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Please allow me to introduce myself. . .again (1 Viewer)

Alanzie

Senior Member
Okay. I’m gonna jump in with both feet here.

I first registered on this site way back in 2014 and participated a little, but not much. I plan on changing that. So here goes. . .

My name is Alan Zielinski. I had one story published about ten years ago. This in itself is quite a story, for you see, I had written that story in 1983. Just gives you an idea how long writing horror has been brewing in the back of my brain. So I wrote this story and actually thought it was good enough to type up on high quality bond paper along with a neatly folded and professionally creased, self-addressed stamped envelope. I sent it out to the best markets. . .Playboy and Esquire (for the prestige and possible instant recognition), Gallery (only because their standards were lower and they published Stephen King stories), and Twilight Zone Magazine. The three ‘gentleman’ magazines sent me form rejections, but Twilight Zone Magazine (God! I wish I had kept their rejection slip) told me to try again. Now look. I was young. I was stupid. I was proud. I said 'screw them' and dejected, I never did try again. Instead, I took my story, neatly typed and snugly enclosed in a manila envelope, ‘The Axe’ boldly written across it with a thick marker, and placed it in the bottom of my sock drawer. I don’t know why, but that’s where it was. For thirty years.

Life went on. Married my best friend. Had kids. Three of them. Two boys and a girl. I worked. My wife worked. We took vacations. Life went on and it was good. Really good. And then, one fateful day, my oldest son needed a pair of socks.

He had just graduated from college. English major. He read the story and offered me some advice. Freshen it up. Make it honest.

I took his advice and updated the story. The story’s main character was a father, but when I first wrote it, I wasn’t one. It had a voice I had never recognized before. The story grew by about seven hundred words and it just rang true. . .and honest. The first place I sent it to published ‘Norman Rockwell is Dead’. It was strictly a token payment, but I got the bug. I got it bad.

I dabbled in a few different plots—mostly short stories that were skittering in and out of my head, but that bug had grown quite large, almost parasitic, and I discovered I wanted something bigger. Something better. A novel. God help me, but I wanted to write a novel. I had a few ideas and had written about six thousand words around each of those ideas. Finally, my wife wisely told me to quit screwing around an pick one. I did and I’ve been living with my characters for the past three or so years.

When I said earlier that I was going to jump in with both feet, I meant it. Sometimes I need a community to talk to. This is especially true on those nights when I am deeply wondering why some 64 year old (newly christened first time grandfather at that!) actually thinks he can do this crazy, maddening thing called writing. Not just anything, but a novel. And a horror novel at that. What else could it be.

So I may ask for advice. I may vent and rant and ramble about my creative (or lack thereof) process. I texted my son the other day. The sock borrower. Told him something in the plot just surfaced. Something I knew existed but didn’t know where yet. It wasn’t just a way to get from plot point A to plot point B. It was the whole turning point of my little, dark tale. I wasn’t ready to talk to him about it yet, it was still brewing around in my head and I wanted him to be as excited about it as I was. So I waited a day or two then called him. What he told me vanquished all my negative thoughts and I am currently typing this up with Scrivener in the background, stuck on ‘A Vast Blackness’, the name I’ve given chapter nine. Right now, he is my ‘Community’. I truly hope this forum also becomes one. I’m probably gonna need you guys for me to get this thing finished. In return, I will pitch in wherever and whenever I can to offer recommendations, creative crits and/or encouraging words.

So that’s me. Some of my friends call me alzie. One of my sisters goes by Barbzie. Her nickname is capitalized. Mine is lower case. Just a writer’s preference, I guess.
I hope I didn’t get too carried away, but I told you I was gonna jump in now, didn’t I. I have realized that I need a community. I mean sure, it’s not as bad as Robert McCammond had it, growing up in a ‘60’s and ‘70’s small town Alabama environment and wanting to write scary stuff. He needed a community so he helped start one with the Horror Writer's Association. Although I’m only a supporting member right now, I think it’s important to be associated with the HWA. I may jump in with both feet there, too.

pleezetomeetchu
Alan (or alzie. . .your choice)
 

TheMightyAz

Mentor
It's nice to have another horror writer amongst us to liven things up! Who's your favourite horror writer? I'd also recommend checking that drawer again to make sure there isn't a second story. Once always goes missing.
 
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Alanzie

Senior Member
It's nice to have another horror writer amongst us to liven things up! Who's your favourite horror writer? I'd also recommend checking that drawer again to make sure there isn't a second story. Once always goes missing.
I grew up reading King. That being said, Robert R. McCammond is probably my favorite, followed EARLY Stephen King and then Peter Straub. Checked my drawer again...nothing but a few bones.
 

TheMightyAz

Mentor
I grew up reading King. That being said, Robert R. McCammond is probably my favorite, followed EARLY Stephen King and then Peter Straub. Checked my drawer again...nothing but a few bones.
I haven't read any R. R. McCammond. I'm a huge fan of Clive Barker. As Stephen King himself said: 'I've seen the future of horror, and his name is Clive Barker.'
 

indianroads

Staff member
Global Moderator
I grew up reading King. That being said, Robert R. McCammond is probably my favorite, followed EARLY Stephen King and then Peter Straub. Checked my drawer again...nothing but a few bones.
McCammond is awesome, Stinger is awesome, and Gone South...
It was hell’s season, and the air smelled of burning children.
... wow.
 
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