Editorial Defense: Why I trashed Grammatical Rules

Bad reviews and negative feedback on my work don’t bother me in the least bit.  I’m not so egotistical to think that I’m going to write a book that will be universally loved by each and every person who reads it.  People have varying tastes and that is exactly how it should be; the world would be an extremely dull and lackluster place if we all had the same opinions.  The being said, I want to clarify something about The Seven Habits.  In doing so, I’m not defending myself or my writing but my editor.

Some people have commented that the editing is inconsistent due to frequent changes in verb tense during Bosley’s narrative, sometimes even switching tenses multiple times in a single sentence.  However, this does not in any way reflect on the skills of my editor.  I had written Bosley’s chapters that way intentionally and advised Permuted Press and the editor of this upfront… and I would have fought tooth and nail to keep those inconsistencies in place if I had to.

What you have to keep in mind is that Bosley is dimensionally unstable.  At any point, he can be spontaneously pulled through the Eye of Aeons with no control over where he ends up.  It might be hundreds of years into the past or future, it may be a matter of just a few days, hours, or minutes.  For him, time is no longer linear.  It does not go from Point A to Point B to Point C and so on, but is more like a young child’s crayon scribblings on a wall.  He’s pulled through time so often, in fact, that it’s taken a toll on his memory (which depends upon time being measured in a linear fashion).

For a person like Bosley Coughlin, he can never be entirely certain whether something he is talking about has already happened, is happening, or is yet to come.  As the author, I made a stylistic decision to throw the rules of grammar out the window in his chapters.  The way a person talks is a subtle reflection of the way that person thinks and I wanted his narration to embody the confusing mess his mind had become.  Personally, I don’t see this as being much different than the way he uses archaic words and phrases as naturally as he does modern slang.

I tried to keep the tense changes as subtle as possible, but if this decision completely grates on your nerves, blame me… not the editor.  She did a wonderful job on this book and I would love to have the opportunity of working with her again.

That is all.

Random thoughts on The Dead & Dying

I've been thinking a lot about The Dead & Dying lately, so I thought I'd drop a few random notes on the book into the 'ole Six Demon Bag.

Cover of the print edition
(art by +Daniel Galli )

The Title:  I like the book’s title because it works on two levels.  The Dying, in both instances, refers to Carl, the protagonist.  From the very first page of the novel, we learn that Carl has been ravaged by the undead and doesn't have much time left to tell his story.  The Dead, however, can refer to either the horde of corpses who've taken over a fallen world or the two ghosts who share Carl’s final hours with him.  It also matches the tone of the book, I think, which is pretty bleak.  I honestly feel this is the best title I've come up with for any of my works.

Weather:  When I was writing the novel, I wanted weather patterns to play an important role.  A healthy portion of the book takes place in the Midwest during the heart of winter and there’s a cold, lonely, desolation that I was trying to convey because I thought it reflected the characters well.  In other portions, a coming thunderstorm plays an important role.  It’s what keeps Carl clinging to life:  he just wants to live long enough to hear rain on the roof one more time.  One of my favorite scenes in the book finds two of our protagonists standing on the roof of a deserted building, watching a tornado tear across the countryside.  Swirling in all the dust and debris are zombies which have been scooped up by the twister, still flailing and alive (at least as much as a walking corpse can be alive).  I also chose to make one of Carl’s companions, a man called Doc, a meteorologist in his former life because I wanted the weather to almost be a minor character in and of itself with Doc bridging that gap.

Influences:   The biggest influence on The Dead & Dying, I think, was Ironweed by William Kennedy.  That novel perfectly captures the sadness I wanted to convey with my characters and situations.  While both works feature spirits of the dead who have an attachment to the main character, his never really stepped forward into the role of narrators like Josie and Jason did.  William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying had an impact on the novel as well.  The surreal sections of the book owe a lot to my love of Beat authors, particularly William S Burroughs.  Wow… there’s a lot of Williams here.  Never realized that before.

Spirituality:  One of the reoccurring themes in the book deals with spirituality.  On the one hand, we have Josie, who clings to her beliefs in reincarnation, karma, and so on.  On the other, we have Carl, who is somewhat of an existential nihilist.  He sees no universal justice in the world, nothing out there which would balance good and evil, right and wrong.  He states in one part of the book that expecting life to be fair just because you’re a good person is like expecting a zombie not to attack just because you’re a pacifist.  These two views were a reflection of the inner conflicts raging within myself when I wrote the novel.  I was struggling to hold onto spiritual beliefs I’d held for over twenty years while a series of life altering events steadily eroded my convictions.  

