Lying in bed a few weeks back I found myself drifting in and out of a vague dream about a clone on the run from some sort of shadowy government agency. In my half-waking mind, the components of a story started to come together. Upon waking, I was surprised to discover that it held together pretty well. For a few days afterward, I’d find myself returning to the idea and playing with it further.

After a week or so, it occurred to me that I’d (quite by accident) developed an actual, honest-to-goodness idea for a series — well suited to either television, animation, or comics. The closest thing I can compare it to is Alan Moore’s run on Swamp Thing — but I should probably leave it at that, for now.

I say “by accident” because it’s not the sort of thing I do on purpose. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever done it before. Although I’ve had ideas for individual episodes or issues of an already established, ongoing series — the world will perhaps never know the joy of watching, for instance, my “lost” season of Mad Men — I’ve never really come up with something new that was obviously an ongoing series.

The reason for this is, I think, because most of what I read is finite. Novels, plays, short stories, poetry — they all have an ending. Even in the world of comics, my favorite series tend to be the ones that are standalone volumes or finite storylines: Sandman, Cerebus, From Hell, Promethea, the various Gaiman/McKean collaborations, etc. As I’ve gotten older (no, I won’t say “matured”) as a reader, I’ve found the endless story arcs, crossovers, and reboots in most of the mainstream comics increasingly tedious and even insulting.

So it’s strange to have this sort of story coming together in my head . . . but it’s also a lot of fun, as well.

And it’s perfect timing, really. My work on Pantheon has been a little slow of late, as it’s difficult to find the time with everything else going on. We’re moving households in about a week and it always seems that there’s something else that needs to get done first. But it’s been good to have a nice little idea to play with for a while. Once things settle down a bit, I expect to have a strong outline and treatment that I can share with a few connections. After that, we’ll see where it goes.

It’s been nice too, talking about it with Keeley. My current project (the aforementioned Pantheon) began life as a collaboration with her. So it’s been fun to tell her what I’m thinking and then bounce ideas back and forth. In addition to the clarity that comes from simply talking over a story with someone else, she’s given me a lot of little things to consider around various chacters and plot points. I’ll owe her a story credit, when the time comes.

It’s a science fiction story, by the way — at least, on one level it is — and that’s a nice change as well since that’s not a genre I usually spend much time in (either reading or writing). I wouldn’t say it’s hard SF, at all. It’s more of a technological thriller, which sounds a bit odd even to me. Again, not typically the sort of thing my mind immediately comes up with.

But, so far, it’s working for me. At the very least it’s a good exercise to go through in the midst of the moving cyclone.

By my last count, I think I’ve moved about 20 times in my life (that’s 20 separate residences, not including different dorm rooms in college). At the time, it never seemed like that much . . . but it adds up, apparently. The end result is that I’m very, very good at packing. Especially books. There’s about forty-five boxes of them now.

Also, it’s taught me how to plan ahead so that the week leading up to the day when the truck shows up isn’t a hectic mess of last-minute preparation and stress. Oddly enough, we’re only moving one block away. That’s all. But you still have to go through everything, no matter the distance. So I’m disrupting my life, my writing schedule, my peace of mind, and the delicate psychic landscape of my offspring to go one block south.

But we need the room. The kids are getting bigger and we’re all starting to bump into each other a bit more than before. And sometime next year our family is likely to get even bigger, so there’s that to plan for as well. The timing couldn’t have been better. Just as we started getting serious about looking, our landlord had a bigger place open up down the street. That it has a pool table in the basement wasn’t the only deciding factor, I assure you. But it did help take the sting out of the idea of moving again.

As did the realization* that, with a little bit of imagination and some elbow grease, I could have an office again. It’s been a long time since I had a separate space where I could spread out and work — the past few years, I’ve set up shop at the kitchen table after everyone’s gone to bed. It’s been fine (I got two books and a full length play done that way, after all) but it’ll be nice to have things be a bit more grounded.

(It’s also the room right next to where the pool table is, so that’s okay.)

*It wasn’t my realization, of course. I’d been thinking that the back room would end up being storage. Keeley was the one you said “You know this could be an office…” and, as usual, she was absolutely right.

Out at Aurohn Lake last week, I got the chance to prove my devotion to her. Down near the southeast side of the lake there’s a spring where watercress grows in thick, abundant beds. The terrain gets a little swampy down there and one wrong step will find you sinking fast. No one’s entirely clear on how deep the mud goes, but (as I found out later) the rumor is that a cow was lost down there back when the angus beef farm was still in operation.

