When I was a kid, we never had opportunities like this. I'm sorry, but we just didn't. We had summer camp, sure, and Vacation Bible School, and I knew kids that went to Basketball Camp...but nothing this promising. I can't decide what I like better, the 50-foot pyre of exploding chicken guts, or the "wall of fire."
And the kid they interviewed about it is absolutely right, it's much better to be learning about this sort of stuff at camp then at home. You get much bigger explosions.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
My Wife Hates My Book!
Actually, that’s a lie.
She really likes it. Most of it, anyway.
This is what happened.
My editor is moving to Brooklyn. Actually, he already did. It happened this weekend, right after I finally got around to sending him the first 200 pages of the manuscript to read. So he asked for more time, since the whole weekend was filled with the move, and I said no problem. Meanwhile, my wife picked up the manuscript and started reading it. And last night, during one of those rare moments that couples with children enjoy when the children aren’t around and they can talk like grownups, she told me about some of the problems she’s been having with the book. And my immediate response, of course, was to welcome her criticism without any emotional reaction and thank her warmly for her critical insight.
Another lie.
I got grumpy. I pretended I disagreed with what she was saying and tried to defend my choices. Then I grew taciturn and found something out the window that I feigned great interest in.
That was how I knew she was right.
My wife is a great first reader because she never pretends to like something, and if she doesn’t like it, she just pushes it aside where it gathers dust and eventually disappears under a pile of old magazines. When pressed she’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, or what problems she had with it, and sometimes give suggestions of what needs fixing, but that’s usually not necessary. All I really have to do is find the manuscript and look at the last page she read—the page, in other words, that cost me the ballgame. Because it turns out that the most valuable role she plays is letting me know exactly where the thing goes off the rails. At this, her instinct is almost infallible.
Does this seem unnecessarily cruel, that a single misstep could ruin the book, no matter how good the later passages might be? Sure it does. But consider: as a reader, if you’re picking up a book by an author whose work you’ve never read before, how long are you willing to indulge that writer once you sense the book has taken a wrong turn? It might be a chapter, a paragraph, or in rare cases, a single line of description so tooth-grindingly, eye-wateringly awful that it causes you to put the book aside and never pick it up again (or, in really rare cases, to physically throw the book across the room). You might come back to it again someday, but probably not. There’s a certain smell to it now. It’s been tainted. No matter how good it might have been on Chapter 23, it won’t matter because you never got past Chapter 3.
Hopeless? No. Why? In my personal experience, these derailing narrative missteps seem—to an almost ridiculous degree—to be modular in nature. Which is to say, you can reach in and pluck them out (“killing your darlings,” Faulkner calls it, which is coincidentally the name of the panel I'll be doing next month at the San Diego Comic Con) without doing any damage to the larger work. That by itself should be enough to convince you that the scene/sentence/chapter shouldn’t have been there to begin with.
“But it was so well written,” the author shrieks. This wasn’t how I defended the scene that tripped my wife up, not out loud—but I was thinking it when she asked me to take it out. I was right—it was a pretty, polished scene, mainly because on some level I sensed I’d have to spend extra time making it shine so I could justify its inclusion in the story. It’s almost like you knew, even when you were writing them, that these little pieces didn’t belong, that you were just creating little extras for some little mental DVD, the scenes you didn’t see. And why didn’t you see them? Because they weren’t supposed to be there.
She really likes it. Most of it, anyway.
This is what happened.
My editor is moving to Brooklyn. Actually, he already did. It happened this weekend, right after I finally got around to sending him the first 200 pages of the manuscript to read. So he asked for more time, since the whole weekend was filled with the move, and I said no problem. Meanwhile, my wife picked up the manuscript and started reading it. And last night, during one of those rare moments that couples with children enjoy when the children aren’t around and they can talk like grownups, she told me about some of the problems she’s been having with the book. And my immediate response, of course, was to welcome her criticism without any emotional reaction and thank her warmly for her critical insight.
Another lie.
I got grumpy. I pretended I disagreed with what she was saying and tried to defend my choices. Then I grew taciturn and found something out the window that I feigned great interest in.
That was how I knew she was right.
