Category: Writing (Page 3 of 12)

My Most Embarrassing Writing Fails

January 26, 2022 / Kyle A. Massa

Bad Writing

My grandparents on my dad’s side were famous for never wasting anything. This is not a statement of hyperbole.

For instance, instead of killing dandelions in her yard, my grandmother served them as salad toppers. Also, my grandfather once removed every rusty nail from every board of a dismantled shed, then stored the nails in buckets in the basement for future use.

See? Nothing wasted.

I take after them in this respect, though my waste refusal has nothing to do with dandelions or rusty nails. Mine is all about writing.

I can’t discard my writing. No matter how bad it is, no matter how unreadable, I can’t write anything without using it somehow. So, this blog post is all about my lousiest work. I could (probably should) throw it out, but instead I’m sharing it with you. Hope you get a kick out of it—and maybe a few helpful tips along the way.

Pages of the Mirror

This pretentiously artsy script was my senior thesis project at Ithaca College in 2014. This was back when I feared nobody would take me seriously if I wrote comedy, so the resulting piece is emo, dull, and ultimately lousy.

Pages of the Mirror is about some dude named Danny who lives in a small town and is beloved by everyone, for some reason. When his equally beloved Uncle Jack (car mechanic with tattoos who listens to Metallica, of course) gets murdered, Danny becomes the prime suspect.

Plus, there’s an intertwined story of a mysterious fellow mysteriously named “The Writer” who’s working on a mysterious book and who continues to be generally mysterious, because I decided all this mystery would be intriguing. We soon discover this is a story within a story; the Writer is writing about Danny.

At the time, I thought this was clever. Looking back, the connection between the two stories was probably immediately obvious. Plus, it’s a classically egomaniacal story for a writer to write. (What if my writing became so good it came to life!?) I recall pulling an all-nighter the night before it was due, which is probably why I only got a B. But look at me now—I got blog content out of it.

My takeaway from this project: When you’re developing your voice, you might strike a few sour notes. Just clear your throat and keep singing.

“Apocalypse Now…or Never”

It’s hard to believe, but I’ve been writing on this here blog now for 10 years. If you explore my archives, you’ll find some bad writing. Perhaps the worst was my first ever blog post, entitled “Apocalypse Now…or Never.”

The title isn’t terrible; it’s the rest that’s ugly. Just check out this leadoff sentence:

“I’m having a hard time buying this ‘2012: World is Going to End’ crap.”

I wrote this sentence when I was 19, yet it makes me sound like I’m 60. Also, I’m pretty sure the punctuation is incorrect.

Things don’t improve from there. My intro paragraph is a block of text, and I somehow venture into a rant about Ozzy Osbourne possibly being a zombie. I don’t even address my anti-apocalypse stance until paragraph eight, and when I finally get to it, I use a funfetti cake as a metaphor.

If you want to read just how bad this blog post was, you can find it here. My takeaway: Writing gets better with age. I’m not some premier blogger, but this blog is certainly better than it was a decade ago. Second takeaway: I was right about the world not ending in 2012. Yay me.

Pleasant Street

This is another college project, though Pleasant Street was a short story, not a script. It’s so bad that I’ve actually written about it before. Not sure this is something I should brag about, but here goes…

This story has it all: A doofus protagonist, heavy-handed symbolism, clumsy language, geriatric cannibals. What more could you ask for?

Well, if you’re asking for competent plotting, compelling characters, or an interesting setting, look elsewhere. Pleasant Street is about a first-time cop named Officer Green (I warned you about the heavy-handedness) who’s assigned to walk the beat in a neighborhood called Pleasant Street. See? Because it’s called Pleasant Street, you’d never expect anything bad might happen. Brilliant misdirection.

As it happens, the residents of Pleasant Street have achieved eternal life via cannibalism. (I partially lifted this idea from an episode of The X-Files, so my apologies to Mulder and Scully.) Rather predictably, the story concludes with the main character being cooked and eaten. I would’ve offered a spoiler warning, but no one will ever read this story again—I’ve made sure of it.

As for the grade on this assignment, I don’t recall it. Perhaps my mind is repressing it to defend me. But here’s what I do remember: I never collected feedback on this piece. If I did, maybe someone might’ve told me it needed work. So that’s our takeaway for this story. Get feedback from people you trust, then use it if it works.

“10 Bold Predictions for the Future of Magic: The Gathering”

Yes, I know most readers will not care about Magic, let alone understand it. If you were to browse this article, you’d find such esoteric phrases as “enemy fetch lands,” “two-block paradigm,” and “Kaseto comes along in the new Commander product.”

However, I’m including this article because of my low success rate on these so-called bold predictions. To be clear, the writing is actually passable; I had some decent wisecracks, including a dig at Jar-Jar Binks (timeless). The issue is, I only got five of my 10 predictions right!

I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just say this: We must deliver on our promises to our readers—especially when the promise is right in the title.

“Someday”

I’ve saved the worst for last. You think my poetry is bad now? Just check out this poem from May 5th, 2011, for a creative writing class at Ithaca College.

“Someday soon,
We’ll touch the moon.
Ride the stars to the sun.
Someday soon,
We will commune.
And then we shall be one.”

This is weird pseudo-hippy crap that sounds like something you’d cringe at if you heard someone singing it with an acoustic on the campus quad. And it’s only an excerpt! I feel like I should apologize to you for forcing you to read it. I’m sorry.

The lesson learned here is clear: Don’t F with poetry. Bad poetry is more offensive than bad prose. My poetry is still pretty bad, but at least I’m reading and studying the craft before I write more. And I’m definitely not trying to rhyme.

Summing It All Up

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again here: I think it’s healthy to review your old work, no matter how nauseated it makes you feel. I may not be a great writer, but at least I’m better than I used to be. And sometimes, that reminder is all we need.

(P.S. I hope I made my grandparents proud. Waste not, want not!)

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Some Things I Learned on My Tour Through Westeros

November 17, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

Westeros Header

I recently re-read the entirety of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire.

…Do you still say “re-read” if you listened on audiobook? We’ll pretend the answer’s yes. Shoutout to late great narrator Roy Dotrice.

Anyhoo, now that I’m back from my tour, I thought I’d share some words of wisdom for those planning a similar visit. Consider this a long-form TripAdvisor review, only with fewer typos (hopefully).

