Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Eat Your Heart Out Stephen King (Not Literally, Though)

When I was thirteen years old, I received a peculiar Christmas gift from a cousin who was a few years older than me. Holding the wrapped gift in my hand, I could clearly tell that it was a paperback book, but I never knew this cousin as much of a reader, so I was intrigued to pull back the wrapping paper and find out what exactly he thought I would enjoy.

Well, it turns out he started me on a journey that hast lasted nearly 25 years. Beneath the wrapping paper veneer was a perplexing mixture of words and images. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to the name of the author--one that I had heard bandied about, oftentimes accompanied by a grunt or a sneer.
 
STEPHEN KING.

Okay, I knew who this guy was, and I was aware that he was a very popular horror author. I peered over at my parents, afraid of their reaction to such a brazen gift to an impressionable eighth grader. Surprisingly, they didn't seem to mind.

But what caught  my eye more than the verboten name on the cover was the picture of some sort of Clint-Eastwood-looking cowboy on the front. I clearly remember thinking to myself, I thought Stephen King wrote horror books, not westerns.

For those of you "in the know," you have no doubt guessed that the book was the first installment in King's magnum opus, The Dark Tower Series. With some trepidation, I started reading The Gunslinger, and found myself drawn into a fantastic parallel world of anachronisms--a dystopian society mixed with robots, wizards, and medieval hierarchies that had fallen by the wayside.

I devoured it.

And thus began my literary love affair with Stephen King, and the horror genre in general.

***

I love a scary movie. Actually, let me qualify that a bit. I love a traditional horror movie. No, I can't stand these torture flicks that have been en vogue over the past few years (like Hostel, The Human Centipede, stuff like that). In fact, I would say I'm a bit terrified of anyone who would tell me they actually enjoy movies like that with a straight face. Those people are probably going to end up on the news someday amidst comments like, "I can't believe it; he was such a quiet neighbor." But, movies like Paranormal Activity, The Shining (the original one), and The Exorcist? Classics! All of them.

Over the years, I allowed myself to branch out a bit from Stephen King and try other authors that wrote in the horror genre. Some I liked. Most I didn't. I was kind of a one-author-guy during my formative years.

But then, a few years ago, I discovered F. Paul Wilson, and a brand new love affair began. I feasted on characters like Rasalom, Glaeken, and Repairman Jack. The writing was tight, tense, and the stories moved with lightning-fast pacing. And aside from the obvious supernatural elements, many of the "horrors" encountered in the Repairman Jack series had many very realistic aspects to them.

I mean, Stephen King's It is one of my favorite books of all time, but is there a chance that a demonic, Bozo-looking clown is going to lure me into a sewer drain and feast on my soul (and various body parts)? Probably not. With F. Paul Wilson, many of the perils that Repairman Jack faced could actually happen.

That stuff was really scary.

Now, obviously, my understanding of the world has changed significantly over the last twenty-plus years. Crazy spider-like monsters? Not real. Monstrous human beings that can carry out horrific attacks killing thousands in a split-second? Very real. A parallel world with a nefarious creature known as The Crimson King? Fantasy. Human trafficking? Terrifyingly real.

I had come to realize that the world was full of monsters. Maybe not the kind that Lovecraft created in his fiction, but definitely the kind that could murder children, rape women, and commit genocide.

Those monsters live in our world.

And then there's the monsters that live in our hearts...

***

I wrote a short novel. When I originally started writing it, I meant for it to be a cautionary tale centering on a man with so much hubris that he would rather watch his entire world implode than own up to his shortcomings. It was partially based on me, although so heavily fictionalized that only tiny shreds of my personal history exist within the plot line.

Then I released it, and I came upon a startling realization.

As people began to provide me with their reactions to the story, I became increasingly aware that what I had written was actually a horror story. One person told me the story literally made him sick to his stomach. Another told me that it stuck with her for days (and perhaps even weeks) after reading it.

So what is it about The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins that has made people shudder?

Blood and gore? Nope. The worst injury that the main character sustains in a cracked rib.

Demons and monsters from the netherworld? Not at all. The only monster in the story is a man named Zephyr Hopkins who faced circumstances that would make any of us cringe and cower in fear. His string of poor choices perhaps cause us to wince even more.

No, Zephyr Hopkins is a tragic character. The monster of deception that dwells in his mind concocts a tenuous illusion that threatens to collapse at even the slightest disturbance. It is this tension, I believe, that makes The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins something a bit more "genre-y" than most of my literary fiction.

***

I'm not a horror author. I've never aspired to be. Stephen King and F. Paul Wilson can rest assured that they will not have any competition from me (on many levels).

But it seems by exploring the darker side of the human condition, I can write a pretty horrifying story all the same.




Buy The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins now for $0.99 at:

Friday, February 1, 2013

The "Wicked"-ness of Robert Downey, Jr.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about "rock-bottom celebrities." You know the ones I'm talking about. The actors, singers, rock stars, and entertainers who seem to have a proclivity for dangling themselves on the precipice of utter self-annihilation. For every respectable celebrity who takes their craft seriously (whatever it might be), there's a Lindsey Lohan or a Charlie Sheen lurking in the corner, just waiting to get arrested for some other banal petty crime while under the influence of paint-thinner or the latest designer, hallucination-inducing veterinary tranquilizer.

[SIDE NOTE: Yeah, I know it looks like Charlie Sheen has turned a corner, but for me to believe a true transformation, it's got to last a few years. And seriously. Can't you just feel the crazy seething beneath that man's currently happy-go-lucky demeanor?]

Before we move on, I have to make an admission: I like Broadway musicals. No, not all of them. But, I will absolutely admit to loving Les Miserables, Rent, and Wicked. Especially Wicked. My wife, on the other hand, is a bona fide Broadway Musical CRAZY! She'll listen to anything that even resembles a show tune.

So this is what happened: She and I were cleaning the house—long before we had kids, and you could actually have a clean house for more than 13 seconds—and we turned on our XM Radio to the Broadway channel. Not necessarily my choice for extended listening, but I always keep the "happy wife, happy life" motto in mind. And over the speakers came the sound of Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel singing the song "Popular" as Galinda/Glinda and Elphaba/The Wicked Witch, respectively. It was a lively tune, and my wife looked at me and said, "I don't know what show this is from." 

Such an admission was not common around our house.

