Author: Ken MacGregor

I have made the joke, more than once, upon seeing a collection of metal scrap, say, on someone’s lawn, that, if a thing has no clear purpose, it must be “art”. I’m a tiny bit ashamed of that now, especially since a great deal of my own output is what many consider to be a lowbrow, crude sort of writing. That’s fine. I’ll own that. I’m not exactly literary. I like to tell stories. There’s no shame in that. Anyway, this got me thinking about art, and how it is interpreted, and how that changes from person to person. Here’s what I came up with.

Art expresses human emotion, or the conveyance of an idea, through a (usually) visual medium.

That’s from the dictionary.
(more…)

Unless you’re one of the badass people who are considered an essential worker (my hat is off to you if you are—stay safe and thank you, thank you, thank you!) you are, like me, probably spending a lot of time at home. You’re likely in your pajamas or underwear (of less, but that’s your business and a visual I frankly do not need) with far more time on your hands than you know what to do with.

Maybe you’ve done all the dishes and laundry. The garage is spotless. Vegetables or flowers have been planted. You’ve played every single board and video game in the house at least twice (in my case, that last bit is true anyway). What now?

Now, you write.

Carve out a space for yourself in whatever room is most comfortable. Get a large glass of water (it’s important to stay hydrated). Snag your laptop, or Composition book. Put on music if that helps get your motor humming. Sit down and make some damn words!

You’re probably wondering about the title I chose. Fair. I’ll explain. Other than the obvious homage to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book (a fantastic writer! If you haven’t read him, get on that). It’s also a way to remind you all that writing is an act of love. Unless you’re one of those writers who hates the act of writing. If it’s pure suffering for you. Well, if that’s the case, I have some friendly advice for you. Just Stop! Why would you be a writer if you hate writing?

[Ken paces the room, shaking his head and muttering darkly.]

I have a theory about that: if you feel like writing is a hateful, miserable experience, your readers are probably going to feel the same way reading your output.

However, if you love it… if writing is fun! Your work will show it.

Okay. That point has been made, and the horse ain’t getting’ any deader.

The other reason I chose this title is that, right now, as we speak (…so to speak), I am actively trying to date again (I was widowed in 2018; one gets lonely). Or, rather, I was actively trying to date. I even had a date set up for a recent Saturday night (we connected on an Internet dating site). The Thursday before our date, the plague came to Michigan, where I live. Prudently, we canceled.

It’s frustrating. The world is scary. We’re trapped at home, able only to go outside (I strongly encourage this every day; it helps keep the isolation demons at bay) or the dreaded grocery store when low on supplies, or to get gas. Other people have become potential disease vectors. We have to stay at least six feet away or risk ending up six feet under.

Use your anxiety. Capitalize on your fear. Channel your frustration. Pour all of it into doing the thing you love. Write.

And, hey… when this is over, hit me up. I’m probably still gonna be looking for a date.

Thanks for listening.

New Year 2020 is coming concept – inscription 2019 and 2020 a beach sand, the wave is almost covering the digits 2019.

Happy New Year!

Or is it?

I’ll get right to the point: milestones are hard on me. Birthdays (just had one! You can wish me happy birthday. I’ll wait. Okay. Thanks.); anniversaries; Mother’s Day; Father’s Day; the day my wife died (eight days after our wedding anniversary… yeah. June sucks); Valentine’s Day; it goes on and on.

So, biggies, like New Year’s Eve, are especially rough. This is the time when everyone is thinking about their whole past year. They’re introspective and contemplative (See? I have a vocabulary that includes more than four-letter words. I just like those better).

Everyone is talking about how it went all year long; they’re talking about how things will change in the new year. I mean, it’s cool and all, but… I’m over here just thankful to still be drawing breath. I’m thankful that no one else I love has died lately. That my kids are doing okay (Mostly. We all have PTSD from Liz’s death, and it’s taking forever to find ways to cope with that).

I quit drinking just over six months ago. I needed to. I was on an ugly downward spiral as I medicated myself with alcohol every night. I needed to be numb. I won’t apologize. But, I’m totally relieved to not be in that cycle anymore. New Year’s Eve is, like St. Patrick’s Day, traditionally a drinking holiday. I have plans to go to dinner with some friends (and a date; yeah, I’m dating. I’m allowed. Mind your business), but I won’t be drinking. No champagne toast for me. I can’t touch the stuff. I can’t do moderation. I’m either all-in, or I’m out. So, I’m out.

I also don’t really believe in resolutions. I mean, I know they exist. I just don’t make them. I prefer to try to better myself, in small, reasonable ways, over the course of my life. I don’t want to select a basically random date and make all my effort then. Seems like too much pressure. Your mileage may vary. Some folks need the hard deadlines. I don’t.

