Category: Writing (Page 3 of 12)

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!

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.

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.”

A Sneak Peek at “Eggs for the Ageless”

November 2, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Egg wrote.

Or rather, she scribbled words on papyrus, frowned, then crossed them out.

The Almighty Penguin waddled into the distance, Egg scribbled, nearly tearing the page with the ink-wet tip of her quill. And like a pastry at dessert, it vanished gradually, until it was finally gone.

She eased back, swept her bushy black hair from her eyes, admired the words for a moment, then shook her head and slashed them.

Like a pastry at dessert? That was a weird simile. Maybe she was just hungry. And waddling off into the sunset? Too cliche. (Not so much the waddling part, but still.) This was the summation of a year’s work, the final line of her first book. It needed to be memorable, moving, and above all, not crappy. So Egg tried a new closing line instead.

“We’ll meet again, child,” said the Almighty Penguin. “Someday soon.”

No. No no no. She slashed that, too. Made it seem like she was setting up a sequel, and she hated when authors did that. So presumptuous. At least let readers ask for another before you go forcing it on them.

“Subtle,” she whispered to the parchment. “We need to be more subtle. And maybe even a little profound, if we can swing it.”

“Excuse me?” someone asked.

Egg bolted upright and threw on her most genial smile. The someone who’d spoken was a man seated in the sand beside her, a round and jowly type who smelled slightly of ale. They’d met a few hours prior, but Egg had already forgotten his name. Boffer, maybe. Or Boofer?

“Who are you talking to, girl?” the man asked.

“Well, Mr., um…Boogler…” Egg began, then thought better of answering truthfully and finished with, “…I was just warming up my voice. For the call-and-answer bit.”

“It’s Bowler,” the man snapped. “Mayor Bowler. And what are you writing about, anyway?”

You’re awfully nosy, Mayor Bowler, Egg thought, though she didn’t say it. Instead, she tried her smile again. “Just, umm, taking notes.” She waved toward the makeshift dais before them, where the Holy Devoted was busy reading some story of self-righteous dopes from a chunky book called The Everything. It was the only book Egg could ever remember disliking.

Bowler glowered at the stack of papyrus mounted atop Egg’s lap. “That’s a lot of notes.”

It’s been a long service, she thought. Two hours, according to a nearby hourglass, and the Holy Devoted had only just gotten to the introduction of the Ageless bit. Bowler gave her a parting snort before returning his attention to the oration.

Around them dozed a lazy little town, just a pleasant smattering of sun-baked houses. It took Egg a moment to recall the name of said town, but a glance to the west reminded her.

Plainwall. So named, presumably, because of the looming western wall that provided shade from the omnipresent (I’m being literal here) sun. Not the most creative name for a town, but it was just down the road from a city called Buystuff, so what could you expect?

On the dais before them (actually a creaky wooden box, but “dais” sounded fancier), Holy Devoted Sarene graced the boiling morning air with her voice, enunciating every syllable with precision and clarity. Her reading was flawless as ever. If only her material was less boring.

“And so Lira, Goddess of Order, and Florinioniorius, God of Creation, had 10 children,” Sarene intoned. “And those 10 children, along with their mother and father, would be the foremost of the Ageless, the Greater Gods and Goddesses. They would be the Dozen.”

“The Dozen,” the gathering repeated.

“And many more Ageless would be born of Lira and Florinioniorius, and though they would be divine as well, they would be known as the Lesser Gods and Goddesses.”

“The Lesser,” the gathering repeated.

“And so all the Ageless, both the Dozen and the Lesser, do guide the lives of mortals. They do make our world whole.”

“They make our world whole,” the gathering repeated.

“With the exception of Hylus, God of the Sun,” Sarene clarified, “who hasn’t allowed our holy sun to set in decades, and shall not allow it until we humans prove our worth.”

“Until we prove our worth,” the gathering repeated.

Egg, by the way, wasn’t listening to any of this. It was too nice a day. The sun was fat and bloated as ever, but it was hidden for now, and a handful of puffy white clouds floated above. The sand beneath her bottom was blistering, as usual, but at least she had a blanket to sit on. And a songbird had appeared, settling on the eave of a nearby house. It trilled, then departed. Egg tried and failed to suppress her jealousy.

Anyway, back to writing. She started by twirling her quill around and around, like a real, honest-to-goodness writer must do. Unfortunately, when she looked down, she realized she’d splattered ink across the topmost page.

