By Brian Keene
The muses are monsters. With them, we are living and die.
Since his earliest tales, Brian Keene has deconstructed the mystique of the writing existence. Isolation, relationships misplaced, lengthy hours, inconsistent paychecks, heartbreak are all a part of the activity. Keene has unflinchingly laid naked the realities of the full-time author. Where we are living and Die collects Brian Keene's most sensible tales concerning the writing existence, together with his metafictional ghost tale masterpiece "The woman at the Glider," a glimpse of Adam Senft (from Keene's Dark Hollow and Ghost Walk) in Hell, and a never-before-printed spoken note poem encapsulating the historical past of the horror style. Where we are living and Die is a masterful assortment by way of a Grandmaster of Horror and a fictional guidebook for the operating author.
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Extra info for Where We Live and Die
Sample text
Not the feeling of the house or even of Emma standing out in the hall. It was more like the warm, anxious rush of playing for a stranger. When I took the headphones off and went to the window, though, the backyard was empty. More time had passed than I’d realized and it was starting to get dark. I stared out at the lawn and the bushes, but it was ridiculous to think that someone had been listening. Completely ludicrous, when I was sitting there with the sound filtering through my headphones. I sat back down on the edge of the bed with the Gibson 25 Brenna Yovanoff propped across my knees and played a walking bass line that peaked and dropped and grew until I could feel it in my own heartbeat.
From the floor, the amp hummed softly in the gloom and I felt hazy and numb. Outside, the sky was dark. The house was very bright, which meant my dad was home. He has this thing for electric lights. If a switch can be flipped, he’ll flip it. When I stepped out onto the landing, I had to shut my eyes against the glare. “Malcolm,” he called from the kitchen. ” I went downstairs, blinking and shading my eyes with my hand. He was at the table, and I could tell from his expression and his necktie that he’d just gotten back from the church.
He stood against the counter while I washed my face and avoided looking at my reflection. I nodded and turned off the faucet. ” I wiped my mouth with a paper towel and didn’t look at him. ” My voice sounded hoarse, almost a whisper. “This isn’t funny,” he said. “Do you think you should maybe go home? If you went easier on yourself, maybe—” Then he just stopped talking. I jammed the paper towel in the trash and reached for another. He came up behind me. ” When I turned to face him, he was staring down at me.