Perception:  Another theme I wanted to explore is how two people can experience the same event but perceive it in two entirely different ways.  Whereas Carl and Josie embodied the spiritual conflicts in the novel, Carl and the child tackled the issue of perception.  The fact that they had two opposing viewpoints on the same experience entirely dictated the paths their lives took.

Watchmaker:  One of the minor characters in the book is a blind old man, nicknamed Watchmaker because of his former profession.  His affliction and nickname, however weren't just random choices. In 1802  William Paley wrote Natural Theology and presented an argument for creationism.  He stated that if you happened to find a watch, you would inevitably infer from the complexity and precision of its construction that it must have been the work of a watchmaker.  British biologist Richard Dawkins alluded to Paley’s imagery and described natural selection as "the blind watchmaker" because it blindly fashions complex structures in nature without any foresight.

Box of Rot cover

Tie-Ins:  In one section of The Dead & Dying, our protagonists have formed a makeshift stretcher and are hauling Sadie, who is so fevered she is delirious,  through the snow in search of antibiotics.  Josie comments that she has a feeling of deja-vu, like maybe she’d been through this particular scenario before in a past life.  This comment is a direct reference to my short story, The Palomino and the Draft Horse, which is a zombie tale set in the 1800s.  I included her observation specifically for readers who are familiar with both works, subtly implying that Josie’s beliefs in reincarnation are correct.  The short story originally appeared in the anthology The Zombist: Undead Western Tales, but is also included in my short story collection, Box of Rot.  Box of Rot (and its companion collection, Box of Darkness)  is currently available as a free download on Smashwords in a variety of e-book formats.  Feel free to download a copy if you're curious about how the short story ties in with the novel. 

Sequel:  I've toyed with the idea of a sequel and have even explored a little bit of the first chapter.  However, one of the unique challenges I faced while writing The Dead & Dying is that from the very beginning all of the major characters are either already dead or soon to be so.  A lot of fiction creates tension by making the reader wonder if the characters involved will survive the events of the book, but the way my novel was structured precludes this.  While I definitely have a few ideas in mind of how this would work in a second book, I don’t know if it could really be called a sequel as such.

Life Inside A Suburban Hot Zone

My wife and I live in the midst of a full-blown hot zone.  This may sound a tad dramatic, but it’s true.  When my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer, he spent quite a bit of time in the hospital and, subsequently, in a skilled nursing facility for rehabilitation.  Somewhere along the way, he picked up Clostridium difficile, or – as we’ve come to know it – c-diff.

C-diff is a nasty little bacteria.  Those most at risk are people who’ve been undergoing antibiotic treatment for some other disease or infection.  The antibiotic treatments wipe out the healthy flora in a person’s digestive tract, thus opening the door for c-diff.  Once the tract has been colonized with this bacteria, it results in severe, uncontrollable diarrhea:  entirely watery with up to eight bowel movements in a day, this makes the fight against dehydration a constant battle.  It also has a distinctive, pervasive odor, caused by toxins released from the bacteria.  One of the nursing forums I visited while researching this bug described it as follows: "…like something that has been dead and laying in the hot sun with just a slight tang of poop smell".  If left untreated, these toxins can cause severe abdominal pain and result in a life-threatening condition known as toxic megacolon.  People can, and have, died from c-diff.  It’s not a germ you want to fuck around with.

The bacteria is most commonly acquired in hospitals and nursing homes.  Someone will touch an object that has the bacteria on it, not wash their hands, and then transfer it to another patient’s room;  that patient, in turn, gets it on his hands and ingests it while eating food.  Once infected, it is extremely hard to fight (difficile is actually Latin for "difficult") .

