Just got the proof copy of “The Hole in the Hill,” which means the book should be out fairly soon! I’m excited; are you?

The cover looks pretty spiffy! Thanks to Filmosity Productions for the design, Joseph M. Arthur Photography for the author photo, and D2 Photography for the cover images.

I’m excited for this book for a few reasons, the least of which is the awesome cover. First of all, this is my first published horror collection. Second, it includes the story “Reyes Rides the Deville”, which was included in the Arcane Anthology. Third, I’ve been thinking a lot about writing a horror novel, so it will be exciting for me to get feedback on my short stories.

It’s nice to be able to do something different. I’m neck deep in rewrites for “Men Waiting For Sleep”, which is decidedly not horror. I like the story and the characters, but I think I was really looking for a change of pace. “The Hole in the Hill” provided that. I’ll have more horror short stories to come, as well as a full length novel that is already in the works.

In the mean time, Men Waiting For Sleep is next on the docket and I hope to have it ready for publication by the end of the year. Keep your eyes peeled.

As far as the release date for “The Hole…”, I’m thinking the end of April. I’ll keep you posted.

While writing “Men Waiting For Sleep,” I spent the better part of a year and a half not even touching the story. I would read parts of it, re-read, then not even have the slightest idea as to how to proceed. That would lead to frustration, and worse, apathy. I would put the story away, do other things, think about other characters, or, god forbid, think about real life. Who wants that? Certainly not me.

When my wife and I moved to Colorado, I was suddenly struck with this extreme creative output. I finished the last half of “Men Waiting…” in roughly two months, whereas the first half took two years. Now that I’m in the revision process, I can tell you the second half is a bit disjointed and rushed, which means the revisions will take some time, but during that output I got a sense that I was accomplishing something. I felt rewarded.

That year of inactivity, though, that felt like hell. It felt like a chore. No reward there. Some of the best passages in the manuscript were written during this time, which is a strange dichotomy: I created something fantastic, but I hated the process. Does that mean there was a reward? Hard to say. Depends on how you measure success.

Tomorrow I turn 30 years old. I don’t feel especially accomplished, or even remotely successful, yet my wife is always quick to remind me that I’ve done something very few people do: I’ve written not just a novel, but several novels. No, not just several novels: several good  novels. Why is it, then, that I don’t feel rewarded?

Because I haven’t gotten a financial reward, that’s why.

Yeah, I know, how lame, right? Shakespeare didn’t write for the money, did he? Hemingway loved words, not the dollars that followed. Fitzgerald and about a billion other genius writers died penniless. Why should I be compensated? And why should I measure my success on dollars and cents?

Only one reason: because I want to make enough money to continue writing. I love writing, even when there seems to be no reward. I want to keep doing it.

Not saying I need some fantastic monetary compensation that will get me set for life, but I would like something. Oh, and there’s one more underlying reason why I want to be compensated for my work, and it may not be the reason you think:

I want to get paid so that I get a sense that someone (or many someones) believe in my talent enough to invest in it. As a writer, I very often hear, “wow, you’re really talented. Keep writing!” or, “I can’t wait for your next book to come out!” or even, “Your book was very well written and I was sucked in.” That last one is usually followed by, “But I’m not sure I can represent it/sell it/find a publisher for it.” It’s frustrating, and defeating, but more than anything, these statements give me the impression that people like what I produce but aren’t willing to stand behind it enough to truly encourage me to make it my life.

The point of this is actually pretty cliché: support the arts. Now, when I say that, I don’t mean you should steal someone’s painting for your desktop background. I don’t mean just giving an artist some encouraging words. I mean  PAY for art. Help an artist survive so he or she can keep creating—for you. We pay doctors and lawyers and professors and bankers and teachers so they will keep doing what they are doing. Artists should be treated the same way.

Pay an artist. Your culture, your history, your story, and your memories will all thank you.

Here’s a preview of the cover art for “The Hole in the Hill”, my upcoming collection of horror/macabre short stories.

Due out in April of 2012, though the Kindle version is already available on Amazon!

Yep, you can totally read it before everyone else, too, since the Kindle version is already available! Check it out by clicking here: THE HOLE IN THE HILL KINDLE VERSION. 