My wife is a great first reader because she never pretends to like something, and if she doesn’t like it, she just pushes it aside where it gathers dust and eventually disappears under a pile of old magazines. When pressed she’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, or what problems she had with it, and sometimes give suggestions of what needs fixing, but that’s usually not necessary. All I really have to do is find the manuscript and look at the last page she read—the page, in other words, that cost me the ballgame. Because it turns out that the most valuable role she plays is letting me know exactly where the thing goes off the rails. At this, her instinct is almost infallible.
Does this seem unnecessarily cruel, that a single misstep could ruin the book, no matter how good the later passages might be? Sure it does. But consider: as a reader, if you’re picking up a book by an author whose work you’ve never read before, how long are you willing to indulge that writer once you sense the book has taken a wrong turn? It might be a chapter, a paragraph, or in rare cases, a single line of description so tooth-grindingly, eye-wateringly awful that it causes you to put the book aside and never pick it up again (or, in really rare cases, to physically throw the book across the room). You might come back to it again someday, but probably not. There’s a certain smell to it now. It’s been tainted. No matter how good it might have been on Chapter 23, it won’t matter because you never got past Chapter 3.
Hopeless? No. Why? In my personal experience, these derailing narrative missteps seem—to an almost ridiculous degree—to be modular in nature. Which is to say, you can reach in and pluck them out (“killing your darlings,” Faulkner calls it, which is coincidentally the name of the panel I'll be doing next month at the San Diego Comic Con) without doing any damage to the larger work. That by itself should be enough to convince you that the scene/sentence/chapter shouldn’t have been there to begin with.
“But it was so well written,” the author shrieks. This wasn’t how I defended the scene that tripped my wife up, not out loud—but I was thinking it when she asked me to take it out. I was right—it was a pretty, polished scene, mainly because on some level I sensed I’d have to spend extra time making it shine so I could justify its inclusion in the story. It’s almost like you knew, even when you were writing them, that these little pieces didn’t belong, that you were just creating little extras for some little mental DVD, the scenes you didn’t see. And why didn’t you see them? Because they weren’t supposed to be there.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
First!
Eat the Dark galleys are going out even as we speak, and Tom Piccirilli, a fantastic writer whose work you should go out and pick up right now, wins the distinction of first to respond.
Tom's take on the book?
"A mesmerizing and original horror-thriller that displays Joe Schreiber's first-rate writing prowess, EAT THE DARK is full of terrifying scenes of graphic and emotional intensity. It's a brilliantly plotted novel with so many unusual twists and turns that the reader will wish he had a seat belt on to keep him strapped in to his chair."--Tom Piccirilli, author of THE MIDNIGHT ROAD and THE DEAD LETTERS
Thanks, Tom! May your weekend commence with a blizzard of winning lottery tickets blustering throughout your living room.
Tom's take on the book?
"A mesmerizing and original horror-thriller that displays Joe Schreiber's first-rate writing prowess, EAT THE DARK is full of terrifying scenes of graphic and emotional intensity. It's a brilliantly plotted novel with so many unusual twists and turns that the reader will wish he had a seat belt on to keep him strapped in to his chair."--Tom Piccirilli, author of THE MIDNIGHT ROAD and THE DEAD LETTERS
Thanks, Tom! May your weekend commence with a blizzard of winning lottery tickets blustering throughout your living room.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
I'd Like to Thank the Academy
"You've got five minutes," the man behind the desk says. "Go."
"Okay. We open on Ellis Island, 1848: A ship lands in New York harbor -- from outer space. The first of dozens of aliens begin to enter America. Within months they've been quasi-assimilated into the ghettos and neighborhoods of New York's Five Points, forming gangs of their own.
"One of the aliens has a brother that goes west to see what's left of the frontier, and swiftly turns outlaw. Meanwhile the alien that remained back east becomes legit and eventually becomes part of the New York political machine where he eventually works his way from Tammany Hall up to a position in Washington and is dispatched west to find and kill his brother in order to save his own career."
"So," the guy behind the desk says, "it's Men in Black meets Godfather 2 meets Gangs of New York meets Dances with Wolves meets The Proposition?"
"Basically, yeah."
"Huh." Long pause. "I like it."
"Okay. We open on Ellis Island, 1848: A ship lands in New York harbor -- from outer space. The first of dozens of aliens begin to enter America. Within months they've been quasi-assimilated into the ghettos and neighborhoods of New York's Five Points, forming gangs of their own.
