Showing posts with label Derek Neville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Derek Neville. Show all posts

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Unboxing a Ghost

Hello. This is me, Derek Neville again. I'm letting you know that today my novella Ghost Box is live in the Amazon store. It's pretty exciting. It's been amazing watching this little book that could enter the wild. If you read it, I hope you like it. If you hate it, well then, I'm sorry and perhaps I could give you a hug the next time I see you. If you're not into hugs, and why wouldn't you be, but hey, no hard feelings.

Also, for those folks that like print media. I have something for you too. You can purchase the print version as well. It should be available in the store sometime this week. And by store, I mean Amazon. You can't just walk into any store and get this thing, though that would be pretty cool.

To wet your palette (or beak) check out the short videos below of how great the print version came out with a super rad cover design by M.S. Corley.



A huge thanks goes out to everyone that pre-ordered the book. That means a lot. Please don't be shy about sharing a review on Amazon, Goodreads, Twitter, you name it. Word of mouth keeps this thing alive.

That's all I got.

I hope wherever you are you're doing good.

Till next time...

-Derek Neville-

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Ghost Box


Hello! It's been a crazy last couple of months to the say the least. Work and a late fall move have definitely kept me pretty busy. So, outside of a miracle, I'm super excited to finally see my novella Ghost Box enter into the wild. Definitely a lot of blood, sweat and tears, plus a ton of hours went into making this thing be the best it can be. The M.S. Corley cover alone is worth the price of admission.

What's Ghost Box about?

In the summer of '92, a young girl named Isabelle disappears into a vacant building and is never seen again. She becomes another name alongside many others who have vanished when stepping through the building's doors. 

Boyd Dwyer knows a thing about missing people. At least he did when he was a cop, but that was before Morgan died, and before his 'little drinking problem' forced him into an early retirement. Now the only job he can get is the one no one else wants -- protecting a building with a violent and disturbing history. 

It's not so bad until he starts getting phone calls late at night. It seems someone really wants to talk to Boyd and confess something awful. 

Will he answer? 

The book is up for pre-order over on Amazon and will be out December 14th.


A few people have reached out to me asking how they can help. The answer is simple -- word of mouth! Tweet, Share, Instagram, Facebook, Email or send a smoke signal if you read the book and want to let people know about it. Also, a review or two doesn't hurt, but most important is just getting the word out. Click on the book icon above to bring you straight to the Amazon page!

I'll leave you with an excerpt for chapter one. 

I hope you enjoy!



