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Showing posts with label tips. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tips. Show all posts

Thursday, March 16, 2023

Interview: Illustrator Bre Indigo (The Dog Knight graphic novel)

Welcome comic artist Bre Indigo. They share what they've learned in the comic industry and most importantly...pet pics!

Sharon: Do you have a favorite dog in The Dog Knight?
Bre: Oh, that’s hard. I would enjoy all their company for different moods. Keeping up with Terror would be great for a workout, and snuggling up with Loyalist, Dane, and Legal would be a wonderful end to a day. I could even imagine I’d have a good time binge-watching tv shows with Dowg. But… I have a soft spot in my heart for The Omnidog. They’re so mysterious and wise. I feel like I could learn a lot from them and their calm nature.

Sharon: What sold you on the idea of illustrating The Dog Knight?
Bre: It wasn’t a hard sell at all. Reading the script was elating and my imagination got carried away from the jump. I know this sounds so cheesy, but the idea of getting to illustrate their story felt in some way like reconnecting with my inner child. The story reminded me to be kinder to myself, to allow myself to feel more confident in my individuality, and to show more appreciation to those I love in my life. I’m such a sucker for kids’ stories. They remind me of the basics of what it means to be a human on this little planet. I’m so happy that The Dog Knight found me at the stage of my life that it did.

Sharon: What tools do you use when drawing?
Bre: I do all of my work digitally, either on a Cintiq or iPad. Some sketches might find my sketchbook, but they’re super rough.

Sharon: How did you and Jeremy end up working together?
Bre: My agent Brent Taylor brought the project up and I enthusiastically said yes, haha. His side of the story might be more interesting.
Sharon: At what point in your career did you find an agent and why?
Bre
: Brent approached me shortly after my work with Rey Terciero ended on Meg Jo Beth and Amy. I signed with Brent because doing all the job search work by myself was way too hard. With his help I don't have to break as much focus from the artwork, and I can be more productive.

Representation might not be for everyone, but his expertise is valuable to me. I'm so happy to have him in my corner and to create art he appreciates too :)

Sharon
: Besides Frankie, what character was the most fun to draw?
Bre: You’re gonna hate me, but they’re all fun to draw, because I make it fun. My favorite thing to draw are expressions though. Frankie’s so unintentionally silly, and the bratty expressions on Dallas and Austin’s faces were fun to emulate while I drew them. I think Diane’s mom-expressions were my favorite though. I hope that the characters' individuality shone through with their expressions and body language. It’s something I hope to get a lot better at. That and drawing animals.

Oh, oh. The Shadow creatures were cool. I am really proud of their designs. They’re simple, but I think they’d probably make a background static noise in your head and warm the air around you because they’re, like, ripping through dimensions or something… yeah that was really cool to think about. I wish that I could convey those feelings more with my drawings… Maybe I’ll do even better when I get to draw them next ;)

Sharon: As part of the queer community, were you able to offer insight into Frankie’s experiences?
Bre: I jumped in when the script was already completed, so not too much. I only found one or two moments where my critique was even necessary and Jeremy adopted them immediately.

Sharon
: Chapter 9: The Trial of Smell was my favorite (Chapter 8 Trial of Justice was a close second!) I loved the outfits Frankie tried on, looking for their style. Do you have a favorite chapter? And Why?
Bre: Ahh, thank you! Deciding which outfits Frankie would wear was soooo hard. But I put together a little Pinterest closet for them and figured it out. I still struggle with outfit issues myself at 29, haha.

As for my favorite… gosh this is hard, and I don't wanna be too spoilery.

But in Chapter 3, when it all starts, and Frankie is thrown into the deep end even though they don’t know if they want to be or deserves to be The Dog Knight. I could relate to the imposter syndrome Frankie might have felt there. I know that kind of sounds dark as an answer, but sometimes heroes have to be put on the spot to learn their self-worth!

Sharon
: How do you deal with imposter syndrome…pull yourself out of it?
Bre: It might be different for others, but working on my confidence by practicing healthier self-talk was a big foundational change. I'm learning to appreciate and treat myself how I treat others. It also helped me to take a step back and acknowledge that I'm doing my personal best, that I need to stop taking everything so seriously, and to give myself credit when I achieve a goal.

In the end, nothing is 100% earned or 100% chance, so if something great lands in your lap, you don't run away from it. You positioned yourself in life for those things to come your way. So, handle it the best way you can and know that even if you fumble it, it's not the end of the world...

Well... In Frankie's case, it might have been, haha! But that's why it's also good not to tackle huge things alone. Frankie has a great community and support group, which makes it a lot easier to learn these lessons. Asking for help isn't a weakness.

Sharon
: What kind of music does Frankie like to listen to?
Bre: Being a drummer with a smart and creative mom like Diane, I’m sure Frankie has very diverse listening tastes. But they’d probably like something with fun lyrics, creative beats to finger drum to, and bonus if the bass makes their brain tickle.

Sharon: What kind of music do you listen to?
Bre: I listen to everything. You put it on, I’ll give it a chance. My mom and dad raised me on stuff like Elton John, Def Leppard, Madonna, Prince, Tupac, TLC, and Missy Elliott. My grandparents introduced me to Barry white, Donna Summers, Bob Seger, and Genesis. When I was a teenager, friends introduced me to Asian Kung Fu Generation, STRFKR, Daft Punk, Radiohead, Cibo Matto, SOAD and Death Cab for Cutie. Then I ventured into Tierra Whack, M83, Brockhampton, and Tame Impala in the last few years... Only to name a few. Sharing music is like a love language to me. I only wish I had the time to deep dive into every genre all over the world.

Sharon: How long have you been making comics? 
Bre: I’ve been drawing comics since I was around 19. But I’ve been drawing generally since I was about the age of 6. I started to take it seriously as a way to make money around the age of 16 and began doing character illustration commissions for people on deviantART and Tumblr. I originally wanted to get into animation but didn't have the direction and education to get into that industry. I started my first comic, Jamie, for fun in my last year of college and then it just kind of became a passion. I’m glad that things turned out this way. My art style has changed so much over the years. Here is a snippet of the first version of Jamie, maybe from around 2017?
2023 Jamie

Sharon: What other projects are you working on?
Bre: I’ve got a million and one projects going on in my head, but my priority outside of contractual work is my free webcomic Jamie. I want to finish it and wrap up that part of my own growth and development to move on to stories that are challenging in different ways.