"One of the aliens has a brother that goes west to see what's left of the frontier, and swiftly turns outlaw. Meanwhile the alien that remained back east becomes legit and eventually becomes part of the New York political machine where he eventually works his way from Tammany Hall up to a position in Washington and is dispatched west to find and kill his brother in order to save his own career."
"So," the guy behind the desk says, "it's Men in Black meets Godfather 2 meets Gangs of New York meets Dances with Wolves meets The Proposition?"
"Basically, yeah."
"Huh." Long pause. "I like it."
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Man Bites Book
No sooner did Mark over at Burlesque win the Eat the Dark ARC contest with a story that would nauseate a crime scene cleanup crew, than I discovered this photo of him, on his blog.
First toxic Thomas the Tank Engine, now this. I told my publisher it should have come with a choking hazard warning...
First toxic Thomas the Tank Engine, now this. I told my publisher it should have come with a choking hazard warning...
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Working the Midnight Shift Tonight
If you're in the area from 7P-7A drop in and see me and my friend Mr. Bones.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Eat the Dark Contest Winner!
After weeks of suspense, and a deluge of entries, I'm back to announce the winner of the signed advance copy of Eat the Dark.
What's the darkest thing you've ever eaten?
Honorable Mention #1 goes to Pete Kahle, who writes: "It was something my mom made for dinner when I was 11. A bit gritty, and I found a couple hairs in it, but certainly not the worst meal I've ever had. Enough hot sauce can make anything taste good. That's my motto. If I remember correctly, that was the same day my cat Sluggo ran away." Sorry to hear it, Pete. May you never run out of hot sauce.
Honorable Mention #2 goes to Bret Jordan, who describes the harrowing results of southeast Texas squirrel hunt and barbecue with his father, and eating the results, which Bret said made him feel like "a zombie in an abortion clinic." Words to live by, Bret.
Runners Up (tied) goes to Aurelio Rico Lopez III and Andrew, both of whom described a Filipino dish called dinuguan, a spicy stew made of pig's blood and innards. Delish, fellas. And thanks for sharing.
And the prize-winning entry goes to Mark Henry, whose tale deserves to be reprinted here in full:
The Darkest Molé
by
Mark Henry
Have I eaten the dark? I hope not. I sincerely hope not. But I fear
that I have.
A few months ago, we were set to go to a friend's Mexican-themed
birthday fiesta, homemade chicken molé, beans and rice, all that shit.
That morning, we get a call from the friend's brother that there had
been this huge blowout between he and his brother-in-law. The husband
couldn't use his big boy words, things got physical, the police were
called, and he goes to jail to cool off. Meanwhile, we're thinking the
party's off.
Not so much. So we're like, okay, the asshole's gone anyway. Let's
just have fun.
We show up, along with everyone else. The molé is bubbling on the
stove. If you're not aware, molé is a savory thick chocolate-based
sauce, incredibly rich, or it's supposed to be. Everyone is sneaking a
taste, and one face after another is scrunching up like a cat's anus.
Yet for some reason, I take a turn.
I pull a tablespoon from the drawer and dip it into the bubbling muddy
darkness. The steam is carrying an acrid hellish smell. I taste.
Gag. Taste again. Really trying to figure out the mysterious flavor.
They're not exagerating. It is nasty, indescribably so. The sauce is
way too thin, nearly watery.
The cook, our friend's mother, comes in and stirs the pot.
She starts screaming, "who's been at this? This isn't how I left it.
Why is it so soupy?"
Then it comes out. Before we all arrived, the husband was bailed out
by a friend, came by the house to pack a bag, and was "ALONE" with the
molé.
The consensus: the reason it smelled and tasted like shit? Because
that was his secret ingredient. Why so thin? Urine can do that.
Stomach's rolled, the guests heaved.
We tossed the whole pot in the vacant lot across the street. Now, I
like to think we're all mistaken and that we really didn't sample his
excrement, but to this day the area still reeks and the animals haven't
touched it. Bad sign.
Thanks, Mark. Enjoy the ARC. It's on its way. Clearly, you've earned it.
And thanks to all who entered. Stay tuned for more contests and giveaways as October approaches.
What's the darkest thing you've ever eaten?
