Indie author and publisher. Creator of weird music and even weirder short films.

You’ll find all the relevant biographical info about me here.

I offer a sizable batch of my stories for free reading and downloading, you’ll find them here.

A number of my books are available for purchase and you can find ordering info here.

I know some of you (many of you? most of you?) view indie/self-published writers with a great deal of misgivings. I don’t blame you. The advent of blogging, print on demand and e-books has led to an explosion of self-published novels and volumes of poetry and the vast majority of them are unbelievably horrible. So bad, I wouldn’t wrap fish in them (real or virtual). In my view, when it comes to self-published offerings, Sturgeon’s Law is too kind—at least 98% of the self-published efforts I’ve tried to read are embarrassingly juvenile and inept. Derivative, tuneless, execrable drek.

I acknowledge that.

Now I want you to pop back to my roster of professional credits, scroll down until you get to the blurbs appearing below them.  I think it’s pretty clear I’m no dabbler.  For the past twenty-five (+) years, day in and day out, I have been putting words on paper.  Writing is my obsession, an essential article of my faith, the activity that keeps me from absolutely losing my mind. Have a glance at one of my stories, a tale like “Daughter”.  If that one doesn’t have you hooked within about ten lines, kid, you’re reading it upside down.

I became an independent author and publisher by choice.  Producing and releasing my own work allows me to present it in the manner I intended; every choice is left to my discretion, from the cover art to the layout. It’s time-consuming, frequently maddening but, in the end, worth it for the control it gives me over all aspects of book production, promotion & distribution.

My books are available through Amazon and can be purchased as e-books from Powell’s, Barnes & Noble, etc.

I hope you’ll take a chance on an author who has taken advantage of the new technologies to present an alternative to the rather dreadful crop of books the trads (traditional publishers) have been releasing since they went corporate and lost their souls. My stories and novels are thrilling, original and literate. They transcend easy genre classification; years ago, someone referred to my odd oeuvre as “Twilight Zone on acid stories” and I suppose there’s some truth to that. I draw inspiration from the surrealists and my work frequently displays more than a passing affection for the macabre.

If you’re feeling a bit flush this month, experiencing a craving for a much-needed mental goose, give some thought to picking up one of my books or downloading some of my stories.  It’s simple, just a matter of a few clicks of your mouse.  Remember how bored you were the last time you walked through a bookstore? Unable to find anything that spoke to your particular zeitgeist. Now’s your chance to veer off the beaten track and discover an author who makes no attempt to cater to the marketplace or kowtow to editors and agents.

But be warned: here there be tygers.  My writing takes a toll on readers who have been lulled into lazy modes of thinking. My fiction is a wake up call, a warning klaxon, a condemnation.  You can do a lot of damage with a steady hand and a sharp scalpel.

Time to check out some of my work. Go ahead. What are you waiting for?  You’re not scared, are you?

My preparations for the new year took up two entire days—I have this annual ritual, y’see, cleaning my office from top to bottom, rearranging things, paring it down, etc. etc.  I also take time to outline my anticipated schedule for the coming year and draw up a list of resolutions.

With regards to the former, well, schedules are made to be broken.  I thought I had 2011 figured out…until a western novel called The Last Hunt announced itself in February and proceeded to hijack the entire year.  To be clear:  as I wrote out my preview for 2011 on or around December 31, 2010, I had no idea that in the very near future I’d be taking a crack at a western.  My Muse can be quite perverse. Don’t get me wrong, I love westerns but I’ve never envisioned writing one.  Never even fantasized about it.  “Wouldn’t it be cool…”  Nope.

As for my resolutions, I generally do try.  Most of them I’ll keep to myself but one thing I’d dearly love to work on is enjoying myself more, having more fun with the entire process of writing.  Does it always have to be so freakin’ stressful and fraught?  Is there a way of easing up without damaging the power and integrity of my work?

Last year I made the pledge to read more, took on the “100 Book Challenge” and managed to make it (105 was my final tally, thank you very much).  In 2012, I want to keep up that momentum but this year I was to concentrate on BIG books, fat, smart books crammed with great writing and daunting ideas and notions.  I’ve already put a few aside:  William Vollmann’s Europe Central, Jonathan Littell’s The Kindly Ones, Blake Bailey’s biography of John Cheever, The History of Christianity by Diarmaid MacCullough and Edith Grossman’s translation of Don Quixote.  Also want to re-read some of my fave Thomas Pynchon books: it’s been a long time and they’re bound to have fresh revelations for me.

