writers out there who, ultimately, like me, don't want to waste time writing stories where the writer overtly pats him or herself on the back for being so gosh darned clever. Again, far, far away from what a real pulp is supposed to be.
The lack of sales versus the amount of time I put into producing Pulp Modern led to its demise. Not enough people cared and I blame that on lack of publicity and lack of exposure. Most people who might want a nice collection of stories to read on the subway or while they're sitting on the toilet don't look for material like that on Amazon. They see something on a newsstand or at Barnes and Noble, the cover catches their attention, and if they like the description on the back, they buy it. That means that any real movement toward a thriving market of pulp magazines needs to go a bit the old fashioned way--real magazines need to be printed up and distributed to book stores and newsstands.
So, all that being said, my ultimate plan is to start one of these kickstarter funds or whatever the hell they're called, and raise the kind of money that would allow for the publication of a real pulp magazine that actually pays writers a decent sum of money for their work (I, and hopefully the rest of you, have reached a point where publishing "for free" is not acceptable. Writing is work and it should be rewarded as such. Nobody asks a janitor to mop floors for free...). That is my goal and I will begin assembling a team of people to help make this happen. I don't know if the result will be called Pulp Modern, or if I'll start with a particular genre and then branch out with magazines for all the different genres. But that's the thinking for now. Any comments or suggestions are welcome.
Just thought I'd say Merry Christmas to the two or three people who still read this "blog," if it can even be called a blog.
I've spent the majority of this year working. I wrote the rough draft to a novel. I look forward to polishing it and sending it out to be rejected by editors some time in 2017.
In January, 2017, Beat to a Pulp will publish a short story of mine called "Creepy."
Later in the year, ABC Group Documentation will publish Down on the Street, a novella I started work on way back in 2012. It's about a cabbie who makes the wonderful decision to become a pimp.
An old friend of mine recently read the "weird fiction" stories I've been working on for the last nine months and said she found them "tame." Of course, I'm trying to write elegant horror stories, so I shouldn't have been surprised by her assessment. My ego couldn't take it, however. I've pulled out a nasty little novella called Temple of the Rat that scared me pretty bad when I was last working on it in 2014 (it's actually the novella I had started for Drive-in Fiction way, way back in 2011). It's the most disgusting thing I've ever written. We'll see if I can find a home for it.
Now that I've forced myself to write a complete draft of a novel I'm not so hesitant to start another one. I hope to write at least one or two more over the next twelve months in addition to writing a feature-length script I'll shoot on my nice, new HD video camera here in Missoula some time in the summer.
Once again, have a great holiday season and hopefully I'll have much more to report over the next year.
In case you didn't know, Greg Barth is a juggernaut in independent publishing. He sells more Selena books in one month than most of us will sell in our entire lives. When I saw him mention outlining on Facebook, I thought it might be interesting to hear more about his writing process. I sent him some questions, and here are the fascinating answers he provided:
1. You’ve stated you use the Save the Cat! beat sheet to outline your books. How close do you stick to Snyder’s beat sheet? Do you ever switch anything up in the beat sheet? About how long does it take you to get the outline to a point where you’re ready to write a book? How thorough would you say your outlines are when you’re ready to write a book?
I don't stick very close to it. I think it's a good guide as to whether or not I have enough story to begin writing, but I never nail down all 15 beats. To me, building a story and writing the story are two separate actions. Before I begin writing, I like to have what I think of as "three big scenes". Those scenes are usually violent and emotionally charged, and those are the scenes I write toward and look forward to getting to. Those scenes would be the break from act one to act two, the midpoint, and then a break into act three. I want each of those scenes to change the direction of the story. I come up with those scenes by thinking about them while driving each day. Once I have those, it's a matter of figuring out how to get things started in an interesting way.
I don't do any writing until I have a good bit of the story figured out. I am not the kind of person who can sit and make something up by writing. If I don't have enough story to excite me to write, then it's not time to write yet. I spend a lot more time playing with the story in my head than it takes me to write the book. This usually takes a few weeks or months. The outlining only takes a couple of days. When I do sit down to actually write the book, it usually only takes me two weeks or so to have a draft complete.
I never outline the last 25% of the book. Sometimes I have an idea of where I want it to end, but more often than not, that's just the closing scene, not the climax of the story. My outline for act three usually just says, "she murders everyone" or something along those lines.