                                                                     -1-
                                                                                
                                                              {1992}

On her second pass down the hill, Isabelle saw that her mother was still talking to the strange man. Where he had come from, she didn’t know. He didn’t live in their neighborhood — Isabelle knew that much. He was slender, with a long neck and a bulbous head almost like a grasshopper. He wore dirty jeans and a leather jacket even though it was ninety and humid. He had his long, dark, wet hair pushed back behind one ear with a cigarette holding it in place. As Isabelle neared, he was leaning over and whispering something into her mother’s ear as the wisps of her hair blew up around his face. He smiled as they seemed to tickle his chin, then reached up, and tenderly pushed them away with a finger. He whispered something else, and her mother laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth as her face flushed. 
Isabelle rode right up onto the curb where the two were standing in Mrs. Baker’s driveway, but her mother wasn’t paying attention. Not even when she squeezed the horn on her bike, which was pink with a white leather seat. Isabelle turned and pedaled back toward the end of the street. She hopped the sidewalk and started down Jasper, the street that connected to her own. Near the end it curved almost like a cul-de-sac, except the outlet road rose upward toward a large building that sat in between the trees. In the crook of the bend was a granite sign that had Lansing High School chiseled into it. She wasn’t supposed to stray this far from her house — the boundary was supposed to be down to the end of her street and back — but her mother hadn’t said a word when Isabelle had first pedaled out of her sight. 
She stood up off her seat as she made her climb up the hill. The gray T-shirt she wore clung to the perspiration on her back. When the road finally flattened out, she glided over the fresh black pavement of the high school parking lot. 
Once she had caught her breath, she doubled back and paused near the top of the hill leading down to the street below. This is what made the climb all worth it. She pedaled twice, and then took her hands off the handlebars as the bike began to catch speed. The momentum built and she rode the descent all the way back to her street. When Mrs. Baker’s driveway came back into view, she squeezed the horn on the bike to announce her arrival. Her mother turned on her heels; she had the look on her face she always got when Isabelle said or did something that embarrassed her, but made her angry, too. It was the same look her mother gave after her fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Newcomb, had called the house wondering why Isabelle hadn’t brought a lunch for three days. 
Isabelle!” her mother said with her hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side. “The parade is coming. Get off the bike, please.”
Strange Man took a drag on his cigarette and gave a chuckle, as if this all amused him somehow. He was squinting over the smoke and staring off down the street toward the oncoming parade, though nothing was visible yet.
“One more loop,” Isabelle said, and began pedaling away.
“Isabelle, I’m serious!” her mother called, but Isabelle was already heading back towards the end of her street. Behind her she could hear the distant sound of the drums from the marching band. At the top of the climb she slowed and used the back of her arm to wipe the sweat from her brow. She’d have to ask her mom about getting a glass of water when she got back. Maybe another loop wasn’t such a good idea after all. Her legs felt like stretched rubber and she didn’t feel much like pedaling anymore.
She let the wheels carry her as she headed toward the breezeway in the front of the building. Her gaze drifted to a figure standing in the vestibule of the front entrance. As soon as Isabelle saw him, her pulse leapt, and she almost lost control of the bike. She steadied herself and went about six feet past the building’s entrance before turning back around toward the breezeway.
The man was still there.
It was difficult to make out his face due to the reflection of the afternoon sun on the glass and the shade from the roof of the breezeway. Isabelle looked away and fixed her eyes on the row of houses she could see from way up on the hill. 
She kept the man just to the corner of her vision. 
The brassy sounds of the marching band were louder now. They would be passing the street for the school soon. The thought crossed her mind that her mother was going to be mad that she was missing the parade. Isabelle didn’t much care. She wanted to be far away from here, at Hoyer Field maybe, having a cookout with her friends Emma and Kaylee, and not watching the fire department toss out stale candy to all her neighbors on the sidewalk. 
When the machine gun precision of the drums grew faint she heard the door to the vestibule unlatch. The man stood there on the walk. He had a young face, though it kind of reminded her of her father’s; at least, her memory of it from the last time she had seen him. Maybe it was the tiny smirk at the corner of the man’s mouth or how he wore his short black hair combed neatly to the side. She thought she had seen her father’s hair that way, but perhaps it was just a memory of looking at a picture.
“Hello,” he said and stuck his hands into the front pockets of his trousers.
Isabelle didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure what to make of the man. Maybe he was a teacher; that was possible, right? Yet, it was the first week of July and school was out. He started towards her, slowly, like he was on a stroll. He kept the smirk on his face.
“Missing the parade,” he said.
“I hate parades.”
The man shrugged, and kicked at some loose gravel on the walk. “I can’t say I’m too big on them myself.”
“Are you a teacher?” she asked. “Don’t you know school’s out?”
He craned his neck to look back at the building and admired it like he was seeing it for the first time. “Oh, so that’s what they’re using it for now, huh? Interesting.” He looked back her way. “I’m not a teacher.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting,” he said. “For you.”
Isabelle felt her balance on the bike waver and she had to plant both feet down on the cement to keep upright. “You were?”
“Yeah,” he said and gestured with his hand. “I saw you pedaling up and around here and then I said to myself, my Isabelle has gotta be thirsty.”
She frowned. “How do you know my name?”
“Why, because you told it to me.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Sure you did. You were thinking in your head that you wanted to tell me your name and I read it there. It’s no big deal. Say, would you like to get a glass of water?”
Isabelle ran a chalky tongue over her dry lips. “My mom said I shouldn’t go with people I don’t know.”
“That’s really good advice. Smart woman, your mom. Maybe we could get to know each other? Look, we already have something in common — we both hate parades.”
“I am kinda thirsty,” Isabelle said.
“I bet you are.”
He crouched down so he was eye level with her, and for the briefest of moments she thought she saw something flicker across the man’s face like when the lights in the house flashed during a storm.  He extended a hand out, palm upwards, and she stared down at it. Isabelle thought about what her mother had said about strangers, but her mother was talking to someone she didn’t know, and she seemed okay. 
Isabelle climbed off the bike and let it fall with a clatter onto the pavement. The man’s palm was cool to the touch as she watched her hand disappear into his and he started to lead her back toward the building.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Oh,” he said. “I’m being rude, aren’t I? I know your name and you don’t even know mine. You can call me Badge. All my friends do.”