Well, within a week we had the original soundtrack, and it was on heavy rotation in our SUV. During a particularly heartfelt moment, the Wizard (played by Joel Grey) says to the horribly misunderstood Elphaba the following quotable—or well, singable—quote: "The most celebrated / Are the rehabilitated."

I remember the first time I heard that line, and I thought to myself, "Man, that's genius." It's true, too. Who doesn't LOVE a good comeback story—one of those good old triumph-of-the-human-spirit-over-the-adversity-of-addiction stories. I'll tell you, I love them; I'm a sucker for them.

My favorite current celebrity who has come back from the brink would have to be Robert Downey, Jr. Here is a guy who was arrested multiple times for drug possession stemming from addiction to cocaine and heroin. He had lost jobs, been through multiple rehab programs, and still continued in his downward spiral. But then, in the mid-2000s, he made several big-screen appearances, and by the time 2008 rolled around, he was on his way to becoming something like box office aristocracy, with roles as the title character in such franchises as Iron Man and Sherlock Holmes.

You gotta love that guy, right? I mean, to start the decade at rock-bottom and to finish it on top is nothing short of a miracle. And he seems to be holding on. I, for one, hope that he continues. His acting chops, comic timing, and undeniable intelligence make him a joy to watch on screen.

That's part of the reason I felt the irresistible pull to write the story of Zephyr Hopkins in my new short novel (or novella, depending on which term you like) The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins. The title character's life is a mess, and everything he does seems only to exacerbate his issues until one day, something so unexpected, so tragic, so soul-crushing happens that he is forced to a crossroads towards either total destruction or a hard road of rebuilding.

I won't tell you what choice he makes. What fun would that be? But for $0.99,  you can find out. And maybe you might even email me at jesse [at] accidental-author [dot] com and let me know where you think Zephyr is headed in the future.




Buy The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins now for $0.99 at:

Monday, January 28, 2013

Don't Worry Lance. You're Not Alone. Meet Zephyr Hopkins.





Okay. Confession time.

Hold on to your hats. This is a big one: I didn’t watch the Oprah interview with Lance Armstrong. Nope. Not a second of it. To be honest, I don’t remember what I was doing at the time.

So, what’s the deal, Jesse? Don’t you care about Lance Armstrong and what he did? Yes, I suppose I do. But I still had no interest in watching it.



I understand how much of an impact the scandal of his usage of performance enhancing drugs is to the cycling world. I understand how much those who finished second behind him—who rightfully should have won—feel slighted. I also understand the certain amount of relief that comes with unloading the truth.

How is it that I have such an understanding? Well, I guess I could say I’ve lived it to some extent. You see, a while back, I found myself in a situation where I had constructed a pretty complex web of deceit designed to create the illusion that our family finances were fine; in reality a few difficult years in sales had really taken their toll. But, even though I may not be the most masculine person in the world, I have more than my fair share of insane male pride. And I followed that male pride into the depths of what many have dubbed “financial infidelity,” a situation where one spouse hides certain financial misdeeds from the other.

What followed the rather spectacular eruption of the truth was a long period of reconciliation, some therapy, and the first steps towards rebuilding trust. It’s been a long road, but we keep heading towards better days, and for that I am grateful both to my wife, and ultimately to God.

So yeah, I guess I had no desire to sit around and relive those painful moments of the “disclosure of sin.” It can be hard to watch, hard to listen to, and believe you me, it’s extraordinarily painful to be on the talking end.

When this whole situation blows over, and we all return to our lives—perhaps we already have—I’d like to think there’s hope for our buddy Lance. His life’s not over. He has many years left to rebuild himself, rebuild his image, rebuild his reputation, and rebuild his legacy.
***

During the weeks after everything I had done was revealed, as a part of my self-imposed therapy, I decided to write something about it. When I first sat down at the computer, I had no idea what form it would take. Would it be a story, an essay, a blog post? I had no idea.



Initially the words and ideas wouldn’t come, and I was afraid the wound was a bit to raw to revisit my dismaying lapses in judgment. The next day, however, I was driving to visit some customers a few hours away, and I had an epiphany. I’m not going to tell you what it was, because it would ruin the story quite a bit. Suffice it to say, when I took a break for lunch, I whipped out my laptop and began writing. By the time I had stuffed a Panera sandwich in my mouth and washed it down with some iced tea, I had written almost 3,000 words. The entire three-hour drive home, I recited dialogue to myself, trying to make it sound realistic. Within a week, the story had grown to 15,000 words, which, incidentally, made it one of the longest pieces I had ever written (besides my dissertation, and no one is ever going read that thing).

I loved the story. The crises in the plot line bordered on insane, but there was an air of truth to it.

Then the story sat for four months. I just wasn’t sure what to do with it.

A few months letter, I let a few people read it, and they loved it.


Then I let it sit for an even longer time.


In December of 2012, I decided to pick it up again, dust it off, and really get it ready for publication. Thanks to a few wonderful friends and their honest opinions, I added another 7,000 words to it, tightened up the story, and ramped up the emotional impact.

And thus was born—well, more like conjured in a literary sense—Zephyr Hopkins. Am I Zephyr? No, that dude is a hot mess of epic proportions. We’re talking Greek Tragedy here. Was my situation similar? Not at all. I am thrilled that my situation was nowhere near as desperate as his.

All that being said, my heart breaks for Zephyr every time I think about him, because no matter how far I remove myself from his brand of trouble…

…Zephyr still lurks in the shadows of my heart.



Buy The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins now for $0.99 at:

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Excerpt from The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins

Here is a short excerpt of The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins. It is now available at the following eBook retailers for $0.99.