Also, while it's not one of the beats, Blake Snyder talks about the crucial "Save the Cat" scene. That's the scene where the protagonist does a kindness, and it helps endear them to the reader. I never include that scene. My character is just not that kind of person.
2. How much prewriting do you do with respect to characters? Do you write thorough biographies for each one? Do you have a list of questions you answer for each character? How much thought goes into minor characters before you write a book?
I don't do any prewritimg of characters. I find that I grow bored with secondary characters, so it's rare that I have on in more than a single book. Some of them get killed off, others just fall by the wayside between books. When I think up a secondary character, I want there to be a contrast with my main character. They don't have to be polar opposites necessarily, but it helps if there is enough diffference to drive tension.
3. Outlining seems to be a choice some writers make while others (including, apparently, Stephen King) don’t believe in outlining. For writers just cutting their teeth and getting started, can you make an argument for why outlining is necessary? Have you ever tried to write a novel without first outlining? How did that go?
I think you have to find what works for you. I just can't sit down and make up a story by writing it. I have to build the story in my head first until I get something I am excited enough to write about. I think of myself as a story builder first and foremost. Writing the story is just a medium to get it told. I enjoy the writing itself, but it's always about the story, not so much the writing. I'll never be one to put in a lot of detailed description or cool metaphors or any other poetic devices. I just want to tell the story in a straightforward manner.
I can't think of a time that I wrote something without at least a mental outline. Road Carnage gave me quite a bit of trouble even with outlines. I completely scrapped everything and started from scratch five times. Each of those five versions are very different. I started off writing a meandering road novel, something along the lines of On the Road. That just didn't work. I tried writing it with a different protagonist from a third person POV. Scrapped that too. It wasn't until I had a strong outer motivation and high stakes that drove a fast paced story that I had any success with writing it. Once I had that, the story basically wrote itself over about two weeks. I think of Road Carnage as one of the hardest novels I've written and also among the easiest. Once I had the right story, it all clicked into place.
4. What do you say to those who argue following a template just produces the same story over and over again?
I think that is a possibility if you are too rigid with your outline. Story structure is important to me, but structure is not the story itself. There's an endless variety of ways to make the framework suit almost any story. But at the same time, you have to go with your gut and do what feels right for the particular story. Once I am actually doing the writing, I don't think so much about the outline anyway.
5. The Selena books have been amazingly successful. Without giving away anything top secret, can you tell us steps you took to make sure word about your book got out there?
I wish there was a top secret, but there isn't. I start with trying to write the most exciting story that I can. And then I make every effort to be accessible. I am fortunate enough that a few readers have reached out to me. I don't think being a writer is that big of a deal, I don't think of my readers as "fans", and I try to never talk down to them. Part of an entertainer is just being nice. I try to engage on social media with readers, and I enjoy getting to know them.
I've been very fortunate in getting a number of kind reviews for the series, but there's no real secret. I just try to be out there and engage where I can, whether it is on Facebook, or at Noir at the Bar, or wherever.
I post about the books fairly frequently in social media, especially if a new volume is out, or there's a review to share.
I'd like to thank Greg for taking the time to answer my questions and I encourage anyone who hasn't read his work to fix that situation ASAP.
So I've been writing horror stories this year. My feelings about horror are that the less explained, the scarier the story. This has led to some issues, however, as I let people read these stories to gauge their reactions to them. One story in particular has caused several of my readers trouble. I just sent it to a horror anthology whose deadline was yesterday. I am worried because I don't want to hit readers over the head, explaining every goddamn thing, but I'm not quite sure just how much info I need to give before I can safely say, "All right, you're on your own!" Anybody out there have any ideas on this problem?
So folks on twitter are celebrating the 50th anniversary of the premiere of Star Trek. The original series claimed it would be a five year mission. Well, Pulp Modern turned out to be a five year mission. I will no longer publish it since it doesn't generate a tremendous readership. I'm not a publisher, it turns out. I have no idea how to properly promote stuff. From here on, I will stick to writing, making movies, and if I can find the right musicians in Missoula, I'll put my punk band back together.
Before I say goodbye to the Pulp Modern experience forever, I'd like to acknowledge the 91 amazing writers who contributed stories to the journal between 2011 and 2016. Take a good look at this list--these are the authors you should be reading, not whatever mainstream shit Oprah's selling on national television...