I have a soft sci-fi in mind that follows 3 aliens that are outsiders in their respective worlds and they find support and comfort together on their little ship by sharing their cultural, social, and physical differences. I wanna balance a cute colorful style with heavy themes surrounding the idea of understanding one's place in the vastness that is the universe. I have drawn inspiration from the anime Kaiba, and the movie 5th Element, as well as the series Star Trek, specifically Deep Space Nine.

Another story follows two young men from drastically different backgrounds, who think they want dramatically different things out of life, and who find themself in the same correctional facility in the middle of nowhere. With everything and everyone around them a threat, can they find commonality, tenderness, healing, and belonging with one another? This isn't going to be wildly original, but telling the story will do something for me. It'll be more mature than other stuff you might have seen from me.

There’s also a fantasy I’d like to start following a prince, a magician, an actual wizard, and an alternate dimension. The concept is just vibes and character designs right now.

Other graphic novels illustrated by Bre

Sharon: A prince, a magician, and a wizard walk into a bar in an alternate dimension…lol, sorry, I had to say it.
Bre: It was the perfect setup. I don't blame you haha.

But yeah...if anyone wants to make sure they happen I got a Patreon you can support. I got… uh, stickers and postcards ;) haha.
Sharon: Patreon is a fabulous way to support your favorite creators.

Sharon: Pros and cons of collaborating on a comic vs. doing one by yourself (like with Jamie).
Bre: It’s not efficient, but I have been writing Jamie as I go for a while. So, getting a completed script with a goal in mind from the jump was so liberating! I just got to go wild with my imagination and everything is really linear when working with a writer. There had to be something about getting a fresh idea in my hands for the first time in a while that helped too. Not to mention the flexibility that I had with the art and the excitement to show Jeremy what I did with his story really motivated me.

While every project has its own unique challenges, that’s just a part of life. I think it’s been great for me to work with a team because it has taught me to trust and adjust, prioritize and appreciate. Besides, it does feel great to have a finished book in hand after 3 years while I’m still looking at another 5 years for my independent project. Don't cry for me :’)

Sharon: What was the best decision you made in regard to making comics?
Bre: That I started, took myself seriously, and urged myself out of my comfort zone whenever possible.

Sharon: For any aspiring artists out there, what is something you wish someone had warned you about in the webcomic business?
Bre: Well, some of this might be obvious to others, but for me, a few of these things took a lot for me to finally get.

📌On the creative side
👉One thing I really felt unprepared for was nasty or rude comments. It’s good to have a strong sense of self-worth before drawing attention to your art on the internet. I had to remember that some people never grow out of being bullies. I think most people are better at taking that stuff in stride than me, but for those that have a hard time, try to trust yourself a bit more. You’re not going to please everyone, so make sure you’re enjoying yourself while you create.

📌Regarding business
👉If you want to make money with your comic, there are a lot more ways to make money off your comics online without signing away your IP nowadays, so don’t go signing the first contract that comes your way without really thinking about it and what your goals are. If you can, get representation, and if you can’t but want to move forward, ask a lot of questions and do research. Make sure you understand what you’re signing. Every moment is a learning opportunity but that doesn't mean you have to stumble.

👉Another thing is you should mirror your comics on multiple websites/apps if you’re not under contract. Sometimes readers are willing to migrate to follow your story, but a lot like to get cozy on their favorite website or app and very little will encourage them to transfer to another, and that's perfectly fine. But if you want your stories read by more people and you want to try to make this a sustainable hobby or career, you’ll have to diversify when you’re able to.

👉Do not be afraid to say no and draw boundaries in what you’ll do for work. Other opportunities will show up if you keep at doing what you love.

👉Invest time and energy into your relationships with other artists.

👉I guess last, stretch. Seriously. Do some sort of daily movement if you can. Don’t take your body for granted. Don’t work through hand and wrist pain, take a break. Drink water, and get some fresh air. I used to be stubborn, but you’re actually more productive at art when you’re feeling good anyway! So win-win <3

Sharon: Do you have any pets? Can we see a pic?
Bre: We have two cats, one is a calico named Riley (6 years), and the other is a Russian blue named Griselda aka Zelda (3 years). They’re my daughters and I would die for them.

Sharon: Do you have a favorite celestial body/wonder?
Bre: Impossible!! Space is literally mind-blowing!! When we look into space, we’re staring at creation itself. Just thinking about all that we don’t know makes me terrified and thrilled. I wish I could fly through a nebula or see a black hole with the glow of another star behind it, or witness a pulsar spinning unimaginably fast. I wish I could touch Neptune’s atmosphere and soar over Saturn’s rings. I wanna see a star go supernova!! …Obviously, that would all kill me, but it would be cool. I haven’t even had a chance to see the full, raw night sky from Earth’s surface without light pollution. I gotta get out to the desert sometime. If I wasn’t so poor at math and prone to daydreaming, I would have loved to have gone into Astronomy.


The Dog Knight (The Dog Knight, 1)
by Jeremy Whitley (Author), Bre Indigo (Illustrator), Melissa Capriglione (colorist)
May 16, 2023
Genre: graphic novel, middle-grade, fantasy, superhero, Children's Animal Comics , Children's Fantasy Comics, comics
Publisher: Macmillian
A nonbinary middle schooler saves a dog from bullies and is offered the chance to become the Dog Knight, protector of a magical pact between humans and dogs, in the first book of this humorous and heartwarming middle-grade graphic novel series from Jeremy Whitely, author of Princeless, and Bre Indigo, illustrator of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy: A Graphic Novel.

Frankie knows who they are. They’re a drummer, they’re nonbinary, and they’re… the Dog Knight?

