D’Auria, was being incredibly gracious and understanding in regards to the missed deadline, I felt like I was letting him down. Don is one of the few editors who has always been straight with me, and it bothers me to think I might disappoint him in any way (and I’m sure it bothers him that his superiors owe me a bunch of money for previous novels—novels for which the deadline wasn’t missed).
But it wasn’t just one missed deadline. I’d have been able to cope with that. In addition to A Gathering of Crows , I owed Maurice Broaddus a story for an anthology called Dark Faith , a novel synopsis to Bantam, two issues of The Last Zombie to the guys at Antarctic Press, a television treatment that I knew wasn’t going to go anywhere, two comic book pitches that I also suspected would go nowhere, and assorted other things. Gak was waiting on me to finish The Wanderer . I owed Full Moon Press a novella of some sort that I couldn’t even remember signing a contract for. Wrath, Bev Vincent, Steven Shrewsbury, Tim Lebbon, Bryan Smith and Jim Moore were all waiting on me to finish my collaboration with Nick Mamatas so that I could work on the collaborations I’d promised that I’d eventually do with them. Plus, there were signature sheets to be signed, introductions to write even though I keep telling people I don’t have time to write introductions, three months’ worth of email to answer, a message board to keep up with, weekly installments of Earthworm Gods II: Deluge (lest people bitch about it not being updated), and somewhere in-between all of this, trying to be a father to my sons, a friend to my friends, and a husband to my wife. It had also been six months since anybody had paid me. Oh, they all wanted their manuscripts on time, but when it came time to send me my fucking check, that was a different fucking story.
I’d also become distinctly aware that a number of people who I’d thought were my friends were my friends only because of who I am and not because of who I am . There is a distinction there, and I bet Stephen King, Dean Koontz, or Richard Laymon would have commiserated. But I wasn’t going to ask King and Koontz for advice on shit like that, simply because I know how overwhelming it is when people do it to me. And Dick Laymon wasn’t around to ask anymore. I considered trying to contact him via an Ouija board or a medium. Ask him for advice on how to deal with all of the users and abusers and hangers-on in my life, and “Hey, Dick, while we’re at it, what can you tell me about the afterlife? Because I’ve got to tell you, my old mentor—I’m fucking scared of dying.”
Oh, did I mention there were more tumors that needed to be removed?
I was stressed. That’s an understatement. In truth, I’d reached the breaking point. Cassi caught me applying for a part-time job at Walmart, and she sat me down and said, “You are going to the family cabin in West Virginia and you’re not coming back until you clear your head.”
“I can’t,” I told her. “It’s almost Thanksgiving.”
“I don’t care. All we’re doing for Thanksgiving is going to my parents’ house, and they make you uncomfortable anyway. I’d much rather you went off to the cabin and got some writing done and felt better about life.”
So I did. I took the dog down to our cabin in West Virginia and I stayed there for ten days and all I did was write and eat and sleep.
When I returned home, I was a different man. No, scratch that. The Brian Keene who had gone to the cabin was a different man. When I came home, I was me again. Reborn. Refreshed. Rejuvenated.
But there was still one thing left unfinished.
The baby monitor story.
* * *
Here is an example of how I cannibalize real life for use in my fiction. I’ve said in interviews that everything is fodder for my muse, and I’m not kidding when I say that.
The following scene is from A Gathering of Crows . I wrote it after the real-life incident with the
But it wasn’t just one missed deadline. I’d have been able to cope with that. In addition to A Gathering of Crows , I owed Maurice Broaddus a story for an anthology called Dark Faith , a novel synopsis to Bantam, two issues of The Last Zombie to the guys at Antarctic Press, a television treatment that I knew wasn’t going to go anywhere, two comic book pitches that I also suspected would go nowhere, and assorted other things. Gak was waiting on me to finish The Wanderer . I owed Full Moon Press a novella of some sort that I couldn’t even remember signing a contract for. Wrath, Bev Vincent, Steven Shrewsbury, Tim Lebbon, Bryan Smith and Jim Moore were all waiting on me to finish my collaboration with Nick Mamatas so that I could work on the collaborations I’d promised that I’d eventually do with them. Plus, there were signature sheets to be signed, introductions to write even though I keep telling people I don’t have time to write introductions, three months’ worth of email to answer, a message board to keep up with, weekly installments of Earthworm Gods II: Deluge (lest people bitch about it not being updated), and somewhere in-between all of this, trying to be a father to my sons, a friend to my friends, and a husband to my wife. It had also been six months since anybody had paid me. Oh, they all wanted their manuscripts on time, but when it came time to send me my fucking check, that was a different fucking story.
I’d also become distinctly aware that a number of people who I’d thought were my friends were my friends only because of who I am and not because of who I am . There is a distinction there, and I bet Stephen King, Dean Koontz, or Richard Laymon would have commiserated. But I wasn’t going to ask King and Koontz for advice on shit like that, simply because I know how overwhelming it is when people do it to me. And Dick Laymon wasn’t around to ask anymore. I considered trying to contact him via an Ouija board or a medium. Ask him for advice on how to deal with all of the users and abusers and hangers-on in my life, and “Hey, Dick, while we’re at it, what can you tell me about the afterlife? Because I’ve got to tell you, my old mentor—I’m fucking scared of dying.”
Oh, did I mention there were more tumors that needed to be removed?
I was stressed. That’s an understatement. In truth, I’d reached the breaking point. Cassi caught me applying for a part-time job at Walmart, and she sat me down and said, “You are going to the family cabin in West Virginia and you’re not coming back until you clear your head.”
“I can’t,” I told her. “It’s almost Thanksgiving.”
“I don’t care. All we’re doing for Thanksgiving is going to my parents’ house, and they make you uncomfortable anyway. I’d much rather you went off to the cabin and got some writing done and felt better about life.”
So I did. I took the dog down to our cabin in West Virginia and I stayed there for ten days and all I did was write and eat and sleep.
When I returned home, I was a different man. No, scratch that. The Brian Keene who had gone to the cabin was a different man. When I came home, I was me again. Reborn. Refreshed. Rejuvenated.
But there was still one thing left unfinished.
The baby monitor story.
* * *
Here is an example of how I cannibalize real life for use in my fiction. I’ve said in interviews that everything is fodder for my muse, and I’m not kidding when I say that.
The following scene is from A Gathering of Crows . I wrote it after the real-life incident with the
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