Bloody Copper, Roaring Lead is officially down to clown, guys. Hardboiled fiction has been an enormous influence on me, and this is my love letter to both it and one of my other big loves, the western. It’s the tropes and archetypes of the two biggest pulp genres of their day clashing against one another in a murder mystery: a cynical P.I., a powerful rancher, merciless thugs, the high desert, wry wit, and vicious cowboys all set during Prohibition. I made it especially for you guys for Christmas so don’t be douche about it. Get this s-word on your Kindles or be b-words.

Holiday Hugs and Kisses,

R. D.


BCRL Cover 8-6

Image  —  Posted: December 15, 2013 in Writing
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Soooo, the hardboiled thing is done. That’s right, finished. I could keep going back to it, polishing it, never satisfied (i.e., the George Lucas treatment), but it’s ready to send out to publishers. It feels effin’ great (or ‘just the tops’ in my current vernacular). It also means that Donnie is back up to bat (also up to bat: re-learning how to swear. You buncha bitch-ass shitheads).

Unfortunately for you guys (motherfuckers), I don’t like to tease plot details, characters, or story points (so suck it, assholes). But I’ve said before the last two chapters of the first book really tell you everything you need to know about the direction the sequel is going. Like They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy, there are going to be psychological underpinnings to it the same way Polarization/Pendulum Effect was a sort of runner through the first one (spoiler: the theme was not f-words and nicotine). Also, Donnie’s still not going to be a damn Mary Sue (trope alert, dickhead). He’s been given the power to make fuck-ups on a grand scale so of course that’s exactly what he’s going to end up doing because he’s Donnie and Donnie fucking knows best despite all evidence, right? (biiiiitch)

So hang in there, fans. Shit is going to get way more real and way more unreal before this thing’s through (*middle finger*).

Hugs and Kisses,

R. D.

Obligatory Check-In

Posted: August 29, 2013 in Writing

Okay, so some of you are like, “Hey, R.D., you’re a cool guy, you’re with it, I kinda think about you while I lie in bed at night, but what’s the deal with the sequel to They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy, bro?” To those people, I say, “Calm the fuck down and go over that third thing you said again, but real slow.” Then I say, “I’m still working on this hardboiled mystery thing. How about you climb down out of my ass, guy?”

All of this is to say that, yes, I’m *still* working on the hardboiled novel thing. I’ve got about 6 chapters of edits and rewrites left, but grabbing time has been a challenge and the ghost of Raymond Chandler is over in the corner wryly mocking everything I put on the page (and it turns out that phone number in Ghostbusters doesn’t even work, either). I’m of a mind that if I’m going to put my name on something forever, it damn well better be something that I worked my ass off making, thus, the still working on it part (Pro tip: it also makes negative reviews far more damaging to my soul).

I will throw out a bone and say that as far as TTMITBG2 goes, the last two chapters of the first book lay a lot of foundation for what Donnie will be dealing with in the second. DeltaBlue will be returning. A few other characters in those pages are down as maybe’s but haven’t yet committed. And there will, of course, be new blood to put Don through his paces (his horrible, horrible paces). And to put your mind at ease, I’m staying acutely aware of the symptoms of sequelitis. Pitfalls are everywhere, but I pledge to avoid them. That said, get ready to meet the wisecracking, precocious kid Donnie will be saddled with for the entire book and his hilarious catchphrase, “No way, Don-nay.” Also, there will be no more swearing. It didn’t test well. So be sure to pick up They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy II: The Winter of Broken Crows when it comes out.

Hugs and Kisses,

R. D.

Something has come to my attention that’s a cause for alarm (for me and now, transitively, for you). I suddenly realized I wrote a book without crowd-funding it first. I can only plead negligence for this oversight. I honestly knew about Kickstarter before publishing They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy, but I wantonly ignored it and, by extension, denied all you the opportunity to fund something that a stranger wanted to make money off of (my heart is black like the other end of a white hole). I can only offer my most profusest apologies for ignoring all of you and your sweet, sweet disposable income.