Listening to a lot of music in early 2012, tunes by the likes of Brian Jonestown Massacre and A Place to Bury Strangers.  Not much in terms of movies so far, though I’m thrilled to announce we’ve already bought our tickets for this year’s “Silence is Golden” event. The 1924 version of “Thief of Baghdad”, projected onto a big screen, accompanied by a live orchestra.  The cinephile within is swooning…

Sherron, bless her heart, bought me another book case on December 30th so for the next two or three days I moved books around, expanding my Film and History/War shelves, organizing and pondering.  It was fantastic.  I know, it’s ludicrous, isn’t it?  I am such a nerd. But in the Information Era, where computers and gadgets entice us with their tricks and shiny buttons, it’s nice to reconnect with my library.  I’ve spent my entire adult life assembling a pretty decent collection of tomes and I love having them available, on display, rather than stored in our ancient stone basement, vulnerable to all of the environmental hazards to which paper is prone.

Software comes and goes but my books remain—faithful, accessible, relics of other, less hectic, times.  I have all the novels and short stories Philip K. Dick published during his lifetime.  I possess every golden word the great James Crumley committed to paper.  The covers a bit tattered, the spines showing wear and tear.  A substantial proportion of my books are used, remaindered; cast-offs and rejects.  But they occupy places of honor on my shelves.  Most of the authors dead, many of them all but forgotten.  Preserved in my odd collection, my assorted odds and ends and incunabula. All of it reflecting the weird, far-ranging tastes and interests in its curator.  Eclectic, if you’re being kind, though a true adept might discern much, much more…

I like Philip K. Dick’s term:  Vast Active Living Intelligence System (VALIS).  At least it gives some kind of scale to the forces we are talking about.  Divine powers of creation that can birth galactic super-clusters and knit it all together with a physics so neat and concise it can very nearly be reduced to an equation.  A few numbers and letters that denote paradigm shifts.

Some religions and belief systems hedge around the naming or depiction of their gods and/or lords of creation. Superstition…or an acute understanding of the power of words?  The periodic table, after all, nothing more than rows of nonsensical letters that, when properly arranged, become us.

Lapse (III) (Free ambient music)

I confess it:  I love it every time December 25th rolls around, and Christmas morning still sees me scrambling down the stairs, bright and (too) early, poking under the tree, pestering my wife to hurry up as she makes us her customary scones.  It’s ridiculous, I’m pushing fifty and there’s no excuse for such silly behavior.

But I was the kinda kid who avidly followed reports from CKOS-TV (Yorkton) on Christmas Eve, an announcer glibly informing gullible dopes like me that our military radar (Canada’s famed Distant Early Warning System) had picked up Santa’s sleigh as it departed the North Pole and his stupendously improbable round-the-world odyssey had begun. And, yes, later on, I’d be in bed, straining for the sound of hooves clattering on the roof. Swear to God. So I guess you can see why so much of my fiction tends toward the fantastic. It comes honestly.

Both my sons are in high school now so there isn’t that buzz around Christmas that there was in the old days.  We even wrapped their presents early, hoping to draw them like inquisitive ferrets but, well, Sam’s been rehearsing and performing in the school play and Liam wrestles four nights a week these days so they’re quite preoccupied with matters other than rattling boxes and guessing their contents.

Not that it would do any good—I’m a devious wrapper, cleverly disguising even the most modest gift so that by the time I’m done the Amazing Kreskin couldn’t tell you what’s in there.

Christmas is a time of kicking back, reading, relaxing, watching movies…which reminds me, I’ve got to dig some of the classics out of the basement storeroom:  “Charlie Brown Christmas”, “Muppet Christmas” and, it goes without saying, “Santa Claus Vs. the Martians”.  Lots of family time, lots of time in front of the fireplace, lots of…turkey.  Turkey, turkey and more turkey.  That is absolutely mandatory.

Editing on my western novel has been especially intense for the past three weeks. I wanted to have a good draft of The Last Hunt by Christmas Eve and it looks like I’ll achieve my goal.  That will make it easier for me to take a few days off, rest and recharge before I do a final polish of the novel in the New Year.  Everything on schedule, nothing to get uptight about.  Easy, boy, easy…

Here’s wishing you a cheery, laughter-filled holiday season. Remember to spare a thought or two to those less fortunate, drop a few bucks in the hand of a street person, send a check to the Stephen Lewis Foundation, do what you can with what you have to make this world a little more humane and compassionate.

