Friday, December 10, 2010

The Next Book

I had a week's vacation from the day job, so with some of the extra time I was able to crank out 40 pages on the next novel.  This one's my first foray into non-supernatural horror, and so far, I like it quite a bit. Check back with me around page 150 and I might tell you different, but the writing's going well. 

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Thanksgiving

Thankful for my wife and kids.  Good health and a nice home.

My wife prepared - as always - a fantastic Thanksgiving dinner.  In addition to turkey and the usual suspects, we had roasted asparagus, baked squash with apples, dashi mushrooms, and her famous homemade bread. Spent a wonderful afternoon with family and am pleasantly stuffed.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Why Do You Write?

I saw this video the other day. The speaker is Scott Stratten, the president of UnMarketing. He gives a very moving talk in the video, much of it about how we all rush through life.




How does this apply to writing? 

We as writers sometimes fail to savor the moment. You might sign a book deal only to begin wondering why it wasn't for more money. Slow down. Be thankful. You should write because you love it.  Write because that story idea that hit you while you where out walking is eating at you. Write because you can't not write. Publishers can drop you. Fiction markets dry up. But you can always put your fingers to the keyboard and create. Sometimes when it seems like you'll never sell another story or novel, the writing's all you have left.

If you asked unpublished writers their goal, they would tell you it's to sell their work to a professional market. And that's a worthy goal.  Something we should all strive for as writers. But it is in our nature as human beings to always want more.  If you get a five figure book deal, you'll wonder why it wasn't six figures. If you hit the USA Today Bestseller List, you'll wonder why you didn't make the NYT Bestseller List. 

Strive to reach your goals, but as Mr. Stratten advises, slow down. Enjoy the ride.  It's only when we stop going a hundred miles an hour that we can enjoy life, and such things as the act of creation.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Pumpkinhead

I left one film off my list of horror favorites. Pumpkinhead, which was Stan Winston's directorial debut.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Favorite Scary Movies

October is my favorite month of the year. Not necessarily because of Halloween. I just love a blustery October day, the changing of the leaves, seeing a full moon on a cold Fall night. Maybe it's the horror writer in me. Seeing as I've listed my favorite horror novels in a previous post, today I'm putting up some of my favorite horror films.

Halloween (1979)  Carpenter wisely leaves much of Michael Myers' motivations and back story to our imagination, creating a faceless terror that is as scary today as it was thirty years ago.

Alien (1979) A masterpiece.  The chest bursting scene is the most referenced scene in the movie.  For my money, the scariest sequence is when Dallas creeps through the bowels of the ship, searching for the Alien. We see him tracking the Alien with a motion detector until finally he finds the creature (or the creature finds him).  Gets me every time.

Feast (2005) Loaded with gore, dark humor, and some unique takes on introducing key characters, this one's just plain fun.

Paranormal Activity (2007) This one goes for a slow build, but it's worth the wait.  Proves sometimes what you don't see in a film is scarier than what you do.

The Descent (2005) A group of female adventurers goes spelunking only to find they're not alone. The caves provide a creepy, claustrophobic feel. But that's nothing compared to what they find in the caves. I saw the unrated version, and if you're a fan of gore, you won't be disappointed.

Jaws (1975) To this day, I won't swim in water where I can't see the bottom. Enough said.

The Road (2009) A horror film (although not presented as such) based on Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer Prize winning novel. See if the scene when The Man and his son search the seemingly empty house doesn't give you chills.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Top Ten Horror

Thought I'd rattle off a list of top ten horror novels. These are novels that always stick with me. Some of them I've re-read and keep on my bookshelf for no other reason that getting rid of them would be like kicking out a friend. I'm probably leaving a ton of books out, but these are the ones that come to mind:

1.  The Shining - Stephen King

2.  It - Stephen King

3.  The Road - Cormac McCarthy

4.  Season of Passage - Christopher Pike

5. Phantoms - Dean Koontz

6. The Terror - Dan Simmons

7. Endless Night - Richard Laymon

8. Watchers -  Dean Koontz

9. Island - Richard Laymon

10.  The Stand - Stephen King

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Monday, October 18, 2010

The Cover for No Escape

Thanks to my lovely wife's computer skills, we were able to come up with an e-book cover for No Escape:




If all goes according to plan, it'll be up for sale on Amazon within the week. 