I’m pretty excited about this collection, since it’s my first foray into publishing any of my horror work. One of the stories, “Reyes Rides the Deville”, was published in the Arcane Anthology, edited by Nathan Shumate. You can check that out by clicking here: ARCANE!

But there’s something every writer should know about this advice. Let me clarify first and tell you that I’m speaking not to the kid fresh out of school with an English degree, or to the extremely inspired up and comer, but instead to those of us who have been kicking around a while, fighting the good fight and constantly imagining new worlds in which to play and live.

Yes, the surly, burnt out writer.

The struggling writer trying to pay bills.

The frazzled writer constantly searching for even the smallest bit of inspiration.

What you should know is this:

It’s okay to stop.

It’s okay to put the pen down. Seriously. Take a breather. If you’re anything like me, this is difficult for several reasons, the least of which is the constant tapping on the inside of your skull from new characters, scenes, bits of dialogue, intriguing plot linees. It is also difficult to step away when you know your competition would never do such a thing.

Well here’s a shocker for you: your competition does step away, and they’re better writers for it.

I used to race mountain bikes when I was in college and the years after. I was okay at it—never going to go pro, but I usually had a shot at winning some races. I practiced, I trained, I rode that bike all the time to prepare for the big dance, race day. When race day would come, I would know immediately what kind of race it would be for me, especially if I thought back on my training. Strangely enough, my performance was always stronger when I made it a point to take several days off from riding and training before the race.

Any physical therapist or trainer will tell you that rest days are just as important as training days, and writing is no different, since writing is an activity that relies on your most important muscle: that big, beautiful brain of yours. Your brain needs to breathe. It needs to stare off into the distance with a bit of drool running down from the corner of its mouth. It needs to sit and watch Ryan Gosling drive a car through L.A. while avoiding the bad guys, simply because your brain doesn’t need to write that plot. It doesn’t need to develop that plot line.

Your brain, in other words, just needs to breathe. Like a good wine, it will get better if you let it breathe.

Remember, however, that wine goes bad after too many hours of sitting idly. Your creative brain is the same way. You can lose your edge if you stop writing for too long, so the best advice I can give you is this: spend a significant amount of time learning about you. Figure out how  your brain works. Look at its habits—especially its bad ones—and remember them. Take note. Accommodate. Figure out your process, and don’t let some hack on a blog you found on the internet tell you how writing is supposed to work. There is only one solid rule in writing, regardless of what anyone tells you. It’s the golden rul, and I’ve said it many times:

Put the pen to the paper, and push.

I’ve decided to stop using this site exclusively to promote my books as they come out; instead, I want to use it more as a tool to let everyone know what else I do besides write novels. If you read the homepage, you’ll get a brief taste of what exactly it is I do when I’m not writing books. At the top of the page, you’ll see a new heading, WRITING/EDITING SERVICES. Another one, PHOTOGRAPHY SERVICES, will take you to my other business, D2 Photography.

This is not to say I am going to change things dramatically; I’m simply offering visitors more. Miss the old Dan? You know, the whiny writer with a penchant for self-promotion? Don’t worry…your favorite blog will not disappear, I promise.

Here’s a brief rundown of some of the changes:

BROWN TIE MEDIA LLC

As many of you already know, I am a photographer as well as a writer. I have essentially been running two separate businesses in these pursuits, so I decided to combine them under an umbrella company, Brown Tie Media LLC. This website will provide visitors with an idea of what professional services I offer, from writing and editing to photography services. If you see Brown Tie Media anywhere out there on the interwebs, you know it’s me.

WRITING SERVICES

Already sort of touched on this, but to reiterate: I am not going to stop promoting my books here, but I am going to start presenting my other writing services. Tell your friends. Tell your coworkers! I offer professional services at affordable rates…and I’m a swell guy to boot.

NOVELS, BOOKS, AND THE DREADED BLOG!

Okay, so I’m a decent writer. That doesn’t change the fact that everyone I went to college with thinks I’m a douchebag. Hell, the ME of today thinks the ME of college was a complete asshat. It’s true. I wrote my first book while I was in college and it will never see the light of day, which is fitting because the person I was in college will also never see the light of day again. My writing, and myself, has improved since then. I totally intend to continue to use this site to showcase my writing…perhaps as a penance for the asshat I once was. Otherwise, I intend to write useless but occasionally amusing blog posts as well.