Rob Zombie made two very interesting films in the early part of this century -- House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil's Rejects. He was given the reigns to the Halloween franchise (I fucking hate referring to movies as franchises, by the way) and decided to "reboot" one of the few movies in the history of cinema I feel should never be re-anything'd--Halloween. He took the mystique out of Michael Myers by showing a prolonged back story using all the cliches about serial killers (torturing small animals, coming from abusive homes, etc.) and, most egregious of all, he replaced the suburban setting of the original film with a "white trash" setting. These changes destroyed what made the original film so effective. Like the misguided sequels to the original film, he explained the unexplainable and gutted any chance for real horror to exist. Mr. Zombie followed that travesty with his version of Halloween II (the original Halloween II being a bad idea to begin with), an artsy-fartsy, violent LSD trip of a movie that made no sense and, seemingly, buried the "franchise" once and for all. In that respect, Mr. Zombie should be thanked.
But folks have been clamoring for a Halloween "III" (as opposed to the original Halloween III, which is the only decent sequel in the bunch, precisely because it has nothing to do with Michael Myers), or, for fuck's sake, another "reboot," or anything with Michael Myers running around slicing up teenagers. The project has struggled for over five years now, as discussions on IMDB will attest to, and the people who control the rights have finally come up with the one solution that should please die-hard fans of the series (that's a better word than franchise, isn't it?)--They've brought The Man himself on as an executive producer. John Carpenter will be involved with whatever they decide to do with this Halloween movie. I hate to be Bobby Bummer this soon in the game, but I just don't think another Michael Myers movie is necessary. What I wish would happen is this:
John Carpenter should insist on picking this series up where Halloween III: Season of the Witch was taking it, that is, an anthology series with a different Halloween-themed story in every installment. Halloween III "failed" when it was released because a large population of shit-for-brains insisted the movie was "bad" simply because it didn't involve Michael Myers running around killing people. Heaven forbid they be asked to consider a different story. Producers have since said the film should have just been called Season of the Witch. I say that's nonsense. What the film should have been called was Halloween: Season of the Witch. By eliminating the number three from the title, maybe half of the shit-for-brains who still piss and moan about Myers not being crucial to the film would have caught on ahead of time that the movie was going to be something different. Why not do that now? Why not create an entirely new Halloween-themed story and just use the Halloween name the way the Star Wars "franchise" is putting its name over these off-shoot movies like Rogue One? Has the general public grown up? Are we sophisticated enough to catch up with the very visionary idea Carpenter had back in 1982?
Nah, get ready for the guy in the Shatner mask to kill some more teenagers...
Just wanted to mention I recently contacted Marcia Clark on Facebook in the crazy hopes of convincing her to submit a story to Pulp Modern. In very little time, she returned the longest, most exhaustive, most convincing and polite excuse for not being able to contribute (she is, not surprisingly, very busy). It was the most gracious gesture any Big Time writer has offered to my requests for stories (though we must never forget Lawrence Block's agreeing to let me reprint a story of his for the very first issue).
How many other Big Time writers would have ignored the request altogether? I've never been so flattered by a rejection!
Recently, a student told me she'd had a dream about me after reading the first couple of acts of Hamlet. She said the quote, "To thine own self, be true," made her think of me, though she couldn't explain why. I thought about it for some time, and realized she must have been attuned to the fact that I am finally, after years of talking about it, writing horror stories again.
For a long time, I told myself not to write horror stories if I didn't think they'd be scary. I've come to the realization that that's a stupid reason not to try. What frightens some people amuses others, especially in these cynical times. People are so paranoid about things happening in the real world, they don't want to suspend their disbelief long enough to "get into" the world of a horror story. I can't be concerned with that; if you've allowed this shitty, fucked up century to deaden your sense of wonder, what can I say? Sucks to be you.
The very first story I ever wrote was a crime story. That was in the fourth grade. It was called The Tree and it was about a mad scientist who trains a tree to rob banks. It ended in horror, though, as the tree was cut down by law enforcement officials and the mad scientist put to death (I obviously didn't understand the parameters of the death penalty when I was nine years old).
The first time I sat down at a word processor, however, and banged out a thirteen page story (single-spaced, because I didn't learn about double-spacing until I was about twenty-seven years old!), it was a horror story. It was called The Mailbox and it was about a mailbox that wrote letters to its owner telling it to kill certain people. I was in the seventh grade then. I remember writing it late one Friday night and getting high off of freaking myself out.