Oh, and, ah, KEEP READING.

Murderous.

The intensity, the focus on detail.  Grinding away, page after page, trying to maintain a consistent tone and voice.  Staying honest to the traditions and tropes of the western genre without resorting to formula. Making characters from another era speak to readers across a chasm of time, inspiring their concern and empathy.  One of the problems is that my protagonist, Frank Seaver, is such a taciturn man, not prone to confessional type statements or emotional outbursts.  A tough guy who reacts out of instinct; normally passive, but deadly when provoked.

All my research on the Old West, the resources I’ve assembled over the past ten months, has stood me in good stead.  I’m able to more fully inhabit my fictional world, get some sense of what it would be like, should I step off a passenger car in Livingston, Montana in 1884 or happen to be riding horseback through a copse of lodgepole pine trees in Yellowstone Park, part of a group hunting a legendary beast…

Only a small portion of that research will be in evidence when The Last Hunt is published in March, 2012. To weigh a narrative down with reams of detail kills suspense, slows pacing to a crawl…and I’ve always been a minimalist when it comes to description. No, the research was for me—to help pry this spoiled and pampered brat out of 21st Century and force me to take on the persona of one of the last of the great gunfighters, a man rendered obsolete by modernity, on the run and seeking one more chance at a new life.

I’ve read as many books and articles as I could get my hands on, wrote and spoke to historians and curators, visited museums and viewed private collections, made a special trip down to Yellowstone this past summer with my father-in-law—all part of imagineering a credible, authentic depiction of that time/place and the people who might have lived there.

Now I’m getting down to the nitty gritty.  This past few weeks of revisions have added twenty-seven (27) pages to the manuscript, providing a much more nuanced and layered backdrop for the settings and players. Very happy with how matters are progressing.  I’m planning on being done this run-through by Christmas Eve.  Relax with my family over the holidays, read a few books (that Blake Bailey biography of John Cheever is particularly enticing).  Then back to it, delivering my final draft by the end of February.

Pop back for further updates as the publication date for The Last Hunt approaches.

And get ready for a fun, fast, exciting read.

When words no longer suffice, I click on Garageband and commence work on some atmospheric, ambient melange, usually employing at least a dozen tracks before I’m satisfied the result is sufficiently whacked out and spacey.  I’ve posted the best stuff on my Audio page and you’re welcome to listen to it, download…have at it.

A couple of years ago I got it into my head to write a murder ballad.  I was raised on Johnny Cash and Hank Snow—one of the first tunes I can remember hearing is Johnny’s spooky version of “The Long Black Veil”.

I think I had that song in the back of my head as I sat down and wrote out the words to “Poor Mary”.  The song wrote itself very quickly—I recall there were only two or three drafts.  But once I finished, it was head-scratching time.  What in the name of God was I going to do with the bloody thing now?  I can’t read or write music, can’t play an instrument.

Ah, but I’m fortunate enough to have a pal who can pick and strum and carry a tune.  So I handed the lyric sheet over to Laird Brittin and asked him if it was possible to create an actual song out of the few lines of poetry I’d composed.  He liked the lyrics and came back with an arrangement that is nothing less than stunning.  If you like “Poor Mary”, the vast majority of the credit goes to Laird, who truly found the perfect “sound” for the piece.

To give the tune a listen (it’s only three minutes and some long), click on the following link:

01 Poor Mary

This happens to be my 200th blog post and I can think of no better way of commemorating that milestone than releasing “Poor Mary”.

Special thanks to Laird for recording, arranging and mixing this version.

My appreciation, as well, to the many, many folks who still make a regular habit of stopping by this blog and checking out my take on “the writing life”.  It ain’t a particularly rewarding or empowering existence/vocation, but I’ve never regretted my decision to go the “indie” route.

It takes its toll but if this approach allows me to fully express myself as an artist, as someone with a unique perspective on the multiverse, I’ll accept the consequences, come what may.

And, hey, if I get to occasionally turn my hand to songwriting, come up with something as fun and enjoyable (and good) as “Poor Mary”, then all I can say is fucking bring it on.

“Poor Mary”  © Copyright, 2010 by Laird Brittin & Cliff Burns  (All Rights Reserved)

No commercial use of this song is permitted.