So, I’m not going to say, “I’m going to write fifty stories in 2020.” No “I’m going to run a marathon.” None of this “I won’t eat any sweets until at least January 24 (that’s my dead wife’s birthday, which I started typing by accident, because my subconscious is a dick).” Nope. Not my way. Instead, I’m going to try to keep it together, emotionally, as I navigate through the next six months, in this, the second year of widowhood. I’m going to try to make sure my children, now thirteen and ten, are getting what they need, not only to survive, but also to grow into self-sufficient, functional adults. I’m going to write, because I love it. I’m going to try to make each thing better than the last. I’ll read more books. I’ll do crossword puzzles to keep my brain sharp. I’ll exercise nearly every day. I will heal. Because these are the things I do anyway. This is who I am.

If you, reading this, need to resolve to make changes in your life; if you need the hard date of 1/1/2020 to be the impetus for change… cool. You do you. I’m pulling for you. I hope you make it. I hope that, if you don’t, you’re not too hard on yourself. Setting goals is easy. Making them is not.

As for me, I’ll raise a glass (of cranberry juice) to you all. Have a happy New Year if you can. If you can’t, at least keep your head above water. Fight on. Keep going. Because, I believe anyway, we get this one chance at life. We should make the best of it. Hold the ones you love. Practice kindness. Laugh out loud. Get laid. Take a hot bath or shower, and stay in there as long as you want (don’t do this all the time; it’s a tragic waste of resources). Read a good book (life’s too short to read the bad ones, y’all). Stream a fun show on TV. Treat yourself to your favorite food. Eat dessert. Laugh some more.

I’m going to try to do the same. It’s unspeakably difficult to come back from grief with a smile on your face, but it’s possible. I’m working on it. It gets easier with time. If you don’t know what I mean, good. I hope you never have to. If you do, know that you’re not alone. I feel your pain. I understand. It sucks.

But, I find more smiles as I go. I laugh more easily. I’ve even loved again, wonderfully and intensely. That’s in the past now, too, but I cherish it. She and I are still friends (albeit somewhat awkwardly). I’m confident I’ll love again too. I’m healing. Whatever your situation might be, know that you can heal too. It takes time. It takes patience. There will, no doubt, be moments of utter despair (I’ve had more than my share, thanks), but, slowly, you come through it. You’re tougher than you think.

I sincerely hope that 2020 brings you joy, and fun, and the kind of challenges that make you go, “Bring it!” instead of the kind that feel overwhelming. I hope you have love and friendship in your life. I hope you find pleasure in writing. In reading. I hope for the absolute best for you all.

Happy New Year!

Is it? Yeah. It absolutely is.

Thanks for listening.

Ken MacGregor 2019 (for another day)

It has recently come to my attention that men are still, in damn near 2020, writing women as if they were a collection of erogenous zones and nothing else. Stop it.

Seriously, cut it out. This is sloppy, amateurish, inaccurate, and, frankly, insulting. Women, like men, are complex. They’re arrogant, shy, belligerent, kind, messy, obsessive, thoughtful, acidic, and every other damned character trait you can think of. They are not simply bouncing breasts and long, toned legs. They are not meat puppets in skirts.

Stop. Writing. Them. This. Way!

When a man writes about a woman’s breasts, attributing them with personality, or highlighting their physical characteristics over the course of an entire paragraph, it’s like broadcasting to the reading world, “I have no idea what women are really like, because I’ve only ever observed them from a safe distance!”

Women are not mythological, magical beasts with parts wondrous and strange. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Ready? They’re human beings, just like you. They fart, and poop, and hiccup. They dream big and have crushing disappointments. They laugh, and cry, and hate and love, and feel inadequate. Just like men.

So, when you’re writing a woman as a character, try to remember that she’s a real person. Try to avoid focusing on her breasts, on the way they strain against her shirt. No woman alive thinks about her own breasts (outside of sex play) unless it’s because her damn bra is cutting into her shoulders, like it does every damn day, and Jesus Christ, do these things really have to weigh this much?

Another thing: most women, like most men, really do enjoy sex. But, you know what? Most of them also enjoy the lead-up. Not just foreplay (though that’s a ton of fun for everybody, if you’re doing it right); also, the romantic stuff. Kissing. Nuzzling. Slowly discovering someone’s body for the first time. Relishing the pleasing of a partner she knows intimately. If you’re going to write sex, remember, too, that there’s almost always something else going on. There are two (or more) people in the room. They have feelings, baggage maybe; they might be scared, hopeful, overwhelmed, or just insanely horny. People are complicated. Men are. Women too.

Try not to forget that. Women are complicated. Women have feelings. They have brains. They are people.

Nor just T&A. Not just bodies flouncing around for your amusement. And, you know what? This is a good thing to remember outside of just writing fiction, folks. Women are people. It’s not that difficult a concept.

