Back in the olden days of 2002, I thought I was going to be the next great American author. Admittedly, it was a very creative time in my life, and I was getting some decent feedback from writerly friends, a creative writing professor, and even a professional author. With my head sufficiently swollen, I submitted a few short stories to giants of the industry, like Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Weird Tales Magazine, and a handful of respected short story contests.
I was rotely rejected by every one.
I never even got any personalized feedback; just generic form letters that might as well have been stamped with a big, red “Nope!” at the top.
Confused, angry, and conceited, I did the smart thing when my short stories were rejected – I started writing novels. I would plan these epic, sweeping tomes of Lovecraftian horror, Reservoir Dog-like heists filled with clever characters rambling on about retro pop culture, pulp-inspired space operas staring cloned aliens on the planet Mars, and heart wrenching tales of star-crossed lovers. Notice I said I would plan these stories. Writing them was an entirely different matter. But even the act of outlining made me feel like I was doing something, that I was…(pause for dramatic effect) a writer!
Needless to say, none of those novels were ever finished. I may have gotten 10, 20, as many as 50 pages in to a story before getting bored, or stuck, or making the idiotic mistake of going back and editing what I’d already written (two steps forward, three steps back).
As I grew more and more frustrated by my lack of instant success, I found that I wasn’t writing anymore at all. I was still outlining, making character notes, and writing down ideas that I might someday get to, but actually writing had gone the way of the dodo. Sometime after, one of my favorite magazines/websites, Mental Floss, was hiring. I switched gears away from fiction into non-fiction, essentially kickstarting a second career that has served me well over the last seven years.
But while I was busy writing about Hello Kitty, miniature crime scenes, and racist candy, I still longed for the days of gumshoe detectives, monsters under the bed, and sword-wielding knights on great adventures.
Recently, a friend of mine on Facebook with similar authorial pursuits posted an open call for submissions for the debut anthology of a new micro-publisher, Bloodshot Books. The concept for the anthology – Not Your Average Monster – would feature horror stories that did not star such well-worn creatures as zombies, vampires, werewolves, or even kaiju (like Godzilla). As I read the requirements, I immediately thought about a story I’d written a while back that would easily fit the mold. It was a story I rather liked, but never bothered submitting it to any publishers. My confidence had been shot at that point, so I figured there was no use; it would just get rejected anyway. The story stayed on my hard drive for years, lingering, but never quite going away.
On a whim, I pulled the story out of my virtual desk drawer, dusted it off, and made a few changes. And, well, if you’ve read this far and haven’t figure it out, Good Ol’ Buddy, about a boy and his murdering mutant dog, will be included in the anthology when it’s released this September.
Look for more information when the time comes. And maybe, just maybe, there will be a few more fiction-related announcements in the future.