Charles Manson is Dead, but There is Still Time to Help Another Family

Okay, that might be a tacky title, but it probably got your attention!

I’m wrapped up in a court battle right now and have decided to turn to the generosity of the internet and hopefully you to help my family out of it.

This is the link to the GoFundMe explaining what is needed. Basically I have been forced to represent myself in court for nearly the last year and it’s time to get tough and put an end to this drama.


Where were you when JFK died?

This isn’t a post about JFK.  But it’s a touchstone of our generation, it’s about something that became a focus for our lives, a lens to which we have been held to and hold things to for nearly 20 years.

When I was a kid, I never understood why the adults would get melancholy and say, “Do you remember where you were when they announced the President had been shot?”  No need to designate which President.  Everyone knew the answer, even though Reagan had been shot.  McKinley had been shot.  Andrew Jackson.  Lincoln.  Nope, this was of course Kennedy.  The babyboomers’ own King Arthur who held court at Camelot.  A man, who from a distance, seemed like a baby-faced quarterback telling all of us to go long with our hopes and dreams, in some weird Hail Mary pass that would take us…well, shit, nobody knew where it was taking us, because he was shot in Dallas, and from that moment on so many people remembered exactly where they were.

That moment in time was indelibly etched into their collective memory, like those shadows on the wall in Hiroshima that marked where people had been standing when the bomb went off.  Maybe that was the moment for that generation to remember, when mankind had unleashed its very own Destroyer of Worlds onto itself.  My second grade teacher, my parents, so many other people of that generation often said, “I was sitting in class when the announcement came.”  Some started crying.  History filled in the details.  JFK had some shady goings on.  Associations with the mafia, Marilyn Monroe, infidelity. The beginnings of the Vietnam War, which at the time was a scar on the American psyche and maybe one of the biggest polarizing factors of recent times in our history.  Well, other than the Civil War of course.  We still feel the aftershocks of those times.  The divide in the nation between rural and urban, conservative and liberal, atheist and religious, black and white, gay and straight, peace and war.  McDonalds and Burger King.  You get the idea.

But at that time, regardless of politics, it seemed that people could agree on one thing: JFK was shot in the head in his motorcade in Dallas and everyone knew where they were when it happened.

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, I was working as tech support for Polaroid digital, making around $7 an hour.  I was married and my wife was at home, extremely pregnant.  It had been a long, hot summer without air conditioning and only a swamp cooler, which lived up to its name, since it just made everything swampy, to cool the house.  The days were getting shorter and cooler.  We had finished painting the baby’s room and put a wallpaper boarder up as well.  Watercolored turtles and ducks and other forest creatures.  We had a crib, which her grandmother had bought for us.  Everyday at work, my coworkers–mostly grandmas needing to supplement their incomes, or high school dropouts, lured by the company’s promise to make loads of money–would ask if there was a baby yet.  They knitted us blankets, offered hand-me-down toys, furniture.

The job sucked.  It was one of the worst I have ever done, taking calls from frustrated people on an inferior product.  Most of it was talking them down, calming them down.  Sometimes they were just frustrated and wanted to make someone else feel as bad as they did.  I was good at this job that sucked.  I could usually tame an irate customer and even sell them other things to go with their shitty camera.  I lead sales in our department that month.  I had a baby on the way.  The job wasn’t challenging, other than keeping my talk times down and fielding more calls.  No matter how well you did, from upper management, it was never good enough.  That was a lesson I learned in how the masses are kept down and those in charge will always be in charge.  I didn’t care.  I had a job that was mentally challenging, but I was still applying for other jobs.  I was still writing too.  With the approaching due date, I was going through a lot of things in my mind.  I had the beginnings of a great story in my mind.

I’m romanticizing things. They weren’t all that wonderful.  We were poor.  Fighting constantly.  Robbing Peter to pay Paul and on the verge of bankruptcy.

When the first plane hit, we had been on the phones for about two hours.  We all speculated as to it being an accident.  I talked about how a plane had once hit the Empire State building.  A B-24 bomber.  I like to use these nuggets of trivia in everyday conversation.  We all took turns ducking out and watching the news in the breakroom.  When the second plane hit, we switched our minds from a freak accident to an attack on American soil.  I called my wife from the phone in the breakroom.  She had been watching the news all morning. People falling to their deaths rather than burn alive inside.

Then the towers fell. One by one. Chaos ensued.  The clouds of dust, the people breathing asbestos and instant cancer that flooded the streets, turning Manhattan black as sackcloth.  The footage of the paper spiraling through the air from a hundred ruptured offices.  I just kept thinking “That’s a lot of paper.”

