B.R. Black

Thriller and Horror writer

Author: B.R. Black

  • Who are you, again?

    Who are you, again?

    One of the things that’s most surprising about my total revision of Wound series, is how much I know about my characters by now, but how little I knew about them at the early stages. I think this is typical when you write a character-driven story. If you’re not letting them move the plot along and show who they are, then you’re not doing it right.

    That’s not to say a good character profile is wasted effort and makes for arc-less characterization. It doesn’t, unless you stick to it. I have shied away from trying to flesh out my characters before they do anything, but at some point, you gotta write stuff down.

    I’ve shown a few of the picrew images I use (I’ll be commissioning original artwork soon – you can send me recs on Instagram) but while I was revising the first chapter I realized so much about Bev has changed (or has been discovered) since that first moment.

    For one thing, I finally know what color her Jeep is.

    This seems like a little matter, like it’s inconsequential, but once I realized that she and Carol had similar tastes in cars (at least in color and power) that uncovered a connection between the two women that only enhances their abrasion and tension.

    And I only discovered the car thing because I needed to start writing stuff down in a character profile. I’m so glad I waited until now to do it.

    Picking out a birthday, or an occupation without actually seeing how they act and what their personality is like, seems like procrastinating (something I have a lot of experience in). But I had some definite continuity issues in the first go-around with Wound that I want to correct.

    But it also meant I didn’t pick up on those connections (“oh, you like red cars too, I see”) that could have added depth and richness to the overall story. Connections between characters also increases the stakes when terrible things happen to them.

    I’ve nearly finished episode 1. I’m taking my time at the starting gate with this revision (and I am restarting the Swamp Story series this month as well, so busy!). Check back every week or so to find out what I’ve uncovered next.

    Thanks! – B.

    *swish* (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃━⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿

  • And I’m back

    And I’m back

    This isn’t a “sorry I haven’t blogged in a while” post. Half of the Internet are non-apology apology posts and I’m not about to add to the clutter. If you care, you can read my last two posts to discover why I needed to do some creative work on my own.

    I have not been traumatized, but made aware of why I was having trouble with my writing. I was trying too hard to be something I’m not: terrifying. More accurately, I was trying to be dread-inducing and, it turns out, I’m far more weird than scary.

    “Play to your strengths,” as the 21st-century gurus say.

    I’ll be starting up my Swamp Stories again in April – two flash fiction a month and one bonus short story on my Patreon. This keeps the ideas from skulking around behind me while I work on longer pieces.

    The longer pieces I’m working on will be posted here, sort of.

    Just a Blue Moon Phase, was a Vella serial that I started but abandoned due to time restraints and, to be honest, trouble with the POV. I’m not a fan of first-person present, but saw that as a weakness and decided to test myself. That experiment resulted in me knowing that for this story and for this season in my life, I’ll stick with what works.

    The characters stayed with me, knocking at the back of my brain and begging to be released. So I’ll be retooling and finishing JaBMP this year and posting each episode on my site and Patreon. You’ll be able to read the whole story for free in weekly episodes.

    My other, longer serial, Wound, is getting its own revival, called Wound: Resurrection. You’ll be able to follow along with my revision diary as I expand upon the world and its characters, bringing them out from the 25-episode seasons into a series of short novels. My focus on action didn’t allow for as in-depth world-building as I would have liked, and there’s a lot of lore to cover.

    Also, I’ve missed Paul. He’s such an ass.

    All in all, I feel like I’m on the right track and am excited to get moving. Hope you’re coming along for the ride.

    *swish* (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃━⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿

    B.R. Black Avatar

    Image by Paul Brennan from Pixabay

  • B.R. Black is bowing out for now

    B.R. Black is bowing out for now

    Have you ever read anything that just made you want to propel yourself to the blank page and write a story?

    Sure. I’ve had stories and essays inspire me to create and I’m often jotting down snippets of dialog or imagery in my Notes app, never to be seen again.

    But have you ever read anything that made you want to stop writing?

    Sure again. Sometimes you read something so good that you think there’s no point in doing anything else. It’s just not worth it. Reading The Auctioneer by Joan Samson made me feel that way.

    But, but what about a story that is making you consider not writing in a particular genre anymore?

    Yes. This week, in fact. And I’m pretty shaken up about it.

    I started listening to Stephen King’s “A Good Marriage.” A novella from his Full Dark, No Stars collection because I had some busywork to do and it was relatively short. The narrator, Jessica Hecht, was good, though it took me a moment to get into the voice, but I was intrigued. 

    Look, before I go one, I’m GenX, I cut my teeth in King when I was a teenager. It’s not that I’m sensitive to horror. Or at least I wasn’t.

    I ended up having to stop listening with about 30 minutes to go due to family obligations. The story bothered me in the same way that the over abundance of violent media as been bothering me of late. But I walked away knowing I’d come back and finish eventually.

    I came back to the story last night to finish and there’s one reveal at the end, a description of a horrific act that broke me (iykyk) and I just couldn’t think anymore.

    You could argue that it wasn’t necessary, that the character exploration that King is so fucking brilliant at was enough, was more than enough. You could argue that, but it’s not my story, and there’s no denying the visceral effect that addition had on me as a reader. That’s a success. 

    I’ve written before about how I am drawn to horror because of the absolute despair that it evokes. I thought that’s what I wanted. But not this. 

    I can’t do this anymore.

    I lie in bed last night wondering what I wanted to do with this “horror/thiller” name, what was I trying to create here.

