_ALCATRAZ, the series, airs Monday nights at 9:00 on Fox-TV.

Ok, so I have a new favorite TV series. I don't like it. I LOVE it. And since that tends to doom any show, I figured I'd be proactive and try and plug it. The ratings are good. But great is better. The networks cancel so many unique & cool shows.

Like many TV series, to come into it late means confusion, and it's hard to enjoy it as much if you spend the hour wondering who is who, and why the heck are they saying/doing THAT??? So here's a very basic recap of the pilot episode. There are no spoilers here. Ok, except I revealed the location of the room from which the main characters -- the good guys -- do their sleuthing. But you knew they had to have an office somewhere, right?

ALCATRAZ

Also known as The Rock. Empty of prisoners since 1963. You wouldn't have wanted to be housed there before then. A stone fortress on a big rock in San Francisco Bay, it had brutal inmates, strict rules; in the later years, it was a decrepit facility. And so it was closed in 1963, the prisoners moved to other prisons elsewhere.

Or so they say.

In Alcatraz the series, the plot is that the prisoners were never moved. They disappeared. Or WERE DISAPPEARED by someone with an agenda, a use for these violent individuals. And those inmates are showing up in the here and now, having not aged a day, into a modern world where they don't officially exist. No fingerprints or DNA on file. No police records in precinct computers. And they're continuing their murderous behavior.

Sam Neil (Jurassic Park) plays Emerson Hauser, who was once a young guard at Alcatraz, and whose job now is to find each inmate & capture them, as well as to find out who made them disappear in the first place and for what purpose. Parminder Nagra plays Lucy Banerjee, Hauser's assistant. They work out of a secret facility on The Rock, below the cellblock level, dubbed "The Batcave" by Jorge Garcia's character.

Sarah Jones plays police detective Rebecca Madsen, who is drawn into this strange situation and joins up with Hauser. Jorge Garcia is Alcatraz expert Diego "Doc" Soto,who knows everything there is to know about The Rock and the criminals who inhabited it, and becomes Madsen's partner. When murders occur, it's Doc who can tell by the m.o. which Alcatraz inmate has now shown up, and what they might do next.

This is producer/screenwriter JJ Abrams' (Lost, Fringe, Alias, Star Trek 2009 movie, etc.) series, and it's a high-quality production -- the writing, acting, and directing are exceptional. And how often can we say that about network TV these days? So if you want some excitement, a show where you can spend the season getting more and more wrapped up in the characters (if you're a LOST fan,  you'll love the occasional one-liner by Jorge Garcia,  reminiscent of his character Hurley, back on that other island), give it a shot. JJ Abrams promises that it won't be as complicated as LOST, and that each episode will be a separate story.

I love a thriller, I love uniqueness, I love a cool locale, and I especially love it when there's some humor thrown in with the drama (X-Files, anyone?). And a show with big, teddybearish Jorge Garcia? It was inevitable that I would watch the pilot episode, hoping it would be good. But it's not.

It's AWESOME.


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BUT STILL FUN! 01/12/2012
 
_

Why do I write serial killer novels, bleak sci-fi,  and horror short stories?

Perhaps it was inevitable.

Some people see the glass as half full.

Some people see the glass as half empty.

I'm quite sure the glass is entirely empty, it's cracked, and there's Ebola virus around the rim.

Was I destined to write stories about cuddly little bunnies who have a happy day? Probably not ;-}

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_1) Climb Mount Kilimanjaro. Or take elevator ride to top of really tall building.

2) Go to premiere of movie version of my latest novel. Complain about casting of old, fat, balding George Clooney as protagonist (Hey, this is  2035. Shit happens.)

3) Get cameo role in Star Trek 37. Listen to 104-year-old William Shatner bitch about not being in it.

4) Write novel where character completes her/his bucket list. Then dies. Then comes back as a ZOMBIE.

5) Get caught stealing expensive necklace. Spend  a few weeks in my mansion wearing ankle bracelet. Trade tweets with Lindsay Lohan about her new ankle bracelet.