Honorable Mention #1 goes to Pete Kahle, who writes: "It was something my mom made for dinner when I was 11. A bit gritty, and I found a couple hairs in it, but certainly not the worst meal I've ever had. Enough hot sauce can make anything taste good. That's my motto. If I remember correctly, that was the same day my cat Sluggo ran away." Sorry to hear it, Pete. May you never run out of hot sauce.
Honorable Mention #2 goes to Bret Jordan, who describes the harrowing results of southeast Texas squirrel hunt and barbecue with his father, and eating the results, which Bret said made him feel like "a zombie in an abortion clinic." Words to live by, Bret.
Runners Up (tied) goes to Aurelio Rico Lopez III and Andrew, both of whom described a Filipino dish called dinuguan, a spicy stew made of pig's blood and innards. Delish, fellas. And thanks for sharing.
And the prize-winning entry goes to Mark Henry, whose tale deserves to be reprinted here in full:
The Darkest Molé
by
Mark Henry
Have I eaten the dark? I hope not. I sincerely hope not. But I fear
that I have.
A few months ago, we were set to go to a friend's Mexican-themed
birthday fiesta, homemade chicken molé, beans and rice, all that shit.
That morning, we get a call from the friend's brother that there had
been this huge blowout between he and his brother-in-law. The husband
couldn't use his big boy words, things got physical, the police were
called, and he goes to jail to cool off. Meanwhile, we're thinking the
party's off.
Not so much. So we're like, okay, the asshole's gone anyway. Let's
just have fun.
We show up, along with everyone else. The molé is bubbling on the
stove. If you're not aware, molé is a savory thick chocolate-based
sauce, incredibly rich, or it's supposed to be. Everyone is sneaking a
taste, and one face after another is scrunching up like a cat's anus.
Yet for some reason, I take a turn.
I pull a tablespoon from the drawer and dip it into the bubbling muddy
darkness. The steam is carrying an acrid hellish smell. I taste.
Gag. Taste again. Really trying to figure out the mysterious flavor.
They're not exagerating. It is nasty, indescribably so. The sauce is
way too thin, nearly watery.
The cook, our friend's mother, comes in and stirs the pot.
She starts screaming, "who's been at this? This isn't how I left it.
Why is it so soupy?"
Then it comes out. Before we all arrived, the husband was bailed out
by a friend, came by the house to pack a bag, and was "ALONE" with the
molé.
The consensus: the reason it smelled and tasted like shit? Because
that was his secret ingredient. Why so thin? Urine can do that.
Stomach's rolled, the guests heaved.
We tossed the whole pot in the vacant lot across the street. Now, I
like to think we're all mistaken and that we really didn't sample his
excrement, but to this day the area still reeks and the animals haven't
touched it. Bad sign.
Thanks, Mark. Enjoy the ARC. It's on its way. Clearly, you've earned it.
And thanks to all who entered. Stay tuned for more contests and giveaways as October approaches.
Friday, June 08, 2007
I can't see Pfizer trying this
Fantastic turn of the century artwork by Louis Crucius for the Antikamnia Chemical Company calendar, courtesy of BibliOdyssey. (Thanks, Jeff!)
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Hiding the Art
Mark Henry over at Burlesque of the Damned emailed me saying that I hadn't posted much lately about The Black Wing, my novel in progress, and how was it going? I told him I'd probably put something up about it here, and here it is.
I began rewriting The Black Wing about a month ago, after a long conversation with Keith, my editor. And by "rewriting" I mean throwing out everything but the first fifty pages and basically starting from scratch. It's not an easy process but it is a gratifying one, because I think the final results will be vastly more effective.
The first version of the novel ended up as much more of a midnight drive-in zombie-face-eating type book, and that's absolutely fine, except that the novel didn't start that way. I wrote the first fifty pages almost three years ago, before I signed the book deal for Chasing the Dead and Eat the Dark, and I put them aside. When I pulled them out again to resume the project, my mindset was different, the compass of my imagination was pulling in a different direction, and -- to a certain extent -- I ended up sailing right off the map.
So, I started over.
In the beginning, the horrors endured by the book's protagonist, Scott Mast, were intended to be rooted more deeply in his family's toxic psychopathology, and the family curse that is the book's black heart had as much to do with madness as it did with the supernatural. Don't get me wrong: There is plenty of horror here -- including a house in the woods with a room that nobody in his right mind would ever open, and a whole wing not visible from the outside -- but finding my way there turned out to be a more painstaking process than I first thought.