]]> http://cliffjburns.wordpress.com/2011/11/29/poor-mary-a-murder-ballad-free-music-for-downloading/feed/ 3 Cliff Burns jcash l http://cliffjburns.wordpress.com/2011/11/24/talkin-turkey/ http://cliffjburns.wordpress.com/2011/11/24/talkin-turkey/#comments Thu, 24 Nov 2011 15:20:28 +0000 Cliff Burns http://cliffjburns.wordpress.com/?p=3097 ]]> It’s Thanksgiving for our American cousins—it strikes me that late November is a weird time to be giving thanks, especially if you happen to live above the Mason-Dixon Line and your kids have already built a congregation of snowmen in your front yard.

And, frankly, I don’t need the excuse of a national holiday to carve up a turkey and then subsist for the next week on turkey leftovers, turkey sandwiches and, finally, turkey soup (sorry, I just drooled all over my keyboard).  Turkey, mashed potatoes and corn on the cob, with pumpkin pie for dessert.  If I somehow manage to gain admission through the Pearly Gates I fully expect that to be the first meal St. Peter and his horde of super-efficient seraphim waiters place in front of me.

* * * * *

Yes, indeed, busy times here at Burns Central:  Sherron seems to have been on the road since her first day back at work in September. Driving hither and yon throughout her massive, far-flung school division, giving workshops and presentations. She’s seen more of this area of the province than this homebody ever will.

Both my sons are deeply involved in their individual obsessions, namely, submission wrestling and film-making.  Sam and his creative partner Sean hope to have a short movie ready to enter in the “Youth” component of the Yorkton Film Festival and are collaborating on a script. I accompanied Liam to his twice-a-week wrestling session last night and my 48 year old body recoiled and quaked when I saw how those young lads (and one lass) were bending and twisting each other, their bodies impossibly elastic. I was one of those seriously inept, uncoordinated kids who couldn’t even stand on his head so watching my athletic oldest son going through the paces with grace and strength fills me with immeasurable pleasure…and pride.

Meanwhile, I continue to labor away on my western novel, The Last Hunt.  Two consecutive weeks of 12 hour days, grinding and polishing, adding in some of the research material I gathered during my Montana sojourn this summer.  Still insisting that I will release the novel in late March (2012), come hell or high water.  But it ain’t been easy and my body is feeling the effects of the strain.

You’d think after 25+ years I would have learned how to pace myself, manage my time and energy more effectively.  Er, no.  Instead, I completely immerse myself in a project for prolonged intervals, work myself into a state of exhaustion and then, literally when my body-mind-spirit can take no more, I pronounce the story/novel finished…and collapse.  At that point, I usually come down with a nasty virus which lays me out for a week (complete with cold sores, intestinal problems…ah, fun).

How does that gibe with your methods?

And then I read a comment by self-publishing’s latest superstar, Amanda Hocking. Yes, she of a million Kindle sales.  She states, without an ounce of  self-consciousness, that she writes her juvenile vampire novels in about 2-4 weeks.  That’s right, all you fuckheads who were stupid enough to download her awful tripe, a month (usually less) to write a novel. And some of you “writers” out there actually hold her up as an example of a successful author, someone you’d like to emulate.  Message to you wannabe assholes:  I spit in your face.  You disgust me.  May your fingers rot off your hands and your putrid brains liquify in your paper-thin skulls. Leprosy and ALS are too good for you.  I loathe you and what you and your ilk are doing to literature.  You are nothing more than ambulatory turds.

But I won’t cede the field to you, do you hear me? I refuse to allow your excremental scribbling to carry the day. To my last, dying breath I will be composing literate, intelligent, innovative fiction, even if only six people on the planet read it.  I will follow the lead of the Masters, write in defiance of all the trends and market niches, write despite the Amanda Hockings of the world and the offal they disgorge.  Hocking will be nonexistent in a very short time, her moment in the sun is almost up—let her have her money, it will keep her warm as she wallows on literature’s scrap heap, where all the non-talented hacks end up.

I’ll trust posterity and put my faith in the notion that as long as humankind exists, there will be discerning readers and that, eventually, my work will find the audience it deserves (even if I’m long gone).

I’d rather work for nothing than be stinkin’ rich and unable to look at myself in the mirror.

Which begs the question:  what price do you put on your soul?

“B.C.” comic strip by Johnny Hart

You can find it here.

In terms of a teaser, have a look at  “Eyes in the Sky” excerpt.  Now, don’t you want to read the rest?

Well…

It’ll cost you a mere $.99 to download my spooky “what if…” tale, a possible past where there is no such thing as either a Nuclear or Space Age.  10,000 words long and a helluva bargain at less than a buck a pop.  I wrote an “Afterword” for it too.  A little added bonus.

