Shocker! A writer blabbing about himself… Michael Libling is a World Fantasy Award finalist (2015) whose short fiction has appeared in a bunch of swell places, including The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, and the anthology […]
HOW DO YOU TELL THE WOMAN YOU LOVE YOUR DAD IS A SERIAL KILLER? Paperback, ebook, and hardcover on sale sale now wherever you buy books or directly from WordFire Press. A horrifyingly hilarious small-town crime thriller about a serial killer’s son who longs for love, but fears he will follow in his father’s footsteps.
GENREALITIES exposes the dirty underbelly of my life in genre. From Bread Loaf to porn to my urologist’s literary agent, every word is true. Or nearly. Above all, I hope you’ll still be my friend after reading it. The essay appeared in the Winter 2011 issue of Canadian Notes and Queries, a magazine that’s not quite as highfalutin as the name suggests.
Thanks to podcaster and interviewer extraordinaire, Tim Dennis, for the extraordinary insight he brought to his interview with me. It’s rare to encounter an interviewer so well prepared that I came away feeling he just might have a better handle on THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE than I do. Give it a listen below! And be sure to check out Tim’s other shows, as well, at Darkness Radioand True Crime Tuesday. Meanwhile, lend an ear here:
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE!
(This press release, by Ascot Media Group, may be published in part or entirety by any print, broadcast or internet/digital media outlet, or used by any means of social media sharing. In other words, please feel free to share with wild abandon.)
WITTY TWIST ON HORRIFYING GENRE IS A CRASH COURSE IN SURVIVAL FOR SONS OF SERIAL KILLERS
“Only a writer as flat-out funny as Michael Libling could remind us that 99% of ‘slaughter’ is ‘laughter.’” — Paul Witcover, author of Lincolnstein and many others
NEW YORK, Oct. 17, 2023 — There wasn’t a soul in town who didn’t know what Bobby Blessing’s father had done, and would have kept on doing if he weren’t behind bars. He had murdered 27 innocent people. But Bobby knew that number was higher. Much higher, most likely. Bobby’s father was a bad, bad man. But even Bobby himself didn’t know the whole story.
In The Serial Killer’s Son Takes a Wife, author Michael Libling plunges readers inside the decidedly cursed life of Bobby Blessing, a young man struggling to navigate a reality few people will ever ponder: how to survive having a serial killer for a father in a small town where nothing is forgotten.
Small towns. Big horrors. Plus all the ice cream you can eat!
“Most of my stories are set in small towns, and … The Serial Killer’s Son Takes A Wife is no exception,” Libling said. “There’s something wonderful and comforting about small towns, until you make the mistake of probing beneath the surface.”
When readers meet Bobby, he has a new last name and a relatively benign existence as the owner of an ice cream parlor in Saratoga Springs, New York. He is working hard to leave his family’s horrific legacy behind, including his mother, who wasn’t exactly a sweet treat herself.
How do you tell the woman you love your dad is a serial killer?
Bobby’s life is a lonely one, as having a dad for a serial killer isn’t exactly an icebreaker conducive to forming friendships. But then,
one harsh winter night, the astonishing Cori Widdoes shows up with a hankering for ice cream, and Bobby abruptly forgets the one key to his survival: Nothing is what it seems. And before too long, Bobby must face yet another dilemma: How do you tell the woman you love your dad is a serial killer?
With surprising doses of humor that cut through the tension and horror, The Serial Killer’s Son Takes A Wife “delves into areas few, if any, so-called ‘serial killer’ novels have explored before,” Libling added.
Through it all, the specter of Bobby’s bloodthirsty father looms, forcing Bobby to face unspeakable answers to questions that have haunted him for a lifetime.
“The Serial Killer’s Son Takes a Wife is as fun as it is titillatingly horrifying, with references to current rock bands, TV shows, and movies, and at least one reference to COVID,” said Dan Laxer of The Suburban weekly newspaper. “The reader is yanked from one chapter to the next, cliff-hanger to cliff-hanger, until reader and protagonist meet in the dark, one as blind as the other as to what happens next.”
Available now wherever you buy books
Published by WordFire Press, The Serial Killer’s Son Takes A Wife is available now wherever books are sold—ebook, paperback, and hardcover. To find out even more about this dark, twisted, and wholly original take on the serial killer genre, including what others are saying about it, please click here.
Above all, please be sure to let me know what YOU think.
Doshrock husband/wife owners Ray Park and Chef Misook with a now signed copy of The Serial Killer’s Son Takes A Wife.A fair deal! They read my book and I eat their delicious homestyle cuisine.
Should you live on Montreal’s West Island, you’ll find Doshrock at 15742 Pierrefonds Blvd. We crave the homestyle dishes on a regular basis. Tell ’em Mike sent you. And bring a copy of The Serial Killer’s Son Takes A Wife when you go. Doshrock cuisine and my latest novel—talk about double the pleasure!
1. The Most Mundane and Inane Blog Post In Blogging History
…So what I’m trying to say is that I admire those writers who manage to turn out engaging and informative daily, weekly, or monthly blogs. I either visit their websites or subscribe to their newsletters. Here’s a sampling from my list:
And then there’s me. I blog on occasion and, more often than not, I’m groping for content. If I’ve got publishing news, an anecdote, or a book review I think you might appreciate, sure, that’s one thing. But when nothing much is going on, like now, I blog for the sake of blogging. The aim is to drive traffic to my website, of course, and thereby promote my writing, further inflate my ego, and encourage you to invest big bucks in whatever I’m currently flogging. (On sale now!: HOLLYWOOD NORTH: A NOVEL IN SIX REELS. On sale Autumn 2023!: THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE.)
The way it’s been going lately, however, it might be a good idea to change my domain name to yawn.ca. The contents that follow will prove my point, except for the bonus item, which is a legit review of a mighty fine book. Otherwise, proceed with caution and a comfy pillow.
