Heaving Vampire Bosoms of Angst, part II: The Bosoming

As you know, unless you live under a rock or have been a prisoner of war for the past couple of years, vampires are currently a VERY BIG DEAL. they’re huge! Vampires sell books and vampires sell T-shirts and…well, I mean, not literally they probably get people to do that sort of thing for them, what with being otherwise busy having angst.

Nonetheless, you cannot argue, Vampires are a big deal. Just look at Stephanie Meyer’s things, the Twilight books. I cannot hurl a stone without hitting someone wearing a “Twilight t-shirt” on campus, primarily because that would be assault and I would go to jail. Hot Topic has a massive display of Twilight stuff. A movie is coming out.

They’re a big deal.

And it’s hard to see why not! Vampires are sexy! They are gothic and angsty and passionate, they are dark and mysterious and they love you eternally and will totally not giving exsanguination-hickies to anyone else, at least nobody hot.

There is a long tradition of smokin’ sexy vampires. People like Stephanie Meyer do not just spontaneously generate! Nossir, they come (by “come” I mean “ignore” or “poo on” in the original Latin definition) from a long history of sexy vampires. Let’s look at some of them. Of course, there’s the original hunk who started it all, the more-Brad Pittier-than-Brad Pitt sexpot who couldn’t HELP but inspire some of the early Vampire stories, particularly the story by that nice Mormon angst-haver, Bram Stoker. Ladies, fan yourselves, it’s Vlad the Impaler (presumably, it goes without saying that he impales you with sexy.)


Whoooo! I think you can see where “Edward” gets it all from in Meyer’s books. Holy cow. If you are female, you are probably not reading this right now because you can’t stop gazing at that picture, particularly the mustache of dedicated love and attention.

But why stop there?

Brad Pitt, who I mentioned above you may remember, played a vampire in some movie with Christian Slater, who was having a career back then (and also with Kirsten Dunst, who was scary as hell) and he was zomg hot omg. And of course, he had a proud film tradition of too-hot-to-handle vampires to draw from. It was practically banned from theaters for sheer hotness. You may not be ready for the sexy which is Nosferatu, but give it your best effort. Maybe find an attractive man to fan you while you look at it. Here you are…

Ahhh, you begin to see where the vampire-lovin’ comes from. I’m a straight man, and *I* find it hard to articulate in independent clauses how much I would like a piece of that. I can practically fail to say it! whoa! Looks like we know who Justin Timberlake had to bring the sexy back from!

And finally, just to, ha ha, finish this post off, gner gner! *nudge* Here are two final sexy pictures.

I have to tell you that this post is nearly a swimsuit calender of blood drinking sexy hotness.

And now, I think I need to go have a sit down and a cup of tea, just to recover my morals. Whoa.

This concludes the clear and obvious history of vampire sexiness which has led to the current phenomenon. I thank you for your time. Tip yer waiters.

(This historical dissertation brought to you by Cleolinda Jones, and her hilarious breakdowns of Meyers book-shaped things.)


Heaving Vampire Bosoms of Angst

I know, it’s not Friday, but in the spirit of Halloween – which is Friday – I have something to get off my chest.

Heaving vampire bosoms of angst.

What’s up with them? Is it just me, or does every book these days have to include some angst-ridden vampire and the heaving bosoms of those who love them?  Every time I turn around, someone’s just gone a sold another tale of vampire angst to an agent or publisher, heaving bosoms notwithstanding.

What’s the allure? Forbidden love? Dangerous liaisons? Pale white skin? A lack of personal grooming? What?

And why vampires? Yeah, I get it, the corrilation between blood sucking and lust – that’s so yesterday. Why not immortal aliens who must feast on the feet of small children in order to survive, and the three-breasted women who love them?

What about zombies? Don’t they deserve love too?  Or don’t their decaying bosoms heave any longer? I suppose they could chuck one at you. Take out eye, if you’re not careful.