Oh dear, she thought.

She fumbled the quill and dropped it, which stained the papyrus further, plus got ink on her robes.

Oh shit, she thought.

She scooted to retrieve the quill, which displaced the stack of parchment upon her lap. It slipped off and scattered everywhere, fluttering away like so many leaves, and in her haste to catch them, she kicked the ink pot seated beside her. It tumbled across the sand, leaving a black smear in its wake. Droplets of ink spattered everyone seated too close—including Bowler. The town’s Mayor.

“Oh fuck.”

She thought she’d thought that. But when she felt eyes on her—several dozen pairs of them—she realized she hadn’t. Those words had slipped out.

The entire village of Plainwall, all here for the oration. All staring at her.

She rose. She tried summoning her genial smile but managed only a guilty grimace. The stares had turned to glares, from Mr. Bowler and the other ink-stained townsfolk, the clean ones too, and…

Egg gulped. And Holy Devoted Sarene.

There was no Goddess of Disapproval, but if there was, she probably would’ve taken the form of the Holy Devoted. Sarene was stern and severe with a heron’s build and differently colored eyes: one brown, one blue. Her scalp was completely shaven, revealing a smooth head with a halo of runic tattoos—12 of them, each representing one of the Dozen Gods and Goddesses.

“Child,” Sarene said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Egg tried to speak, but the sound came out a sputter.

“She’s taking notes,” Mayor Bowler offered. “Allegedly.”

The Devoted did not react. She didn’t even blink. “You’ve made an unholy mess, Zeggara. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“Yes. I have something to say for myself. I say I’d rather be writing than sitting here, because writing makes me happier than sitting around every week for hours on end, listening to stories I don’t believe in and participating in rituals I don’t care for. I say that maybe I believe in something else, or would at least like the opportunity to do so. Also, I say you’re overstating the state of this mess—I’ve done worse. That’s what I say.”

…Well, that’s what Egg would’ve said, if she’d had the courage. But she didn’t. Instead, she squeaked three words:

“I don’t know.”

Holy Devoted Sarene was intimidating enough. It didn’t help that she also happened to be Egg’s mother.

By the time the gathering dispersed, morning had turned to afternoon (not that you’d know it by looking at the sun; it hadn’t moved an inch, nor would it).

Nonetheless, the people of Plainwall returned to their houses, and Egg and her mother retired to their current home: Plainwall’s inn.

Up in their room, Sarene seated herself behind a desk. Egg sat across from her, beside a breezeless window. The ink-stained manuscript laid between them.

“So.” Egg’s mother flipped through the pages, examining them like scraps of food on the verge of spoiling. “Explain this.”

“It’s a book,” said Egg. Her eyes flicked to the candle flame dancing beside her manuscript. (Candles—and flames in general—became obsolete once the sun stopped setting, but you could still find them if you tried.)

“I see that. What sort of book?”

A good one, Egg thought. But she said, “I don’t know.”

Her mother pursed her lips and ran a finger along Egg’s tangled handwriting. “What would your father think of this?”

He’d love it. He’d at least give it a chance. “I…I don’t know.”

“Please stop telling me what you don’t know, Zeggara.” She fixed her differently colored eyes upon her daughter. “An anthropomorphic penguin?”

“It’s fiction,” Egg blurted. “Meant to provoke thought and reflection. You don’t have to take it literally.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Egg looked away. “You won’t like it.”

The edge of the Holy Devoted’s lip ticked up ruefully. “I don’t expect to.”

“It’s a story about a penguin who arrives in a town and teaches people how to be more penguin-like. They toboggan, feast on fish, and swim together in rafts. Did you know a pack of swimming penguins was called a ‘raft,’ mother?”

“I did not.”

“Well, it was. The point I’m trying to make is…” People have the right to live their lives however they want to. And maybe a penguin is just as good a deity as your Ageless. But Egg swallowed and instead finished, “I like penguins.”

“I can see that.” Her mother flipped to the front page and read, “Grand Teachings of the Almighty Penguin. Is that what I’m supposed to call this?”

“It’s a working title.”

Her mother sighed. “How long have you been writing it?”

“A year.”

The Holy Devoted shook her bald head. “And all that time you could’ve been reading your Everything. You could’ve been studying for your Devotion.”