People are super judgmental about parentage

In Westeros, if both your parents aren’t members of the one percent, odds are someone will call you “lowborn.” And if mom and dad weren’t married at the time of your birth, you might even be labeled “bastard,” which is only marginally better than, say, “accident.”

Seriously, people sling birth-related insults like mashed potatoes in a cafeteria food fight. Just ask Jon Snow, Mya Stone, or Gendry what’s-his-name. There’s even a guy named “The Bastard of Godsgrace,” if I remember correctly, which somehow stings even worse. I mean, if I was called the Bastard of Albany, I’d be bummed.

If you receive a wedding invitation, check the “Respectfully Decline” box

I’ve been to three weddings this year and the body count remains at zero (as far as I know). If this was Westeros, I wouldn’t even be alive to write this article. And if you think Westerosi weddings are dangerous, try a Dothraki ceremony. In the words of Illyrio Mopatis:

“A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair.”

If you must attend a wedding, arrive armed and don’t touch the food. And if the DJ starts playing “The Rains of Castamere”—yes, even the remix—run.

Imposters are everywhere

John the Fiddler, Jon Snow, Gryff, Young Gryff, Alayne Stone. Whenever you meet someone in Westeros, I suggest doing a background check, post haste.

George R.R. Martin is more sex crazed than a 14-year-old

Seriously, the guy can’t go five paragraphs without mentioning boobs, brothels, or some variation of the word “fuck.” No wonder HBO wanted the series adaptation.

Don’t be a peasant, because you’ll probably be murdered

Also, people will call you “smallfolk,” which is insulting.

…But don’t be a noble, either

You’ll probably get assassinated by your most ruthless rival, at which point they’ll claim your lands, income, castle, and underwear (presumably).

The safest approach is to become a middle-class working joe. Not that Westeros has a middle class, mind you.

Anyway, whatever your job is, it’s going to be horrible

Whether it’s the lifetime vow of celibacy for the Kingsguard or the lousy food of the Night’s Watch, every job in Westeros is kinda unappealing. Some other examples:

Hedge Knight: This is like being a freelance writer, in that you’ll take any project, so long as somebody pays you—which is never much, by the way. But at least you’re not sleeping under a hedge. Unless you really are sleeping under a hedge, in which case, you should’ve read the job description closer.
Septa/Septon: Meh, this job seems kinda boring—unless you’re the septa shouting, “Shame!” during Cercei’s penitence walk.
Maester: This looks like a desirable profession at first glance, since you just read books and offer unsolicited advice. However, several Maesters have met nasty ends, i.e. Luwin and Kerwin. Plus, Lady Barbrey Dustin made unflattering observations about them: “Isn’t it clever how the maesters go only by one name, even those who had two when they first arrived at the Citadel? That way we cannot know who they truly are or where they come from.” Alright, fine, I suppose that is a little sus. I’m out.
Whore: No thank you.
Hand of the King: Similar to the Vice President, minus the potential for biopics. Plus, the last few Hands have gotten caught in the proverbial wood chipper. A brief list:
- Jon Arryn: Poisoned by his psycho wife.
- Ned Stark: Imprisoned, framed, and beheaded.
- Tyrion Lannister: Nearly decapitated in a botched assassination attempt, then subsequently fired. Technically acting Hand of the King at the time, but still…
- Tywin Lannister: Shot in the bowels by his son whilst pooping.
- Harys Swyft: I don’t remember this guy and I’m sure you don’t either.
- Orton Merryweather: Hired because his wife was frienemies with the Queen Regent.
- Mace Tyrell: Hired to forestall the end of a hopelessly fraying alliance. Also a doofus.

I’d rather work in customer service than any of these jobs, which is really saying something.

Keep a dream journal

This is a must since dreams are so often prophetic. Sure, you’ll stress over portents and symbols and whatnot, but you’ll have an advantage over those who don’t bother. Take this dream from The Ghost of High Heart as an example:

“I dreamt a wolf howling in the rain, but no one heard his grief. I dreamt such a clangor I thought my head might burst, drums and horns and pipes and screams, but the saddest sound was the little bells.”

Though she never made it to the show, she totally dreamt of the Red Wedding before it happened. Alas, nobody in Westeros enjoys Freudian dream interpretation.

At least the food’s good

They may not have GrubHub in Westeros, but who needs it when you’ve got options like this?

“They began with a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig.”

“There were loaves of crusty bread still warm from the ovens, crocks of fresh-churned butter, honey from the septry’s hives, and a thick stew of crabs, mussels, and at least three different kinds of fish.”

“They started with a creamy chestnut soup, crusty hot bread, and greens dressed with apples and pine nuts. Then came lamprey pie, honeyed ham, buttered carrots, white beans and bacon, and roast swan stuffed with mushrooms and oysters.”

Fortunately, they don’t have Tapas restaurants. Now please excuse me while I go raid my pantry.

In Conclusion

I hope these notes have enlightened you regarding Westerosi culture. If not, I wouldn’t recommend traveling there anytime soon.

…Unless you’re arriving via book, that is. In that case, visit as often as you like. I know I will.

Kyle A. Massa is a fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Thanks to this Gizmodo article for collecting the meal descriptions.

A Post-Apocalyptic Halloween Greeting

October 31, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

First thing: Happy Halloween!

Second thing: When did the world end?

I’m being facetious, of course. The world is still intact, and will remain that way until the Philadelphia Eagles win another Super Bowl, at which point all existence will implode upon itself. But in my new short story, The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author, the world is kaput. And today, I’d like to give you a behind-the-scenes at this story.

The Inspiration

Last year, a certain global pandemic made the future seem grim. And here in the United States, we also had rampant police brutality (and still do, sadly), along with an anxiety-laden election that inspired an attempted insurrection at our capital.

So yeah. Not a great stretch there.

Sad to say, 2020 made me contemplate the collapse of civilization far more than I ever had. Being a writer, I manifested those contemplations as post-apocalyptic stories.

Such narratives are strangely optimistic: They promise life—albeit often bleak—even after catastrophe. But post-apocalyptic stories can also be arrogant, because they often assume the near-extinction of humans qualifies as the end of the world. Here’s the thing: Even if humans die out, planet Earth will still endure (probably). To quote the great humanist Ozzy Osbourne: “The world will still be turning when you’re gone. Yeah, when you’re gone!”

So, I imagined a future where Earth moved on from humans, though books still existed (even the bad ones). Thus, The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author was born. Or rather, written.