While Keeley was picking her ‘cress, I went off to take some photos of an interesting mold formation on a nearby tree. Coming back, I watched her shift position and loose her footing. She grabbed an overhead branch and I immediately went into rescue mode, taking one huge step into the seemingly solid center of the watercress.

I sank immediately and my knee boots were suddenly filled with water and mud. Trying to pull out one leg only made the other sink deeper. My main concern was that if I sank to my waist, my camera and my iPhone would be ruined.

As I am somewhat smarter than a cow, I was able to get back to solid ground eventually — all without losing my precious tech, but soaked from the thighs down. As I dumped the gallons of water and mud out of my boots, my only regret was that we didn’t capture the whole thing on video. Ah well, next time…

I will say this: based on the salad my wife made later that night, the watercress was well worth the risk.

The past few weeks have been extremely busy. I’ve had to set aside almost all other writing and editing projects (yes, The Spring Chap being one of them — all apologies to those of you who are waiting patiently) in order to finish up a number of things for a . . . well, I’m not sure what to call it, really. All I know at this point, all I can say is that one of my books has gotten some attention from an unexpected area. Conversations with very nice people are ongoing. At times it’s quite exciting. At other times I cannot help but think of il gatto e la volpe.

This is the sort of thing that keeps me up at night, pacing and talking to myself. Rest assured that when things solidify a bit, one way or another, I’ll have more to say about it here.

With all of that going on, it was nice to take some time out this past weekend for a visit to Aurohn Lake. I brought along the copy of Burrough’s A Princess of Mars that I’d gotten for Ken. I’ll be reading it at the same time he will be, although he’s read it before — the first time was back when he was a boy, sometime around the 1920′s. I’m hopeful that we’ll have some interesting conversations afterwards. And then it’ll be his turn to pick a book for us to read.

I’ve already got one of his (unpublished) novels waiting on my nightstand. Pinnacle is a fictionalized account of his work on the groundbreaking car commercial for Chevrolet that first put an automobile on top of a remote mountaintop in the middle of the desert. It’s a pretty commonplace image now in advertising, but Ken did it first back in 1964, and without computers. I’m interested to read the book . . . but I’m looking forward to exploring Mars with him as well.

While we were out there, Keeley, Jeff (her father), and I took a nice long walk around the lake, through the forest, across the meadow, and back again. It started with a liberation of the last few milkweed pods. Across the lake, we spied a trespassing ATV that took off at the first sight of us, which gave us all something to grumble about. But the trespasser was quickly forgotten as we saw a few deer early on — a brief flash of the tail, the bounding into the thicker trees — and a surprisingly non-nocturnal possum that trundled as fast as it could away from us through the underbrush.

Last time we came through the forest a few weeks back, it was bitter cold and the little ponds were frozen solid. This time, however, the warm weather had broken things down considerably and was performing the alchemy of spring that invariably turns everything into mud.

In the distance, perhaps outside the boundaries of the Aurohn conservancy, we could hear gunfire. Far off through the trees, we could just barely make out the edge of a lake on the neighboring property. About the time the gunshots started ringing out — it’s nowhere near hunting season, by the way — we watched a herd of eight or nine deer plunge into the frigid water and then scramble up onto the ice to make their escape — their hoofbeats breaking through here and there as they drummed across the surface.

One of the deer floundered for a while in the icy water and it was breathtaking, excruciating to be unable to do anything but watch. To our relief, they finally made it up and across the ice after their herd.

The gunshots continued. I don’t have a fond place in my heart for hunters, particularly not out of season poachers. Fortunately, my phone has excellent coverage out there in the middle of nowhere and I was able to put a call back to Ken’s and let them know.

This could also serve as my last communication, I thought to myself, before the tragedy struck.

There’s a hill just past Five Bar Gate where the forest ends and the back forty takes over. Just under the crown of the hill is a large hole leading down into a burrow. On top of the hill, the tall grass is matted down where the deer sleep. It’s the perfect spot: sheltered by trees on two sides, high enough to see predators coming, accessible enough to allow escape into deep cover.

Last time we were out, Keeley and I left apples there and I was happy to see that they were all gone. All through the forest and on the crown of the hill, we scattered the new batch of apples and carrots that we’d brought along this time. I’ve been reading A Field Guide to Demons — which isn’t really about demons so much, at least not in the pea soup sense — and I suppose some might say we were leaving offerings for the local gods. In truth, I just wanted to give the deer and the unseen burrow dweller (groundhog perhaps?) a nice treat after the long winter.

I like that little hill. I’d like to have a small, one room cabin up there with windows on all sides. All I need is a wood burning stove for warmth and tea, and a table and chair. I’d go there to write every day, if I could — and if it wouldn’t disturb the deer or the underhill god (groundhog, woodchuck . . . whoever it might be). That would be a good life. I’m surprised Ken never did something similar but, of course, he did. It’s why they moved there in the first place.

