I Am Un-Publishing One of My Books

It is with mixed emotions that, as of today, I am removing my second novel, Corruption from sale. There are a few reasons for this.

The first, and most important, is the book is unfinished. After two years of writing and editing the manuscript, I was antsy to write other stories and was concerned that too much time would pass after my debut if I didn’t publish my second novel ASAP, so in April of 2017 I made the hasty and short-sighted decision to put it on the market without having it professionally edited. Well, that isn’t entirely true – I was working as a professional editor at the time, so it was, in a sense. But as Elvira advises Tony in Scarface: “Never get high on your own supply.” So while I certainly feel the story has many great, memorable characters and scenes, and in general is free of any typos, it simply was not ready to be published. There are plenty of reviews out there voicing many different opinions you can read as to the “why.” My own take: the pacing in the first half is too slow (many readers enjoyed the second half much more), and there were a handful of creative decisions regarding certain characters that would have been better executed with some editorial guidance.

Not to say that I would change the story itself, about a young man’s moral fall at the hands of a bad mentor. But rarely does what we say matter more than how we say it.

Corruption is also unfinished in another way. It is the first book in a series that I planned as a duology. I spent a lot of time drafting the sequel, Virtue, which currently sits at around 70% finished on my hard drive. I have no idea when I am going to complete it. In the mean time, I’ve written two other novel manuscripts, several short stories, and a screenplay. For now I feel my heart is simply too set on other projects to give this series the time it deserves, which brings me to my next point…

The final reason I am un-publishing this book is my conscience. While I still love this story very deeply and have always written with the ethos that a writer’s first, and only job is to be honest, an honest effort doesn’t always guarantee success. The story is undercooked, and that no longer sits well with me. If the book had sold a thousand or ten thousand or a million copies, or if I didn’t own the rights, it would just be another “oh, well.” But it didn’t, and I do, so I can do what I want.

I do intend to finish this series, someday, after a significant re-edit of the first book with the helping hands of a professional. Maybe I will release both books as an omnibus, or as separate “definitive editions,” or together as one huge, Russian-length novel. I don’t know when it will actually happen, but that’s the plan.

However, for now, it is coming down.

Some dates:

  • The paperback version is no longer for sale, as of today.
  • The Kindle version will be removed from the Amazon store on December 26, 2020 when its current KDP period expires.
  • The audio version is still available on Audible for the time being, but will be removed in the near future.

Poetry: “Love”

Love is a father
Holding tight to your hand.
Love is the losses
That you never planned.
Love is the laughter
Drifting from the yard.
Love is the gatherings
When times grow hard.
Love is the cradle
That swayed you to sleep.
Love is the bedside
Where your family weeps.
Love is a close race
Down buttered corn.
Love is the embrace
When voices grow worn.
Love is a treasure
That crossed half the world.
Love is a note
Wrought from misspelled words.
Love is the piece
Of the Endless we scrape.
Love is a bus
When no one is awake.
Love is the first light
That makes way for dawn.
Love is what remains
When all else is gone.

 

In memory of my father John

6/21/1952 – 6/21/2019

Remembering Gene Wolfe (From a Fan Who Never Met Him)

“It is possible I already had some presentiment of my future.”

The moment I read those words, as I sat on the deck of my college house cracking open my first copy of The Shadow of the Torturer the summer after sophomore year back in 2006, I knew in my gut and in my heart this cat could never be put back in the bag. Gene Wolfe’s monumental Solar Cycle was already old then – it was originally published in the 1980’s – and Mr. Wolfe had been on my radar since I was a kid, when I saw the below illustration of the Alzabo in Wayne Douglas Barlow’s Barlow’s Guide to Fantasy. But I knew from the instant I opened the first volume of Book of the New Sun that I would never read another work like it, or come to know through his words another author like Gene Wolfe.

So much digital ink has been spilled over the years attempting to interpret Wolfe’s dense and mind-boggling opus that I will spare spilling more of it here. To the uninitiated, Book of the New Sun is the fictional autobiography of the supreme ruler of an Earth (stylized as “Urth”) so far in the future that the sun is dying. The hero of the story is Severian, and the prose acts as his personal confession booth for his long and zig-zagging path from lowly orphaned torturer tasked with murdering the political enemies of his government, to traveling headsman famed for his mercury-veined executioner’s sword, to short-lived stage-actor, to war hero, and eventually, savior of all mankind.

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“The Alzabo,” from Barlow’s Guide to Fantasy by Wayne Douglas Barlow

Needless to say, Severian is not always a good man… much less an honest narrator. He’s an asshole. He hand-waves away any number of violent crimes (sometimes without even an attempted justification). He lies to the reader about a ton of shit, and portrays himself as the best thing since sliced Lembas bread in pretty much every situation he retells. He uses big words and obscure words and words that have been retired from the English language altogether for no goddamned reason other than to confuse and derail you. He leaves out important details of events, and leaves it up to you to read between the lines (or rather, reread between them) and find out what is really going on.

