‘Cause why not, right? 😉
Next up – Martuk…the Holy: Shayateen
So, yeah, my own version of the Resurrection of Christ from Martuk…the Holy: Proseuche.
You’re welcome 😉
From death, I woke. My eyes opened to the dark of the tomb, the smell of myrrh and aloe and sweet perfume in my nose, the linen wrapped around my arms, my legs, my body.
They stood before me, my angels, their faces pressed close to mine.
Were it not for the great wings that stretched from their backs, wings I could see even in the dark, I would think they were human. They looked like you and me. They weren’t kind or angry. They were still and silent. And they stood there, waiting.
They just were.
But they were not.
These winged ones were angels. They rose and turned their heads, looking to the door. And with that look, and that look alone, they moved the stone and let in the light.
There Mary of Magdala stood in the bright sun of morning.
Through their unfurled wings, I could see her. I watched her fall to her knees. Watched her face grow pale and the basket held in her arm fall to the ground. I saw the spices and oils spill into the dust.
Spices and oils that were for me for she was there to anoint me for I was dead.
I was dead. And yet I walked.
This could not be.
The pain was there, still. Holes in my wrists where hammer had met nail and nail had torn flesh and cracked bone. Holes in my feet. Wounds that still stung and bled where thorns had pierced and stabbed and ripped. And my back and my shoulders still wept, the skin peeled from the muscle, and the muscle no longer clinging to the bone.
It all still bled.
It all still hurt.
I felt such pain. There was such confusion.
I was dead.
I wanted to weep. Life was agony. Every step was agony. Every breath was agony. I remembered you and your Darkness. How you sliced your arm that night, my friend with the everlasting life, and you bled and then the blood wouldn’t run. How I took the knife to your throat and sawed deep. And how, in time, in not very much time, the blood stopped and the wound healed and it was no more.
I remembered how you seemed to feel no pain.
Yet now, as the shock of this new life grew, pain was all I felt.
If this was life, a new life, I wanted death.
“My lord,” Mary said as I drew near. She was still on her knees, shocked, afraid, disbelieving.
No, this wasn’t right.
“I was dead,” was all I could say. I wanted to fall into her arms and weep. I was dead, I wanted to say again. I was dead and now I walk and there is pain, so much pain, too much pain. Do you not see the flesh hanging from my back? And the jagged wound, here, where the spear cut my side? Do you not see the flesh cut and peeled back and bleeding again?
All this hurts, I wanted to say. There is pain, I wanted to say.
This life is too much pain.
“I was dead,” is all that would come out.
And then I saw her again. Saw the fear in her eyes, the terror growing as she watched me stumble closer, my wounds running red.
“Do not be afraid,” I heard myself say.
Somewhere deep in my mind, a demon laughed.
I blinked back tears.
Her eyes looked at the holes in my hands and how they bled. And then at where the nails pierced my feet and how they, too, bled, the blood dripping to stain the ground where I stood.
“Have you returned, my Lord?” Tears stained her cheeks.
There was a scream in my throat. A howl of such rage that, were I to open my throat and give it a voice, it would tear Jerusalem in two and pierce Heaven itself.
Instead, I said nothing. I gritted my teeth and swallowed hard and stifled the rage.
But I had thoughts. Dark thoughts.
I wanted to quiet her tongue. Grab her face in my bleeding hands and squeeze. Watch her skin blush and the panic grow in her eyes and feel her hands grip mine as she fought for release. Hear the bone crunch and feel it splinter and see the eyes pop from her skull and feel her perfect white teeth snap in her mouth as I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
She didn’t know the pain I felt. No one knew the pain I felt. If she knew the pain, she would understand my rage. And she would forgive. But she didn’t even know of my rage.
I stood silent instead, tears on my cheeks, my body weeping, the wounded flesh stinging with each breath as I stood in the bright sun.
They waited behind me, my angels. They did nothing.
Did they know of the pain?
“I must tell the others,” Mary was saying. “I will go now and tell the others that you have Risen and walk among us.”
I nodded. Could she not see the angels? Did not these silent ones with their wings unfurled shock her or surprise her or cause her distress or fear or terror?
No, she could not, I then decided. They were my burden alone.
She rose, her body still bowed, and then turned to start down the road, the linen flapping between her legs as the walk turned to a small run, her head looking back again and again as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
Yes, go, Mary, I wanted to shout. Go before the pain becomes too much and my soul breaks and I tear you limb from limb and rip your body in two.