The Writing

As with many of my stories, this one had many failed incarnations. I knew I had the elements—I just needed to configure them properly. Those elements were, in no particular order…

A prolific yet talentless and inexplicably cheery author based on Kurt Vonnegut’s Kilgore Trout (and a little on me)
A wagon full of books
A sand-swept, desolate landscape
Offbeat humor
Godlike cockroaches

Number two turned into a wheelbarrow, and number five went from plural to singular, but the rest remained essential. But how would I fit the pieces together?

In one aborted draft, for example, our main character encounters several characters on the road, trying (and failing) to sell a book to each. Here’s an excerpt from a draft I wrote in June:

“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” said Oliver, “but you look like a romance guy.”

The man Oliver spoke to, the alleged romance guy, was a squat, balding brute with a bulky frame hidden beneath a flak jacket. He stood with his massive hands squeezing each other, like the jaws of two wolves snarling over a scrap of meat. His eyes were cold and gray and lifeless. They did not blink.

“Kissing,” Oliver continued. “Lots of kissing and squeezing and moaning. It’s borderline erotica, but not quite there. A little softer, you might say, but if you’ll excuse my saying, you look like a soft, loving sort of guy. Deep down, I mean.”

The man spat in the dust.

I was proud of the writing here, especially considering I dictated it during my commute. Yet the story never felt like it was about anything. It needed more depth, more nuance, more meaning.

So, I tried a new tactic. This time, I changed it from third-person to first.

I knew a guy once who told a joke. The joke went like this: What’s the difference between a writer and everybody else?

Wait for it, wait for it, then comes the punchline: Everybody else makes a living.

Big laughs, big laughs. Funny because it’s true. I know from experience.

See, I sold my books before the end and I sell them now, too. You would think that a global apocalypse would open people’s wallets, but no. I’ve still never sold a copy.

Warmer. The first-person voice felt better than third, but it hadn’t solved the depth and nuance problem. Again, I had to ask myself: What is this story truly about?

The answer: lost friendship. We all have that childhood friend we lose track of, that person we grew apart from, though we can’t explain why. This is a story about the friends we lose—and maybe even reconnect with.

The Finished Product

At first, The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author was a placeholder title. However, I liked the rhythm so much I kept it. I’m proud of this story’s blend of post-apocalyptic setting, offbeat humor, and a dash of horror (hence the Halloween release).

Want a taste for yourself? Here’s an appetizer:

“Hello, human.”

Ah. So I’ve been spotted. I tip my hat to the hybrid face now leering at me, hoping the casual gesture belies my dread.

“How many books would you like to buy?” I ask the drone. “A copy of each? This is your lucky day, my friend. I have plenty.” (I have plenty because nobody ever bought a copy, even when there was money to buy them with. But I keep that detail to myself.)

The drone approaches me. He wears a flowing robe that matches the dull gray of the world around us. The way his legs dance beneath, I can tell he has more than two.

“A book?” he asks with a lopsided grin. “Why not a blessing? Why not the Blessing? Shall I describe the process to you?”

“I’d rather describe my books to you.” I peel aside the tarp on my wheelbarrow like a magician revealing the vanished rabbit. “I’ve got hardcovers, paperbacks, matte finish or glossy. My newest stories are written longhand in notebooks, or sometimes upon several napkins. Not the most appealing medium, but I’m sure you understand, what with the state of publishing these days. Ah. Try this one.” I pass a hardcover copy of Shank & Shiv: Attorneys at Law to the drone. Sweat trickles down my back. “Supernatural legal thriller. John Grisham meets William Peter Blatty. You look like you’d enjoy it.”

The drone’s green eyes squint at the cover. “This cover is…”

“Gorgeous? Why thank you. I made it myself. With Photoshop. Remember Photoshop?”

The drone flips over the book and reads the back cover aloud. “‘They say demons love contracts. That’s why Shank & Shiv, demons and best buddies, open their own half-legal law firm in New Jersey.’”

I nod. “Remember New Jersey?”

A shrug, and the drone reads my name from the bio. “‘Oliver M. Fudge.’ Is that you?”

“One of me. It’s a pen name, you see. I’m a genre-hopper.”

“Fascinating. Now, I’ve listened to your pitch. Will you listen to mine?” The drone’s insect mandibles tickle the air. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I am an emissary. I offer the Blessing of the Roach to the refuse of this world. Refuse such as yourself, Mr. Fudge. Do you wish to see clearly and breathe freely? Do you wish to ascend higher than your predecessors ever dreamed? If so, the process is simple.”

“Simple, eh?” I study the drone, my gaze lingering longest on his antennae and the legs beneath his robes. “Seems like you’re still working on it.”

“A transitory state. You should see me when I’m all grown up.”

“I’d rather not. I’d rather sell you a book.”

And here’s what advance readers have thought of the story:

“A strange, comical, and heartwarming story.”
“This is quite a shift to the typical apocalypse tale.”
“A really sweet little story about friendship, giant roaches, and terrible short stories during the end of the world.”

Click here to purchase your copy of The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author. Happy Halloween!

Back at the Albany Book Festival

October 4, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

It was 10:25 in the morning, my socks were quacking against my Adidas Slides with each step, I was lost between the austere granite slabs of UAlbany’s campus, and yet I recall feeling content. The Albany Book Festival was back.

To be clear, last year’s event wasn’t cancelled—it was virtual. However, I was Zoomed out, so I didn’t attend. This year was back in-person, masked and socially distant.

I brought my Special Olympics New York backpack, a pen and notebook, a packed lunch, and some cash (because one can never have too many books). I also came clad in the aforementioned socks and Slides, which was in hindsight, a poor choice.

I was aiming for comfort.

“So, are you a student here?”

I’m almost 30, and I got this question about that many times. I’m pretty sure it was the footwear.

10:35am

I slipped into the day’s first session about five minutes late. Fortunately, the back row was open and introductions were proceeding.

Three people sat at the head of the room, six feet separating them. On the left: Dana Spiotta. On the right: Ed Schwarzschild. In the middle: Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah. “I’m sitting between two of my professors,” Adjei-Brenyah said with a smile.

Despite the signage, I still managed to get lost.

I scribbled two pages of wisdom over the next 45 minutes. Aside from the parentheticals, these are direct extracts of my notes:

3rd v. 1st person – Nana has both in his new book (re: point-of-view)
“Novel? Yeah! But short story? Where’s the novel?” (Adjei-Brenyah’s impression of agents)
“It’s like getting married.” (Spiotta’s comparison for writing a novel.)