6) Become huge fan of really cool TV series that premieres in September & DOESN'T get canceled by end of first season.

7) Buy very first genetically-engineered cat that talks. Listen to it bitch about not having opposable thumbs.

8) Read new Stephen King novel where bad things happen to good people in Maine and monsters are icky.

9) Vote for level-headed, non-partisan, intelligent candidate for President. Wake up from dream. Go to polls and vote for least objectionable a$$hole.

10) Write new blog post. Have paramedics treat me for shock when someone actually leaves a comment on it.

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_Those of us who write crime thrillers, horror, or science fiction have a slightly different way of looking at Christmas and other holidays or situations that could provide material for a future gut-wrenching novel. But look at it this way: Someday you, dear reader, may turn up as a character in one of our books. Or at least as a dead body. Merry Christmas!  ;-}

THE TWELVE DAYS OF THRILLER WRITING

On the first day of writing, my novel gave to me...
A blood-splattered murder scene.

On the second day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the third day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the fourth day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the fifth day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Five more rotting corpses!
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the sixth day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Six hairs with follicles
Five more rotting corpses!
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the seventh day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Seven hits on CODIS
Six hairs with follicles
Five more rotting corpses!
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the eighth day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Eight gruesome weapons
Seven hits on CODIS
Six hairs with follicles
Five more rotting corpses!
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the ninth day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Nine pushy reporters
Eight gruesome weapons
Seven hits on CODIS
Six hairs with follicles
Five more rotting corpses!
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.


On the tenth day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Ten bogus alibis
Nine pushy reporters
Eight gruesome weapons
Seven hits on CODIS
Six hairs with follicles
Five more rotting corpses!
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the eleventh day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Eleven possible motives
Ten bogus alibis
Nine pushy reporters
Eight gruesome weapons
Seven hits on CODIS
Six hairs with follicles
Five more rotting corpses!
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.

On the twelfth day of writing, my novel gave to me...
Twelve new books in the series
Eleven possible motives
Ten bogus alibis
Nine pushy reporters
Eight gruesome weapons
Seven hits on CODIS
Six hairs with follicles
Five more rotting corpses!
Four burnt-out detectives
Three long car chases
Two creepy suspects
And a blood-splattered murder scene.
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_Writers are weird.

Let's face it, it's true.

We  toss words around for hours,  hacking one phrase out and sliding another gently in its place ... and then stare at those new words like someone just served us roadkill on a platter, WITH garnish ... and swiftly replace them with another line. We stare at that. We read it in a whisper. Stare at it some more. Then read it aloud with great temerity, letting it roll off the tongue. Finally! It's perfect, absolutely perfect!

One line. Yes, one lousy line. Only hundreds, or even thousands, more to go.

It's a complicated relationship we have with our Work-In-Progress. Even when it's driving us crazy, we want to love it, and in fact we inevitably fall head-over-heels for it. Particularly if it's a novel, taking months to complete, the characters becoming real to us, like friends or  family ... or the friends and family we wish we had. We love them. We love the town/island/alternate universe/distant planet where it all takes place. At times, we wish we lived there. At times (mostly late at night when we're bleary-eyed, yet edgy with caffeine), we think we do. At least until the words stop flowing or the cat pukes on the rug or we stop to get another cup of coffee. Then we realize that, oh right, we're not sitting at the controls of a shuttle landing on Planet Alpha Alpha Ding Dong. We're in Sacramento (or Buffalo, or Nome, or a farm in the middle of Nowhereville, U.S.A.). And we sigh, wistfully.

At the end of a particularly productive writing session, we look at what we've just worked on for hours and beam with pride, reading it over and over because the words are not only just right, they're AWESOME.  Did we do that? Are we capable of doing THAT? It's true, then: We're a writer. A writer. A WRITER. Hot damn.

And we go to bed, perhaps dreaming dreams of a future Stephen King-like existence.

The next day, if we're like most fledgling writers, we go to an actual job to earn actual money to pay actual bills. Or we chase after a houseful of rugrats, get them off to school, do the grocery shopping, etc., etc., etc.

