NEIL GAIMAN, SAM McCORD, & THEA GILMORE and TO WHAT INNER MUSIC DO YOU WRITE?

NEIL GAIMAN

He wrote AMERICAN GODS and is somewhat of a literary demigod himself ...

at least to me. And I owe him two debts :

1.) THEA GILMORE :
His blog introduced me to her and her, at that time, latest album, LIEJACKER, with her incomparable song, THE ICARUS WIND.

2.) FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE :
By the time of AMERICAN GODS, I had already written RITES OF PASSAGE and ADRIFT IN THE TIME STREAM.

But his AMERICAN GODS with its Gothic horror, dark fantasy, age-old legend, ancient mythology, and biblical allegory in modern-day settings gave me hope that there was room for my mixing ancient myth with the Old West of Louis Lamour.

Neil Gaiman's AMERICAN GODS has been hailed as a myth for the modern world, exploring with sophistication, complexity, and evocative prose the meaning of what it means to be human in an often inhuman world.

SAM McCORD :
As I wandered in enforced exile from my home during Hurrricanes Rita and Katrina, Neil Gaiman's AMERICAN GODS sparked the thought

of how my undead Texas Ranger, Sam McCord, of the 1850's would fare in the New Orleans of Katrina.

And it made me wonder how the supernatural world he had come to know would have changed with the times.

All of this made me think to ask all of you, my blog friends, what music inspires you as you write? What author(s) sparked you into writing a novel or into writing as a means of creation? I'd like to know.
***
Here's Thea doing a tribute to AMERICAN GODS in her EVEN GODS DO :

THE ICARUS WIND AT MIDNIGHT

I am preparing to go down lonely, dark rural roads to bring very rare blood to a struggling baby.And a tune is haunting me.

The Icarus Wind.

It's a lovely song by the equally lovely {and evocative} Thea Gilmore.

The Icarus Wind is also the spirit which sweeps us up and hurls us into the misty clouds where our dreams live.


It is a dangerous realm. There is no promise of success. And there is no safety net to catch us should we fall.



The post of yesterday brought back memories of my bookstore and my customers.

Yes, I owned a bookstore for a time. I needed an understanding boss who would allow me to accompany my mother on her distant trips for chemotherapy and radiation treatments.

I figured I could be pretty darn understanding.



So I emptied my savings, and with the added financial help of two good friends, I started my bookstore. I had not thought of sales as a way to make a living. But luckily, the people coming in pretty much knew what they wanted.



After coming in for awhile, they knew I wasn't going to hard-sell them anything. I got to know them and pointed out things I thought they'd like. I was usually right.



And it's come to me that once again, as with my bookstore, I am back in sales ... in a sense. But only in a sense. Like in my bookstore, I have to get to know my customer {potential agent.} I have to learn her likes and dislikes.



But unlike my bookstore, the agent hasn't gotten to know the wonderfulness of myself. No. I'm coming in cold.



In another sense, I'm also coming in hot :



no time to build up trust or to ratchet-up the tension. Like a space shuttle without fuel, I'm flying like a razor through the cyber-void. I have seconds, ten seconds if conventional wisdom is correct, to win the agent's interested attention.



That's not much time to hit a home run.



To follow the trajectory of the baseball analogy, I have to quickly present a winning ...



Pitch.


Line Drive.


Home Run.



Think : Speed. Focus. And ... out of the ball park!




My target agent is eye-weary, computer numb, and conditioned by thousands of terrible queries to expect yet another boring turkey.

I have to flash a surprise crack of the bat and get her attention. I'll use my 90,000 word urban fantasy, FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE, for an example {Yeah, what a surprise, right?} :




PITCH :
A man who no longer believes in God must fight a being who believes himself the Devil.



LINE DRIVE :
Doubt. Faith. Death. All three collide in Post-Katrina New Orleans where the dying of the lights bring out the predators from both sides of the darkness.




HOME RUN :
In post-Katrina New Orleans, an undead Texas Ranger battles inept politicians, Russian mobsters, and DayStar, a being with god-like powers.