I don’t quite recall what all my scribblings meant, but I’m glad I scribbled them. There’s nothing so inspiring as listening to talented writers discuss writing.

11:35am

With the opening session complete and my coffee thermos empty, I needed a bathroom. Not for the first time that day, I learned how labyrinthine UAlbany’s campus is. (Don’t worry—I ended up finding one.)

That left five minutes until the next session, which I devoted to meeting local authors in the Campus Center Ballroom. Had I acted faster, I might’ve joined the 40 or so folks tabling at the event. But hey, there’s always next year.

Inside awaited books. Books perched on platforms, books displayed on racks, books upon books upon tables arranged in concentric rings. I made the rounds and met many of the people behind those books, including Keith W. Willis, Shana Gourdine, Bill Moloney, Eleanor Kuhns, and Laura Heffernan.

My loot from the event.

(Not pictured: The Milky Way bar I devoured on my way to the next session.)

12:10pm

This panel began at 11:45, so I regrettably missed much of it. Ed Schwarzschild was back once again, this time paired with Emily Layden, author of All Girls, a novel about a New England boarding school.

My favorite bit of advice from Layden: “An editor’s job is to see your work for what it’s trying to be.”

12:37pm

Unfortunately for my groaning stomach, there was no lunch break on the schedule. So, with eight minutes until the next session, I discovered a distant table tucked beside the shadow of the Campus Center stairs and removed my mask. Time to eat.

(My meal, for the curious, was a turkey sandwich with baby carrots, saltine crackers, a banana, and a granola bar. Did not snap a pic.)

So there I sat, munching on my sandwich, watching masked people flow up and down the stairs, swinging their complimentary purple totes, consulting their programs and floor maps, chatting about this panel or that book. I eat turkey sandwiches every weekday—but that Saturday’s sandwich tasted especially good.

12:45pm

This was the first session I was on-time for. I padded lightly, reducing the squeaking of my Slides as much as possible, then chose a seat at the end of the row beside a woman knitting a purple sweater. “Are you a student?” she asked me.

Peter Osnos was the featured speaker, in conversation with Paul Grondahl. Osnos is a remarkable guy, first as a journalist covering the Vietnam War, then as an editor, now as a publisher, and always as a writer. The guy has seen some shit, and he’s met many important people along the way (some of them shitty). A short list: Robert McNamara, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, Donald Trump, and Vladimir Putin.

Of our modern times, Osnos commented, “I think we’re living in, as we always will, a time of turmoil.” I found this statement oddly comforting. Every generation has their turmoil: The Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam, 9/11, the pandemic (I know I’m missing a few). Yet if we endure these turmoils, someday we’ll speak of them in the past tense.

But the best exchange went like this:

Grondahl: “You’ve been a reporter, editor, and publisher. Which is your favorite?”

Osnos: “Grandfather!”

1:45pm

“When you’re in the storm, it’s hard to describe. It’s just…life.”

I can’t recall the question that sparked this response from Quiara Alegría Hudes, but I loved it. She wore a suit jacket with pink and blue flowers, and she sat on a stage in the Campus Center West Auditorium, six feet away from interviewer Sarah LaDuke.

The stage just prior to the interview.

Hudes is perhaps best known for co-writing the musical (and screen adaptation of) In the Heights with Lin-Manuel Miranda, the guy behind Hamilton. But her career goes far beyond, with numerous other playwriting, screenwriting, and essay credits. Her current project: A memoir entitled My Broken Language.

When asked how to honor the varying cultures of the people in her book, Hudes answered, “Authenticity lies in the multiplicity of voices present.” A profound statement.

2:45pm

I rounded out the day with a talk from Elizabeth Brundage, a veteran author who’s an Albany native herself. Her new book is called The Vanishing Point, and it sounded so intriguing I picked up a copy myself. When asked about the book’s genre, Brundage said, “I don’t try to think about genre too much when I write. I just try to write a good novel.”

I dig this sentiment. Especially in the indie space, I worry some are too fixated on genre. I’ve heard far too many authors cautioning others against genre hopping and breaking conventions, when I fear that approach might lead to homogeny. After all, I can’t recall ever reading a book and thinking, Wow, I love how conventional that story was.

Anyway, I digress. Later in the session, Brundage summed up her feelings thusly: “I’m interested in people. That’s my genre. People are my genre.”

Later, I got in line to meet the author. She was personable, and she wrote a kind dedication in my book: “From one writer to another.” Of course, she must’ve seen my footwear.

“Are you a student here?” she asked.

3:30pm (Or So)

As I drove home in my 2005 Honda Element (nicknamed “The Box” by my wife), I pondered this essay. I wondered what the point would be, beyond notifying people I’d attended the Festival. I thought about masks and the pandemic, about how one year ago, this event existed only online. I thought about a sentiment I’ve heard so often, always in different forms, but always the same: Why didn’t the pandemic bring us together?

For over a year, every person on earth has had something in common. You’d think that would inspire unity, but it’s only fueled division: Masked versus unmasked, vaccinated versus anti-vax, cautious versus no-worse-than-the-flu. For many, this dissension is cause for despair.

But at a gathering as relatively small as the 2021 Albany Book Festival, I found the unity the world’s been longing for. I saw people joining together, masks and all, to celebrate our shared passion: books.

Books. Simple as that. Words printed on pages and bound together, covered by shells of cardboard, matte or gloss. Words from one person to another. Words that help us realize how much we have in common, or how little, and why there are reasons to hope either way.

My right Adidas Slide quacked as I pressed it into the accelerator. I merged onto I-90, and I headed home.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

The Real Reason Frodo Didn’t Ride an Eagle into Mordor

August 19, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

“Bilbo and the Eagles” by Ted Nasmith

There’s a common question posed by readers of The Lord of the Rings trilogy: Is Tom Bombadil robotripping?

Also: Why didn’t the eagles help Frodo?

No, I’m not talking about the NFL’s Philadelphia Eagles (thank god). Nor am I talking about the band (though now that you mention it, I’m down for a little “Hotel California.”) I’m talking about the Great Eagles of Middle-Earth, also known as the Eagles of Manwë, also known as something else, I’m sure, because everybody has like 10 names in Middle-Earth (i.e. Gandalf).