Sunday, July 6, 2014

Slush Pile (Part Two)


Welcome!

I hope you're enjoying the new look of the place. I thought since I was making more of a concentrated effort to be more active on here that I would change up the look a bit.

Any and all feedback welcome.

You might also notice a few other changes to the site as well. For starters, I've added a sign-up for my newsletter. I hope to use this more in the future once I'm generating content on a consistent basis to send subscribers free stories and some other cool things, like first looks into the stuff I'm working on.

To the right you'll also see that I added a word counter for the current story I'm working on for Camp NaNoWriMo (more on this in a moment). I figured this was another way to keep me honest in finishing up the project and getting it self-published.

Okay. Back to Camp NaNoWriMo. If you don't know what this is and you're a prospective writer I can't recommend this highly enough. Here's the deal, every year in November writers sign up for NaNoWriMo and try to complete a 50k word novel in a month. Each year I tell myself this is something I'm going to do, but get about a third of the way and just finally tap out. It requires a lot of discipline and a pretty rigorous schedule when it comes to getting your words in.

So, when a friend recommended giving Camp NaNoWriMo a shot I felt that it was a much easier undertaking. So far I've been right. The word count can be whatever you want it to be and the pressure to finish isn't as extreme. In addition, prior to the start of "camp" you can join writer cabins to keep everyone motivated. I think this has been my favorite part as everyone in my cabin is churning out a lot of words and inspiring me to work twice as hard.

The project I'm working on is called, "Ghost Box," a creepy tale about a guy named Boyd Dwyer who has made some bad decisions and hasn't ever really had to answer for them. I think a good ghost story is one where the past doesn't go away, it just bleeds into the present. I like characters who are forced to explore whether or not they can get away from the things they've done and who they were.

All right, that's about as much as I'm going to say on that. Hopefully look for it soon.

In my last blog post I talked about dedicating more time to writing and trying to be more disciplined with it. I can report that two months in things are going pretty well. Now, I've named both these posts "Slush Pile" for a reason. Part of my decision to be more focused with my writing came another decision to start self-publishing my own work.

I came to this decision from two different avenues. The first was I was visiting a friend in New York who is an assistant editor for a small publishing house. As we were getting ready to leave for lunch I noticed in her office that her ENTIRE desk, and the floor next to her desk, was covered in thick envelopes. Not to mention there were boxes filled to the brim with the same type of package.

I inquired about these and she told me they were manuscripts she needed to read for work. The kicker was that those were just ones that had come in over the last few months. She also mentioned that just about all of them would be rejected and maybe 5% would make it onto her boss.

I kept trying to wrap my head around this. 5% is pretty small compared to the number of manuscripts there. I thought about the work in the past that I've submitted for publication and I imagined my work sitting in a box with a thousand others that made up the slush pile.