But finally the time comes when the day/night is our own. And we open our WIP, so eager to read those inspiring words, to bask in the glow of our own talent and re-experience the pride that had warmed our heart only hours earlier. And we read it.

And it sucks.

Like a Hoover.

Like a Hoover with an atomic engine.

And that's devastating. Our dreams are shattered. Where yesterday we imagined readers holding our novel in their sweaty hands, waiting in line for our autograph, now we picture them grumbling about how much money they wasted, and lining their parakeet's cage with the pages.

Our world is crumbling. How could we have been so wrong???

If you're not a newbie at this, you know what comes next. You either dive right back in, or you run for cover, but either way, within a day or two or three, you open your WIP and ... you smile. Because you were right the first time. The panic/self-loathing/despair/No one will ever buy this book feeling was just a phase, part of the emotional roller coaster ride that is writing.

I was in the birdcage-lining phase yesterday. The opening to my book was too stiff/too folksy,  too complicated/too simplistic, too subtle/too in-your-face, too ... everything.  I couldn't believe I'd ever thought Chapter One could possibly entice anyone to move on to Chapter Two.

Today? Same chapter, didn't touch a word. Read it again, and ...  it's freakin' AWESOME.

Writers, weird? Ya think?


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#Amwriting (created by @JohannaHarness) is 2 years old on Aug. 3rd!

I wrote a short story in celebration of it, since #amwriting has kept me writing on so many days when I would otherwise have wandered off to look at LOL CATS or something ;-} And the advice I've gotten from Johanna and other #amwriters has been invaluable.


WRITTEN IN STONE by Nik Barnabee

The tip of a wing flicked, then flicked again. Huge, clawed feet loosened, then gripped the stone ledge even harder, digging in, sending tiny cracks throughout the grey surface. The creature was deep in thought, oblivious to the world beneath her. She was in darkness. Below, there were street lights, car headlights, a brightly lit sign declaring, "Pizza, Pizza, Pizza!" farther down the street. The view was all too familiar.

Once, the arched recess in which she perched had been part of a great cathedral, built hundreds of years ago and thousands of miles away, across a vast ocean. Intricate spirals and towers and crosses had formed a magnificent silhouette as the sun set behind it at the end of each day. And when the last pastel streak across the sky finally disappeared, the creature would awaken, in a much different world. One in which humans feared the darkness beyond their torches and candles and campfires,  where the creature could fly freely and return to her resting place and sleep soundly, knowing the next day, year, century would be exactly the same.

Until it wasn't.

Until she awoke to find the grand cathedral gone, with only portions of the stone facade decorating an even taller, strangely designed building. And lights, everywhere, noise more constant and disturbing than she'd ever heard, humans chattering inside the building, down in the streets ... everywhere.

But in that fearsome face, behind those piercing eyes, there was exceptional intelligence, survival instinct, an ability to adapt. And so she listened. And she learned.

And now her clawed fingers tap-tap-tapped on the keyboard of the laptop she'd "borrowed" from an unsuspecting human ...

GargoyleGurlll
At last I've self-pubbed my novel! "Attack Of The Zombie Gargoyles" on Amazon.com for ur Kindle! PLZ RT! #amwriting

THE END

Check out other #Amwriting blog party posts here: http://www.amwriting.org





 






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4 FAVES LISTS 07/02/2011
 
In response to author @rynedp (Ryne Douglas Pearson) 's challenge: Name your 4 Faves Lists, here are mine  ...

BOOKS: 
1) The Stand
2) Watchers (If you don't fall in love with Einstein, you don't have a heart. Or a sense of humor.)
3) War Of The Worlds
4) Mystic River

AUTHORS:
1) Stephen King
2) Jim Butcher
3) H.G. Wells (Someone once asked me which author I'd like to spend a day with. This is the one. So ahead of his time, it's scary. Plus, the time machine. Steampunk-y gadget. He came up with that in his turn-of-the-century head. How cool is that?)
4) Jodi Picoult (Sometimes a girl's just gotta read something with emotional, human interaction where no one gets blown up or eaten by monsters.)

