New Writer Facebook

Friends,

If you've browsed this website for any length of time, you know it's dedicated to my creative work, and you've possibly watched it evolve from amateurish to hopefully more professional over the past four years. This blog has helped me explore the world of online platform building. Thanks for staying with me through those explorations--after four years, I now feel much more competent in this arena.

However, tinkering with this blog has also taught me that, for the purposes of creative writing, facebook is really more suited to building my platform, at my current level.

Platforms are a reality for people in the publishing world. Platforms sell books. But I don't think blogging is the right platform for me. Facebook is easier, quicker, and more widely used, generally. So I've made a writerly facebook page. If you'd like to follow my thoughts and updates about creative writing, or contact me about anything, facebook is the place for it. At least, that's the plan.

Click here to visit my author facebook.

Thanks for reading!
Luke

Bulbous bio

In my fiction writing class this semester, we were assigned to create bios exactly 350 words long. The biggest challenge was to include everything I wanted while keeping the flow of the piece--every time I removed or added something, it became choppy or bulbous, like a list of bullet-point info.

It's been awhile since I've updated this blog, so I thought I'd post it. Hope you enjoy!

Luke A. Wildman is a writer, fantasy novelist, and all-around weirdo. He wants his writing to resemble glass—clear and sharp—but it’s usually more like vomit. See, Luke is a Christian, but believes the African god Mbombo created our world when he puked out the sun, moon, and stars. Then Mbombo’s three sons tidied the mess and finished the work of creation, like a troupe of devoted editors.

Luke is not the African god Mbombo—despite having never been photographed with him—but his writing is usually messy and requires obsessive editing before it’s reader-worthy. Luke and Mbombo have Africa in common: Luke was born in Liberia during a civil war and reared in Nigeria amidst terrorism and religious conflicts. He misses the Nigerian people and food. Oh, and his parents. Them too.

You probably shouldn’t trust his growing-up stories, which are muddled with scenes from Tolkien, Lewis, Baroness Orczy, Robert Jordan, Neil Gaiman, Patrick Rothfuss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, James Herriot, and countless others. Please don’t ask for one favorite author—Luke has a love/hate relationship with that question—but he’d love to hear about some of yours. Why don’t you chat with him over drinks? In conversation, he’s socially awkward—but, frankly my dear, he no longer gives a damn.

Luke got to study in Yorkshire, U.K., during college, and brags about it frequently. That’s the same area where Dracula sucked Lucy’s blood and James Herriot tramped around the Dales as a veterinary surgeon. Luke has a terrible sense of direction, and wandered lost for hours through ruins and tangled alleyways in the ghost-gray rain. He adored every minute.

Looking for him now? He currently studies Professional Writing at Taylor University, in the cornfields of Indiana. Indiana sunsets are gorgeous, and the people here are warm and hardworking. You should visit.

You might enjoy Luke’s published works, which include short stories and more. In 2014 Brimstone Fiction gave his unpublished fantasy manuscript an Editor’s Choice Award. In 2015 he received first place in a student creative writing contest.

Feel free to peruse his poorly updated blog: lukelawwildman.blogspot.com.

Here is a picture of me and some friends pretending to be vikings in Valhalla. No real reason for it--I just like it.

The Words in the World

Hello, friends. I have a spot of news.

This past weekend, I was given the opportunity to attend my college’s 2016 C.S. Lewis and Friends Colloquium. It’s a scholarly conference held every two years, and I was astonished and humbled by the sheer number of incredibly intelligent and knowledgeable people in the room. Seriously—there were scholars from all over the world, including places like Oxford and Japan, and most of them have published multiple books and papers. I’d actually heard of many of their books.

During this conference, I felt privileged to present a piece of creative work in one of the sessions, alongside other wonderful writers. Here’s a picture of us:

The piece I presented was an excerpt from something longer I’ve been working on—the story of a boy who travels across a magical world in search of his sister, told from the perspectives of everyone he meets along the way. It’s a very personal story, in many ways, and writing it has brought me great joy. I was fortunate enough to win first place in the student creative writing contest, which means . . . and I still can hardly believe this . . . I got paid! In real monies, guys! This is the first time I’ve ever been paid for my fiction writing.

*Insert obligatory starving-artist joke.*

Anyway, here’s some other exciting news that goes along with this: because I’ve retained complete rights to this work, not only does it get published in an anthology of work from the conference, but I can also share it on this blog! I’m hoping that winning this award will provide a bit of a platform for the longer work, thus making it more attractive to publishers.

So anyway, without further verbosity, here is an excerpt from my in-progress novel Song of the Searching. This section is titled “The Words in the World.” Enjoy!

NOTE: Shasta’s name will eventually be changed. Currently it’s just a placeholder until I find something that fits.

NOTE: If you have any thoughts, advice, or questions about this story, let me know in the comments!

Luke A. Wildman

The Words in the World

(excerpt from a longer project, titled Song of the Searching)

I: The Expected Guest

The magician sat in his marvelously comfortable den, sipping a mulled cider and reading by the helpfulness of the blazing hearth. His favorite reading chair had drawn itself up by the fire.

Outside, the wind howled. It was a night to freeze any little bodies that happened to be caught in it. Yet it didn’t dare penetrate the magician’s den, which was scooped or carved or molded from the base of a great tree. Some said it was the great tree. There was no chimney, but the smoke inside did not pool. The walls were only bark, but the fire did not catch them, except where it had been told to stay. Those walls were crowded with bookshelves which were crowded with many things that were not only books, including no less than three human skulls and a small stuffed crocodile, whose name was Charlie.