Yes, he was written this way on purpose, although that purpose changes depending on who you ask.

To me, aside from being a complex and deeply flawed character, Severian is a masterful exercise in the age-old idiom that “the villain is just the hero of the other side;” he is a clever deconstruction of the “Chosen One” archetype, a self-confessed bad man who ultimately turns it around, though his redemption is far from total, and comes at a high cost to those around him.

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U.K. Cover Art for The Shadow of the Torturer by Bruce Pennington

For many of us, this series was our first exposure to an unreliable narrator, and opened up worlds within worlds we never thought possible concerning the power of storytelling; it gave us a glimpse behind the magician’s curtain, and there was not a Great and Powerful Oz, but turtles, turtles all the way down. For others, Book of the New Sun is a maddening, unreadable,  problematic slog that one would be better off throwing against a wall before that infamous traffic jam in the portcullis that closes the first book.

Book of the New Sun isn’t an easy read by any means. I’ve since read the series four times cover-to-cover, and I still find it difficult. I am still finding new secrets and cooking up new fan theories to explain the murkier and more vile parts of the story with each successive read-through. Those of us who love this series, and the rest of Wolfe’s work, may indeed be crazy for loving it. I don’t know.

What I do know is how it changed me, not only during that first read-through that summer after sophomore year on my favorite sunny spot on the deck of my college house, but upon every subsequent reread.

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Severian and friends as Adventure Time characters, by artist PandaFunkTeam

I can cleanly divide my life both as a reader and a greater individual into two distinct eras: before Book of the New Sun, and after. It was the gateway drug that hooked me on the author who would eventually become my favorite of all time, whose every word I would one day cherish. It was the story that convinced me villains are more interesting than heroes. It was the masterful lesson to an immature and undisciplined pupil that a writer does a far greater service to their audience when they assume that audience to be intelligent, and write their stories accordingly.

Gene Wolfe was the writer who taught me to say fuck you to my lingering doubts, and to put my own stories out there. Because I realized that if even one reader out there enjoyed the stories I wrote and found some meaning in them, it would be enough.

Gene Wolfe’s readers don’t number in the single digits, though. From at least the 70’s on, when his breakout novella The Fifth Head of Cerberus was published, he was a household name in science fiction and fantasy literature. As far as I can tell, he was considered a “writer’s writer” almost from the beginning – which is not to disparage people who don’t try to write fiction, only to say that for those of us who do attempt this typically punishing and only sometimes rewarding hobby, every one of Wolfe’s novels dually acted as a master class on technique, as well as a plethora of renewed inspiration. Ursula K. LeGuin called him “Our Melville.” George R.R. Martin sought his advice. Neil Gaiman wrote an extremely flattering essay about how to read Wolfe’s work with an open mind (and a dictionary at hand), and the New Yorker even named him “Science Fiction’s Difficult Genius.”

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A quote from Book of the New Sun.

But I don’t really care about any of that anymore. Maybe I did, once. Maybe seeing those platitudes attached to a writer whose stories I was head over heels for did cause some psychological transference on my part and make me feel cooler or better at books for having read him, not to mention a bottomless envy at a level of skill and imagination I was (and am) certain I could never possess.

On top of all that, you will find no excuses that “we must separate art from the artist” here. No one I have ever read or heard from ever had a negative word to say about him. By all accounts, Mr. Wolfe was a kind man and a gifted teacher; a devoted Catholic, loving husband, decorated veteran of the Korean War, and a regular of the Clarion Writer’s Workshop who helped countless up-and-coming science fiction and fantasy writers find their own voices. He not only wrote the books other writers wish they could  write, he was the writer other writers aspire to be.

Although I never met him, as I process the news today that he is gone, at the age of 87, I feel like I’ve lost someone I knew deeply and personally, a teacher, a mentor, and a friend. Someone whose voice guided me through the years and rekindled my imagination when the winds of pain and hard times threatened to extinguish it… for whatever one person’s imagination is worth. Maybe it isn’t much, but I know I’m not the only one.

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I will never forget reading The Shadow of the Torturer literally to pieces. It was the first book that I read so hard it fell apart, not least because it (and I) pretty much lived on that deck that summer. Well, technically it was the omnibus edition of Shadow & Claw – the first two books in the series – but whatever.

I will never forget the lyrics to the cheesy love song about Severian and Thecla that I wrote and played to a few of my college friends, who I was disappointed to discover had no idea what the hell I was so poorly singing about.

I will never forget the first time I discovered the Urth.net newsletter and stayed up until 7AM reading it with my mouth agape in despair to learn that all my perfectly-dotted theories about the last twelve Gene Wolfe books I’d read were completely and utterly wrong.

I will never forget how much Pirate Freedom rekindled my love of seafaring, swashbuckling adventures after spending five years of my video game career in the doldrums of making games about pirates whose main concern was experience points.

I will never forget what it felt like waking up early for weeks on end while traveling through Europe to read and reread On Blue’s Waters and In Green’s Jungles because I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. My kindle spent so much time plugged in during that trip I was worried it might kick the bucket and explode.

