Inspirations

I'm always fascinated to hear about the inspirations behind other authors' works, and so today I'm going to discuss the inspirations behind two of my novels, Watershed and Sleight of Hand.  I hope you'll find their backstories interesting....  And in giving tribute to the works that inspired me, I hope too that you'll check them out.

Watershed

In 2010, Don DeLillo published a short novel called Point Omega.  Really, it's a stretch to call Point Omega a novel, at least if you're measuring by the term's traditional definitions.  The book is a little over one hundred pages of large type and wide margins; it's surely not much more than 20,000 words long.  But Point Omega is proof that the term "novel" doesn't necessarily have to refer to a specific word count.  Measured by its breadth and subject matter, Point Omega is very much a novel.

One in which nothing happens.  Truly.

For the first fifteen or so pages, we stand with a  character who's pondering slow-motion images on a movie screen.  For the next eighty-five, we're sitting in the desert with an old recluse, talking about time, society, everything, nothing, and God knows what.  And then we're back in front of the movie screen, again pondering some slow-motion images.  Sound exciting?  Probably not.  Is it one of my all-time favorite works?  Yes.  And only Don DeLillo could have written it.

Point Omega influenced my 2013 novel Watershed.  It was the lingering image of that old recluse, out in the middle of nowhere, pondering everything and nothing.  If nothing else, that image incapsulated everything I took from DeLillo's novel, that image, the recluse in the vast desert, pondering it all.  Now, I knew (know) the limits of my writing abilities.  I could never write the kind of novel DeLillo had written.  And besides, I didn't want to.  Inspiration is one thing; plagiarism is another.

At some point, the image of the recluse shifted enough that he became my character.  Who was he?  What was he doing?  I decided he was a poet... who wasn't much of a poet anymore, who would be caught up in a wicked and deadly scheme..  And thus, Watershed was born.

As I said, I'd no desire in attempting an abstract, modernist work like Point Omega, but that pebble with the weight of a mountain had given me an image, and that image was a spark.

Watershed is a novel about writing.  It's a little bit of a horror novel, a little bit of a love story, and it's completely and totally abnormal.

I guess that's something it has in common with Point Omega: I don't really know what the hell it is, but I'm glad it exists.


Sleight of Hand

As far as I know, there were two significant inspirations for Sleight of Hand.

The first was the song "Tulsa Time."  Both the Don Williams and Eric Clapton versions have regular spots on my playlists, so I don't remember which one I was listening to when I decided to write a story about a young man who left Tulsa, Oklahoma for "Arizona, maybe on to California, where the people all live so fine."  As it turned out, my character would head straight to California, and he'd do so in a Mustang, not a Pontiac, but those are just pesky details....  I couldn't make the connection too obvious, could I?

When I realized my main character was leaving Tulsa for Los Angeles, I immediately recalled an early Norman Mailer novel, The Deer Park, which I'd read a few years prior, and which proved to be inspiration number two for Sleight of Hand.

Norman Mailer's career was a fascinating one.  He was without doubt one of the most talented writers of his generation, but the general consensus, amongst those who ponder such things, is that he never wrote that One Great Novel he yearned so badly to write.  The Deer Park, for example, could have been, and maybe should have been, one of the century's greatest Hollywood novels.  But it wasn't.  As other critics have stated, The Deer Park, while fascinating and occasionally brilliant, is also very, very plodding and largely void of story.

I was under no illusion that I should even attempt the Great Hollywood Novel, but The Deer Park reminded me of what I could do: I could write a Hollywood novel from the perspective of an outsider... but to make my effort a little less plodding and a lot more fun, surely it wouldn't hurt to throw in some ghosts?

Sleight of Hand went through many drafts.  The first and second were almost twice as long as the version I published.  But that's because the thing was overwritten and the ending was a rambling mess.  After a whole lot of hacking and gutting and rewriting, it became a stronger, leaner story, a short novel that I'm now very proud of.  I think it says a lot and asks some good questions.

Most importantly, it's entertaining.  And it ends while the reader is still having fun.

Ten Questions with Mark Cassell

To celebrate the release of the short story collection Fiends: Ten Tales of Demons, edited by Rayne Hall, I'm interviewing author Mark Cassell today.  Mark is the author of the novel The Shadow Fabric, and he has an exceptionally eerie story included in Fiends called "Disturbed."

