Ryan McFadden

Yes, that’s a big, ole gay YIPPEE! And I’m not ashamed.

While this would hardly qualify as a ‘big break’ it’s a break none the less. I FINALLY will have my first publishing credit. It’s for a short short story called The Last Right. It’s going to be published in a small magazine called Alien Skin. If I remember correctly, I’ll make $15. So I’ll be taking everyone out to celebrate with my cash. Extra large waters, on me.

Joke as I might, that means someone has finally paid me for my work.

Now, I ran a roller hockey league for 7 years with John…so I know all about making $0.50/hr…and this is about right (actually, that story probably took about 2-3 hours with editing and such) but I DON’T CARE.

This is good news.

FINALLY.

Share on Facebook

Writing

The first of a 3000 word short story (untitled & unedited):

For the third time this week, I found myself dead on my office floor. My body was splayed in a most immodest way, legs spread, teeth clamped together and lips pulled back so that I grinned at the heavens like a baboon in heat. I didn’t know what was more disgusting; the smell from my released bowels that soiled my pin-striped trousers, or the paten leather shoes clashing with the satin pants.

A quick nervous glance proved I was alone. Good. Couldn’t have someone seeing me like that. Dead, a poorly coordinated outfit, and smelling like an outhouse.

I stepped over the deceased Dr Penghoul, careful not to track blood across the marble floors. My, if that blood remained too long, it would stain permanently; one of the downsides of marble. And it just wouldn’t do for the undertaker of the Boneyard, the most prestigious Golgotha this side of Calvary to have a blood stained floor. My office needed to present a dignity, an understanding that death was a dignified experience.

I didn’t need esteemed clients divining that I had died on this very floor, a bullet hole in my forehead and my brains splattered on my cherished first edition Hemingways. I paused at my desk, tiny bell in my fingers. But I did not ring it to summon Robert. How did I die this time? I turned on my heel, meeting my dead gaze. The eyes were black marbles sunken in a face seemingly molded of wax and the lips slash marks of red across my sallow complexion.

Everything looked normal.

There were no readily visible bullet wounds, arrows, blisters, boils, or signs of electrocution. Nor did I see any wicked devices of death about my corpse.

Share on Facebook

Writing

When one door closes, another one opens. Well, the renovation door has pretty much closed. Getting away from my business plan (buying houses in our price range) was disastrous. However, not being able to sell this house might not be the end of days…(more on that in the next few weeks).

With our new ideas beginning to take hold, I decided to build a window seat for the Master Bedroom. This is only the first step in completely rebuilding that room (at minimal expense). We also plan on painting (again) and redecorating.

The first step was to build a window seat. This was actually a fairly daunting task for me. I can build furniture…but it’s built in a shop, with detailed plans, and painstakingly crafted. A built-in (like the window seat) is an entirely different creature. This is built using plywood (not the solid wood of the furniture I make) with hardwood edging (something I’ve never done) with no plans (had to make them myself), and drawer slides (again, fine furniture doesn’t use store bought slides), and built in place.

This also isn’t an heirloom, so I don’t want to spend a ton of cash on it.

I spent $240 (that includes tax) on this project.

Now the picture here isn’t complete. I still have to put the drawer fronts on it (I have to attached hardware before I do that) and trim needs to go around the maple top.

But overall, very happy with how it turned out. I’ll attach the completed picture when it’s finished. Paint it, Kari will be making a cushion, and add a few throw pillows, and it adds instant charm to an otherwise empty room.

Next on the list — making those windows nice enough to match the window seat.

Share on Facebook

Renovations

Cell by Stephen King — probably the best beginning I’ve ever read. That’s high praise. The best beginning? Yup. The action starts on page 2. Planes are falling out of the sky, the cities are crumbling, people are going nuts…

The premise is pretty cool. What if by merely listening on a cell phone, you went crazy — your identity stripped away leaving only murderous thoughts and impulses? Basically, you become a zombie. Why is it a cool idea? I like the thought of a super virus, and what is more ubiquitous than cell phones?

Wow, there’s an accident…better call the wife. Huh, some guy killed that other guy, better call the daughter to stay safe. Wow, the place is going nuts, better call 911.

It slowed after the initial ‘craziness’, then became quite similar to the Stand…and began to drag slowly. But then Stephen King changes gears and the phone-zombies begin to develop a new consciousness, one that is far deadlier than crazed zombies.

One of the criticisms I usually have of Stephen King is the endings. Usually they end with Deus Ex Machina — some improbable, and unsatisfying ending. The Stand was one such book. I remember thinking ‘I read 20,000 pages for that!’.

But Cell had a good ending…both in resolution and in hope.

From my understanding, Stephen King is retired. Since he’s been retired, he puts out a book a year. Cell is one of those books. While I’m no Stephen King scholar, I’d classify his works into three eras: the Golden Years (Shining, Stand, Dead Zone, Firestarter) which are all the classics, then the Bloated Years (It, Tommy Knockers) where the books simply became monstrosities…now I’ll add to that the Retired Years. If Cell is any indication, perhaps slowing down and writing better paced, tighter books will return him to the glory years.

Share on Facebook

Books Reviews

Received a rejection today for The Sorcerer’s Wife. I sent them this story MARCH 8. We’re coming up to 9 months. How ridiculous is that? So ridiculous that I had actually resubmitted this story elsewhere because I assumed they were MIA (nor did they respond to my follow ups).

This is what I received back:

Thank you for your submission. I liked the atmosphere of your story and the protagonist who must take pills to keep his headache coming, or he will see the dire end and entropy of everything. However, I found I didn’t believe him to be that good a bodyguard when at the funeral there are so many people/beings shooting and armed and he takes a while to get going.
Not to mention that one grenade would have finished the sorceror’s casket.
As well, if this woman was an immortal, how did she stay alive so long if she needed someone to protect her from golems and guns?

Good luck with this; I did enjoy the read.

This rejection is called a ‘not right for us’ rejection. Because her criticisms aren’t constructive criticisms at all. They’re just nit-picks. Am I being difficult? No, I don’t think so.

For those that haven’t read it, these are very small concerns about a fairly complex story (as complex as you can get in 6000 words).

- didn’t use a grenade on the coffin…well, instead, someone tried to use a Rod of Corpse Explosion. Something I thought was far cooler than a grenade.

- The comment ‘as a body guard he takes a while to get going’…yes, that was the point. He kept saying he was distracted by the chick’s chest. So distracted that the enemy got the drop on him.

So these are tiny comments, nit-picks…things that I won’t change because that’s the story. There comes a time when you cannot make anymore changes, that the story has to stand on its own (or not).

This is that time.

Besides, this was a bonus rejection (a bonus rejection…what the hell does that mean?) because I assumed they had already written me off.

Share on Facebook

Writing