By Shane Gericke
Crap, it's Thursday.
I say that a lot on Thursdays. Mostly because the blog is due and I haven't written a word. That's because I'm always forgetting what day it is.
When I worked in newspapers as opposed to this gaylark of novel-ing, I always knew what day it was, and what time, down to the minute. Seven edition deadlines per day--and presses that rolled with blank pages if you were even a minute late--kept you on your toes.
But working for myself, every day is Monday.
So the week flew by once again without my knowing, as it does. Additionally, I had to rebuild my computer from meltdown--that was fun, and I still can't find my stoopid Outlook files--and spend time celebrating Rosh Hashana, which was lovely, and Jerrle baked a honey cake, which was better.
And now it's 2:37 p.m. Chicago time.
So, better get cracking. This week's topic: Who would I want to collaborate with?
Well, not William Shakespeare. He'd take my hardboiled crime writin' and make it all elegant and pretty, like:
Forsooth from yonder window breaks,
Thy dynamites explode like snakes,
Can bloodied breast contain thy wake,
When constable comes calling?
Nor Proust, who would make it all ... well, you know ...
... and the Ripper, whose name was Leaf, not Jack as the farthing common people might assume, and not their fault, for that is which what they were told, fairly enough, and the common people were common, no question, but not in the way nobility might assign to their domain, and if they were questioned, their retort, again fairly if not inanely, might singe the fire brick which baked their budding breast to a ruddy mottled smelly internal infernal wormish glow which is red, or a maroon variation, or perhaps crimson, as is the morn, except when a-storm, afterward which the constable might inquire of the happy infernal internal glowing Irish-beast from which they sprang like a dynamite explosion from their snake, fake, lake, bake, make, cake, dake, though dake is not a word, really, except perhaps in Hindenburg's model, and madeleine, anyone?
Nor Hemingway, except that, as Josh mentioned, it would be pretty to have that sixth or seventh drink, particularly if said drink was in Cuba, and served by a doe-eyed Cuban woman who drives a turquoise '57 Chevy. Ernie's just too, uh, terse for me:
"Constable?" Jake said.
"Soon," I said.
"You?" Jake said.
"Yes," I sighed. "I bloodied her."
Jake leaned back. Furrowed his brow.
"Her breast?" he said.
"Plus rest," I said.
"What will she say?" he said.
"Nothing," I said.
"What will you say?" he said.
"What I said," I said.
"Need friend more than wife."
And with that we went fishing.
No, I'm afraid the only one I want to collaborate with is ...
Cause I prefer to own my own glory.
As well as my mistakes.
Which are many, but some, fortunately, are not unpretty.
SPEAKING OF ZOMBIES ...
We weren't, but I needed a segue, and that's the best I could think of.
Anyway: I'm going to be a zombie in a book. A Jonathan Maberry book! Isn't that cool?
Jonathan threw a contest on Facebook, said to explain why you'd just die to be a zombie character in his 2011 book. I promptly wrote him: "I throw up in my mouth a little bit when I think I might not win!" and Jonathan's zombie-pickin' panel agreed that was so classy how could it not? My kinda people, Jonathan is.
So, next year around this time, you'll find me as a two-fisted, abs-o'-steel thriller writer (in other words, fiction), new in town to research my next book, when all of a sudden I'm attacked and eaten and turned into a fester-faced, brain-lovin' Zombie Creature!
Kinda like me now without morning coffee ...
Thanks for hanging with me today, and see you next week.
When Shane Gericke isn't eating brains, he's promoting his newest thriller novel, TORN APART, which Suspense Magazine calls one of the best books of 2010. See more about brainless Shane and his work at www.shanegericke.com. If you don't, you might become one of the Undead, so hurry on down to your favorite bookseller and get your copy of TORN APART now!