W. P. Johnson

Drink Up

In Uncategorized on July 21, 2017 at 7:25 pm

I’m hungover.

I mean, I am painfully, skull crackingly, sit down to pee and cry, vomitingly, perhaps even dangerously hungover, so much so that I am googling whether or not it’s possible to die from a hangover. Unfortunately it is not.

My tolerance ain’t what it used to be and in recent months I’ve dropped a few pounds, making it even harder to slam back shots and beers like I did when I was in my twenties (I mean, how the hell did I drink so much back then?). But I sort of knew what I was getting into. I went out to meet a friend of mine, ubering there as to not risk driving later, with every intention of getting kind of lit because I hadn’t done it in such a long time and started to feel like maybe I was missing out on something or losing my edge only to find out that whatever I may have missed out on probably happened during the eventual black out I experienced and if I ever had any edge to begin with, what remained was lost in the uber ride home. Thankfully I had my wallet and phone on me. But not the capacity to hold my lunch, nor any kind of mental capacity to express whatever horror I was experiencing as I moaned and screamed at midnight and was thrust into a cold shower by my wife to somehow sober me up and freeze the crazy out of me. The cat was afraid of me the next morning, but don’t worry, we’re cool now.

Still… it was fun. I hadn’t really cut lose in a long time and it was good to see my friend and just bullshit and catch up. Plus, I had given myself a reason to drink, which is that of having finished a pilot episode for a show idea called “Train Tracks” (you might remember the short story with the same name). Prior to that I had finished a full length feature for Dream Dress and will know soon whether or not it’ll make the first round of cuts for a horror script contest. So, what the hell- drink up.

Just not today. Today, I take shots of Gatorade.

In other random news, the novella of Dream Dress is selling okay for a self published novella (about 3-4 copies a month) and occasionally there’s a spike in the sales rank, which tells me someone just bought a copy. I’m hoping it starts to pick up some more steam soon and gain some kind of popularity amongst lolitas who inspired the story to begin with, but these things take time. After all,  as far as I know, I’ve written the only lolita based horror story in existence, so unless every lolita hates horror and spiders, I think it’ll start to find a small audience and hopefully that same audience will follow me to The Eight Eyes That Watch You Die when it’s finally published next year. I just hope all those lolitas don’t mind the lack of ruffles in my other stories.

The pilot for Train Tracks has been submitted to screencraft for notes, and I think it’s some of my best script writing so far and sets the stage for a lot of great storytelling. After I write another chapter for Possessed, I’m going to take a crack at another feature, then another pilot. Screenwriting has been very rewarding and oddly more fun than regular writing. I don’t think it’s something I’ll give up any time soon.

My provisional agent has yet to respond with revision notes, but like the ground swell of sales for my novella- these things take time. I’ll admit it though- I’m nervous. Not that I won’t ever receive revision notes, but that the agent won’t really like the book in its current form. Or maybe the notes won’t be that great. What the hell do I know? This is my first rodeo after all.

But then again, maybe the revision notes will show up today and they’ll be wonderful and exciting, and maybe he’ll already have a few publishers he’s talking to that he’d like to pitch to, maybe the script for Dream Dress will sell, and maybe Train Tracks will be the reason I get hired as a staff writer on a show, and maybe this and maybe that. So many maybes. The thing that I really think though is that had I not worked so hard and pushed myself for so long, I wouldn’t even be considering the potential for any of these possibilities. Imagine that? Not even thinking that something good might come of my work because I didn’t do it. The twenty year old me probably thought about that alot as he drank the night away and slept in every morning instead of writing because the task of it seemed too daunting and the excuses too vast. But not anymore. Now I sit down and I get my ass to work because I love it. I don’t have to work towards it. I’m already there.

If that hasn’t earned a drink or two, I don’t know what will.

Until next time, here’s to being scary.

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No More Devil’s Advocate

In Uncategorized on May 15, 2017 at 12:49 pm

On May 13th, 2017, White Nationalist Richard Spencer led a group of demonstrators in Charlotte Virginia to protest the removal of a monument of Robert E. Lee. You know… the general who fought on the Confederate side of the American Civil War, which, despite whatever arguments could be made by contrarian history dorks that it wasn’t “about slavery”, I tend to think that, like World War II and Hitler’s intentions with European Jews, the South wasn’t exactly planning on doing anything pleasant with their slaves in the event that they actually won the fucking thing.