    I thought that I wanted to switch to focusing on ghost stories or more ethereal threats. But I’m not sure I have the spine for even that anymore.

    You can toss it up to current events. Which? All of them. Blame the constant flow of violence from all media streams. Blame the fact that even as we say  “think of the children,” we as a community do not, in fact, give a fuck about the children or anyone else.

    We are the hosts of evil in the world. That’s what King has been writing about all along, you know. 

    The monsters are us.

    Who is “us?” All of us. (I may probably delete this section because it seems a bit preachy and I’m not entirely sure what point I’m trying to make. I’m a bit lost. I thought I knew myself.) 

    Essentially, something hurt my psyche and I don’t want to partake in this genre for a while. I’m not making a moral judgement, but a personal choice. 

    I’m not finding this cathartic as I once did. The escapism feels more like an escape room and I can’t leave. It’s not that the genre is bad, not at all. It’s just that in this season of my life, it’s not for me.

    I am fully aware of the mountain of privilege I possess that allows me not to be a victim of the world’s actual horrors. 

    I’m putting this pen name in cold storage for now. Perhaps I can find a way to bring it back, but only if there’s something I really want to say. Swamp Stories is suspended and the Patreon will go dark.

    To those of you who supported me in any way, thank you. Take care of yourselves.

    I’ll still be creating and writing. I’ll just be over there, by the window, where there is a bit more light.

  • A matter of concern

    Last night I lie in bed, thinking before I fell asleep (which is never good), and found myself wondering if I should keep doing this.

    Not writing. That continues without question. But horror writing. Or particularly, attempting to write horror under this obvious pen name.

    I grew up reading neary any black-colored paperback in Waldenbooks and as I grew into my writing, I found myself pulled toward the genre as well. My first unfinished novel, called Donovan Tower by the way, was my take on Dean Koontz of the late 80s, early 90s. It was terrible, unwieldy, with no discernable plot, but I learned a great deal writing it (I wish I had a copy now).

    But I was a different person then, and I’m not sure I have the stomach for it anymore.

    I lie there, wondering if I could write something horrific. Could I immerse myself in violence or gore in order to scare? What about the despair I long for in the horror novels I read (See Cunning Folk or The Troop for true despair that stays with me.) Did I have the temperment to write that?

    After finally sleeping, I woke wondering how I would approach my projects for the next year under this pen name. I’ve only just started with my Swamp Stories challenge and giving up seems – well, it seems very on brand to be honest. I stared at my ceiling, with its water stains and cobwebs, and tried to decide who I really was.

    Then I looked out the window into the dark morning. All I could see was the room reflected back at me. If anything was out there, I wouldn’t know. If nothing tap, tap, tapped on the window, if no eerie smiling figure slowly came into view, if a distant light that I assume is a street lamp, didn’t flare and fly right for my house, then it’s just a window at 5am.

    But in the murky depths of my mind, all of those things happened and I had to look away in case something even worse presented itself.

    I woke up, scared myself, and realized I’m fine, and I have an idea for this week’s Swamp Story.

    I think I’ll dig up my M.R. James anthology and get a real Edwardian chill. Tis the season.

  • Stars Like Ice

    Stars Like Ice

    Pale blue, like chimes in the winter, that’s all I remember about her eyes. She knelt down in the mud, breathing easily. Putting a long-fingered hand on my forehead, she told me I’d worked hard but failed the test. I panted and stared, looking into those eyes like the last seconds of my life. Then, she rose her head to the sky and I died.

    For years I looked for her, wandering like a wave of energy between the motes of existence. Once, I thought I caught her voice on a breeze, but it turned out to be the soft hum of crystalline beetles near the edge of an ocean. So many of the universe’s beautiful things reminded me of her. All of them fell short and I whispered my way into eternity, lonely, still feeling her fingers on my long decayed skin.

    Once, upon a planet crowded with spirits like myself, I found a seer sleeping in the yard. An open book lay on her breast and her breaths came in quick little gasps. As I drew near she woke and, for the first time since my death, I was seen.

    “Oh,” she whispered, the book sliding down onto her plump belly. “I felt you in my dream and here you are.” It was only later that I understood her language, but in the corridors between alive and death there is little room for mistranslation. The woman reached out a hand and understood my searching. If I could, I would have cried the tears she cried, but even in life, I was not built like she and crying is something I’ve only seen. Only sorrow is universal.

    For a few of her days we sat, sending images and ideas back and forth to each other. She showed me pictures of her children, far away now, but loved and loving. I sent her sensations of all the places I visited across the universe and glowed a little brighter when she gasped at its wonders.

    On the last day I sent her an image of her with the pale, blue eyes. The woman shivered and waited. For the first time I could sense a shield before her thoughts that normally rushed around her head like a belt of newborn stars. The woman communed with herself, away from my presence. She went into her house and the sky drew dark before she returned.

    It was a flat representation she held, though I couldn’t sense it properly. She let down her guard and the feeling of the image burst forth into me. There was no mistaking the blue eyes, no mistaking the long fingers. Nothing else in the universe felt as exactly the same, close, but not the same. I flared and nearly burned the woman’s mind.

    “My mother,” she said.

    “My mother,” she said again, holding the object close to herself. “When I go to her grave, I can feel her presence. I always thought it was her waiting for me.” 

    The full weight of the woman’s love and disappointment pierced me. “Perhaps, you can follow?”

    It was then I noticed the woman’s eyes, like her mother’s, chimes in the winter.