Ryan McFadden

They are small, young, and combined weigh less than 60 pounds. No problem, right? Yeah, no. Sure, they outnumber me, but you’d think that my martial arts training (yes, I was a white belt in TaeKwonDo and I also was an expert at Mortal Kombat), my higher education (my ordinary 3 year degree that took me 4 years to get), or simply that I’m their father would help me fend off their vicious attacks. Nothing helped.

Kari muttered something about ‘get me away from the damn kids’ and proceeded to rent a car and drive really far away. Leaving me alone with Paige and Cordelia.

And there we were, staring at each other. Me versus them. There was no referee in this grand game, and the battle would be intense.

If I would’ve followed the rules laid out in The Art of War I’m sure I would’ve faired much better. But just like the United States in Vietnam and Iraq, I throw those rules out the window and decided to improvise.

No advanced planning. That was the big mistake. So instead of play dates, we were locked in the house. They overwhelmed me with their sheer audacity, with their tenacity, with everything that ends with -city. It was endless tea parties, and houseplay.

Today (Sunday) I took control. Church (let Jesus Christ take care of the little devils) followed by Taco Bell (a little multiculturalism), followed by drafting reinforcements (my Mom).

Still the battle wages.

And a single cry goes out: Kari, when are you getting home?

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I’ve just received news my second story has been accepted for publication with Afterburn SF magazine. Another smaller magazine but another step in the right direction. My hope is if I publish enough stories in these smaller mags, I can step up to the next level (pro rates) and then an agent.

The story accepted is Five Crates of DragonRoot and it details Nathaniel’s ill-advised plan to steal, well, five crates of DragonRoot from the Pariahs. Of course, everything goes wrong (who would think that feeding his camels a known hallucinogen would be bad?).

This was originally a concept work. This was the birth of Nathaniel and I wanted to see what would happen in a high-stress situation and was meant only for me. But I liked it (and the character) so much it then became the prologue of my novel (Curse of the Black Swan), then the first chapter, then was dropped altogether.

So it became a short story. And my second story scheduled for publication.

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Writing

Putting an emphasis on short stories, my latest work is called Dignity Memorial and focuses on Doctor Penghoul, the caretaker of the Boneyard, an infamous cemetery catering to the wicked.

Doctor Penghoul was actually born in an earlier short story called Dead Letter Office (currently in consideration at Abyss and Apex magazine). There, he was merely a bad guy against Vernon Archer…a doctor with a seemingly limitless supply of bodies.

This story begins an hour before Vernon visits him, attempting to prepare for Vernon’s visit, while also trying to solve a murder — his own.

This strategy behind this short story was two-fold; I wanted a story that could be considered horror or fantasy, and I wanted it to come in around 3000 words. The first issue wasn’t a problem, the second was much more problematic. You see, I like to write longer works. Most of my short stories hover around 7000 words.

But 7000 words takes a big chunk out of a magazine. But 3000 words would be much easier to place (that’s my justification, anyhow). My hope is to build some credentials…

The First 400 words…

    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. A nervous glance proved I was alone. Good. Couldn’t have a client mistakenly witnessing the scene of my murder; no salve would ever heal that embarrassment.

    I stepped over the deceased Doctor Penghoul, careful not to track blood across my Rosa aurora marble floors — bloody footprints did not convey the dignity of the Boneyard, the most prestigious Golgotha this side of Calvary.

    With servant’s bell in hand and ready to summon Robert, I paused.

    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, the lips slash marks of red across my sallow complexion.

    Everything looked normal.

    My other deaths had come by gunshot. This was different. Perhaps that was a good thing. If someone had shot me, it would’ve splattered my brains over my cherished Hemmingway first editions.

    Wait, a clue. Clutched in my right hand was an overstitched doll of worn burlap. Though rigor hadn’t set in, I had to pry apart my cold, dead hand to retrieve my last possession. It was a suspicious looking effigy. The eyes were two black slashings of thread. The hair a matting of wool, sticky with my blood.

    Voodoo. Interesting. A very telling clue. Few of the Boneyard’s guests could use voodoo. Most were rapists, murderers, butchers. We had several sorcerers but they wouldn’t tarnish their reputations with voodoo. Regardless, I didn’t have time for becoming an amateur gumshoe.

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Writing

My friend Bev has a crush on Guy Gavriel Kay. She met him at the World Fantasy Convention in November and it got us talking about who in the literary world would we really want to meet — the writer that we all envied, emulated, whatever.

I had problems coming up with a current writer who would instill a sense of awe. In the past, it would’ve been two: Clive Barker and Robert McCammon.

Clive Barker decided he didn’t want to write horror anymore, so I decided I didn’t want to read him anymore.

Robert McCammon was my favorite writer. Several of his books still rank on my all time list. Wolf’s Hour (about a werewolf secret agent during WWII), Swan Song (like the Stand but much better), Gone South (a very strange book about bounty hunters), Boy’s Life (a supernatural journey through a Boy’s memories)….

Then he disappeared.

From his website, I discovered that he semi-retired, then decided he didn’t want to write horror so he wrote another book…except his publisher didn’t want it. A rejection for a bestselling writer.

And he quit.

Which truly amazed me that one rejection could derail someone so successful, so popular. Of course, this enforces the whole “I’m the best writer/I’m a fraud” mentality that all writers wrestle with. But to happen to him was surprising.

But then in 2002 he published his first book in a long time. It was called Speaks the Nightbird. It takes place in 1699 and is about a witch trial. It’s long, over 700 pages of fairly fine print. But that seems a good thing right now as I’m flying through it.

I don’t understand how this book didn’t find a major publisher. Lincoln Child and Douglas Preston have a whole line of books similar in theme — a non-supernatural tale that is steeped in the supernatural. So to say it isn’t horror is a misnomer. It is horror. Just because the events can eventually be explained as natural occurrences doesn’t make it any less horrific or exhilarating.

The publishing business is a confusing place.

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Writing

When the world is covered in snow and ice, there’s only one thing to do — head outside and bike. Of course, that didn’t go over so well yesterday when the ground kept slipping away from underneath me. Something about ice friction co-efficients versus me being dumb. I skipped science class in high school, so I’m not really sure what I’m talking about.

So I went out (read: I sent Kari out) to get me a studded tire (yes, a stud above, and studs below…yes, I’ve already heard it already) for my bike. You see, there was a rumor going around that I had become a bit squishy. I don’t know who started this rumor (my money’s on Paige…though Cordy can be pretty sneaky sometimes) but I’ve got to put a stop to it.

Now, I try to stay in shape. I have a gym membership. It gets me into the YMCA to watch my kid go to the gym.

Anyways, I got the studded tire all set.

Tomorrow I bike to work.

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