According to this Screen Rant article, cartographer Karen Wynn Fonstad calculated Frodo and Sam’s journey was 1,779 miles long, all on foot (hobbit feet, as it were). They rowed down rivers, stumbled through bogs, and wandered into giant spider lairs, all while they could’ve hopped on giant eagles and dropped the ring into Mt. Doom.

There are many explanations, the most likely of which being that J.R.R. Tolkien wanted some actual conflict. In this post, I’d like to give you my explanation. It all started at RIA, better known as Rivendell International Airport…

“Sam,” said Frodo. “We’re late.”

If Gandalf (their travel agent) had been present, he’d have some quick rejoinder prepared. A frequent flyer is never late, Frodo Baggins… But Gandalf wasn’t present. If he was, they wouldn’t be late.

Frodo and Sam found themselves in the lobby of Rivendell International Airport. The drop-off zone outside had been a madhouse, packed with horses and ponies and passengers. It was no less chaotic inside: men, elves, and dwarves jostled and bustled like soldiers preparing for battle. All of them stood between the hobbits and their flight.

“Come on, Sam. Hurry!” Frodo, unencumbered by any bags, plunged into the fray. Sam, weighed down by all their luggage, chugged along behind.

“Do you think we can fit this all in carry-on, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked as they ran. “Should we check a bag or two?”

“No,” Frodo answered gravely. “We’d never see them again.” He swept his gaze over the crowd, noting a dwarf slurping a pint at the airport bar, an elf enjoying a kingsfoil salad, and a hooded man reading a mystery novel. “We must hasten, Sam. The Dark Lord has eyes everywhere.”

“Even in the bathrooms?”

“Especially in the bathrooms.”

“Aye, he’s evil enough for it. Hey, did you pack the…you know?”

Frodo touched his chest, feeling the solid metal between skin and shirt. It was such a small thing, such a little thing, yet it heaved on the chain about his neck like a lead weight. It was the One Ring, the ultimate weapon of the Dark Lord Sauron, the bane of Isildur, forged in the fires of Mt. Doom, retailing for $999.99 at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry.

“I have it,” Frodo confirmed. “But let us not speak of it. Too many ears in this airport.”

“Unfriendly eyes, unfriendly ears.” Sam shook his head. “What’ll be next? Unfriendly toes?”

As if on cue, an elf sped past and crushed Sam’s toes with a roller bag. He yelped, but Frodo didn’t notice—he was pointing ahead. “Look. The security checkpoint.” He hurried onward, leaving Sam to hobble behind.

Though Rivendell was a haven of beauty and enlightenment, its airport security was staffed by the TSA. They were a brusque people, a grouchy people, and it was said that folk who displeased them were plucked from line and cavity searched, just for the hell of it.

One such TSA agent awaited behind a kiosk, an old crone with faded blonde highlights and fingernails the size of pairing knives. Each nail was painted a vivid purple, and they clacked like the bones of a skeleton as she rapped them upon her kiosk.

“Have your passport and boarding parchment out and visible,” she growled at them.

Sam gulped. “I’m scared, Mr. Frodo.”

“Be brave, Sam. Our flight is due to board any minute.” Frodo approached the woman at the kiosk, bowed his head, and presented his documents.

The woman’s hand descended like a bird’s talon. “Name?”

“Underhill,” said Frodo, keeping his eyes down. “Mr. Underhill.” Gandalf, their travel agent, had insisted on secret names.

The woman clacked her purple fingernails, then shifted her gaze to Sam. “And you?”

Sam offered his documents. “I’m Mr., umm…Gardner?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “That a name or a question?”

“N-neither,” Sam sputtered. “I mean, both?”

Her gaze drifted to the luggage. The woman still had yet to blink, and Frodo was beginning to wonder if she had eyelids at all. “You don’t have any razors in those bags, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What about aerosol cans? Firearms? Fireworks? Lithium batteries?”

They’d never heard of such things in the Shire (except the fireworks), so it was easy to shake their heads no.

“Good enough,” she said, stamping their boarding parchments. “Now get outta my sight.”

Ahead awaited more security. “Arms and armament in separate bins,” barked one of the surlier TSA agents. “Empty your pockets, and remove all metal.”

All metal. That meant…

Frodo stopped short. “Sam. The Ring. They’ll make me take it off.”

Sam frowned. “They’ll give it back, though, won’t they?”

“They might. But what if they’re servants of the Dark Lord?”

“Oh.” Sam scratched his head. “Hadn’t considered that.”

“You two!” the surly TSA agent screamed. “You’re holding up the line. Move move move!”

They moved. Sam hauled the luggage into bins, then stacked them onto the conveyer belt. They hustled ahead.

The Ring still hung around Frodo’s neck. He tried to look as innocent as possible as he stepped through the metal detector.

Beep.

“Honestly, squirt, are your ears clogged by the fur of the Cats of Queen Berúthiel?” The TSA agent beyond the metal detector jabbed a finger at him. “Back through. And make sure your pockets are empty.”

Frodo turned around, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew it would beep again, but if he removed the Ring, they’d claim it for their own. He stepped through again, and—

Beep.

“That’s it. Time for a cavity search.” With a little too much satisfaction, the TSA agent snapped on a rubber glove.

Frodo’s eyes went wide. “They’re going to take it. Then the quest will be for naught, the Dark Lord will win, and the Shire will be ruined. And we’ll have to apply for flight vouchers.”

“No, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, striking a determined expression. “Let us be rid of the TSA, once and for all.” Suddenly, the musical score swelled, and Sam stepped forward heroically. “He has…a pacemaker!”

The TSA agent blinked. “A what?”

“A pacemaker.”

“Oh.” The agent shrugged. “Why should I care?”

“Because that’s what’s setting off the metal detector. Just a pacemaker. No need to harass us further.”

“Hah. Good one. Now bend over, little man. Let’s make sure nobody’s smuggling any Longbottom Leaf…”

Sam looked stricken—but Frodo had an idea.

“Fine,” said Frodo, unbuckling his belt. “We’ll just be late to our trial.”

“Trial?”

“Yes, trial. My associate and I are lawyers.”

The TSA agent’s eyes went wide. “Lawyers?”

“Aye,” said Sam, nodding and smiling. It seemed he’d caught on to the charade. “We love suing people. We sue them all the time.”

“In fact,” added Frodo, warming to the role, “we’ve got a class-action suit pending against the Witch King of Angmar for stabbing people with his Morgul Blade. We’re suing him for all he’s worth—which isn’t much these days, but still. Care to join him?”

