Undead Anonymous

Back in the spring of 2002, I was working on the re-writes of my second and third novels for submission to a couple of small press publishers in the horror community.  Each of the publishers had expressed enthusiastic interest for my novels and it looked like, after more than a decade of writing with the hopes of become a published novelist, I was finally going to realize my dreams.

But then a funny thing happened.  I started to hate what I was writing.

Both novels were of the supernatural horror variety, influenced by a steady diet of King, Straub, Koontz, and McCammon that I’d fed on as a teenager and young adult.  And although I was proud of both novels, the more time I spent re-writing them, the more I realized that I was growing to hate them.

What had once been fun had now become tedious, painful work.

So after struggling with the rewrites for several months, I told the two small presses that I wouldn’t be submitting the manuscripts and I kissed my opportunity to become a published novelist goodbye.

Then I stopped writing.

For the next year and a half I played a lot of golf and spent more time reading and playing with my dog.  I wrote a best man’s speech based on Hamlet (“To wed or not to wed, that is the question…”) and a 40th birthday poem for my wife based on The Raven (“Once upon a birthday dreary…”), but that was about it.

Sometime in the middle of all of this, I read Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk.

Although I’d seen Fight Club (one of my favorite all time films), I’d never read the novel or any of Palahniuk’s other books.  But for some reason, this novel resonated with me on a level I hadn’t previously experienced.  And when I was done, I had an “a-ha” moment.

While my three novels and four dozen short stories had all predominantly been influenced by my love of horror, I’d written a few short stories that were dark comedy with a supernatural edge to them.  But I’d never thought about writing anything other than straight horror novels.

Lullaby changed all that.

After finishing Lullaby, I began to think about turning a short story of mine into a full-length novel.  The story, “A Zombie’s Lament,” dealt with a group of zombies who attend Undead Anonymous meetings and yearn for civil rights.  About a year later, I wrote the opening scene for Breathers.

(Next entry:  M is for Maggots)

(This entry brought to you courtesy of Andy)

I supposed K could have been for Kill.  (Obvious)  Or Kidney.  (Good stuffed in mushrooms)  Or Kinky.  (Zombie sex)  Or even Kyanize, which is defined as:

to make resistant to decay by treatment with a solution of mercuric chloride

Of course, this only pertains to wood, which doesn’t help the living dead and would only cause Jerry to snicker and make some comment about “sporting wood…”

Jerry: Dude, you said “wood.”

See what I mean?  So you get the point.  In any case, none of them appealed to me or to the author, who is a bit of a shut-in and could use a trip to the Hustler Club, if you get my drift.  So we ended up going with Kibosh.

Why Kibosh?  Because of this line in Breathers:

“…being able to smell your own rotting flesh tends to put the kibosh on your belief in a divine power.”

Needless to say, zombies don’t tend to have a lot of faith in God.  You don’t see the undead shambling to the local church in their Sunday best to sing the praises of a higher intelligence.  Most of us would rather stay home and watch football.  Or curl up with a good book and a cup of tea.

Once you reanimate, you wonder what kind of God would purposely do this to you?  Never mind about the life that you’ve lost and are now forced to watch from the sidelines.  Forget about the way your dog rolls on your or the way your cats use you for a scratching post.  What you wonder is what kind of a higher intelligence would bring you back from the dead to be ridiculed and vilified and imprisoned in a zombie zoo?  Or worse, on a reality TV show?  While it’s bad enough to have to deal with the embarrassment of public sloughage, there’s nothing worse than suffering through the indignities of putrefaction on network television.

It’s enough to turn even the most devout believers into skeptics, so it’s not surprising that zombies can tend to get a little surly.  Of course, just because we have our doubts about the existence of a supreme being doesn’t mean we don’t have a conscience.  After all, when you’ve started eating human flesh, even if you’ve never believed in God or heaven, you still tend to wonder about eternal damnation.

(Next entry:  L is for Lullaby)

A conversation between Andy, the main character in Breathers, and Jerry, his best friend…

Andy: Jerry is a twenty-one-year-old car crash victim with an exposed brain and very little self awareness.

Jerry: (Waving)  Hey.

Andy: They can’t see you, Jerry.  This isn’t on television.

Jerry: Oh.  (Simulates masturbation)  So they can’t see this?

Andy: (ignoring Jerry) A fifth of Jack Daniels, half a dozen bong hits, no seat belt, a utility pole, and bad judgment on a right-hand turn sent Jerry through the windshield of his cherry red 1974 Charger and skidding along River Street on his face.

Jerry: Road rash city.

Andy: Which is how he ended up as a member of Undead Anonymous.

Jerry: Total bummer.

Andy: Yes.  But maybe you wouldn’t be a zombie if you would have exercised a little more common sense behind the wheel of your car.

Jerry: Dude, you fell asleep while driving home from a party and like, totally killed your wife.

(Sound of crickets chirping)

Jerry: Sorry dude.  That was harsh.

Andy: It’s okay.  At least I don’t wear my baseball hat sideways and my pants halfway down my ass.

Jerry: (hiking up his pants)  It’s the style, dude.  The chicks dig it.

