The Age of Entitlement

I watched a reality TV program the other day which focused on people who let their parking meter expire. Okay, to be honest it was only the commercial. I couldn't actually bring myself to watch the show. Anyway, cameras were on-hand to film the reactions as violators returned to their vehicle to discover a parking ticket. The violators invariably freaked out. "It was only a minute!" they argued. My response (and the response of the official who issued said citation) was: tough.

Maybe it’s just me, but have you noticed the growing sense of entitlement in America? Sure, we’re the world’s only superpower and the defenders of liberty and all, but does that give us the right to act elitist (especially among ourselves)? Now before you denounce this as simple paranoia, let me cite a few instances based on personal observations and see if you can apply them to your experiences.

The Shoppers. I deal with this every time I go for groceries and the experience inspired me to postpone this errand as late in the day as possible to minimize occurrences. Few people pay attention where they are going, you see. They push their carts obstinately forward, staring off at oblique angles as they browse. Without a few dexterous maneuvers on my part, collision would be inevitable. And while shopping cart crashes do not tend to be fatal, they certainly fall squarely into the nuisance category. I realized many modern Americans subconsciously (or perhaps consciously) remove responsibility from themselves and, in doing so, place it on others. Thank goodness these entitled folks pay greater attention behind the wheel, right? Wrong. Read on:

The Non-signalers. Speaking of driving, I estimate roughly one-third of motorists whom I encounter fail to engage their directional signal when making a turn. Big deal, you say. But this is more than a petty inconvenience – it’s dangerous. It’s not their fault, though; they have their hands full. One hand clasps a cell phone against an ear (despite growing distracted driving laws) and the other tips coffee against the lips. Mother Nature made feet for pedal controls and knees for steering wheels, but neglected to add an appendage for signaling. How unfortunate. And can someone please tell me how it’s possible to speak into a phone and drink coffee at the same time? Entitled yet talented, I admit.

The Pedestrians. Non-signalers aren’t the only road hazards. The Pedestrians feel so entitled they imagine themselves immortal. I’ve stood on my brakes so frequently in the past year to avoid hitting jaywalkers, it’s a wonder they haven’t yet required replacement. (The brakes, that is, not the jaywalkers.)  If I had a dollar for every time someone has traipsed into the street without gaining the right-of-way or a even so much as a flippant backward glance, I’d be writing this post from a luxury resort in the Caribbean. It’s a good thing I bought pedestrian insurance – I have a feeling I’ll need it one day.   

It is not my intention for this discourse to be a rant. It should be read merely as a warning for a few things of which to be wary in our ever-expanding world. No one wants to claim responsibility for anything anymore and, really, who can blame them? Entitlement is so much more glamorous…and easier. I move that we make a conscious effort to resist this temptation and accept accountability for our actions. Who’s with me?

Of course, you may disagree with me completely. No problem. You are, after all, entitled to an opinion. 

It's a Mean, Mean, Mean, Mean World

I first noticed it in college. Overt rudeness, that is. Before that time, I was evidently lost in the syrupy oblivion of youth. But when I hit my college years, I was suddenly and rudely shaken awake by the perpetual foul moods greeting me at seemingly every turn.

I thought – hoped, actually – that it was isolated to the fine, stalwart university I attended. Boy, I couldn't have been more off-the-mark. Since recognizing blatant discourtesy running rampant at my alma mater, I have since discovered it everywhere. So when did this happen?  When did the world get mean? 

I tried an experiment. Each day while walking to class, I greeted ten people. Invariably, at least eight failed to respond. In any way. Most appeared utterly unaware of my presence. The rare subject who bothered to reciprocate would do so with a curt nod or a mumbled monosyllable. Then I started to worry. Was I real?  Had I died without realizing it and now haunted the route between my apartment and the Student Center?  Did Bruce Willis and I have far more in common than I suspected?

No. That was almost certainly not the case, though I wish sometimes it was. It would at least illuminate this inexplicable lack of cordiality.

Soon I tested my experiment elsewhere. The movie theater, a rock concert, grocery shopping. Same results. People simply did not wish to return simple salutations. It was easier to look away than it was to smile. The world has soured like a cup of cream in the sun.

I should recognize the small minority of friendly folks who prove the exception to the rule: the loud hailers, the high-fivers, the huggers, the goosers. I'd laud them for keeping me from losing all faith in humanity, but these overly-aggressive individuals are somehow worse, as if they felt invading another's personal space with as much fanfare as possible was their obligation.

Oh, we could start listing reasons we no longer seem capable of fellowship and good will. We could debate the whys and the hows. We could pontificate for hours on the subject, but why bother?  Reasons don't matter; solutions do.