One day Frankie is a relatively normal middle schooler, with relatively normal challenges, like finding the perfect outfit to wear during their drum solo during the upcoming band concert. The next, they save a friendly golden retriever from bullies and suddenly find themselves in a giant magical doghouse, with a funny looking helmet, talking to a group of dog superheroes called the Pawtheon about a job offer.

If Frankie can prove that they possess the six dog virtues of loyalty, kindness, honesty, justice, stubbornness, and smell, they will be named the Dog Knight and be given the power to fight alongside the Pawtheon and save the world from the forces of chaos.

Maybe there is more to Frankie than they thought?


Bre Indigo
Greetings! I'm Bre Indigo! It's lovely to have you here, thanks for visiting. 

 I'm a queer black artist based in SoCal. As someone who identifies as Agender, you may use any pronouns when addressing me. I'm a lover of salmon sashimi, astronomy, good coffee, Star Trek, face kisses, sun naps as well as my partner Tami, and fur babies Riley and Zelda.

☆  ☆  ☆

The purpose of my creative career is to bring people together and nurture a healthy community around my creations. I love to tell stories of gentle boys, strong girls, the great folk in between and those outside completely. I want to bring attention to the humanity and different forms of love we have in us as human beings. 

Saturday, March 20, 2021

Sci-fi Author: Lee Matthew Goldberg - How to Avoid the Rejection Blues + giveaway

How to Avoid the Rejection Blues

Rejection and being an author go hand in hand. Fiction is very subjective so what one person may like, another may hate. I have had two novels published, one by the indie press, New Pulp Press, and the other by Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s; but before that, I had three novels rejected over the course of a few years and a lot of rejections from agents before I landed with Sam Hiyate of The Rights Factory. There were many times I thought I wouldn’t make it as an author, but I’m stubbornly determined and driven, and I used the rejections to make my writing better so I wouldn’t be rejected the next time.


The first set of rejections came from literary magazines until a few finally hit. Lit mags are a very smart way to start as a career as an author, since agents and editors and publishers will want to see some type of publications on your Writing Resume. It is guaranteed that more magazines will say no as opposed to yes. However, once one magazine accepts your work, you have a greater chance of getting another to bite, since you are beginning to establish yourself. The idea that you will be published in The New Yorker automatically will not happen, so forget about that. Begin with online journals and don’t worry about not getting paid, the exposure, even if it’s small, is better than a check.

The same goes for agents. Most agents will reject you because they are flooded with submissions. They also want to shape a writer’s career so they want to believe in you rather than just your one book. Have a follow up ready. More importantly, take the advice that they give if you’re lucky to get notes. My agent liked the book I initially sent him, but had a lot of revisions before he could sign me on. I listened to everything he said.

Editors are even trickier. An editor can love the book that an agent sends and then try to pitch it within his imprint and no one else bites. This had happened to me many times. They want to fall in love with your characters so other editors and their boss will fall in love with them too. There were moments I wanted to give up, but with every rejection, I rewrote and edited the manuscript and also moved on to other projects as well. If you are writing a book and trying to sell it for ten years without any interest, it’s time to write a new one.

Finally, don’t let rejection get you down. I look at all the no’s I got now as evidence that I wasn’t ready to be published at the time and I needed to hone my work more. You only need one yes, so even though one day might deliver a flood of rejections to your inbox, the next day could bring that acceptance you’ve been waiting for.

Orange City

by Lee Matthew Goldberg
March 16, 2021
231 pages
Genre: Science Fiction
Imagine a secret, hidden City that gives a second chance at life for those selected to come: felons, deformed outcasts, those on the fringe of the Outside World. Everyone gets a job, a place to live; but you are bound to the City forever. You can never leave.

Its citizens are ruled by a monstrous figure called the "Man" who resembles a giant demented spider from the lifelike robotic limbs attached to his body. Everyone follows the Man blindly, working hard to make their Promised Land stronger, too scared to defy him and be discarded to the Empty Zones.

After ten years as an advertising executive, Graham Weatherend receives an order to test a new client, Pow! Sodas. After one sip of the orange flavor, he becomes addicted, the sodas causing wild mood swings that finally wake him up to the prison he calls reality.

A dynamic mash-up of 1984 meets LOST, Orange City is a lurid, dystopian first book in a series that will continue with the explosive sequel Lemonworld.


Part I: The Selected
1
At six on the dot, the gloved cellular let out a piercing ring. A timer turned on, ticking down with each buzz. E wouldn’t have long to remain idle. The entire pod apartment vibrated, and his capsule bed slid open. The white ceiling drew his attention, the walls devoid of color, a minimalist’s fantasy—nothing like a home.

Shades of the dream from last night still lingered. His knuckles painted with blood as he beat a shadow. The voice of the shadow belonging to a ten-year-old boy. The boy’s cries stabbing E’s ears. He shook that dream away.

He removed the intravenous tube that connected him to his bed and switched off the cooling mist which allowed him to slumber for days. He stretched his old bones, his hair standing up in a state of white shock like it had since he was a young man. Swinging his thick legs over the side of the bed, he yawned at the morning before finally answering his cell.

“I’ll be right there,” he coughed into the digital eye on his gloved palm.

He removed the glove and pushed a button on the side of the bed. Doors opening along the wall revealed a sliver of a kitchen with a piping pot of subpar and gritty coffee brewing on the counter— the best offered to the Scouts— and two sizzling poached eggs from a suspect source. He scarfed down the eggs and pushed another button to raise the shades along the lone wall facing east. The heart of The City hovered in the near distance, its new buildings staggering on one end like giant colorful stalagmites. Sipping his black coffee, he watched it in motion as he did every morning.

Between the Scouts and the rest of The City lay a half a mile of ice water. The City was made up of many Regions, his situated on the outskirts. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to fall into those frosty waters and drift off to wherever it might choose to take him, no longer having to shuttle between The City and the faraway Outside World anymore. But instead of a dramatic suicide, he suited up and headed through the tunnel with a suitcase in hand like he had for twenty years. He’d convinced himself long ago that living here was better than rotting in prison like he would’ve been if they hadn’t selected him. At least he was still able to get lost in a bottle of whiskey or feel the sun against his cheek during

the few instances it was allowed to peek through the chronic clouds. Even though The City was far from ideal, the Outside World remained definitely worse. It reminded him too often of the man he used to be and of the terrible sins he’d committed. These thoughts returned at the beginning of every week while he geared up for another one, as he wondered if one day the Man in the Eye might give him a promotion and he wouldn’t have to be a Scout anymore.