I’ve decided Martuk needs to do more fisting.
It’s something I’ve been thinking about for weeks, nay months, actually, but after watching the sudden and quite unexpected success of the obscure author E.L. James (Google her) newest book in her very difficult to find Fifty Shades of Baby Got Back series (is that what it’s called? I think that’s what it’s called), I think it’s time to take a deep breath, find my quiet space, remember my Safe Word, relax everything and just let it happen. Just allow the Writer in me to open up to Martuk and the rest of his merry Martuk … the Holy crew fisting things.
For instance, E.L. James writes:
“He grabs me suddenly and yanks me up against him, one hand at my back holding me to him and the other fisting in my hair.
So, with that in mind, in the pivotal scene between Martuk and The Elder (before the sacrifice and the demons and the bloodshed) in the first book, what had read:
“He took a sip, allowing the liquid to linger in his mouth, on his tongue, obviously savoring the sensation.”
would now be
“He took a sip, allowing the liquid to fist his mouth, fist his tongue, obviously enjoying the sensation.”
See? Instant bestseller, right?
Or in 1st century Jerusalem, after he’s cursed with Life Everlasting, when Martuk sits with the Messiah:
He shoved the bread in His mouth, the glass of wine now in hand. Silently chewing, His eyes watched me as He washed it down with a healthy drink. Swallowing, He then sighed, focusing, inhaling deeply, exhaling, growing quiet as His eyes narrowed.”
would then become
“He fisted the bread in His mouth, the glass of wine now in hand. Silently chewing, His eyes fisted me as He fisted it down with a healthy drink. Swallowing, He then sighed, focusing, fisting deeply, exhaling, growing quiet as His eyes narrowed.”
Now THAT’S a memorable passage, right? RIGHT?
Wow. I think this might actually work!!!!!
You think the second book, Martuk … the Holy: Proseuche, could do with some good ol’ fashioned fisting?
Okay, let’s start with Martuk talking with The Sister, his friend, in her apartment in modern day Paris:
I sat back as well, my arms stretching up and along the back of the sofa. “And I will continue my tale, if this is what you’d like.”
With a gentle smile on her lips, she nodded, urging me to begin.
Wrapped in the comfort of her apartment, the dark of a Paris night outside, the cool air from the open windows kissing my flesh, my heart feeling safe, my soul feeling secure, I took a deep breath.
And cradled in her kindness, I dove back into the blood-soaked memories of this, my life.
I sat back as well, my arms fisting the back of the sofa. “And I will continue my tale, if this is what you’d like.”
With a gentle smile on her lips, she nodded, fisting me to begin.
Wrapped in the comfort of her apartment, the dark of a Paris night outside, the cool air from the open windows fisting my flesh, my heart feeling fisted, my soul feeling fisted, I took a deep fist.
And fisted in her kindess, I dove back into the blood-soaked memories of this, my life.
Hmmm, I might need to think about this one.
Okay, okay, I’m not throwing in the towel just yet. How about later, when Martuk discovers his friend Tiber in the hills surrounding 3rd century Antioch?
His skin rippled with the swarming of those that feast on the dead. Their small white bodies crawled out of his ears and wiggled from his nose and spilled from his lips to litter the smattering of hair on his slender chest.”
could easily be
His skin fisted with the swarming of those that fisted the dead. Their small bodies fisting his ears and fisting his nose and fisting his lips to litter the smattering of hair on his slender chest.”
Um … that’s probably another one I need to carefully consider.
You know what? Perhaps this E.L. James-style of, oh, what’s it called, writing? — yeah, I think so — might not be the right fit for Martuk.
Because no matter what I do or how hard I try, this fisting just isn’t working. I’ve done it this way and that. In modern Paris and ancient Uruk one thousand years before Christ. Even 1st century Jerusalem with the frickin’ Messiah! I even had Martuk’s friend fisting up in the hills of 3rd century Antioch and, still, nothing. It just feels somehow wrong. Off. Not right.
Yet it worked so well for E.L. James. Her fisting seemed so natural! A bit clumsy at times, yes. And painful to experience on the page, most definitely. Still, though, she really made that fisting work. Just jammed her fist into any sentence she could find, regardless how well it fit or even if it should fit. Forget being gentle. Forget being kind. Miss James took no prisoners! She shoved it into everything everywhere.
But when it comes to my fisting, I think it might be time to pack it up. Call it a day. Obviously, despite silly things like hopes and dreams, it’s not for everyone. Not even my immortal Martuk.