It’s been nearly six months since my father began his treatment for it.  While he was in the hospital, his doctor told us about the infection and said he was prescribing Vancomyacin, which he described as "The Chuck Norris of Antibiotics".  In pill form, it is insanely expensive and, in liquid form, insanely difficult to find.  But we expected Chuck Norris to wipe out the infection, so my father could go about the business of building his strength back.  Chuck Norris got his ass kicked when a round of treatments proved futile.  So they put my Dad on a stronger dose and increased both the amount of time and frequency with which he took it.  Again with little result.  The Vanco seems to hold the worst of the infection at bay, but never truly gets rid of it.  Within five days of finishing a round, the c-diff was invariably back  When we complained that they simply kept re-prescribing medicine that wasn't working, they began trying different antibiotic cocktails.  He’s had Vanco with Flagyl, Vanco with Cipro, Vanco with Flagyl and Cholestyramine.  We thought we’d made some headway this last round by adding over-the-counter probiotics into the mix.  His stool became solid, lost the c-diff smell, and his strength and spirits skyrocketed.  But after five days of being off the antibiotics, it came back with a vengeance.

The day before he was sitting up in bed, laughing as he watched Family Guy, and had walked ten feet during his physical therapy (these were the first steps he’d taken for over half a year).  The infection came back that night and by the next day he didn't have enough strength to roll over in bed when I was changing him.  We've called in a gastroenterologist and an infectious disease specialist.  Currently, we’re in the process of trying yet another drug called Difficid, this one even rarer than Vanco.  What I’ve read about Difficid sounds promising;  the only thing keeping it from being the frontline treatment against c-diff is the cost.  Because of this, patients must try and fail at least two other antibiotics.  And that’s only if you can find a doctor who has heard of it or takes you seriously when you say there's a treatment option other than Vancomyacin.  If the Difficid also fails, however, our last option will be a fecal transplant (yes, there really is such a thing).

The reason I’m sharing all of this is that people need to know it’s out there.  People need to know how to prevent it from spreading.  According to the CDC, 14,000 Americans die every year from C-diff and 337,000 people are hospitalized because of it.  Unlike other healthcare related infections that have been declining over the past decade, c-diff infection rates and deaths climbed to historic heights and "pose threats across medical facilities."  Despite their outreach programs, my wife and I know more about this bacteria than most medical workers we've come into contact with.  Which is scary.  The only thing that will kill this bug is bleach or washing your hands with warm, soapy water.  Alcohol-based disinfectants do no good.  Yet you wouldn't believe the number of nurses, doctors, and therapists who give us a condescending look when we tell them to wash their hands after dealing with my father.  "It’s okay." They say.  "I used my hand sanitizer."  No, it is not okay.  It is far from okay.  The hand sanitizer that so many healthcare workers depend upon does nothing against this bug.  You could squeeze an entire bottle on your hands and still transfer the bacteria to the next patient.  And they should already know this;  the CDC has aggressively educated healthcare workers and facilities about this problem.

It should be obvious from what I've written that this infection has life-altering impacts on the patient.  But what people don’t realize is the effects it has on caregivers as well.  Someone must be with my Dad twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.  My wife and I used to have regular date nights and would take occasional overnight trips to visit relatives, attend conventions to support my writing, or just explore new areas.  Now we only spend time outside the house together in two hour increments... and only when our son is able to stay with my Dad.  Even when I’m away from the house, I occasionally think I detect whiffs of that c-diff odor.  It’s like the ghost of a smell, haunting the borderlands of detection, and has killed my appetite on more than one occasion.   There’s financial strain involved, too, but I’m not just talking about prescriptions, ER visits, admissions,and office visit copays.  We buy adult diapers, bed pads, disposable gloves, bleach wipes, hand soap, probiotic yogurt, and wet wipes in bulk… and still go through them within a month’s time.  The financial constraints, however, are actually the least of our concerns.

More pressing is the fear of spreading this germ even further.  We don surgical gloves when dealing with my father and immediately wash our hands upon leaving his room.  We bleach everything on a daily basis:  bed rails, bedside table, lunch trays, his wheelchair, portable urinal, trashcan, checkbook, the telephone… anything he comes into contact with gets a thorough rub down. On top of this, we routinely steal the ink pens receptionists give for completing paperwork in waiting rooms;  if we returned them, they would simply be put back into the basket and could potentially spread the infection to other unsuspecting patients simply because my Dad signed his name on a release form.