Andy: Breather women don’t dig undead, decomposing slackers.

Jerry: Yeah, but there’s some totally hot zombie chicks out there who are interested in a good stiffy.

Andy: You’re referring to your permanent, post-mortem erection.

Jerry: Terminal boner, dude.

Andy: Jerry fancies himself a ladies man among zombies.

Jerry: (popping a couple of peppermint Altoids)  Curiously strong.

Andy: Yeah, well, they’ll have to be more than curious to have an impact on your breath.

Jerry: Or I could go around wearing women’s make-up like you.

Andy: I think we’re done here.

Jerry: (removing his hat and leaning forward) Dude, you wanna touch my brain?

(Next entry:  K is for ???  Send me your suggestions)

“Up until about three weeks after death, the internal organs of a corpse can still be identified.  After that, the internal organs turn to chicken soup.”

The previous culinary analogy was something I gleaned from a wonderful book titled STIFF: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach.  From STIFF, I also learned about cadaver impact testing, that unembalmed dead people basically dissolve, and that when maggots feast on the subcutaneous fat of a corpse, it sounds like Rice Krispies.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Throw in the fact that marshmallow is made from gelatin, which is derived from the collagen inside the skin and bones of pigs and cows, and suddenly those Rice Krispie treats don’t sound so appetizing.

In addition to the helpful tidbits of information I found in STIFF, I read an enlightening on-line article by Dr. Trisha Macnair about human decomposition that explained how, in the tropics, a corpse can become a moving mass of maggots within twenty-four hours.

Both of these sources helped me to add a visceral reality to Andy’s world that I couldn’t have made up.

I think it’s impossible to write a work of fiction without doing some research.  I don’t know about other writers, but I’m not a bottomless source of information, so I need some help when my imagination fails me. And adding some facts to the fiction makes the story more believable.

When I write, the story typically unfolds as I’m writing it, so I don’t always know what research I’ll need to do until it becomes apparent that the scene or chapter I’m writing needs some help.  Like the scene where Andy discusses the different types of wine he’s consuming (I’m a Boddington’s man).  Or the chapter where Andy’s mother helps him apply make-up.

In addition to researching what happens to human bodies post mortem, I read the TV Guide to make sure I knew what programs were on and when, visited an on-line wine store to improve Andy’s beverage selection in his parents wine cellar, hung out in the Soquel Cemetery for a couple of hours with a notepad, and studied up on the different shades and brands of Rita’s lipstick.  I also read up on how to preserve game meat, who’s involved in a television production crew, what people have as their first memory, and how to apply concealer, foundation, and contouring powder.

I’m sure I’ve made some errors in my research.  Although I am a man, occasionally I do make mistakes.  But I had a lot of fun blending fact and fiction to create the world in which Breathers exists and try to make it believable.

(Next entry:  J is for Jerry)

(This week’s blog is brought to you courtesy of Andy)

“I’m at the Soquel Community Center, sitting in a semicircle of chairs that’s open toward a petite, fifty-two-year-old woman who looks like my third grade teacher.  Except my third grade teacher never ended up on the wrong end of a twelve-gauge, pump-action Mossberg.”

Meet Helen.  The group moderator of Undead Anonymous who does her best to make me and the rest of her fellow zombies come to terms with our new existence.  Only Helen prefers to use the term “survivors” rather than zombies because she’s fond of euphemisms.

Helen used to counsel other “survivors” in her private practice before she became one herself.  Her prior experience with zombies is the main reason she was allowed to head up the local UA chapter.

At every meeting, Helen starts off by writing something inspirational on the chalkboard, something to remind us of the bond we share, of what we have to look forward to, of our humanity:

YOU ARE NOT ALONE
FIND YOUR PURPOSE
HOPE IS NOT A FOUR-LETTER WORD
I WILL NOT CONSUME THE LIVING

While I appreciate what Helen is trying to do, at times she reminds me of Mary Poppins – always cheerful and full of advice that works for characters who live in movies, fairy tales,or the Playboy Mansion.  Still, her heart is in the right place and I know she truly cares about us, which is more than I can say for my parents.

Next entry:  I is for Investigate (aka Research)

flesh decomposing?
body cavities bursting?
eat formaldehyde

I think I speak for all embalmed zombies when I say that formaldehyde is the best thing since bacon.  Without it (formaldehyde not bacon), your body will go bad faster than cottage cheese.  And the consistency won’t be that much different.

If you consume enough formaldehyde, you can keep the decomposition of your body and internal organs at bay.  Even if you can’t get hold of the industrial strength stuff, formaldehyde can be found in lipstick, makeup, fingernail polish, toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, antiperspirant, bubble bath, bath oil, shampoo, and soft drinks.

Unfortunately, if you weren’t embalmed prior to reanimation, no amount of Suave Kiwi shampoo is going to keep your internal organs from turning into chicken noodle soup.  Unless you can somehow manage to get hold of the industrial strength stuff, your won’t have the shelf life of 2% pasteurized milk.

Of course, no one wants to reanimate while you have a cannula inserted in your carotid artery, but it beats watching your tissues slide off your bone like non-fat yogurt.