Table of Contents or A Cure for Chronic Insomnia
2. Sad Fate of a Cherished Drinking Companion
3. Modern Sinks Stink: A Call to Action
4. Random Sentences for Fiction Writers! Absolutely FREE!
5. TMI Alert! One More Thing You Never Wanted to Know About Me
Bonus Book Review: Stealing God and Other Stories by Bruce McAllister
2. Sad Fate of a Cherished Drinking Companion
Be sure to have a box of tissues handy…
Back in the 80s, I’d fill up the ol’ Nissan Sentra wagon at the Shell station on the corner of our street. The station earned my loyalty not because I passed it daily, but because the operator rewarded me with a free drinking glass with every 20-litre purchase. This kind gesture enabled me to assemble a world-class collection of drinking glasses or, as we aficionados call them, Beverage Assistant Vessels (BAVs).
Empty Glass, Broken Heart
I cherished these glasses and drank from them daily. Butterbeer. Vitameatavegamin. Pinot Grand Fenwick. Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster. Bourbon. Milk of Magnesia. You name it! Yes, these freebies even accommodated water and juice. There was just something about the decagon design that complemented the horizontal pursing of my lips. The straight edge felt right, reducing both my dribbling and slurping, according to a well informed source named Patricia. Alas, over time, due to the evident carelessness of everyone in the family but I, my once formidable array of glassware dwindled from ten to a pitiful two. But even this was to be short-lived.
Tragic End, Heroic Rescue
Sadly, as of 8:23 a.m., November 7, 2022, one of my two remaining 10-sided glasses of Shell’s “Glass Giveaway” developed a hairline fracture of the anterior exterior posterior, between decagon plates 3 and 4, thus rendering the vessel nonoperational. I must now report only a single, functional, decagonal glass survives intact.
To add insult to injury, my wife, Pat, then proceeded to toss my fractured drinking companion into the recycling bin. Acting on instinct, I courageously dove to the rescue. Following my neighbors’ extraordinary efforts to extricate me from the bin, with zero help from Pat, I emerged victorious with glass aloft. My dear drinking companion was not only saved, it now occupies a place of honor upon my desk, adjacent to my lamp and rotary dial landline.
On a side note, with posterity in mind, the Smithsonian refused my offer to donate the glass. I have not yet heard back from the Canadian Museum of Civilization, though I remain optimistic.
3. Modern Sinks Stink: A Call to Action!
Over the past few years, we’ve had to replace a couple of the sinks in our house. As it so happens, each of the new sinks has a flat bottom, which is the dumbest development in sink technology since sinks were invented circa 1820. The newfangled things don’t drain, damn it.
Take the bathroom sink. I brush my teeth and the tidbits just sit there, resistant to faucet, gravity, centripetal force, and anything else you’d expect to facilitate the draining process. The only solution is to swish the guck with a finger and steer it to the drain.
Feh as in Feh-feh
The situation is even more egregious in the kitchen, where an errant grain of rice can escape detection (eluding draining or collection) for months. Allow the crud to sit too long and not even a jackhammer can dislodge it.
Look, I understand and appreciate this is a First World Problem, a symptom of jaded privilege, especially when one considers a third of the world’s population does not have access to clean drinking water. In the scheme of things, my complaint is hardly cause for a major uprising against sink manufacturers and interior decorators. But what about a minor uprising? Together, we can put an end to flat sinks forever. My torch is lit! How about yours?
4. Opening Sentences for Fiction Writers! Absolutely Free!
I spent several years with Montreal advertising agencies, first as a writer, then creative director. The hours were often long and the pressure unsparing. The creative team could work two or three months straight, putting in twelve to sixteen hour days, and then, abruptly, the rush would end and we’d have nothing to do. Some played chess. Some read. Some napped. But not me. I filled the hours by writing random sentences. Pages and pages. Reams and reams. Thousands and thousands.
To this day, these sentences remain the gifts that keep on giving. I dig them out repeatedly and several have turned up in my published work. Now, for the first time anywhere, it is my pleasure to share with you a smattering of these as yet unrealized gems, twelve scintillating sentences to embrace and exploit on your way to literary fame and fortune.
Your Quest for a Nobel, Giller, Booker, Hugo, Nebula, Stoker, or Edgar Begins Here:
Miss Bernstein frowned as Albert removed his shredded forefinger from the pencil sharpener.
Despite the skeptics, Kubicek saw a bright future in swanback riding, as long as he could breed the swans large enough, of course.
The terrified waiter pleaded with Bergen to crack open the fortune cookie.
Amnesia can be a memorable experience.
You don’t measure guts with a dipstick.
His first mistake was attempting to put a leash on the forty pound rat.
And so it was, disguised as mattresses and tatamis, the Cwaakk commenced their invasion of Earth.
Elise thought of herself as the glue that held broken men together.
Anyone who had ever spent time sitting on Eddie Mancini’s face knew better than to tell him he had an uncomfortable nose.
Miniature shovels to scoop the sleep from peoples’ eyes was the invention that first brought Hiram Attis to the attention of the Patents Commissioner.
Although Laird’s slobbery kiss tasted of a Hall’s Mentho-Lyptus cough drop, Deidre set aside her disgust as her fiancé’s saliva helped ease her sore throat.
It was only after she tore up my manuscript and threw the resultant confetti at my face that I thought to ask, “So you didn’t like my novel?”
Eager for success? Desperate to become a New York Times Best-Selling Author? You have my blessing to use any of these masterful sentences in your own creative endeavors. Yes, I’m giving them away for free. FREE! All I ask is that you give Michael Libling a shout-out when you go to accept your Nobel, Booker, Nebula, Stoker, or similar award.
5. TMI Alert! One More Thing You Never Wanted to Know About Me
Be sure to have a barf bag or bucket handy…
As the woeful tale of my ill-fated Shell station glass has revealed, I have a hard time disposing of stuff. For the most part, my wife and daughters have been pretty good about it, EXCEPT for one rarely mentioned keepsake. Indeed, it is a long-held family secret, and I hesitate to imagine what you’ll think of me after I reveal it. Well, okay—<deep breath>—here goes…
In the 70s, I injured my big toe playing hockey, the trauma stemming from a vicious and illegal body check into the boards, exacerbated by hand-me-down skates. The nail turned black and eventually fell off. It was big, beefy-thick, and shiny, and I couldn’t bear to throw it out. It was a part of me, after all. Would you throw out a finger? An ear? How is a big toenail any different?
It’s Alive! It’s Alive!
