Posts Tagged ‘writing’


Wednesday, January 2nd, 2013

A series of battles have storm-fucked my cheery-chipperyness the past year, making efforts high and results comparatively low.

Turns out that sometimes if you shadowbox long enough, the shadow gets tired and decides to find a new life as part of an eclipse somewhere else. So, now straddling the mountaintop in relative sunshine and a not-so-chilly breeze, I can take a few moments reaping my sows and binning my baggage.

I’m back to work, in earnest, writing a new novel and letting the edits of the last happen at whatever pace my characters are comfortable with. You can’t force a child to grow up. Whereas I was hoping to let the little book click its pieces together like an airplane engine, it’s instead formed into an evil plague-robot that runs on human teeth. Thus, the marching orders have been rescinded and it’ll remain in the shop awhile longer.

The new book’s a mystery. Not as in “I don’t know what it’ll be,” but as in it has a genre (sort of), and that genre is mystery. Though not my typical fare, this project, though in its infancy, is already smoking cigars, reading the paper, and talking about finding its own place. Updates to follow.

So, I survived the Mayan miscalculation, the new annuals, the many-mustered storms, and the evil robot. My hair is shorter and greyer, my skin is drying in the sun-shiny not-so-cold breeze, and my cheery-chipperyness is returned and apparent in my (still intact) toothy smile. I’m still here, and not going anywhere.
Happy fucking new year. I mean it.



The Death of Christopher Hitchens

Thursday, December 15th, 2011

Far be it from me to pretend that I can utter some new words over a corpse that haven’t been shouted over another hundred thousand or so already, but we’re compelled, still, to say something when someone of importance becomes another ghost on the bookshelves.

Christopher Hitchens died of the same illness that killed his father. The same malady that afflicts many such enthusiastic smokers. He went so far as to comment on the banality of it, the predictability. And although he was undergoing some of the most advanced treatments and well-honed techniques to combat it, it was only a matter of time.

I’m not one for sentimentalism, or hero worship, or worship of any kind, for that matter, something I owe (in no small part) to the man himself. But some watershed in my soul was breached when I heard of his passing. It may not be the fate of anyone to live forever, in the literal sense, or to die when they’re ready, insofar as anyone can be ready.

But there’s still an unmistakable wrenching, a gash of unfairness in the whole messy ordeal that makes me bleed all over myself embarassingly.

I suppose we knew it was only a waiting game; I just wish we’d had to wait a little bit longer. For whatever that’s worth, that’s what I have to give. Not even a down payment on what was given.

Goodbye, Hitch.

“Take the risk of thinking for yourself, much more happiness, truth, beauty and wisdom will come to you that way.”

-Christopher Hitchens: 1949-2011


Like Any Wound, I Get Worse When Ignored

Thursday, June 2nd, 2011

Despite my attempts, Mr. Konrath has not responded to my challenge. Out of good form (and advice from counsel) I’ve decided to stop harassing him and move on to other folks.

I’m opening up the challenege; it’s now out there to any well-established author that is willing to help me raise some money for Kickstarter.
There are a few that I’ve got in mind, so, as of today, they’ve inherited the Konrath curse.

I’ll be sure to keep you all informed, should any takers step forward.

In happier news, the book is now available in print through CreateSpace. It’ll be showing up on Amazon within a few days, and by August it’ll be on a monkey-piloted mission to the sun -for further distribution.  

It seems folks have started noticing the novel, which I find exciting. It’s begun garnering reviews on very brilliant blogs and Smashwords.

Finally, there’ll be a book of short stories released this summer, and the long-awaited Holliday series finally begins this winter. You now have a reason to stay alive that long.


Stepping into the Void

Sunday, April 24th, 2011

The first book, “Ghosts of a Tired Universe,” went online today. 
Any amount of thanks and name-dropping I might do for all those who helped along the way would seem inadequate. As solitary and alienated as writers are, no book is created without a network of conspirators willing to spend their time and energy on someone else’s passion.

With this book, I wade out into the deeper waters I’ve been dreaming about since I discovered the audacity to hope. Whatever happens from here, I’m grateful for the hard roads and long hallways that taught victory through perseverance, and enlightement through mistake.

I invite you now to walk with me, dear readers, and together we’ll see just how far we can go.

The book is available through, and can be read on almost any e-reader in the world. PDF format is there too, for those who don’t have an e-reader. Thanks again, and dare to do the improbable.


A Filthy Lie

Wednesday, March 16th, 2011

So many people take comfort in mythology and metaphysics and wish-thinking. It’s never more clear than in the wake of some horrific event or another.