That way, he’d never have to return to the Outside World.

Then, he could possibly be at peace, like all The City’s inhabitants wished.

About the Author

Website-FB-TwitterLee Matthew Goldberg is the author of THE ANCESTOR, THE DESIRE CARD, SLOW DOWN and THE MENTOR from St. Martin's Press. He has been published in multiple languages and nominated for the 2018 Prix du Polar. ORANGE CITY, his first sci-fi novel, is forthcoming in 2021 along with his YA series RUNAWAY TRAIN. His pilots and screenplays have been finalists in Script Pipeline, Book Pipeline, Stage 32, We Screenplay, the New York Screenplay, Screencraft, and the Hollywood Screenplay contests. After graduating with an MFA from the New School, his writing has also appeared in the anthology DIRTY BOULEVARD, The Millions, Vol 1. Brooklyn, LitReactor, Necessary Fiction, Fiction Writer's Review, The Montreal Review, The Adirondack Review, Essays & Fictions, The New Plains Review, and others. He is the co-curator of The Guerrilla Lit Reading Series (guerrillalit.wordpress.com). He lives in New York City.

Giveaway
$15 Amazon giftcard, ebook of Orange City – 1 winner each!
Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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Monday, September 30, 2019

Fantasy author Connor Coyne: How to Tell, and Show, Like a Champ + giveaway

HOW TO TELL, AND SHOW, LIKE A CHAMP


“Show, don't tell.”

From high school creative writing courses to graduate-level MFA programs, this is some of the most ubiquitous advice given to aspiring writers.

And often, it is good advice for writing.

Telling is a staple of day-to-day conversation, whether we're giving a friend directions to our house or asking our kids to wash up before dinner. After all, you wouldn't show your mother-in-law when she should get to the concert: “Find your seat as the sun finally plunges behind the horizon and all of the shadows converge into a great gray mass.” No, you'd say, “the show starts at 8, so meet us at 7:30 so we can all get seats.”

But the demands of fiction and poetry are quite different from our day-to-day routines. Writers seek to share a memorable, even changing experience, and in so doing it is more important to convey meaning, not data, through their words. To let readers know that this experience is different from any other, and must be read, and read carefully.

“Olga arrived at 7:30,” is a serviceable way to move the plot forward, but it says nothing of the unique experience of that moment in a character's life. But if you wrote, “Olga stepped from her car right as the sun plunged behind the horizon, and all of the shadows converged into a great gray mass,” you are sharing something a reader can imagine themselves, and that brings readers, writers, and characters all closer to a common experience.

Hence, “show, don't tell” is good advice for writers to orient themselves toward the job they need to do.

But once this lesson is absorbed, once writers are comfortable communicating with readers via their senses and observations, is it always good advice?

The greatest assumption in the dictum “show, don't tell” is that these modes are fundamentally different and always in opposition. Neither is true.

One could reasonably argue, that “showing” is just “telling” with a different emphasis. In the above example, the writer isn't telling the reader that “Olga arrived at 7:30,” but that “the sun plunged behind the horizon.” The writer is telling the reader about a sensory experience, not the time of day. Or, to put it differently, the reader has the opportunity and responsibility of greater experience and interpretation, but the writer is still supplying the raw materials that the reader will interpret. In that sense, “showing” and “telling” aren't different kinds of communication so much as the same kind of communication with a different emphasis.

Moreover, showing and telling are not always in opposition, and the most powerful and effective writers know they can complement and enhance each other:

“Olga stepped from her car right as the sun plunged behind the horizon, and all of the shadows converged into a great gray mass. It was the beginning of another night. A longer night. Nights would go longer and longer for months and months, and the last thing Olga wanted was to sit with a bunch of strangers and listen to her granddaughter's faltering clarinet warbles.”

In the above example, the first sentence stresses showing: it allows a reader to see what Olga sees, from her own point-of-view. The middle of the paragraph, however, defaults to telling: it informs us of what the sunset means to Olga. It isn't describing this through physical observation, but it states, with the voice of authority, how Olga feels. In the end, the example returns to showing: now that we understand Olga's melancholy mood and her desire for solitude, a reader's ability to imagine and hear the dissonant music helps strengthen their empathy with Olga. There is no way to imagine this scene without showing, but it is the telling that supplies Olga's state of mind.

If you pick up any well-written novel or short story, you'll find examples of this, with the showing – the sensory details – tied to readerly imagination, and the telling – the information – tied to readerly knowledge. And to be sure, the relationship is negotiable. There are no hard lines. Some writers will attempt to convey all of Olga's thoughts and feelings through her actions and sensations, without ever describing her thoughts at all. This is a very useful exercise for any writer. Other writers will incorporate more information, more data, or reveries and memories and daydreams which, themselves, may be admixtures of showing and telling.

I have grown very frustrated, over the years, by this false dichotomy between “showing” and “telling.” What begins as a useful guide to writers learning to suss out imagination and vigor from the written word ossifies into a stale dictum that limits both imagination and vigor. I challenge all of my students to consider the many ways in which a story can be told – to consider what the reader needs from their story – and then to use both showing and telling to get it done.

In the end, the success of any story is not contingent on the writer's faithful obedience to a set of pre-ordained rules, but to writing that to which readers respond. Writers owe their allegiance not to abstract concepts like “showing” and “telling” but to apply their skills to tell the story that needs to be told in the way it needs to be told.


Urbantasm (The Dying City Book One)
by Connor Coyne
September 6, 2018
Genre: YA, Magical Realism, New Adult, Teen Noir, Lit Fic
Publisher: Gothic Funk Press
ISBN: 978-0989920230
ASIN: 0989920232
Number of pages: 450 pages
Word Count: 85,000
Cover Artist: Sam Perkins-Harbin,
Forge22 Design
Urbantasm is a magical teen noir serial novel inspired by the author’s experiences growing up in and around Flint, Michigan.