For years, the nail has resided under lock and key in a big wooden chest in a far-flung corner of our home. The last time the nail saw the light of day was when my children were young and I would gross them out by chasing them around the house with it. Now, as the holidays draw near, I’m wondering if my sons-in-law and grandkids wouldn’t also enjoy being chased around the house with what is now, quite clearly, a beloved family heirloom. After all, if this doesn’t sound like a swell holiday activity…
Awkward Epilogue: Sooner or later, my wife is going to expose the lie, so I had better come clean. It wasn’t a hockey injury, exactly. In truth, I injured the toe playing badminton—albeit Extreme Badminton!—and, yes, a birdie was involved. Sorry. I sorta thought claiming a hockey injury would give me that macho vibe, like Ernie Hemingway or Ian Fleming.
Bonus Book Review: Stealing God and Other Stories by Bruce McAllister
This review was originally posted on Goodreads, but I figured I’d post it here, as well, since I don’t feel this collection has attracted the attention it deserves. Unlike this blog, McAllister will not put you to sleep.
Usually, in reviewing a collection, I’d select a few favorites and the reasons behind my choices. While I set out to do the same here, I quickly bogged down: I found myself covering pretty much the entire Table of Contents in my notes. Some collections start strong and sag a bit in the middle, before carrying the reader to a memorable finish. In McAllister’s case, there is no saggy middle. He delivers from the get-go, with prose and concepts so consistently powerful and haunting, there is no letup. Indeed, you might well feel the need to sit back and take a deep breath as you reflect on the tale you’ve just read, while anticipating the unknown wonders to come. And trust me on this, there are wonders galore.
“These stories burrow under your skin and nestle into your psyche…”
You might not have had the same life experiences as McAllister and the characters he so vividly portrays, but I cannot imagine any reader coming away from this collection without experiencing a deep sense of affinity. These stories burrow under your skin and nestle into your psyche. Yet even at his most terrifying, McAllister manages to touch and move the reader, a feat that can only be attributed to extraordinary skill, innate talent and, I suspect, a healthy strain of divine mysticism that surely courses through his veins.
Prior to this collection, I’d read a handful of these stories in magazines such as Fantasy & Science Fiction and Asimov’s. But to reacquaint myself with them now, alongside the ones I hadn’t previously read, is too appreciate them in a whole new light. While each story stands on its own, it is the collective impact that will bowl you over.
“…imparting a sense of longing for a time and place you can’t quite identify…”
In his introduction to STEALING GOD, the supremely pithy and prolific Paul Di Filippo writes, “What a rich tapestry of terrifying, traumatic, tender, and tantalizing tales!” To these I add a few more descriptors: insightful, true, creepy, yearning, sensitive, poetic, atmospheric, and richly rewarding. McAllister never fails to make the reader feel, imparting a sense of longing for a time and place you can’t quite identify, but so desperately want to return to.
Literary. Genre. Fantasy. Horror. Magical realism. Memoir. Spiritual. You can pigeonhole McAllister’s fiction any way you like, but in the end his work defies categorization.
Yeah, I know I’m gushing here, but if you’ve read Bruce McCallister’s novels, especially THE VILLAGE SANG TO THE SEA, you know where I’m coming from in my praise for this collection. Odds are, you’ll note the seeds (and fruits) of that remarkable novel within many of these tales, making STEALING GOD AND OTHER STORIES the perfect companion piece to that longer work.
It is a cliché to say, but if there is such a thing as a writer’s writer, the author’s name is Bruce McAllister. Readers will be captivated. Writers, aspiring and established, will be inspired.
Outta Here!:I have several works-in-progress—short stories and novels—and each needs an ending, so this will be my final blog for a bit, unless I’ve got news to share. Until then, take care of yourself and, in particular, the big toenail on your right foot. (Avoid badminton at all costs!) Meanwhile, enjoy the holidays no matter what you may or may not celebrate. Rest assured, come New Year’s Eve, I’ll be lifting a Beverage Assistant Vessel in your honor for having put up with my nonsense.
Sooner or later, I’m going to be interviewed and say something that offends someone, if not everyone. Chances are, I’ve already succeeded, though no one appears to have cared, which might well be the one advantage of being Michael Libling and not Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. But if there was ever a cause for concern, this recent three-part interview is probably it.
Conducted by writer/editor Gillian Pollack of Treehouse Writers in August 2022, the interview is a three-way of sorts, featuring me, along with prolific authors Amy Sterling Casiland Ron Collins. My advice is that you read Amy and Ron’s contributions and fake it when you come to mine. Of course, should you disregard this advice and come across any statement by me that raises an eyebrow (or other notable body part), please do not hesitate to keep it strictly to yourself. Nope. I don’t wanna know from nuttin’.
Nothing better to do? Click here for Interview Part One.
Feeling foolhardy? Click here for Interview Part Two.
Too late to turn back? Click here for Interview Part Three. (At the very least, you might enjoy my reading recommendations featured in this final section.)
Meanwhile, speaking of trilogies…
2. Worlds without End
Back in 2015, I attended the World Fantasy Convention in Saratoga Springs, NY. At one point, I got to chatting with an author who had just released his tenth book in a popular fantasy series—a series with no end in sight. After much back and forth, I summoned the courage to ask, “Aren’t you bored after all this time, writing about the same characters in the same world?” He paused, his smile thin as he mulled his response, and on the tail of a long sigh, he quietly said, “Oh, God, yes. You have no idea.” His words have often come to mind ever since.
That Bloated Feeling
I grew up reading TheHardy Boys,Dale of the Mounted, and The Secret Seven, books with recurring characters and occasional references to previous installments. Each novel was self-contained, without any need to read them in chronological order. I knew in advance that when I reached the final page, the story would be wrapped up. THE END meant THE END. You know, like picking up a Jack Reacher, Hercule Poirot, James Bond, or Inspector Gamache. Same cast, different story, solid ending! But what I’m talking about here are the open-ended series, where each volume must be read in sequence and concludes with a cliffhanger or, more correctly, a non-ending. The promise is that sometime in the future, a concluding volume will tie up the loose ends. How many volumes? How far into the future? In many cases, I’m not sure either the author or the publisher knows for certain.
A Pandemic of Bloating
Thus I wonder how many writers feel trapped by the book series they’ve created, obliged to carry on with a mission that’s become more chore than joy. How do they cope with a series that runs either to Armageddon or the author’s natural death, whichever comes first? Clearly, money and fandom talk, and I surely would not dismiss either were I in such a fortunate position. At the same time, I sympathize with readers who have committed themselves to a series only to find no end in sight. I suspect “Get on with it, damn it!” has been shouted at more than a few books, no matter the series. Being a literary completist demands dedication.