So, with that in mind, I’m announcing a retroactive Kickstarter campaign for They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy. Now you can genuinely feel like money you spend is worth something and won’t just turn to shit and garbage like it does when you buy food and clothing. All funds raised will go toward defraying the costs of the book’s production, costs that include but are not limited to: setting up this website, buying advertisement on Goodreads, tendon stress in fingers caused by frequent typing, incurred wear and tear on my imagination, $.53/minute compensation for time spent staring at the wall trying to come up with plot points and words I wanted to use that were on the tip of my tongue, incurred wear and tear on my computer’s Backspace key, defrayment of monies spent on brown liquor consumption to combat writer’s block, mileage reimbursement for all the times I was thinking about dialog and plotting instead of safely driving a one-ton metal battering ram through traffic, and a nickel for every time my wife tuned out of the conversation because I was talking about writing because I want to show her how many damned nickels that is.

For your pledge to this campaign, I will, of course, offer rewards. For $150 (minimum pledge amount), I will fondly recall whenever asked that you were the inspiration for the character of Donnie, and that up to one of your friends or loved ones were the inspiration for Will. For the next level pledge ($18,000), I will help you fill out the paperwork necessary to legally change your name to one of the characters in the book, thereby effectively giving you a character named after you. For a gold level pledge ($100K in fat stacks), there are no rules. Anything goes. Anything. Goes. Wink. Wink. (Gimp mask)

Thank you in advance to all those who will pledge their support. I’m currently deep in the edits of what will be my second book and have already begun plotting the sequel to Donnie’s story. I hope you’ll be generous in your donations for the original and remember to keep donating when the sequel is completed. Because if you ever want to read it, my demands are $250,000 in unmarked bills and a chartered airplane to South America (Kickstarter page for that will be up soon).

Obligatory check-in post. Not a lot going on, really, but my not putting much on this site since December makes me look lazy and neglectful, and I am not at least one of those things. Mostly, my slacking off (I said ‘slacking’) is due to being too busy with writing words that will go into a storybook instead of words that will be housed in server bunkers or clouds or human battery farms or however they’re storing Internet data these days.

As for what I’m working on (because I know you’re so invested in it), I’ve put a June deadline on finishing it. It’s a book, which, point of interest, has nothing at all to do with the one that probably brought you to this site. You know, the one that you surrendered actual money earned at that job you hate so that you could read and might have even enjoyed. Yeah, it’s got nothing to do with that one (’cause striking while the iron’s hot is how you get third degree burns, kids). Instead, I’m currently wading twenty-two chapters deep in what will probably be twenty-eight or twenty-nine chapters of a hard boiled Prohibition-era detective story (yeah, I’ve posted about this before, but there’s no harm in repeating it–there is, however, shame. Lots of dirty, whore-like shame). There’s no sci-fi to this story in any way (so I guess fuck you, readers who likes that), but there’s more to premise and a higherness to the concept than just standard hard boiled boilerplate stuff (boilerplates – also hot).

Anyway, when that’s finished up, I’m going to see about getting it printed on Mother Earth-offending paper and sold in Mom & Pop store-killing retail chains; something I didn’t do with They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy because I thought it might be something of a hard sell (and some Amazon reviewers agree). But once this hard boiled thing is all squared away, I’ll be working on the next installment of Donnie Guillory’s life, which I also expect to be the last. Yes, I know trilogies are what all the cool kids are doing these days, but I’m a firm believer in telling only as much story as you’ve legitimately got. If you keep pushing things too hard (that’s what she said) to where the good ideas are drying up and getting harder and harder to come by (that’s what she said), you’re just going to end up disappointing everybody and making a mess (. . . she said that, too). So when the TTMITBG sequel is done, I think I’ll have said all I have to say with Donnie (13% of that being the f-word). I’ve got other stories I want to get to before I die; not gonna spend all my time with him. That guy’s an asshole.

