The Stephen King and I

Perhaps you’re upset that you missed the opportunity to sleep on a New York City sidewalk during a chilly November night just to have a brief audience (I’m talking about five seconds) with Stephen King to get a book signed. If you are, and you want to know what King’s Tuesday (November 11) appearance at the Union Square Barnes & Noble was like, this is for you.

Stephen announced his six-city Revival book tour a few months ago, with New York being the first stop. I live in New Jersey, less than an hour away, and arrived at Union Square at 8 p.m. Monday with my sleeping bag. (My wife was not at all pleased that I willingly opted to sleep on a sidewalk that likely has been peed or puked on at some point, and that I might sit next to someone who would say “Hi, I’m the Liberian Minister of Handshakes and I flew into New York and bypassed security—which was remarkably easy—just for this event! Pleased to meet you!” I justified it this way: I’d get a night away from my 3-year-old toddler and might actually get to sleep soundly for a change; and I’d be surrounded by like-minded King fans and we’d all look out for each other. And that’s exactly what happened. Meeting fellow travelers always adds to the experience.)

It might not seem long–well, it wasn’t at the time of me taking this photograph–but this line in front of the Barnes & Noble in Union Square to see Stephen King would literally wrap around an entire city block. I’m glad I got there when I did and would like to thank the hobo who kept me warm in my sleeping bag. His rates were very reasonable.

 

The store opened at 9 a.m. and I entered, purchased a copy of Revival, got a wristband that guaranteed I’d get an autograph, and then was herded upstairs to sit with my newly made friends in rows of folding chairs before an empty elevated stage with the Barnes & Noble logo emblazoned in the background.

The time was near! Some attendees had other books they wanted signed. Others, like me, hoped to snap a selfie while King signed. Our hopes were quickly dashed by event organizers. We were told in no uncertain terms:

1. Only Revival will be signed. No other books. Don’t even try. Representatives from the publisher will be present and armed with rattan canes to make sure you comply.

2. Mr. King will not personalize anything. No names. No “Happy Birthday” or “Best Wishes” or “Give me a Lock of Your Hair or I set off the Bomb under My Coat.” No dates. Mr. King will sign his name, and that’s it.

3. Mr. King will not pose for photos, although you may take them from where you’re seated or from where you are on line. No flash photography. You will be asked to pocket your phone when you get on stage. Don’t make us ask you to put things away. We deliberately didn’t feed our pit bulls. No selfies.

Now, I don’t have a problem with the whole no-posing-for-photographs rule. Essentially the author will sit, sign the book, stand up and pose for the photo, sit back down, sign the book, stand up and pose for the photo, sit back down—that indeed takes time, and it’s a bit unfair to ask a 67-year-old man who was hit and seriously injured by a car to do this more than 350 times. And the flash photography rule’s fine too. But, honestly, the author need not do anything for a selfie—it’s all on the fan, whose job is to stoop, line up the shot, hope the author is looking, and then snap it. Yes, it would take time, but not nearly as much as taking a traditional photo. But this wasn’t allowed. So be it.

It would’ve been nice, however, if we had been allowed to get a book other than Revival signed. My favorite King book is ’Salem’s Lot and there were plenty stocked on the store’s shelves. I’d have gladly purchased one, along with Revival, with the signature going on ’Salem’s Lot. The store (and author) would’ve made more money, and the fan would’ve gotten the signature on the preferred book. But this was verboten. The rules were hard and fast and enforced so the event would run fast. And boy did it.

Stephen promptly appeared at noon on the store’s 4^th floor to a rousing ovation from the more than 350 people who braved the cold to be there. Stephen graced the stage, thanked us for being there, cracked a joke about how he could go home now, and said, “Let’s do a signing.”

Stephen King addresses his adoring minions before signing copies of his newest book, Revival.

And just like that, we took whatever photos we could, got on line, took the stage, had our books placed before Stephen, and were able to interact for a few seconds.

I didn’t pre-plan a question. My comment would be one of at least 350 Stephen would hear that day and probably promptly forget. No biggie. We greeted each other, and I said that I know he’s probably heard this before, but please write a sequel to ’Salem’s Lot. He looked at me somewhat quizzically, cracked a sly grin and said he’d think about it. I thanked him, he said you’re welcome and that was it. Off the stage and out of the bookstore, the I Love Lucy chocolate conveyor kept moving.

Sorry about my big ugly mug taking up 90 percent of this photo, but this was the best selfie I could snap at the King signing. Cameras were forbidden on stage, and I’m pretty sure security would have broken my kneecaps had I attempted one.