You discuss the inspiration for "Disturbed" a bit in FIENDS.  Can you elaborate on the origins of the story just a bit more?

One night around a campfire, my friend and I discussed ancient evils and pictograms.  I already had seeds for a story based around camping and confronting a demon, but I had no idea how to execute it.  We spoke of history's evils and the power of sigils and glyphs as the campfire dwindled to embers.  And it was that glowing red that finally made me grab my pencil!

There is an intensely unsettling atmosphere throughout "Disturbed."  The ending of the story is certainly a scene that should linger long in readers' minds.  Is unnerving the reader your primary goal with your writing, instead of going for the shock or the gross out?

Whether movie or book, I've always preferred the supernatural over the slasher.  I'm a sucker for subtlety and creepiness as opposed to a gore-fest.  So my work naturally comes out that way.

"Disturbed" is a part of the mythos surrounding The Shadow Fabric.  What's it been like, creating an entire mythos?

When writing The Shadow Fabric I never knew it would become something this large.  A long time after I completed the novel my notebook hummed with untouched elements, so what better way to explore them than by writing more stories?  It's been fun taking the concept of the Fabric to another level.

Do you see The Shadow Fabric mythos continuing indefinitely, or is there a conclusion you're aiming toward?

In truth, it's evolving without an end in sight.

What scares you more than anything else?

Cliched perhaps, but I'd say death.  I have so much to do, to say, to write.  And the clock always ticks.  At any time, without any notice, we could be snuffed out.  The end.  I guess that's why I lean heavily on the supernatural.  Maybe it's my way of dealing with that fear, hoping perhaps for something beyond.

Who has had the greatest influence on your writing?

I'll say this simply: my wife.  She kicks my arse and I write stuff.

How do you feel about writing short stories as opposed to novels?  Are there certain creative advantages or disadvantages to either form?

I've written just one novel so who knows how I'll feel after a few more.  We live in an age where every one of us is on a mission to get where we're going.  Fast.  Short, sharp tales, whether 300 words or 3,000 can fill those brief moments of respite between the accelerator of modern-day life.  There's an advantage in that.

Some have suggested that the horror genre is beginning to fade, or be devoured by other genres.  What do you think about the future of horror?

Genres always fade.  And they always return.  It's a natural cycle.  Sadly, horror itself is with us in many guises: war, famine, aircraft disasters, personal atrocities.  Whatever level of horror, including supernatural or slasher, we as a species will always seek to be entertained by it.  We're a strange bunch, us humans.

Who are some other writers whose works you enjoy?

I grew up on a diet of James Herbert, Shaun Hutson, and Stephen King.  Also Brian Lumley and Clive Barker.  They have all inspired me somewhere down the line.

Are you at work on a new novel?  What should we look forward to concerning your fiction?

I write for a Sci-fi eZine, and I'm looking to release a collection of the episodes so far.  As for something larger?  I'm currently plotting a steampunk novel and yes, the story has a supernatural element.
This Halloween, however, sees the release of Sinister Stitches, a collection of short horror stories in the Shadow Fabric mythos.

Fiends is available on Amazon.com.

Visit Mark Cassell's website.

Mount Arkansas

Another Colorado summit gained!  This one was, appropriately enough, Mount Arkansas, a 13,800' summit that sits near the headwaters of the Arkansas River.

My dad and I left Arkansas for Colorado at four in the morning on Thursday, July 30.  We made it to Leadville in time to catch a heck of a sunset and a couple of beers at the Silver Dollar Saloon.  

Friday morning, we were heading up toward the Climax Mine area, and we parked at the Mount Arkansas trailhead by 6:00.  

No need to get TOO much of an early start, we thought, as Arkansas was (theoretically) going to be a warmup hike for La Plata and Blanca.  After all, I’d read it was only about 2 or 3 miles one way.  Nothing too bad.  

It didn’t exactly turn out that way, but I’m not complaining.  Arkansas is a very fun mountain.

We followed an old railroad bed for approximately a quarter of a mile, the distance recommended by 13ers.com, and then cut up into the trees and started south into a forest.  I think we wandered a bit too long in the trees— instead of making a straight line toward the saddle, we attempted to follow a few trail segments, and I suspect we made things more difficult than they had to be.  Note to those who might do this mountain: Just head south.  I DO recommend avoiding the marshy willow thickets.  Otherwise, just go south, and to heck with trying to follow trail segments.