So really the process I've been going through is less a rewrite or a reimagining as it as an attempt to find my way back to where I was three years ago. As part of this undertaking, I read Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House, and Gillian Flynn's Sharp Objects, and everything by Peter Abrahams that I could get my hands on. These three author specialize in a particular sort of precisely observed detail that is exceptional not just in its ability to create an atmosphere of uncanny dread and unease, but also because the prose itself never feels labored or worked-over. "The art is in hiding the art," as Cicero says (a quote I stole from Abrahams). The work of Jackson, Flynn and Abrahams are deceptively easy reads -- they go down as smoothly as poison Kool Aid -- and it's not until afterward that you realize how everything looks different. As such, they have become my models as I go about re-doing The Black Wing, and the high standards they set are requiring an entirely new set of muscles. But I think it's worth it.
I'm in New York next week having lunch with my editor, and I'm bringing him the first 200 pages of the new Black Wing. Will I share with you his reaction, as soon as I get it?
What do you think?
I began rewriting The Black Wing about a month ago, after a long conversation with Keith, my editor. And by "rewriting" I mean throwing out everything but the first fifty pages and basically starting from scratch. It's not an easy process but it is a gratifying one, because I think the final results will be vastly more effective.
The first version of the novel ended up as much more of a midnight drive-in zombie-face-eating type book, and that's absolutely fine, except that the novel didn't start that way. I wrote the first fifty pages almost three years ago, before I signed the book deal for Chasing the Dead and Eat the Dark, and I put them aside. When I pulled them out again to resume the project, my mindset was different, the compass of my imagination was pulling in a different direction, and -- to a certain extent -- I ended up sailing right off the map.
So, I started over.
In the beginning, the horrors endured by the book's protagonist, Scott Mast, were intended to be rooted more deeply in his family's toxic psychopathology, and the family curse that is the book's black heart had as much to do with madness as it did with the supernatural. Don't get me wrong: There is plenty of horror here -- including a house in the woods with a room that nobody in his right mind would ever open, and a whole wing not visible from the outside -- but finding my way there turned out to be a more painstaking process than I first thought.
So really the process I've been going through is less a rewrite or a reimagining as it as an attempt to find my way back to where I was three years ago. As part of this undertaking, I read Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House, and Gillian Flynn's Sharp Objects, and everything by Peter Abrahams that I could get my hands on. These three author specialize in a particular sort of precisely observed detail that is exceptional not just in its ability to create an atmosphere of uncanny dread and unease, but also because the prose itself never feels labored or worked-over. "The art is in hiding the art," as Cicero says (a quote I stole from Abrahams). The work of Jackson, Flynn and Abrahams are deceptively easy reads -- they go down as smoothly as poison Kool Aid -- and it's not until afterward that you realize how everything looks different. As such, they have become my models as I go about re-doing The Black Wing, and the high standards they set are requiring an entirely new set of muscles. But I think it's worth it.
I'm in New York next week having lunch with my editor, and I'm bringing him the first 200 pages of the new Black Wing. Will I share with you his reaction, as soon as I get it?
What do you think?
Virus Hilton
I was in New York yesterday on business and stopped at the Starbucks at the corner of Broadway and 28th, getting my coffee and trying to cool off when a guy in a suit walked in, got a latte and sat down at the next table. He was there for about twenty minutes when a younger guy in shorts and a Skinny Puppy tanktop walked in and sat down next to him. I was just close enough to hear most of what went on afterward, but I didn't really start listening until I heard the guy with the briefcase say something about a virus. They both seemed to know what they were talking about. "Nobody's questioning whether or not it would work," the guy in the suit was saying.
"You're damn right," the Skinny Puppy tanktop guy said. "It'll go everywhere all at once. I built in 3D image-recognition and name recognition, and it's faster than shit. That means that within about two hours, any picture of her, any mention of her name, even if it appears in the background, will be completely deleted from the internet. If you google Paris Hilton, you'll get a blank screen, no hits, nothing. She'll be gone. Taken out of the culture for good."
"And nobody's disputing that," the guy in the suit said.
The Skinny Puppy guy looked confused. "So then why are we even having this conversation? Why didn't you just bring the money?"
"Have you ever thought what might happen if you take her out of the culture?"
"What?"
"Have you thought of what might fill the open space it's going to create?"