Was it worth it? To meet a writing legend who rarely does book signings? Yes. It was. Stephen King was who I expected him to be: pleasant and professional. Revival now sits on my bookshelf next to signed Michael Crichton, Dean Koontz, and Dave Barry books, among others. Clearly it’s the highlight, one that will be passed down to my son and not sold on eBay—at least it had better not! Harold Bloom’s crankiness aside, King will go down with Shelley, Lovecraft, Wells and Stoker. All of us have read a King book at some point in our lives. And his works will endure long after he decides to throw the sink through the window and bound off into the darkness like the Chief from Cuckoo’s Nest.

Had Stephen allowed personalizations, I would’ve suggested “Ebay Auction Winner,” just to see his reaction. But the rules stated no names, and if I were to sell this book on eBay, Stephen made the job easier by NOT personalizing anything. But this book won’t be sold, auctioned or anything of the sort. It’s a special book that sits next to my signed copies of Dave Barry’s Money Secrets, Dean Koontz’s Innocence, and Michael Crichton’s Jurassic World.

I’m not one for transitions, so here we go: My first-ever bookstore event will be held on November 22 at 6 p.m. at the Barnes & Noble in Bridgewater, New Jersey. It’s a book launch. Plenty of family and friends, and yes, you’re invited. Here are my rules:

1. If you want to take a photograph with me (although I don’t know why you would want to), I’m fine with it. Just ask.

2. I will be happy to personalize and thereby devalue the book, making it harder to sell for 2 cents on eBay.

3. I don’t have a backlist. The Dark Servant is my first book. But if I ever get to the point where I have a bunch of different titles floating around, and you want to get one signed, in addition to buying whatever one just went on sale, by all means, bring/buy it. Hopefully there will be a next time, and a time after that. I figure, it’s the least I can do if you took the time to sleep in front of the store just to meet me.

Oh, that’s the other bit of good news: you won’t need to sleep in front of the B&N the night before my event. But if you want to, well, I’d be honored. Hot cocoa on me.

Giving Blood to Readers and Writers and Everybody

Courtesy: The Internet

Because we all read and write on some level, and we all need blood.

Here’s what I mean: Horror writers, and writers of practically every genre out there, except (let’s hope) children’s books, employ the use of blood either symbolically or because our characters run out of things to use for paint. We all have a visceral reaction when we see blood on the screen and in real life, and that reaction’s never good.

(Really, can you think of a circumstance when it’s fine to be overcome with joy and exclaim “Yippie! Blood!” or “Oh, thank heavens, Murray, the baby’s bleeding!” I can’t.)

That’s because blood belongs in the body and not out of it–with one exception: when you donate it, which, in my 38 years of life, I have never done.

Until last Thursday when my company hosted a blood drive.

Some history: I don’t mind needle pricks. This isn’t to say I enjoy needles. I don’t. Especially when they get stuck in the curve of the arm they use to draw blood. I cannot look at that. Ever. You go Labcorp or Quest Diagnostics and they sit you in that chair that has the funky elbow table on it, they slip that rubber band around your arm to find a vein, and, sheesh, is it getting hot in here?, and then you feel the rubber band digging into your skin, somewhat painfully, and you notice a throbbing and then they dab that cool stuff over the exposed veins, which you imagine look like a hideous purple spiderweb, and the lab technician reaches for the needle andjdkshfdjsabgrae pu 9gneahbhdfsk;a

Sorry, I just fainted headfirst onto my keyboard and need to mop up the sweat. Give me a minute.

Okay, I’m back. While I’m dramatizing (somewhat) my distaste for getting blood drawn, there’s some truth to it. I can’t look at it for fear that I indeed will faint. So why voluntarily put myself through this process, especially when they leave the needle in for an extended amount of time to drain me?

Because I’m a dad. That’s my reason. Things change on so many levels when you become a parent. Responsible parents, and I’d like to think the vast majority of parents are, wouldn’t hesitate to give blood if the doctor said, “Mr. and Mrs. (insert your last name), your child needs a pint of blood, and we need it from you.” No question. I’d be in that chair snapping on the rubber band myself.

So I got to thinking on the day of the blood drive that there are no doubt scores of little boys and girls, and grown adults, who will need blood. I’ve seen numbers ranging from 2% to 5% of Americans who are able to donate blood actually do so. There are a slew of statistics that can be found that illustrate just how badly blood is needed and how it’s always in short supply.