MOVIES:
1) To Kill A Mockingbird (I've seen it more times than I can count. As a kid, I wanted to be Scout.)
2) The Stand (ok, it's a TV-movie, so sue me. It's an absolutely perfect adaptation of the book. And the first time I saw it, I instantly developed a huge crush on Gary Sinese. No big deal. I'm practically over it. Any day now.)
3) The Perfect Storm (George Clooney acting all manly and courageous and driven and maybe a bit Ahab-ish. 'Nuff said.)
4) Die Hard (If I judge FAVE MOVIE by just how unable I am to resist watching it yet again when I stumble across it on cable, this should be # 1.)

TV:
1) X-Files (9 seasons of pure awesomeness. Ok, except for Flukeman.)
2) Battlestar Galactica (the 2k version, that is. The best writing/acting/directing EVER, in the history of the world. And if you saw the final episode, you know just how long that is.)
3) Early Edition (Am I the only one who watched it? Kyle Chandler, full of even more adorableness than he has now, gets tomorrow's newspaper today, and runs around Chicago preventing tragedies. Much sweetness, and humor between him & pal Fisher Stevens.)
4) Jericho (Yes, I was one of those fans who did everything they could to get CBS to bring the show back -- which they did, temporarily. I didn't send nuts to the network, but I wrote letters and convinced lots of people to watch. Unfortunately, no one I knew was in one of those frickin' Neilsen Ratings families.)

BANDS:
I'm really not very into music, but here goes ...
1) Maroon 5
2) The Beatles
3) Green Day
4) Nickelback

SINGERS:
Like I said, not overly excited about music, but ...
1) Michael Jackson
2) Christina Aguilera
3) Bruno Mars
4) Bonnie Raitt

FOOD:
1) Pizza
2) Peanut Butter (JIF, to be specific, melted on a bagel. Or toast. Or a toasted roll. Or, if nothing else is available, an English Muffin.)
3) Coffee (It's ingested, so it's food. It is SO. I never drank it in my life, till I broke my ankle a couple years ago -- who knew the ankle bone's connected to the caffeine bone? -- and now I. CAN'T. STOP.)
4) My Mom's salads (She had her own versions of macaroni salad and potato salad, and what she called Creamed Cabbage, which was suspiciously similar to cole slaw. Only better. I grew up helping her make them, so I can do it. It's just a lot of effort and a lot of messy cleanup. Way back when, my mom magically took care of that stuff.)

ANIMALS:
1) Manta rays (Is there anything cooler than watching them glide effortlessly through the deeps, or calmly and gracefully interact with a diver? I think not.)
2) Reptiles - Lizards (I.LOVE.LIZARDS. End of discussion.) & Snakes (I had an adorable little snake named Baby, so yes, I love snakes. Any and all snakes that are not at this very moment in the act of biting someone. But as pets, I'd only have the kind that eat worms, not mice. I'd have names for the mice, and that would create all kinds of me-trauma.)
3) Whales (See Manta Rays, above.)
4) Anything furry and cute.

And I would add this list ...

CARTOONS
1) Gargoyles
2) Animaniacs/Pinky And The Brain
3) Freakazoid
4) Roadrunner. Beep! Beep!

Hmmm ... does this list give the impression that I had 2 much-older brothers, and got all their boy-stuff books and comics and toys as hand-me-downs (and occasionally steal-it-out-of-their-closets-since-they're-off-in-the-military-and-they'll-never-know)? That's what I thought. Funny how that kind of influence only works downward. As the baby sister, I never could interest them in playing Barbie.



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TWITTER IS OVER CAPACITY.

Are there any more chilling words for a devoted Twitterite?