As a family, we've been doing a constant juggling act the past month. My wife is a teacher, and she was picked to be the Senior Class advisor. So that means we've been working the school's concession stand for the Friday night football games. It's kept us busier than the proverbial one legged man in the ass kicking contest, but it's been a blast.

The writing class I'm teaching is going well. My students are bright, articulate, and both have a good amount of writing talent. I think they'll both turn out stellar stories.  I'm finding I enjoy teaching and will be offering the class again in the winter class session.

Due to our hectic schedule, I've gone into guerilla mode when it comes to writing.  Strike fast, get the words down, and get out. Usually on a note pad while in a waiting room, or maybe some pages early on a Saturday morning. I think that's how most writers do it. At least the ones with full time jobs and other commitments. I think there's a myth about writing that you have to have huge blocks of time to do it. Or a special place to write where the Muse comes along and sprinkles fairy dust on your keyboard. If you have that time and space, more power to you. But it can be done in short bursts, too.  Life doesn't stop for writing, but that doesn't mean you can't write.

The next novel is rolling along (almost too well - that scares me). No completion date for that one yet, but the pages keep piling up.

Friday, September 24, 2010

No Escape Chapter One

Here's Chapter One of No Escape:


                       Chapter 1


                        Crash


     Jack Hammond was not a superstitious man, and didn’t buy into portents and bad signs. But he couldn’t shake the quiver of dread that ran through his stomach as he watched the thunderheads from his cabin window. It was a big picture window with a pretty view of the Saint Lawrence River. Beyond it was a deck that wrapped around the cabin. From the relative safety of the cabin, he watched the purple monsters drift through the sky. It was dusk, and they blended with the orange and violet of the sunset, now quickly dimming.
     He turned and watched Karen, his twelve-year-old daughter, as she lie on the floor- on her belly. Her IPOD pumped Good Charlotte’s latest offering through her earbuds. Her feet moved in time with the music. Amanda, his wife, sat at the kitchen table. Her nose was buried in the latest J.A. Konrath novel. He wanted at that moment to hug them both tightly and not let go. He couldn’t say why, but it seemed urgent.
     It would be roughly an hour when his life would be changed forever.

     Jack turned from the window. They had brought a boom box on their camping trip, and Jack went to the kitchen counter and turned the radio on. He was greeted by the hiss of static but then he tuned it until he found a local news station.
     Without looking up from her book, Amanda said, “Whatcha doing?”
     “Looking to see if the latest Kenny G. single is playing anywhere.”
     “Try W-C-R-A-P. You might find it there. Are we going to the caverns?”
     “They’re closed, kiddo, remember?”
     “Sucks.”
     “You’ll live. Plenty to see on the island.”
     He listened to the end of an oldies song and then caught a weather report. There was a severe thunderstorm warning, possible hail and high winds. He didn’t like the sound of that. The bridge they came over to get on the island was a rickety wooden thing that dated back to the Eisenhower administration. He wouldn’t want to go over it in a storm.
     “Thunderheads moving in. I’m going to batten down the hatches.”
     “Need a hand sailor?”
     “I’m good,” he said. He went over, kissed her on the head. Her hair smelled like roses and tea leaves.
     As he walked past Karen, he gave her a friendly nudge with his foot. She frowned and went back to listening to her I-POD.
     Outside, it had grown darker. The crickets sang in full chorus. He grabbed their beach towels off the clothesline, along with the axe, which he’d used to split logs for the campfire. With the weather coming in, it didn’t much look like they’d have a campfire tonight.
     He looked again across the river. The sunlight had been swallowed up. Smoky thunderclouds had mixed with the dark sky. Lightning flashed, and in the distance a flock of geese screamed.
     Why the hell am I so nervous about a damned thunderstorm?
     He had just started toward the cabin when he heard the roar of an engine, then a blatting horn. It blared repeatedly, sounding like a big truck. Whoever was driving pushed it hard, the big engine revving.
     He walked down the stone driveway to the road, which was about thirty yards from the cabin. The horn blared again. He saw the headlights come around the bend. The RV came into view, its driver’s side door open and flapping.
     The driver beat on the horn again.
     For a moment, Jack was frozen to his spot. He watched the RV roar ahead as if it were in slow motion. It took him another moment to realize two things: it was coming right toward him, and it wasn’t stopping.