And then there's also the fear.  We worry about having guests over, we worry about spreading it to friends, family, and co-workers.  We worry that we, ourselves, may already have this bacteria in our tracts, just waiting for our healthy flora to be compromised.  We worry that if they knew what we've been dealing with, friends will avoid us for fear of contamination.  We are not germaphobic, but we are vigilant.  We do not take this lightly and take every precaution to ensure that the bacteria doesn't leave my father's room, much less our home.

Sometimes it all gets a bit overwhelming;  sometimes you feel like a leper.  Sometimes you get tired.  Most people look forward to sleeping in on the weekends, but that's a luxury we rarely have.  We have to take turns to ensure that someone is awake to prepare my father's breakfast, give him his meds, clean him, and so on. But you have no choice.  You do everything within your power to keep the bacteria from spreading, including shaming those who should know better.  I would not wish c-diff on my worst enemy, much less an unwary stranger.  Nobody should have to go through this.  Nobody should have to endure the pain and indignity of this infection.  No one should have to watch someone they love suffer and weaken as the antibiotic-resistant germ grows stronger.

It takes a toll, but you find the strength and push on.  You have to.  You limit your tears and frustration to two minutes, tops;  then you take a deep breath, reach deep into your inner reserves, and muster the strength to do what needs to be done.  You change the diapers, bag the soiled linens, double bag the garbage, and do things you never thought you’d be able to do.  You have to.  Because you love this person and would want someone to treat you with the same dignity and respect.  because you want them to be well again.

That, my friend, is a first hand account of life within a hot zone.  And it only scratches the surface….

Dreaming in Text

When I was younger, my English/Creative Writing teachers talked a lot about symbolism in literature. At the time, I thought it sounded like a load of pretentious crap, to be perfectly honest. I swore to myself that I would always be a down to earth storyteller who stayed away from such ostentatious trappings. To paraphrase an Internet meme passed among authors, my curtains would be blue because that’s what color they were… not to illustrate my character’s underlying depression.


Now that I’m older (and hopefully wiser), I think I understand the role of literary symbolism a little more clearly. No one disputes the subconscious messages conveyed to us through our nightly dreams. It’s a stereotypical staple of psychoanalysis and hundreds of books have been written to help us understand what the hidden parts of our minds are trying to communicate. Think about it: how many times have you shared the details of a particularly odd or disturbing dream only to have the person you’re speaking to immediately ask, “So, what do you think it means?”

The reason I mention this is we, as authors, are basically dreaming in text. When we’re really on a roll, we don’t have to stop and consider what word, phrase, or sentence comes next; it simply flows from our fingertips to the keyboard and appears on our screens as if by magic. In these instances, we’re giving our imaginations and, in turn, subconscious free reign in the waking world. When this is done, it seems only natural the same type of symbolic imagery that peppers our dream worlds would carry over into our written creations.


This was really driven home when I wrote my second novel, Cry Havoc. I decided to challenge myself a bit with that one and see if I could write a 40,000 word rough draft within a consecutive 24 hour period. When I began this formidable task, all I knew about the story was I wanted the book to start with a city embroiled in urban warfare. I had no idea whom the characters were, what the plot would be, or where this scene of street fighting would lead, but trusted these details would reveal themselves as I wrote.


When I was editing the initial draft, things began to pop out at me. I noticed a reoccurrence of the color yellow within the pages and realized that as long as that color was associated with a character they were safe; but the moment yellow was removed from the situation, things rapidly devolved into brutality and violence. In my early 20s I’d worked in a chemical plant and after having my finger crushed by machinery was assigned “light duty”, which involved painting scaffolding and ladder cages; the color of paint I used was called Safety Yellow.


In another scene in the book, one of my main characters, Richard, had just returned to his apartment after a particularly harrowing experience. To be specific, he’d just killed an old man and looted his box of rations and supplies, despite the fact that he’d been a very civilized and sophisticated man for his entire life. An argument ensued with his roommates and Richard ended up slamming the boxes down upon a coffee table shaped like the Chinese Yin-Yang symbol, shattering the table in the process. Yin-Yang is a symbol of balance between dark and light and once that table broke, things were never the same for Richard again.

Even though I hadn’t intentionally added symbolism to my work, it still asserted itself and what my teachers and professors had been talking about finally clicked into place. Symbolism isn’t a show of pretension … it’s simply the way our brains are wired. So keep dreaming in text, authors, and trust that your subconscious will lead the way.