The second avenue was I really started to do some research into the benefits of self-publishing. It is something that I've long been against. I think I fell into the common misconception that it wasn't legitimate, but after doing some research into it I discovered that it offers everything that traditional publishing doesn't.

What appealed to me the most was the chance to be in complete creative control of a project. Everything from choosing cover design, editor, and supplemental material. For someone like me who grew up listening to punk rock, I instantly fell in love with the DIY aspect of it. As a writer there's nothing I want more than to build a readership. I never got into writing for any monetary reasons, I just did it because I love it. I think self-publishing gives me a chance to do that.

I'll be exploring more of this in future blog posts as I'm sure the path will involve a lot of trial and error.

Till next time, have an A1 day!

Author's Note: Between writing this blog post I went to get some groceries. The cashier I had was griping about how she doesn't have A/C or a pool and is contemplating tying little fans under her armpits to keep her cool during the summer. No idea why or how she thinks this will work, but I figured I'd share all this with you. You're welcome.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Slush Pile (Part One)


Ok. It's time to revisit this place a bit and blow some of the dust off the furniture and open the windows and let some sunlight back in. So, what have I been up to? Sadly, nothing too exciting outside of working to the point of mental exhaustion. If that didn't just set the mood for you then I don't know what will, but anyway, that's part of the reason I'm revisiting my corner of the interwebs (or The Googles if you feel so inclined).

Sometimes you reach a point where you like what you're doing, but know that you're not doing what you want to be. What can be even more debilitating is when the thing you like doing starts to prevent you from that other thing you want to be doing and oh yeah, that thing you like doing is starting to become a real pain in the ass.

Confused? Let me try to explain. We all have a job we get up and go to and if you're really lucky it's bearable enough that you can pay the bills and not find yourself developing an ulcer. But sometimes you reach a point where you want more. I think this usually occurs around the time when you start seeing the days, months and even the years slipping by and all you're looking forward to is that next vacation or day off.

I have what you'd consider a "day job" that pays the bills, keeps a roof over my head, and allows me a very comfortable living. My real job is fighting for justice. I'm kidding. I had to throw that in there. My real job is being a writer or more importantly an independent author. I've been fortunate enough that I've had some small success that has made me realize what I've known all along: This is what I should be doing. This is what I need to be doing.

I wrote a post on here a while back about why I write and if you're feeling nostalgic you can find it in the archives. Don't forget to bring a flashlight and don't talk to anyone.

Anyway ...

The real purpose of this post is the decision to work on making writing my full-time (and only) job.

The benefit of working a "day job" like the one I have is that I don't take any of it home with me. When the day is done, it's done and I can move on and do other things. However, of late, that hasn't been the case and more of it has seeped into the time I'd rather spend writing or working on projects.

I definitely shoulder most of the blame as sometimes you just have to force yourself to disconnect, but it's also really easy to get into a pattern of, "Oh, I'll just write tomorrow" and before you know it three months have gone by and you haven't written two sentences and the project you're working on has lost momentum.

I've been aware for a while that I needed to make a change. If I kept on the path I was on my fear was that I would wake up and find myself older, grayer, and having written nothing of substance in a very long time. I certainly didn't want that. The real turning point I think was when I missed entering a story into an anthology I really wanted to be a part of. Again, totally my fault, I let myself get too distracted by other things and didn't have my focus in the right place.

But here's what I did to right the ship.

I started to set parameters for myself to keep myself focused. I set a timer for one hour and a half and I write for that long and when the timer goes off I wrap up what I'm doing. It's actually worked really well as sometimes I want to keep writing, but I've noticed the energy carries over to the next day.

I've also been forcing myself to read more. I won't let myself check email/Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/etc or cue up Netflix until I've read at least forty pages in whatever book I'm in.

I have to be honest this has worked really well. I feel more clear headed the more I'm disengaged from technology. I don't feel the anxiousness to keep updating feeds or replying to comments.

If you take anything away from this post, take that, and give it a try.