An earthquake will destroy a city, a tsunami might ravage a coast, and what one begins to hear are the half-whispered reassurances that it all belongs to a plan. No matter the tragedy, this or that system has it all worked out. Never mind that a plan (or omniscience, for that matter) would negate free will entirely, just trust that someone’s arms will be unfolded when you fall from the hill. If they aren’t, trust that there’s a pillow at the bottom.

It’s interesting that we don’t hear this more often about the smaller, more grating mishaps that manage to slime on by in silence. What about the lives of “quiet desperation” Thoreau mentioned?

I’ve noticed a largely agreed-upon fact that no one seems to mind, or they throw up their hands in helplessness when asked about it. It’s this: Most people aren’t happy. Most people hate their lives or are too trampled to realize that they should.

Be you one of the millions starving or dying of disease, be you a soul-sucked trailer-trash simpleton, or be you a stock-broker so high strung that hanging yourself would be a redundancy, most of the people in this world are unhappy most of the time.

How many people do you know that genuinely love their work? How many even like it? Odds are good that you spend most of your waking time doing something that not only fails to bring your bliss into focus, but also sinks your joy battleship. A disturbingly high number of people are miserable creatures much of the time; they’ve just gotten used to it.

If it is indeed, part of a plan, then I think we can agree it’s a terrible one. I, for one, would rather risk ruining whatever climax the plan had in mind than live my life in some partially denied, mostly dishonest, unreal, deterministic depression. It’s for this reason that I’ve written characters that step off the path.

The sense of fate can make boredom out of saving the universe -who cares what you do if it was decided for you? And pure, free thought seems impersonal, unguided, a bit forced, maybe.  

I wanted creatures whose existence was more complex than either of these philosophies. When every path is blocked, they move in the wide-open direction of dimensions that dance on the edge of our recognition.  Happiness might just live in the blind spot of our mirror angles. Our compasses are broken. As much as we benefit from the ideas of others, our own lack of creativity and perspective limits us.

For the sake of my own development (and maybe yours too), I’ve worked very hard at giving the reader multi-dimensional beings that move so far from the trivial roads that the normal becomes almost unrecognizable to them. The lines of reality so myriad and overlapping that the original, droll black and white parallels have succumbed to an ultraviolet spiral leading . . . well, nowhere in particular. Nowhere pre-ordained, but certainly not somewhere accidental either. And that’s the point.

Our lives and attitudes are manifestations of what we’ve come to accept about the nature of ourselves, and our limitations. We’ve convinced ourselves that we exist only within certain parameters, beyond which is nothing. That’s the lie.

My characters exist in that nothing, leaving marks on the rocks so that when we eventually get there, we’ll know that someone came along before us and moved farther still, on ahead.


Book Bios- #1 Somewhere Dreaming (Now called Ghosts of a Tired Universe)

Saturday, March 5th, 2011

There was a forest that seemed to keep itself seeped in winter dark and perpetual silence. If you were to sit down in the gray and the wet and the wind, the ghosts would start to gather. 

They’d shake animal skulls at the edge of the clearing and send unseen stares that you feel on your back, but you’d always turn to see nothing. Nothing following, nothing hunting you, a nothing that never gets tired.

Always that silence sweeps into your eyes, ominous images of pine tree soldiers in perfect silhouette stillness. Or the weight of omnipresent light diffused into the same thin gruel for all of time- cracks in the heaving belly of dark. 

Eventually you’d adjust. Endure as permafrost, frail on the periphery of a terror that you’ve resigned to. No place to spend a life.

You know the place; you’ve all been there.  It takes itself a bit seriously, but with good reason; it’s no joke.

That’s where I started writing Somewhere Dreaming, a scream into the void, unwilling to accept the silent universe.

Book #2 bio coming soon. You might say it’s slightly lighter fare.


The Shoulders of Giants

Sunday, February 27th, 2011


As with any generation, we’re in a state of evolutionary flux, moreso with our art than perhaps anything else. It’s no coincidence that the greatest writers of all time have drawn inspiration from the titans that bounded around the mythical mountaintops before them. 

There’s a whisper of Robbins’s off-beat flamboyancy in Franzen , Vonnegut-esque hints of alien existentialism in Robbins, the hand of Joyce in Vonnegut’s work, and so on back into the cuneiform days.

In fiction, if we’re honest, we’ll admit that there are two primary categories: fluff and further.  Fluff has it’s place, much like taco-bell in the fast-food lineup. Every once in a blackout-drunk we’ll treat ourselves to the non-meat biohazard sour cream buffet.  After all, we’re not dying nearly quick enough, right?

There’s no judgment here; I wouldn’t wish a life devoid of cliché erotica and moody vampires on anyone.  My question is this- How healthy is it to fill our frontal lobes with filler for every meal?

Levity and dirty sex and dubious spy capers find their way into furthering our literary evolution sometimes, but I suppose I’m a damn snob.