            The magician set down his leather-bound journal—which was scribbled in runes that bore no resemblance to pentagrams—then checked the time and asked the teakettle to kindly boil itself. A guest would be arriving soon. The guest had a little body, which would be half-frozen from his wandering through the woods.

            The magician looked at the door. Any time, now. Any time at all.

*

            The guest would come stumbling up through the frozen woods, his feet dragging small furrows in the snow. Those furrows would lead back south. His red cheeks would sting with cold, his breath would puff from his lips in staggers and gasps, and his skin would have a crusty, flaked appearance. The guest, whose name had always been Shasta, would spot the ruddy glow of firelight through the trees. It would entice him to stray off the path.

            So he would come, thorns clutching at his garments, sleep trying to wrap itself around his mind. But finally he would reach the door of the magician’s den, and . . .

            Ponk, ponk.

*

. . . numb knuckles politely knocked on knotted bark.

            “Come in!” the magician called.

            The door swung open. Shasta stood there, hesitating a moment before the threshold.

            “Ahem. Fateful prophecies have long foretold this meeting,” the magician announced in his gravest of voices. “Come in, young Shasta! You’ll catch your death of cold.”

            Shasta stepped inside, and the door shut behind him. He didn’t appear the least surprised at the magician knowing his name. That was somewhat disappointing, but from everything the magician knew about Shasta’s character, he was a most unusual boy.

            “I have just been reading all about your adventures over hills and oceans,” the magician said, holding up his journal. “You haven’t yet told anyone your full story, but someday you will, and this book contains all the truest stories ever told. It has a full accounting of everything that’s happened to you since you left the river valley, searching for your sister. And now, Shasta. Let us talk.”

            Shasta tilted his head. He had flaxen colored hair, and the plainest brown eyes.

            “I know it’s a lovely place, your valley,” the magician said. “I’ve seen it, although that was back when it was still being molded from fire and rock. I hear it has a lot of sheep, now. I cannot abide sheep. I can’t stress that enough. More than their stink, it’s how they blindly follow anything that cares to lead them, even from clifftops. Only one lamb has ever truly been worthy of being led to the slaughter, and I, for one, am very glad that he did.”

            “Please, Sir,” Shasta said, “I am only trying to–”

            “Yes, yes,” the magician said. “After we finish, if you survive, I will send you on your way. You will continue seeking Ara, the golden-headed sister. But for now you must rest. We have a Perilous Task ahead of us, the sort of task which is fated to happen on any adventure worth having. If you complete it I will offer you wisdom for the road, but you’ll need all of your strength to reach that point. Tea and fruitcake, Shasta?”

            Steam from the teakettle suffused the room with a delicate, mind-swaddled-in-wool sort of smell. It was the smell of confusion and sincerity. Shasta shook his head at the offer of tea.

            “If you enter through that door,” the magician said, “you’ll find a cot prepared for you, and fruitcake. Enjoy the fruitcake.”

            Shasta nodded and left the room. The magician turned his eyes back to his journal, where he was currently reading about Shasta’s future adventure with the giants. That would happen in a few weeks’ time, assuming they survived tomorrow’s task.

            The magician enjoyed his tea and his book very much. He had to, because, as he well knew, the next day was scheduled to be the end of the world.

II: The World’s Last Day

            On the last day, the magician cooked eggs for breakfast. Sunny side up for the boy, over easy for himself. They ate quickly, the magician mopping up the last salty yoke with a corner of his fruitcake, then chewing it thoughtfully while he smoothed the crumbs from his beard.

            “Well, my boy,” he said to Shasta, “it’s time we were off. Button up your coat, please.”

            Shasta turned towards the coat rack, and the magician quickly snapped his fingers. His own nightclothes unfurled into long, purple robes, the silk feeling smooth against his spindly shoulders. His red sleeping cap stiffened into a peaked, conical cap, a foot tall with a silver bell jingling from its tip. Then the magician stretched out a hand and pulled his wand from thin air. He was ready.

“Come, my boy.”

The door opened before them. Together, they stepped out into the cool darkness of the pre-dawn hours.

            Four wild stags waited outside, harnessed to a rickety sleigh. They snorted and stamped in the snow.

            “We must hurry, Shasta,” the magician said. “We have all the time in the world, but I’m afraid that isn’t very much.”

Once they’d clambered up, the magician cracked his wand over the antlered heads. Away they whirled.

            Snow swished beneath the runners of the sleigh. Branches whipped at them, only just seen before they had to be ducked. This felt like galloping through a void of utter blackness, with even the stars and the moonlight obscured by the trees. Breath trailed from the stags’ mouths, like smoke from a locomotive’s chimney.

The sky slowly lightened. It changed to the colors of a drink mixed by Apollo. Purple, translucent wisps of cloud became swirled with gold, and beneath them formed a glaze of richer, creamy-pink clouds, which bubbled over the edge of the world. Finally, like a live coal in the bottom of a glass, the sun himself smoldered up, orange and glorious.

The world’s last sunrise was spectacular.

“Please, Sir,” Shasta said, huddled on his seat of the sleigh. “What do the words mean?”

The magician raised an eyebrow. “Words, dear boy?”