Thirteen-year-old John Bridge’s plans include hooking up with an eighth-grade girl and becoming one of the most popular kids at Radcliffe Junior High, but when he steals a pair of strange blue sunglasses from a homeless person, it drops him into the middle of a gang war overwhelming the once-great Rust Belt town of Akawe.

John doesn’t understand why the sunglasses are such a big deal, but everything, it seems, is on the table. Perhaps he accidentally offended the Chalks, a white supremacist gang trying to expand across the city. Maybe the feud involves his friend Selby, whose father died under mysterious circumstances. It could even have something to do with O-Sugar, a homegrown drug with the seeming ability to distort space. On the night before school began, a group of teenagers took O-Sugar and leapt to their deaths from an abandoned hospital.

John struggles to untangle these mysteries while adjusting to his new school, even as his parents confront looming unemployment and as his city fractures and burns.

“A novel of wonder and horror.”— William Shunn, author of The Accidental Terrorist


Excerpt Book 1
Chapter 1
I have to become the Antichrist.

I realized this one night when I was standing on an overpass looking down through a chain-link fence onto the expressway below. Blue neon light shined off icy puddles. The gutters were flush with slush. Empty houses, ragged wrecks, hung out on tiny lots to my left and right. Beneath me, the cars that this city had built were leaving it – some of them forever. Across from me, on a rusted trestle, a freight train slowly passed, bringing in the parts for more cars.

As the train moved on through, I thought about Drake and about how God had fucked him over. How he’d fucked us all over. Then I thought about the house with Jesus graffitied on its side. Orange skin, blue eyes, green thorns. A welter of wounds. I clenched my jaw and my teeth squeaked together. Across from me, the train wheels squealed.

If I wanted to save my friends, I would have to murder God.

Chapter 2
This is mostly my story, but I’m gonna start out by telling you about what happened to Drake. Just so you know – just so you can see right off the bat – what a bastard God could be and why a lot of us had it out for him.

In the summer of 1993, Drake had just turned sixteen.
He was going to be a junior, and his horror-show-of-a-life finally seemed to be turning a corner. He’d been living with his dad and sister in the trailer park when his mom finally moved out of her little house in the Lestrade neighborhood. She’d given it to Drake’s dad. She knew damn well that he wasn’t going to pay any rent, but she didn’t care as long as he kept the kids. Now Drake would have empty houses next door instead of empty trailers. He, his sister, and his dad had filled a couple dozen Hefty sacks with all their stuff and dropped them in the trunk of their scraped-up Benedict.

One trailer over, Sapphire watched, leaning back against the bent wall, her narrow eyes shaded behind her too-big sunglasses. She was a white girl, also sixteenish, with hair so light it glowed like tallow dripping from one of my mother’s candles. Blue eyes too, quiet laughter, nervous all the time, but silently thrilled to be growing up as fast as she could.

“I ever gonna see you now?” she asked.

“See me at school,” Drake said. “Summer’s done next week.”

“Suck a dick,” she said and laughed.

“Come over to my new place tonight. Come over, what, nine? Bring DeeDee. I’ll get Jamo and TK. Drinks from my dad. We’ll bust up that hospital like we said. I got gold now, you know. Crazy gold.”

And he did. Drake wasn’t a Chalk – fuck those racist fucks – but they were a North Side gang wanting to sell some coke and E out on the East Side, and Drake was their man. Okay, their middleman. EZ set the whole thing up. Drake hated the Chalks but he liked the money and he also liked EZ. How could you not like EZ, talking the way he did? Dude had magnetism.

Even before Drake had unpacked all his shit at the new place, even before the sun had dipped behind the swampy trees shadowing the creek, EZ pulled up in his moon blue Starr Slipstream. A sweet make and model for a blue-collar beater. Rust patches shaped like Martian mountains silhouetted against a dusty sky. EZ called Drake over to the window.

“You straight over here, D?” EZ said. “This all new to you?”

“Naw,” said Drake. “I got all the fiends back on Ash and I’ll get some here too. See my moms lived here years. Lestrade Hood. I know it. Every street. Every liquor store. Every squat the kids go to fuck.”

“What about you?” EZ asked. “You gettin’ some, D?”

“Not now, you know,” Drake said.

“But you got plans on that.”

“I don’t...”

“You better stitch it up then. If boys don’t fuck they die.” EZ grinned without parting his pink lips. Crows feet in the cracks of his mellow yellow eyes. He was white-ish, but he had some black in him, too. It always struck Drake as funny when black kids joined up with the Chalks.

Now EZ leaned out of the car, looking forward, turning to look back, taking in the whole street with its tidy ranches and its burnt-out wrecks. “Le Strayed,” he said, the tip of his tongue probing his teeth like he was rolling a Werther’s.

How old is he anyway? Drake wondered. Older than Drake. Younger than Drake’s dad. It was hard to tell.

“You know,” EZ said. “Jesus was a fool to crawl up on that cross. God made the devil. Devil is God’s tool. Hammer in his hand. And the devil offered Jesus all the kingdoms of the Earth, and don’t you think that was part of Yahweh’s plan too? What you think woulda happened if Jesus had just said ‘yes?’ I bet we wouldn’t be slumming in Akawe.”

Akawe is the name of this city.

A poor city. A beat-up city. A car-making city an hour’s drive from Detroit, but then the cars it made left, along with the money, along with the people. Akawe.

“I don’t know,” said Drake. “I ain’t religious.”

EZ laughed. “No, you ain’t,” he said. “Here. I got something new for you to test for me. Make some night special. Full of secrets.”

He beckoned. Drake leaned in through the open window. In EZ’s palm, a sandwich bag with five white pills.

“What’s that?” asked Drake.

“A new thing,” EZ said. “Chalks call it O-Sugar. Kinda like E. Kinda not. Try it out. Give it some time. Don’t go to sleep. Gonna see the world through God’s eyes. Feel like Jesus would if he’d said yes to his good friend the devil.”

