Author: Pyro Candlemaker

I love a good cigar, a better scotch, and don't understand "curbing my language". Writing's cool. I like to do that, too. Probably while enjoying the other things. Viva prose.

I’ll Tell You What The Fucking Fox Says!

It screams. It runs down the fucking street, screaming it’s horny laments at 12:46 in the morning and wakes you up out of a dead, artificially-induced sleep. Not a nice wake up either. More like the waking screams of the Banshee before they come for what’s left of your soul. That’s what the fucking fox says. That right there. Fucker just got up and started yelling. “Everyone else be fucking damned,” said the fox, “I need to get my rocks off and tell the world about my dysfunction!”

Ylvis, you motherfuckers, you lied…

So now that I’m up, I’m going to wake up the flesh hopping, skin crawler known as Avol and see what he’s got for me. And I will either accept his suggestions for fear of him slipping out of my head and peeling the ink from my own skin, or I’ll ignore him and remind him who his god is (me, obviously) and tell him this is how it is and he’ll peel the flesh from my bones anyway. It’s a win/win situation either way you slice it.

Eh, Sure?

Good morning,

It’s 6:03 AM on the East Coast. The birds are chirping and flitting around, no doubt cussing each other out for being so goddamn loud first thing in the morning. “I haven’t slept in six weeks because of your chirping, Reginald!” Because robins should have the name “Reginald”. Somewhere, kids are groaning about their finals and the approaching “June” months, while their parents are sitting somewhere day drinking — no MORNING drinking because they don’t know what the fuck to do with these little shits. The kids are probably dreaming of gaming and eating candy all day. Those worlds will never collide…

Meanwhile, writers, artists, musicians… All staring out the window, trying to grab inspiration from somewhere when their old, babydoll-headed Sid monster ideas from the back of their brain closet rear’s it’s one-eyed head and starts speaking in a demonic language all its own and that’s when they hear it, like a drunken frat boy who’s had too much tequila… “You know what would be a great idea?” And then we listen… We listen to those great ideas… We know they’re not great but maybe, we could make them great….. Maybe we have that ability. So we nod, and pony up — “Eh, sure?” and the creepy babydoll idea grins a toothless grin and sinks its missing eyed cranium back into its hole, cackling like a toddler on pop rocks.

Wonder what deal we’ve signed today…

It’s 6:17… fuck, I gotta work… Babydoll ideas don’t pay for themselves… well not yet…

Captain’s log… Some random day in May

It’s been well over a months since I’ve documented my many adventures through the wood and rain. My feet are twisted in some weird amalgam of seasonal change, joints swelling and decompressing, fingers twitching at every stray drop of hydroassailants falling from the sky. The locals have become quippy, not their usual iced over selves. I’m not sure if the sheer magnitude of the slight temperature changes throughout the day are taking their toll on their mental state, but it appears that they are not as well-prepared for this type of living as originally thought…

…ill-assimilation may cause them severe and dire effects…

As the days roll forward, I find myself stuck in a mental trench of “perhaps this, perhaps that”, consoling myself with the drink of the Highland farmers. Diavol attempts to console me, but even he’s lost somewhere deep in the land of drafts and broken trees, finding his place among other human beings… But together we have been trudging through the thicket, his sidekick on his shoulders, mine tucked neatly behind my ear. We’ve made some progress, but have been set back on so many occasions, I would fear the worst may occur… If we weren’t such stubborn asses, hell-bent on making our way to Peklenc’s place of business…

…We will see what twisted fates await us at his gates…

(And now I’m Dr. Fucking Seuss … What the fuck…)

End Captain’s log***

What Motherfucker Hell Is This?!

I’ve found inspiration. A lot of it. Too much of it? The crazy bits of it. Tiny little fire in the pit of my rock full of guts or something cynical that I wrote … Ideas. So many fucking ideas. I have so many ideas floating around. They aren’t really anything tangible yet. I mean I have project after project. But soon, there will be a new project. A bigger project. One that will probably rip the remaining assumption of sanity from my eyes like a toddler through a smash cake. But worth it.

First: Still, thank you Chris. And a new shout out to Adrian “Lobo” Figueroa . You two, Seriously… Thank you.