I think I'm going to wrap up part one here and continue this later in the week. Next time I'll dive into why I'm calling this section of writing 'Slush Pile.'

I know, I know, cliffhanger.

::Author's note:: During the writing of this post I looked up and out the window and saw a woman staring in at me from outside. Turns out she wasn't looking at me, but the window above my apartment where she was arguing with her boyfriend about how he erased her shows on the DVR. This has no relevancy to the rest of the post, but consider it a DVD extra of sorts. Oh yeah, if you feel so inclined, sign up for my newsletter so I can send you cool stuff I'm working on or an autographed t-shirt signed by John Stamos. Okay, that's a lie. But still. You should sign up. 

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Rusty Nail


Wow, it's been a really long time since I've written anything here on the blog. My apologies. Let me blow some of the dust off the furniture and invite you back in. Nice and comfy? Good. Maybe you'd enjoy a story. If so, you're in luck. The folks over at the Rusty Nail have published my short story The Boys in their February 2013 issue. If you like dark, creepy, post WWII type of stories this may be right up your alley. If not, don't do yourself a disservice and not pick up a copy. Support the other independent writers in the issue, not just me, and for less than $10 why wouldn't you?

Here's the link: Rusty Nail February 2013

Read, share, and enjoy.

Friday, September 14, 2012

On Writing

I've been giving a lot of thought lately to how non-writer's perceive people who are writers. If you're a writer, and I'm assuming some of you are if you're reading this, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. Try explaining to any of your non-writer friends, co-workers, family or even strangers that you're a writer or a novelist and you get the usual responses:

1) What do you write? 2) Can I read it? 3) Oh, interesting, I'm reading this book by (insert author who has sold a billion books i.e Dan Brown/James Patterson).

I tend to find that those questions are the non-writer trying to rationalize what writers do. It's a valid response. Here's what else I found, when a non-writer asks you to read your work, they don't actually want to read it. It's like giving them a homework assignment. By asking for a copy of your work to read, they are simply being polite in that they think that's the common practice when someone tells them that they type up the stories they created in their head.

I don't say that in a callous way, again, this is the non-writer trying to understand how someone they assume who is mentally stable (for the most part) sits in a room by themselves and listens to the voices in their head and... wait for it... MAKES STUFF UP.

I spent about the last six or so years denying that this what I'm supposed to be doing. I think when you hit the twenty-five year old mark you start to see who has given up on their dreams and who has settled for complacency. I'm guilty of it. It's hard to not fall into the trap that not chasing your dreams showcases. It's a safer road. It's a road that says, "Hey, you might not be happy, but at least you might own some nice things."

I find myself thankful that I have a job that I don't have to take home with me. Once I leave I don't have to think about it. On that same token, there are days at work where I'm glad that my job isn't a career and one day I'll be writing full-time. That's my goal anyway, and I'm making progress every time I finish a new project.

It really got me thinking about why I write in the first place. I was listening to the news on NPR the other day and two things occurred to me. First, it seems that people always have to name drop that they listen to NPR like it's a badge of honor (does anyone ever say, "So I was watching the CW last night...?"). The second was that in the midst of listening to the story in question, I had finally figured out how to succinctly sum up why I write in the first place. It goes a little something like this --

So there's this seventy-year old woman named Constance who, after honking her horn repeatedly at the school bus idling in front of her, decides that she has much more important things to do and guns her Toyota Camry around the bus. Before she realizes that the bus was stopped for a very good reason indeed, Constance finds herself watching a freight train bear down on her and almost instantly, it smashes into the passenger side of the Camry and pushes it a good hundred feet before screeching to a stop. Forgoing all the gory details, Constance is pronounced dead at the local hospital and the attending doctor in the ER is tasked with notifying the next of kin. Turns out Constance's husband has been dead for decades, but she has a couple of sons and a daughter. The doctor calls one of her sons and his wife answers the phone. The son isn't home, but the wife offers to take a message. The notification ethics, however, forbid the hospital from telling anyone but the next of kin about Constance's death and so they ask when the son will be home so they can call back.