Hugs and Kisses,

R. D.

Okay, so after one day, They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy is at #15 on the free Kindle Sci-Fi list and rising. That’s not bad. In fact, I think it’s pretty damn great myself. The fucking Krampus, however, is calling my house and breathing heavy while he puts a slow knife to a whetstone. That goes on for a good five minutes, then he gets bored and yells “Fuck you! That’s my name!” then hangs up. (it’s an old phone, too, so it’s really loud when he slams it back on the cradle). So to appease this psycho bitch demon, They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy will be offered free on Amazon for another day. Do not thank me. Just download the thing. Gotta go, the phone’s ringing again.

Do not bone me here, People,

R. D.

Tomorrow, December 5th, bask in the magnanimousnesses of secular gift-giving and download They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy (aka The Fuck and Cigarette Memoires) for free at your local Kindle dealer. Or also here. Spread the word to people you love and people you hate, for the Krampus will surely skin you in your sleep and wear you like a quivering (-insert your name here-) suit while he dances around your living room with his thing tucked, Buffalo Bill-style, if you don’t. That’s not a threat. That’s a Yuletide promise. So download it quick; the Krampus is already taping his thing back in preparation.

Hugs and Kisses,

R. D.

Thanks to a movie now in theaters (Skylincoln or something), interest in our 16th President has grown 7000% in just two months. Those numbers are shocking and would be even more so had I not made them up. Consequently, Abraham Lincoln’s name is getting slapped onto all kinds of television shows and internet articles in empty attempts to generate profit, ratings, and web hits. It is my opinion that this exploitation of his life and untimely death ultimately cheapens us as a country and spits on his grave of a great man for money and attention. It is borderline desecration and would not have found favor with such a humble man from such humble beginnings . . .

Lincoln: Portrait of a President: In Words, Not Pictures:

Abraham Lincoln was born in a hollow log in Cabin, Illinois. He grew to manhood under the yoke of poverty, having only an ax and faithful blue ox, Babe. Lincoln held many jobs and was held in high esteem for his hard-working attitude. But when Babe died from the ox flu, Lincoln wrote in a letter to friend Joshua Speed, “… [I] have no more use for the soul my companion’s departure has left withered in me…” Despondent and inconsolable, Lincoln became a lawyer and, later, a politician.

The original opening of Gettysburg Address was to be 'Haters can't see me/Bitches want my jock,' but Lincoln felt the solemnity of the occasion instead called for a math problem.

The original opening of Gettysburg Address was to be ‘Haters can’t see me/Bitches want my jock,’ but Lincoln felt the solemnity of the occasion instead called for a math problem.

In politics, however, he found renewed purpose. Lincoln’s keen, affable mind and gift for clever story-telling were put to use in Congress, where the president not only garnered respect and admiration from colleagues, but a collection of nicknames like “The Rail-Splitter” for his early job splitting rails, “Uncle Abe” for his friendly demeanor, and “The Ancient One” for his worship of Y’golonac the Defiler. On his first bid for the White House, Lincoln won a landslide electoral victory. But while the newly-elected president had proponents in Washington and throughout the country, his election did provoke controversy in some corners. For example, it’s alleged by many modern historians that Lincoln, a married man, may have engaged in a homosexual relationship with friend Joshua Speed, and that the resulting gay panic was one of the major contributing factors to Southern Secession. Even Lincoln’s wife Mary Todd, perhaps also suffering from gay panic, drew criticism for spending what some felt was an excessive amount of the country’s money on renovations and improvements to the White House. When questioned on the matter by a reporter, the always sharp-tongued Lincoln replied, “Women be shopping.”