     Rubber shrieked and the RV gave a tortured groan. Jack couldn’t see the driver and was sure the driver couldn’t see him, or was incapacitated in some way. He had a horrible moment where he envisioned the runaway RV veering toward the cabin, where Karen and Amanda waited, unaware of the danger. He hurried to the cabin steps, climbed them.
     The RV charged ahead. Its front wheels rolled over the grassy area next to the driveway. Jack ducked inside, dropped the towels and axe near the door, confident the RV was going to miss the cabin but wanting to be near his wife and daughter. Karen took no notice, lost in her music. Amanda looked up. “What is that noise?”
     Before Jack could get a word out, he heard a huge thud, then the grinding of metal.  The cabin shook. He turned and looked out the door. Amanda jumped up from the table and came to his side, as did Karen. Apparently a crash of that size was louder than even Good Charlotte’s blaring guitars.
     The RV had plowed into a tree near the fire pit. The front end had been crumpled. The windshield shattered. The  side door banged open-shut, open-shut. The engine made a tortured gurgling sound and steam poured from the front end. Jack cautiously opened the door. To Karen, he said, “Call the park police. The number’s on a flyer on the bulletin board.”
     “I’m on it,” she said. “Hopefully our damned cell works this time.”
     Given the remoteness of the cabin, the cell phone service had been spotty.
     Jack stepped onto the deck, and Karen began to follow. He put his arm out, blocked her. “Stay here.”
     “I want to see. Maybe I can help.”
     “Stay put,” he said, and went outside.
     “Are they dead?” Karen asked.
     “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

     Jack approached the RV, a big Gulf Stream with a blue stripe across its side. The driver’s seat was empty.  He climbed up into the cabin. Looking down, he saw a pair of blue jean-clad legs and their wearer. It was a pudgy bald man with a Syracuse University tee shirt on. It bore dark stains and Jack looked at the man’s neck and saw the source of them: blood leaked from the side of the man’s neck. Jack moved forward, knelt down next to the man. The guy had given it up.
     Overhead, thunder crashed, and then the hiss of rain began to patter on the RV’s roof. Jack moved back through the RV, passing through the kitchenette. There was a smudge of a fluid that he knew could only be blood on the Formica tabletop. In the back, in a bunk, he saw someone lying under a blue comforter.
     He approached, heart pounding, aware that even in the darkness of the vehicle, he didn’t see the blankets rising and falling. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”
     No answer came.

     He paused for a moment, half-expecting the form under the blanket to pop up like a funhouse boogeyman. The person under that sheet was dead, he was sure of it. In Afghanistan, he’d seen his share of the dead, some with faces missing, others burned so badly you wouldn’t guess they were human at one time.  This person wasn’t sleeping.
     He moved forward and in one motion pulled back the comforter. He found a woman with a tee shirt that matched the dead man’s. At first Jack thought the woman was smiling, but then he realized her lips had been cut away and jagged slashes made in the cheeks. He looked at her hands and saw that the fingers had been removed, the stumps bloody and ragged. He didn’t see a mortal wound, but it was there somewhere.
     He scanned the RV. Dots of blood stained the carpet. It didn’t look as if there’d been a struggle.  The only sign of a mess was the blood stain on the table. Jack would’ve thought there’d have been papers and clothes strewn about, things knocked over. What the hell happened?
Not wanting to touch the body, he backed up to the front seats, stepped over the dead man, and climbed out of the RV.
Outside, the rain assaulted him. It came in sideways, the wind throwing it in his face. He hurried to the cabin door, where Amanda and Karen stood, watching him.
     “Well?” Amanda asked.
     “Did you get anyone on the cell?”
     “The parks police aren’t answering.”
     He didn’t like that. “Watch out,” he said, opening the door and stepping inside.
     “Jack? Did they?”
     He looked at Karen, who had begun to chew her lower lip. The earbuds still dangled from her ears but she had shut the music off. He debated making her go in her bedroom while he spoke to Amanda, but the girl would find out anyway.
     “They’re dead. A man and a woman.”
     “Didn’t survive the crash?” Amanda asked.
     “Someone killed the woman. She was – cut up. Missing fingers. I don’t know if it was the driver, but he had a wound in his neck. I doubt it was him that killed the woman. They were running from someone.”
     “Jesus,” Amanda said, and shut the inner cabin door. She clicked the passageway lock shut.
     “Did someone really kill them?” Karen asked.
     “Looks that way, kiddo. I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Jack said.
     “The police will come, sweetie. Someone had to have heard the crash.”
     Jack didn’t know about that. The road wound away from their cabin, theirs being the last one on the road. There were other cabins a few miles down the road, each several hundred yards a part.  “We’re driving up to the parks police station. It’s right near the entrance.”
     “We should stay put. Help will come,” Amanda said.
     “I’m with mom. The weather’s lousy, too,” Karen said.
     He didn’t like the idea of sitting here waiting. The perpetrator of the crime could be long gone, or he could be looking for more victims. The cabin had a flimsy lock, and the picture window could be easily shattered. “We’ll take a ride up, let them know. Maybe the storm’s got their phones messed up. I don’t want to sit here and wait.”
     “For what, Dad?”
     Amanda looked at him, waiting for Jack to finish his sentence. After thirteen years of marriage, she probably knew exactly what he was thinking. Wait for some maniac to show up at our cabin.
     Amanda said, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to drive up there.” 