More than any specific criteria, books that I read move me and change me most when I can hear their words echo down the long hallway of human passion.  This is the “further” category.

There’s something to the ghosts of lost writers being superimposed on the page that gives me a communion with not just the fellow (or madam) whose name graces the cover, but with the collective consciousness of the once-trail-blazers who’ve passed their energy entirely into the new breed of interior explorers.

Look at your to-read pile and ask yourself how many of the on-deck tomes stick their noses out another inch or two into the future, and maybe try to focus a bit more on those. It’s our job to climb and give a better view for the oncoming usurpers and arrogant upstarts that’ll rule our old stomping ground tomorrow.

Perhaps our progeny of readers and artists could be better served than looking down upon idiotic celebrity memoirs and hallucinatory conspiracy theories. Not an unreasonable position, I don’t think, but feel free to tell me otherwise.


On Atheism

Monday, February 21st, 2011


Although every aspect of a person is inexorably tied to all the other little quirks that make one who he/she is, I’d like to take a moment to address a certain, what-may-appear-to-not-be-entirely-relevant part of myself. A part I have intentionally stated, but notice, not given any special attention. Until now. 

I am an atheist. 

One of my many gifts to my readers is that I’ll divulge relatively little about myself personally, giving them the freedom to see their own interpretations and make my stories truly their own. As much as possible, I try not to limit the myriad possible meanings of any metaphor I may spout. This issue, however, this little characteristic of myself, is something I’m willing to let out of the caja de Pandora, as it were. 

This site, and all others of mine, are devoted toward my work, the stories, not to me. Sure, the words are mine, but they are merely a matter of me trying to funnel the great whirlwind of “us” (meaning humanity) and “this” (meaning the universe) through a Jonas-colored lens, hopefully making something beautiful and clear that perhaps has always been there, but was never fully realized before. 

My stories deal with the super-natural, the magical. There are gods and demons and failed universes and sacred archways and mythic mountains and so on. And it’d be easy to say that I was making an appeal to a real higher power, that the over-arching concepts or bashful subtext was an endorsement for believing in real-world magic. It isn’t. 

Perhaps I’m just a lazy writer; maybe it’s just my style, but I find that the freedom the supernatural gives me allows for a more potent metaphor. What better concept than an “aura” to explain the powerful presence of a rare person? What better idea than a “soul” to convey the seat of passion in someone moved by a moment? 

We know what these words really mean, and we can remove the super-natural connotations to them and still unflinchingly use them in precisely the same manner as we have been for years. So please, read deep, read far, read into yourself, but don’t read yourself into me, if you get me. 

Although I’m happy to discuss my views on the matter with anyone who comes a’ callin’, allow me this caveat: You will lose. It’s not cockiness or malice or even gloating, it’s just that there are a few topics in this world where I’ve put a lot of time, energy, and brain power into defining what I think about them. Writing is one; god is another. 

This, of course, doesn’t mean that I’m never wrong about either of these (as my spelling and punctuation occasionally gives away) but it does mean that I’ve probably heard your argument before. Nevertheless, if you insist upon making your disagreement known, feel free to do so. If yours is a version of an old argument that has already been deconstructed (and believe me, it probably is) I’ll gladly inform you of the name that argument has been given and provide you with link(s) to videos where you can see for yourself. If it’s something genuinely new and exciting and interesting and possibly a game-changer in the cosmic battle between rationality and superstition, I’ll be happy to respond myself. 

So, now that’s out and clear, the focus is once again (and hopefully will forever hereafter be) the work. Introspection, booze, rejection, and eventually . . . publication. 

Here are a few links if you want to learn more.


Woman Falling

Friday, February 18th, 2011


It’s strange how the most unremarkable of moments can be fractured by your mind. I saw a woman fall the other day, and her drop split apart into infinitesimal interconnected pictures, the downward motion suddenly the least interesting characteristic, just a catalyst for the more powerful transformation of one instant into another.  

There was a certain grief around her eyes, not shock or fear. The blonde frame around her face retreated and exposed the old woman hiding inside a still-too-young-for-minivans girl, of a fearful 32. 

Maybe just last year she would have caught herself, not surrendered so quickly. I clearly remember her arms not even bracing, but groping lethargically, like out-of-orbit satellites on tragic trajectories toward some inevitable void.   

There was probably some gentle trauma of a landing, as insignificant and quiet as she herself had become. A pretty young girl went gray in front of me, and mourned herself just long enough to give me the perfect metaphor for the rest of her life. 

Every wrinkle cream, young boyfriend, and hair dye, every hidden stretch mark, topless car and nightclub lie will be covered by the growing shadow of the long, slow fall that will eventually pull her into an oblivion of her choosing. 

She didn’t even notice; I wonder if I would.