Helped by a vampire priest, the Ranger faces mounting opposition from all corners of the supernatural realm, all eager to take advantage of the chaos following the hurricane. And in the wings watching the Ranger get weaker and weaker, DayStar sets his last trap for his hated enemy into motion.
*******
Post Script :


Many times we writers don't even get the opportunity to audition for the agent. We get the intern.


Imagine getting your X-ray read. As you hand it in to the desk, you ask, "The doctor will read this, right?"



"No, the intern will."




"She's trained in reading X-Rays?"


"No education. No salary even. But she's optimistic and hopeful."



"Yeah, well that makes one of us."


"Oh, it's always been this way. That's just the way the system works."


"Yeah, they told Lincoln the same thing about slavery."


"Oh, so the intern's been complaining about having to re-arrange the agent's bookshelf, has she?"


"No, I haven't talked to her. So she has to re-arrange the agent's books, too? Where does she find the time to grovel?"


"Oh, there's always time to grovel."


"Words to live by," I smile and walk out the door.


***********
Post script II :


The really great news?

You know what the success ratio for a super-star agent is? 50%.

Ouch. Or not so ouch.

It takes the pressure off. It is what it is. We try our best and enjoy the journey.
*********************
Here's the music video of Thea singing "The Icarus Wind."

THE ICARUS WIND

The Icarus Wind.

It's a lovely song by the equally lovely {and evocative} Thea Gilmore.

The Icarus Wind is also the spirit which sweeps us up

and hurls us into the misty clouds where our dreams live.

It is a dangerous realm. There is no promise of success.

And there is no safety net to catch us should we fall.

Yesterday's post conjured images of absent friends. Many of those friends were customers of my bookstore.

Yes, I owned a bookstore for a time.

I needed an understanding boss who would allow me to accompany my mother on her distant trips for chemotherapy and radiation treatments.

For myself, I figured I could be pretty damn understanding.

So I emptied my savings, and with the added financial help of two good friends, I started my bookstore.

I had not thought of sales as a way to make a living. But luckily, the people coming in pretty much knew what they wanted.

After coming in for awhile, they knew I wasn't going to hard-sell them anything. I got to know them and pointed out things I thought they'd like. I was usually right.

And it's come to me that once again, as with my bookstore, I am back in sales ... in a sense. But only in a sense. Like in my bookstore, I have to get to know my customer {potential agent.} I have to learn her likes and dislikes.

But unlike my bookstore, the agent hasn't gotten to know the wonderfulness of myself. No. I'm coming in cold.

In another sense, I'm also coming in hot : no time to build up trust or to ratchet-up the tension.

Like a space shuttle without fuel, I'm flying like a razor through the cyber-void. I have seconds, ten seconds if conventional wisdom is correct, to win the agent's interested attention.

That's not much time to hit a home run.

To follow the trajectory of the baseball analogy, I have to quickly present a winning ...

Pitch.

Line Drive.

Home Run.

Think : Speed. Focus. And ... out of the ball park!

My target agent is eye-weary, computer numb, and conditioned by thousands of terrible queries to expect yet another boring turkey.

I have to flash a surprise crack of the bat and get her attention. I'll use my 90,000 word urban fantasy, FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE, for an example {Yeah, what a surprise, right?} :

PITCH :

A man who no longer believes in God must fight a being who believes himself the Devil.

LINE DRIVE :

Doubt. Faith. Death. All three collide in Post-Katrina New Orleans where the dying of the lights bring out the predators from both sides of the darkness.

HOME RUN :

In post-Katrina New Orleans, an undead Texas Ranger battles inept politicians, Russian mobsters, and DayStar, a being with god-like powers.

Helped by his best friend, a vampire priest, the Ranger faces mounting opposition from all corners of the supernatural realm, all eager to take advantage of the chaos following the hurricane.

And in the wings watching the Ranger get weaker and weaker, DayStar sets his last trap for his hated enemy into motion.

*******

Post Script :

Many times we writers don't even get the opportunity to audition for the agent. We get the intern.

Imagine getting your X-ray read. As you hand it in to the desk, you ask, "The doctor will read this, right?"

"No, the intern will."

"She's trained in reading X-Rays?"

"No education. No salary even. But she's optimistic and hopeful."

"Yeah, well that makes one of us."

"Oh, it's always been this way. That's just the way the system works."