“The words I see in the sun,” Shasta said. “And I saw them on the hills where my friend Mr. Gough kept his sheep, and in the ocean with the sea monster. And they were written on the ice where the giants carried their friend who had died. But none of my friends who I traveled with could ever see the words. Only me.”

The magician blinked. Surprise was very rare for him. After thousands of years of living in this world, it had given him most of its secrets. But this boy, this child . . . he had seen something that even the wise seldom glimpse.

“You have seen the mortar that sticks our world together,” the magician said. “If it ever goes away, or if we every pretend that it’s gone away, everything we know will fall apart.”

“The world is stuck together . . . with words, Sir?”

“All worlds, Shasta. All worlds are made through words. The words can be glimpsed in all things, sometimes smudged or twisted till they mean something horrible, but always there, and always more honest in the beautiful, aching places. The lonely cliffs by the sea. The quiet sunsets. The innocent promises of lovers.”

Shasta shook his head. “But if the words can sometimes be broken, then how can we know when they’re true? None of my friends seem to really know. Mr. Gough the shepherd told me that it’s always bad to lie, but Hali the highwaywoman said that you sometimes have to lie to protect other people. I travelled with Captain Drakesley over the ocean, and he usually lied, but it always made him less happy.”

“Well . . . .” the magician began, but Shasta wasn’t finished.

“And . . . and my sister accidentally lied to me,” he said. “I think she meant to tell the truth when she said that she loved me and wouldn’t ever leave me. But then she ran away with the gypsies, and I am trying to find her again. Does that mean she lied, even without meaning to? And if it does, then how can I know that any of my friends aren’t accidentally lying when they promise that they love me? How can I know when the words are true?”

The magician shut his eyes. He had the distinct impression that Shasta had never spoken so much at once in his life. He tried clearing his mind, but instead heard the sounds of the world: the swish of sleigh runners, the creak of branches, and the sighs of the wind as it fled the coming apocalypse. The apocalypse they were hurtling towards. It smelled like dust and death.

“Even the wisest could never explain why your sister left,” the magician said. “Humbly speaking, I am the wisest, and all I can say is that most people need help to be shown the words. Most people cannot see them on their own, as you and I are capable of. They also need explanation, because the words you see in this world are only glimpses of the truth in another world, not the whole truth itself. Only beautiful paintings of it.”

When he opened his eyes, he saw Shasta watching him.

“Sometimes, Shasta, people worship the places where truth is found, rather than the truth itself. And sometimes even when they know the truth, they still decide to ignore it. But you can see the words because you are the sincerest boy in all the world, and people who are very sincere are always shown the truth. And because you are so sincere, that is exactly why I need your help.”

            Shasta remained quiet, and the sleigh drove on.

            A few minutes later, they broke out onto a flat, open country. The dry grass was studded with boulders, and its color had been dusted away by the snow. The sky above them was big and gray and empty, but not so much as the landscape that the magician knew they would soon gaze upon, if ‘landscape’ was the correct word for it.

            The land rose, but not into the gentle slope of a hill. It all rose at once, curving up like the edge of a food platter. Grass gave way to only rock, and then at last they slid to a halt. The magician dismounted to thank the wild stags, and thought about offering them lumps of sugar, but decided against it. Saving their world should be payment enough for their giving him a ride. If he did manage to save the world, perhaps they could offer him sugar.

            At last, Shasta and the magician stepped forward and peered over the rim of the world. The gray sky above them darkened, becoming the lack of sky. Just an empty, starless void. And far, far beneath them, the world simply ended.

            Broken stone stretched away forever. Almost forever.

            The stone was pitted. It wasn’t brown, red, gray, or any other color; it simply was no color at all, even in the places where the sun’s rays died upon it. The magician glanced behind them and saw what he’d expected to see: although it was still dawn, the sun was coming up on the wrong side of them. That made it sunset, rather than sunrise.

            “Sir,” Shasta said, “what is that?” He pointed a finger towards the void. The magician followed his gaze.

            A darkness swelled inside the void, building into a storm. It could only be likened to an enormous sandstorm, although of course there is no sand in that place. There is nothing, and any living thing that enters it should die soon after. A few creatures have entered it, over the ages. Monsters, the sorts which devour worlds. But those are long dead, their skeletons strewn thousands of miles away from each other, twisted into ridges of ancient bones. No, this storm wasn’t a monster. It was the end of all things.

            In the sandstorm, lightening flashed. There wasn’t any wind, but the darkness whipped about as if shaken by a gale. And from the heart of the darkness, a face gazed out. The face of a man.

            “What is it, Sir?” Shasta asked. He didn’t sound properly afraid.

            “Squint your eyes,” the magician told him. “Look very carefully, and out beyond the void, you can see the faint rim of another land. There, you see it? It looks like the headland of an island, glimpsed across a foggy sea. That is the place where the world that borders our world begins.”

            Shasta gazed with stoic innocence. “I didn’t know there were other worlds, Sir.”

            “Oh, yes. And they’re all connected, although you and I could never reach them. Not by crossing this void on our own, at least. You see, when the alchemists first built the worlds at the request of the gods, they built all worlds to be accessible from all others. But the evil of the worlds became too great, and so the gods had to separate them. They placed gulfs between the words, which are not meant to be crossed. That is the space before us. But sometimes things not physical can seep between the worlds, and in the world next to yours, the world you are looking at, a very wicked man recently did something that his world isn’t large enough to contain. It is coming, and it trying to cross the void to reach us. If it does, everything will end. Any attempt to stop it will be too late.”