It’s become a running joke around the coffee pot these days. If you want to sell a novel, you have to include a vampire or two, some heaving boobies, and enough angst to fill a Chevy half-ton.

I just don’t get it.


It’s Wednesday. That means it’s my turn to post. I don’t have much to say. I’m tired. Busy. You know, life as usual.

Pete stole onto IM one day a week or so ago. Said he needed my address to send me a letter he’d written. I wasn’t online when he sent the IM, but I sent him my address. I’ve also sent him two letters. Still don’t have one of my own. I’m bummed. Okay, not really, but I like mail that’s just mail. Doesn’t matter whether it’s e-mail or postal mail, getting something just ’cause gives me a real lift.

Yes. And?

Yes. I’m here. Did you need something? Want something? Why are you just hanging out, reading this?

Dream a Little Dream With Me

Okay, so it’s too early for Free Drink Friday – but just because Pete’s not around doesn’t mean Lori and I are asleep at the zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Actually, I had a dream last night that really bugged me, and I thought to myself “Hey, self, why not mention this dream on the Castle and see how people interpret it.”  I’m not into the meaning of dreams myself, so much. I believe they’re just your brain on vacation, entertaining itself while your body sleeps. But obviously things on your mind during the day can bleed into that entertainment.  I also believe that as writers, we’re already so creative, our dreams can be particularly bizarre for no apparent reason.

And this one really bugged me.

I was driving around town in my car, and for some reason (very much out of character for my beloved car) it was handling terribly. Every time I tried to TURN, even though I was turning the wheel, the car wouldn’t turn.  I’d be driving along, waiting to reach a particular street, come up to it and start turning the wheel – which felt like pushing through gravel – and the car would keep going straight.

I could stop the car, and get honked at by other drivers, but I could not make any turn.

My car handles like a dream, so it’s clearly not about the car. I’m sure there’s some metaphor in there about my lack of control, or inability to change course. Or perhaps I really just want to drive through gravel, naked, while eating pie.  I dunno.

What do you think?

Alas, Pete, we hardly knew ye…

Here’s something fun to do that involves tormenting your favorite Pete.

Send me an e-mail with FOR PETE in the subject line and I’ll print it out and drop it in the mail to him the next time I send him a letter. I promised to try to mail something to him every Friday. Tell him the news from the online world, the games and conversations and articles he’s missing. Be as evil as you want. Include links he can’t click on, videos and music he can’t play, anecdotes he can’t respond to. Or, be nice, and send him a real letter, telling him what’s up. If you want him to respond, include your postal address. I can’t guarantee that he’ll write to you, but he’ll probably intend to, even if he doesn’t.


If this is Monday, then I have enacted my super-evil genius mad plan of doom! Bwahaha! Soon, I shall have membership in the Evil League of Evil, and you shall all tremble before my–
Oh. Wrong note. Er. Whoops…

There is a plan, but it’s not that one (the above plan involves seventeen overripened strawberries, two pints of malt beer, and a kazoo, BUT THAT IS ALL I CAN REVEAL). This plan…is that I am going completely off the internet, off every corner and piece of it completely. Out of my e-mail, off blogs of all sorts. I won’t even see news or weather sites. I’ve got my wife changing the password on the router box so I can’t access there. I’ll lock myself out of all other avenues too. Completely gone.

For how long, you perhaps say? (Or perhaps you say “hooray! finally!” to which I reply “HMPH”) How long is until I have finished a novel. I’m sitting at the start of something like the nineteenth draft of The Neon God, which has been worked on, off and on amidst other projects, since 2001. I’m really sick of looking at it. I want it done. (That said, I’ve got a headful of ideas for my second draft of “The Nondescript” too, so who knows what I’ll wind up writing).

So, that’s how long. Until the book’s done. Then I’ll be back and around and useful. Or whatever it is I am. I don’t know how long it’ll be. Maybe I’ll write the book in two weeks and be back in no time. If I’m still gone at Christmas-time, er, then I really suck as a writer, that’s what!

Right. And off I go!