After EZ signed off, Drake helped his dad and his sister unpack until the sun went down and his friends came over. They all sat on the front porch, passed a 40, smoked up, and put the pills of O-Sugar on their tongues and swallowed. They talked about music and cars and love and sex.

About big old TK who had built a Frankenstein sedan from the soldered guts of four different cars.

About DeeDee, sad-in-her-heart that this boy Shawn would never see a woman in her like she saw a man in him. “He’s on varsity, you know,” she said.

Then, there was skinny Jamo with his horn-rimmed glasses. He kept farting. He said he liked the kids’ urinals best because that way his dick didn’t brush the puck.

Drake didn’t talk much, though. He kept looking at Sapphire – her eyes, her face, her perfect nose – and he felt her laughter run his spine like blue notes down a keyboard. She was a song he hoped he might play some day, but not in a crude way. He hoped he was a conversation she might have.

The kids’ hearts started to glow in their chests with a slow, soft burn. That was the beer talking. They walked down the driveway to DeeDee’s Aubrey.

They left Lestrade and crossed the expressway into Anderson Park – brick houses, neat lawns, where the mayor and the college presidents lived – but even these exalted ones couldn’t keep St. Christopher’s Hospital open in crumbling Akawe. The hospital towered in the midst of the neighborhood, full of empty-dark windows and stern staring statues.

DeeDee parked on a side street of prim Cape Cods and the kids walked the last half block to the hospital complex. Above them, the moon waxed, and the whole sky – the everything – seemed to unfurl and offer itself to Drake, limpid and tender. Is that the O-Sugar? Or just the weed? Drake swelled into the wide space of that raw and thrilling moment.

TK led them across the cracked parking lot to the loading dock.

They hauled up the service gate, slipped inside, and descended into the fluorescent-lit basement. There were seven buildings in St. Christopher’s, but underground tunnels connected them all. After hitting a few dead-ends, the kids found their way to the central building. The six-story main building with a floor plan shaped like a giant cross. As they climbed, floor by floor, moment by moment, the shadows around them expanded with opportunities, with regrets redressed, and the future converging upon their pasts. Infinities of little universes hid in the dark corners of that empty space, clear of matter but clouded with tension, ready to emerge.

By the time they reached the roof, they all felt dizzy and disoriented. Before, their yearning spirits had stretched into each new second, each new room. But now that the potential for movement threatened actual motion – now that acceleration accelerated – they put their hands in their pockets and tried to slow down. The speed of everything was getting weird on them.

“Babies, I gotta sit down!” said Jamo.

They all sat.

“I feel like, like sad and sore,” said Sapphire and she plucked at her hair.

“Hold my hand, Saph,” said DeeDee, and they all held hands.

Far off, the sound of a train rang out and, at that moment, the city lights opened wide like eyes, and the stars glowed and exploded, and heat spilled like syrup from above. Dust and clouds, spinning and shining with lightning and friction. Planetoids and asteroids whirling with volcanoes down jets of solar steam. As the train whistle sang, its sound was compressed, compacted, tonally shifted upwards, higher, with panic. As the pitch got higher and higher, Drake felt better and better, and it terrified him. He climbed on top of himself – palms pushing down on his head – to hold his soaring heart in place, but the shadows everywhere slid up convex hypotenuses from the streets below. They weighed down invisible tightropes that connected to the tallest buildings Downtown. Everything kept turning bluer and bluer. Turning to blue and purple.

The shadows swung their arms. They were the remnants of that abandoned place, humanoid, with blue coins replacing their eyes. They had flown away when their owners checked out and went home or died at the hospital. Now, they returned, suctioned in, pulled back toward the points of departure.

But as the shadows converged and became more humanlike, Drake’s friends had been reduced to matter and residuals. TK and DeeDee and Jamo and Sapphire had all lost their eyes and their ability to speak. Their faces had become smooth planes of flesh and, finally, pure fields of electricity. Small blobs, data balls, started to grow and divide. Oxygen bloomed. The kids floated – impossible! – but happening, and as they did the lights got brighter and brighter, heightened and compressed, flattened and overheated.

“Sapphire...” Drake tried to say, and he leaned toward her, straining to see her features again. He wondered what had happened to him and his friends. What was happening around them. On every side. He imagined their height, sixty feet up. The death it represented.

Then, as if in response, space itself pressed in and Drake felt himself stretched out over the edge of the building. He fell. He was falling. Yellow-blue parking lot lines dropped away behind him and approached. They got small. The last thing he saw before he hit were black streaks of grypanian spirals, dotting away and multiplying.

The sky was a dome, but the parking lot was deep.
by Connor Coyne
September 26, 2019
Publisher: Gothic Funk Press
ISBN:
ASIN:
Number of pages:
Word Count: 175,000
Cover Artist: Sam Perkins-Harbin, Forge22 Design
Urbantasm: The Empty Room is the second book in the magical teen noir serial novel inspired by the author’s experiences growing up in and around Flint, Michigan.

John Bridge is only two months into junior high and his previously boring life has already been turned upside-down. His best friend has gone missing, his father has been laid-off from the factory, and John keeps looking over his shoulder for a mysterious adversary: a man with a knife and some perfect blue sunglasses.

As if all this wasn’t bad enough, John must now confront his complicated feelings for a classmate who has helped him out of one scrape after another, although he knows little about who she is and what she wants. What does it mean to want somebody? How can you want them if you don’t understand them? Does anybody understand anyone, ever? These are hard questions made harder in the struggling city of Akawe, where the factories are closing, the schools are closing, the schools are crumbling, and even the streetlights can’t be kept on all night.

John and his friends are only thirteen, but they are fighting for their lives and futures. Will they save Akawe, will they escape, or are they doomed? They might find their answers in an empty room… in a city with ten thousand abandoned houses, there will be plenty to choose from.



Excerpt Book 2
In the perfect past, in the flushest years at Ellis Island, as overladen ships waked the gray waves and passed into New York Harbor, small groups of Greeks clustered at the prows  and pointed at the broad banks of twinkling lights in the distance.