Personally, I hadn't noticed how deeply Twitter had integrated itself into my life. Sure, I had a  YIPPEE! moment Wednesday when I acquired my 800th follower. But I didn't do the Snoopy Happy Dance.  Or stick a candle in a cupcake, light it, and sing "Happy 800th Follower To Me!" Yes, there was a  smile on my face, and some not-smug-at-all satisfaction. But Twitter isn't my life. I only pop in  off and on during the day to check out people I've become friendly with, see how they're doing, let  my tweeps know how my thriller & sci-fi writing/revising/more writing is coming along, click on a  few fun/informative/holy-%#$&-you've-got-to-be-kidding-me links as an interesting way of filling a  few free moments between book revisions, work, and serving ... er, I mean taking care of ... my  cats.

Or so I thought.

But then I couldn't get on Twitter last night during LETTERMAN commercials. Nor during CRAIG  FERGUSON and my very-late-night snack. When it was time for bed, I tried again -- for only a few  minutes, that's all I would have spent, I wouldn't have stayed up till near-dawn, honest I wouldn't  -- and instead got that disgustingly cute FailWhale. I needed to get to bed. But ... no "last tweet  of the day"? No final follower tally? No polar-bear-does-the-Macarena video links to save for  viewing with breakfast? Noooooooooo!

Oh. My. God.

I'm a freakin' Twitter addict.
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CLICK THIS! 08/08/2010
 
I've fallen in love with click pens. You know -- the kind where you click the button on top with your thumb, to make the pen nib pop out. I also love gel. And of course a little glitter doesn't hurt. Wait, scratch that. No glitter. I'm not writing about teenaged, angsty vampires.

Anyway, click pens. Kinda retro. Uncompromising. Once you click it, it feels like it's time to get down to business. Ordinarily, I just get a couple 10-packs of Bic pens. Solid. Stable. Reasonably priced. Blue for most writing; black for dark scenes or my horror novel, because black ink makes creepy words seem more foreboding. Just a little atmosphere for myself, you understand. I'm not doodling monster faces in the margins. Ok, there was that one time when I wanted to see what some glowering, pissed-off-alien-eyes I was describing would look like, but ... Never mind.

Occasionally, I bring home something completely different; get enticed by something cool-looking that caught my eye, maybe Goth-style (who can resist a pen with a skull on top?), or Star Trekky,  or a long, skinny pen that has pretty pastel suns & moons & stars all over it. But they always seem to be the type with a cap you put back on when you're done writing. Ok, if you're the type to remember to do so. I'm not particularly good at it. If I had a buck for every pen I allowed to dry out, I could buy ... well, a whole sh*tload of new pens.

Anyway, yesterday I bought a click pen. I liked the way it looked -- black, with silver lightning bolts on it -- but mainly a pack of two was fairly cheap, I needed pens, and it was hot and muggy outside and I was in a hurry to get back to my computer, the a/c, and a cup of coffee.

So I took it home, finally ripped it free of the plastic-on-cardboard torture device that contained it, and ohhhhhhhhhh, the smoothness of that gel ink. Instantly, sentences -- then, paragraphs -- of my horror WIP began to flow freely, effortlessly. Cool.

I had a blast for a few hours, but eventually the real world intruded. One of those things most writers who are not in Oprah's tax bracket must stop for -- cooking, cleaning, shopping, doing the dishes, etc. Someday we'll all have servants for that stuff, right?

Later, I sat down to take up where I'd left off, and ...

Nothing.

Zero words. Zilch. Nada.

ARGGGGHHHH!

I closed my eyes, tried to meditate, to clear my mind of all things except the image of my main character. He's an adorable little 4-year-old -- how could that miss? Still nothing. Tapped my foot for a while. Tapped my fingers. Then, started to tap my pen. Well, hell, no wonder -- I was holding one of the old Bics. Blehh.

Picked up my shiny new black pen.

Still not a damn thing. Not a word of dialogue, not a new idea, not a start to a new paragraph.

Then I realized I'd forgotten something. I put my thumb on the button, pushed ...

Click!

Within seconds, the little-boy-character's dad began to whisper in my ear. I started writing. The words began flowing.

Damn.

Gotta go buy some more of these things.

As certain furry Internet icons might say ...