- 1 -
JUDGMENT DAY
2:01 PM
Zephyr Hopkins, cursed with that name since moments after his birth, inhaled until he felt his chest would burst. Vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and colors—and perhaps even creeds—whizzed through the busy intersection. Zephyr’s gaze drilled with meditative focus on the orange stick figure encased behind a wire mesh, warning anyone who might consider jaywalking with an incandescent glow. A single tear forced itself from the corner of his eye, and scalded as it trickled down his cheek, changing course every time it encountered another whisker.
Across the street, the “DON’T WALK” figure disappeared in deference to his next door neighbor: the cheery, backlit-by-white-light “WALK” figure, depicted mid-stride in a happy-go-lucky stroll. An impatient glut of humanity flowed around him, plunging him into the crosswalk. A few less-than-friendly nudges and a disgruntled “Hey buddy” attempted to pull him from his trance, but Zephyr Hopkins was astray in a turbulent whirlpool of echoes of the past few months.
it’s nothing personal…
…come as quickly as you can…
…don’t be mad…
…lay it all out for her…
Wispy strands of thin, jet-black hair fell over his forehead and in front of his eyes. He brushed it away with a quivering hand as his right foot ventured a few inches forward.
Or a few feet.
Or a few miles.
It was becoming so difficult to tell.
The familiar chime that announced the end of the “WALK” signal blared its clarion call from all four corners of the intersection of Fifth and Main, jolting Zephyr back from his oddly peaceful oblivion and into his heartrending circumstances. He surveyed the scene in the span of a fraction of a second. All four directions of traffic halted while the all-way red light insured everyone was out of the intersection.
So many cars full of so many people. A mother fidgeted with her smart phone while tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, ignoring her gaggle of children with the deftness of an experienced soccer-mom. A middle-aged man in a sharp tan suit and expensive-looking sunglasses checked himself in his mirror before taking both hands off the wheel to smack some sense into an unruly patch of hair above his left ear. An early-twenty-something leaned over to kiss his girlfriend, perhaps lingering a bit longer than public propriety would normally dictate.

- 2 -
PERDITION, DAY 1

10:43 AM


“Zeph, can I see you in my office, please?”

Zephyr peered across the sea of cubicles and saw Collin Nordstrom motioning in that hey-buddy-but-I’m-not-really-your-buddy method he had become so efficient at oozing. The general rule that a company’s best salesman usually makes the company’s worst sales manager was not wasted at Xoreon, manufacturer of the highest quality digital x-ray machines. Collin had managed to win Salesperson of the Year eight of the last nine years, and lost in 2008 for no other reason than four months of scattered absences while his wife battled breast cancer like some fierce hospital-smock-wearing warrior princess. Everyone had been happy to chip in and cover Collin’s territory, less because they liked Collin, but more because they adored his wife Carla.

When the position of National Sales Director became available, it was a foregone conclusion that Collin would be offered the position, and he would subsequently decline. Much to the amazement of the entire sales team, despite Collin’s protests that he would never join the management team, he snatched up the offer with lightning speed and assumed his new role in his new digs. He traded his humdrum cubicle for a real office with a real door that actually closed. He installed mini-blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows on the interior wall of his office, and frequently kept them closed.

Zephyr stood up and acknowledged Collin with a nod. A fastidious note-taker, he grabbed his pen and legal pad. He slid his uncomfortable black office chair—carefully crafted in some impoverished Asian nation from particle board, low density foam, and scratchy tweed-like fabric—under his desk and strode deliberately toward Collin’s office.

Annual performance review time. Everyone knew it, and everyone expected to be called into Collin’s office for his inaugural round of reviews. For the most part, Collin and Zephyr had always been on cordial terms; however, since his promotion, tensions bubbled to the surface when Collin criticized Zephyr’s peculiar brand of fussiness over the minutest details. “Lighten up,” he’d say, forcing Zephyr to stifle an untoward retort.

Zephyr stepped over the threshold, and Collin motioned for him to take a seat. The strangely suggestive, curvaceous edge of the desk had an unnerving effect on Zephyr, forcing him to struggle to discover a position that would allow him to sit and write in relative comfort. After a few rounds of pushing and scooting and sliding and nudging, Zephyr found the sweet spot and readied himself for a slew of useless tips for improvement in the coming year.

Collin flashed a wan smile. “Zeph, would you mind closing the door?”

Irritated that he would have to repeat the comfort-seeking ritual again, he sighed sharply. He arose and pushed the door shut with no particular urgency. He returned to his seat and fidgeted until he could sit and write while sacrificing neither comfort nor efficiency.

“Zeph, I don’t think you’ll need to take notes during this meeting. It’s going to be pretty brief.”

Well, now that’s merciful. Maybe he’s finally realized if he just leaves me alone to do my job instead of offering his occasional vapid sales-motivation platitudes, next year will be even better than this year.

Zephyr sat back in his chair, distressed by the absence of activity for his hands. Deciding that folding them in his lap was the most reasonable placement, he interlocked his fingers loosely, locked eyes with Collin, and expended minimal effort to feign a warm smile.

Collin looked away and fixed his eyes on a blank spot on the wall. “I don’t really know how to tell you this. So, I’ll just come out and say it. I’m afraid your position here is no longer available.”

Silence.

Within the deepest recesses of Zephyr’s mind, his internal time-keeper short-circuited. Milliseconds dragged on for hours, minutes for seconds, then seconds for years. An impossible feeling of slippage commandeered his senses as the room spun in sporadic, random jerks and tilts. He watched as Collin appeared to be praying, eyes closed tight enough to crinkle the crow’s feet that framed his eyes. However, when he watched Collin slowly lift his eyelids, he realized that everything was moving in extreme slow-motion, and he was merely catching the tail end of a blink.

After hours—or seconds or years, who knew?—time seemed to right itself and Zephyr’s jaw unlocked. Little better than a whisper, he managed to blurt out a few words.

“What? I don’t—I mean—what?!”

“Well, as I’m sure you are aware, your performance has suffered a bit since you made the decision to take occasional leave to attend to your mother. I was very clear that I expected you to perform up to expectations in spite of those interruptions.”

Confusion twisted Zephyr’s features. “I’m not sure what you mean. I met my quota for the year. How is that not performing up to expectations?”

“While it is true that you met your quota, you were the only team member that didn’t exceed it by more than twenty percent. Obviously the market is booming, and simply performing to the minimum acceptable level is, as of right now, unacceptable.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” His voice picked up a few decibels along the way and beads of sweat formed along Zephyr’s crooked hairline. “How can performing at an acceptable level be unacceptable? Isn’t that, by definition, acceptable?” Zephyr looked from side to side, half-expecting to see all of his co-workers hiding in the office, ready to burst out laughing at what he could only assume was a vicious, mean-spirited prank. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m sorry, but what’s done is done. You will be expected to have your desk cleaned out by the end of the day, although under the circumstances, I’d say sooner is better. Oh, and please turn in your corporate credit card to accounting. Jackie in HR will also have some paperwork for you.”