From the top of the fridge, Jack grabbed a hatchet he’d brought for chopping kindling. He also took a buck  knife from the top of the fridge. Karen, seeing him do this, said, “I hope you don’t need those, dad.”
     “Me neither, kid,” he said, and bending over, kissed her cheek.
     Amanda grabbed her cell phone and the raincoats hanging on the coat hook near the door. She handed Jack his navy blue slicker and he put it on. With the hatchet and knife in hand, he went to the door and looked out. No sign of police, or anyone else. The road was dark and desolate as the surface of the moon.
     The wind drove the rain against the door in bloated drops and it splattered as it hit. The RV was a big white blur through all the rain.
     Their Explorer was parked about fifteen feet from the cabin and was barely visible, the rain and darkness cloaking it.  “I’ll go first,” Jack said, thinking of the clump of woods that surrounded the cabin, and that it would make an excellent hiding spot for an intruder. He placed the knife, still sheathed, in his belt. In his right hand he held the hatchet, and his left the car keys. “Wait here. I’ll open the car door and then you two run out.”
     He took the first step, not quite feeling as scared as when his unit went into caves looking for Taliban – but it was close. He half-expected to be knocked over, tackled by the maniac that killed the people in the RV.
     Once outside, he descended the steps and moved to the car. The rain pelted him. He got the door open, scanning the trees for any signs of movement. When he was sure no one was lurking nearby, he waved for Amanda and Karen to follow.
     Karen came first. Jack watched her hit the second step and her foot kicked out and she flopped on the steps, letting out a small grunt. Amanda, who had turned to lock the door, now was crouched over, saying “Karen, you okay?”
     Karen was getting to her feet, and Jack heard her mutter, “Fuck” under her breath. Normally he would’ve reprimanded her, but under the circumstances, he let it slide. 
     “You okay kiddo?” Jack called.
     Amanda was at Karen’s side, took her by the elbow.
     Karen said, “Just bruised my butt, I’m sure.”
     They climbed into the Explorer. After setting the hatchet down between the seats, Jack started the Explorer up and pulled down the driveway.
     As they pulled onto the road, a blast of thunder that sounded like the hammer of God shook the truck. The storm had brought bad things, after all.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Inspiration

A great first line can really get your story moving. Stephen King has said that stories are found things, meant to be unearthed like fossils. 

Here's some random opening lines off the top of my head. Feel free to use them. Maybe it'll get you digging on that story fossil.

"I awoke to a gun in my face and knew it was going to be a bad day."

"As I peered down the hole, it stared back at me with bloodshot eyes."

"This is how it happened."

"She saw the hooded man coming up the walkway and immediately locked the front door."

"He gazed upon his army, ten thousand strong, and prepared for what might be his last battle."

"Getting your ass kicked tends to put life's minor problems in perspective."

"As the van rolled past, she noticed the passenger. He wore a rubber Halloween mask."

"He'd seen his share of nasty homicides, but never anything like this."

"The new neighbor, yeah. That's the guy on the wanted poster I saw."

"As they rode up to the fortress, the dead lay strewn upon the ground."