Theez clikk penz haz majikel powerz.
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Last Sunday night I was READY. My favorite TV show was about to start! So I nuked the popcorn with seconds to spare and sat there with a hot bag o'corn, some A&W Root Beer, and a 3 Musketeers bar. Yes, I was salivating ... but not for the junk food. For Eric. And Bill. And Sam. And fangs and blood and mayhem. TRUEBLOOD had arrived!

Or so I thought. A RERUN, HBO? Really? Are you kidding me? I pay extra for HBO so I can watch TRUEBLOOD, not to see those lame-ass movies you run over and over again all month long. I want vampires. I neeeeeed vampires. And reruns just won't do it. We all waited so long for the new season to begin.

Remember the night of the season premiere a few weeks ago, fellow Truebies? Were we excited, or WHAT? An hour of pure bliss, after which my thirst for vampire fiction was temporarily slaked, as was my thirst for Eric the vamp. Yes, Bill is handsome, too, but I just can't resist a bad boy.

An amazing episode, although when viewers have to wait months and months for the new season of any series to begin, is it ever possible to live up to that level of anticipation and excitement? But I could be won over easily, since I wasn't as thrilled with Season Two as most fans were -- I hated that demonic bull-chick/hypnotic orgies story arc.

But the premiere was exciting, cool, satisfying, and the two episodes since have added new dimensions to the show, and opened up new possibilities. A 2800-year-old vampire King of Mississippi? One who may wage an out-and-out war against the vamp Queen of Louisiana? Sounds like brutality, subterfuge, power-grabs, and rebellion may be coming our way in the weeks ahead. Fun, fun, fun. Now, at times I've not been crazy about the vampire royalty thing, only because I don't much like it when my favorite hunky, manly vamps get all snively and kiss-ass-y around bigshot fanglords (Eric, when around the bitchy queen of the vampire universe, turns into a meek little mouse of a vamp. Aggghhh!). But Bill has had his moments of feisty rebellion (has Sookie rubbed off on him, one wonders?) in The King's presence, and more may be coming, if Sookie continues to be endangered by The King.

I love watching TRUEBLOOD. Love it. Although not quite as much as I love BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER, another vampire series that pushed (and occasionally shredded) the outside of the envelope. In fact, I couldn't help noticing, from the very first episode of the very first season of TRUEBLOOD, the similarities between the two shows. More than minor, barely noticeable similarities.

I mean, think about it ...

The lead character in each series is a damsel (Sookie/Buffy) who may not be in distress, but who, in half the episodes, must be rescued or at least protected -- more often than not, by one of two rivals (Bill & Eric/Angel & Spike). In the other half of the episodes, she does rescuing.

Both damsels have some sort of supernatural powers -- Sookie's telepathy and new-found, if not understood, zapping power/Buffy's Slayer strength & quick-healing abilities.

There's a do-gooder vampire (Bill/Angel) who gets frustrated dealing with the trouble-making, hot vampire (Eric/Spike) who starts out bad bad bad, but who eventually develops a soft spot (or at least lust) for the damsel. Sure, Eric has more class than Spike. But really, who doesn't?

Damsel has a sibling (Jason/Dawn) (Ok, I have to admit they are polar opposites -- the horndog and the virginal schoolgirl.)

Each damsel has a group of friends (Tara, Lafayette, Sam)/(Scooby gang members Willow, Xander, Cordelia, Oz, Anya) they can count on when bizarre situations arise. And arise, they do, with unceasing frequency. One has a friend who is a werewolf (Buffy & Oz), the other one's friend is a shape-shifter (Sookie & Sam). Shape-shifters are more versatile and a whole lot cooler than werewolves if you ask me, and Sam is handsomer than Oz, but let's not get picky.

Being a BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER fanatic, no wonder I can't get enough of TRUEBLOOD.
 
However, there's one thing TRUEBLOOD has that BUFFY never could have gotten away with on broadcast TV, even if Spike did come close a few times: Eric Northman, manly hunk o' Viking vampire, absolutely butt-nekkid.

Damn,  I love cable.
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