Zephyr shook his head, ramping up the velocity from purposeful movement to wild, chaotic oscillations. He broke free from the dizzying motion and snapped his head up. “Now wait a minute. You remember when Carla had cancer and you took all that time off? We all pitched in to help you. Don’t you remember that I won you the big account in The Research Triangle? How could you even think of doing this to me?”

“I recognize all that everyone did for me during that incredibly difficult time, but those were very unique circumstances. Caring for elderly parents is not something that qualifies, at least in my book, as a reason to take so much time off work.”

A special blend of hatred, vexation, and an overload of caffeine erupted into physical action. Zephyr charged across the desk, grabbed Collin’s tie, and yanked it forward. Immediately realizing he had made the treacherous march across the Rubicon, Zephyr resolved not to make this desperate situation a waste of time. “Now you listen here, you mealy-mouthed, sorry excuse for a human being. If we hadn’t helped you out during that time, you wouldn’t even be in the position to fire me. You better count your lucky stars that, one, I’m not a violent person, and two, I’m not vindictive, or right after I’d smashed your face into this desk I would pick up the phone and let Carla know about your ‘special friend’ in Detroit.”

Satisfied that he had not only sealed his fate in an air-tight tomb, but had also scared the living daylights out of his now former boss, he scrutinized Collin’s face for any hint of dread. The corners of Collin’s mouth rose with unhurried intention, waltzing towards his cheekbones. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to somehow leverage that knowledge against me. Well, as it happens, I’ve got some bad news for you. I told Carla about Dayna over a year ago and we’re working through it. So, as I see it, you don’t have any cards left to play now, do you?”

Blood and rage surged through Zephyr’s veins and set his cheeks on fire. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, punching through the surface layers of skins and drawing tiny crescents of blood on the otherwise pale canvas. He stood statue-still for a few seconds, contemplating screaming, punching, kicking, and crying, but decided against all of the above. He straightened his back, unclenched his fists, composed himself, and opened the door to make a semi-graceful egress.

Collin spoke up, assuming his hold-on-to-your-hat-because-I’m-about-to-teach-you-something-really­-important timber. “Oh, Zeph. Seriously, it’s nothing personal, man. It’s just business.”

Everyone in the general office area took notice as Zephyr slammed the door behind him with force enough to rattle the windows of Collin’s office.



The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins is now available at the following retailers for $0.99.

Monday, January 14, 2013

Knowing When to Call it Quits

I'm not Jon Acuff, but I can tell you that there comes a time to "quit."


Wow! The title of this post feels weird. Of course, I chose the title because it sounds ominous, akin to the header of a literary suicide note that ends with "goodbye, cruel writing world." Well, you can rest assured that this is nothing of the sort. Yeah, I know it's been six months since my last post. I've been busy starting up a publishing company, for crying out loud! 

Jeez, back off!

Realistically, that's not an excuse, but rather an informative explanation. I could have kept you, faithful reader (maybe even "readers?"), in the loop, after all. That would have been the proper thing to do.

So, hey! Guess what? I'm writing again, albeit on a limited basis. Let's just say that whenever I can find the time, I'm opening up one of my four manuscripts in development and punching a key or two on my keyboard. It's gratifying, even if I can only write five hundred words at a time. Each precious word is a brick, a cog, a critical piece of the machine that will eventually be a finished manuscript.

Last week, T. Marcus Christian, one of the authors over at eLectio Publishing (that's my publishing company by the way), wrote a blog post about "editing." It's really good; you should check it out. One of the many great points he makes is about knowing when a manuscript is finished. And while he comes up with a couple of good rules about "knowing when to call it quits," I think the number of ways to discern if a manuscript is ready are as varied as the number of writers on the planet.



***


I am your father. No you're not! Shut up! No, you!


I'm a geek. Okay? Do we have that out of the way?

Good.

While I was only a year old when the first Star Wars movie came out (I know you're doing the math), by the time The Empire Strikes Back was released, my wonderful parents saw fit to tote me along (as a four year old) to the theater to witness the shocking revelation that Darth Vader was Luke Skywalker's father. Truth be told, in my four-year-old brain, I thought such a notion was ridiculous. Darth Vader was a robot, right? I wasn't quite able to wrap my head around cyborgs yet.

In fact, I remember having a pretty heated exchange with a friend at Sunday School the following Sunday. I mean, how could he be so stupid as to believe that nefarious galactic super-villain? That Vader guy just oozed deception, didn't he?

[SPOILER ALERT...Oh, who am I kidding?] Yeah, well, turns out I was wrong. By the time Return of the Jedi came around and all was revealed, my Sunday-School-spat was long forgotten, and I had tacked on another three years to my age. I had pretty much resigned myself to Darth Vader being Daddy Skywalker.

That was okay. The movie was great. It ended beautifully.

And so came the end of one of the most sweeping sci-fi epics the world had ever seen.

Or so I thought.

***


It was a menace, all right.


I was in graduate school in Columbia, Missouri, in 1999 when The Phantom Menace came out. I approached the whole idea of a prequel trilogy with all the skepticism that it deserved (and it did deserve some skepticism, didn't it?).

Nevertheless, as I mentioned earlier, I'm a geek. I stood in line for a midnight showing on the day it came out, accompanied by some buddies of mine from the Chemistry Department. After many endless rounds of cribbage on the sidewalk in front of the theater, midnight arrived. We filed into the theater and then we sat for what seemed like an eternity, trying to digest the garbage that someone decided to pass off as an entry in the Star Wars universe.

Now, I know I'm going to get a load of flak for this, so just chill out. I'm not insulting your mother. (Unless your mother is Jar Jar Binks. In that case, I'm totally insulting your mother.)


The Phantom Menace blew. I mean it blew hard. From the ridiculously precocious future Darth Vader to the insipid Jar Jar Binks, not even the presence of heavy-hitters like Ewan MacGregor, Liam Neeson, and Natalie Portman (rising star that she was) could rescue the movie from its own absurdity. The whole Star Wars universe became a caricature of itself.

It became clear to me that George Lucas should have just left well enough alone. The original trilogy, while not necessarily profound, was a work of sci-fi genius that had sparked decades of discussions, musings, wonderings, and daydreams of the multitudes of fans.

