How do I take a break from writing fiction?
I write TV pilots. With pitch docs. And synopses.
Not quite sure “take a break” means what I think it means.
A quick peek at an interview I gave oh so long ago (okay, not that long ago -September 2016 -but I’m being dramatic, so…). Anyway, it’s worth revisiting ’cause it’s a pretty good read.
I actually sound kinda smart! 😃
What attracted you to writing horror?
In my opinion, horror lets you write your own rules. I can create a haunting something out of a forgettable nothing in horror. A speck of dust, a loose thread, a glance in the mirror. In other genres, those everyday things are just that: everyday things. In horror, at least for me, they’re jumping off points for the total unraveling of a life, of one’s sanity, of one’s grip on reality. For me, they’re the necessary first step into the hungry shadows of deepest dark.
Horror also has some of the best readers in the industry. People who not only applaud your breaking of rules and annihilating of limits, but actually demand it. They want you to go too far. They want you to shock. They want to gasp and cringe and keep reading. And these readers want that unpredictable predictable to be achieved in a way that is surprising and memorable and, above all, smart.
Listen, those who read horror are a tough group to please. They’re not a knee jerk “OMG sooooooo good”-type of fan that posts a five star review two seconds after the book hits Amazon. They make you work for their praise. They demand you do better than before. And I appreciate that.
More over at the link.
A brand new FREE short story from the Eidolon Avenue universe.
A heartbroken widow. An infamous building. A darkness desperate to feed. This is Eidolon Avenue.
Young, bereaved and abandoned, the recent Knickerbocker Crash having taken more than just her savings, Mrs. Artatlan Fogoly considered herself lucky to have found a room to let. But when devout visitors refused to darken her door and an impossible stain appeared on the wall, what had felt like the beginning of something new and wonderful soon became a dangerous path to a surprising end.
The Realtor, an Eidolon Avenue Short, is the tale of how a heartbroken widow turned into Eidolon Avenue’s constant revenant. A siren call for those destined to end their wretched days in that wood, those bricks, that stone. The captive wraith who opened the door and brought the damned home to die.
And what of those wretched damned? Their stories are found in Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast as well as the upcoming Eidolon Avenue: The Second Feast.
This story is merely a glimpse of Jonathan Winn’s work, so if you enjoy this introductory story, be sure to pick up Winn’s Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast, available from Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.
In all honesty, I’m not big on reviews. I mean, obviously it’s nice when you get great ones – and I’ve been extremely lucky to get more than my fair share – but I’ve also gotten some not-so-nice ones. So, eh, it’s all a crapshoot, right? Best to not take it too seriously or let it define you or what you can do.
I just keep on writing.
But sometimes, only sometimes, does a review come in that makes me sit up and pay attention. That makes me break my standard “don’t read reviews” policy and actually sit down and – gulp – read the review. And sometimes, only sometimes, do I get an opinion of my work from someone who is becoming one of the preeminent voices when it comes to reviewing horror.
And that’s what happened recently. That it happened for Martuk…the Holy, the first book that started this whole writer journey for me way back in 2012 makes it just that much more special.
Intrigued? Here’s a snippet:
I love this world, I love this writer. It is dark, it is brutal … I found it all too easy to be whisked away by the sands of this world. Martuk is a must-read.
You can read the rest right over here.
And the book? Why, here you go!
It started as a mark.
By lunch, it burned, snaking past her wrist to wind ‘round the elbow and onto the bicep.
At day’s end, it spanned shoulder to shoulder, a wide band of flaking grey weeping crimson and cream.
Come morning, she stood,
swallowed head to toe,
in the bark of a ravening tree.
If anyone ever asks me how I get past writer’s block or get myself ready for the day, I’m gonna lead them to these 55-word shorts.
I love ’em.