The TSA agent glowered at the hobbits. His eyes flicked from one to the other, as if sizing them up. “A pacemaker. Aye.” He snarled at them, like a rabid dog, then waved them through.

Sam gathered their belongings and hoisted them onto his back. He was still hobbling from the damage to his toes, but he did his best to keep up with Frodo. They raced through the terminal.

“We’re at Gate whatever-that-is,” Frodo huffed, pointing at the swirly Elvish runes. “Hurry, Sam!”

They hurried. They hurried through dwarvish families, elvish business professionals, human tourists, and finally, they arrived at their gate…

Just in time to see their flight take off.

They were meant to fly on the back of a great eagle, a hulking golden bird with a wing span wide enough to blot out the sun. It sped down the runway, cawed, and with three beats of its massive wings (both stamped with the words “Southwest Airlines”), it lifted off and soared into the distance.

Frodo slumped against the glass. Sam collapsed beside him.

“Cheer up, Mr. Frodo. We can always book a new flight to Mordor.”

“But Sam. We’d have to go through customer service.”

They glanced at the customer service desk. Thousands of people stood before it. Most were dead on their feet, their corpses rotting and stinking, while the living were blanketed by cobwebs and dust.

Frodo shook his head. “No, that way lies doom and despair. We have no choice but to walk, or take an Uber. And I left my phone at home.”

“Dropped mine in the toilet,” sighed Sam. “Suppose we’re walking, then. Think anyone will join us?”

“I’m sure Gandalf can book us some companions.” Frodo slapped his friend on the shoulder, then stood. “Fuck it, Sam. Let’s form a fellowship.”

Thanks, GRRM: Lessons Learned from George R.R. Martin

June 21, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

George R.R. Martin

Whether written or read, every book is a lesson.

George R.R. Martin is one of the best I’ve ever learned from (and for more than just his gratuitous descriptions of food). GRRM’s writing has made an indelible impact on mine. So today, I’d like to share some of my favorite lessons with you.

(Be forewarned—there will be spoilers for his books!)

Lesson 1: It’s Good to Bully Characters

Though I’ve covered this subject before, it remains a tough lesson to internalize. Yet the truth is plain: It pays to be mean to your characters.

Nobody’s nastier than George R.R. Martin. He beheads poor Ned Stark in book one, murders Renly Baratheon in book two, then goes ham in book three by killing Catelyn Stark, Robb Stark, Joffrey Baratheon, and Tywin Lannister (among others).

And those are just the characters who die. The ones who live fare little better, i.e. Jaime Lannister getting his hand lopped off, Bran Stark being tossed from a tower, Daenerys Targaryen losing her son and hubby within hours of each other, and so forth.

I am almost certain Martin likes all these characters (with the exception of Joffrey). Yet he still bullies them. It’s the right thing to do.

Imagine, for example, if Martin liked Robb Stark too much to have him killed at the Red Wedding. Doing so would deprive us of one of the most shocking plot twists in modern literature—and television, for that matter. (I remember when the Red Wedding episode of HBO’s Game of Thrones aired. People could not stop talking about it.)

Bullying one’s characters means putting them in difficult situations. This forces one’s characters to be clever, courageous, and resilient; in short, it makes them more interesting. The meaner the writer is, the more momentous their characters’ eventual triumphs will be.

Lesson 2: Plan Ahead

As a kid, I dreamed of writing series. I dreamed of trilogies, quartets, quintets, whatever you call a six-book series, and more. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire is a planned seven-volume series, and it’s masterful.

Before anyone writes an angry comment, let me clarify. Martin’s series is masterful. His writing pace? Not so much.

But part of what makes the five existing books so compelling is their foresight. The more you read, the more you’ll notice that those vague prophecies and ethereal dreams always seem to come true. That’s because Martin plans ahead, and has a destination in mind.

Consider this passage from Catelyn Stark’s point of view in A Game of Thrones:

“Sometimes [Catelyn] felt as though her heart had turned to stone…”

An innocuous line when you first read it. Yet once we get to book three, when the Freys murder Catelyn and Beric Dondarrion resurrects her, she goes by a new name: Lady Stoneheart.

And that’s just a subtle example. Adding these nuggets throughout the series makes the books feel even more intertwined and interconnected. Plan ahead and reap the rewards.

Lesson 3: A Good Mystery Goes A Long Way

I’m not much of a mystery reader, but I probably should be. I always enjoy books with even a hint of the unknown. Martin has those hints in spades.

There’s the classic R + L = J equation, a long-standing theory which I won’t spoil for readers (but was confirmed in the series). Also, what the heck happened to Benjen Stark, who went ranging in the wild in book one and never appeared again? And what game are Illyrio Mopatis and Varys playing together?

I’ll stop there to preserve my word count. But you can visit the long-running Forum of Ice and Fire or the series’s Subreddit for more mysteries and possible explanations. If a series has enough enigmas to fill two websites with content, you know it must be special.

Lesson 4: Perfection is an Illusion

In second grade, I decided I wanted to be a writer. Fantasy was my genre, chiefly inspired by The Lord of the Rings. I loved the trilogy, yes—but part of me resented it as well. I’d convinced myself that no one—particularly me—could ever write anything better.

Then, 10 years ago, my dad invited me to watch a show I never heard before: A Game of Thrones. He’d heard about it somewhere and knew how much I loved LOTR. So, we watched the pilot. (Not really the type of show you should watch with a parent, but so it goes.)

Here’s a short list of the things I witness on my first visit to Westeros:

Nudity
Incest
Attempted child murder
Several creative uses of the word “fuck”
Characters who aren’t clearly good or evil

What blew me away was the audacity of the story. Game of Thrones took epic fantasy, a genre that celebrated heroism and the triumph of good over evil, and turned it into something far uglier—and in many ways, more compelling.

I spent the summer of 2011 watching new episodes every Sunday. The other six days of the week were spent tearing through the novels. And though it didn’t come immediately, I eventually had an epiphany: I liked A Song of Ice and Fire better than Lord of the Rings.

When you see perfection improved upon, you realize nothing’s perfect. There’s always more to be done, a higher place to climb, a better book to write. GRRM’s work helped me see past the ceilings I’d always believed were there. I doubt I’ll ever write anything better than Lord of the Rings. But if Martin could do it, it can’t be impossible.

Thanks, GRRM

Though we’ve never met, I’ve learned so much about writing from George RR Martin. I hope you did as well.