I digress. The pictures of the aforementioned demonstration was a weird scene, coupled with Spencer’s own denial of being a bigot. Who could forget one particular interview promptly ended by a punch to the face, where he stated that the KKK didn’t really like him all that much? It’s weird because, beyond whatever thrill there is to be had by really pissing off Social Justice Warriors (hate speech is also free speech guys), I can’t comprehend why anyone would admire the South’s battle to secede given the circumstances. Especially when the admiration is coupled with a denial of bigotry, that the Confederate Flag isn’t a symbol of hate, blah blah blah. I mean, technically speaking, the Nazi symbol is a ancient Indian symbol for peace… or something.

Who gives a fuck, it’s not that anymore and neither is the confederate flag a symbol of whatever passive aggressive nonsense shit kickers want to flaunt in the face of people who probably have legit reasons to be uncomfortable when they see a pick up truck with the stars and bars haul ass out of a bar parking lot while a dude tosses used shotgun shells on the side of the road like cigarette butts.

When Trump was elected, I tried to play devil’s advocate. Not because I thought there would be good, rational, reasons to elect him. I just wanted to try and understand why someone would vote for a person like that, just like I wanted to try and understand why someone like Richard Spencer would think it was a affront to his whiteness to take down a monument of General E. Lee, and that the alt-right was not a “movement of hate”. Sure, there are moments when trigger warnings and Berkeley-esque outbreaks are obnoxious, when social justice warriors pile on the latest outrage like so many flies on unintentional sharts. And while I wish these same people displayed a little more forgiveness towards those unfortunate enough to catch the spot light during their unwanted public moment of shame, the judgment at least makes sense to me on some basic level.

When Trump was elected, I argued with myself that the reason he had/has supporters is because social issues lost all their weight the further you traveled into “Trump Country”. Who cares where a transgender person uses the bathroom if there’s no jobs? Who gives a flying fuck about racial profiling when an entire industry is collapsing around you? These people would argue, “we need food, not laws protecting net neutrality”. Outside of Philadelphia in “Pennsyltucky” the only thing that matters is, “when is the manufacturing plant opening again, when and how are all the jobs going to come back?”.

But here we are,  more than a hundred days into Trump’s presidency, more than a hundred days of the alt-right openly stating their demands that they be allowed to exist as a presence in our society. And you know what? I don’t care why someone voted for this guy or why someone would protest the removal of a confederate monument. I don’t care if the air conditioner factory closed in Ohio. I don’t care if migrants are sneaking through the Mexico/Texas border. If these are the reasons why you ignored all the negative bullshit about Trump and chalked it up to him just “saying it like it is”, if, at this point, you still like the guy and feel like he’s doing a good job, if, at this point, you still don’t think there’s something weird going on with his connections to Russia, or his refusal to release tax returns… then you are a fucking idiot. And I really do mean that. You, Trump supporter, at this point in the game, are a fool. And this is coming from a guy who is super cynical about the news and finds them almost as gross and disgusting as Trump does. This is coming from a guy who begrudgingly “stood with her” for lack of a better choice. This is coming from a guy who really wanted to find a rational reason for why someone would advocate for this shit. But I think it’s clear at this point that the Devil is not evil, he’s just a fucking idiot.

But, hey, that’s kind of the catch-22 of America’s freedom. We all have the right to be as stupid as we want to be. So thank god for spell-check and pass the ammunition.

Until then, here’s to being scary.

The Road To Publication Part VI or How Did I Get Here?

In Uncategorized on May 3, 2017 at 11:29 am

On June 4th, 2014, I emailed myself the first part of A Song For John, neurotically ensuring I had multiple saved files. It became a routine of sorts. Write a chapter in google docs, proof it, edit, etc, then save it as a document and email it to two different emails. That email marks the date and gives me a record of sorts, and with this, a timeline. So, we are, more or less, at the three year mark since I wrote the first page of A Song For John, contrary to my last “Road to Publication” entry, clocking it closer to four years.