The Everything was the holy book of the Ageless, and the Devotion was a ritual in which mortals pledged their lives to said Ageless to become (you guessed it) Holy Devoted. Devotion involved getting tattoos representing the Dozen, plus some sort of quiz and a public declaration. Truth be told, Egg was fuzzy on the details.

But Devotion wasn’t Egg’s passion in life. Writing was. It was the one skill she considered herself halfway decent at (aside from her abilities to forget names and spill things). She’d been writing constantly, ever since she was young. Granted, Grand Teachings of the Almighty Penguin was the first story she’d ever even come close to finishing, and some of her previous projects had been unimpressive at best. But she had written them. And writing remained her passion, despite her mother’s tireless attempts to replace it with religion.

“I just want to write, mother.”

Sarene offered no answer. Instead, she gathered the papers, flipped through them with her thumb. She sighed heavily. “There is only one book you should be studying, Zeggara. You know what I must do with this one.” Her gaze slid to the candle flame.

“Please.” Egg didn’t want to cry in front of her mother, but she feared she might, if it came to this. “You can’t.”

“I must. There is no Goddess of Penguins, Zeggara. We’ve traveled to this town to bring the teachings of the Ageless to its people. Not some fanciful tale of flying creatures.”

“Swimming.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Penguins didn’t fly—they swam. They were aquatic flightless birds.”

Egg’s mother rubbed at the tattoos on her bare scalp. “As you say, child. I know little of extinct species.”

“And it’s satire,” Egg added, her sudden courage taking her by surprise. “The point isn’t to present an alternative religion. It’s to poke fun at religion itself.”

Her mother’s mismatched eyes suddenly looked pained. “That cannot be, my daughter. Our faith is everything to us. It should be everything to you. Why do you think the sun never sets, hmm? Why do you think it dries our grounds and burns our backs? It’s because we aren’t devoted enough. We don’t believe enough. So if you truly want to become a Devoted, Zeggara, you must set aside this writing and focus on what truly matters.”

That’s what you want, mother, Egg thought. Not what I want.

It was unsurprising, anyway. Ever since she’d given herself to the Ageless, Egg’s mother had warned all about what wasn’t allowed. Egg wasn’t even sure she could have dessert without permission from the Ageless—not that it ever stopped her.

“Mother…” You’re missing the point. You’re preventing people from thinking for themselves. What if my book gave them a new perspective on their belief? What if it made them laugh, instead of feeling guilty or fearful?

She wanted to say that to her mother, and more. But she couldn’t. “Please. It’s just a book.”

“Books have power. This book you’ve written, Zeggara. It’s blasphemous.”

“Have you even read it?”

“I’ve read enough. For your sake, I must do this.” Her mother leaned toward the candle.

“Wait!” Egg cried. She wasn’t exactly sure what they were waiting for, but the answer came to her suddenly. “Let me do it, mother. I…I’ll do it.”

Sarene hesitated, holding the pages mere inches above the flickering candle. “You shall?”

“I must. It needs to be destroyed, burned, obliterated, all that. Just what blasphemy deserves, am I right?” She forced a chuckle, wishing she was better at lying. “I’m the one who created it. I should be the one to destroy it.”

The Holy Devoted gave her daughter a wary look. “If you say you’ll do this, you must not balk. I’m trusting you, child.”

Egg offered her most trustworthy smile. “You can count on me, mother. I just need a day to say goodbye. After that, I’ll destroy it. I swear it by…by the Ageless themselves.”

It hurt to make a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. But her mother’s sudden smile hurt worse. It was one of the few times Egg could ever remember her mother looking proud of her.

“Believe in something, Zeggara. It will save you, in this life and the next.” She passed the manuscript across the desk, then patted her daughter on the hand. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Egg hugged her manuscript. “Thank you,” she said. But what she really meant was, Thank you for helping me finish my book.

Sunlight found her on the creaking front steps of the inn. The village was quiet, the stagnant air still, and Egg’s left hand itched to write. She drew her quill from her pocket, wetted it, then flipped to the back of her book and scribbled one final, fading line. It went like this:

“Believe in something,” said the Almighty Penguin, “so long as it makes you happy.”

“You’re finally finished,” Egg whispered to her book, planting a wet kiss upon the page. Her lips were probably black now, but whatever. “And now…I have to kill you.”

She’d promised it, sworn it, vowed it, both to the Ageless and her mother. Could she really break that promise?