For Your Reading Pleasure: Every Human Who Ever Lived
My first serious foray into the field was Philip Jose Farmer’s RIVERWORLD series, beginning in the 70s and continuing into the 80s. The concept was irresistible. As Amazon describes it: “Imagine that every human who ever lived, from the earliest Neanderthals to the present, is resurrected after death on the banks of an astonishing and seemingly endless river on an unknown world. They are miraculously provided with food, but with not a clue to the possible meaning of this strange afterlife. And so billions of people from history, and before, must start living again.”
TO YOUR SCATTERED BODIES GO (Riverworld #1) remains among my favorite books. A richly deserved winner of the 1972 Hugo Award. I continue to recommend it. BODIESis an intriguing read and, for writers, an educational one, if only to see how Farmer establishes his concept. My problem was, the deeper I got into the series, the more frustrating it became. While provocative and entertaining, a definitive THE END was nowhere to be found. The tease was constant. I had the feeling Farmer wasn’t sure where to take his ever-expanding tale. I gave up on the series after THE MAGIC LABYRINTH, the fourth installment. I no longer cared whether or not there was an ending. I felt I was being played. I’ve been wary of open-ended series ever since.
Fortunately, some trilogies really are trilogies and some potentially open-ended series really do have endings. While each of the following is vastly different in genre, plot, style, and execution, I guarantee none will leave you hanging…
Three Authors Who Know How to End It
Ben Winter’s LAST POLICEMAN Trilogy is an engrossing read, a rare and clever blend of mystery and apocalyptic fiction, highlighted by Book #3 and its memorably unambiguous ending.
I was also impressed by the first two books in Matt Kressel‘s WORLDMENDER Trilogy, and am confident Kressel will maintain the same high level of skill and entertainment in the concluding PRINCESS OF ASHES, coming soon. As the Shelf-Awarenessreviewer put it, “[A] fascinating first novel…King of Shards is the first entry of the Worldmender Trilogy, and its use of Hebrew culture and legend to build a complex, dynamic setting serves to imbue every page with an epic mythos.”
Should techno-thrillers in the Tom Clancy or Michael Crichton vein be your preference, you won’t go wrong with Canadian author Timothy S. Johnston’s multi-award-winning RISE OF OCEANIA series, a deftly structured hybrid of the standalone and the to-be-continued. (Keep reading. My full review of Johnston’s fifth book in the six-part OCEANIA series lurks below.)
That Bloated Feeling isn’t Exclusive to Books
Bloating is also an issue for TV, of course, where streaming demands content on top of content on top of content. Concepts that used to deliver a good two-hour movie are now stretched beyond reasonable limits, broken into six, eight, or thirteen series episodes, padded with fat, chaff, and Kate Bush classics. In effect, streaming has ballooned your one-time two-hour movie to thirteen freaking hours. And just when you think it can’t get any more tedious, that once “limited series” has been renewed for another season or two or five. At this rate, two-hour movie concepts will soon require a lifetime viewing commitment. Yup, one show for ever and ever and ever.
Hmm…now that I think abut it, maybe I should write a series. Hmm…hmm…. THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE (coming fromAutumn 2023, WordFire Press) just might be an ideal starter. Hmm…hmm…hmm… what if…
Afterthought: Philip Jose Farmer, Kurt Vonnegut, and Kilgore Trout
Despite the above, the somewhat subversive Farmer remains a favorite author, especially for his connection to another favorite, Kurt Vonnegut. If you’re a Vonnegut fan, the name Kilgore Trout will be be familiar. Trout is the science fiction writer created by Vonnegut, and a character who appears in several of his novels. In 1975, VENUS ON THE HALF-SHELLwaspublished in paperback, garnering much attention because of the author who was credited for having written it: Kilgore Trout! Yup, Vonnegut’s fictional SF writer.
While many believed Vonnegut to be the author, it was, in fact, Philip Jose Farmer. It’s a funny book as I recall, with my favorite line being: “Never stand downwind of an Earthman or a Shrook” or something to this effect. Should I ever manage to dig out my copy of VENUS, I’ll quote the line exactly. Meanwhile, check out this obituary and this tributeto Farmer that appeared in The Guardian at the time of his 2009 passing.
3. Book review: THE SHADOW OF WAR by Timothy S. Johnston
With respect to full disclosure, I know Timothy S. Johnston personally. We met in the fall of 2019 at London Ontario’s ComicCon, each of us at the booth of our publisher at the time, ChiZine Publications. Although we are drastically different writers in terms of storytelling and subject matter, we hit it off and have remained in touch ever since. The more I’ve read his work, the more I’ve come to appreciate his skills and discipline. Indeed, much like the characters in his “Rise of Oceania” series, Johnston is laser-focused on his mission: to create no-nonsense, action-packed, science fiction thrillers that up the ante with every turn of the page. With THE SHADOW OF WAR, the fifth and penultimate entry in the Oceania canon, Johnston delivers the goods yet again.
The Twenty-Second Century is All Wet
The series is set in the early years of the twenty-second century, when the full impact of climate change has arrived and Earth’s waters have risen to catastrophic levels. Within this scenario, undersea colonies have emerged, providing both hope for the future and crucial resources for the terrestrial population. Alas, these same colonies are suppressed and exploited by their land-based, military-minded overseers. In keeping with this planet’s sorry history and the innate nature of humankind, war and rebellion continue to dominate. Finding an edge against the enemy is a never-ending pursuit, a reality Truman McClusky and his team of freedom fighters from the Trieste colony know all too well.
Johnston Does More than Entertain, He Illuminates
As usual, Johnston doesn’t mess around. His opening is as audacious as it is horrifying, establishing page after page of cinematic thrills and derring-do his many fans have come to count on. In the past, his novels have brought to mind Tom Clancy, Ian Fleming, and James A. Corey (THE EXPANSE). This time, it is Andy Weir and THE MARTIAN. Johnston does more than entertain, he illuminates, with scientific, technological, and historical research woven seamlessly throughout. Indeed, Johnston so cleverly incorporates facts, data, and developments, you barely realize there is an educational component. It all goes down so easily.