While the rest of the site is for you, dear reader and potential customer, I will warn you that the blog is for me. I will use foul language. I will rant and curse and spit (makes for a messy screen, but these are the concessions we make as artists. Har. Har.), but occasionally I’ll throw down some pretty useful information. Follow my blog and be rewarded with copious amounts of asshattery.

Got me a nice 5 star review from Hampton Reviews. You can read it by clicking HERE. I’ll also paste the text after the jump.

This is a quiet book about a quiet corner of Maine.  The Coates family is mourning after the loss of the family matriarch. How does one carry on after the loss of a life mate?  However, what could have been a maudlin study of family disfunction at a time of stress is minimized by the currents beneath the quietness.  Every family has things that they don’t talk about and in this the Coates family is not alone.  The tensions between Jason, Robert, and Einar are brought to the surface as all of them try to cope with their own individual losses. Einar has lost his wife, and through one singularly thoughtless act, Jason’s has created problems in  not only his own marriage, but also has caused his brother Robert to lose his future wife as well. The winter setting of this book is appropriate as these men have frozen their emotions out. Their love and caring for each other is evident but not expressed; emotionally they are as frozen as the weather. The shocking turn of events between Jason and Robert is only a prelude to what will irrevocably change their lives, and the lives of those around them, forever.

This is a book that will stay with the reader for a long time after its end.  The imagery of fall and winter and of things ending and dying is central to this novel’s story, and sustains it to its very end.  The final act of self-sacrifice is redemption for some, and a cause of lasting pain and regret for others, but it could not have happened any other way for the author to stay true to his creation.

This is a well crafted and in its own way, quite wonderful book that I genuinely enjoyed.  It is thought provoking on many levels and I do recommend it.

Nothing about writing today; just an update on my motorcycle project. I started shaping the tank today…it doesn’t look like much yet, but once I get some bondo on this puppy, get it primed and painted, it’s going to look awesome!

I stripped all the paint off of the tank about a month ago using a wire wheel on my drill as well as an angle grinder with a flap disc. Then I took it to a radiator repair shop to get all the fumes out of the tank; I didn't want to blow myself up when using tools that throw sparks. There was a puncture in the tank, so the radiator repairman welded it for me...then I took the sucker home and drew a design on the side. Once the design was made, I made a template to transfer the design to the other side so both sides were identical.

Some of the tools I used. I actually didn't end up using the rubber mallet or the metal hammer. The white shaping hammer did the trick. You can see the template I made from tissue paper on the ground underneath the masking tape. The angle grinder worked well for exposing high spots once I banged away for a few minutes.

Another view of the tank after I shaped it with the hammer. You can see a few things in this photo: first, this is a rough job. It will need Bond-o and plenty of sanding before it's ready for priming and paint. Second, you can see the damage from the head badge that I tore off. This is where the hole happened, since I managed to pull off the metal along with the badge plate. The radiator repairman fixed it up nicely, but it will need some Bond-o love for sure.

This was a WIDE tank. These old Hondas were not known for their looks, that's for sure. Pounding in the sides serves two purposes: one, it provides a nice knee scoop for comfort; two, it makes the tank look less early-eighties-horrible. This came off a 1980 Honda CB750K.

One last look at the beast. It will need a lot of finishing, but it's really starting to come along.

Well, I had high hopes for 2012, and so far those hopes have come crashing down all around me.

One good thing has happened this month: my new short story collection, “Ten Bucks If You Hit One,” is now available. Check out the PAPERBACK VERSION HERE or download the KINDLE VERSION FOR JUST $0.99! 

The stories are mostly remnants of lives I have led or lives I could have led. They focus on mistakes, redemption, and the moments in life that leave a lasting impression. Some of them are pretty good, if I don’t say so myself. Pick up your copy and help a delusional writer believe he can make a living off this silly craft.

Here’s an excerpt from the title story, “Ten Bucks If You Hit One.” It’s a mostly true story about my relationship with my grandfather, who was essentially my hero growing up. To read the rest, go buy a copy! Help a brotha out!

TEN BUCKS IF YOU HIT ONE

My grandfather had curved fingers. Old. Arthritic. His name was Ignazio, though his friends and most of his family called him Muzzy. While in the Air Force, playing baseball as a catcher, he inherited two ‘badges of honor,’ so to speak: a crop of ten bruised, broken and bent fingers, and the nickname, ‘Muzzy,’ which developed quite logically, really. Catchers wore masks that looked like muzzles. My grandfather was a catcher. My grandfather was Muzzy.