In fact, now that I think about it, maybe the last thing he needs to be doing is Fisting Immortality.
You know him as a screenwriter (film and television) and the author of Martuk … the Holy and Martuk … the Holy: Proseuche as well as The Martuk Series and the upcoming Eidolon Avenue (2016) from Crystal Lake Publishing.
But what you DIDN’T know will SHOCK YOU and CHANGE YOUR LIFE!!!!
Did you know … ??????????????????????
5. He graduated chili con carne with an Assistant Associate A-for-Effort Certificate of Completion in Phonetic Gangsta Rap from Buttons’n’Hoes Online University.
4. He’s the undefeated champion in “Holy schnitzel, what’s that smell?”
3. Is a proud recipient of the Hands Across Bungflick County Scholarship for his tireless work with DAT ASS (Differently Abled Turtles with Awkward Sinking Syndrome).
2. Is recognized as the unrecognized inventor of Twig, the never-popular wood-smoke scented waxless wicklesss candles found at your local forest and/or wooded area.
And the NUMBER ONE UNKNOWN fact about JONATHAN WINN?????????
You’ll NEVER guess what happens NEXT!!!!!!!!
ARE YOU READY???????????????????????
Are you SURE??????????????????????????
The #1 FACT about Jonathan Winn That Will CHANGE EVERYTHING:
1. He is the FIRST open and proud and open AMPHIBIOUS AUTHOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He can use BOTH his hands —
like THIS guy —
when he types!!!!!
ON THE KEYBOARD!!!!!!!!
AT THE SAME TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Doctors DON’T want you to KNOW THIS!!!!!
Stay tuned for MORE UNPROVEN UNBELIEVABLE UNTRUE FACTS!!!!!!
You know what a hybrid is, right? In publishing, it’s someone who both self-publishes (as I did with Martuk … the Holy and Martuk … the Holy: Proseuche as well as The Martuk Series) and is published traditionally.
Well, as of today, I am now officially a hybrid.
From Crystal Lake Publishing:
After five months of reading 144 pitches and various sample chapter submissions (with the help of various sub readers – especially Ben Eads), Crystal Lake Publishing is proud to announce six projects chosen by us (and one surprise addition). We actually accepted seven, but we’re still negotiating with the author his novel. That announcement will be made at a later date.
In alphabetical order:
Theresa Derwin – GOD’S VENGEANCE novella
Mark Allan Gunnells – short story collection presently named FLOWERS IN A DUMPSTER
Alessandro Manzetti – EDEN UNDERGROUND poetry collection
Patrick Rutigliano – WIND CHILL novella
Mark Sheldon – SARAH KILLIAN: SERIAL KILLER (FOR HIRE!) novella
Jonathan Winn – EIDOLON AVENUE, a collection of shorts stories and novellas
A sincere congrats to all these authors. The competition was extremely tough, and you truly deserve to be here. I hope everyone takes the time to congratulate these folks, as well as take the time to get to know the ones you’re not familiar with.
I’m also extremely happy to announce that we’ll be publishing the print edition of Taylor Grant’s DARK AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL later this year. The eBook edition has been picked up by another excellent publisher, so more on that at a later date.
Here is a rough draft of our publishing schedule till end of this year (subject to change, of course):
May: THE OUTSIDERS
June: Kevin Lucia’s THROUGH A MIRROR, DARKLY
July: Alessandro Manzetti’s EDEN UNDERGROUND
August: TALES FROM THE LAKE VOL.2
September: CHILDREN OF THE GRAVE
October: HORROR 201: THE SILVER SCREAM
November: Taylor Grant’s DARK AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
December: Patrick Rutigliano’s WIND CHILL
Thank you to everyone who took part in our very first open submission window, and all the best with your books. I’m sure we’ll have another open submission in the next year or so.
All the best,
Crystal Lake Publishing
So, there you have it! Huge congratulations to everyone.
I couldn’t be more excited to be working with the award-winning CLP and the fantastic Joe Mynhardt, a man who’s deeply respected and has an eye for talent. To have someone like him believe in what I was doing enough to say Yes is very exciting.
And that’s how you become One Happy Hybrid, my friends.
Hollywood. Films. Remakes, sequels, franchises. Adaptations of books. And where are the “new ideas” from Hollywood?
Let’s talk about this.