Over the years, I have tried to recapture that feeling. Maybe it's like crack-cocaine--it only works the first time. Eventually, as a teenager trying to impress girls, I veered off into Kafka and Camus country, trying to sound more intelligent than I actually was (and am). While earning my BA at IU and IUPUI, my peers, who really shouldn't be called peers, convinced me that horror and science fiction were no genres for "serious" writers. Well, I took them seriously for a while. And maybe that was a good thing. I branched out and read Henry Miller and Charles Bukowski. Eventually I read Raymond Chandler and then Jim Thompson and found that I enjoyed writing crime stories because, I felt, they required no generic, middle class morality. In a way, the crime fiction I've written over the last ten years is not that different from horror. My characters usually make bad decisions because of the terrifying economic positions this country has put them in.
[And now for a digression]
I'd like to share, for reasons I don't even know, the experience I had at the MFA program at MNSU a few years ago. It was the first class meeting of the first workshop of my first year. I'd been writing for my whole life and was only getting the degree so that I could pay my bills teaching at the college level. I had no idea that I going to get sucked into the cult-like, insecure world of twenty-something / millennial grad students who despise anything they consider different. The first thing the professor did was go around the circle of students and have each of us talk about the most recent book we'd read (or were currently reading). I was right in the middle. On the way to me, I heard the usual grad school favorites--David Foster Wallace, Junot Diaz, etc., I thought nothing of it when I admitted that I was currently reading a collection of Robert Bloch stories because I edited a fiction journal called Pulp Modern and wanted to contact his widow to see if she'd let me reprint one of his stories for the first issue.
Well, not since Village of the Damned or Invasion of the Body Snatchers had I been met with such strong, collective disdain. The professor acted as though I hadn't even mentioned the word 'pulp.' He sort of grunted and moved on to the next student, who raved about the latest AWP meta-tome about boring, middle class suburban bullshit. While I had some friends in the MFA program, for the most part, I felt like an outcast the entire time I was there. I was made to feel old and stupid for reading writers who couldn't be schmoozed at the next AWP butt-kissing contest because the authors I was reading were dead (to many millennials--though not all; my students, for instance, who are mostly working class, do not think this way--anything that happened before five minutes ago is "irrelevant").*
This hostile attitude was made especially clear when I had the audacity to question the greatness of Jennifer Egan. A woman about ten years younger than me cornered me at the school coffee house and berated me for not slobbering all over Ms. Egan's book like a junky. She said, "We're trying to get into this thing," as though, a.) being published were some sort of secret society only a select few are allowed into and b.) my existence as a white male over the age of 12 was somehow impeding the progress of all the younger, more affluent white people in the program. I realized then that MFA had a few letters missing...
I bring all this up because these sorts of things have enabled my shying away from writing what I really want to write, which is horror. The only genre more difficult is comedy, and those who write comedy (that's actually funny, that is, not the toilet humor Hollywood calls comedy) have my total respect. At this point in my life, there's no reason I shouldn't do exactly what I want to do. I am not an intellectual, I do not aspire to win great awards. I just want to write stories that make people feel the way I do when I read a good yarn late at night that compels me, for no rational reason, look twice at any movement in the shadows.
What shitty year for important music people dying. Holy shit. Motherfuck the Grim Reaper and the hellfire horse that sonofabitch rode in on! I see the Grim Reaper walking my way, I'm gonna belt the piece of shit with an ungreased bicycle chain, see if I don't!
Anyway, on to other things...
Pulp Modern number 10 is out and looks great. If you got a copy, please read and review, even if you hated the damn thing. Thuglit is publishing its last issue. I don't know what the hell is going on with some of the other giants that were here long before Pulp Modern and even All Due Respect. Not a lot of places to go for real, hardcore crime fiction anymore (sure as shit can't rely on the commercial pulps you find at the Big Time Bookstore -- Those fuckers aren't publishing anything radical!). Help me keep this thing alive. The more reviews, the more Amazon will recommend the damn thing to people who haven't heard of it, etc., etc. (Also, the print price is awful close to the kindle price, so why not buy the print version?)
