Elspeth the Living Dead Girl is here! Look out!

I'm excited about my fifth book, Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl. In many ways, it was the most challenging book I've written.

Why, you ask? (Or maybe that's just the voices in my head asking. I really should seek help, I suppose, but I digress.) Not only is this the first time I've tackled a female protagonist, but you get two for the price of one! Two teen narrators. "But, Stuart," I hear you asking (again with the voices), "aren't you a 53 year old male?"

I certainly am. And that's why it was a challenge. Not only because of the female protagonists, but the two girls couldn't be more different. To start, one's dead, one's not.

Here, maybe my blurb will make it clearer:

If you’re dead already, can you die again? Elspeth’s been summoned from limbo. Her new assignment? Track down the culprit in the mysterious death of a student at Clearwell High. And incidentally, uncover the identity of the new drug dealer prowling the halls. Only one problem—the body she has to co-inhabit has a different agenda. Elizabeth just wants to be prom queen, marry Prince Charming, and graduate with perfect posture. Both girls, alive and dead, will have their separate worlds rocked before the killer is unveiled. Nothing is as it seems. No one can be trusted. Being dead has never been so dangerous.

Did I pull off these two very fun-to-write voices? You be the judge. The book's a paranormal comedy, an emotional drama, a murder mystery, a suspense thriller, and it attempts to tackle today's high school drug issues in what I hope is an entertaining manner. I also slipped in certain things that terrify me. I can't tell you what those issues are because they would amount to a heaping pile of spoilers (the only thing I left out is being naked in class, a recurring nightmare...but there's always the next book). Feel free to psychoanalyze me after you read the novel.

You might want to bring a tissue to the party, too.

Anyway. Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl. 

Available now at Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LBG4VKM
 
And at MuseItUp Publishing:
https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/young-adult/ya-dark-fiction/elspeth-2c-the-living-dead-girl-detail

And tonight, Friday, June 27th, check out my Twitter chat, sponsored by my publisher, at 10 pm Eastern, 7 pm Pacific and 9 pm Central time. Use hashtag #Elspeth to ask questions (I'm not afraid of dumb questions, either. Bring it!) and for a chance to win a free e-copy.

Elspeth is coming...

Next Friday, June 27th.

It's not going to be pretty.

The Treadmill Is My Sworn Enemy

I hate the treadmill. Yet I try and get on it three to four times a week. Obviously I must be some sort of masochist, because, honestly, how else do you explain how something so horrendous is supposed to be good for you? Pure agony.

Every morning I wake up, knowing I should exercise. "Just five more minutes," I tell myself. It's particularly hard to rouse on those dark Winter and Fall mornings when the only ones up are insomniac serial killers and vampires. Yet, eventually, I get up.

You know, the magical number of "50" is usually a milestone to be celebrated. The human body, on the other hand, has very different ideas. If there's a party being thrown, it's purely a pity party, the body mocking its host all the way to the grave. It's like one of those charts detailing the state of our economy; the one with the arrow plummeting down into the red zone.

Anyway, after twenty to thirty minutes on the "monster machine," I'm done. And it's not pretty. Buckets of sweat roll off me. I look like a wet T-shirt contest reject (doubtful I'd garner any votes, but you get my drift--just, um, stay downwind because I smell like canned spam). My heart is galloping to burst through its cage. I'm leaning over the cursed machine, panting, hyperventilating like a pneumatic air compressor. My back hurts. And my knees! Oh, my knees! When I walk, they emit an unhealthy squelching gelatinous sound. I swear it sounds like aliens replaced my kneecaps in the middle of the night with fish bowls.

The worst part? After all this torture, the treadmill's electronic face taunts me, registering joy that I've burned off a mere 100 calories. 100 lousy calories. If I were to eat a half of a medium-sized donut, I'd break even. Any more food over the day, though, puts me back over the top. The demonic treadmill is laughing at me

You know, there's gotta' be a more pleasant method of exercising. Maybe I'll try yoga. Now...where's that leotard?