Among the topics THE SHADOW OF WAR touches upon are laser weapon technology, neutral particle beams, kelp forests, tectonics, and even the xenophobic movement led by UK politician John Tyndall in the 1990s. Those familiar with Johnston’s work will not be surprised by any of this. Another element, however, might catch some readers off guard.
The body count throughout the Oceania series is high, ranging into the upper thousands. Readers of techno-thrillers and fans of action movies, John Wick and Marvel included, take human loss in their stride. Victims are fodder. Here, Johnston departs from expectations, forcing his protagonist, McClusky, to confront the human toll his quest for Trieste independence has cost and how many more must fall before his rebellion succeeds. It is a welcome evolution of the McClusky character and the hero trope. The introspection (and guilt?) also sets up the final book in the series, A BLANKET OF STEEL. Should McClusky’s dream of independence be realized, what will the ultimate price be? True victory or a pyrrhic victory?
Action scenes are Johnston’s greatest strength. It’s a large part of what makes reading his work so entertaining. Time and again, he puts his characters into heart-pounding, life-or-death situations with no evident means of escape. And time and again he finds a way, without resorting to deus ex machina. And this brings me to Johnston’s other strength: The total lack of pretension.
His novels do not pretend to be anything other than what they are—thrilling, science fiction adventures that propel the reader from first page to last. As I said at the outset, his goal is to tell a good story—period! With THE SHADOW OF WAR, his eighth published novel, Timothy S. Johnston maintains both his objective and justly growing reputation.
4. Coming Soon: The Most Mundane Blog in Blogging History, Featuring…
• Brilliant Opening Sentences for Short Stories, Novels, and More! Absolutely Free!
• The Sad Fate of a Cherished Drinking Companion I Picked Up at a Local Gas Station
• Why I Have Come to Hate Sinks (Yes, sinks—those things in your kitchen and bathroom))
• Blogs and Bloggers that Easily Put Me to Shame
• Something About Me You Will Wish I Never Told You
…In other words, I’m not offering much for you to look forward to. Till then, see you on Facebook or Instagram or LinkedIn or (ugh!) Twitter.
It’s been a rough stretch. The pounding on my door. The angry phone calls. The threatening emails and texts. The shameful graffiti on underpasses and overpasses… Yes, the clamor has intensified over the past three years. Hordes of fans, friends, and family members have petitioned me to put together a new blog. At last count—and I caution this is only a guestimate—the tally had surpassed a…uh…um…sort of big number. I hereby humbly accede to these demands.
1. The Graveyard of Lost Blogs
Truth be told, I have written a few blogs since the pandemic began. It’s just that, for reasons of propriety, foresight, shame, and cowardice, I have posted none.
Lost Blog #1: Here, I detailed the troubles experienced by my then publisher, ChiZine, beginning in November 2019, and the impact this had on my novel, HOLLYWOOD NORTH: A NOVEL IN SIX REELS, just as the momentum was building and a second printing was in the offing. Never before had I a clearer understandin of what it meant to be caught between a rock and a hard place. On the other hand, the blog allowed me to reach a personal milestone—an average of twenty-eight grating whines, seventeen weaselly groans, six sulky sniffles, and five mopey sighs per paragraph. Feeling sorry for myself has never felt more therapeutic. Indeed, as writers’ blogs go, I am confident mine broke all previous records for “whine-able” content and would surely have been recognized by Guinness World Records.
Although HOLLYWOOD NORTH was subsequently picked up byOpen Road Media in the US, thanks to OR editor Betsy Mitchell and my agent Christine Cohen, the peaks of whining achieved in this forbidden blog remain a high pointamong my cherished lows.
Farewell, My Peanut Friend
Lost Blog #2: Here, I threw caution to the wind to address the sad demise of Mr. Peanut, killed off by Planters in 2020 after 104 years of dedicated service. I knew Mr. Peanut. I was friends with Mr. Peanut. This was personal.
As a child, I met Mr. Peanut several times on his frequent promotional visits to my hometown of Trenton, Ontario. He was unfailing in his kindness and generosity, often handing out 5-cent bags of salted peanuts for free (FREE!) to ragamuffin and sophisticate alike. He deserved better than to be left a mere shell of his former self by cold-hearted corporate entities.
Why didn’t I post it? First off, my wife, Pat, began to question my relationship with Mr. Peanut. By reading between the lines, she suggested my affection for Ol’ Crunchy might not have been quite as wholesome as I had led her to believe. And then a trusted friend noted a second issue that was even more disturbing—a potential career-ender: “Sorry, Mike, but do you really want to come across as a person who condones cannibalism? Mr. Peanut, a fully roasted adult, handing out free bags of peanuts…infant legumes of his own species….”
Up Shit’s Critique! True-Life Adventures of a Dumbass Writer
Michael Libling’s brain
Lost Blog #3: While this particular blog has never appeared on my website, it was inadvertently sent out to my email subscribers. (You know who you are!) Why haven’t I published it here? No reason, aside from a mild fear of cancelation, name-calling, occasional death threats, and accusations of arrogance, elitism, and insensitivity.
The jaunty diatribe, commencing with the title above, chronicled my less-than-delightful experiences in agreeing to provide constructive feedback to would-be writers. Suffice it to say, I now consider these to be the five most terrifying words in the English language: “WILL YOU READ MY NOVEL?”
2. We’ll Be Right Back After These Important Messages
I’ve been blabbing about it ad nauseam since May 2022, so I’m guessing you’ve heard the news. My latest novel, THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE, will be published by Kevin J. Anderson’s WordFire Press in autumn 2023.
Timing is everything, of course, so I’m hoping these stats from Morning Consult entertainment reporter, Saleah Blancaflor, hold up in the interim:
“A recent Morning Consult survey reveals that nearly two-thirds of U.S. adults (62%) said they are fans of TV shows or movies about serial killers, while a quarter of U.S. adults describe themselves as ‘avid’ fans of the genre. Nearly 80% of millennials said they’re fans of serial killer content.”
I’ll be telling you more about the novel as we move closer to publication. Suffice it to say, my writing tends to cross genres, so in the interest of accuracy, THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE is a Thriller-Mystery-Crime-Horror-Dark Humor-Romance novel. Okay, maybe not Romance exactly, but it does drop a mush-bomb or two. One early reader called it a breezy spin on horrible things, which pretty much nails it.