(PS -- Writers, the next reading period will be from August 1, 2016, to August 30, 2016; Also, anyone interested in participating in Revenge of Uncle B's Drive-in Fiction, get in touch with me ASAP).
What has turned out to be way more controversial than it ever needed to be, Unloaded: Writers Writing without Guns has been available for a short time. Those of you who know me know that I loathe and despise the so-called SJWs. Well, the gun nerds, as I call them, are just as reactionary and stupid. So far, they're the only ones talking about this collection in the media and it's a shame, considering not a goddamn one of these fucking morons has actually read the collection. I got a story in there called "Seesaw Sally."
I had a great time in April at Noir at the Bar in Atlanta. I met a lot of the Big Names in this pulp scene. The format was excellent--ten minutes per reader. Impossible to bore anyone that way (not that any of the hooligans who read are capable of boring anyone anyway!). I wish I'd attended more of these, but geography is always preventing me from being able to; I am supposed to move to the northwest in July, so if anyone is planning a Noir at the Bar in Seattle or Spokane, please let me know, I'd love to attend.
I should have a crime novella coming soon (relatively). In the meantime, I've taken up the task I set for myself a long time ago -- I've started writing horror stories again. Something clicked earlier this year and I'm confident I can do what I believe a horror writer should do, that is, scare the bejeezis out of the reader. More on that to come.
So I will finally be participating in a Noir at the Bar. It'll happen tomorrow night (April 3) in Atlanta, GA. For those able to attend, there will be a drawing for a copy of Uncle B's Drive-in Fiction, a book that is out of print, so that alone is a good reason to attend (not to mention the chance to hear some great crime fiction read aloud by the hooligans who wrote it).
I've got three of them there fancy college degrees. A BA from Indiana University (finished at IUPUI, actually), an MA from the University of Indianapolis, and an MFA from Minnesota State University. The BA took me eight years to complete. That was due to my alchemist-level of substance abuse.
I witnessed a horrific political witch hunt at Minnesota State and therefore have nothing but contempt for the school and the entire state, for that matter. You may call me irrational and immature if you like, you didn't see what I saw.
The only university I ever attended that I have fond memories of is the University of Indianapolis. In 2008, the economy crashed, I lost my sweet housing situation in Los Angeles, so I moved back to the Midwest with the intention of going to grad school. Most of the places I looked into weren't ready to forgive me for my shoddy undergrad work (which, at that point, was ten years in the rear-view mirror--shame on you Ball State and Indiana University!). I was able to get into a poetry class at the University of Indianapolis and the professor of that course, Dr. Elizabeth Weber, helped set me on the path to getting my MA and the terminal MFA degree, allowing me to teach writing at the college level. The two years I spent earning my degree were peaceful and, well, educational. I learned, for instance, that the novella I'd written in 2001 (Manifesto Destination) was not actually a hard-boiled detective novel, it was, in fact, a post-modern "commentary" on both detective and science fiction. Or something like that. I learned a great deal from Dr. Weber, Dr. Drake, David Lawson, and a history professor whose name I can't remember.
It is for this reason that I am excited and honored to be reading at the University of Indianapolis next week (March 7, 7:30 pm). I will be speaking with a couple of creative writing classes, have dinner with some folks, and then read at night. It should be a fine evening and I encourage anyone in the area to show up.
I've posted songs on facebook. I've posted key memories associated with David Bowie's records on twitter. Hopefully, this will be my last word on the matter. I hate celebrity worship and I hate how teary people get when famous people die. Bowie was a bit different, however. He was a hero to me and a whole lot of other people in this world who feel they somehow don't fit in with "regular people."
For the record, I was adopted six months before I was born. My biological parents were poor kids from the east side of Indianapolis. In the days before Roe v. Wade, social services encouraged girls like my biological mother to give their babies up for adoption. My parents, the people I call mom and dad because they cleaned my dirty diapers and have been putting up with me ever since, were post-WWII European immigrants. I grew up schizo, torn between my "white trash" inclinations to get wasted and listen to heavy metal music, and the influence of my parents (the ones who raised me), who wanted me to be an "intellectual," who exposed me to classical music and Kafka and all the "refined" things in life. In school, when I told kids I'd been adopted, they'd take three steps back and treat me like an alien. When I started listening to Bowie's music in the sixth grade, I realized lots of people are "strange." I learned to ignore the conformists and show them my middle finger if they ever got too obnoxious. For that alone, I should be grateful to Bowie.