Anyone who’s read this blog or has had the patience to hear me talk about this book knows how much work went into it. When I first started it, my job had lost a bartender and I was working overtime for nearly three months. Yet, I still persisted in getting up every morning at 7 AM to write for three hours before showering and working a double at my bar job. I did this for about three months until the stress of it became too much, prompting night terrors, acid reflux, and full blown burn out. Even my wife was starting to notice. I scaled back my alarm to 8 AM instead, then 8:30, giving myself that extra hour and a half of needed sleep. At work I was a zombie on auto-pilot. None the less, when a new bartender was finally hired and my schedule resumed a manageable 30 hours, I found myself so keyed into this morning routine that I have a hard time sleeping in to this day, waking up around 8:30 even if I’m up until two.

This is the routine that got me to my first draft, a whopping 200K that took me about nine months to write. After that, it took me another six months to cut it down. Then came the beta readers and another draft after that,  cutting it down to 150K (roughly 7-800 pages). At that point, I felt it was as good as I could make it. The pitches went out and I waited, knowing deep down it was a uphill battle to pitch a book that long from a new writer.

Flash forward to April 20th, 2016, and I get my first request of the full manuscript. I was a little shocked, to be honest. An actual agent wanted to see my bloated fantasy book. Then that same week there came a second request. Then… nothing. If there’s anything to being a writer, its the numbness one acquires when dealing with failure. I think Chuck Wendig described it as pounding our heads against a brick wall, uncaring how thick it is with the stubborn belief that, eventually, the wall will lose that battle.

Still, I knew, despite the length, I had something here. Agents aren’t in the business of making friends or being polite. One does not request a book just for the hell of it. These two agents saw the pitch and the sample pages and the 150K didn’t scare them off. I had something special. I just had to keep going with my head against that brick wall. Smash, smash, smash.

Following that came a third agent that asked to see the book, then doubled back saying it was too long. BUT, if I managed to cut it under 100K, she’d take a look. My first two agents were unresponsive (which happens constantly, btw), so what did I have to lose? Having just finished the last of The Eight Eyes That Watch You Die (collection forthcoming in 2018) I mulled it over and thought about how I could take the first two acts of the original draft and make it stand alone. In the end it made the story stronger, setting the stage for book II and III. As many have said hearing about my dilemma in pitching a book far too long: make it a trilogy. Turns out they were right.

Flash forward again, to this past November, 2016. The newly cut version goes back out into the wild. The original agent that requested the cut passed (ouch). The first two agents that asked to see the 150K version are still unresponsive. The wall is not cracking, no matter how many times I smash my head against it.

But then… another agent building her list asks to see the book. Then another. Maybe it’s not night and day, but it seems like an easier sell this time around. Randomly, I do one last follow up email with the first two agents that requested the book, letting them know that I had made these drastic changes to the manuscript if they wanted to see it. The first agent is unresponsive. The second responds, saying some personal things came up but that they’d still like to read the new version if it was still available.

A month later, they offer provisional representation. Meaning, we’ll work on the manuscript, pitch it, and if they can get me a deal, we’ll sign a contract making their representation more official.

The wall cracks a little. Not alot. But enough for me to think that maybe there’s light on the other side. My head hurts, but it’s not broken. And I have an agent.

How the hell did I get here?

I busted my ass. I made sacrifices. I blew off drinks with friends. I slept less. I read more. I wrote ALOT. At one point, I was writing the book on my fucking phone while between waiting tables. I ignored all the fear and anxiety of pitching a project that might possibly go nowhere. I believed in it. I kept doing the work, and every time I felt like maybe I had done all I could, I found more that I could do. And that’s why, now, I don’t know if it’s fair to label these entries, jokingly, as a documentation of how I “wasted my life”. Because I learned so much and have grown so much during this process. I became a better story teller. I think, in some ways, it has made me a better person. But most importantly, I didn’t take any shortcuts because, well, there aren’t any shortcuts. And this is what I would tell the old me and anyone else who looks at a writer announcing a deal they got or an agent they just acquired: if you want this, if you really want this, you have to do the work. And if you want to know what that means and how long it takes… re-read what you just read and the all the entries before that. Because if at any point you think “I don’t know if I can do that for that long a period of time”, then you’ll probably never get there. But if you’re like me, you’re too stubborn to care how long it takes. You can’t be told no. And in that sense, there’s nothing I can say to help because you don’t need it.

That wall is gonna go down, no matter how hard and how long I have to smash my head against it.

See you on the other side.

Until then, here’s to being scary.