Speaking of novels…
3. Book Review: LESTER LIES DOWN by James Ladd Thomas
I met James Ladd Thomas at the Bread Loaf Writers’Conference in Middlebury, Vermont, in the early 2000s, and we have remained in contact ever since. He has just had his second novel published by Vine Leaves Press, and I am happy to review it here. (This is the first in a series of reviews I’ll be posting from time to time, unless I say more than I should and these blogs become “lost,” too.)
The Adventures of a Mildly Autistic Hospice Caregiver
Thomas is what the publishing world refers to as a Southern Writer. He lives in the South. He writes about the South. And, knowing him personally, he holds no illusions about the South. …All of which combine to produce an entertaining and rewarding read. His first novel, ARDOR, made his roots abundantly clear, though I’ve never been sure if it was a novel disguised as a short story collection or a short story collection disguised as novel. There is no confusion, however, about his latest, LESTER LIES DOWN. This is most definitely a novel and, like ARDOR, worth your reading time.
The part I enjoy most about Thomas’s writing are the insights he brings to his characters and, by extension, the sensitivity he applies to the vagaries of life, love, parenthood, and…yeah!…carousing. From the first page, LESTER LIES DOWN immerses the reader in Lester Gordon’s world and the unpredictable life (and lives) he leads as a mildly autistic adult.
A Literary Novel with a Shot of Genre
There’s the work Lester, who takes us on his daily rounds as a hospice caregiver, visiting and chatting with his terminally ill patients and their loved ones. There’s the widowed, single-parent Lester, who struggles to raise his three children, Jase, Lizzy, and Chuck—the last of whom has a fondness for drawing nude women and providing bookie services to the neighborhood kids. There is the romantic Lester, who would like nothing more than to find love again. And then there’s the loyal Lester, who gets caught up in the questionable doings of his old friend, Ardor, and the mysterious men who have been stalking her—an unexpected subplot that flirts with genre. (Yeah, she is the very same Ardor of Thomas’s first novel and, trust me, she is a…uh…um…uh…a handful. Be careful she doesn’t leap off the page to pick your pocket.)
Revealing, heartbreaking and, at times, disturbing, you might feel you’re eavesdropping, if not outright spying, on the characters Thomas so vividly brings to life. The dialogue sparkles, laugh-out-loud funny one moment, touching the next. Indeed, the conversations often stray to the intense and intimate, straddling that indefinable border between Life and Death.
If literary fiction with a distinct Southern charm appeals, LESTER LIES DOWN could be the book you’ve been looking for. Read it. Savor it. And, chances are, you’ll be thinking about Lester and company long after you’ve closed the back cover.
Movie and TV producers take note! The script is waiting for you. It’s all there on the page, courtesy of the author, James Ladd Thomas. To find out who he thinks should be the female lead in the movie, go here.
4. A thrilling tale of advertising, porno, smiles, and tears…in that order
From the late 70s onward, I earned my living as a copywriter and creative director, working for advertising agencies before striking out on my own as a freelancer. I had some terrific clients over the years, most notably The Netherlands Board of Tourism, KLM Royal Dutch Airlines, Rail Europe, and Ex-Lax. Yeah, Ex-Lax. “It can make your day overnight.” Now I’m not going to get myself into trouble by dredging up the worst clients, but I will tell you my favorite story about a prospective client. I should also point out this was long before “streaming” and “the Internet” were things.
One day, the phone rings. The caller has been referred to me by an existing client, and he wants to know if I’ll meet him at his office to discuss a project. He is the president of a company that ranks among the largest distributors of pornographic videos in North America.
As a freelancer, I am open to anything. (The nature of the business demands it.) While I might have turned down a few requests along the way (like writing speeches for a certain political party), I was too curious to dismiss this one. Hey, I’m no prude, and frankly, it sounded like fun. Opportunity is opportunity. Once a mercenary, always a mercenary. Anyhow, I’m sure you get the picture.
So down I go to the prospective client’s office and warehouse. He greets me warmly and proceeds to give me a tour of the premises. The place is massive and impressive. Videos line the walls from floor to ceiling. Thousands and thousands and thousands of ’em. With categories, proclivities, and fetishes for all types, tastes, and occasions. Man, the place is bustling, with shipments coming and going. And some of the posters hanging about—golly-gee and gulp! Yeah, the business is a going concern. Exciting. Booming. Titillating. And I am more than intrigued about the role I might play. The products offer a refreshing change of pace from the pharmaceutical, fundraising, and financial services accounts that dominate my days.
After twenty minutes or so, Mr. President leads me back to his office. He gives my portfolio a cursory examination, before easing into his plush leather swivel. “So,” he says, “what do you think?”
“Interesting,” I reply.
“Yes, isn’t it?”
I am a tad distracted, transfixed by the colorful, educational poster plastered to the wall behind him. Only now do I face the sad reality of how sheltered my life has been. Holy cow! So that’s where that goes!Who’d a thought!
“But you need to understand, I do not distribute just any videos.” He adjusts his glasses, tents his fingers. “Our offerings are restricted to only the finest productions. And therein lies the problem. People believe all pornographic content is the same. I want to distinguish our products, do something to make them stand out from the competition. This is where you come in.”
“Interesting,” I say. Yes, my vocabulary has been reduced to a single word.
“It’s more than interesting,” he says.
I nod. I smile.
“Excuse me?” His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare. “Are you smiling?” It’s not a question, it’s an accusation.
“I’m listening, that’s all,” I say. “It’s interesting.”
I have crossed a line I didn’t know was there. He is plainly unhappy with me. Still, he continues. “I want you to create a sticker—and some brainy slogan—to go on every package, so the buyer knows a video from us is the highest quality on the market. Like a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, but for sex videos.”
I smile again. I know it’s a mistake. I cannot help myself. Worse, it’s a huge smile, all teeth and gums. I cover my mouth, fake a cough, sputter some excuse about asthma. Admittedly, I’m finding the whole idea crazy, but I’m also thinking how cool working on such a project might be. Unfortunately, Mr. President has a different interpretation: “You’re laughing at me.”
“No. No, I’m not. Honest. It’s just so interest—”
“I will have you know, Mr. Libling, I take my business seriously. Very seriously.” He removes his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, pauses.