While it is true that the further installments were certainly better than The Phantom Menace, nothing could quite pull the prequel trilogy out of the mire.

And for me, that eternally tainted the whole Star Wars franchise.

***

"Zephyr Hopkins. I am your father!" No, seriously.


So why on earth am I talking about Star Wars in a post that at least seems to be about editing. Well, here's the thing: one of the most difficult things for me to do is decide when I've got a completed manuscript. And for me, there's no hard and fast rule. My best-selling short story, Rumspringa, was complete (from first word of first draft to final "SAVE" of the submitted draft) in just over four hours. Another short story I wrote floundered for nearly two years before I was finished with it.

All that to say, for me, completion is a "feeling" above all else. Perhaps even a "whisper from the heavens." Who knows? All I can say is that whether it is the first revision or the eleventh, at some point, I look at the manuscript, and I get this intangible this-seems-about-right kind of feeling.

So it is with my upcoming release, a novella titled The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins. I completed the first draft in March of last year. I went back through it shortly thereafter and made sure all the events were congruent from start to finish (inconsistencies drive me nuts). And then it sat for about four months. I shared it with a few trusted folks. They loved it. Then I let it sit for another four months.

In the midst of my busy-ness with eLectio Publishing, a few weeks ago, I felt the irresistible draw back to Zephyr and his messed up life (we're talking really messed up). It beckoned to me, as if to say, "Hey, man! I'm almost done over here. So, why don't you just invest an hour a day for a couple of weeks and shine me up?"

And that's what I did. The result is a few thousand more words, a few gaps filled in, and a very tight story about a man who can't seem to stop making horrifying choices. When you read it (and you will, won't you?), you might find yourself feeling sad for Zephyr. It might make you angry with him. You might feel sorry for the poor fool. I feel all of those things as I read and re-read.

But I can feel it coming. I can imagine it now. In the next few days, Zephyr's going to look up at me from the pages that hold his oppressive circumstances, and say, "Hey, buddy. I think it's time. Let's do this."

And I will. I'll put Zephyr to bed. Or, rather, unleash him on the world.

I'll quit and move on to the next thing.

***


Side note...


Oh, George Lucas. If only you had quit and moved on to something else.

My inner seven-year-old wouldn't have died a little bit that day in 1999. I have a feeling he's going to suffer even greater tragedy ahead.




JESSE S. GREEVER is "The Accidental Author" and CEO of eLectio Publishing, a digital publisher for Christian authors.  

Greever is also a co-author of the book, Learning to Give in a Getting World, and numerous fiction titles from Untreed Reads publishing.

His first fiction novella, The Perdition of Zephyr Hopkins, will be released as a self-published eBook in late January 2013.

You can become a fan of Jesse on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/JesseSGreever or follow him on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/JesseSGreever

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Delightfully Indulgent Conversation with Chad Thomas Johnston

Over the past three months, I've had the supreme joy of having a prolonged "conversation" with Chad Thomas Johnston, prolific blogger, author, artist, musician, and "PUNisher Royale".  His writing career spans a number of formats, media and genres.  His first collection of essays, Nightmarriage, is due out as an eBook from eLectio Publishing in late summer 2012.  His full length autobiographical work, The Stained-Glass Kaleidoscope, is currently searching for a home, but rest-assured.  It will be released (believe me, I've read it).

Chad is extraordinarily witty, a massively talented wordsmith and a great friend.  I know you'll enjoy reading this conversation as much as I enjoyed having it.



The Accidental Author:  Chad, first of all, thanks for agreeing to being put on the hot seat for my blog that literally tens of people read.  You and I first met in college at [Southwest] Missouri State University at the Baptist Student Union.  Fast forward fourteen years and two highly divergent paths later, and it appears that we have re-converged somewhat due to our love of writing.  Tell me a little about the path that brought you to where you are today.

Chad Thomas Johnston:  Dude, tens of people is not bad. Google Analytics says I have readers, but they apparently are not terribly fond of commenting. So in the end, I feel like I also have tens of readers, if that.

I’ve really always written in some form. As a child, I wrote little books and bound them with Christmas wrapping paper. My friends read them. I don’t know why, but they read them. Then in high school, I started writing music reviews for largely underground Christian magazines. I wrote about artists other than Amy Grant.

The only letter any reader ever addressed to me in a publication was written by a girl who bought the Prayer Chain’s 1995 Mercury album. I had written about how artful it was, but she only wrote about how the lyrics were too cryptic, and how she didn’t think it was really all that useful to her spiritually. I wanted to write her back and tell her never to read a poem of any kind, ever, because they would be of no use to her.

While working on my master’s degree, I wrote a thesis, which was my first long-term writing project. I got a feel for what that was like, and enjoyed it despite the often grueling nature of the project. Before bailing out of my PhD program in Film Studies at the University of Kansas, I decided that writing a dissertation would ultimately be of no use to me (just like the girl who could not interpret the cryptic lyrics). Only 5 people would ever read it. So I figured I could write a book of my own, and maybe net 6 readers. Unless my readers are lying to me, I have already done that. It took me three years to write my book, and now I’m writing a second with a friend of mine who lives in Virginia.

But writing my first book was when I got the writing bug for real. I realized I could put anything down on paper and lead any reader into my mental wilderness without a pup tent or a book of matches to save him or her from any mind-bears that might appear out of nowhere. I liked that. Thus it began. 
How did you get into writing? Or am I allowed to ask you questions?

AA:  Oh, Chad.  Those aren’t the rules of the interview.  But, since I love talking about myself, I believe I’m inclined to turn this into a conversation rather than an interview.  So, to your question.

I really loved writing when I was in grade school.  I wrote really ridiculous stories about Santa Claus, giant doughnuts and vampires.  Wait...those may have all been in a single story.  Anyway, I continued to dabble in writing when I was in high school, but I also found other ways to express myself artistically (acting and music).

I am reminded that during one of my early high school classes, we took an assessment that was supposed to reveal to us whether we were “right-brained” or “left-brained”.  I scored a big fat zero.  Fortunately, that did not mean that I was devoid of a brain.  Instead, it meant that my brain had no real preference for being artistic or analytical.  Ultimately, for my career, I chose to take the analytical path, and I got my Bachelor of Science in Chemistry, and then later got my Ph.D. in Physical Chemistry at Mizzou.  My dissertation was my first long-term writing project.  It is an excruciatingly boring 300-page opus, complete with graphs, charts and about 30 pages of C++ code that I wrote in the back.  I’m not even sure my committee even read it all the way through, nor do I blame them.