"Not my problem," the Skinny Puppy guy said, but he already sounded uneasy.
"Nature abhors a vacuum. Let's just say that virus of yours goes live and it works perfectly -- suddenly there's endless miles of vacancy where Paris Hilton used to be...what do you think is going to grow there? What manner of blind, bottom-dwelling demonic filth do you think is waiting just below the surface for its chance to swell up and take over?"
Skinny Puppy didn't answer. Now it was the suit's turn to smile. He did it with his voice, softly, and his eyes, which I noticed now were pale green, the color of money.
"You're welcome to do whatever you want," he said, "but I'd consider it very carefully if I were you. There are worse things out there than Paris Hilton. Much worse." Then he finished his latte and walked out, leaving the other guy to sit there staring at the empty seat. Finally, after about ten minutes, he got up and walked out too.
That's the end of the anecdote, except...
The first thing I did this morning was google Paris Hilton.
I got 58,800,000 hits.
Then and only then did I start relax.
"You're damn right," the Skinny Puppy tanktop guy said. "It'll go everywhere all at once. I built in 3D image-recognition and name recognition, and it's faster than shit. That means that within about two hours, any picture of her, any mention of her name, even if it appears in the background, will be completely deleted from the internet. If you google Paris Hilton, you'll get a blank screen, no hits, nothing. She'll be gone. Taken out of the culture for good."
"And nobody's disputing that," the guy in the suit said.
The Skinny Puppy guy looked confused. "So then why are we even having this conversation? Why didn't you just bring the money?"
"Have you ever thought what might happen if you take her out of the culture?"
"What?"
"Have you thought of what might fill the open space it's going to create?"
"Not my problem," the Skinny Puppy guy said, but he already sounded uneasy.
"Nature abhors a vacuum. Let's just say that virus of yours goes live and it works perfectly -- suddenly there's endless miles of vacancy where Paris Hilton used to be...what do you think is going to grow there? What manner of blind, bottom-dwelling demonic filth do you think is waiting just below the surface for its chance to swell up and take over?"
Skinny Puppy didn't answer. Now it was the suit's turn to smile. He did it with his voice, softly, and his eyes, which I noticed now were pale green, the color of money.
"You're welcome to do whatever you want," he said, "but I'd consider it very carefully if I were you. There are worse things out there than Paris Hilton. Much worse." Then he finished his latte and walked out, leaving the other guy to sit there staring at the empty seat. Finally, after about ten minutes, he got up and walked out too.
That's the end of the anecdote, except...
The first thing I did this morning was google Paris Hilton.
I got 58,800,000 hits.
Then and only then did I start relax.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Hoping for Oprah
Today I did something I've been meaning to get to for a long time.
I emailed Oprah.
Did you know that you could do that? Well, you can. And it struck me that if I have any chance of becoming the next big thing in literature, I had better get around to dealing with this issue, one way or the other. What follows is a transcript of the conversation that went on in my head as I was trying to figure out how to present my case to Oprah:
Me: Let's see. It's important to make the book seem topical and astute, right?
Me: But maybe not. Maybe she's tired of topical and astute. Maybe she just would like something kind of crazy and fun.
Me: Crazy and fun? Come on. Your book is about a serial killer loose in a hospital.
Me: Yeah, but I work in a hospital. That's kind of interesting, right?
Me: How is that interesting?
Me: Maybe I should say something about having kids. People like it when you say you have kids.
Me: Face it, man, you're over your head and you know it.
Me: See, that's just the kind of negative thinking that's prevented you from emailing Oprah before now! The best thing you can do is just be yourself. That's what Oprah would want. Let her know that you're following your passion. Plead your case and see what happens.
So I did. I think what I wrote is that I have this novel coming out in October and I think the crew from Oprah should come over and let me take them on a guided Halloween tour of the underground tunnels of the hospital. I'll show them the morgue and the old wheelchairs and dusty old corridors where things creak and scratch around in the dark, and maybe we can tie the whole thing into Michael Moore's new movie Sicko.
I anxiously await her reply.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Let the Tie-Ins Begin!
You want an official Eat the Dark chocolate bar, don't you? Sure you do! Everyone will. Well, don't worry...I'll be cranking out hundreds of these bad boys over the next few months and making them available everywhere from this web site to the multitude of personal appearances between now and Halloween.
Golden tickets optional.
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