            “But Sir,” Shasta said, looking up at the magician, “my sister and all my friends are in this world. Will they be destroyed as well, if the storm reaches us?”

            “I’m afraid they will.”

            Shasta and the magician both looked at the storm, and they saw it massing further. Its lightning grew wilder, its darkness blacker.

            “Then we have to stop it,” Shasta said.

            “I hoped you would say that. That is why I have brought you here. We have one way of stopping it: with magic.”

            “Mr. Gough doesn’t like magic.”

            “That is because he is shepherd,” the magician said, “and most shepherds do not understand what magic is—they are only frightened of what it does. But magic is just truth that’s allowed to fulfill its purpose. To do magic, a person must speak the words which hold the world together. Now, Shasta, do you have the flute that your sister gave you?”

            Shasta didn’t look surprised as he withdrew the small, reed flute from his coat pocket. He held it loosely, as if it were a delicate friend.

            “Good,” the magician said. “Now, I want you to play me a song. It must be the sincerest song that any little boy has ever played, played by the sincerest little boy in all the world. Can you do that?”

            “I think so, Sir. At least, I can try.”

            “We will have to hope it is enough. Now, play. You play, and I will speak the words that may forestall this apocalypse. Than that, we can do no better.”

            For a long moment, there was only silence. Then Shasta blew into the flute, and a note quivered out, high and soft. Beyond the north, the storm began to move, sweeping over infinities of rock in the space of heartbeats. Shasta played harder, and the song formed. It was pure and sad. A love song of Absuland, ancient beyond time. The magician listened for a moment, then raised his arms and chanted words of power:

            “Devil, devil, do not trouble,

            Skies to burn and land to rubble,

            Dead-earth will our green-land make,

            Sun will scorch and land will bake.”

           

            The magician’s chant didn’t fit the tune that the lost boy played. Yet somehow their two songs melded, becoming one as the storm surged towards them:

            “Eye of World and Soul of God,

            Raise your thunders, hear our song.

            Blowing winds as reed flute sings,

            Halt the death of wicked kings.”

            Behind them, in the midst of the sunrise that was also the sunset, the colors began to swirl. A new storm formed, forged of pink and gold and flaming orange clouds, boiling together and sluggishly drifting north. The new storm they’d created drifted over the edge of the world.

           

“Put an end to devil’s trouble,

            Let glory boil and bubble!”

           

            At the magician’s cries, the new storm picked up speed. It raced over the empty void towards the coming apocalypse. The apocalypse raged towards it.

            “Devil, devil, do not trouble,

            Skies to burn and land to rubble,

            Meet the scourge with lightning, God,

Let this end be now forestalled!”

            The storms met. In the heart of the void, death beat against the sunset. Lighting flashed from the apocalypse, trying to smite the colors of salvation.

            It was terrible.

It was beautiful.

            Shasta stopped playing, his fingers hovering above the flute holes. The magician lowered his arms. This was the end of all things, and they were fighting the apocalypse with a song. How appropriate.

            Up until now the battle had been nearly silent, but now, from out of the void, there rolled a single, low, reverberating note. It swept over the world, shivering the pines of the nearby forest. It travelled farther south, rippling the ocean waves, and then, on the hilltops of Aldea, it frightened Mr. Gough’s sheep where they grazed. The sound continued until every rock and blade of grass was shaken to its core. Then, after raising dust in the distant desert beyond Ridia, the sound stopped.

            The darkness was gone. The world was saved.

This story is an excerpt from a longer project I’m working on, titled Song of the Searching. It’s the story of Shasta searching the world for his sister, told from the perspectives of those he meets along his journey.

Greeting the Goodbyes

I am no stranger to goodbyes. We meet on a regular basis. Sometimes we get coffee.

A few minutes ago, I scooted my desk chair up next to the closet, used it as a footstool, and opened the cabinets to swing down my two suitcases. Now they're half full with button-down shirts, running shorts I never did use, and the trinkets I've accumulated during three months of study in York, U.K. I'm getting ready to say goodbye. Hello, my old friend.

This will not be the saddest or most traumatic of the goodbyes I've said in my life. Third culture families know how it is. My parents have lost everything to rushed evacuations. We've exchanged continents and countries multiple times. Mom thought she was bidding permanent farewell to Dad when he chose to remain in Liberia during the civil wars. And sometimes, you don't get to say goodbye. Sometimes, the chance is taken from you.

You know how it is. That ache, deep in the pit of your belly. That numbness, dulling the edges of your brain.

Sometimes you don't get over it.

I think there's an expectation for these types of reflections: "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." But I'm not about that life. I mean, I am, but that's not a legitimate way to deal with grief. Weep. Weep for the loss, weep for the pain, weep for the friends left behind. Weep because something that brought you joy will never return. There may be other joys. They may be grander. But this joy, this beautiful sliver right here, has ended. And you will never get it back. Face that. Maybe you don't need to weep, or need your mom's friends to psychoanalyze you (they will anyway), but acknowledge your loss in whatever way works best for you.

Those accustomed to goodbyes develop rituals. Songs, movies, things we do before we leave. When I packed to leave Nigeria after senior year of high school, I listened to Coldplay's "Til Kingdom Come" over and over again. It's a song about life moving on, about someone who waits for you through the changes and uncertainty. To me, that person represents God.

