with David Dean
We are delighted to welcome back novelist David Dean to Omnimystery News.
David first visited with us earlier this month to discuss his new novel of suspense, The Thirteenth Child (Genius Book Publishing; October 2012 trade paperback and ebook formats) and today we asked him to return to tell us more about how the book came to be, a post he titles "It's Alive!"
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Photo provided courtesy of
David Dean
Writing, as we all know, is an odd profession that begins with a solitary person pecking away at a keyboard. Then, once his/her muse has been properly summoned and appeased, said writer produces a manuscript. This creation however, upon subsequent readings, suddenly develops a life of its own and has to be wrestled to the ground in order to regain mastery. This sad contest can go on for days, weeks, even months or years. Meanwhile, our chastened writer must write anew, repeating the process over and over, thus populating his world with dozens of clanking, questing creations, some of which he may never drive forth into the greater world and readership. Instead, they occupy dusty corners of his home, and worse, his imagination, occasionally sitting up and looking about in confusion at having been left behind and glaring with hatred at their creator; rattling chains and straining to have at him.
A few years back I wrote a horror novel set in southern New Jersey. Those familiar with my career in mystery and suspense stories questioned my judgment. "A horror novel? Have you lost your mind — what do you know about horror … or even novels?" Not much, maybe, but that had never stopped me in the past. I wrote it and was moderately pleased that I had come up with something fairly unique and readable; maybe even commercially viable. Even my editorial board (My children — Bridgid, Julian, and Tanya) didn't condemn it outright, but deemed it "entertaining". I was encouraged by this ringing endorsement.
Every agent I submitted it to disagreed. Dozens … actually more than dozens (I don't think it benefits anyone to go into actual numbers), managed to turn down my generous offer of partnership on this merry voyage. "Fools!" I cried. "You damned fools … I'm letting you in on the blockbuster of the year and you say … no?" They did.
Frankenstein (Universal Pictures, 1931)
After a while, I coaxed the creature back into its cell and padlocked it. For months afterward, I would be awakened in the night by its cries, threats, and laments. I drank heavily. At some point, I can't recall when, the cries, which had been growing fainter and fainter, faded away altogether, leaving the house in silence. I tried to forget. I wrote and wrote. There were successes and failures, but the "Novel" as I had come to call it, kept returning to haunt me at odd, unguarded moments. Finally, one day when Robin was away for the afternoon, I dug the key out of the clutter of my desk drawer and went down there. I opened the door … I opened the damned door!
It was still there, barely alive; covered with dust and cobwebs, breathing faintly, with a thready, uncertain pulse. I dragged it out into the light. And, of course … it all started again! I made a few rewrites, a different beginning, tightened up a sentence or two. It groaned and flailed weakly, but was still unable to rise and stand on its own. What had I been thinking leaving it alone for so long? I blamed Robin, she had never cared for horror and made no secret of it. Perhaps her disdain (for now I could see it for what it was), had seeped into my work, poisoned my best efforts. I found her watching me in unguarded moments; quickly looking away when I caught her at it. She hated my novel! I knew it! She wanted me to put it away again!
But I schemed and plotted and soon I had found a way around both her and the damned agents! E-publishing! That's the ticket! I contacted a reputable firm recommended by Mystery Writers Association to help me prepare my creation for its entry into the virtual world. I e-mailed my manuscript to their proofreader. I didn't need any stinkin' agents, or even a publisher. I'm the publisher now, baby! I'm my own man!
The firm, Genius Book Publishing, contacted me a few weeks later. After having read my novel, they wanted to publish it.
Say what?
Now this really screwed things up. I had this all figured out; I didn't need anybody! But as the words of the email sunk in, I began to chuckle; then laugh aloud. The irony of it all, and the wonderful feeling of smugness at being backed in my opinion by a perfect stranger, but then I continued reading … there was more — there was a catch.
The publisher deemed that for us to go forward together more work was required. My manuscript was in desperate need of a good developmental editor. If at the end of six months it failed to meet his requirements, then all bets were off. Oh, how skillfully he had thrown out the bait, how cruelly he had set the hook!