In the meadow beyond, the heavy snowfall and high winds of winter had flattened out most of the tall grass, so Jeff and I went down to the far edge of the lake to see what the ATV might have been up to. We also wanted to check and see if anyone had set out traps for the rumored-but-as-yet-unseen beavers (and, of course, spring them as a part of our subversive community service). No traps, fortunately. But no beavers either.

From there, it’s an easy walk back. When we got there, Ken’s wife Alice was on the phone checking on the provenance of the ATV and the gunfire. The collection of discarded beer cans we found along the way didn’t make them any more pleased about the trespassers.

But they were quite interested in the various books I’ve got on my iPhone. In addition to the excellent Classics application from the iTunes App store, I also had the Kindle application installed with my recent purchase of the Burrough’s book.

Scoffing at first, it didn’t take Ken long to get the hang of using the app to read. But he said what everybody else seems to say about the Kindle: “Well, it’ll never replace the pleasure of reading from a real book you’re holding in your hands.” I can’t say I disagree with them. Alice used to be a librarian and, watching her play with the iPhone, I had a sneaking suspicion she wouldn’t have minded having one of her own.

But I was most interested to hear, a week or so ago, that the Kindle store had opened up to direct submissions from authors. Having spent some time playing with the formatting and preparation of a document for that platform, I’m fairly confident that it’ll be one of many avenues by which I put my work out there in the next few months. Unless, of course, the cat and the fox come through.

The evening ended up with a stop off with Keeley’s parents for a nice big barbeque dinner on the way home, washed down with tose overgrown “tall” über pints of beer that everyone seems to be serving these days. All of which only made it that much easier to go home, snuggle up with my wife, and fall asleep well before 10 o’clock.

I woke at 3AM, wide awake and had some difficulty convincing my mind that we didn’t need to go downstairs and have one-sided debates about titles and audience age demographics. Eventually, I won out and fell back asleep in time to be completely late getting up for work the next morning.

A cot would be nice in that cabin too, now that I think of it.

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I have about fifty different tabs open in Firefox, seriously straining the patience and functionality of that application. Here’s my attempt to close a few of them…

It was the twittered birth of Roadhacker and Dirty Snowflake’s baby Maeve that led to the discovery that I am, according to the Mayan astrological system, a White Magnetic Dog. So that’s all right, then.

If I ever get a little cabin somewhere, I’ll almost certainly need a shelf for this. At least, unless I win one of these someday. If so, then I’ll pick up the idol from the HPLHS’s excellent adaptation of Call of Cthulhu instead.



And while we’re on the subject of Things I Want Someday, a few of these plushie skulls from Lana Crooks would look good on that shelf too. And they might also be great decor for a baby’s room as well. Or maybe we can just hire this fellow. Excellent stuff, but I do have to admit that these pillows might be taking it a little bit too far — at least, in a baby’s room.




And in case you missed it the first time, two of my online friends had a baby and twittered the whole thing. When I told my wife about it, she said “No electronic device of any kind will be anywhere near a birthing room, right?”

As with my vague non-news report above, I thought it best to adopt a neutral position in response. For now.

The new project — working title: Pantheon — is still coming along slowly, due more to some genuinely frustrating time and schedule constraints than any creative issues. The lack of time to write is becoming an increasing annoyance — and not just for this project. It’s been this way for a long time. I cannot help but feel envious of the writers who manage to make the shift to full-time. One day…

For almost twenty years I’ve tracked my time during the day in fifteen minute increments which standard when you work at any kind of advertising or marketing agency. It’s also an interesting place to keep your head on a regular basis. Once that mindset becomes routine, it’s difficult to turn it off. During the day, that time is time spent (usually) in support of a client. It is productive time and (usually) profitable time. Meaning, we will invoice someone for it. Which is why it is tracked so closely.

Off-hours, however, the mechanism remains the same but I’ve found the mental tracking inverts. Instead of tracking productive time, I unconsciously note unproductive time. Even your normal (e.g. real life) activities are measured in those terms: Making the kids’ lunches, emptying the dishwasher, a phone call from a friend, watching television, writing this blog post . . . those fifteen minutes add up to a lot of time.

Which is rough when you live in a world where time not spent writing is time not writing. It’s lost and whatever might have been written is lost as well.

Early on in DC Comics Kingdom Come by Mark Waid and Alex Ross, we get a glimpse inside the life of The Flash — who has become so fast that he lives between the ticks of the clock. This has, in essence, removed him from reality. When I first read that, I couldn’t help but think “Yeah, I get that…” Or perhaps it’s just the Mercury helmet I relate to.