"Steal my heart, and hold my tongue,

I feel my time, my time has come.

Let me in, unlock the door.

I've never felt this way before.

The wheels just keep on turning,

The drummer begins to drum,

I don't know which way I'm going,

I don't know which way I've come . . . ."

I listen to that song every time I leave a place.

For my sister, the song was John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet-Plane." And in Nigeria, at a mission guest house where many missionaries stay before departing that final time, there's a bunk bed in one room where dozens of MK's have Sharpied their emotions and graven their names. Some little piece of themselves, remaining in the place they called home. The place that could never be home. The place that will always be home.

Sometimes we don't greet the goodbyes. I've had friends and family who've lost clumps of hair over the stress of leaving, and others, including myself, who've cut everyone off, become instinctively mean to chase friends away. Still others refuse to acknowledge that it's sad, and rejoice that they're returning to "civilization," until years later when they realize what they've lost.

Let me tell you a secret: sometimes I get so, so jealous of my "normal" American friends. I am tempted to belittle their pain: "No, you don't get to say that your half-year mission's trip was 'life-changing.' I lived overseas my entire life; you can have your Thanksgiving, you can have your Independence Day, but you can't have this. This pain belongs to me."

But that's wrong. Every place we visit clings to our souls, like wet paper. Every place becomes a part of us, no matter how briefly. I am addicted to that sort of pain, because I know it helps me grow, though it hurts like hell at the time.

As I leave York, I will walk the Roman walls, I will do my writing, I will sip my mulled cider, I will listen to my songs. I will perform my rituals to greet the goodbye.

But greet her I will.

And as we leave together, she will put her arm around me, and I will say, "It still hurts this time." And she will say, "I know, Luke. You're welcome."

She is familiar to me, even when nothing else is. As strange as it sounds, I take comfort in that. That is why I greet her. That is why I know how to say goodbye.

Goodbye, my beautiful city

The ECHO

The ECHO is Taylor University's weekly newspaper, and today they kindly published a piece about my interaction with Brimstone, written by a fellow Professional Writing major. If you'd like to read it, the article can be viewed here.

Tee hee. This makes me happy and nervous. Also, where did they get that picture? Did they get that from my old facebook photos? That's from, like, eleventh grade. Just goes to show, you never know where things on the internet will wind up!

This is the picture in question, so that you know what I'm talking about.

Deadlines, Details, and Other Dead Things

Recently, I've tried my hand at some some flash-fiction horror, with the intent of submitting to Havok Magazine's Halloween issue. I intentionally didn't look at the specific content requirements before writing these stories. This is because, while I did want to submit them if they were good, I mostly just wanted to write them. I figured I could always go back and write more if they didn't fulfill the issue requirements.

Because of my summer factory job, I have a lot of time to think through stories and ideas. I even write large parts of them in my head while folding towels. The first story I wrote was called Double Tap. It's really hard to judge my own writing, and horror isn't my strong-suit, but I think I did manage to create something that was creepy at the very least. After getting it written and polished up, I finally glanced over the content requirements to see if I'd need to tweak anything. If it was an easy fix, I would do that and then go ahead and submit. If not, well, I'd write another story and get more practice!

You've probably guessed that I had to take the latter option.

It turned out that among the requirements, stories for this issue had to feature traditional Halloween monsters. You know the kind: zombies, vamps, werewolves, poltergeists. I considered changing an element of the story to include a zombie, which wouldn't have been uber hard, but it would've required me to take out a detail that I really liked.

No.

Rather than make this change, I went back to work the next day and dreamed up another story. What about a court case where Doc Frankenstein is on trial for creating a monster without a license? And Dracula is the judge! And Frankenstein uses the precedent of Jekyll and Hyde to defend himself! Yeah!

No.

That story didn't work, either. While I had now incorporated traditional monsters into it, it was funny but no longer scary. At least I hope it was funny. It was funny to me.

The Frankenstein's Trial story had no scariness-potential whatsoever, as in, on the scariness meter, it was rated at Powerpuff Girls. So I wrote one more story. This would be the masterpiece to end all stories! The terror to frighten all other terrors!

It had bumps in the night. It had murderous suits of cursed armor. It was told in the Epistolary form, via the case log of a Scotland Yard Detective Inspector in 1855. I just finished it, and I quite like it.

But it will not work for Havok's Halloween issue. Why? Because the deadline was the 24th of this month, which was before I even wrote the second of the three stories!

I need to check my deadlines, people. My writing professor has a saying about them: "Deadlines are literal! As in, cross this line and you're dead!" I'm usually pretty good at this type of thing. This mistake isn't a waste, because I enjoyed writing the stories and I gained practice from them. Still, getting published is always a nice feeling, and is nice for the wallet and the portfolio.

I'll probably hunt around for some other submission venues for these as well as other stories I haven't gotten around to submitting yet (shame on me!), and then possibly post them to this blog if that doesn't pan out. Sorry for the pause in my advice for writing conferences. I really will get back to that. Hey, ain't ya proud of me for updating more regularly this summer?

Have a good evening!

Haystack Livin'

Wasup, y'all? It's ya boy Lil Pig! Check out these lyrics from my new album, It's all Good with Little Red Riding Hood.