Second: Shout out to my Baby Sis and Heathenous Beaverhousen … You two, you know what that’s for.

Third: HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS BATMAN! This is ridiculous! But Exciting? I’ll say one thing, and not many people will know what this means… But! Quinn.

Give me two months for the final draft of Death of a Creative Soul to be finished and in print. And then I’ll jump up on the internet, like a fleshling at a brothel, and show you some of the goods. Just enough. And then hold out my grubby little hand for some of your hard earned cash and judgement.

A Thank You To A Muse

I was trying to figure out where to go with a story I was writing. You know how things go: Life changes. Stories need to shift gear. Alliances fade away ( or violently explode in an eruption of miscommunication and buried hatred). So you’re left with some aftermath and some writing that needs a little kick in the ass. Enter Chris, the Muse.

Thanks to Senior Muse, I can channel all of the lovely rage, self-deprecation and irritation behind this oddly, destructive body into something angry, devoted, irritated and  punishable by self-loathing and relief. If you think I’m playing the pity card here, you’re a fucking idiot. I like having some weird, explosivitiy in my life. Anger is good for you sometimes.

(I don’t own this – Starz owns this. Neil Gaiman owns this. American Gods just resonates)

Just like having 3 different voices in your head, one of which is batshit crazy and likes to pick fights with everything that moves. She may also be missing an eye, but I haven’t had the opportunity to look at her face long enough before taking a baseball bat to mine.

Anyway! Thanks Chris! I know where to take this story, and it’s been surprisingly therapeutic. I mean I’m only like… 2 pages in, but it’s kinda nice to have those two pages and know where the story’s going. So I owe you, sir. I owe you quite a bit. As do some of the characters who would have otherwise been sent to the land of hellacious, story-time, purgatory for the rest of their underdeveloped lives.

They thank you too, as well, Chris (<– Bad grammar is just hilarious)

(I don’t own this either – Volbeat does. This is not mine. This is theirs.)

 

P.S: Still working on editing the original babies. Don’t worry. They aren’t going to collect dust. I know a Lil Sis, Big Bro, Mumsy and fellow Heathen that would kick my ass if I let that happen. Plus the Doc, Randall and the Creeper in the trees. It’s coming. Hopefully by Summer 2018. Shhhh.

Distractions Be Damned

Jumping back into editing the first book. Avol and I need to address a few things. The Doc and I have gone through it, but Avol and I have not. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fucking terrified to see whatever the fuck is looming in Randall’s head.

After that, guess I’m gonna work on a few other books. Most started but none really beyond the 30 page mark. Now they need to grow into hideous monsters that eat my every waking second like Augustus guzzled chocolate.

The Process Is… Goddamn IT!

Book three was completed New Year’s Eve 2017. The Doctor spoke. Finally… Coincidentally, his speech was everything I needed to complete the Ultra Shitty First Draft. A draft you will never see. There are so many issues with that script– I mean book. I need to fix it, but the shit is on paper; so it’s a step in the right direction. Eventually, I’ll post a normal Shitty First Draft. One that has actual spelling an grammar. And yes, those are up for feedback – CONSTRUCTIVE feedback. None of this “You suck” shit. Trust me, if all you can give someone is “you suck” your opinion is far from valid and you should probably seek therapeutic assistance for whatever issues you’ve harbored all your life.  For those who have something worth a damn – I’d love to hear it. I might listen, I might not. But I want to know. (Yes, I’m going to bait you with that feedback when all of these hit final draft. You’re gonna have to buy those, though.)

I might just stroke your ego a little bit. Feed you some new synopsis and dig finger-joint deep into your wallet. Not too deep. I’m not Gaiman, Rowling or Newman. Not Huston, Bunn or King. So I ain’t gonna charge ya like I am. Just a little to cover the services and material – publishing services, not mine. For mine, I’ll just thank you like a normal nutter and move on. Might ask for an extra quarter for the scotch fund. Every cent helps fuel the madness. Except pennies. No one wants those little fuckers…

Side note: You all know who Gaiman, Rowling and King are… but they still have some damn good advice…