Either way, we made it above the trees and found ourselves just below the saddle in a very, very beautiful area.  

After a moment or two of debating whether or not to head up to the saddle or cut up the grassy slope immediately to our left, we decided to do the latter.  The ridge looked pretty friendly, after all.  

The slope was a bit steeper than it looked, but the rocks made solid footholds, and it didn’t take too long to gain the ridge.

From here on out, the ascent up Arkansas was a fairly straightforward ridge walk/climb, in which you ascend up one pile of rocks and boulders after another. No trail, not really, but there’s no way in the world to get lost.  

At the ridge intersection (where you’ll find a pole jutting up out of the rock) just make sure you cut to the right toward Arkansas. 

It’s not far down this final stretch of ridge that you’ll finally get a view of the actual summit, just beyond the crux towers.

A few notes on this final stretch of ridge: several sections of it are pretty darned narrow— nothing dangerous if the weather is decent and you’re aware of what you’re doing, but narrow nonetheless.  Also, where we cut down off the ridge to circumvent the crux towers, for a few feet, there was significant exposure on both sides of us, and using both hands was an absolute must.   Perhaps we waited too late to descend off the ridge.  I suspect so.  Just note, the class 2 on this ridge seemed a bit more demanding of your attention than, say, the tops of Massive or Harvard, and in a place or two was approaching class 3.

Anyway, so yes, Mount Arkansas was more involving than I’d expected, and my dad pointed out to me a few times that he’d expected something a bit easier….  But I will say this: Mount Arkansas is a lot of fun and very beautiful.  Woo Pig!

LAMENTATION Chapters 1 - 3

LAMENTATION

CHAPTER ONE

“Thanks for calling me in.” Jake Boyd took a seat on the other side of the desk. “Sorry my application was late.”

The high school principal’s name was William Ricks—Billy, he insisted.  With his height and stocky stature, Jake thought he looked like a young Don Williams.

Billy waved off the apology.

“You’re from out of state. It’s fine. You’ve actually got some experience….” He leaned into his desk and pretended to study Jake’s application. “And you’re sure as hell the only one who’s written a book. That’s kind of interesting.”

Jake felt himself redden.

“Ghosts of the San Juan Range, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re from Colorado?”

“I grew up here in Kansas and moved to Colorado after teaching in Wichita.”

“Why did you quit teaching?”

“The mountains.”

Billy inched forward in his chair. “We’re a very small, poor school. We lost a good teacher last year.  She decided she wanted to sell her soul.” He coughed into his fist. “She decided she wanted to go to law school. So if we hire you, Jake, I hope you’ll stick around. Small, poor school like this, it’s hard to keep folks here in Shelley. You understand, I’m sure.”

Jake nodded.

Billy continued: “We average about thirty kids per graduating class, so you’ll likely have two classes of tenth graders with about fifteen or so per group. We’ll also probably give you a group of eighth or ninth graders, and then you’ll have other assigned duties, which will differ every year. You’ll get some of these poor kids, and you’ll think, This is hopeless. They go home to nothing, and that’s what you get out of’em. And you gotta do something about it.” He leaned back in his chair. “So what do you do?”

“If you can read a novel, even a short one, and comprehend and analyze it, then you can handle the test.”

“You’re advocating reading novels in the classroom.”

“Yes.”

“Some folks out there would say that’s unfortunately just not a practical use of their time nowadays, novels and short stories. What about the kids who can’t read novels?”

“Start by reading aloud to them.”

“Look at this.”  Billy reached under his desk, retrieved a manila folder, opened it, and slid its contents—two sheets of paper—over to Jake. One was a letter, the other a list of five names.

The letter was very brief, and Jake read it in less than a minute.

It was from the superintendent of Trepid Schools, a nearby district. Regrettably, she was informing Louis Matheson, the Shelley superintendent, that Trepid would no longer be running an alternative learning environment. In other words, keep your troublemakers, Shelley.  We don’t want them anymore.

“And I assume these are the kids?” Jake tapped the list of names.

“That’s right.”

“And they’ll be my responsibility.”