So, the next time you’re writing a woman in a story, put yourself in her four-inch heels; try not to fall over, as you try to navigate her world, her feelings, her mind. And, once you’re there, write her like she deserves. As a real person: flawed; aching; hopeful; terrified; longing; wounded, etc.

Please. For pity’s sake.

Thanks for listening.

I want to talk about envy for a minute. I mean, we all experience it, I’m pretty sure. I certainly do. When I come across a bit of prose that sings, a line that stops me cold, making me wish I was anywhere near that good, I almost weep with envy.

When that happens, I try (and sometimes succeed) to channel that into something closer to respect. I try to think to myself, “Wow… this writer is so great; someday, maybe I can be that good.” I try to use that feeling to motivate myself to be better at this stuff.

Sometimes, it even works.

Here’s the thing I try not to do, and I strongly encourage you to avoid it as well. I try not to be bitter, or angry, or resentful. I try, instead, to celebrate the skill and success of my fellow writers. I try to see their position (typically way above my own) as a place to which I should be ascending, so I can stand beside them. Not to knock them off.

See? That’s the thing: there’s enough room on top of that pedestal for me too. And you. And all of us. The readers out there don’t give a damn if one writer is more successful than another. They just want good stories. And, that’s what we should be giving them.

On a related note, the one thing I consistently tell people, when asked ‘what’s the most important thing for new writers to know?’ is “Don’t be a dick.” When I say this, I mean, of course, don’t be rude. Don’t start fights with other people in the industry. Don’t aggressively push your own work (seriously. Don’t be the one walking around shouting “Buy my book!” in everyone’s face. Don’t do it in person. Don’t do it online. Just don’t do it. If an occasion arises, and someone is talking about how scary hurricanes can be, for example, and you just happen to have written a novel about the devastation from the world’s most powerful hurricane ever… sure. Pimp that work. Use the moment to sell yourself. Otherwise, unless someone asks you about your work, eat some humble pie and keep that to yourself.)

Also, if you ask another writer for a blurb (this is a necessary evil, and I hate it a lot), be polite and respectful, and take “no” with grace. You’re going to get a lot of “no” responses. Especially if you ask big players in the industry. Most writers who do it full-time are extremely busy people, and, much as they might want to help (most do), they simply cannot. Thank them for responding and move on with your life. I imagine the writers I ask feel bad they can’t help. I know I would. I hope to find out someday.

I think we all want to be read widely and loved for our work. I think we all would like to be able to quit our day jobs and support ourselves writing. I think a small percentage of us will make it there. Most of us won’t. Sad, but true. So, if you are one of the struggling ones, who maybe has a small fan base of 10-30 readers (hello, my tiny, but loyal group of people. I love you guys!); if you’re putting the words out there for the world; if you expose your heart to the world… keep it up. The world needs you. We need art, and stories, and escapism. We need to shine the light on the ugliness (there’s a lot of it) in the world. We need to read.

But, if someone else is where you want to be, instead of glaring at them, applaud them. Instead of being unhappy it’s not you there, be happy one of us made it. And, try to remember, we’re all human beings. We all have lives outside of fiction (or nonfiction, if that’s your thing. I try not to judge). We all have feelings, and hopes, and dreams, and struggles. People we love die (don’t get me started). We hurt. We cry. Our children break their arm in a fall (another real-life example from me. What the hell, my life? Why you gotta throw this at me?). We have bills to pay. We have a house that leaks (yeah. Me again). We have a sore back. We’re tired. We’re in chronic pain. Whatever. We’re all in this together. We all serve the reader. We’re on the same side.

Let’s act like it, huh?

Thanks for listening.

Ken MacGregor

I want to talk about something. I mean, that’s why I write these. So, to set the tone, I’d like to quote the following bit of wisdom:

“It only takes one voice, at the right pitch, to start an avalanche.” – Dianna Hardy

Unless you live under a rock, you’ve probably heard that the Game of Thrones series just ended. Now, I didn’t watch the ending. I’m still on Season 5. I know, I know. But, come on. I have kids. I can’t just watch that sort of thing with them in the room, and there are so many other amazing things I need to watch after they’re asleep. I’ll get to it.

Point is, though, that a lot of people are pissed about how it ended. And, that’s fine. They have every right to be upset. Fans get excited. It’s normal.

What’s not normal, and not okay, is this movement to have the show redone to fit their preconceived notions of how it should have been.

Now, I love readers. I truly do. I am one. And, as a writer, I’m nothing without my readers. But, you guys… come on. It’s art. It’s supposed to cause a reaction. You’re supposed to feel things. That’s the whole point! If a book, or movie, or TV show doesn’t end the way you want it to, well… too bad! You want a different ending, you go ahead and write one. You want the story to go the way you think it should, then you need to write the story.