If nothing else, Waterbury, Connecticut is and always has been a baseball town. Smith Avenue, where I lived, stood poised halfway up from the floor of the Naugatuck Valley, and from my driveway at number 20 Smith Avenue, I could hear the shouts and cheers of the crowds down the street at Municipal Stadium every night. On the fourth of July, my family would sit on the flat roof of the house and watch the fireworks that pierced the sky from the outfield at the baseball diamond. The stadium may as well have been another family member, more personal than the smell of wet grass or the sweet itch of mosquito bites. If I couldn’t see the stadium, I could hear it. If I couldn’t hear it, I would think about it and wonder when I’d be old enough to play in it, run out to first base and field ground balls or take a crack at a fast ball and try to drive it over the right field fence. Someday for sure, I’d always think.

Muzzy groomed me to be a Yankee fan from the moment I was old enough to grip a baseball. There were simply no alternatives. You were a Yankee fan or you just weren’t a baseball fan at all. So I became a Yankee fan. In my family, to be a Yankee fan was as natural as getting up in the morning. There were few other current events happening in the world that interested us, and even to our deaths, the Yanks were the only thing that mattered aside from family and friends.  My Uncle Mike put this theory to practice, in fact. He had been watching a game one night in the T.V. room when he suddenly felt worn out and tired. “I’m going to bed,” he said to my Aunt Lucy. “Let me know how the Yanks do.”

Mike went to bed and never woke up. But the Yanks won.

While most kids were lost in the mystique of more ‘exciting’ sports stars like Michael Jordan, I became fixated on Yankees’ Captain Don Mattingly. Donnie Baseball posters adorned my bedroom walls. The Yankees and Mattingly were, to me, all that mattered. When I’d watch the game on T.V. and Mattingly would come to bat, I’d hold my breath and hope he’d hit a home run. If he did, I could count on the phone ringing not long after. It would be Muzzy. “Mattingly hit one!” He’d say, to which I’d reply, “I saw it. It was huge! Right center!”

The conversation would always end the same way. “Ten bucks if you hit one,” Muzzy would say to me, and I would shoot back, “Just be sure you’re there to see it.”

Spring would come late every year—or too late, at least, for me, who had nothing on his mind but the baseball diamond. I would spend my afternoons trying to convince my brother to have a catch with me, or I would get home after school and immediately head to the back yard, tossing the baseball against the wall of the neighbor’s garage, fielding the bounce and occasionally diving spectacularly, saving the imaginary game constantly running in my head. More often than not, I’d toss that ball until the sun went down or until the massive cluster of bushes behind me swallowed my last good ball. You could climb into that bush, but you’d never find what you were looking for until a year or so later, when you would climb in there to get the dog untangled from the branches and come out with four or five baseballs in hand.

Then spring would come, the snow would clear, and my classmates and I would take to the still-muddy fields around Waterbury to practice for the parochial league baseball season. Eighth grade was a good year for me. I was a terror in the league, the kind of batter that made the outfielders back up ten steps and the infielders punch their gloves nervously until the pitch was thrown. Yes, it was a good year…but I still hadn’t gotten what I really wanted.  I was on a mission. I wanted ten bucks from Muzzy. I wanted a home run.

This existential crisis means I recently applied for a job in a bike shop. Looks like I’m going to get it, too. I won’t whine about it, I promise, but I want you all to know that I am doing this under duress. Unlike millions of other unemployed Americans, I do not qualify for unemployment benefits. Go figure.

Working in a shop is not and never has been the worst thing in the world. I’ve met a good lot of my friends through shops…would not have gotten the chance to write for Drunkcyclist had I not been a wrench at AZ Bikes when Big Jonny wandered in one day sometime around three in the afternoon. We started drinking beers right then…the shop closed sometime around 7, I think. I can’t remember, really. I was drunk by then.  Don’t worry: I’m actually a better wrench when I’m not sober. A year or two later, Gnome asked me if I’d write for this website, since I had the best qualifications you can have: I was both a cyclist and a drunkard. I said hell yes. Now I’m your problem.