The Forest of Waiting Souls: A True Story

When I was very young, too young to really understand the concept of death (much less reincarnation), I had a dream.  In this dream, my sister, my aunt Connie, and I were camping in a damp cave. We'd laid out our sleeping bags near the mouth of the cave and I remember looking out upon the tops of mountains rolling as far as the eye could see.  Since we were pretty much level with all these mountains, I knew the cave we were camping in was high above the earth.  Our fire cracked and popped as shadows danced over the rock formations and somewhere way back in the darkness the plinking of condensation echoed.  The fire turned to glowing embers and my aunt and sister slept soundly while I laid awake, gazing out through the mouth of the cave at a sky brimming with stars.  As I watched, a large shadow passed, momentarily blacking out the entire view and a shiver coursed through my tiny body.  I knew whatever had blocked the entrance of the cave must have been massive and fear squeezed the breath from my body.  I pretended to sleep within this dream and, at some point, must have.

The dream, however, immediately cut to the next night.  Again the fire had all but burnt out. Again my sister and aunt were sleeping while I watched the mouth of the cave, wide awake.  Again the monstrous shadow passed and again I was paralyzed with fear.  But again the dream fast-forwarded to the next night and all of the details were the same.  Only this time my curiosity got the better of me (as it often does) and when the shadow passed I somehow mustered the courage to crawl out of my sleeping bag and approach the mouth of the cave.

My heart raced as I left the safety of our campsite behind and I felt as if I were about to throw up.  But I had to know.  I had to see what it was that had passed the mouth of our cave for three nights running.

Stepping out onto a ledge, I saw the world's largest T-Rex yards away.  As soon as I was exposed, its massive head whipped toward me as its gigantic mouth opened, revealing rows of sharp teeth that were as large as trees.  It roared and its rancid breath blew like a hot, mighty wind.  The force of the wind, coupled with panic, caused me to stumble backward and the next thing I know the edge of the cliff crumbled beneath my feet and I found myself falling, plummeting toward the hard, unforgiving earth below as wind whistled in my ears.

I knew there was no way I could survive. I knew, somehow, that I was going to die.

There was a flash of brilliant light and suddenly I was walking through a lush forest.  Birds twittered and chirped overhead and the air was scented with the most delicate and beautiful fragrance I'd ever smelled. Alabaster statues were scattered among wildflowers and fountains gurgled streams of water so clear it sparkled in the dappled sunlight.

I followed a path of crushed gravel through this forest until I came to a clearing.  In the center of the clearing was a semi-circle of concrete benches and seated upon these benches were people of every imaginable race and age.  I sat in the only open spot and listened as each person told the story of how they had died, patiently awaiting my turn.  After telling my tale, the beautiful brunette sitting beside me took my small hand in hers and smiled.  She told me I could stay in the forest for as long as I wanted, but when I was ready I would have to return to the living as a new baby.  But I would return, she said, I would always return....

True story.

What's in a name?

When I wrote The Seven Habits of Highly Infective People, I thought I'd come up with a pretty good title. My wife, however, never cared much forit. Don't get me wrong; she loves that book and it is by far her favorite thing I've written to date. But she's never cared for the title. In retrospect, I think I should have listened to her. It never occurred to me that people might get the wrong impression. It's. Not a parody of a self help book; it's not a mash up of zombies and the book from which its title was inspired. It's a dark and gritty tale with themes ranging from matricide to unspeakable acts committed in the name of survival. There's drug addiction, premeditated stalking and homicide, and a lot of moral ambiguity going down within those pages. If I had it all to do over again, I think I would name it something else. I've been told the title is clever and maybe it is. But it's not really a good indication of what lays in store once you begin reading it. What would I change the title to? That's a good question. Perhaps The Tides of Time since that's what I plan on calling the series. Perhaps something different. So here's a question: if you were to rename this book, what would. You call it?

Zombiepalooza!!!

On Sunday, October 7th from 9:00 to 11:00 PM, Jackie Chin will be hosting Zombiepalooza over on ztalkradio.com. The show will feature a live roundtable discussion with Permuted Press authors Scot Thomas, R. Thomas Riley, Scott M Baker, myself, and others. Tune in, call in, and join the party! More information can be found at the following link: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Zombiepalooza-Dead-Again/437569786279838