Sunday, September 19, 2010

New Novel - Prologue

As promised, here's the prologue of my latest novel, No Escape. Sample chapters to follow over the next few days.          



                   No Escape

                   By Anthony Izzo


                   Prologue


     Captain Ernie Nevitz didn’t like the assignment and wanted to drop his cargo as soon as possible. His wife, Felicia, was due to pop with their third child and he’d been out of contact her while on this ship. Due to the nature of the assignment, the crew hadn’t been allowed contact with family. The Navy had recruited him because he knew how to keep his mouth shut; he did his job and didn’t  question the brass.
     As the ship drifted down the St. Lawrence River, Nevitz thought of having a girl this time. He loved his two boys, but he couldn’t help thinking of the Barbie jeep he’d bought for his unborn daughter. She’d grow into it and he hoped Felicia wouldn’t be too pissed about it.
     There was a storm coming in. The latest forecast had them hitting it in less than half-an-hour. The steel gray clouds and choppy water told him they were going to get it hard. The first rumble of thunder echoed a moment later.
     Nevitz’s second in command, an angular, hawk-faced guy named Gill, stepped beside him. Gill’s expansive, wrinkled forehead twisted his features into a frown. Man his age shouldn’t have that many wrinkles, Nevitz thought.
     “Gill,” Nevitz said. “What’s the good word?”
     “Sir, problem with the containment hold.”
     Nevitz glanced at him, and in the glow of the bridge’s instruments, Gill looked like a specter.
     “What type of problem?”
     “An error message. Our tech people are working on it.”
“If they can’t fix it?”
“There could be a breach.”
“Go full arms. How many men on the door?”
     “Two.”
     “Triple it. But don’t cause a panic.” They had Marines on board in the event of something like this.
     “Aye Aye sir.”
     Gill took off, his long strides somehow reminding Nevitz of an ostrich. Not ten minutes after Gill left, an alarm wailed. “Goddammit, this had better be an error.”
     Nevitz headed below deck to the containment room, unsnapping his holster along the way. His Colt automatic was ready – just in case.
     Entering the containment control room, he squinted at the white light that seemed to stab his eyes. Once his eyesight adjusted, he went to a computer monitor, where Gill stood over the shoulder of a seated soldier.
     “Gill, what is this? Am I going to miss by baby girl’s birth?”
     “Sir, they’re out.”
     Nevitz felt his blood temperature drop. “Tell me the door’s still in tact.”
     “That’s failed, too.”
     Automatic weapons barked from down the corridor and Nevitz knew they were in trouble.

     Nevitz took out his Colt automatic. Gill and the two other sailors in the room grabbed Colt AR-15s from a specially installed rack on the wall. Because of their cargo, nearly every part of the ship had been outfitted to store hardware.
     Screams echoed in the hallway. One of them high and wet sounding.
     “Gill, open the hatch.”
     “Sir?”
     “We’re trapped rats in here. We’re going to fight our way out and get to the bridge.”
     Gill put his hand on the hatch’s wheel. The other men crouched, ready to open fire.
     Nevitz nodded, and Gill swung the steel hatch open.
     Based on the carnage he saw, the captain knew two things: he would never see his wife again, and he was going to die horribly.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

What's New

By all accounts, the Buffalo Bills looked horrible today. Almost as bad as Trent Edward's mutton chops. But I digress.

I'll have a new novel ready for download on Amazon Kindle very soon. I'll be putting up sample chapters on the blog sometime this week. The book's called No Escape and takes place in one frantic night. It's the story of Jack Hammond, an Iraqi war vet looking for a peaceful island vacation with his family. When a mysterious ship with a deadly cargo runs aground on the island, his vacation turns into a nightmare. Jack must figure out a way to survive the unwanted visitors and get his family off the island.

Also, I'm teaching a course this fall on novel writing as part of Adult Continuing Education in East Aurora. I've never taught, but this is something I've wanted to do for a while. Jumping out of the plane and hoping the parachute will open. So far I have one student (that I know of) and she's pretty excited. If nothing else, maybe someone will bring some really excellent donuts from Tim Horton's. Wish me luck.

Why Expectations Are The Writer's Worst Enemy (And What To Do Instead)

Expectations: The Writer’s Worst Enemy Next to not writing, expectations can be a writer’s worst enemy. If for no other reason than a writ...