But David Bowie taught me something more important than not giving a shit about the conformist fatheads in the world--Bowie taught me what it means to be an artist. The key word: Evolution. An artist must always move forward, never wallow in a particular style or genre simply because they've experienced some fame or notoriety for that particular work. I love how he made "Low" when the Sex Pistols were stomping around putting down anything that wasn't three chords and a cloud of dust. I love how that record pissed off executives at RCA and how, allegedly, Bowie didn't give one ounce of a shit what they thought."Low" is my favorite Bowie record and serves as a constant reminder that an artist must never do what others expect, only what he or she feels is right at the moment.
With all my rantings about Hollywood's lack of creativity, Bowie's life and career serve as a vital reminder what the responsibility of an artist is: Again, EVOLVE. Rather than say, "our prayers are with his family," or shed tears for someone we (most of us) never met in person, let us take advantage of this moment to remember what we love about being artists, why we are artists, and how commercial expectations have shit all to do with creativity. For those who are like me--broke as joke and in possession of hardly any audience to speak of, as well as those who have "made it" and have an audience, let us tell the suits and ties who insist on producing the same shit, over and over again, NO MORE. Let us take this moment to have a revolution in the 21st century, let us return to the times of anti-materialism, when the stock market didn't determine what artists would produce.
Let us take the power back from the greedheads and provide the world, once more, with art that is both entertaining and meaningful.
The problems started with Jaws. Stars Wars cemented them. Hollywood had lost control to a bunch of snot-nosed boomers who showed the studios just how dark and cynical American audiences could get. These kids produced films like The French Connection and Taxi Driver. One of them came up with the perfect cinematic retelling of 1984--THX1138. Another couldn't quite get that originality thing down, but still produced a hell of a Bonnie & Clyde ripoff called Sugarland Express (hey, even Scorsese's name is on a B&C ripoff [Boxcar Bertha], so give Spielberg a break).
Two of those youngsters went off the adult course and made a monster movie and a science fiction western that grossed so much money the hacks in the studios couldn't help but notice. And so the lights on adult cinema (not porn, you pervert!) slowly faded. By the mid-1980s, "comic book" movies (as William Goldman called them back in '82) had taken over. These were drive-in movies with big budgets. The early ones, like Blade Runner and John Carpenter's The Thing, are masterpieces compared to the processed bile Hollywood produces today. "Comic book" is no longer a figurative expression--every other film released today is based directly on a comic book. Thanks to Miller's Dark Knight Returns, Hollywood thinks producing a Howard the Duck "reboot" in which Howard broods over the existential angst of being an alien duck passes for "serious" entertainment. And so we've come to a point where Hollywood makes exactly three (or more, depending on how much you want to split hairs between sequel, "reboot" and remake) types of movies: Comic book movies--movies that insist on taking stories originally written for six year olds seriously; Sequels, reboots, and remakes--the most blatant proof there is that not one fucking scum sucker in Tinsel Town can produce an original idea; and closely-monitored "independent" films about middle-class liberals coping with the extraordinary pain of being affluent and somewhat concerned about lesser people (so long as those lesser people don't live in trailer parks). Independent films, in fact, are nothing more than the modern versions of Kramer vs. Kramer and On Golden Pond that used to be considered mainstream until Hollywood decided they couldn't market them to twelve year-olds.
And so we are left with the current state of motion pictures in America: There are no original films being made. Thanks to studios monopolizing the "independent" scene, there are no independent films being made. Too bad, because a really, really good drive-in movie, traditionally, is both original and independent.
Which brings us to the new Star Wars movie.
I've waited long enough to have a thorough say on this topic. I saw the movie the night before it opened. I did so because I'm a sucker. I saw the original Star Wars movie opening day and have made it a habit since then to see all the sequels on opening day or as close to it as possible. I already knew in 1983, when I was in the fifth grade, that the series had run out of ideas. Return of the Jedi was about a bigger, badder death star. The characters spoke to each other in winks and nods to the fact that they were now part of a giant franchise that cared less about storytelling and more about toy marketing. Nothing like The Empire Strikes Back, which took the awe from the original film and knocked it out of the park with a logical extension of the story and great dialogue and character development to go with it (not that I understood all that in the second grade when it was released, but I knew I wasn't being cheated--this was a definite, linear progression from the first story). Lucas decided, appropriately, to stop making Star Wars movies after episode XI. Even as a child I understood this was a good thing.