"Yeah, they told Lincoln the same thing about slavery."

"Oh, so the intern's been complaining about having to re-arrange the agent's bookshelf, has she?"

"No, I haven't talked to her. So she has to re-arrange the agent's books, too? Where does she find the time to grovel?"

"Oh, there's always time to grovel."

"Words to live by," I smile and walk out the door.

****

Post script II :

The really great news? You know what the success ratio for a super-star agent is? 50%.

Ouch.

Or not so ouch. It takes the pressure off. It is what it is.

We try our best and enjoy the journey. Our destination will be what it will be.

*********************

Here's the music video of Thea singing "The Icarus Wind."

THE ICARUS WIND

The Icarus Wind.

It's a lovely song by the equally lovely {and evocative} Thea Gilmore. The Icarus Wind is also the spirit which sweeps us up and hurls us into the misty clouds where our dreams live.

It is a dangerous realm. There is no promise of success. And there is no safety net to catch us should we fall.

The post of yesterday brought back memories of my bookstore and my customers. Yes, I owned a bookstore for a time. I needed an understanding boss who would allow me to accompany my mother on her distant trips for chemotherapy and radiation treatments. I figured I could be pretty darn understanding.

So I emptied my savings, and with the added financial help of two good friends, I started my bookstore. I had not thought of sales as a way to make a living. But luckily, the people coming in pretty much knew what they wanted.

After coming in for awhile, they knew I wasn't going to hard-sell them anything. I got to know them and pointed out things I thought they'd like. I was usually right.

And it's come to me that once again, as with my bookstore, I am back in sales ... in a sense. But only in a sense. Like in my bookstore, I have to get to know my customer {potential agent.} I have to learn her likes and dislikes.

But unlike my bookstore, the agent hasn't gotten to know the wonderfulness of myself. No. I'm coming in cold.

In another sense, I'm also coming in hot : no time to build up trust or to ratchet-up the tension. Like a space shuttle without fuel, I'm flying like a razor through the cyber-void. I have seconds, ten seconds if conventional wisdom is correct, to win the agent's interested attention.

That's not much time to hit a home run.

To follow the trajectory of the baseball analogy, I have to quickly present a winning ...

Pitch.

Line Drive.

Home Run.

Think : Speed. Focus. And ... out of the ball park!

My target agent is eye-weary, computer numb, and conditioned by thousands of terrible queries to expect yet another boring turkey. I have to flash a surprise crack of the bat and get her attention. I'll use my 90,000 word urban fantasy, FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE, for an example {Yeah, what a surprise, right?} :

PITCH :

A man who no longer believes in God must fight a being who believes himself the Devil.

LINE DRIVE :

Doubt. Faith. Death. All three collide in Post-Katrina New Orleans where the dying of the lights bring out the predators from both sides of the darkness.

HOME RUN :

In post-Katrina New Orleans, an undead Texas Ranger battles inept politicians, Russian mobsters, and DayStar, a being with god-like powers. Helped by a vampire priest, the Ranger faces mounting opposition from all corners of the supernatural realm, all eager to take advantage of the chaos following the hurricane. And in the wings watching the Ranger get weaker and weaker, DayStar sets his last trap for his hated enemy into motion.

*******

Post Script :

Many times we writers don't even get the opportunity to audition for the agent. We get the intern.

Imagine getting your X-ray read. As you hand it in to the desk, you ask, "The doctor will read this, right?"

"No, the intern will."

"She's trained in reading X-Rays?"

"No education. No salary even. But she's optimistic and hopeful."

"Yeah, well that makes one of us."

"Oh, it's always been this way. That's just the way the system works."

"Yeah, they told Lincoln the same thing about slavery."

"Oh, so the intern's been complaining about having to re-arrange the agent's bookshelf, has she?"

"No, I haven't talked to her. So she has to re-arrange the agent's books, too? Where does she find the time to grovel?"

"Oh, there's always time to grovel."

"Words to live by," I smile and walk out the door.

***********

Post script II :

The really great news? You know what the success ratio for a super-star agent is? 50%. Ouch. Or not so ouch. It takes the pressure off. It is what it is. We try our best and enjoy the journey.

*********************

Here's the music video of Thea singing "The Icarus Wind."