Her eyes drifted to the horizon, to the gleaming spires in the distance. There loomed the city of Buystuff, the villagers had said. They called it the commerce capital of the world, the place where one could find any people or products there were to find. Hunters and diggers, jewelers and smiths, wanderers and soldiers, monarchs and peasants, writers and…

…And publishers…

“What do I do now?” Egg asked her manuscript. But she already knew the answer.

Happy (Belated) Birthday, Monsters at Dusk!

September 14, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

One week ago, Monsters at Dusk turned one year old.

That was also Labor Day, so the party had to wait. So today, you’re invited to MAD’s belated birthday. The cake is coming, I swear.

In the meantime, as I did with my previous book, Gerald Barkley Rocks, I’d like to try a little retrospective on Monsters at Dusk. Let’s examine what worked well, what didn’t work so well, and a few things I’ve learned in the year since writing it. I broke it down by story. Here goes!

Several Messages from Abby to God (Regarding Her Cat)

“Several Messages” is the only epistolary style in the collection (meaning it’s written as a series of letters). It’s a format I hope to revisit, mainly because of how much fun this story was. I think it’s one of the collection’s best.

I’m proud of the distinct voices I established here. Abby’s misspellings, Satan’s colloquialisms, and God’s self-censorship felt true to the characters. What’s more, it’s entertaining to follow information as it’s relayed between parties. Laclos’s Dangerous Liasons does the same, so I’m glad I could emulate one of my inspirations.

Fun fact: Until about a week prior to publication, I had this story second and the next story first. I’m glad I switched them. Collections often begin and end with two of the strongest entries, and I believe “Several Messages” outclasses my next work.

(Truth be told, I feared readers might not realize Abby’s spelling errors were intentional. Good thing I was wrong.)

Unbelievable

I was quite fond of this story when it was first published by Chantwood Magazine in 2017. Not so much now.

There are bits I still enjoy. The plot moves quickly, it’s structurally sound, and it’s mostly funny. Plus, I believe I effectively lampooned my subject matter (no spoilers). I dig the opening conversation because during my re-read it reminded me a bit of Tarantino.

But “Unbelievable” has some issues. Here’s one of my notes to myself during the re-read: “Two and a half pages into the story and there’s really no one to like.” It’s true; The guy and the girl are rude to each other, Toby’s a bit of a loser, and the remaining characters don’t appear long enough to make much impact. Plus, the story relies heavily on college-style humor, which might not appeal to all readers.

All in all, I think this story would’ve worked better had Toby been a more likeable protagonist. I put him in danger, yes, but he’s such a schmo that it’s hard to feel invested in his fate. That said, I gotta admit; the ending is still pretty cool.

We Remember

It’s an exquisite feeling to create a detail that’s perfect for your character. I think I did that with Max, our point-of-view character, twice.

First: His penchant for picture taking. It’s so tragic because he sees all these beautiful memories, yet can’t remember what any of them mean. That moved me, especially during my re-read. Second: His workmanlike mentality. His insistence on doing everything himself gives him a solid character arc. I’m happy with the way it concludes.

All that said, “We Remember” is far more sombre than my usual fare. I don’t think it became melodramatic, but it came dangerously close. It reads like someone who wants to be invited into literary circles, what with all its self-seriousness and lavish description. A fine story, though I’m glad it’s not my typical style.

Large Coffee, Black

My wife pokes fun at me for liking this story as much as I do. But honestly, I think it’s one of the best things I’ve ever written.

I dig the brevity here. “Large Coffee, Black” has a sick title, plus it’s quirky, humorous, and unique in just five print pages. Some of my favorite lines:

“Some people flavor their coffee with sugar, milk, creamer, and the like. Osbourne truly hates those people.”

“…Whenever his mind descends into dream, the images melt to black, then trickle down into a steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee.”

“It starts with a C and has two Fs and two Es.”

I’ll admit, this story isn’t as profound as “We Remember,” nor as heartwarming as “Several Messages.” Honestly, it was a bit of a thematic stretch to include in the collection to begin with. But after my re-read, I love it as much as I ever did.

A Good Fit in Penbluff City

I remember liking this one more when I wrote it.

Sure, the interview structure works, and I think Pren’s final decision is concealed fairly well. But I was going for the feel of the film Moneyball. Unfortunately, I don’t think I got there.

First off, there’s tons of exposition. No sooner are we introduced to a concept than I spend a paragraph explaining how that concept works. Perhaps I should’ve pared down the world a bit, or maybe truncated the explanations. Whatever the solution, I can see why epic fantasy appears more often as long-form fiction.