And then Lucas discovered CGI and eventually made the prequels that a lot of people seem to hate. I've never been a fan of the idea of a prequel since there can't possibly be any suspense, but I watched them and was mildly amused. I was almost moved by the nostalgia generated at the end of "Episode III," at that point having been in my 30s and on the way to a midlife crisis nostalgia merchants love to cater to; And then along came "The Force Awakens."
This movie was probably doomed, in my mind, from the get-go. There's no way Disney will ever do anything daring or original at this point and I've never been a fan of J.J. Abrams. The film had two strikes before the camera had even started rolling. But as the release approached and the hype reached its fever pitch with brainless jock football announcers getting in their required plugs on college and professional broadcasts, I decided to step back and let the film speak for itself. Right away, however, I knew I'd been duped again. Something important lodged in a robot, an adventurous young person on a sand-covered planet called into action for a bigger cause, and, of course, a bigger, badder death star. I tried like crazy to give in to the special effects spectacle, which I'd been promised, over and over, would be primarily optical effects, and then that giant evil guy with the big head showed up, worse than any CGI in the "prequels," and I slumped in my seat and waited patiently for the movie to be over. I made one comment on facebook, but mostly kept my opinion to myself. The country (and the world, it seems) is going along with the mirage; you've seen the comments yourself:
"There's just enough old stuff to balance the new stuff"
"It's nostalgic and ground-breaking at the same time!"
"I couldn't stop smiling and crying!"
And so on...
There are grinches out there worse than me--they've seen the film several times to make solid arguments about plot holes and other issues with the movie. I don't have the time or the money to make such a thorough investigation. As I walked to my van after the first and only time I'll watch it, I felt a kind of rage, that I live in a time when Hollywood can't do one fucking thing original, when, as a middle-aged man, all the shit that was new and exciting when I was young is being recycled and the stars of that shit are being asked to put aside their walkers and Depends for a moment to don their old costumes and make everyone feel good about the fact that 1977, or 1982, or 1992 once existed and was a hell of lot more fun and creative than 2015/16. We're getting X-Files and Twin Peaks reboots because, yes, those series were awesome when they were new, and Hollywood has no ideas, so now we see an aged Mulder and Cooper going through the motions so that old farts like me won't have to think about, well, how fucking old we are!
You know what would be better? Something new. Something the young generation can call their own and something us old farts who ARE creative can help create.
I remember when Harry Potter books became popular. My baby sister was twelve or thirteen at the time. She read and loved those books. She named her first email account after a character from them. I was thrilled that her generation had something as meaningful to them as Star Wars was to my generation. I haven't seen anything since then for today's twelve and thirteen year olds (or younger). That's a fucking shame.
But I digress, as I'm apt to do when complaining about the senior citizens on my lawn...
Perhaps I would have liked The Force Awakens if I had seen it at a drive-in. My tendency over the last ten years has been to watch the "comic book" movies at the drive-in. It makes them so much more tolerable (and I can see two or three of them for less than the outrageous price they charge at the multiplexes). They're turds, which a lot of traditional drive-in movies were, but they're polished turds. And since they're essentially continuing the tradition started by Jaws and Star Wars of aping drive-in territory with bigger budgets, the drive-in is exactly where they belong.
And if ever there was polished turd, The Force Awakens is it.
Let me just get to the point: Uncle B's Drive-in Fiction was a labor of love that didn't get a whole lot of love. I've always suspected the main reason was that the novellas were too long and the entire volume looked too damn intimidating (not one reviewer I sent it to ever took the time to read it and review it). It was a great idea that didn't quite get executed properly. Two of the novellas in it have gone to become novels by their respective writers and a third novella won a Spinetingler. So, obviously, something good was going on. Thus, for the long-awaited sequel (at least by the five or six people who actually read the original collection), I will be having an open call for novellas of (about) 10,000 words in March. I'll look at queries first and then, if the idea sounds right, I'll ask to see the full manuscript. So, if you have an idea for a novella that would have made a great drive-in picture somewhere between the 50s and very early 80s, go ahead and write it and when I make the call for queries, let me know what you've got. If you have any questions, post them here or send them to: email@example.com