“Only for a couple of hours a day. You understand, we have to share our responsibilities around here.  This is the first year since I’ve been here that Trepid won’t be taking these kids off our hands. We don’t even have a place to put them. Other than this old heap we’re in now, we have one other permanent high school building. It’s got the computer lab and library, and four classrooms. That’s it. If we’d had more notice, maybe things would be different, but as is, we’ve got no place for these kids, and we have nobody to sit with them all day, either.”

“So the plan...?”

“For now, the plan is to put them upstairs. No one else will be up there, so they can’t distract anybody, and all of them can climb stairs. There’s a room up there, very end of the hallway, that’s reasonably clean. We used to have a study hall in it before everybody started worrying about getting sued because of the lack of handicap access. It won’t take much work to turn it into a classroom again. You’ll probably only be up there a couple of hours a day, Jake. The way the schedule looks right now….” 

He nodded to his right, at a corkboard hanging by the window. 

Dozens of paper scraps bearing various course names were tacked to it. 

“Way it’s looking now, second period, you’d attempt to teach the troublemakers some English. I suspect you’d be reading aloud a lot. Then you come back after lunch and watch them nap, if you’re lucky.  We’ll call it their study hall. You object?”

“No sir.”

“Other teachers will have similar duties. Gotta get some math, history, and science into’em somehow.  And if we’re lucky, a little Spanish.”

Billy stuffed the letter and the list of names back in the folder and shoved it aside. He then flashed a subtle smile, and with a calm, deep, Don Williams-like voice said: “Want a quick tour of the campus while we finish this up?”

The high school side of the parking lot consisted of the Rohs Building (pronounced rose, according to Billy) and the “new” building. Connected to the new building by a covered walkway were the administration offices. To the south of the Rohs Building was the gymnasium, and across the parking lot were the cafeteria and elementary school.

It was the Rohs Building that most fascinated Jake.

The structure predated World War II. The origin of its name was its principal architect, Winston Rohs.  The building had at one time flaunted considerable character. It was two stories but looked much taller.  Its gray bricks had once been white. The arched glass over the front entrance had not always been boarded over, and the decorative stonework above and below the windows had not always resembled rotting teeth.

The Rohs’s interior had aged equally as poorly.  The baseboard and crown molding were all original and rotted. The walls hadn’t seen fresh paint since 1974, and the foul green was peeling in many areas and covered in graffiti in others. Most of the bathroom fixtures were original. And the only access to the second floor was the stone staircase across from Billy’s office.

“Superintendent’s name is Louis Matheson,” Billy said as he led Jake across the courtyard between the Rohs and the new building. “Strange old man, but we all love him. But when we talk to him, do me a favor and don’t mention the Rohs Building. I don’t want to hear it.”

CHAPTER TWO

Shelley, Kansas was six blocks wide, three on each side of Route 4, and about seven blocks long, if you counted the Conoco station on the west end of town as part of the community proper.  Downtown Shelley contained an antique shop, hair salon, cafe, and a few boarded-over store fronts. The school campus, which contained both the elementary and high schools (the poor middle-grade kids were simply distributed between the two), was on the eastern edge of town, just north of the highway.

Jake’s rental house was several blocks west of the school, on Shelley’s northernmost edge.  From its back deck, he could sit and listen to the radio and watch the prairie, and though the prairie wasn’t nearly as appealing to him as the mountains, he conceded that, in a way, it demanded more of his imagination.  It did not pull him in, it simply invited him to wonder. 

He was sitting on the deck now, listening to a Royals game that did not interest him.

He thought about the job, which was apparently his, barring a scoffing by the school board. And that wouldn’t happen.

He was thirty-three, still young enough to be naïve about a thing or two, and he hadn’t taught in five years, so of course he could confidently tell Billy Ricks that he would love to teach again.

He shifted in the seat to ease a slight twinge in his back, almost certainly a leftover from his spill in the mountains. 

He was healthy now, though. If he wanted to, he could go back. 

But he didn’t want to.

The six-month period in which he’d researched and written Ghosts of the San Juan Range had been one of the most feverishly compulsive, bizarre periods of his life.  He traveled all over the southwest corner of Colorado, drinking too much, talking to strangers, and working late nights in hotel rooms.  He collected and wrote a dozen different ghost stories—including his own—from various communities throughout the area.