After the birth of my first daughter, I found myself in Washington, DC, working in the Optical Sciences Division of the Naval Research Laboratory.  My particular position did not encourage a great deal of creativity without abandon.  So, I found myself writing in my spare time.  I also found Zoetrope.com at that time, and enjoyed posting stories I’d written and having critiques, although, very few of the comments and criticisms were all that useful, since most people were reviewing my work just so I’d be obligated to review their work.  Of course, I would conscientiously write an honest review, which many people did not like, and so I didn’t make a great many friends there.

I never really did anything with my stories at that time.  Then I moved to Dallas, and took a position that required a great deal of travel.  So that meant many lonely nights in hotel rooms.  One of the ways I would “wind down” at night was writing.  In 2010, I wrote a flash fiction piece called A Summer Wedding.  It is a sweet tale of young teenagers in the Viet Nam war era.  I submitted it to Untreed Reads, and by May of 2010, it was released.  I have continued submitting a publishing fiction through them, and now have five short stories.  As a result of my “successful” writing, I also did a collaboration with my pastor (Marc Farnell) on a book called Learning to Give in a Getting World, which has sold DOZENS of copies worldwide.

Now, back to questioning you.  You seem to have many artistic outlets.  Do you feel that writing is your primary outlet or just a pivotal cog of your creativity?

CTJ:  I think writing is the area of my creativity where I am most capable of expressing myself. While I love art and music, for example, both end up being wrestling matches where I am pitting my abilities against the ideas my brain is generating. A lot of times, I cannot quite realize what I imagine in those two creative pursuits, but with writing I almost always feel satisfied with what I come up with, and it is enjoyable for the most part. There are definitely times of writerly constipation, but for the most part, I find that if I regularly sit down and make an effort to write, it happens, and I am satisfied. 
I first realized writing could be an outlet for self-expression in high school when I wrote poems about women who broke my pitiful high school heart. I considered myself a poet then, but it was very one-dimensional in the sense that I only wrote when I felt sad, or maybe really uninspired. The same was true of the music I began writing shortly after that.

Eventually, I realized through my friend, artist Danny J. Gibson, that creativity could be a daily pursuit that was not necessarily dependent on a muse. I just sit down and create, and inspiration usually catches up with me along the way. It does not necessarily precede the creative process for me anymore. It can, but as a rule it generally does not.

With that realization, I came to understand that I could write about literally anything I wanted. I did not have to limit myself to writing when I feel sad or elated. I could write about absolutely anything, and I could do it daily, as a discipline like a runner who runs daily to maintain the progress he/she has already made.

Do you write with any kind of discipline, or is it just as the ideas kind of make themselves known to you? I like Stephen King’s idea of discovering stories in a way that is comparable to unearthing fossils that are already formed, and have a shape of their own. I am learning to approach each idea I have as the tip of a discovery that may have roots beneath the surface that are worth exploring.

I bought your Rumspringa short story from Amazon.com today and am looking forward to reading it. It’s a strange thing to think that you’re selling a short story for $0.99, and other authors are selling their full-length novels for the same price. It reminds me of the bizarre new menu imperative at McDonalds where all coffees, regardless of size, cost $1. It seems reasonable, but it’s also a little strange. If I want to buy a smaller coffee, but the large costs $1, I feel somehow compelled to say, “But shouldn’t this small coffee cost less?” Ha! I think this kind of thing is just indicative of how the market for writers has changed, and is continually changing. That pay-what-you-want idea Radiohead introduced into the music market in October of 2007 with their In Rainbows record has sort of become a pricing cue for writers as well. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to think your work and mine both are worth more than $0.99. Ha!

AA:  Rumspringa is a bit of an enigma for me.  I started writing it with no apparent story line, just as a character study, since I tend to write more plot-driven fiction.  For me, my characters tend to be slaves to plot, and their environment and circumstances tend to mold their behavior.  I’ve never really written anything where the character is more the focal point, and so when I started out the story, I sought to study this interaction between biological mother and daughter meeting for the first time.  The protagonist, Corrie, is a sweet girl who was adopted by an Amish family, and whose life has been shaped by the values imparted to her growing up in a strict community that shuns modernity.  Her mother, Wilma, seems to be a vile human being that struggles with addiction of every flavor, and whose exploits have landed her in prison multiple times.

Funny thing, though.  As their interaction progressed, I found a story arc developing, and before I knew it, a simple plot developed.  Strange how those things work.  By the time it was finished, Rumspringa became something of a thematic piece about grace, mercy, forgiveness, and ultimately, sacrifice.

I wasn’t really sure how it would be received.  Much to my surprise, it has sold surprisingly well, in spite of its high “dollar-per-word” price point.  I can’t really say why it has resonated so well with buyers.  If I could, I suppose I would bottle that and sell it.

You mentioned writing as a discipline, with or without the ever-elusive “muse”.  However, every writer has something that consistently and invariably inspires them to write.  If you had to choose something that we could call, for sake of argument, your muse, what would it be?  And why do you think it inspires you?

CTJ:  I am almost always drawn to wondrous thingseccentric things, remarkable things, beautiful things, mysterious things. Whenever I come across something that arouses wonder within me, that’s where I truly light up and find myself inspired.

I was going through the list of films I have rated on Netflix in the past few months, and I ranked a few films highly for this reason alone. Films open up wonders to me on a regular basis. In my list of rated films, there was Werner Herzog’s Cave of Forgotten Dreams, which has lingered in my mind since I saw it. It’s a documentary about a French cave that features pristinely preserved human drawings from over 35,000 years ago. I saw that film and thought, “Now there’s a film that’s shown me something truly marvelous that I would never behold on my own otherwise.” 

Another was a documentary called Abel Raises Cain, which is about this man who propagated all of these media hoaxes in order to make society look at itself in the mirror and take a gander at its own absurdities. For example, he created this nonexistent organization called Society for Indecency to Naked Animals (SINA), which railed against animal nudity. One of their slogans was “A nude horse is a rude horse.” People absolutely bought into this hoax, started SINA chapters of their own, etc. In the end, it’s a hoax that shows us how prudish and legalistic we are, and also how eager we are to champion causes of all kinds if we think we will be better people for doing so. It also goes to show: We’ll believe anything. I was just blown away by this master of media hoaxes, and it occurred to memaybe as a person with a public relations backgroundthat this sort of manipulation was just creatively brilliant.

