Writing

Want to Read My Next Novel Now?

Image licensed by Shutterstock.

You’ve been asking me to release a novel for a while, but until now I’ve only been able to say, “I’m working on it.” I’m very self conscious and avoid sharing my work before it’s ready for publication. But I’ve decided to make early drafts of my books available to those who want to read them now.

Here’s the deal.

Full-time work makes finding time to write difficult. I work on my books and blog every day, but only in the drips and drabs that my schedule allows.

Meanwhile, growing my audience and publishing my work is expensive. In addition to the money I spend on web hosting, and on editors and illustrators for my e-books, I pay about $1,000 per month for advertising. That might sound like a lot, but consider that it’s only through Facebook advertising you found me and are able to read this now.

I want to change the world through my art and support myself in the process, but to do this I need your help.

If you help me become a self-sustaining artist, I’ll give you something awesome in return!

I’ve setup an account on Patreon, a platform that makes it easy for people to support the artists they care about. I post four unique pieces of flash fiction there each month, flash fiction you won’t find on the blog or anywhere else.

There are various reward levels starting as low as $1 per flash fiction. If you pledge at least $2, I’ll let you read early drafts of every novel, novella and short story I write from start to finish, beginning with the novel I’ve been working on that’s based on The Tunnel. They’ll be rough, unedited chapters, subject to massive revision, but you’ll get to read them now, at least one chapter each week, and I’ll incorporate your feedback into the final version and mention you by name (if you want me to) in the acknowledgements of my books.

To learn more, check out my Patreon page by clicking on the link below:

Become a Patron

Enter your email address and click "Submit" to subscribe and receive The Sign.

The Writer

Image licensed by Shutterstock.

Jared’s eyes popped open at 3:17 in the morning. His head was pounding. His brain was a jumbled kaleidoscope of broken thoughts and disjointed memories, and at first he couldn’t tell where he was.

Then the pressure in his head increased. Jared moaned. He tossed the blanket aside, fumbled in the dark for the light switch, then walked briskly to his desk and picked up a pen. He groped the hardwood surface for his notebook, and when he found it he pulled it open to where he’d left off that afternoon.

Jared began to write.

Images of a life not his own funneled slowly from his mind, through his hand and onto the paper beneath him. It was dizzying, looking through two pairs of eyes at the same time. He was Jared, the writer who lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment. He was Arthur, a balding art mogul in his mid-forties, gulping for air as his studio partner plunged a six-inch serrated knife into his back.

As he scribbled furiously, trying to relieve the pressure, he wondered if he was writing the story or if the story was writing him.

He’d never asked for this. One day in high school, he’d been sitting in his sixth period English class when a story had come plummeting out of nowhere. It seized control of his senses, then raped him repeatedly as he sat there helpless in front of his teacher and his peers. All he could do was write it down, scribbling in his three-ring binder so fast that he nearly tore several pages, hoping and praying that somehow he could get it out of his head without anybody noticing that he was no longer paying attention.

Since then, his life had been a never-ending series of unpredictable encounters.

After a time, the well-spring ran dry. His viewfinder into Arthur’s soul vanished, and he was left gasping for air with his head in his hands. After taking a few minutes to catch his breath, he turned out the light. He returned to the covers, drenched in sweat, and he prayed. He asked God (if there was a God) to take this from him, though all the while he knew his prayer was in vain.

Enter your email address and click "Submit" to subscribe and receive The Sign.

Friday Freewrite

Image licensed by Shutterstock.

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

Sometimes, when I realize something about myself, I wonder if what I’ve seen is true or if it’s just a vain reflection catching sight of another reflection. I feel like my soul exists in a hall of mirrors, capturing all the worst and most superficial aspects of myself and reflecting them back in disproportionate and grotesque detail.


Sometimes, even our search for the truth, the most noble, intimate, vulnerable and purposeful aspect of our soul, becomes corrupted, a vanity, a parody of a search that enjoys all the trappings and adornments of associated with a searching soul while the soul itself has refused to search any longer.


I look in the mirror, a broken battered version of my former self1, and I recoil back at the hideous visage that stares back at me, so alien in appearance.

My soul, blackened like my face, peers outward, coroded2.

I want to die.


Footnotes

1. This one is fictional, not autobiographical.

2. Should be spelled corroded.

Enter your email address and click "Submit" to subscribe and receive The Sign.