(Next entry: G is for…I haven’t made up my mind.  What do you think it should be for?)

I didn’t have any expectations as to what it would be like to work with an editor.  Not to mention a real life New York publishing house editor.  As a writer, you hear horror stories about books being hijacked and turned into something other than what the author intended.  Or even how tedious and tiresome it is to go over copy edits and line edits and re-read your novel half a dozen times during the editing process.

My experience was nothing like that.

My editor at Broadway, Laura Swerdloff, helped to make Breathers a better book.  Period.

She offered up suggestions and recommendations, told me where she thought the story could be improved or fleshed out, and listened to me when I fought for something I believed was inherent or relevant to the story.  I even enjoyed having to read Breathers over and over and over.  Counting the reads I gave the manuscript before I sent it off to my agent and after making edits based on her feedback, I read my novel ten times before the final version went to press.

And no, I never got sick of reading it.  It still made me laugh.  But the thing about a novel is that as the author, you can always find something that needs to be fixed and there comes a point where you just have to stop and let it go.

I can’t imagine having a better experience with an editor as a first-time novelist.  Thanks Laura.

Next entry:  F is for Formaldehyde.

Just a reminder that my first official reading and signing of Breathers will take place this weekend in San Francisco.  Details can be found on the Breathers page of this web site under Next Scheduled Resurrection, but if you need the quick skinny on the facts, here they are:

Borderlands Books, 866 Valencia Street, San Francisco, CA – March 15th, 3:00PM to 5:00PM

If you don’t live in or around San Francisco (or Burbank or San Diego, where I’ll be doing signings the weekend of March 21-22), and you’d like to know where or how you can get a signed or personalized copy of Breathers, the folks at Borderlands are here to help.

Just call the store (888-893-4008) or e-mail (office@borderlands-books.com) and mention that you’d like an inscribed copy of Breathers.  The ridiculously nice and helpful staff at Borderlands will ask you a few relevant questions, such as if there’s anything specific you’d like the inscription to say, where you want the book shipped, if you’re paying with a credit card or a DNA sample, that kind of stuff.  Then they’ll give me a shout and let me know I’ve got a request for some personalized books and I’ll head down to the store and inscribe your copy and they’ll ship it out.

Yeah, it’s that easy.

If you can’t make it this Sunday, I hope I get the chance to meet you somewhere down the road.  Stay tuned for future appearances.  Or check for updates under Next Scheduled Resurrection.

Thanks!

(Author’s Note:  Since Andy tends to have a bit more “hands-on” experience with this subject, I’ll turn things over to him for this entry.)

The smell is the hardest thing to get used to.

You’d think it would be the bloating or the liquifecation of tissues or the fluid from the lungs oozing out of the mouth and nostrils.  The brain can go pretty fast, too.  Bacteria in the mouth chew right through the palate and before you can say “Night of the Living Dead,” your brain is pouring out your ears and bubbling out your mouth.

Fun stuff.

Of course, most of these problems apply to those who reanimated prior to being pumped full of formaldehyde.  (Future post alert.  Guess what F is for?)

In addition to the challenges mentioned above, if you’re unembalmed, you also have sloughage to look forward to.  That’s when the liquid leaking from the body’s ravaged cells gets between the layers of skin and loosens them, causing the skin of fingertips and toes to come off.  Sometimes, entire sheets of skin will peel away from an unembalmed zombie.  I’ve known a few melters who suffered this indignity.

But no matter what class of zombie – embalmed, freshie, or melter – the smell of undeath is almost impossible to mask.  Hydrogen sulphide leaking from various orifices, internal organs fermenting in a formaldehyde stew, the constant odor of gradually rotting meat…it’s a challenge to maintain your dignity when the stench of your rotting flesh wakes you up in the middle of the night.

You try to get it out of your hair or your clothes but no amount of Tide or Pine-Sol or bleach can get rid of the smell.  Someone should make a decent deodorant for zombies, or anything hygiene related, really.  They would make a killing.

(Next entry:  E is for Editor)

Meet Carl, one of the seven “survivors” who meet twice weekly for the Undead Anonymous meetings that are more or less the extent of Andy’s social life.

Carl is a bit of a curmudgeon, which is a nice way of saying he’s an insensitive prick. This stems from the fact that he’s angry about having been stabbed seven times, twice in the face, by two teenagers who stole his wallet and used his credit cards to buy seven hundred dollars worth of online pornography. The fact that you can get a lot of quality online pornography for free pisses him off even more.

Carl used to be a member of a local social club and resort, where he played tennis and golf and attended weekly dinners and hob-nobbed with the social elite of Santa Cruz County. Now he sits in a room with a bunch of rotting corpses twice a week instead of being able to go to the movies or take a walk on the beach or play a round of golf.

Understandably, Carl is a little bitter, so he tends to take out his frustration on the other members of the group. But his verbal barbs begin to soften as he develops a camaraderie with his fellow zombies.

In addition to his general snarky attitude, one of Carl’s more endearing habits is his tendency to distractedly finger the stab wounds in his face.

Next entry: D is for Decomposition.