And the wife responds "He won't be back for two months." And the hospital says, "Well... do you have a number where we could reach him?" And the wife says no, she doesn't. And why not?-

Because he's in space.

As in outer space. As in orbit. As in one of a handful of human beings who have the unique distinction of not being on the planet!

The son, Jack, is working on the International Space Station doing repair work. And as he floats in Zero-G, he is blissfully unaware that his seventy-year old mother has just been flattened by a train.

And what does this family's personal tragedy have to do with why I write?

Because to me, this is an amazing story. And as soon as I hear it, my brain is already hammering out the scene where Constance's other kids debate as to whether or not to even tell Jack. The daughter, Caitlin, insists on telling him that mom died peacefully in her sleep and holding the grisly truth for when he's back on Earth. Jack's brother Aaron, however, demands that they tell Jack all the gory details. Why? Because it was Jack's fault she was driving at all. Her eyesight had been failing her and Aaron wanted to get her into assisted living for over five years now and if stupid Jack had just listened to him, she'd still be alive!

Fortunately, I think, the decision is not up to Jack's siblings. He is, after all, a member of the military, so this would be a NASA issue. And it turns out there's this thing called Dual Plume Protocol. The Dual Plume Protocol, or DPP, was officially incorporated into NASA's Psychological Charter this year. Let me back up --

In September of 2001, the space station was manned by three people - an American and two Russians. As they were orbiting over the Northeastern United States, the American called Mission Control to report that he could see (with his naked eye) two massive pillars of black smoke rising up through the atmosphere. When they answered back, explaining that the black smoke was all that remained of the Towers, the American took a long, sorrowful pause and responded - "I wish you hadn't told me that."

As a result of the DPP, NASA started actually asking the astronauts who are leaving the planet what their personal wishes are regarding notifications of earthbound tragedies. And this is like, a very detailed document because it covers everything from worldwide catastrophes (i.e Katrina or a Tsunami) down to things that would only affect the astronaut him or herself (i.e their mother's Camry getting pulverized by a freight train) and it must be signed and notarized before launch. Why? Because their emotional state and focus of these guys is critical. They're being sent up to perform missions on a space station and after spending millions to train them (Jack is one of three people alive who has the skill set to execute specific repairs) it costs BILLIONS just to get them up there to perform them and the last thing NASA need is for someone to go batshit with grief on the day they're supposed to fix the thruster converter thigamajob.

So I'm sitting there thinking how Jack may have filled out his DPP form...

And I realize there's no such thing.

I made it up.

Yeah, I remember hearing about the astronauts on the space station having seen the carnage over Manhattan from orbit, but that's got nothing to do with the story of Constance's death. In fact, I don't know how many kids she had or, for that matter, whether or not they can just send an email to Jack (can you get email in space?) and dispense with all the formality.

But where's the drama in that?

So that's why I write.

I write because I can't help but make things up.

I write because I like to tell stories.

I write because my imagination compels me to do so.

Oh, and because I'm still trying to make my mom proud of me.

But that's a story for another time.



Tuesday, August 21, 2012

5 To Try


List of five things I’ve never done (successfully) as a writer that I’d like to try:

1. Write a western.

2. Write a comic. (Need not be an ongoing – could be a mini-series or a one shot).

3. Write a television pilot.

4. Write a short story by hand.*

5. Write for an ongoing television series.

* Have done this, but not since I was sixteen years old. My hand tends to cramp up. Note my emphasis on doing something “successfully.” For my purposes, success indicates getting paid… not because I’m money obsessed, but because a paycheck is an indicator of professional level work. 

At the moment I’m not working on any of those things. I’ve got my hands full working on a few short story ideas and researching an idea for a novella. But hey, a guy can dream right?