I didn’t think, I just did. For those of you who are squeamish and want to know what it’s really like to donate blood when you hadn’t planned on it, here you go:

1. You fill out paperwork that includes a lengthy questionnaire about your medical/sexual history. Providing you: A, don’t have HIV; B, aren’t a heroin addict; C, aren’t Iggy Pop; D, haven’t traveled to the United Kingdom between 1980 to 1986 (I’m not kidding, there was a question like that), and the like, you should be able to donate.

2. A technician goes over your form with you, asks a few questions to confirm this or that, takes your blood pressure, and then there’s warm-up act for the needle in the arm: the dreaded finger prick. Yup. They need to sample your blood before they do anything, so the technician dabs your ring finger with that cool numby stuff, squeezes the tip until it looks like a purple grape, and sticks it. Unpleasant? Yes. But you are rewarded with a Band-aid so it all works out. In the end, once you’re cleared, in your mind the technician takes on the appearance of the Grim Reaper and slowly points a bony finger to the chairs in the waiting area. You will pass a table of unhealthy food–salty chips, crackers, cookies, fruit juices–that will eventually be your reward, but not yet.

3. You get to sit and look at the four or five donors ahead of you who are sitting or lying on reclining tables, and all of them were full of calm, seemingly happy people getting their blood drawn. At least they were when I was there. Mostly older ladies and gentlemen, chatting with the nurses while plastic tubing snaked from their arms to blood-filled bags. (By that point I looked like Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation.)

Courtesy: Google search

4. It’s your turn. The technician who screened me had the presence of mind to write on my sheet “lay him flat.” Everyone else was sitting up, but they made sure I was supine for my donation. Why this was important will be explained later. So you lie down, unbutton your shirt sleeve and roll it up to reveal your soft flesh, and wait. And you not only look at the empty plastic bag that will be affixed with a bar-coded sticker with your details, but you eye at least six empty plastic vials, similarly bar-coded. All you’re thinking is they’re going to run six different tests on my blood before they can confirm whether they’ll use the pint they’re about to get from me. I’m already nervous, and that’s only compounded when I realize I’m paired with the “new” technician who had to make sure he was doing things right by asking the nurse. I like to joke around with people, it usually lightens the mood. I wasn’t in the mood to joke. And I’m glad the technician (a pleasant fellow) wasn’t either. If I was that technician, I’d probably be smiling and saying things to the nervous donor like: “Well, let’s hope you don’t end up like the last guy,” or “Don’t worry, I haven’t had an epileptic seizure since this morning.” Nope. Nope. Nope. There is a time and a place for everything. And joking with a first-time blood donor isn’t one of them. At that point, I’m just thinking, let’s get this over with!

5. Here it comes! The bag is hooked up with tubes, the vials are ready for fluid, and they found my veins by pumping a blood-pressure cuff. I looked out the window next to me the entire time. I felt the swab of cool, heard the guy say “little pinch,” and stick! That’s it. That millisecond of pain is over! The lingering discomfort takes its place. And it’s not comfortable. I was given a soft rod to squeeze every ten seconds, and I can only deduce this ensures your blood continues to pump. So, I’m lying there, counting to ten and squeezing, feeling this tube thing stuck in my arm, knowing full well what it’s up to, and I begin to feel warm. That’s right. I’m heating up, so much so that I notice my forehead is beading with sweat. And I’m woozy. Damn straight. This isn’t fun. I’m glad I’m helping someone I’ll never meet, but does it have to take so damn long to fill a bag with a pint of blood? Answer: Yes. You just keep thinking to yourself: it’ll be over soon, you’ll eat lots of sugary, salty snacks, and I’m going to pass out. There was a time when I thought I might, but I didn’t. I forced myself to squeeze and ride out the discomfort. Because, honestly, it doesn’t hurt. The tech noticed me sweating and, I’m positive, looking like a skeletal albino, and thought it prudent to slip a pillow under my head, place ice packs under my neck and high on my chest, and pray that he wouldn’t have to scream “get the shock paddles!” And after what felt like 10 minutes, the tech came back and (joy!) he slipped the needle out. He placed gauze on my tiny wound and asked me to hold it in place, and I did. He also raised my legs 45 degrees. Eventually he lowered my legs and inclined me 45 degrees to sit, and then to 90 degrees over a period of 15 minutes. One of the nurses said I probably would’ve passed out had I been sitting up during the donation. I don’t doubt it. Once I was deemed capable of walking fifteen feet to the goodie table without collapsing, I chowed down. One of the nurses was having lunch with me and commented “you still look pale, and your lips are blue.” I said, “well, I do feel a little woozy.” She said, “Oh, then we have to lay you back down on the table.”