Soon after the Illinois lawyer took office, the Union split. Southerners who had vowed to relocate to Europe or Canada were he elected decided to just make their own country so they didn’t have to move. The Civil War began in earnest not two months into Lincoln’s term in office. Though he projected confidence to the public, years after his death, close friends would reveal that the president was in fact not fond of the war. Despite this aversion, Lincoln ran a successful war presidency that ultimately pulled the Union back together even with his absence at an unknown point post-Gettysburg when he aided two young time-travellers in saving the very future of human civilization (these were not, however, the same time-travellers who prevented his assassination by John Brown’s men prior to the Civil War).

Tragically, these dick time-travellers did not give Lincoln any warning of the violence that would befall him. After the South’s surrender at Appomatox, the president was assassinated by noted American leading man John Wilkes Booth, the first actor to inject himself into politics because he felt his views were ‘important’ (also originator of the industry term ‘headshot’). Lincoln’s murder shocked a populace that still had the horrors of war fresh in its mind, and at least half the nation mourned his passing. Upon his death, he was succeeded by his then Vice President, Andrew Johnson, who narrowly escaped impeachment and then died (way to reach for the stars).

President Lincoln would die unaware of the length and breadth of his achievements but hoping that he had put his country back onto a path that cherished freedom. It is unlikely he ever imagined himself one day being so revered as to be memorialized forever next to our greatest presidents (also Teddy Roosevelt), being the first president to have his likeness on U.S. currency, having a clone that would hook up with Cleopatra, or that a Lincoln android would help the crew of a mining spaceship escape space-execution by a robot (space) Caligula. And while these four things alone would be enough to transform any ordinary man into a figure of legend, they are only bullet points in the mind-blowing legacy of a President ahead of his time.

Nine inches. Honest.

Yes, I’m as shocked by this as you are, mainly because I didn’t know Canada had the Internet. Strangely enough, I see a lot of hits on my site from the Great (debatable) White (racist) North (they are, in fact, north of me). I’m not sure why, but I can only assume my once-passionate love for the Red Green Show somehow comes through in my writing. So, in tribute to our Canadian cousins, here is a timeline of canuck facts to educate and enlighten your American asses:

– The first Canadians cross over from Asia via the Bering Sea land bridge. Weak Canadian immigration policies at their finest.

– Canadian Indians do their thing for a while. Invent syrup and hockey (both originally derived from baby seals). Maple leaf is deified.

– Europeans come along and shit gets real complicated, real fast. I think Canada is still part of England or something; they like the Queen a lot, at any rate, which I don’t get. I don’t have pictures of the Queen in my house since we kicked her to the curb in Revolution Days. Canadians = Redcoat Sympathizers

– Newfoundland is formed. Trouble starts brewing.

– My Acadian ancestors are kicked out of Canada. Canadians = Buncha Bitches

– 1776: Canada takes backseat to the U.S.A., where it remains to this day.

– Custody of the Great Lakes region is worked out. We get Lake Michigan, they get Georgian Bay. Lakes Superior, Huron, Ontario, and Erie are with Canada on weekdays and with the U.S. on weekends and three weeks out of the summer. Holidays are alternated. We’re cool with it, though, because we get to be the ‘fun’ country.

– 1864: Canada copies the American South and confederates.

– Sometime around the turn of the century, I guess, Wolverine is born.

– Canada enters WWII before the U.S. does. Thanks for making us look bad, dicks.

– Canada combats Beatlemania with Trudeaumania. Though fervent in their enthusiasm, the trend does not catch on outside the country, although a U.S. version is made in 2008 starring Barack Obama.

– Toronto finally succeeds in becoming the clean, boring version of New York City. Way to go, guys.

– Late 20th Century: Celine Dion, Mike Meyers, Kids in hallways, drunk guys in earflaps. Due South star Paul Gross makes me question my sexuality for a couple of confusing years.

There. You’re welcome, Canada. I think we’re now all a little more comfortable with the thought of your weird country being right beside ours and your people’s ability to look just like one of us (like The Thing). As payment for this public service, you can mail my father some twenty-sixers of Canadian Mist, and I will take a moose head of whatever size you have lying around. I assume you guys have a postal service. Probably a ‘Royal Canadian’ one or something.