Where We Live and Die
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The muses are monsters. With them, we live and die.
Since his earliest stories, Brian Keene has deconstructed the mystique of the writing life. Isolation, relationships lost, long hours, inconsistent paychecks, and professional heartbreak are all part of the job. Keene has unflinchingly laid bare the realities of the full-time writer. Where We Live and Die collects Brian Keene's best stories about the writing life, including his metafictional ghost story masterpiece "The Girl on the Glider," a glimpse of Adam Senft (from Keene's Dark Hollow
) in Hell, and a never-before-printed spoken word poem encapsulating the history of the horror genre. Where We Live and Die is a masterful collection by a Grandmaster of Horror and a fictional guidebook for the working writer.
for him, he growled again. His eyes never left the spot at the top of the hill. I looked around, thinking he’d seen an animal, but the driveway was deserted. Annoyed, I picked up Max, sat him down and then took Sam inside. When I came back out, Max had run off to the garage and was standing outside the door, meowing to be let in. Although he is an outdoor cat, Max sleeps in the garage at night. It provides him safety from the cold in the winter and protection from nocturnal predators like
he’d been afraid of. His wife of seven years, Cassi, was out of town. She worked as a corporate trainer for a large commercial real estate company (because her husband’s income was unreliable), and once a year, all of the company’s employees went on a mandatory week-long retreat. This year, they were in Utah, enjoying steak dinners and attending seminars about things like team-building and synergy. Brian liked to tease Cassi about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He hadn’t
footnotes. It will feel just like any other manuscript. Maybe then I can get at the truth. We’ll call it meta-fiction or gonzo—the blending of fact and fiction, the inserting of the author into the narrative. If it’s good enough for Hunter S. Thompson and Tim Powers and Stephen King (who inserted himself as a character into the Dark Tower series) then I reckon it’s good enough for me, too. More tomorrow. Got up at 5:30am this morning. It’s now 11:07pm and I’m frigging exhausted. Been working on
panting and waiting for the room to stop spinning. I told Cassi she should consider my breathlessness a compliment, but she doesn’t see it that way. It concerned Cassi enough that she made me go to the doctor. I hate doctors. I could cut my arm off in a horrific threshing machine accident and I still wouldn’t go to the doctor. But I went for her. The doctor said there wasn’t anything wrong with me. No heart trouble (at least, not yet). No lung trouble. In plain terms, I was out of fucking shape.
and I can’t afford to do it. I’m supposed to take care of them and provide for them and protect them, and in this case, the best way to do those things is to buy another house and get the hell away from here. I wish sometimes that I still had a real job, a job where I operated a machine or moved boxes around, and got a paycheck every week for my efforts. A job with health insurance and a 401K would be nice, too. It would be awesome to have a job where people didn’t email me at the end of the