Films like that have a way of inspiring me, and making me want to create simply because it was creativity that led people to create the films that inspired me. I suppose it’s a self-reflexive thing. I see the mechanics behind it and say, “Look what creativity can yield! I have to create, too!”
It’s this sense of “I want to be in on that!” The only problem is, I tend to get carried away, and I become like this kid at a buffetlike when my sister and I would eat at Golden Corral’s buffet with our parents when we were kidsand we would just go whole hog. We would eat everything in sight, and cover everything in this ‘liquid cheese product,’ and stuff it down our gullets. I end up wanting to create all these things all the time, and I never have enough time. I want to do it all. That’s where I think cloning myself would be ideal.

But then again, cloning myself would mean my wife would have to put up with more than one of me. I don’t think she ever bargained for that in agreeing to matrimony.

AA:  So you would say that you aren’t necessarily inspired to write by a single type of “thing”, but rather the products of creativity of others in the world? That’s a fascinating perspective. I find myself most motivated by music, mainly because it is an art form that resonates with me on a very visceral level.  My short story, Collisions, was written in my head on a five-hour drive from Tallahassee to Tampa.  It was dark, it was stormy and it was difficult driving.  But about two hours into the drive, I found myself flipping to the ‘80s music channel on satellite radio, and the first song that came on was “Owner of a Lonely Heart” by YES. As I listened while I tried to concentrate on the deteriorating road conditions, I found that I had never really listened to the words of the song before. I started to wax philosophical about the question posed in the concept of the song: “Is it really better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?”  I allowed my mind to run laps around that idea, and by the time I pulled into my hotel for the night, the entire plot of Collisions was complete.

That’s the way I work quite frequently.  Other art forms can have similar effects, but rarely do they have the impact that music has on me.

But, let’s “turn the page” shall we?  In your autobiographical, magnum opus The Stained-Glass Kaleidoscope, you draw from a great deal of personal experience.  And, when honesty prevails, there is always the potential to paint unflattering portraits, not only of yourself, but of other people.  Even though the intent is not to offend, do you find that you have to balance your portrayals of real people in your life with a “dash of kindness”, or do you prefer a more unvarnished portrayal that is consistent with memory?

CTJ:  When it comes to portraying others in my writing, which I do often in my writing, I prefer whimsical, exaggerated recollections because they suit the way I see the world. When I write I sort of play in my little sandbox of ideas, and painting unflattering portraits is not really something one does in a sandbox. One plays in a sandbox. One does not stick it to people in a sandbox. That’s someone else’s hairy business. I don’t care to do that. If I truly do not like somebody, I simply will not write about them.

A lot of writers talk at length about this though. Anne Lamott tells the ugly truth with great gusto, and makes me laugh while she does it. I’m not as courageous as she is, frankly. But I also don’t think the ugly truth is the only truth there is. As much as relativism is a dirty word in church circles, I think it applies here: I think people are more than just collections of facts, or a summaries of experiences. People are who they are when they’re alone and no one’s looking, but they’re also publicly constructedtalked about by peers, coworkers, family members, etc. I like the notion that I’m writing about people in a way that only I experience them. And like in a lucid dream, I believe it’s okay to take the controls and take creative license with how I depict someone, especially if it’s true of how I uniquely perceive that person. Someone else might take issue with it, but my response is: Go write your own book about that person if you want. This is my book. I’ll write it my way. Ha!

By the way, I think ideas sort of plant themselves in my mind in all sorts of ways. I didn’t mean to say that I only find inspiration in the works of others. That’s just one source, really. I have experiences like you mentioned with that YES song all the time.

My last essay for IMAGE Journal’s blog was both inspired by and a reaction to the documentary Being Elmo. But the one I’m currently polishing up is inspired by and is about the new Mark Kozelek albumSun Kil Moon’s Among the Leaves. I got the idea for the essay while listening to the album over and over after getting it in the mail a few weeks backa few weeks prior to its official release. I pre-ordered it from Kozelek’s record label, Caldo Verde, and just devoured it as soon as it came in the mail.

It’s like “Put a quarter in my ear, and out pops a prize!” That’s how I feel about cultural consumption for me, and how I get inspired. But I also get inspired by nature, church, friends, family, books, Internet articles, tweets, etc. Nothing is off limits when it comes to the source of inspiration.

AA:  Whenever I allow thoughts to spill forth from my mind to the keyboard, via my sometimes unreliable fingers, in the afterglow of the birthing process, every piece I write always seems like the “World’s Cutest Baby”.  But, after it is allowed to sit and just exist for a while, it can occasionally fester into a steaming pile ofwell, you can choose your own euphemistic expression.  And yet, most times I can’t bring myself to consign even my worst writing to the digital oblivion that lies on the other side of the emptied recycle bin on my desktop.  In rare cases, something I’ve written before gets reincarnated into something that really is worthwhile.  As you process your writing projects, how do you know a “keeper” when you see it?  Do you save your “stinkers” for later resurrection?

CTJ: Yeah, I have “World’s Cutest Baby” syndrome with my writing, too. I really tend to think my writing is always good, but then I look back after about a year and react with something like shock (horror in some cases) at what I thought was great before. Sometimes it’s not even passable. Ha!

For me, that’s one of the benefits of writing over a long period of time. I can keep looking back at things I wrote a year or two ago, and determine if it’s substantial or not. It took three years to write The Stained-Glass Kaleidoscope, and I definitely threw out some contenders for inclusion along the way. (Note: “Threw out” = saved in a folder separate from the main document, but ultimately retained in case I want to revisit in the future.) It’s a good thing it took awhile though, or else I might’ve included some things in the moment that I wouldn’t have in the long run.

I also learned a lot about the writing process while writing it, and I’ve learned enough since finishing the book that I could never write The Stained-Glass Kaleidoscope again. It was just too cumbersome. So my 1,000 word essays for Image Journal are it for now. I want to write 50 of those and publish it as my next book. Not that the first book has been published yet, but … you get the picture. I liked tangents way too much before, and I still like them, but I’m learning to streamline things a bit.