Don’t try to tell Mr. Martin what to write. Don’t tell me what to write. Neither of us is going to listen. In fact, we’ll probably write the thing you’re complaining about, because were contrary like that. At least I am. I’m betting George is too.

And, this is directed at the writers here (whom are also readers, I assume; I can’t imagine being one and not the other)… don’t try to write for anyone else. Don’t try to please everyone. You can’t. Some readers are going to hate your work. Some hate mine for sure. I’m okay with that. Some readers are going to love your work. That’s the best feeling right there. Some are going to think you’re just okay. That’s fine too.

When you try to appeal to all the readers, you’ll most likely appeal to none. Your writing will be washed out, pale, and unappealing. You want to piss people off! You want them incensed. You want them to feel something.

That’s why we’re here. To shake shit up. To make noise. To make waves.

Go use your voice. Start an avalanche. If someone tells you that you should be doing it differently, you can say, “Thank you for your opinion.” And, then walk away, because you don’t need that kind of negativity in your life.

Go art hard. Bleed on the page. Make some noise. Send the rocks barreling down on the readers’ heads. Hurt them. Kill them (This is hyperbole: don’t actually kill your readers. You need them.). Mess their shit up. The good ones, the ones who matter, will thank you for it.

Thanks for listening.

Ken MacGregor

I want to talk about this, but even thinking about talking about it is hard. It’s been a while since I wrote anything for the Brain Babies column on HorrorTree. Some of that is because I’m busy, some of it is laziness, some an utter lack of ideas for topics. But the main reason I’ve been quiet is that my life was torn apart on June 9 of this year.

My wife Liz died suddenly.

She had high blood pressure, and was taking medicine for it, for a long time. She’d been suffering headaches, off and on, for as long as I’ve known her (21 years). But, nobody had any idea this was coming. In her sleep (thankfully), her brain hemorrhaged, and she died.

She was 43.

The death certificate said the time elapsed from “the event” to “actual death” was seconds to minutes. So, she likely didn’t suffer. Small comfort there.

Her family and mine, and many good friends have stepped up to help take care of me and my kids, for which I am profoundly grateful. Another comfort.

She left me a substantial sum in life insurance, and Social Security is paying survivor’s benefits for my kids. So, we’re not in trouble financially anymore. Comfort number three.

But, she was more than just my spouse. Liz was my best friend. She was my sounding board for ideas. My audience for new jokes. My barometer for what’s too fucked-up for mainstream readers (if she hated it, only a few publishers were gonna touch it). She was my touchstone. My go-to for comfort, solace, laughs, snuggling, sex (she really, really liked sex. I miss that a lot).

I’m sure you’ve all heard of the different stages of grieving. I’ve hit ‘em all. But, the two overriding emotions, the two defining characteristics of who I am now, are anger and pain. They are my constant companions.

Sure, I can joke (usually gallows humor, but that’s not new for me). I can laugh, and play, and have fun. I go to work, five, sometimes six days a week. I function. People tell me I’m doing well. They’re impressed. But, they don’t know. They have no idea how fucked-up I am. Always.

I am writing again. And, just like before, sometimes it’s easy; sometimes it’s pulling teeth. But, here’s the thing: when you lose your partner, when your life has been shattered by something so catastrophic, it affects you in every way. My grief bleeds into my fiction. I see death everywhere. This is actually a plus for a guy who writes mainly horror, I guess.

I edit, too, for a small press in Washington State. It’s uncanny how many horror stories feature a dead spouse (or partner) as a pivotal plot point. Every time I read one, it triggers me.

I don’t want to be a tragic figure. I don’t want to make people uncomfortable when I walk in the room (“Oh jeez. There’s the guy who lost his wife. What do I say to him?”). I don’t want pity.

I do want people to cut me some slack, which they mostly do. I might miss deadlines. Don’t hate me for it. I just can’t seem to get motivated to work on stuff right now. Seems so unimportant. Once your spouse dies on you, pretty much everything else in life fades into who cares?

Except my kids. My kids are still paramount above all else. I mean, of course. Also, we’re all we have left, me and them.

I’m not sure I’m going to submit this to Stu. I’m not sure I want this out in the world. It’s not even so much about writing through grief as it is about just coping with it. But, maybe that’s enough. Maybe someone out there reading this is going through something similar. Maybe seeing that you’re not the only one feeling this, not the only one suffering a thing that cannot be abided, will help.

I’m trying to keep it together, and most days I do a passable job. But, it’s a thin veneer between me and despair. I have help. I hope the rest of you do, too.

So, there you go. My rambling, semi-coherent rant about grief with a nod to how it affects my writing. Thanks for listening. I don’t know if any of you will get anything out of it, but it helped me a little to write it. It helps to articulate my pain. A little. Comfort number four.