I built my house of straw, my brother used brick--
The wolf blew mine down real quick.
Now I'm snatching at straws, just trying to stay grounded--
But the wolf's still around, you could say I feel hounded.
I used a camel to rebuild but the straw broke his back--
I got poked in the foot by the needle in the haystack.
The camel tried to crawl through the tiny needle's eye--
So I guess I'll make hay while the sun still shines.

Editor's Note: There's a reason Lil Pig isn't that well known.

Soulless Publication

No, that title is not a subtle slur on the publisher. Havok magazine is wonderful and I love it.

Here's a wee bit of self-promotion: I just got a story published in the aforementioned Havok magazine, a flash-fiction magazine for speculative fiction. This happened to be a contest issue. The featured author was Patrick Carr (A Cast of Stones), and the winner was Tina Yeager for a chilling sci-fi ghost story, Time Echoes. [SHAMELESS ADVERTISING INCOMING:] You guys should really consider buying the issue and reading it for yourselves!

I wasn't runner up or anything, just one of the finalists who got printed in the issue, which I'm quite happy with!

So the reason I called this 'Soulless Publication' is because Soulless was the title of my story, about a rogue who transfers his soul into a coin. Hopefully I'll get around to eventually posting it on this blog, but for the moment there would be some copyright problems with that. Thanks for reading my tidbit of news!

-Luke

Comfortably-classy Gentlemen-spies: opinions on Craig as Bond

This is mostly because I haven't updated in a few days and I feel guilty, but don't have time for a proper post. So, here are some random thoughts:

Why does my Bond look more grumpy than classy? Well, his name is Craig. I suppose we should expect him to have a craggy face.

In his iteration of Bond, Daniel Craig has given us some good and some bad. Let's not forget Quantum of Solace, folks. Even if Skyfall and Casino Royale were both fantastic movies, my opinion is that Quantum is a smear on the enterprise's good name. The thing is, Craig isn't classy. He's Bond for a generation that likes her spies rugged and serious, and that just isn't supposed to be (entirely) Bond. What happened to Timothy Dalton and Pierce Brosnan, suave and stylish and popping quips faster than the bad guys could pop bullets? And give me back my freaking invisible car!

One of the reasons I loved Skyfall so much was the references. As a dabbling fan of classic Bond, I cheered with every wink and head-nod to the roots of this fifty-year-old franchise. Skyfall had an outlandish villain, it had gadgets, it had a rocket-launching car, it reincarnated Q. and other mainstays! The themes of old-fashioned patriotism and golden old-age were very fitting for this classic tribute.

Don't get me wrong: I'm glad Daniel Craig gave us another spin on the world's most famous spy. But the writing for him almost feels like a Jason Bourne wannabe, and they clearly picked a rugged, tough-guy actor to go along with that, rather than a suave one. In my opinion, it's time we returned to the gentleman spy. After all, Craig wears Polos. I happen to like Polo shirts, but not on my Bond. Put him back in a tux, and let's find an actor who looks comfortable in one rather than stiff no matter what he is (or isn't) wearing.

Part of all this musing comes from my anticipation of the Spectre movie releasing in November in the U.S. Looks like it'll also acknowledge Bond's roots, but no time for an analysis here (although I've never felt good about Bond movies doing direct sequels -- remember what happened when Casino  became Quantum?) Another part of my musings come from recently watching Kingsman: The Secret Service. Again, no time for much of an analysis, although there were so many things I did and did not like. But most of the references were wonderful, to everything from Bond to Bourne to the old Get Smart show! And it really captured the over-the-top gentleman-spy, in all his pinstriped glory.

I think people are right to love Craig: he makes a legitimately awesome character. But the character he portrays is not the character of James Bond, or even a version of James Bond, in my opinion. Maybe I'm just grousing, but to reiterate, Craig isn't comfortably classy. I'm excited to see who's next, hopefully soon! Let's put the classy back in Bond!

(Just for clarification, Craig is the Bond actor in Spectre. I just hope they eventually move on).

There. That's better. True class.

Writers Conference Advice #3:Materials!

Some of the materials I took with me to Write to Publish

I've been going into specifics with business cards and the like, but haven't yet provided a list of overall materials it's good to have at a writers conference. As always, my organizational skills are flawless. Here are some of the most essential materials:

Business Cards: 

Already discussed. I can't remember how many copies I had printed, but it was like forty, and I used almost all of them.

First Page of Manuscript:

In both my meetings with editors, I was asked for this. I had five copies prepared. Make sure it's as polished as it can be. I've heard that many editors don't even read past the first paragraph!

First Chapter:

Again, I had multiple copies of the first chapter prepared, although I probably killed several saplings with all the paper I used. Both editors asked for and skimmed this chapter, which is what got me requests for an emailed full manuscript proposal. Also, I marked up the chapter copies during critique groups. They say that the first chapter is what sells the book, and the last chapter is what sells the next one!

A "One-Sheet:"

I think I'll get into the particulars of this in a later post. Basically, this is a quick review of all the pertinent info about you and your novel. Word count, contact info, author bio, brief summary, how your book is relevant to and distinct from current marketing trends (basically how it will sell). Some people get really fancy and put pictures on it, but I think it's best to be careful to avoid cluttering. For mine, I left a space where I could staple my business card at the bottom, which had a picture of me and all my contact info. I printed multiple copies of the one-sheet.