Here, I'll start. I'd like to take this opportunity to extend a warm hello to everyone. If you see me on the street and don't wish to return my simple greeting, I'll not hold it against you. It is a sign of our times. Every man, woman, and child for him- or herself. Forgive me, though, if I long for the days when neighbors borrowed cups of sugar and chatted idly over fences. Human beings have turned a corner somewhere on this twisted road. We've grown up, grown jaded, and grown resentful. We live in bubbles and refuse to step outside their gossamer comforts.

It's time to lighten up, folks. I wish you no harm and I hope that sentiment is mutual. I know there are more of us today than ever before, but it's no reason to let slide our most fundamental manners. Let's make our parents proud. What do you say?

Sprung

I saw the first robin of spring a few weeks ago. It touched down in the back yard, pecked twice at the soil wet with snowmelt, and took off again in search of terra firma. It was a happy occasion for me, even if Ms. Robin fluttered away empty-beaked.  

Why? Because the first robin signifies the end of winter. It is as much a symbol of spring as holly is for Christmas or Cupid is for love. A few tattered rags of snow still clung to the ground along the fence line where the sun daren't send its oblique rays, but Ms. Robin appeared undaunted. It picked my yard, of all the yards in town, to try for a meal. And even though it found the pickings slim, I still felt a wave of happiness at the sentiment.

  

I also felt happiness that spring had finally sprung. Because, let me tell you: it has been one cruel crone of a winter.

As a child, I loved snow. What wasn't to love? Snowballs, snow forts, snow angels. There was no worry about how to get from Point A to Point B when the roads were iced over; that was the concern of my parents. All I had to look forward to was no school over winter break, Christmas presents, and three solid months of sledding.

Of course, all that changes when you grow up. Now I am the one who must worry about frozen patches on highways and scraping windshields and shoveling driveways. And, of course, the bitter cold that Old Lady Winter flaunts like a white-frosted frock. It's no wonder many folks suffer from seasonal depression. Something to do with serotonin deficiency due to the remoteness of the sun in relation to the earth.

While I've never been officially diagnosed, I would make an educated guess that such a malady afflicts me to some degree. Winter just isn't the same now as it was twenty-five years ago. Instead of breathless exhilaration at a blizzard warning, I feel only a kind of thick, gelatinous angst . . . how I imagine Charlie Brown must feel each and every day. Instead of graduating from toboggans to snowmobiles, as seems the natural progression from childhood to manhood, I feel only a dull, devouring winter weariness.

The worst part of seasonal depression, though, is an exaggerated sense of cabin fever. That deep, numbing cesspool of the soul that comes from being closed up for weeks indoors, desperately hoping to keep subzero temps at bay. The holidays are an instant remedy to seasonal maladies, but they zoom by so quickly and often present more problems than they cure. They leave behind a nostalgic-steeped hangover before we are forced to face the wicked one-two punch of January and February, with a goodly stretch of March still squeezed in Old Lady Winter's gnarled fist.

But now I can breathe a little easier, thanks to Ms. Robin Redbreast and her brief foray in my back yard. Sorry the provisions here were lacking, ma'am. Wish I could have been more help to you, but I'll tell you what--you sure were a big help to me. Happy spring, little friend. And happy spring to all of you. 

It's about damned time, wouldn't you agree?

Cover reveal for Snow Globe's new edition!

Hello, folks! As you may know, Angelic Knight Press, publisher of my debut novel Snow Globe, was recently acquired by Ragnarok Publications as its horror imprint (read the full press release here). What does that mean? Well, many of AKP's titles will be re-released as second editions with brand-spanking-new covers! Check out Snow Globe's:

What do you think?

New Story Appearances

Two wonderful new anthologies featuring short stories by yours truly are now available. The creep factor on both are jacked sky-high, so lovers of horror are urged to check them out.

This volume contains 50 stories over 700 pages and includes many of the top authors in the horror industry as well as several up-and-comers. Edited by Mark Parker of Scarlet Galleon Press, join us on this maiden voyage into darkness. By clicking the image, you will be able to order it via Cemetery Dance and your copy will come signed by CD founder Richard Chizmar and his son Billy (celebrating his first story publication here!)

Wrapped in Black: Thirteen Tales of Witches and the Occult is the third in Sekhmet Press's Wrapped series. My contribution, "Pig Roast," well, wraps up this wonderful anthology of the black arts. Click image to order yours today!

Halloween may be over, but the horror has just begun!

Primer Course for Aspiring Writers

Aspiring writers and editors, pay attention. Class is now in session.

The modern literary world is a tough place to live. The quality of the craft has dropped off a cliff while the quantity has proportionately spiked. Anyone who can scrawl a few sentences suddenly thinks he has what it takes to write a book. I assure you, he does not.