“NO!” That’s the quickest I think I’ve ever said “no!” in my life. I assured them I was fine and would happily eat junk food with them until they cleared me. And cleared me they did after 2 bags of pop chips and a sleeve of Lorna Doons.

It was over. Well, not really. Salem’s Lot fans, remember the part in the book when Danny Glick stumbles weakly out of the forest and is ghost white and incoherent? That’s what I was like for the rest of Thursday and all day Friday. I am not joking. I felt like Barlow had gotten ahold of me. I had planned on taking Friday off anyway for unrelated reasons and am thankful I did because I was literally down a pint of blood for the first time in my life and my body didn’t know what to think, other than “Just go really slow.”

I’m not going to get preachy and say “everybody should give blood!”

No, if you honestly don’t feel you can handle it (like I did), then there’s really no shame in not doing it. I know a lot of people are scared to do it. But I’d like to think that I’m living proof that you can get through it. No, it won’t be fun. Since when is taking anything out of your body with medical instruments over a drawn-out period of time considered fun? But, trust me, it’s not as bad as you think it will be. And you will be helping someone.

The blood mobile will come back to my workplace within the next six months to a year. I’m not certain I will be the first in line with my sleeve rolled up. I’ll probably have to talk myself into it again. And that thought will involve some child, like my toddler son, in need of life-saving blood, and I’ll probably go ahead and do it, knowing it’ll suck. But it’s not the worst thing that can happen to you at work. Just make sure you don’t have anything big planned for the next day.

What makes a horror novel?

Cincinnati-based Samhain Publishing oversees the division for which I write: Samhain Horror.

So, does this make me a horror writer? I honestly don’t consider myself to be one.

What is horror as a genre? Whenever I go into the local Barnes & Noble (sorry, there’s no independent bookstore near where live—gee, why would that be?) I can’t find a horror section. It’s lumped in with fiction/literature. (In fairness, thrillers are treated the same way, but they’re generally easier to define.)

I think true horror can be discerned by Justice Potter Stewart’s method of spotting porn: “I know it when I see it.” (No, I’m not suggesting there’s a moral equivalence here. I simply believe defining horror can be tricky.)

Salem’s Lot? Horror!

(Courtesy: the Internet)

Dead Until Dark? Hor—wait. I mean, there’s a vampire or two in it, but it’s not exactly scary.

Twilight? Not even close to being horror, despite all those pale-skinned blood suckers and shirtless Native American werewolves.

How do you define Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein? Horror or Science Fiction? I’d lean more toward the latter.

The inclusion of mythical monsters or supernatural elements doesn’t necessarily define a work as horror. Then it must be the feelings the stories generate within the reader. We get scared! But thrillers are scary, right? They inspire dread, too. Silence of the Lambs is considered a psychological thriller, and not horror.

Honestly, when someone suggests a book is horror, I immediately think overwhelming blood, guts and gore. But that’s simplistic. While it’s true horror can have heaps of gore, it’s not necessary to scare. (It’s like comedians using profanity to get laughs: Good stand-up comics don’t need to work blue.) Salem’s Lot lacked gore and ranks as one of my favorite books.

So what makes it an absolute horror novel to me?

The book must:

1. Consistently evoke feelings of terror/dread/hopelessness;

2. Convey a sense of ever-present creepiness;

3. Be set no further back than the 19th Century and not in the too-distant future (anything that’s set hundreds of years in the future and involves vampires [Justin Cronin’s The Passage] strikes me more as sci-fi/supernatural thriller than horror);

and contain at least one of the following:

A. Supernatural and/or undead creatures, humans, and/or entities (e.g., werewolves, zombies, witches, ghosts) that are deliberately written to be scary, vicious and predatory and not created to make teenage girls swoon. They’ll kill you if they catch you. (Sure, they might toy with you for a little while. But eventually you’re dead.) Vampires are supposed to be terrifying, dammit—not insipid Robert Pattinsons.

B. Non-supernatural killers (e.g., humans, wildlife, diseases not originating from outer space) tormenting innocent people, with as little police involvement as possible. Too many police officers or mysterious government agents gets you too close to thriller territory for me. Sure, police can be involved, but not in every chapter. It helps if the main protagonist isn’t an agent of the law.

True horror novels, to me, cannot involve extraterrestrial beings or technology, and cannot be set in the old West and/or involve cowboys. Sorry, you’re either too close to science fiction and/or westerns.

We all have our own standards by which we judge things. And when it comes to horror, the aforementioned ones are mine. But when you think about it, in the grand scheme of life this discussion is about as relevant as attempting to determine the greatest baseball player of all time (Babe Ruth).