Also, I could’ve done a better job raising the tension. I tried doing that by mentioning a key player signing by a rival franchise, but that’s not enough. If Pren’s hiring process felt not just important, but essential, the entire story might’ve worked better. As it stands, I think it’s one of the weakest entries in the book.

Alice

Here’s a little behind-the-scenes trivia: “Alice” was once accepted for publication by online magazine Lakeside Circus. Sadly, they closed shop before they could publish it. To paraphrase the Dude, it’s a bummer, man.

I was on the fence about including it here. The narrative voice is unique, but the plot itself feels too simplistic. Our narrator changes from beginning to end, yes. But the steps to arrive there feel clipped.

Nonetheless, I added the story because of its almost-publication and because my wife enjoyed it. Hopefully, new readers will enjoy it, too.

Thespian: A Tale of Tragedy and Redemption in Three Acts

It’s fun to write a foppish character every now and then. I had a blast doing it in “Thespian.”

The central concept was inspired by a conversation I had with my dad, who theorized all movies would be made via CGI in the near future. After fumbling with the idea for several drafts, I found the right voice for Joel Henry Desmond. After that, the rest fell into place.

Yes, I once again stretched the monster theme with this story. If you think of technology as a metaphorical monster that devoured Joel’s acting career, it sort of fits. Anyhoo, I think this is one of the collection’s strongest tales. And it also happens to be my very first professional publication (10 whole bucks, baby).

Virus/Affliction/Condition/Curse

Notice how I lifted the naming convention off Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy? Thanks, John le Carré!

Though this one rarely offers my customary humorous tone, I still like it. Ted Chiang’s “Liking What You See: A Documentary” inspired the style (a series of interconnected vignettes regarding a controversial speculative topic).

“Virus” features some of my best character work. A few of my favorite examples:

Mandy Stackhouse, particularly her energy drinks, Cheez-Its, and sleeping bag.
Margaret Vine and her tendency to “[speak] in chunky paragraphs.”
Geovanni Fressi, his six-day work schedule, and of course, his basketball shot clock.

But “Virus” isn’t without its flaws. I imagine some readers might find the style a bit aimless, especially at its conclusion. The ending is meant to turn the decision back on the reader, though I fear some might view it as a cop-out. Also, I regret my description of the way the police handle the situation.

Wings

I have mixed feelings about this one. “Wings” has some well-written passages and a creepy atmosphere, but ultimately, horror isn’t my thing.

I like reading horror. I’ve just come to realize it’s not my forte, likely due to personal embarrassment. My family reads my stuff, so writing stories themed around deranged doctors and gruesome bodily torture makes for awkward conversation. I’ll stick to humor, thanks.

The Megrim

Now here’s some humor. I hope this doesn’t sound self-aggrandizing, but I think “The Megrim” is the best story I’ve ever written.

It starts with the characters. Wendyll and Lockwood make for a perfect pair thanks to their constant opposition. Wendyll is thoughtful, spiritual, timid, and well-read; Lockwood is impulsive, atheistic, brave, and illiterate. These differences generate constant tension and humor. Like here (the passage begins with Lockwood):

“If you’re so sure you have the answer, why call on your High Temple in the first place?”

“Because I’m no hunter.” I nodded to the axes strapped across [Lockwood’s] shoulders. “And I don’t have a pair of those.”

That made the mercenary grin. “You’re missing a pair alright.”

I’m thrilled with the way the mystery concluded, too. I don’t read or write much mystery, though I enjoy stories that feature mysterious elements. I believe I concealed the final reveal, plus made it satisfying.

But hey, this shouldn’t be an exercise in back-patting. “The Megrim” has its issues. Part one, for example, isn’t particularly funny (likely because Lockwood hasn’t yet arrived), so I worry it doesn’t establish the story’s tone. Also, I probably should’ve seeded Asrith’s motherliness better, since it’s absent in her first appearance.

Nonetheless, I believe “The Megrim” is the best story in Monsters at Dusk. Take that, “Several Messages”!

Parting Thoughts

My goal in publishing is to make each book better than its predecessor. I believe I accomplished that goal with Monsters at Dusk.

Anyway, thanks for attending the birthday! Please use the code “MADiscount” on my store to get Monsters at Dusk for $0.99. (It expires a week from today, so please hustle.) Now how’s that for a party favor?