Possibly I’m just another whiny writer blogging about not having enough time — at least, some of the time.

Speaking of unproductive time, had a very nice weekend. Got a little bit of work done on Pantheon and the new podcast, as well as a considerable amount of noodling on the October Surprise (which has now grown into two separate and rather different surprises, so I’m trying to decide which one I want to do more).

Spent Saturday afternoon wandering through one of an antique mall in one of the dilapidated warehouses near my house. Approximately ninety-eight percent of the merchandise was there during my last visit six months ago, most of it junk. I did spend some time marveling over a remarkably well preserved Steiff Hitler. Toys and dolls of political figures are nothing new, apparently, but it was still odd to think of a child in their crib cuddling with little Adolph.

“There’s a story in that somewhere,” I thought to myself.

“Yes,” I replied. “And Rod Serling wrote it like fifty years ago.”

I did manage to turn up a couple of vintage fountain pens. They sounded like maracas when shaken, a sure sign that the ink and reservoir sacs within had disintegrated. But they were beautiful and quite inexpensive (likely due to their frozen levels and the crumbled mess inside), so I decided it was time I learned how to restore vintage pens.

Back home, Keeley took a nap and I spent a happy hour or so gently disassembling the pens — a Parker and a Welch — and cleaning out the petrified muck from inside the barrels. A few quick searches online, and I had an order in for replacement sacs and some shellac. Updates on my progress to (hopefully) follow soon.


Sunday we spent the afternoon with my wife’s grandparents out at Aurohn Lake — rapidly becoming my favorite place on the planet. Typically, I don’t get nostalgic for places but there’s something very special about this spot. Maybe it’s the determination of the beavers, doggedly blocking the spillway on the dam despite our efforts to keep it clear every few weeks. Keeley did the honors this time around, while I watched and took pictures.

Or maybe it’s the hill, just beyond Six Bar Gate at the edge of the forest. At the summit, there are spots where the waist-high grass has been matted down in gentle depressions by sleeping deer, like snow angels. And to one side there’s a large, wide hole that leads (I’m sure) deep into the hill where a badger in a waistcoat sits by a fire, checking his pocketwatch and ignoring the little showers of soil that fall into his teacup from my pacing overhead.

A card table and a folding chair, a few fresh pens and my notebook . . . sounds like the perfect place to spend an afternoon, writing and looking out at the view.

Then again, it’s probably just the milkweed pods — caught in the midst of their annual, slow motion explosion. We each did our part to ensure that they continue their dominion over the eastern edge of the lake.

Regardless, it’s a wonderful place and it was a good day. I spent much of it talking about writing with Keeley’s grandfather and digging through his old radio scripts from the forties.

Rounding the corner into Halloween, I though it might be appropriate to share this little papercraft Poe. I’m considering the logistics of making hundreds of them and setting up an invasion on the lawn and porch for trick-or-treaters. Perhaps not.

After that, it’ll be time to vote. Here’s my official endorsement.


Winter will be upon us then. Much as I am looking forward to its return, this story has made me very sad. Here’s hoping Phoenix lives up to its name.

It wasn’t all food poisoning and friends, either. I acquitted myself admirably by clearing a number of logs and muck that were clogging the runoff grate on the dam. A close inspection of the debris showed telltale teeth marks. Looks like the rumors are true: There are now beaver living in the lake.

Out in California, most of the rest of them are gathering for a week in Santa Cruz. I might still be able to make it, if the lottery gods finally pony up. Otherwise, I’ll have to lump it here in the Midwest.

The third book (working title to follow just as soon as I make up something clever) is coming along in little nudges. I don’t have a good read on how long it’s going to take me to get it to the end of the first draft but I think I can see the end way, way, way out there if I squint and shade my eyes.

End of the year, let’s say that for now. I reserve the right to completely blow past my own deadline, should the need arise.

Speaking of gods, there are a couple of t-shirts from WearScience.com that are just cool enough to make me wish I’d seen them before my birthday. I especially like this one and this one.

But this one, is nigh unto irresistible.

Other flotsam and jetsam…

I’d like to believe that I would create animated films like this one if I had any kind of graphic talent at all. As such, I’ll have to content myself with words alone.

Speaking of which, I’m delighted to report that my story Summer Salt will be featured in an upcoming episode of the Cthulhu Podcast. Yay.

Also, I expect to have the delayed Other Super Secret Podcast will get pushed out there as well. Possibly.

No words from agents and publishers. With respect to that nice fellow over there, I’m already writing the next thing. It’s all I can do, really.

Really.