Stand-up Comedy is tough...it's tough

Here's the deal. In the next book I write, I want to have a stand-up comedian be the lead character. The problem is, writing stand-up comedy patter is hard. Part of the problem, I think, is writing funny stuff doesn't read as well without the nuances, pauses, different voices...delivery.

I consider myself a relatively amusing person. Of course my wife would disagree, but then again her poor suffering soul has to put up with my perceived "wit" on a daily basis. Her usual response doesn't evoke much confidence in my mad comedic skills. If they gave out gold medals for eye-rolls, she'd be mounting that dang podium. Serious good eye-rolls. Several orbits around her brain, then her eyes finally settle on me with an exhausted glare.

So I put it out to you. Let me know if this is funny or not. Keep in mind this is my character ranting, not myself. Oh, and as a back-door fail-safe, I should mention he's not the best stand-up comic around.

So. I have a daughter. She just turned eleven. 

She bugs the crap outta' me with a lotta' tough questions. 

"Dad, why is the sky blue?"

"Because it's prettier then brown." 

"Why did you divorce my mom?" 

"Because murder's not nice."

Anyway. I love her more than I can say. I just don't like her too much. I know, right? Parents? Let's hear it.

The other day we were sitting in the park. A couple of goth kids walked by us...the whole white mime make-up caked on, chains dragging like they lost their dogs, everything.

My daughter says, "Dad, look, vampires. I didn't think they came out in the day."

Okay. The comedian in me was proud of her. The father? Not so much. Especially since she used her outdoor voice. Yeah, we were outdoors, but times like that? Indoor voice. Especially since I didn't want to get bitten. 

So, I said, "Serena, it's not nice to make fun of people." 

"But, Dad, you do it all the time. For money."

I thought...wait, what, am I a professional exploiter? The pimp of comedy? They say kids are 50-50 of their parents. So if my daughter's a 50% jerk, does that make me a 100% ***hole?

So, I said, "Um...I do it for fun."

"You just said it's not nice to make fun of people!"

"Shut up, eat your corn-dog. Let's go."

Okay. There you have it. Is this of the sucky variety or does it not sucketh (and not in the vampirish way)?

Polar Opposites author Kai Strand Wants to Know: Hero or Villain?

Today I'm handing the blog over to my friend and author, Kai Strand, for some interesting speculation on superheroes. Take it away Kai:

As we progress through life, we are forced to ask ourselves some deep ‘meaning of life’ type questions. Today, I’m posing such a question to you.

Hero or Villain?

You may think this is a hypothetical question, but I beg to differ. You may not have a super power like flight or invisibility, but you have joy and compassion. You may not have green lasers or lightning, but you have disdain and sarcasm.

So I ask you again:

Hero or Villain?

I’ve taken to the streets to find out what people think:

Your turn! Weigh-in on my website www.kaistrand.com and then hop over to the Contact page to sign up for my newsletter. (Hint: Soon I’ll be having a special giveaway for newsletter subscribers only, so you don’t want to miss out)

Polar Opposites: Super Villain Academy, Book 2 coming June 2014

The supers are balanced. All’s well in the super world. Right? When dogs drag Oceanus away, Jeff learns the supers are so balanced, they no longer care to get involved. The only one who seems to care is Oci’s ex-villain, ex-boyfriend, Set. With Jeff’s own powers unbalanced and spiraling out of control, he wonders if they will find Oci before he looses control completely, and if they’ll find her alive.

Goodreads 

Need to catch up? Here is where you can pick up your copy of King of Bad: Super Villain Academy, Book 1

About the author:

When her children were young and the electricity winked out, Kai Strand gathered her family around the fireplace and they told stories, one sentence at a time. Her boys were rather fond of the ending, “And then everybody died. The end.” Now an award winning children’s author, Kai crafts fiction for kids and teens to provide an escape hatch from their reality. With a selection of novels for young adult and middle grade readers and short stories for the younger ones, Kai entertains children of all ages, and their adults. Learn more about Kai and her books on her website, www.kaistrand.com.

