So here is the first post of many detailing all of you about how my recent horror book Infernous is now being made into a comic series. It will likely be 3 issues, and we are currently drawing up the characters and writing the script. But who is WE?
The fine artist who will make the violent story come to life is Matthew Mahoney. This is our first venture into the world of comics and we are super excited.
What to expect:
After the first two issues are completed, we will run a Kickstarter fund on one of the sites (Indiegogo, Gofundme, Kickstarter) to help raise money for printing, shipping and creation costs. Once the goal is met, we will ship out the first issue to Infernous. The following month we will continue to work on issue 3, as well as ship out issue 2.
Enter here for the remaining month of July!
I always see the absolute best in what a person can be.
It’s the same reason I am consistently disappointed in the worst part that shows.
So many present themselves in such a beautiful way on their media pages.
Underneath they’re hollowed out caverns of a soul.
It makes me wonder what made them that way.
Isn’t that the question for all of us?
Why are you the way you are?
What made me the way I am?
(picture from http://www.sliverofice.com/blog/)
How many writers are out there who are belittled and dismissed as lost souls with a useless hobby?
I’ve just published my 4th book and I’m taken aback when people so close to me refer to my career as a hobby.
A man slaves over wood for hours, days, weeks and months to make a beautiful table and chairs. He may work somewhere to pay the bills but he does his wood work because he loves it. That isn’t a hobby. It’s art and he’s an artist.
I write novels, short stories and poetry. It is art and I am an artist.
Do you write? Draw? Paint? Slave over something you love?
You’re a goddamn artist.
Thank you for reading
Here is a short story I’ll be putting out in small sections.
Blackwater – Part One
The rain had never come down so hard as it did that night. Samuel looked out to the window near the front door and saw water running down the pane. It wasn’t the type of rain that the water had to accumulate enough weight to begin rolling down. Tonight there was no standing water. It poured down at an alarming rate.Thunder crashed and roared after a flash of light soared across the dark sky.
There were many things to be worried about that night. The rain threatened to flood his simple house. Already he was afraid to check the cellar. The moon had disappeared many hours before, just as the storm began. It wasn’t covered by storm clouds, but just dimmed until it dissolved into oblivion. When Samuel looked out his front window and found a sky so dark it seemed to suck the light from the candles lighting the house.
There were strange noises outside. Noises that didn’t come from the violence of a storm, not even a storm that took the moon away. Samuel’s mind wandered for a moment trying to make sense of the sounds he heard. However before too long he stopped himself. Nothing good would come of dwelling on such possible evils, he thought. There were many things to be worried about that night; each one worse than the former. But the most frightening one was the knowledge that Samuel’s brother was out there somewhere.
Where do you get your inspiration to write?
It could be a movie with a scene of honesty and truth that strikes you more than the rest. It could be a poem you read that has a certain set of words cast in a specific order that somehow rings with your consciousness.
Could it be something written decades ago? Or is it something happening in your life?
Do you only write of your sorrows and longings? Or do you also write of happiness and glee?
There’s a quote from a movie that had an impact on me that says a writer is the sum of their experiences. If that’s true and I believe it is, what do your experiences say about you?
Thank you for reading
There’s a child hiding from a beast
Trying to not become part of the feast
He relives his death every morning and night
From his lips comes mourning and fright
He lives and dies with a mangled face
In 1902 he died without a trace
A terrible story to tell
But a story to share of his hell
Thank you for reading