bearding a writer

bearded writer 

We all hear about “he has a beard”, meaning the gay guy with the “girlfriend”.   

I’ve always liked using ‘beard’ as a verb, as in: “I was at a party and I got bearded by this complete jackass, Kent.” meaning this complete jackass started talking to me and wouldn’t let me get away…  

But this is about neither of those beards, just the one on my face.  It’s huge, a terrifying growth, and the missus says that the beard masks my face so that I always seem stern, mean, hostile etc. Obviously, THIS MUST CHANGE!  I am a big cuddly ball of sweetness and light.

So I give you my Face.  Tell me what to do with it… 

With a caveat: I do not go clean-shaven.  Ever.  So I need a ‘stache, patch, burns, goat, muttonchops, chin-strap… something.  

Feel free to link to pictures.   

Monkberry Moon Delight

 The story continues to be writ large here on the loading dock.   The true story of Nick Syn and his tumultuous, world-spanning, secret history of the crawlspace between hither, thither and yon…

 And now we segue into the meandering, navel-gazing part of this.

As we all know by now, the Life of Syn closely parallels (jn some areas) the life of Me.  And I’ve had a few adventures, and friends, who are making it pretty much unchanged into the novel(s?)… but some things, obviously need to be changed.  For the sake of Storytelling (can we get a round of drinks for Calliope, Erato, Thalia! The three muses who regularly clusterfuck my head on this project?), all hail Story, hai ftagen. 

We hail Story but we fear Berstuk, for he is strong in the dark bowers of the…

Sorry.  ANYhow.  What was I talking about?  I’m so used to being 100% creative in this venue, and here I am talking about the PROCESS, rather than sharing the fruits with you… the fruits are coming along fine, by the way.  42,362 words and counting- I hit a little block for a while there, but I think I’ve pulled myself and the cast and crew over the barricade and I’m ready to drop the hammer-

 Hunter S. Thompson.  Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.  Mstislav Leopoldovich Rostropovich.  Roger Stevens.  These are all famous (in their own circles, some wider than others) people that I have met in my own life.  These are larger than life, fascinating human beings.  At least three of them are wild and wooly enough to belong in Two-Fisted Tales of Adventure & Suspense…

But where Will meeting HST in a brewery men’s room while pissing, followed by whisky and narcotics, is a good and true story- would it detach, displace, remove or jar from the carefully crafted fictional world of Nick Syn?

I know those few of you who have read the previous entries- the fantastical Two Fisted Tales! entries- have mostly read them to see yourselves in print, disguised or not.  

Don’t lie, we’re all solpsistic on some level, and I’m just canny enough to keep my audience enthralled with the chance of seeing their alter-ego wrassle a shoggoth.  But I don’t want you to think that Dark Days Indeed, or Where Eagles Dare is the tone of the entire Syn universe… in fact my wife can attest (since she has been reading along to help me over those barricades) that the tone of the chronologically early stuff is entirely different- which is a goddamn balancing act. 

Knowing that it needs to get to this frantic, frenetic, hyperrealized full-tilt boogie of a pulp sci-fi/fantasy/horror hybrid, and starting it off in this vaguely introspective, bittersweet rite-of-passage teenage kind of thing where the world as we know it begins to slide sideways into the world where Slipships and World Snake’s and the man-with-the-bandaged-hand all loom instead of lurk… it’s a tricksy balancing act, friends.

And so I wonder, can I incorporate Hunter, or Screamin’ Jay, as guideposts along the way?  Would it, could it, can it blend seamlessly with the hoodoo, voodoo, juju, hexes and blazing .45s, drenched in sweaty sex and cheap liquor?

Well, when I put it that way it seems perfectly (un)natural…

And please, feel free to chime in.  Be a part of the process.  It doesn’t take a village to raise a wild child, but it can take one to fuel Two-Fisted Tales of the same… Continue reading

Two Fisted Tales of Adventure and Suspense

There is a world outside of this one and another outside that; and another and another and another. There is a crawlspace between those worlds: those who control that space control the secrets.

What secrets?

Shhhh. We’ll tell you.

The devil drives a lime green Geo Metro.

What they say about Blue Hole, Ong’s Hat, Montauk and Hoop Snakes is all true- mostly. 

Devil Bats swarm the crawlspace between worlds, looking for a way to get in. 

The Lizard Men aren’t under Mount Shasta anymore, the Vampire Clans wiped them out. 

There are no Yeti in Pennsylvania, only Squonks and punk rock succubi. 

Don’t go to Pilot’s Knob after the sun has set. 

Eustace the Monk was on to something. 

Always trust the blue haired girls, if only a little. 

There is no Welsh room within the Cathedral of Learning, no matter what they may tell you. 

Hagstones work. 

There aren’t 9 Unknown Men, only 7 are left. 

Please do not annoy the Yokai. 

The Invisible Library is hard to find. 

Pope Sylvester II really did. 

Night Riders will see you on the iron road, skag.  

Blind Pete always said you’d hang.  

Who are the Convergence Generals?  

Ghost Lights never burn out or break.

The Jersey Devil was framed. 

The World Snake is sleeping… for now. 

 Low Odysseys has been gathering dust.  Why?

 Why? Because it has gone way past the point of being a roman a clef and it’s about 40,000 words into a novel.  -none of it reprints of this stuff- I had intended for this website to be a thinly veiled reportage of the daily drudgery but it became a bit more and the story took on a life of it’s own with many of the characters borrowed from my near and dear, once and future friends and loved ones… and now it’s a novel.

It’s not unlike what has come before, but it’s far less self-indulgent and with a surprising amount of heart.  Shit, I’m surprised at least

Originally, I thought “A” Novel, as in one.  Except I’m at the halfway point of telling the early years of The RevDoc and his first brushes with that old devil Floyd, and how he met his various lovers, allies and worthies… and it looks like the first novel is going to end beforethe college years.   So as much as I have enjoyed keeping this site more-or-less up to date with two-fisted tales of gun porn, the paranormal, and high camp- I feel like it is important to tell you all why it’s being ignored, for now.  While this is going on, while I’m actually trying to catapult this unwieldy fucking thing into a low orbit, Low Odysseys will continue to gather some dust for a while… but I won’t be gone, not entirely. 

Much of the secret history is yet to be told.  Of the amazing Grimm sisters Nora, Nova and Nina…

…how Dr. Israel Hands became the world’s only living zombie…

…of the early years of the man who would be The Reverend Doctor Syn, two-fisted adventurer and the only defense between our sideways world and The Convergence.  A roadie, roustabout, rake and rounder, trucker, preacher, hobo and beerslinger…

 All these stories,  and all the weirdly familiar characters you’ve tuned in to read about… Alexei Viktori, the Poison Lady, GunWytch, Mister E and the rest (and many, many that you haven’t met yet)… well, you might get to read about them again. 

You just have to be a little patient.  The RevDoc’s patient.