Anyway, my point is I can think of worse things to do than turn a wrench. When I was teaching high school English, my hands got soft. I gained twenty pounds. I never had grease ground into my calluses anymore because my calluses were gone. I went into the bike shop (AZ Bikes, Flag Bike Revolution…ya know, the usual suspects) and got nostalgic about it, listening to Tool while I trued yet another cheap steel wheel or fought with the innards of another Manitou fork.

The best time, by the way, to be in any bike shop worth its salt is around six or seven, as long as you have beers in your hands. That’s the key: beers and a good attitude. Closing time is usually around that time. Just relax and stay out of the way as the mechanics and salespeople take care of those last few customers. Hide the beers and stay chill. Once that door is closed, you’ll make a lot of friends because anyone who was worked in a shop knows how badly a beer is needed when your hands are sore from pulling on cables and turning spoke wrenches. The first beers should always go to the mechanics. Give ‘em that much and they’ll give a lot back.

The title of this post is taken from a great move called “A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints.” Toward the beginning of the movie, the main character introduces himself and says, “I’m Dito and I’m going to leave everyone in this movie.” I feel like I do that all the time with bike shops. There I am, and there I go. But then I’m back again, always changed, always different (In the movie, the character starts out as Shia Labeouf and ends up as Robert Downey, Jr…a good upgrade, if you ask me. I’m not usually that fortunate).

Weird thing, though: every time I come back, the shops are always still there. I bring a beer and say to the mechanics, “first ones are for you.” Next thing I know, I’m on the receiving end of those beers because I’m wrenching again. Is it so bad? No, not really. It’s not what I expected from my life, but it’s just not bad at all. Sometimes even these wander in:

I’ve been thinking for the last eight years about opening my own shop.

Maybe it’s time. Who knows. Sometimes it’s hard to recognize a good mechanic…even if that mechanic is yourself.

I had every intention of sticking to my guns about this blog. Why bother? What was it doing for me? Had I really gotten any sales out of it? Had it worked as a marketing tool?

And therein lies my A-HA! moment.

Since releasing “Confusing the Seasons,” I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to provide good content, how to reach a readership, how to market and sell, market and sell, market and sell…what I failed to do was write, or create, for enjoyment. What’s the point of writing if it’s not for the writer, too? In the modern publishing arena, writers are often led to believe that writing belongs solely to the reader, and it is the writer’s responsibility to pitch it, sell it, or otherwise give it away so people will read, tell others, make the book “go viral” (a term I am learning to loathe), and so on.

Well, I did that. It resulted in modest sales at best, and for those sales I am grateful.

But I was not getting personal satisfaction from all of this marketing nonsense.

So I’ll stop. There’s no reason I need to stop blogging in order to do that…I just need to re-focus and let the blog be for me, too. I won’t force myself to post once a month, or once a week, or once a day. I’ll post when I want to post. If people read it, great. If not, well, I read it. I liked it. Felt good to do it. So why not keep on keepin’ on?

I won’t just write about writing, either. How boring is that, especially for people who aren’t writers? Instead, I’ll branch out. Some topics you’re likely to hear from me:

1) I am rebuilding a 1980 Honda CB750 from the ground up. That excites me right now. It gives me pleasure to think about it, talk about it, and do it. So I’ll talk about it, dammit!

2) I got laid off from my full time writing gig, which means I’m unemployed. Maybe I’ll venture into the dreaded political/economic arena with my silly, only-three-quarters-educated opinions.

3) I am a photographer, and I enjoy the process. I love the photography world, and I’ve got a few really interesting shoots coming up. Maybe I’ll share some of my photos.

4) I’ve been flirting with the idea of a few multimedia projects for another website I write for (drunkcyclist.com…NSFW!). Maybe I’ll throw out some ideas on the ol’ blog here and see what y’all think…if any of you are actually reading.

5) My wife and I recently moved to Colorado, and I’m dying to explore. Maybe I’ll just talk about adventures, real or imagined, like the motorcycle and bicycle tours I want to do through the U.S. and through Europe.

See? This blog isn’t an asshole, like I’d led you all to believe. It can be a good thing. It can be a fun thing. Most importantly, it can be for me. I am not a slave to the industry, so why continue the same practices that made me so?

Alright. Enough of that. I’ve got a job hunt to get underway, as well as some very important lazing around to do.