“Είναι ότι η New York?” they'd ask a deckhand or whoever happened to be standing nearby. “Ya,” he'd reply. “That's Coney Island.”

“Coney Island,” the emigrants repeated in awe, leaning out over the churning ocean to get a better look at their new home. It was sparkling bright, shimmering, these ethereal, auroral sparks in the morning twilight, murmured invitations from the Cyclone, the Wonder Wheel, to taste the delights of the Boardwalk, of Luna Park, Steeplechase, Dreamland, and rapture on off of the Parachute Drop. The lights preceded the long queues, the dirty work, the discrimination against these Orthodox Christians with their swinging censers and their woolly bearded priests. In the hard years to come, the emigrants always held that first vision of Coney Island in their memories, because it was their first, unsullied glimpse of the Americas, and it had seemed to confirm the promise of a better life here. That's why, days, or weeks, or years later, having saved up scraps from their factory jobs, or having snuck small fortunes overseas, sewn into their threadbare jackets, when they opened hot dog stands in the industrial cities of Southeast Michigan, they called them “Coney Islands.”

That's the story I was told growing up. Like so many of our New World origin stories, it's pretty much bullshit. The immigrants called their wieners “coney islands” because they bought them at Coney Island, and the local Chamber of Commerce banned the words “hot dog” because they figured the stupid immigrants might think their wieners were made from actual dogs.

But when the supposedly stupid immigrants arrived in Michigan and started selling their own coney islands in the nineteen teens, they decided to improve their product. Thus began a long process of prayer and experimentation, roots plucked from tiny backyard gardens, cattle slaughtered at the altar, with providential navigation toward the apotheosis  of the hot dog.

The core of this creation was the wiener itself, and from 1914 these were produced under arcane secrecy by the Richard Goerlich Bavarian Encased Meats Company, later known simply as “Goerlich's.” Perhaps as a nod to the melting pot that threw the German Lutherans in with the Balkanites, a Goerlich was made out of many animals. A puree of pork and beef with secret spices all pressed together in a lambskin casing, tied off and smoked over a hardwood grill. The pork content meant that these Viennas could be grilled for longer than other wieners without burning and shrinking. The spices were sweet and sour: traces of mustard, sugar, vinegar, and salt. When you bit into a Goerlich, you felt the skin snap before your teeth sank into its soft inner flesh.

A Goerlich alone, however, was not enough to make the superior coney. To turn a Goerlich into a coney, you had to top it with coney sauce, mustard, and onions, on a fresh bun, on a hot plate with a hot cup of coffee on the side. To do it right, everything must be fresh. Even the mustard, the simplest ingredient, must taste as sharp as a paring knife and shine as bright as the sun. The Balkanites didn't just chop their onions into large, trapezoidal chunks. Onions were precision-cubed by calloused hands at half the speed of sound before being swept into oak barrels and sealed and chilled and called into use. Akawe Ashkenazi bakeries supplied the buns, which the Balkanites steamed before setting them onto waxed paper gracing elliptical china plates. The thick plates kept your food from burning your fingers. The thick cups kept your coffee from cooling off.

I haven't described the sauce. I've saved the best for last. Finely ground beef heart and beef kidney, mixed with beef suet and more ground up Goerlich's, browned minced onions, and sanguined spices. Which spices? Cumin and chili powder and something else. Something magical. Nobody knows what but the coney chefs, and if they told then they would not be gods.

The truth is, they may not have realized at first the specialness of what they had created. These Greeks, these Macedonians, these Albanians, these Rumanians had arrived in factory burgs to take up jobs in the factories and to serve the factory workers. The immigrants hemmed trousers, cobbled clogs, thatched nobs. They sold their coneys on the side, to earn a little extra, but soon they noticed that the coneys brought in more ducats than their other trades.

This was filling food; as heavy as it was delicious. The X Automobilians, whether sweating in the foundries, grinding through midnight shifts at the metal center, or straining over dies and tools in bright light for hours, could fill up in five minutes with a coney and coffee. The perfect food for an assembly line town, as demonstrated by the ordering shorthand that sprang into life like a new language: “One up” meant a coney with everything; a milestone of verbal economy and the inverse relationship of calories to syllables. So coney stands became Coney Island Restaurants. They bloomed fruitful and fecund, increased in number. Multiplied across the earth and increased upon it.

By the mid-twenties some three-dozen Coney Islands in Akawe served up tens of thousands of coneys a day built by hundreds of restaurant employees. Balkan assembly line workers bent over their stations for hours: one man grilled the Goerlich's, another steered it to its bun and plate, where the next station assembled the dressing, nothing written down, everything achieved with hands and voice, as demanding of speed and rigor as riveting.

I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that there were so many Coney Islands that they were served over the river; two restaurants opened on the midst of the East Street Bridge and stayed there for decades. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that the Coney Islands were open 24-7-365. Once, during a flood, a Coney had to hire a security guard to watch the door because the owners had lost the keys years earlier.

The Coney Islands thrived along the factory zones. They pulsed along the Akawe's main arteries. They anchored each neighborhood and kept their street corners noisy all night long, from the wail of the evening whistle to the chiming of the church bells.

When the factories started to wither, the Coney Islands did too.

They held out longer than the factory jobs but, one by one, the great restaurants closed their doors. Midnight Oil Coney Island, Akawe Old Fashioned Coney Island, Delicious Coneys, Joe's Original Coney Island, and most of the others dried up through the 80s. By 1993, there were less than a dozen left.


About the Author:
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Connor Coyne is a writer living and working in Flint, Michigan. 

His first novel, Hungry Rats, has been hailed by Heartland prize-winner Jeffery Renard Allen as “an emotional and aesthetic tour de force.”

His second novel, Shattering Glass, has been praised by Gordon Young, author of Teardown: Memoir of a Vanishing City as “a hypnotic tale that is at once universal and otherworldly.”

Connor’s novel Urbantasm, Book One: The Dying City is winner of the Next Generation Indie Book Awards 2019 Young New Adult Award. Hugo- and Nebula-nominee William Shunn has praised Urbantasm as “a novel of wonder and horror.”