What most of you — and I’m talking mainly about those in the States — don’t realize is that Hollywood isn’t making films for you anymore. The domestic box office is one of the smaller pieces of the pie when it comes to profits. These days, their money is being made in China, Russian, India. That’s their audience. That’s who they’re focused on when they decide what to put into development or what script/property to invest in.
So, when looking at what films to make and, more importantly, what films they can market effectively to the biggest audience while still ticking all their demographic boxes, they tend to go either for iconic properties (Superman, Dracula, Batman, other superheroes) or earlier films they hold the rights to that they can successfully reboot, remake, rework with a young cast and hot director into something that can be discovered by a new audience.
Let’s face it. We can talk about art and beauty and films being an amazing thing, but, at the end of the day, Hollywood needs to make money. And, as mentioned before, it’s not being made in the States. It’s all overseas.
Wondering where your serious dramas went? They don’t play well in those foreign markets so Studios are a lot less likely to jump onboard and make ’em (unless they’re historical Oscar bait, like Selma, or have Meryl Streep in them). Romantic comedies? Nope. Again, it’s a cultural difference. What Americans find funny or romantic will confuse the heck out of those foreign markets. So, they don’t make ’em. And when they do, it’s usually a box office bomb. And, remember, they’re in this to make money, something box office bombs don’t do.
Now, when it comes to new ideas — and, yes, they do have them! — and especially adaptations of books (which need not be bestsellers, surprisingly), Studios tend to hope for a few things. Or at least that’s what I’ve discovered as Martuk … the Holy and Martuk … the Holy: Proseuche laboriously trudge their way to the silver screen.
1) Is it a franchise? Making one movie, and just one movie, isn’t in the cards. For marketing purposes, tie-ins, building an audience, etc., they’re really hoping you have a story that spans three books and can be told in six films. Having a reliable story they can tell over a decade or so is ideal.
2) IS THERE A STORY?????? Oh, and believable characters who actually talk like real people. Believe it or not, and this is something I hear time and again from friends of mine who are producers, a lot of the books suggested to them from agents and publishers HAVE NO STORY!!!!
Listen, Hollywood isn’t a big reading town. They read scripts and they read coverage (crib notes version of a script or book). But for those who DO read, they get downright giddy when it’s well-written (most books these days, even so-called bestsellers, aren’t) and feel like they hit the frickin’ jackpot when it has an actual story. Beginning, middle, end. Three acts. Pace. Intelligence. Something a screenwriter can actually work into a script because, MY GOD, that NEVER happens!
So, yeah, having a story in your book rather than a random series of events that just kinda happen helps.
3) A sense of mythology. And this one, to me, feels huge. Every successful book-to-film (talking about the tent-pole productions that anchor a Studio for the summer and are usually franchises) has come to the table with a world wrapped in mythology. And I’m not necessarily talking about an established mythology, Greek, Roman, etc. It can be one the author has created. Other worlds, ancient worlds. Gods, goddesses. Superhuman strength. Immortals and monsters. That gives a Studio so, so much to play with because, absent a very American story centered around love and life and drama, there’s now a narrative — one probably based on action, magic, struggle, and strong visuals – foreign markets will readily understand and enjoy.
I think that knowing all this will help you understand why Hollywood decides the way it sometimes does — it’s not about you anymore, sorry — and how you, if you’re a writer hoping to shift your work into film, can maybe hopefully perhaps possibly write something they might be more willing to maybe hopefully perhaps possibly consider.
Seriously, though, it’s a crapshoot. Whenever writers ask me how they can get a “Hollywood Deal”, I always tell them “Don’t. Just write your damn book, and then another, and another, and another, and another. Be a writer. And if you can be a good writer, a really good writer, maybe Hollywood will find you.”
At the end of the day, it’s one of the few things we writers can totally control. What we write and how well we write it. If Hollywood likes it, great! If not, then our Readers will still love us.
P.S. There are always exceptions to the rule, so the above thoughts aren’t written in stone. They’re just thoughts.
P.S.S. The opening weekend success of 50 Shades of Grey is an outlier when it comes to books-to-film (Americans living in a world lacking mythology). The success of the book IS the mythology. That’s what drove the Studios to adapt it to film. The fact that it had done so well as a book is what’s notable about that book series. It’s what they were counting on to get butts in the seat and post some strong opening week numbers. ‘Cause it sure as hell isn’t the laughably bad writing and bizarre lack of a story! And a huge kudos to screenwriter Kelly Marcel for doing what she could with piss poor source material.
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