Learning and mastering the craft of writing takes years, if not decades. One cannot simply "decide" to write a novel one day. Just as specialized knowledge goes into, say, building a house, the same is true for writing. This means understanding mechanics, punctuation, grammar, spelling, and syntax. These are the required materials to build a book. If they're even a little crumbly, the whole thing will collapse. Essentially, being an effective writer also requires one to be an effective editor.

Some so-called editors with whom I interact have a shaky-at-best grasp on the aforementioned aspects of writing. For example, in the United States periods and commas always goes inside the quotation marks at the end of a sentence. However, I consistently see editors place it outside the quotation marks. Incorrect uses of ellipsis, dashes, and apostrophes (never add apostrophe-s to pluralize a word) abound. Also, I don't care what you learned in sixth grade Language Arts - unless you still use a typewriter, please stop using two spaces between sentences. It's archaic, a throwback to a more primitive age in literacy, and nearly no editors want to see them any longer. (For more in-depth reasoning behind this, read this and adapt accordingly.)

My question is: who do you think you are? You "writers" and "editors" who come at the craft full of passion, swagger, and good intentions (and often delusions of grandeur), but lacking elementary understanding implicit to successful writing? You don't just get to say "I'm going to be a writer (or editor)!" without paying your dues. Learning to write and edit requires education. It requires a tremendous amount of reading. Most of all, it requires years of practice, of trial and error, of harsh rejection.

Of course, with the dumbing down of modern readers, all this is probably moot. Readers are not the discerning, discriminating, lovers of fine art any longer. They don't care if someone splashes comma splices, dashes run-on sentences, or misspells every other word. This has led to a complete saturation of the industry, an embarrassment and obstacle for those who still cherish it and hold it sacred. Those who've paid our dues, in other words.

I've spent decades honing my craft and am finally beginning to see some return on it. It's only fair others do as well. If you're an aspiring writer, do yourself (and the rest of us) a service and take basic writing courses. Then take advanced courses. Then take pride in what you write. Learn from your mistakes. Share your talent with the world. After all, your work is your legacy. Do you want it littered with dangling participles and misplaced modifiers?

Make the world a better place, not more unbearable than it already is. Make it one where the real masters of the craft can make their name.

Class dismissed.

The Writing Process Blog Hop

I was tagged in a blog hop by author of all things macabre Rose Blackthorn. The purpose of this particular blog hop is to allow a peek into an individual writer's process. Check out Rose's entry HERE. 

So you want to know a bit about my writing process? Read on, friends! It will be quick and painless, I assure you. 

1. What am I working on?

I recently finished the first draft of a crime/sci-fi thriller tentatively titled Nothing Men and I'm currently shopping a middle grade book entitled The Newton McKnight Mysteries. These projects could not be further apart in terms of genre and content, but I like to keep my horizons open when it comes to writing projects. As for what I'm writing now, aside from the sundry short stories which always seem to crop up of their own accord, my time is divided between three novellas: The Wailing, House Z, and an untitled period piece which involves the arrival of a killer who disrupts the normalcy of a rural town in 1940s northern Illinois. 

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

It doesn't, frankly. I write scary stories - their job is to scare. I suppose if there's a difference, it would be that each author's imagination is wholly unique and thus by definition must differ from all other works in a given genre.

3. Why do I write what I do?

If there's a story to be told, I write it (or try to, at least). Some stories must be chiseled out of the bedrock of imagination while others practically do everything but pick up the pen and paper for me. I write the stories I'd want to read and hope others share my sentiment. 

4. How does my writing process work?

Each project germinates in its own way, but usually it will start with a single idea or image and the rest of the story unfolds from there. I never outline because each time I've tried to, the story meanders from it. I find it best to not try to map the tale ahead of time - let it grow on its own, become its own master rather than try to master it. For example, in my novel Emma Tremendous, I was shocked to discover one of the main characters who'd been a "good guy" throughout the story suddenly turned in the last thirty pages into one of the most cold-hearted villains I've created. Had I worked from an outline ahead of time, this absolutely necessary change may not have happened organically and the story would be lesser for it. 

Aside from that, I write at least 1500 words each day, often far more, in hopes of always improving my craft. That's really the way to go about it: write, write, write. And when I think I'm tapped out, when I think I've got nothing more to give, and my fingers and soul feel numb and dead, I sit down and write more. 

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Well, that’s my entry on this blog hop. I tagged Stacey Turner, owner of Angelic Knight Press (publisher of my debut novel Snow Globe) to participate in next week's Blog Hop. Not only is she an excellent industry professional, but a hell of a writer to boot. Be sure to check out her sure-to-be insightful answers on Monday!