I will never forget rolling my eyes and laughing out loud at all the weird, perfectly Eastern European bureaucratic nightmares in The Land Across, which I read while living in Poland, where it took the government the better part of a year to issue me a work permit.

I will never forget the impact these stories had on my life, the compass they became for me, and at times, the spark.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Wolfe, and thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Sincerely, a fan.

Poetry: The Barghest’s Revenge

I.

The Barghest rose from stirring gloom
Through creeping shadows of my room
The dangling keys about his wrists
Like tiny bells foretelling doom.

O’er to my bed he slithered, black
His skin mottled like mordant wax
All tufts of hair in ancient cysts
Sprouting from nose, toes, ears, and back.

With a voice smooth as mercury
Thus he whispered, musically
“Find you the door that matches this,”
And in his hand offered a key.

The toothed, black spindle in his palm
Was twisted, sharp, nine inches long.
Heavy as ages in my grip,
It filled my ears with eldritch song.

“Go you to Edinburgh, my dear,”
The monster said into my ear
“In Robert’s Close, when moonlight-kiss’d
By his name, you must dig near.”

“There you will find a secret trove
Buried ‘neath the roots and bones
With this key I to you inflict
The chance to see your sweet love, Rose.”

I did not ask him what he meant
I did not call him when he went
Drifting like some poisonous mist
To dissipate into the vent.

A year had passed since Rose’s death
Nights I spent whoring, whiskey-vexed
Her shape was still equally missed
On unwashed sheets only half dressed.

For every love has its goodbye
All bright flowers wither and die
Time and death, we cannot resist
And sirens stir in the decline.

 

II.

I left my silver weapons home
‘Twas ten good years since they had shone
Our land dreaming and safe adrift
At last its final devils gone.

We cleansed the highlands and the low
Purged clear loch to Roman stone
Bags of copper spilled through our fists
With not a monster left to roam.

The last ones fled, or hid, or died
I can still hear every black cry
Those loathing hexes, gravely hissed
The Barghests’ were no milder kind.

And now I traveled those same roads
Until that Royal Mile I strode
Robert’s Close, could such place exist?
The cobbles cursed under my brogues.

In Grassmarket, at last I found
An alleyway, all spectral-bound
A name was written in dark script
Of a prince who’d never been crowned.

I scored a shovel for my work
In rusted iron, solace lurked
Imagining my future tryst
I staked it in the hardened earth.

Three feet deep, lay a small casket
A crude, wicker, coffin-basket
Its hard shell made my shovel slip
I kneeled down and unlatched it.

Inside the box, a woman’s skull
But no, not human, not at all
The fangs, the hair, those silver wisps
All bound within a crown of awls.

 

III.

The Barghest rasped into my ear
“How could they bury my love here?
Give her a grave as poor as this?
Monster hunter, it was but fear.”

“During your righteous purge for men
You toxified my family’s den
Never will my wife part her lips
To sing our babes asleep again.”

“See you why I had to infect her?
Why your Rose never got better?
The great trouble with fairness is
Blood for blood just makes us wetter.”

Oh how I raged, debased, and howled
I slashed them, punched them, kicked, and scowled
But my foe had returned to mist
I lay amidst a leering crowd.

I was street-side, covered in filth
A madman preaching madmen’s ilk
I closed my eyes and reminisced
As watchmen drove me up the hill.

Now in my cell, dank, black, and bare
I can taste the old, piss-sour air
I dream of secret doors promised
And retch at demons hidden there.

Lurk – Adam Vine (Review)

Great review of LURK from Inconsistent Pacing

Inconsistent Pacing

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Drew is a loser. He’s fat, awkward, and hopelessly infatuated with a girl who doesn’t share his feelings. He has good friends though, and throws great parties. Sunny Hill, the house he shares with those friends, has been a party house for decades.

When Drew finds an old camera in the basement beneath the house, it leads him into a downward spiral of jealousy and rage. The pictures show some of the house’s previous inhabitants, and sometimes they seem to change.

Lurk is a story of corruption and degradation, of creeping evil and the underside of human happiness. It’s my kind of horror. 

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Audiobook Review: Lurk

Lilly's Book World

Author: Adam Vine

Narrator: Kevin Meyer

Length: 9h 46m

Publisher: Lilydog Books⎮2017

Genre: Horror

Release date: Jan. 16, 2017

Some secrets should stay buried….

College student Drew Brady never wanted the power to spy on his friends. But late one night, he finds a box of old Polaroids buried under his house that can change to show him whatever he desires, and Drew finds himself with the power to watch the people around him without them ever knowing.

Yet as Drew falls deeper into the rabbit hole of jealousy and despair, he begins having strange visions of the students who lived at the house 20 years ago and the gruesome fates they met after moving out. He finds evidence of a stalker who may be living on the property. The line between reality and nightmare blurs. Drew realizes there is something under the house that is manipulating him through the…

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