I summon my serious face. I do not want to blow this. I really do want to create a Good Housekeeping-type seal of approval for porn. Hell, do I ever! The creative wheels are already turning.
He wags a finger. “I’ll have you know—” His voice cracks. His eyes fill with tears. The guy is freakin’ tearing up! “I will have you know not a single video enters or leaves this building without my having watched it first.”
I shudder. I bite my thumb. I blink more blinks than I have ever blinked.
“Furthermore, I’ll have you know—and you can ask my wife about the hours I spend in our home theater—I watch many of the videos two or three times, just to be certain each meets our company’s highest standards.”
I gag. I tremble. I brace for my head to explode. I can’t even manage an interesting.
“You think this is funny?” He catapults himself to his feet, plucks a hanky from a pocket, and blows his nose. “My business is not a joke, sir.” He wipes one eye, glares at me, and wipes the other. He looks to me and then the door. “Thank you for coming.”
I am going to cry. I am going to burst.
“Shut the door behind you,” he says, and as I turn to exit, I hear the whir of the video player that sits beside his desk, followed by the click of a VHS cartridge as he pops it into play.
I’m standing at my publisher’s table in the vendors room at CanCon in Ottawa. I’m wearing my laid-back author face, a time-honoured expression that goes well with tweed jackets, elbow patches, and briarwood pipes, when a potential book buyer materializes mere footsteps away. I wait and I watch as she browses the literary offerings. My restraint is a case study in nonchalance, until I catch her fleeting glance at my novel. It is all the invitation I need.
My patter dips into the book’s primary setting, Trenton, Ontario, its secret history, and my personal connection. I cover off the accidents and crimes, the silent movie studio, and several of the other true-life events that inspired the story. She is curious, but not convinced. I falter as a wave of self-doubt inundates my fragile psyche. Perhaps my approach would be more effective on a used car lot, as one author friend had recently intimated.
With a pathetic crack in my voice, I invite her to look under the hood, check out the upholstery, take the book for a test drive. She hesitates, shrugs, and concedes. Slowly, she flips through the pages …
“Wow! This is a work of art,” she declares, and promptly forks over her hard-earned cash, as I readjust my T-shirt, my jeans, and my laid-back author face.
*This applies only to the original ChiZine print edition of the novel, both paperback and hardcover. The new Open Road Media edition of the book is pretty nice, but not as elaborate as the original.
1a. Kudos to Shapiro
Once again, many thanks to the brilliant Jared Shapiro and his inspired interior design (of the original ChiZine print editions). Jared’s contributions add to the story in ways large and small. As author Paul Di Filippo noted in his much-appreciated LocusMagreview: “…all kudos must be given to the graphic designer on this novel, Jared Shapiro, for the striking multimedia approach to the text, with insertion of many embellishments and illustrations that perfectly complement Gus’s tale.” (On the unimaginable off chance you have yet to buy and read my novel, Gus is the protagonist and narrator of the story. Again, Jared’s remarkable design work only appears in the original ChiZine version of the novel—that’s the version pictured at the outset of this entry.)
2. A Highly Questionable Question
The Theatre Shoppe (left) predates my parents’ era, but that is precisely where the Theatre Bar was located. The Trent became the Odeon and then the Centre.
The one question I’ve been asked more than any other, especially by readers who know Trenton, Ontario, is if any of the characters in HOLLYWOOD NORTH are based on real people. The answer is an emphatic no. “This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.”
A one-time owner of the shop at Dundas and Division was Alex Lamorre, a familiar name in the town to this day.
I will own up, however, to the place that inspired the Marquee Café which plays a pivotal role in the book. It is, indeed, modeled after my parents’ restaurant, the Theatre Bar, which once stood next door to the Odeon in Trenton.
While the movie house still stands, the Odeon has long since been renamed the Centre. It should also be noted that it wasn’t always the only show in town.
2a. Screen War on Main Street!
For years, two movie theaters competed within the same block and on opposite sides of the street, until circa 1960, when the Century was shut down. It was a sad day for many, the preteen me among them.
The Century theatre. (Source: Quinte West Public Library.)
After all, the Century was where I got to see the feature-length version of Disney’s Davy Crockett on the big screen. This was also where I saw On The Waterfront with my dad at a weekday matinee. I’m not sure why my father thought it was a good idea to take the 5-year-old me to that particular movie, but I am glad he did.
The Pepsi sign on the left marks the entrance to the Theatre Bar.
Best I can tell, it was the moment I fell in love with movies and Eva Marie Saint.
As for the Libling family diner, where my sisters and I spent countless hours, poring over homework, helping out, and killing time, it vanished in the late 1970s, when the space at 122 Dundas Street West was renovated out of existence to make room for the multiplex that is today’s Centre.
2b. The Best Show in Town and Only a Dime
The main thing you need to know is that the Theatre Bar was not a bar in the popular sense. It was a bar only in the strait-laced Ontario sense of the era, which produced endless hours of glee for regular customers, who’d hang out in anticipation of the naive newbies who’d stray through the door.
This was in the days before Highway 401 connected Montreal and Toronto, when the stop-and-slow of Highway 2 was the only way to go, and Trenton’s downtown was a going concern. And smack on Highway 2 in downtown Trenton is where you’d find the Theatre Bar.
For the price of a cup of coffee, it offered countless thrills. No local entertainment venue delivered greater value. And it always went down the same way.
2c. A Man Walks into a Bar and Asks for a Beer
A thirsty out-of-towner would amble in. He’d plop himself onto a stool at the counter or a chair at a table. My mother would approach, welcome him with pen, pad, and generous smile. The unwary sap would request his beverage of choice. My mother would break the news. And hilarity would flow.
“Huh? You kidding me? I can’t get a beer? An O’Keefe’s, a Labatt’s?”
Mom would take it in her stride, offer a compassionate shake of the head.
The Centre today. Not much character, but that’s the way it goes, eh?
“But the sign outside—it says bar, right?”
“Just not that sort of bar.”
“Isn’t that false advertising?”
“How about a bite to eat?”
“Well, jeez, I guess, seeing as how I’m already here … Sure. Gimme a Coke, a burger, and an order of fries.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t serve French fries.”
“What!? What do you mean you don’t serve French fries?”
