Here’s a guest post by horror author and friend Hunter Shea, giving everyone a little insight into the real writing world.
Writing horror is the most glamorous job in the world. I mean, I’m surprised I didn’t do this sooner. And why isn’t everyone else trying to get in the door?
I say this as I write at my kitchen table. My oldest cat is eating at my feet and the smell of her Fancy Feast is nauseating, to say the least. There’s so much stuff on the table that I barely have room for my laptop. A wedge of Irish soda bread is at one elbow, a bag of Bear Naked granola at the other. My wife just did the laundry and the indoor rack is at my back. If I slide back in my chair too fast, all those clean clothes are flopping on the floor.
I’m at the kitchen table because my desk is swamped under holiday boxes and bags that need to be brought to storage. My perfectly crafted little writing corner is MIA.
The day job kept me busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger, so I have a headache and flagging energy. In a few minutes, I have to pick up dinner (we’re eating out tonight!) across town. After we eat, I have to help my daughter with her homework, and feed the other cat who was too lazy to get up earlier. We’re having a family night tonight, so we’ll either attempt the Big Bang Theory game we got for Christmas (thanks sis) or find something On-Demand to watch together. I may or may not have time to get in a few pages on my novella before my brain shuts down. And I can’t sleep without reading. Tonight, I’m working on the second half of fellow Samhainer Glenn Rolfe’s book, Abram’s Bridge.
And tomorrow? Wash, rinse repeat. Though I do plan to spend some quality time on my book. That will be my time to indulge my id and rage against the world.
When Island of the Forbidden was released, I celebrated by going to work, taking care of the sick members of my family and spending more time than usual on social media. I think I also went to the store to get cold meds and tissues. And I also steam cleaned the living room carpet. That, my friends, is a productive day.
Yes, it’s all Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous at the Shea abode. I even believe we may have some faux caviar cat food and apple cider in those fancy champagne bottles you get at the supermarket.
And you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing. I never had grand dreams of becoming the next Stephen King sitting atop piles of money I couldn’t spend in several lifetimes. I just wanted to write stories. Somewhere along the line, the editor of my dreams liked one of those stories, and here I am. I don’t want a fancy cocktail party in New York City when one of my books is released, sycophants circling me like sharks while I scratch at the discomfort of my rental tux. Give me a quiet night with the family, sharing stories over dinner while the cats circle our legs, waiting to be fed. Or, if you want to go big, we can gather some close friends at a dive bar, drink cold bottles of Lone Star and laugh until our voices are raw.
That’s glamour to me. Thank God I get to keep writing, all thanks to folks like you, those precious readers of horror.
Grab Hunter’s excellent Island of the Forbidden on Amazon or anywhere books by the mentally twisted are sold.