I’m still not sold on these gadgets and readers but the nice thing about the Kindle is that you don’t need the actual device to read my tale, you can download the software for free from Amazon, read it on your computer screen or iPhone or what have you.  Cool.

History buffs and sci-fi fans are bound to love “Eyes in the Sky”, but I’m also hopeful the general reader will be drawn into the tale and find it entertaining and thrilling.

And don’t forget, “Eyes in the Sky” will also appear in my upcoming short story collection, Exceptions and Deceptions (December, 2012).

An exciting year of publishing ahead, so stay tuned.

I guess it’s November, the silly season as far as creative writing goes, everyone and his parakeet sitting with fingers poised over their keyboards, knowing they’ve only got one month (30 days!) to get started on the literary masterpiece they’ve been nurturing many a long year.  Their one shot a fame and fortune, the right to thrust out their chest and proudly proclaim:  “I…am…an…author.”

NaNoWriMo.  National Novel Writing Month.  Your chance to discover what the life of a real writer is like, a limited time offer whereby you can get an idea of the hardships and tribulations your literary heroes face without, y’know, having to work too hard at it.  And better yet, it’s free…

As my pal Mike Cane has rightly pointed out, playing at being a writer for 30 days is bad enough but then some of these idjits actually seek to publish their wretched scribbling.  Excrete a malodorous e-book or, at the very least, dump long excerpts of it on their blogs or places like Scribd and Smashwords.  Their deftless whack at a romance novel or derivative vampire potboiler or, yes, yet another zombie apocalypse.

Look, kids, you wanna write, write.  Seriously.  Have at it.  Sit down and write your story/novella/book but then work on it, edit and grind away at it tirelessly, revise it with utter ruthlessness.  For months and months.  When you’re sick and tired of it, show it to someone whose opinion you trust, swallow deep, accept any criticisms they offer and then…back to work again.

DON’T post excerpts of your masterpiece in progress.  You might be tempted but please spare the rest of us your early drafts.  Save ‘em for the archives.

DON’T rush it out as an e-book just because the process is quick, cheap and easy.  Invest the time, make your manuscript as flawless as a perfectly cut diamond.  Polish it until it sparkles.

DON’T take on airs of a professional, published author.  Laurels must be earned.

DO join forums where you can share unpublished work with other writers, get more feedback from peers.

DO read and I mean seek out the best authors, not hacks and their semi-literate drivel.

DO remember you’re part of a literary legacy extending back centuries.  You’re seeking to join a fellowship of authors who suffered pain, obscurity, poverty, despair, personal trauma, yet never once abdicated their responsibilities as artists and visionaries.  They refused to compromise or release sub-standard/unfinished work.  Anything they put their name on had their stamp of approval…and still retains its original relevance and power despite the passage of years.

The singer is gone, the song lives on.

* * * * * *

I’ll admit that I’ve been a fierce opponent of NaNoWriMo right from the moment I learned of its existence.  I approach the subject from the point of view of a professional writer with over 25 years in the harness.  Writing is a daily activity to me—I’ve made a lot of sacrifices, paid a big price (physically, mentally, spiritually) for my vocation/obsession.  I take the craft of writing very, very seriously.

And I retain all the respect in the world for colleagues, young and old, who pursue their literary calling with diligence and consistency, not just 30 days of the year but every day, year after year.  I don’t care how many books you’ve sold, where you live or what your field happens to be.  If you’re committed to the regular practice of writing, expend enormous time and energy (whatever you can spare) improving in your craft, showing unstinting reverence for the printed word, you are deserving of the honorific “author” and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.

Now, let’s go out and stomp some wannabes…

I’ll be the first to admit I have little interest in social networking.  I belong to a group on LibraryThing and sometimes do a little “tag-searching” on WordPress but that’s pretty much the extent of my on-line presence.  I don’t have a Facebook or MySpace account and my virtual address book has less than a hundred contact names.  The greatest tool of communication ever devised right at my fingertips and I use it as a glorified typewriter.  Gawd, I’m dumb.

But for the past while I’ve been playing around with Twitter, working within the limitations of the format to devise little poems or koans or incantations (dunno what the hell you’d call them).  The literary equivalent of gesture drawings, an attempt to sketch out my feelings or preoccupations at a particular moment in time.  No forethought or pre-planning, just zipping down the first impression that comes to mind (in 140 characters or less).  It’s an interesting exercise and I have to say some of the pieces make me sit back and go hmmmmm….