Cruisng the Zombie Apocalypse

In the course of writing my zombie novel my characters have gone through a series of vehicles. My thinking was after the apocalyptic earthquake they would be everywhere, abandoned with gas still in the tanks. Look down the street where you live and see how many cars and trucks line the roads. Zombies won’t be driving them so that leaves them for the last 5% of living survivors. The problem is not the access to vehicles; it’s the condition of the roads you’re driving on. In the last half of my novel the character’s ended up in a Patriot Jeep. A total of seven survivors crammed inside the limited seating along with weapons and equipment. I wrote a couple of chapters with them using the jeep and decided it was just not feasible. My characters cried out to me that they needed something better. One of my favorite horror movies is the forgotten piece of cinema called Race with the Devil; the story of vacationers who run from a cult of Satanists in a Winnebago. It starred Warren Oates and Peter Fonda. Check it out if you can find it. After researching online I knew what I wanted the moment I seen it. Enter the 1985 Winnebago Elandan. This puppy was perfect. The Winnebago allowed the characters room to move around and interact with each other. Plus it could hold off a zombie attack and was perfect for cruising the back roads of the undead apocalypse. As I went back through the story and added the vehicle in the place of the jeep, it became like an eighth character with its own backstory and personality. By the way, the character’s loved it and helped me add another four thousand words to the novel.

The Letter

I recently received a letter in the mail from a fourteen year old boy, which was very surprising; because I didn’t think anyone his age used regular mail anymore. The letter was addressed to Dennis McDonald, Author in blatant letters that caught me off guard. I don’t often think of myself as an author. That title seemed reserved for those great souls who have spent years in the business, hundreds or rejection notices, and have a long list of published works in their portfolios. They have names like King, Koontz, Patterson, Grisham, etc. and toiled long and hard to be where they are at today. But there was the title by my name. Author. From a fourteen-year-old boy who I’d never met and lived out of town. The letter basically asked the question: What made me a writer? I thought long and hard about the answer. First of all, I think of myself as a writer first, an author second. My love for writing began way back when I was the same age as the boy who wrote the letter. I remember carrying a binder through school crammed full of notebook pages covered with unfinished stories. In those days I emulated the authors I read. I was a voracious reader who devoured books by Arthur C. Clarke, Asimov, Heinlein, Bradbury, etc. I also read a lot of action books including Doc Savage, Conan, Lord of the Rings, etc. I even read westerns and Nancy Drew mysteries. I was a big James Bond fan and many of my stories were spy thrillers of Chuck Carter, agent for D.R.O.N.E (Defense Reserves of National Enforcement) or Jason Young, agent for ATLAS , a futuristic James Bond in the year 2321 who had a talking chimp as his side-kick (no kidding). I probably suffered at that time what no one knew existed: ADD (attention deficit disorder). I never finished any of my great tales. Oh, I would get a few chapters done, but then I would go on to write on something else that caught my ravenous imagination. Writing back then was a pain in the ass. No internet. No computers or word processors. Either you did it with a pencil on notebook paper and got writer’s cramp or lumbered away pecking at a typewriter and corrected your mistakes with white-out. Flash forward forty years. I had worked and raised my family and most of my life was behind me. The dream of being a writer was still there. It had never left and laid dormant inside waiting to be reborn. But this time there were tools that made it much easier to do. A computer now unlocked my imagination to flow through my fingers onto the keyboard. Internet gave me instant feedback on my writing and kept me in touch with readers. Thus, the author was born. Why am I a writer? I have no idea. Either you’re born with the hunger inside, or you’re not. Why I’m an author is because of long hours sitting in front of the computer, honing my writing skills, and constantly thinking of characters, plotlines, dialogue, story structure etc. and putting them into some cohesive form for others to read. That’s what it takes. BIC (butt in chair) is what I call it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a written letter to post for the first time in years to a teenage boy I never met.

Guthrie Scaregrounds

On Friday the 13th of April I was invited to attend an event called the Guthrie Scaregrounds for their first Scaretacular in Guthrie, Oklahoma. As an author and an afficiando for horror I couldn't refuse, even though the entire state of Oklahoma was under a tornado watch and thunderstorms were popping up everywhere. I showed up at the event about four in the afternoon, and I have to say, I was really impressed. From the moment you arrive and see its collection of hearses and creepy stand-up trees out front you are amazed at the work being done on the place. Mind you this is in April and not Halloween. The place comes complete with a haunted house, paranormal investigation room, movie room, and Wild Al's food truck outside. I know the weather kept most people away, but there were still plenty who showed. I predict this will be a major haunted house in the state come Halloween. I give it two thumbs up. The event is put on by four Haunters, Gary Berger, James Pagonis, Scott Lancaster, Shelby Mac Davis showed below:

You can see more pictures at: http://guthriehauntsscaregrounds.webs.com/apps/photos/album?albumid=13215054

Welcome

Welcome my friend to the show that never ends. I'm so glad you could attend. Come on in. Come on in. There are things hidden in the dark, Monstrous things cold and stark. Beneath the sawdust and the greasepaint lies the nightmares to chill your heart. Turn the corner to find your twisted reflection in a distorted mirror, Only to be replaced by a grinning clown of terror. Your sanity is the small price you pay, For a ticket in this Carnivale Macabre. Come inside. Come inside.