AA:  Speaking of first publications, obviously, you and I (and a bunch of other people on Twitter and FaceBook) know that my digital publishing venture, eLectio Publishing, will be releasing your collection of essays about your wedding, marriage and parenthood a little later this year.  Obviously, in order to write a book like Nightmarriage that is very self-effacing at times, you have to be able to look at yourself and laugh, sometimes in situations that were probably very painful at the time.  How are you able to re-cast “cringe-inducing” situations in such a way that (1) they are pleasing for you to write, and (2) enjoyable for the reader?

CTJ:  Well, mostly I don’t like to think I have to remain the monster that I am at my worst moments. So the writing is a chance to redeem darker moments by finding humor in them.

People all have their flaws, and when two people marry, their flaws get married too. So it’s basically like agreeing to create a disaster with one particular person for the rest of your lives together.

In the end though, my worst moments, and my wife’s worst moments, are not definitive of who we are. They’re part of who we are, but they’re not all we are. Like this weekend, I lost the gas cap to my wife’s Honda Civic, and she was not all that thrilled about it. Neither was I. But am I only a guy who loses gas caps? No. Plus, my wife lost her driver’s license and debit card a few days later, so she could hardly be too mad at me about the gas cap. The best part is, I found her missing cards. So I got to be the hero. And in the end, two people who lose things cancel each other out. Neither is better than the other.

Nightmarriage is not a terribly serious book. It’s not a guide to marriage, or a seedy, gossipy kind of tell-all. It’s playful dark comedy, and it’s me looking back at the stories my wife Becki and I end up telling about ourselves to each other and the people in our lives that are privy to our dumber moments. It’s a compilation of blog entries, but I’ve gone back and reworked them and hopefully elevated them to book-writing status. (Emphasis on “hopefully.”)

In the end, I hope it entertains. But I also hope it gives other people permission to find humor in their own stories, no matter how awkward they are initially.

AA:  I also know that you are writing your first major work of fiction with a co-author who lives in Virginia.  You seem to have more of a natural proclivity for writing non-fiction pieces.  How difficult has it been to make the transition?  What have you been your biggest obstacles thus far?

CTJ:  My biggest obstacle has been, and remains, time. Time is eating my lunch. I want to write a lot more than I do, but it’s not an option if I want to spend adequate time with my family, get adequate sleep, function at my day job, and take care of my body.

I definitely do prefer non-fiction, but I had an idea for a fiction book, and I wanted to write a follow up to The Stained-Glass Kaleidoscope that was less laborious and less of an Olympic exercise in navel-gazing.

The other thing is, I understand and appreciate when other writers succeed in dramatizing ideas, but it’s harder for me to do it myself. Coming up with ideas is no problem at all. But making it all hang together is a challenge.

I still prefer non-fiction simply because I feel most like myself when I am writing it. I consider myself an essayist above all other things when it comes to writing. I have accepted that.

AA:  I found myself in an opposite situation.  I started by writing and publishing short fiction, and then through a series of unusual circumstances, I ended up writing and self-publishing a full-length work of Biblically-based non-fiction with the Senior Pastor at my church.  Fortunately, in my situation, I was able to exercise the creative muscle in my brain by crafting anecdotes to illustrate the concepts in each chapter.  Now, I’m working on a companion Bible Study, which really doesn’t offer much in the way of creative liberties.  It’s going to be a challenge.  We’ll see how it turns out.
Speaking of co-authoring, how do you find writing a book with someone else?

CTJ: My co-author Amanda Lynch does a great job of developing characters, and I’m more of a concept guy. I have a hard time making nonexistent characters spring to life and remain consistent throughout the duration of a story. I think I am just mostly a nonfiction writer, and I had this idea for this book that is a Young Adult-ish supernatural fiction piece, and I thought Amanda would be a good fit for it.

She lays a lot of the groundwork, and I fill in the details. The project has been paused for awhile now, as Amanda had her second child only a few months after Becki and I had our one and only (so far). Babies make rigid writing schedules a little less feasible when other things like jobs, spouses, and other things get in the way. But so far, we’ve had a lot of fun together, making something out of nothing. We need to press our noses to the grindstone again.

AA:  I know that certainly as I develop as a writer (and continue to do so, although I have a long way to go), there are some egregious errors and habits that I’ve shed over the past few years during my maturity.  If you had access to the mythical “Doc Brown DeLorean” and could go back in time and tell your younger self (oh, say, 10 or 15 years ago) some really valuable piece of advice regarding writing or the business in general, what would it be?

CTJ:  I would tell my younger self that it’s okay if he doesn’t figure out his life direction until he’s almost 30. Some people just take longer to finish cooking than others. I know who I am and what I want to do now. I couldn’t say that for sure when I was 27, or even 28. I am a writer, and a hunter-gatherer of beautiful and bizarre things, and I catch them all in my butterfly net and write about my pretty prisoners. Then I set them free for the world to see, that God might be glorified. Repeat ad infinitum. Amen.

AA:  Amen, indeed.




Chad Thomas Johnston is a writer, blogger, artist, singer-songwriter, and publicist who resides in Lawrence, Kansas with his wife Rebekah, their daughter Evangeline, and five felines.  He is represented by Seattle-based literary agent Jenée Arthur, who is currently shopping his manuscript, The Stained-Glass Kaleidoscope: Essays at Play in the Churchyard of the Mind, to publishing houses. He is a regular contributor to IMAGE Journal's "Good Letters" blog at Patheos.com.  He has also written for The Baylor Lariat, and contributed a feature to ex-Melody Maker music journalist/Nirvana biographer Everett True's CollapseBoard.com.

His collection of essays, Nightmarriage, will be published by eLectio Publishing in late 2012.



JESSE S. GREEVER is "The Accidental Author" and CEO of eLectio Publishing, a digital publisher for Christian authors.  If you are a Christian author and have a manuscript that you think is worthy of publication, check out the submission guidelines and follow the directions for manuscript submissions.

Greever is also a co-author of the book, Learning to Give in a Getting World, and numerous fiction titles from Untreed Reads publishing.
You can become a fan of eLectio Publishing on FaceBook:  http://www.facebook.com/eLectioPublishing

You can follow eLectio Publishing on Twitter (@eLectioPubs):  https://twitter.com/#!/eLectioPubs