Marketing Plan: 

If nothing else, this shows an editor that you've done your homework. I also intend to do a separate post on this topic, because I had opportunity to talk to some people who offered helpful suggestions. So I won't say anything specific here, except that editors really do like this -- I had some comment on it -- because it's a chance for them to see that you have a platform and have good ideas to actually sell copies. In the modern publishing industry, authors do most of the marketing!

Full Proposal: 

Going back to the conference, this is one thing I'd change. I thought I'd be fine not having an updated proposal, since I could theoretically put it together afterwards and email it to the various editors. But then an editor asked if I would be attending her proposal critique group, and I hadn't been, because my proposal was several months old! I had to stay up that night -- with a headache, while my roommates slept blissfully -- and stitch together some of the other things I've mentioned in order to make an approximation of a proposal. I intend to update this proposal soon, because I received tips in one of Rowena Kuo's classes on good proposal elements and a good order for them. I'll post some of the things I've learned about proposal making to this blog at a later date. But if I was going now, I'd be sure to have one physical copy with me!

One Page Summary:

Make sure it's polished! This is a chance to impress the editor both with your plot and your writing quality! Have several copies.

Actual Manuscript:

This is certainly not a necessity. In fact, I doubt many people bring full manuscript copies with them, especially since they should already theoretically have copies of the first page, summary, and first chapter. But when an editor saw that I had a full hard copy of the manuscript with me, she said she really liked that, and she asked to borrow it overnight! Boy was that a terrifying evening.

Disclaimer: never ask an editor if she will take a physical copy of your manuscript/proposal/chapter/etc. Said editor will not like you if you do such, as she is already getting similar offers from all sides, and as her packing space is probably limited. When I suggested taking multiple copies of certain items, that's more a just in case thing. I had editors ask to look at those copies, but they always gave them back, which is the norm. It was also helpful to have multiple copies so that I could mark them up with notes and suggestions. And when editors do offer suggestions, make a show of writing them down, even if you already know those things! I think they probably like that. At least, I would.

Writers Conference Advice #2: Business Cards!

This was the business card I used at Write to Publish. I censored the telephone and physical address for this blog, because the internet is a fickle place, my friends.

They may not seem important, but business cards are truly essential.

This is one piece of advice I nearly skipped over in my own preparations, but I'm glad I didn't. I accumulated maybe a dozen different business cards from contacts during my time at the conference, and handed out almost all the cards I printed. I often jotted down details about the person on the back of his or her card, which was helpful for later.

Not only will business cards help people remember you, but they look really professional if done correctly. I also really just enjoyed having a business card and getting to say, "Here's my card," in the most casual voice I could muster.

Some good elements for a card, in a proposed order of significance:

An email address. Because duh. Preferably not a silly one, like "superwriterman007@hotwriter.com." Or even one with a number like lukewildman01@gmail.com. The use of a number seems amateurish, to me. Something simple with your name in it is good, but I suppose that's all painfully obvious. Which leads me to question: why did I just write that? Why am I writing anything? Why am I HERE?

A picture. This is actually more important than anything else besides the email, in my opinion. When you just have a person's name, do you really think you'll remember them out of all the dozens of people you meet? But faces stick with us. If you want people to remember you even more, acquire some distinguishing characteristic, like a glass eye or a rugged scar on your left cheek, just slicing the edge of the lip! Kidding, of course. To clarify, I do not support corporal mortification or self-harm of any kind. Unless it involves having one's face removed by the kraken.

A website. This could be a blog or an actual website, if you're cool like that. I'm not. I gave this blog's address, which is actually one of the reasons I'm updating more regularly, heh . . . .

A phone number. Meh. This could be helpful. Might not be. Just depends on who you are, I guess.

A physical address. Again, it's really up to you, I think.

Well, those are my amateur suggestions. "You" generic probably knows a lot more about this than I do. But I really do insist on the picture: that's my story and I'm sticking to it! One of my stories, at least.

A last piece of advice: follow through afterwards. I know this also might seem obvious, but personally, my laziness often drives me into a lack of common sense. In 2013 when I was on a flight from Abuja to Frankfurt, having just graduated high school, my parents and I started chatting with another American expatriate who was returning to the states from a business trip. The man's son turned out to be a playwright in Chicago! He gave me his business card and told me he could hook me up with his son for an internship, but at the time I didn't realize the significance of what I'd just been handed! I failed to contact him for months, and then never heard back.

Suffice to say, after the Write to Publish conference, I wrote a quick note to each and every person from whom I received a card, just to establish contact. From the research I've done, it's a good idea!

Writers Conference Advice #1: Research!

Hi, friends! As I mentioned in my last post, in early June, I had opportunity to attend the Write to Publish writers conference in Wheaton. The conference was quite successful for me: I won the Editor's Choice Award from Brimstone Fiction, and also was asked for a manuscript proposal from the other editor I pitched to, Sarah Grimm of Harbourlight Publishing.

I am far from an expert on writers conferences, having only attended one of them in my life. But I did pick up a few things along the way, thanks in large part to the advice given me by more knowledgeable people. If anyone is interested, I'd like to pass some of that advice on in a series of blog posts.

Please note that most of my advice pertains to seeking a publishing contract, because that's the main goal I had in mind in attending WtP.

#1: RESEARCH RESEARCH RESEARCH!

Besides doing everything I could to prepare my actual manuscript, this is the thing that helped me most. Research EVERYTHING.