The Illusion of Effortlessness

April 5, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

talent

Jordan’s jump shot. Aretha’s voice. Shakespeare’s wit. Cage’s acting.

These people and their talents have one thing in common (except the last one—that was a joke). They all appear effortless.

As someone who loves writing, I’ve noticed this phenomenon in my chosen craft. I’m listening to an audiobook by Neil Gaiman right now, for example, and all I can think of after every story is, Wow. He’s so talented. I’ve gotten into the audio game of late, and even Neil’s reading feels effortless.

Of course, it isn’t. Mastery conceals years of practice spent honing a craft. We’ll never see the millions of shots Michael Jordan missed to perfect his form, nor the countless hours Aretha Franklin spent in church singing her favorite songs, nor the numerous revisions Shakespeare no doubt made to his plays. And even Nicolas Cage probably practices his freakouts.

This illusion can be understandably frustrating, especially for those striving for equivalent mastery. I want to become a full-time writer someday, so when I read a superb book that’s sold millions of copies, I always feel a little jelly.

Why can’t it be that easy for me? I wonder. Why can’t I have that kind of natural talent?

Here’s what I need to remind myself: Effortlessness is an illusion.

That’s not to say natural skill doesn’t exist; some musicians are born with perfect pitch, for example. But no one achieves mastery from innate skill alone. Practice, dedication, and perseverance are essential, no matter how effortless the final product might appear.

Why write this? Because I forget it all the time, which makes me think others do, too. Sometimes we envy people for their skills, all the while forgetting that we could achieve the same proficiency—or even surpass it—by working hard. Natural talent is places some further ahead than others before the starting gun sounds. But hard work can close the gap.

Next time you compare yourself to someone else, remember that effortlessness is an illusion. They got where they are by working hard—and that means you can do the same.

Unless you want to act like Nicolas Cage, that is. No amount of practice will get you there.

Kyle’s Time Travelin’ Tour, 2020 Edition

January 1, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

People hated 2020 about as much as non-New Englanders hate the Patriots. But hey, at least it’s over.

Now you may have noticed this fancy looking doohickey here. Though it might resemble a futuristic vending machine, it’s not. It’s actually a time machine.

Step inside, reader. I’d love to show you some stuff I worked on in 2020. And I promise we can stay socially distant and wear masks and all that stuff.

Ready? I’ll just close the hatch, press this button here, and…

January

We begin 2020 with an ending: I finished reading the Sandman series. That’s 10 collected volumes, 76 issues, and a heck of a lot of pictures of naked people.

I include this here because Sandman changed the way I think about long-form narrative. It’s impressive how the issue story arcs feed into the volume arcs, and how all 10 volumes combine to cover one gigantic story. Furthermore, the experimentation in form and style is incredible to behold. Can’t wait for the Netflix series.

February

February was a relatively quiet month for writing, mainly because I spent most of it gearing up for the 2020 Special Olympics New York Winter State Games (that’s my day job). About 1,000 athletes, coaches, and volunteers gathered in Rochester for competition in six sports. When we can safely host events of that size again, I highly recommend you join us.

On the writing front, I published a tongue-in-cheek blog post entitled “Podcasts I’ll Never Make.” Everybody seems to have a podcast these days. This post is why I don’t.

March

With Winter Games concluded, I dove headfirst into my next long-form project. It was going to be called And the End is Always Near (a title borrowed from the lyrics of “Roadhouse Blues” by The Doors). Notice the past tense there.

Chiefly inspired by The X-Files and the works of Emily St. John Mandel and David Mitchell, this novel was going to check in with five point-of-view characters over three years: 2000, 2010, and 2020. I read Monsters of the Week: The Complete Critical Companion to The X-Files (among other books) as research. I even quizzed friends and family on their recollections of my three years, hoping to get as many perspectives as possible.

I think you can tell where this story is headed.

Things shut down here in the U.S. in about mid-March. Remote work began, mask-wearing became as ubiquitous as underwear wearing, and 2020 turned into quite the stinker of a year. In a matter of weeks, my enthusiasm for the project dwindled.

It’s not dead. I plan to revisit And the End is Always Near in the future, once this pandemic nonsense is over. I’ve changed the years to 1999, 2012, and 2020. I’ll lose the clean decade spacing, but I like these three years because they’re three points in my life where the end truly seemed near (1999 had Y2K, 2012 had the Mayan calendar thing, and 2020 was 2020).

So, I pivoted on this year’s project. We’ll get to it soon.

April

I’ve done an April Fools blog post the past few years, and 2020 was no exception. I give you the sequel to my first novel:

(Here I tinkered with the brilliant original cover design by my friend Nathan Rumsey.)

I might need to put a disclaimer on these posts in the future, because like 2019’s post, people thought this was real. I felt especially bad about that because some readers were honestly excited. Sorry, everyone.

Lastly, on a non-writing related note, we did as many quarantiners did and got a puppy!

Her name is Osi and she’s an English Springer Spaniel. She is energetic, athletic, and very cuddly, but only when she gets tired (which is rare). We’re still working on her relations with the cats, but things are progressing.

May

The theme of this month was “hair,” as evidenced by my appearance during this live reading of my short story “Large Coffee, Black”…

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…And also this newsletter, which bore the strange subject line, “A quick update on the state of my hair.” Lot of unsubscribes on that one. Can you tell I was going a little nuts?

June

Here I regained some semblance of sanity with a new blog entitled, “My 5 Favorite Bad Movies.” Or maybe not, since it’s a post praising the works of Nicolas Cage…

I also finished David Foster Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. In fact, you’ll see it on my favorite books of the year roundup, coming soon.

July

Now here’s where things got spicy.

In terms of distribution, there are two paths an indie author like myself can walk: Exclusivity, or going wide. The former usually means Amazon, specifically opting into KDP Select, which mandates your book be exclusive to Amazon for a period of months. The latter means sharing your book in as many places as possible, thereby piecing together many smaller incomes into a (hopefully) greater whole.

I’m a going wide kind of guy. Therefore, in July, I began selling books directly on my website.

There are many reasons for doing so, though I won’t bore you with the details—unless you feel like being bored, in which case, check out this blog post I wrote on tax nexus. I spent more time than I’d like to admit trying to figure out whether or not I needed to apply sales tax to ebooks in my native New York State (turns out I didn’t, unless the IRS tells me otherwise).