That’s my dad behind the counter. Menus were on the wall. Daily specials were “spoken word.”
“We don’t make them,” my mother would say, which was my father’s cue. From his station at the grill, he would sigh his long-simmering displeasure at the fact, his exhaled editorial punctuated with a primal snarl. Despite her slight 5’1″, Mom was no shrinking violet. She would return immediate fire, her glare so fierce it would have kayoed a grizzly.
Meanwhile, the hapless stranger would slide right over the edge, blinking and twitching befuddlement as he belatedly surveyed the interior of the wacko joint he’d stumbled into.
2d. The Diner from Hell
And what a wondrous sight to behold the Theatre Bar was!
An air conditioner the size of an elephant casket. Mismatched shelves and display cases. Coolers and freezers. Bins of penny candies and racks of salty snacks. Cubbyholes stacked with packs of cigarettes and cigars. And observing the sucker’s every move, the grinning band of Theatre Bar regulars.
A sputter-fest is what it was. “Jesus H. Christ! What is this place? What are you running here? You call yourself a bar, but you don’t got any beer. You call yourself a restaurant, but you don’t got any French fries. Now I look over there and you’re selling ashtrays and transistor radios and Sen-sen and bicarbonate, and god-knows-what-else. Holy cow! Is that a Japanese fan? And look at that—you got more soda pop and ice cream here than the damn A&P. And Kik Cola! Jesus. You’ve really got Kik Cola? What next? What next?”
“Well,” my mother would suggest, “the lunchtime special is quite nice. It’s tuna fish on toast.”
“Huh?”
“It’s like chicken à la king, but without the chicken.”
I suppose I could end this here, but then the obvious question would remain…
2e. So Why Didn’t the Theatre Bar Serve French Fries?
Mom and her lemon meringue pie. At her peak, she’d bake up to 30 pies a night and cart them to the Theatre Bar next day.
When my parents first took over the restaurant, French fries were part of the menu. The item was, however, an ongoing source of friction. More than once I was awakened in the middle of the night by my parents’ savage debate on the subject. I will never forget my mother’s plaintive cry: “How many times do I have to tell you? I am sick of smelling like a potato.”
My father, on the other hand, didn’t mind. Smelling like a potato was good for business. Before too long, my mother issued an ultimatum. Either she would continue to smell like a potato or she would continue to bake pies for the restaurant. “But not both.”
The pies won out. If you were lucky enough to have ever sampled my mom’s apple or lemon meringue pies, you would know why. Her crust, oh man, that crust! At once crispy and chewy and flaky and buttery and … Trust me, a wedge of any of her pies would more than compensate for the elusive alcohol and fries.
3. Live and In Person at the Scene of the Crime
Should you be in or around Trenton, Ontario area on Wednesday, November 6, 2019, I’ll be risking life and limb with an appearance at Trenton Town Hall 1861, Home of the Trent Port Historical Society. Why the trepidation? I appeared at the Quinte West Public Library back in June and the warm reception remains a highlight of my so-called book tour. But the event was held before the novel was available and locals had yet to digest the contents. With this in mind, I have requested from security that all vegetables, fruits, tar, and feathers be confiscated at the door.
Anyhow, the location is 55 King Street and the show gets underway at 6:30 p.m. I’ll be reading from HOLLYWOOD NORTH, equivocating in a Q&A, signing books, and schmoozing. On a side note, the Trenton Town Hall 1861 Facebook page is responsible for several of the photos featured in this blog. Should you be active on Facebook, their page is worth checking out.
4. The Baffling “Autumn Leaves/Marshmallow” Conundrum
As we were walking the dog the other evening, the autumn leaves accumulating underfoot, I mentioned to my wife, Pat, that when I was a kid in Trenton, we’d rake the leaves to curbside and then set them on fire. Sometimes, we’d grab a stick and roast marshmallows, too. “Didn’t that cause a lot of fires?” she asked.
I had to think for a moment. “Yeah. Probably. But the marshmallows were so good.”
5. Love this Blog? Hate this Blog? Couldn’t Care Less?
Blogalong Cassidy rides again!
Whatever your feelings, why not subscribe? Click here or the Home button up top, scroll down, and you’ll see the sign-up box on the right or bottom or wherever. It’s there somewhere, I think. Above all, I pledge to make your day on an irregular basis.
NEW YORK, Oct. 17, 2023 — There wasn’t a soul in town who didn’t know what Bobby Blessing’s father had done, and would have kept on doing if he weren’t behind bars. He had murdered 27 innocent people. But Bobby knew that number was higher. Much higher, most likely. Bobby’s father was a bad, bad man. But even Bobby himself didn’t know the whole story.
unknown world. They are miraculously provided with food, but with not a clue to the possible meaning of this strange afterlife. And so billions of people from history, and before, must start living again.”
I was also impressed by the first two books in 
favorite, Kurt Vonnegut. If you’re a Vonnegut fan, the name 
The series is set in the early years of the twenty-second century, when the full impact of climate change has arrived and Earth’s waters have risen to catastrophic levels. Within this scenario, undersea colonies have emerged, providing both hope for the future and crucial resources for the terrestrial population. Alas, these same colonies are suppressed and exploited by their land-based, military-minded overseers. In keeping with this planet’s sorry history and the innate nature of humankind, war and rebellion continue to dominate. Finding an edge against the enemy is a never-ending pursuit, a reality Truman McClusky and his team of freedom fighters from the Trieste colony know all too well.
Lost Blog #2:
illusions about the South. …All of which combine to produce an entertaining and rewarding read. His first novel, ARDOR, made his roots abundantly clear, though I’ve never been sure if it was a novel disguised as a short story collection or a short story collection disguised as novel. There is no confusion, however, about his latest, LESTER LIES DOWN. This is most definitely a novel and, like ARDOR, worth your reading time.
From the late 70s onward, I earned my living as a copywriter and creative director, working for advertising agencies before striking out on my own as a freelancer. I had some terrific clients over the years, most notably 
speeches for a certain political party), I was too curious to dismiss this one. Hey, I’m no prude, and frankly, it sounded like fun. Opportunity is opportunity. Once a mercenary, always a mercenary. Anyhow, I’m sure you get the picture.
1. The Art of the Interior Monologue*
4. The Baffling “Autumn Leaves/Marshmallow” Conundrum