The Lima Bean Writing Challenge

So the other night my wife and I debated on what movie to watch. She wanted explosions, I was in the mood for monsters. We found something that satisfied both of our needs, "I, Frankenstein."

Yow. Bad mistake. The movie had no soul, just a CGI videogame. No characterization, no compelling drama. I mentally checked out fifteen minutes in, contemplating my ingrown toe-nail. After an agonizing hour and a half, when the "monster" stood on a rooftop with Batman-styled noiresque narration and music, I vowed to quit watching bad movies. Now, I love bad movies. Unintentional hilarity in cinema makes my day. But the movie made the cardinal sin in being boring. I thought I could write a better tale in one page utilizing the most mundane thing in the world I could think of.  I happened upon lima beans.

Here is "Lima Beans For Mom."

The cafeteria server asked what I'd like for a vegetable. I froze. People behind me grew impatient, sighing, banging their trays onto the rollers. My decision, so inconsequential to anyone else, carried the weight of the world, though.

The corn looked appealing. Peas were always hard to pass up, so round and small like miniature marbles that roll around in the mouth with a rewarding slice of goodness once you crush the thin sheath. Salads seemed safe, leafy and easy.

But the lima beans beckoned. Pale of color, a sickly nephew of green. I imagined the mealiness in my mouth, grittiness slushing into sand, the bitter flavor. It churned my stomach.

"Lima beans, please."

Someone behind me dropped a relieved sigh. I wish I could've done the same thing. I don't like lima beans. Never have. But when I look at them, they evoke powerful memories. I remember my mother slashing her palm across my cheek, telling me I'm going to eat the beans and like them or else. I never really understood what "or else" entailed and I suppose I'm glad I never found out. What Mom did when I refused to eat the beans hurt enough. Once, she jabbed her cigarette out on my hand, considering me a human ashtray.

I sat down in the cafeteria, my fork shaking like a divining rod over the green pods. I took a bite. Same horrific taste, yet this time the mouth-full of beans slid down like success.

When a waitress strolled by, I flagged her down.

"Could I get a box to go, please?"

Mom would enjoy the rest of them. I'd make sure of it. Of course I would need to spoon-feed them to her. One can't eat very easily while you're chained to a bed.

Ta-da! Did I succeed in making a compelling one page tale about lima beans? You guys be the judge.

But I'm issuing the challenge to y'all. Writers or not, let me read your one-page tales about mundane crap. It's fun! My next novel's going to be exclusively about lima beans! (But not really). Bring it, gang!

The Memorial Day Conundrum

Happy Memorial Day!

Time for Bubba next door to jump into his go-kart and go trawling through our suburban streets like a testosterone-driven kid. Woo-hah! Bust out the paddle-boats on the lake, strap on those bikini's and burn your face into a blood-orange crimson! Yeah! Pump those fists in the air to the throbbing bass of antiquated '80's arena rock! Let that mullet-flag fly! Go! It's friggin' Memorial Day! Yee-haw!

Except, therein lies my problem.

Memorial Day is a US holiday that started after the Civil War, commemorating the memory of those fallen in battle. The holiday grew into a day to remember all of the brave people who have died in military service, sacrificing their lives during time of war.

From there it blossomed (no doubt in no small part to the efforts of greeting card companies and advertisers) into a day to honor all of our lost, beloved ones. A very heartfelt, important sentiment.

But. When people wish me a "Happy Memorial Day," I cringe. It's a sad event to be taken seriously. Not a time to bust out swimsuits, sunburns and six-packs. Flailing a torn-off bikini-top in the air seems like a strange salute to the dead (although, I'd like to think they're enjoying it wherever they are).

So the next time my neighbor hollers at me over the fence, "Have a happy Memorial Day," I'm going to respond with, "I hope you have a very sombre holiday."