Connor’s essay “Bathtime” was included in the Picador anthology Voices from the Rust Belt. His work has been published in Vox.com, Belt Magazine, Santa Clara Review, and elsewhere.

Connor is on the planning committee for the Flint Festival of Writers and in 2013 he represented Flint’s 7th Ward as its artist-in-residence for the National Endowment for the Arts’ Our Town grant. In 2007, he earned his Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the New School.

Connor lives in Flint’s College Cultural Neighborhood (aka the East Village), less than a mile from the house where he grew up.


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Thursday, August 8, 2019

Book Review: Good Writing is Like Good Sex: Sort of Sexy Thoughts on Writing by C. S. Johnson + giveaway



Good Writing is Like Good Sex: Sort of Sexy Thoughts on Writing 
by C. S. Johnson
March 3t, 2019
Genre: Non-Fiction/ Writing Guide
What makes a book sexy?

I’m not talking about erotica, per say, but what is the difference between a book you eagerly devour and a book you slum your way through?

While there are individual exceptions, the most objective difference between a good story and a downright terrible one is simple—it all comes down to the writing.

It’s either good writing, and we can forgive the technical flaws a little more easily, or it’s bad writing, and bad writing is just bad.

Good writing is more than just good writing.

Good writing is sexy.

If you’re a fiction writer looking to improve your writing skills, this is the perfect, provocative read to encourage you to get down to business and write your story.

Inside Good Writing is Like Good Sex, you will find:
•A titillating perspective on the writing process
•The secret to why your story is special, and how you can make it sexier
•Tips on romancing your readers
•How to write irresistible characters
•Basic writing and story concepts with advanced insights

… and all in a non-gratuitous fashion with a lot of innuendos.


Good Writing is Like Good Sex by C.S. Johnson is an unapologetic how-to for novel writing drawing comparisons to sex; it is truly a non-sexual book that does dole out some great advice to new authors. Although at times the correlation is somewhat stretched to connect, Ms. Johnson successfully takes all elements in the dance of love, from foreplay to afterglow, and addresses how writing a novel, a good novel, must contain the same elements.

This book is short and somewhat pithy, to-the-point and without superfluous fluff, though it would have been easy to have created extraneous content, I appreciated staying on point. For budding authors wishing to take a deeper dive, Ms. Johnson also provides a referral list by topic.

This was a fun and informational read. 4 Sheep.





Jo Dawson

EXCERPT:
But here is where good sex and good writing have a lot in common, which can offer a great deal of relief when it comes to being a writer.

Here’s the good news:

1. Good sex comes with limits. After all, there is such a thing as bad sex.
Just like you would not want to fall in love with, and marry, and have sex with everyone in the world, you most likely don’t want to write something everyone in the world will read. God is obviously the big exception to this, of course, but for us mere mortals, not everyone is suited for romance, not everyone wants a mystery, or violence, or war, or Amish robots battling against zombie superheroes just outside the gates of hell, etc.

Not everyone wants the things that you write.

And please note, your attempts to please everyone will be counterproductive. I see this all the time: when writers attempt to please their fandoms at length, the writers soon lose their way and no one, except possibly the loudest, most obnoxious critic in the room will be happy, and if you are the loudest, most obnoxious critic in the room, you are probably not a happy person.

If you think I am wrong about this, all you have to do is tell five people you love the most you are taking them all out to dinner together, and they get to decide where—so long as they are in complete agreement. Anyone who has a family should be laughing at this moment, because getting five people to agree on where to eat just about never happens, despite any Olive Garden marketing campaigns you’ve seen.

You will have a much easier time, and a much more pleasant experience, if you just tell them that you are going to take them with you to a restaurant of your choice. If they do not want to go, they can stay at home, and you will not have to worry about them making the experience less pleasant for the people who do want to go.

The same thing needs to happen with our writing. We will discuss this more in Chapter 4.

2. Good sex is special.
When you look at you and your spouse, or Bella and Edward, or Romeo and Juliet, or Jamie and Claire from Outlander ... why is sex so special when it comes to them? Why do we root for them to be bonded together in this way?

In novels, we have shorthand signals for this. Sex often represents, in these love stories, true love between two people. There is often a selection of physical, scientific, biological, sociological, psychological, and religious reasons that support our story’s favorite characters in getting together.

Most characters, for example, are physically attractive. Emotionally, they seem like good people, or people we can cheer for. Mentally, a lot of their appeal in the idea of love conquering all things and breaking through any barriers. And spiritually, we all long for those same things: we long to be wanted, we long to be needed, we long to feel complete.

And that is why it is special when they come together. They are in love—in deep, everlasting, all-consuming love -- the kind that makes you grab the one you’re destined to spend the rest of your life with with all your strength, forcing the last constraints of your flesh against theirs in hopes that your bare souls can touch.

Sex is not ever “just sex.” The process of communication has eight stages—yes, really, talking to someone is actually that complicated—so it should not be surprising to find out that sex is more complicated than just “doing it.” It is a physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual act.

Sex is good when it has consideration for all of these elements. A good story should strive to do the same.

You don’t just fall in love with anyone. You fall in love with someone special.

3. Good sex gets better with intentional practice.
The saying goes that “practice makes perfect,” but I tend to agree more with the version that says, “practice makes permanent.” If you practice making cakes with dog poo in them, you’re always going to have a bad product, even if you add more sugar and throw on extra rainbow sprinkles.

So, practice doesn’t make perfect, unless that practice is intentionally focused on improvement.

Both sex and writing get better when you are intentional about optimizing your performance, and that includes practicing. No matter how talented someone is as a writer—because there is a natural talent that some people are really just born with—dedication to their craft will always allow them to get better.

About the Author:
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C. S. Johnson is the award-winning, genre-hopping author of several novels, including young adult sci-fi and fantasy adventures such as the Starlight Chronicles series, the Once Upon a Princess saga, and the Divine Space Pirates trilogy. With a gift for sarcasm and an apologetic heart, she currently lives in Atlanta with her family. Find out more at http://www.csjohnson.me.



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