Why?

He didn’t want to say. Certainly, he hadn’t told Billy.

His phone rang.

He killed the baseball game and scraped his phone off the deck.

“Hope you haven’t made dinner plans yet,” Billy Ricks said, “because my wife told me when I got home this afternoon to get the grill going, and that’s what I did, and Lord knows I’ve got more veggies and sirloin on this thing than we can eat.”

“Uncanny timing.”

“I’ve been known for that. Just ask the kids.  You coming?”

“I won’t be a burden?”

“Hell no.  Julie likes to meet all the new hires.”

Steak and vegetables sounded a lot better than the sodium overload he was about to nuke in the microwave.  So he etched Billy and Julie’s address into his memory and told them he’d be there shortly.

The Ricks lived east of town, just off Route 4 on a turnoff called Cloudy Knoll Road. 

Their front yard was expansive and lush, and the back yard was more of the same, all the way back to the wire fence that marked the property line.

Billy led him up on the patio and introduced him to a plump redheaded woman of about fifty.  She said repeatedly that she was very pleased to meet him and told him to make himself comfortable.

“Come over here and take a look at this grill,” Billy said.  “Damn thing’s a Cadillac, isn’t it?”

The Cadillac accommodated gas and charcoal and had a smoker attached to one end.

“I tried to tell Julie that it wasn’t necessary, but she reminded me of all those times I cooked for the whole darn staff. Cooler’s over there.”  He nodded to the right.  “Coke, water, beer, if that’s your thing.”

Jake collected drinks, Billy filled their plates, and they sat down at a table centered beneath a partial cover.

They ate and drank. They talked about the weather, how August was usually much hotter than this.  But then, the weather had been strange for much of the summer.

Billy went to the cooler and replaced his Coke with a Miller.

“I noticed you settled for a soda, too,” Billy said.  “Don’t be shy.  Swap it out.”

Jake did so and took a considerable first drink. 

“Where are you living?” Julie asked.

“Renting a house on Prairie View.”

“Does Macentire still own it?”

“I mail my payment to his address in Salina.”

“He never comes around. You could probably burn the place down and he’d never know it.”

“She fantasizes about burning down half of this town,” Billy said. 

Julie waved him off.  “He exaggerates everything.”

Jake grinned, took another drink of his beer, and Julie asked about the alternative school.

Billy eased back in his chair and burped.  “Trepid washed their hands and put new sheets on the bed.  They told us we can keep our heathens.”

“Can you blame them?”

“I’d have done it years ago.  Poor Jake here is one of the heroes who gets to deal with it.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Since I didn’t get a lick of advice from Louis or anybody else, I had to make up my own mind.”

“And?”

“And I’m putting’em upstairs, down where the study hall used to be.”

Julie had put a bite of steak in her mouth.  She stopped chewing for a second, then started again, but much slower.  When the bite was out of the way, she said: “Have you asked Louis about this?”

“He won’t care.”

“I bet you’re wrong.”

“Then he won’t stop me.”

Julie glanced at Jake. “Louis plans to have that dreadful old Rohs Building demolished.  He wants a brand new high school.”

“It’ll take a miracle,” Billy said.  “Won’t happen.”

“Billy’s a pessimist, Jake.  Remember that.”

Billy continued: “And since that building isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and since all of those troublemakers are capable of climbing stairs, they can sit up there.  It’s perfect for them.  It’ll be impossible for them to disturb anybody, especially if that upstairs bathroom still works, and I think it does.”

“But you know how Louis feels about that building, Billy.  Particularly the second floor.”

“It’s my call to make.”

“He’s the superintendent.”

“He didn’t make a decision.”

“I assume Louis would be concerned about their safety?” Jake said.

Billy shrugged.  “Among other things.”

CHAPTER THREE

Jake remembered it from his first teaching gig:

No matter how many times you’ve seen your room, no matter how much you do to prepare it, a classroom will always look one hundred percent different, and one hundred percent more intimidating, on the first morning of the school year.

Jake stood by his door and watched the kids enter.

He’d spent most of the spring and summer getting himself back into shape, assuming he knew what he was doing; it was all coming back to him, the nature of the beast, the rules of the game….

But he felt like he’d never done any of this. 

Jake checked for stragglers, entered the room, and shut the door behind him.