My days at the hands of a cruel and callous developmental editor had begun! His perverse delight at savaging my work was evidenced on page after page of my manuscript. His "notes," as he referred to them, full of delight at every perceived deviation in story logic, every imagined run-on sentence. Not content with these, he trod heavily upon my golden prose, stamping out similes and metaphors inspired by the gods themselves; descriptions so colorful and vaulting in their imagination that he could only have been driven by envy! My book … my wonderful book lay in tatters when he had done.
My publisher, Steven Booth, was deaf to my cries of outrage. Instead, he urged me to get on with it, and hung up the phone. Even Robin, my wife of thirty-four years, appeared indifferent to the many wrongs I had suffered. She had never shown any real enthusiasm for my horror novel. She too, I perceived, was part of the problem.
I hid in my room with the curtains drawn and refused to come down. Robin, it would appear, has a busy social schedule, and was in and out of the house. After a few days, she stopped asking me to join her for meals, or a morning at the beach. She went to wineries and restaurants with our so-called friends, their laughter drifting back to me as they drove away. No one cared. Time passed.
One day, I don't know which as I had lost track of such things, I scratched at my growing beard and glanced over at the odious "notes." I fingered a few pages loose from the stack. They came away smudged; it had been awhile since I had thought to bathe. No matter … I read a few paragraphs … the least unreasonable suggestions. Perhaps … just perhaps, one or two slight alterations might not damage my work overly much. Besides, I had to throw some kind of bone to my surprisingly intractable publisher. One or two little alterations might not hurt. I did it.
Not bad … not too bad. He might have been on to something with those after all. I tried a few others. The results there weren't completely awful either. Those passages read a little better, maybe … but just a little. I went on.
It was like a fever. Now that I had started, I couldn't seem to stop. Tearing through page after page, I went to work on my novel, stripping it down to the bare essentials; trimming the fat … it was addictive. I began to laugh as my fingers tore across the keyboard. Someone pounded on the locked door, I thought I heard Robin's voice calling, "David … honey? Are you all right in there? What are you laughing at, sweetheart? You're scaring me!" I ignored her and went on … and on … and on …
A month later, I was suddenly done. I read the book one last time. Cautiously satisfied, I sent it on to Steven. A few days later, he responded, "It's on … The Thirteenth Child is on for October 5th." I started to laugh again, to laugh long and hard, but Steven interrupted, "Knock that stuff off! Go get a shower and shave and stop scaring people … and tell Robin you're sorry for being such a jerk!"
Since the rewrites, I've showered and shaved, as Steven suggested, and come down from my room. Our dog has stopped barking at me, and Robin and I are on speaking terms again, though sometimes I find her watching me. No matter. She may think me mad, but no matter. All that's important is the book … it's alive you know … oh yes … it's alive!
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David Dean's short stories have appeared regularly in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, as well as a number of anthologies, since 1990. His stories have been nominated for the Shamus, Barry, and Derringer Awards and "Ibrahim's Eyes" won the EQMM Readers Award for 2007. His story "Tomorrow's Dead" was a finalist for the Edgar for best short story of 2011. He is a retired Chief of Police in New Jersey and once served as a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne Division.
To learn more about the author and his work, find him on Goodreads or Facebook.
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The Thirteenth Child
David Dean
A Novel of Suspense
The Snow Boy is a phantom to be greatly feared — when he is known to be in the area, a child is sure to vanish.
Police Chief Nick Catesby is haunted by the unsolved disappearance of a young boy from his small, peaceful New Jersey town seven years before. The nightmare begins anew when a little girl goes missing, followed quickly by two teenaged boys. Nick has only one suspect, disgraced professor and town drunk Preston Howard, whose arrogance has left him with nothing more than his pride, a sea of whiskey, and his only daughter, with whom Nick is falling in love.
Preston insists that he is not a suspect but a witness to a strange and terrifying boy who only appears between dusk and dawn. Nick regards the story as the rantings of an alcoholic, but sightings of the boy lead to a trail of missing and murdered children going back three centuries, Nick and Preston are plunged into a race to save the children of Wessex Township — and the woman they both love.
Click on the Amazon button to see also the special Whispersync offer associated with this title.