But it was worth all the research, because it led to this…

Big Riches, Fine Wine, and a Pinch of Dragonsbane is a short story available exclusively through my website for $0.99. Look for more short stories like it in the new year!

August

August was a touchy month, in that I wrote about writing about touchy subjects. Specifically religion.

I’d hinted at my new novel a few times prior, but this, I believe, was the first explicit mention of the title, plot, and all that. I also went in-depth on my approach to the subject in a blog post.

Oh yeah, and this happened, too.

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September

In September I celebrated a birthday. Not my birthday. Not some other human’s birthday. It was the birthday of my second book, Monsters at Dusk. Is that weird? Probably.

My birthday present to my book was, perhaps cruelly, a frank evaluation. Of the 10 stories in the collection, here are my personal favorites, from most to least.

“The Megrim” (The one about Wendyll, Lockwood, and the missing kids.)
“Several Messages from Abby to God (Regarding Her Cat)” (The one featuring letters back and forth between God, Satan, and the little kid.)
“Large Coffee, Black” (The one where the guy falls in love with the titular beverage.)
“Virus/Affliction/Condition/Curse” (The one about a near future featuring werewolves.)
“Unbelievable” (The one about the college student abducted by vampires.)
“Thespian: A Tale of Tragedy and Redemption in Three Acts” (The one about the actor replaced by CGI.)
“We Remember” (The one about the guy whose memories are quaffed by a mysterious visitor in his dreams.)
“A Good Fit in Penbluff City” (The one about the epic fantasy sports team.)
“Wings” (The one about the character who has wings attached to their body by a demented scientist.)
“Alice” (The one about the kids in a field who spot a lonely monster.)

October

I’m not a big Halloween guy (unless you count my love of The Simpsons: Treehouse of Horror episodes), so I didn’t do any special writing for the holiday. However, I did remind you of the time I tried to convince you to read the aforementioned Sandman series. Remember that? No? Check out the refresher here.

November

I’d been working on Eggs for the Ageless all year, so I decided a fun near-New Year’s treat would be to share some of that work. I did so in this post.

As part of my research for the book, I also concluded The Book of Forgiving by Desmond and Mpho Tutu. As I wrote in my review, it’s not only a good book—it’s an essential one. I highly recommend it.

December

And finally, my writing year came to a squishy end with the appearance of a Book Blob.

What the hell is a Book Blob, you ask? Well, it’s when a blob of goo oozes on over and swallows your books, then refuses to give them back unless readers pay a measly ransom of five bucks (for the record, that’s how much I usually sell one book for). The Blob was supposed to leave by the New Year, but I’m told it’s sticking around one more day. So if you’d like to buy my books from it, you can do so here.

And Now, Back to the Future

Watch your step there. Make sure you wipe the interspatial dust from your eyes. And…we’re back!

Now that we’ve returned to the first day of 2021, some updates on the future: I plan to release Eggs for the Ageless later this year, along with another short story or two directly to this here site. We’ve also got a local short story competition in my neck of the woods, so I’ll be submitting there. And I’ve got another story I’m sitting on that I dig very much.

In short, I’m looking forward to this year, and I hope you are, too. Here’s wishing you happiness, good health, and a speedy return to normalcy. Thanks so much for joining me for the ride!

Protected: A Slight Misunderstanding

December 25, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

The Blog About the Holiday Book Blob

December 7, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Picture this: Four books sat on a shelf and watched as a blob—a festive, bookish sort of blob—slogged inexorably forward. Toward them.

The names of those four books, in no particular order, were Gerald Barkley Rocks, Monsters at Dusk, Past, Present, Future., and Big Riches, Fine Wine, and a Pinch of Dragonsbane. They were siblings, and therefore prone to disagreements every now and then. Like now, for instance.

“Listen,” said Gerald Barkley Rocks, who was the oldest and therefore the de facto leader of the four. “I don’t know what that blob is or what it wants, but I’m just a book. And I’m a book about music, mortality, and to a lesser extent, cats. How the hell am I supposed to know what to do in a disaster scenario?”

No help there. So the other books looked to Monsters at Dusk for guidance. After all, Monsters at Dusk was a book about monsters. And isn’t a blob a monster?

“Werewolves,” said Monsters at Dusk. “Dream entities that feed off memories. Giant black birds that take people in the night. Those are the monsters I deal with. Blobs are above my pay grade.”

Maybe Past, Present, Future., then? It boasted fewer stories than Monsters at Dusk, but its name suggested wisdom. Perhaps the past could inform their present and offer them a better future?

“Look,” said Past, Present, Future. “If it was up to me, I’d be on the website getting downloaded by some kind, friendly reader looking for fun stories. Instead, I’m stuck here with you three schmoes about to get eaten by a blob. I’ve got nothing.”

“You think it’ll eat us?” asked Big Riches, Fine Wine, and a Pinch of Dragonsbane. It was the youngest of the four books on the shelf, and therefore inexperienced in the ways of predators and prey. “Maybe it just wants a hug.”

The blob, which was not an especially swift blob (or was perhaps an average-speed blob, since blobs don’t have legs to run with), finally reached the books. It slurped, then glurped, and also blurped (you know, blob sounds). Then it spoke.

“You four look tasty,” said the blob. “And I’m hungry. So here’s the deal. I’m eating all of you. If people want to read you, they still can. They just need to pay up.”

“How much?” asked Gerald Barkley Rocks. As the oldest, it felt obliged to speak for its siblings.

“I may be a blob, but I have morals,” answered the blob. “Just $4.99, baby. It’s a good deal.”

“Um, blob,” piped up Monsters at Dusk. “The thing is, I cost $4.99. So does GBR.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Big Riches, Fine Wine, and a Pinch of Dragonsbane. “I only cost $0.99.”

“I’m free,” Past, Present, Future reminded its siblings, “so I’ll stay out of this one.”

The blob was beginning to sense a generational divide amongst these books, but so be it.

“Look,” said the blob. “I’m a blob, and a blob’s gotta eat. Tell you what. I’ll only devour you for the month of December. People can get all four of you for five bucks. After that, they gotta buy you individually. Capeesh?”

“What are you?” asked Gerald Barkley Rocks. “An Italian blob?”

“No, punk. I’m the 2020 Holiday Book Blob.”

With that, the blob swallowed all four books into its gelatinous maw. And then it turned to you, reader.

“You want these books, pal? You got ’em. Just click below.”