The kids looked up.

He retrieved the tentative roster from his back pocket and began to count heads.

After the roll call, he went to the front podium, every eye in the room locked on him.

He took his sports coat off and threw it over an empty desk.

And leaned into the podium.

“I’m Jake Boyd.  I’m going to be your English teacher this year. I taught English in Wichita before I started climbing in the Rockies for a living. We’re going to read and write a lot, and there’s no reason we can’t have fun and get something out of it.”

A hand went up, that of a girl in the middle of the class.

“Remind me your name,” Jake said.

“Becky.”

“Yes, Becky?”

“Why did you move here?”

“I like it here.”

Another hand, that of a young man named Connor.

“Did you ever do anything like hang off a mountain cliff, with your rope about to break?”

Jake thought for a moment. “I fell off a ridge once and hurt my back.”

He scanned the room, inviting more questions or comments. There were only blank faces.

“So here’s the deal.”  He emerged from behind the podium.  “Be respectful.  This goes for all your privileges, from sharpening your pencils to going to the bathroom.”

Nods.  From almost all of them.

There would be those, of course, who’d need further guidance, who would, by God, no matter what, ask to go to the toilet every day, and not just go, but go for half the class.

“If you’re one of those who abuses the bathroom policy, I’ll sniff you out.  See what I did there?”

Giggles.  Laughs.

“Questions?  Comments?”

There were none.

First period ended.  He waited till all seventeen kids had filed out, then collected his things, exited the campus’s newest building, and crossed the courtyard to the Rohs Building. 

The Spanish teacher, a sixty-something man whom Jake had met during one of the school’s workshop days, was waiting for him just outside the second floor’s western-most room.

“Don’t let Billy’s drama get to you, Jake. They’re not so bad.  Good kids, just need help.”

“It’s dark up here.”

“I would say they’ll fix the lights, but that would be foolishness.”  He extended a hand.  “My name is Edgar Hughes.  And you’re….  Jake Boyd?”

“That’s right.”

“Then I’ll leave it with you, Jake.  If they like you, they’ll cooperate, and maybe you can enjoy this time up here in the dark.”

Hughes started for the stairs. Jake entered the classroom.

He set his materials on the teacher’s desk and took a moment to study the scene.

There were two domed light fixtures butted into the ceiling.  Both worked, but they were no match for the gloom; it was as much a part of this cramped cavern as the wood paneling, vinyl floor, and dust.

There were no windows. 

At the very back of the room was a bookcase that contained a dozen or so cobwebs, but no books.

Before him were five students in teetering old desks, arranged in a slight concave crescent.

Three of the kids had their backs to him and their heads down.  Two were facing him, their chins resting on their palms. 

Jake sat down on the desk and retrieved his roll sheet.

“I’m Jake Boyd,” he said.  “Given the student-teacher relationship here, I’d prefer you call me Mr. Boyd.  Let’s all turn around and greet one another, okay?”

No movement.

“Turn around.”

He gave them a few seconds, no movement.

“Turn around!”

Now they began to stir.

Three new faces were eventually before him, all wearing the same What the hell do you want? expression.

“I know you heard me the first two times,” Jake said.

Nobody spoke.  There were a couple of shrugs.

Jake pointed to the student to his left, the class’s only female.  “Let’s start here and go around.  Tell me your name and a couple of things about yourself.”

The girl’s untrusting eyes, he noticed, seemed to always squint.  Her cheeks were high and red.  Her blond hair was tied back.  There was very little weight on her frame.

“I’m Marcy Opalvo.  I’m from here, I’m sixteen, I hate school, and my throat is really sore, but I went to the office about it when I got here and they told me I didn’t have a fever.”

Next was a stocky young man with deep eyes, short hair, and mocha-colored skin.

“Dillon.  Eighteen.  From Kentucky.  I like to sleep.”

Colton Smith was next, a scrawny little sophomore who told him about all the guns he’d fired.  Then Logan Gable, who said his uncle had once run for governor.  Last was a young man who was dressed in tattered jeans and a black Pantera shirt. 

“My name’s Buck Sky,” he said.  “I’ll kill anybody who gives you trouble.”

Jake raised an eyebrow.

“Just kidding.” 


Lamentation is available on Amazon.com as a paperback and a Kindle ebook.