When I was prepping for WtP, I started the in-depth work a couple weeks beforehand. My first step was reading several blog posts with general advice about writers conferences and writers conference prep. One really good venue for this is Cindy Huff's blog. The page I linked to has some general tips, but she also wrote a series of posts with in-depth info on everything from apparel to -- guess what? -- research! Honestly, it's probably more worthwhile to find her posts and read them than to continue following my advice on the subject. But just in case you ARE interested, here's some more stuff about researching!

Go beyond general research and move into specifics. Find a list of all the professionals who will attend your conference, then research each and every editor, publisher, and agent to decide who you want to pitch to. Research the freelancers, too, if that's what you're going for. Go to all of their websites and see what they publish. Look for their preferred form of submission and make notes on it. When I was preparing, I printing out the official list of attendees (with their pictures!) and jotted notes in the margins. I put a start next to the ones I REALLY wanted to pitch to, a question mark next to the ones I wasn't sure about, and other symbols to indicate other degrees of interest. Seriously, I can't stress enough how helpful this was. It enabled me not to freak out and blank when I was actually meeting with them.

Also, research the classes you're hoping to take, to decide on what's the best use of your time for your particular interests. And research other things to, from the correct format for a manuscript proposal to the correct format for business cards. Utilize the conference's website for all of this. It probably has some good advice and lots of links to the websites of the attendees. For Write to Publish, there were even a series of blog posts with general submission and interest information about the attendees. I wish I'd discovered that BEFORE I spent hours digging through the interwebs to find said information.

Have a good evening, friends! I'll hopefully be back with the next post either tomorrow or Wednesday.

Here's a picture of a llama freaking out because he didn't do his research. Bad llama!

Big News

So friends, I have news to share. I've been waiting to post it to this blog until the opportune moment, and I apologize to those of you who've heard all this before, perhaps multiple times. No need to read it if that's the case. After all, what follows is rather lengthy . . . .

Story, story. Stooory. Once upon a time. Time, time. (You'll get it if you're from Nigeria).

Earlier this month, I attended the Write to Publish conference in Wheaton. I went with the goal of pitching a novel that I've written, currently titled Days to Destruction. For those of you who follow this blog, you read a few chapters of an early draft under the titles Gods and Chaos and Days of Telenine. I'm still not sure how happy I am with the new title, for the record.

Before leaving for the conference, I researched all the editors, publishers, and agents who would be in attendance, and realized that I really wanted to pitch to Rowena Kuo of Brimstone Fiction. Unfortunately, I also realized that she would be judging the Editor's Choice Award, given annually at Write to Publish. Brimstone is a traditional speculative-fiction publisher (spec-fic is "weird stuff" for all you non-nerdy types), and I was especially excited that Brimstone targets the general market, not just Christian markets. The Editor's Choice Award comes with a publishing option and full mentorship, both of which are uber cool. But in the end, I was dissapointed that Rowena was judging it because I knew everyone would want to pitch to her, and that would make it difficult to find a time. But find a time I did, and the pitch went pretty well. She asked if I was planning to attend her manuscript critique group, one of the steps in the award process. She probably asked that of everyone with a decent pitch.

The critique group also went well. Then she asked if I'd be attending her novel proposal critique group. I hadn't been. My full proposal was several months old and badly in need of editing. But I figured that saying no was a bad idea, so I stayed up that night and stitched some things together. The next day, my tablet acted up in the middle of the session, so I decided to let it pass. But when the last person had finished, there were still a few extra minutes. So what the heck? Besides a little dignity, what had I to lose? As the tablet drained of its last battery in updates, I managed to present basically everything I wanted. Then Mrs. Kuo asked to borrow overnight the manuscript hardcopy I had with me. I hope you can imagine my anxiety as I said yes and spent a fretful night trying not to think about it. Felt like a dagger to the gut, I'm telling you.

The next day was the last of the conference, at the end of which would be the final banquet, where the awards are presented. I only saw Mrs. Kuo once, on a sidewalk where she offered my manuscript back. I asked if she had any input, and she said yes, but she'd like me to send it to her. That was really cool, but I confess I'd been halfway hoping that I had a shot at the Editor's Choice Award. Anyway, I went to get cleaned up, then made my way to the banquet. Such good food. I'm telling you, Write to Publish is worth it just for that chicken stuffed with spinach and dribbled in tangy orange sauce! But really. Good. Stuff.

When the meal finished, they announced the awards. The first two recipients of different awards weren't actually present, and then Mrs. Kuo went up to announce the Editor's Choice Award. She shuffled a paper out of a manila envelope. She spoke a name.

And it turned out that I won.

Me holding the award, standing with Rowena Kuo (left) and Cindy Huff, last year's winner of the Editor's Choice Award. Perhaps providentially, Mrs. Huff is actually the wife of the man who advised me in how to prepare for the conference. We were randomly assigned to be a "Paul and Timothy" mentoring pair beforehand. It worked! Also, I plan to write a blog post on preparing for Writing Conferences, but in the mean time, you should really check out Cindy's blog, located here.

Thanks for reading, friends! If you slogged through all that, you're really cool and I really appreciate that. Not that I wouldn't and you aren't if you hadn't, but I think you understand. smile emoticon Thanks. I'll be working with someone from Brimstone Fiction over the coming while to edit further drafts of my manuscript. Ultimately, the goal of publication lies at the end of the long darkness.

Oh, here's a short write-up about the award from my college, Taylor University.

Story over!