The AT&T group shut down for the rest of the day.  Most of the area they called with NYC and the lines had to be kept open for emergency communication.  As it was, the WTC Towers were said to have carried most of the cellular reception for the city.  People were in tears, saying that they had just spoken with someone who had worked there the day before. I tried to remember if I had spoken to anyone working in the WTC.  I realized it was better not to think about it.

I finished out my shift at 3 in the afternoon.  Gas prices had already jumped up from $1.25 per gallon all the way up to $2.54.  It was insanity.  Lines were forming as people began to hoard fuel.  When I got home, my wife and I had gotten sick of watching the news.  I decided to drive to the college and use the computer lab to apply for some jobs. I needed to get out of the job I was in.  We were starving. I was selling blood to help with bills.  I needed something else to think about.  I needed not to fight with my wife because she was in a panic, and when that happened everything was my fault.

So I drove my ’79 Ford Fairmont (my first car, which I bought when I had just turned 16–which was falling apart) to the college computer lab where I used to work.  I applied for some jobs online.  I surfed the internet.  It was nice to be by myself to think for just a moment.  When I got drove off in my car, it sputtered out and wouldn’t start near a church not far from the lab.  I had pushed my luck, deciding to risk the drive rather than fight the lines at the gas pumps.  It was out of gas.  I went to a payphone and called home.  The wife was angry with me for not being at home when we were at war.  I told her I would be home if she would just drive over with the gas can for the lawnmower.  She came to the church and helped me push the car out of the road.  There was no gas in the can.  We had to come back later for the car.  Until my divorce thirteen years later, I heard the story annually, about how I had made my 9 month pregnant wife push a 3,000 pound car on 9-11 and how she thought she was going to just drop the baby right there in the parking lot.  Our son was born six weeks later. 7lbs, 14oz. the cause of his mild autism is probably no more linked to his mother pushing a car than it is vaccinations.

The next day, the skies were clear.  All flights were still grounded.  Airforce One flew over town.  It was the only plane that had been in the sky for two days.  The skies were so clear and blue in Colorado. Unmarred by contrails or the rumble of aircraft other than that one which had flown over so low.  I couldn’t help but think that was what the end of the world would look like.  Clear skies.

So, where was I when 9-11 happened?  On a telephone, listening to someone complain about a cheap digital camera they hated and probably selling them upgrades for it.  It was the day after my 26th birthday, and the first birthday in two years I wasn’t fired on.  We were too poor to buy me anything except for dinner out.  I lied and said it was fine.  Just like I did for the next 13 years.  9-11 marked  a slow and steady descent in our marriage.  Kids and money are stressful enough, but there always seemed to be that shadow hanging over us.  The world wasn’t safe. We worried about chemical or biological attacks at the hospital when she was giving birth.  We microwaved our mail for fear of anthrax being in the envelopes or our mail having touched biological agents that would kill us.

It marked a decade or more of nothing but fear, stirred up by the media with their Fuschia Level alerts and two or more wars going on in the Middle East at any given time.  We didn’t fly anywhere for fear of hijackings or fear of being manhandled by the TSA.  An entire decade of fear.  Gas prices that quadrupled since 9-11.  Fear of foreigners.  Strangers.  An inability to escape.  Irrational, idiotic fear.

And since then, there has been very little reprieve.  The Boomer generation talks about innocence lost when JFK was assassinated and how nothing was ever the same again.  I think that was a drop in the bucket compared to living in a post 9-11 world.  But unlike the unifying factor of patriotism and little boys saluting their dead fathers at Arlington that stir emotions in our hearts, people got angry and terrified after 9-11 and we have yet to mend things.  The only common ground is to know we face a divided country.  Divided in ideals, values, security, morality, politics, and blame.  The last three Presidential elections have been a reflection of this.  The cultural climate is as well.  Media.  Journalism.  Social media (which is neither social nor media) is a driving force in disseminating this.  We are distracted by lists of ten celebrity pics that will blow your mind (#7 is insane!) and layers of disenfranchised generations of Americans, further divided by money, politics, and their personal branding of patriotism.

Maybe the best thing to happen to this country in recent years has been natural disasters.  They remind me of what Mister Rogers said when times are hard.  Look for the helpers.

Americans are still helpers.  I think we can get over the division of this nation if we all decided to help each other every day and love each other instead of dwelling on our incompatibilities.  Or you know, love each other as we would love ourselves?  Somebody said that long ago, but today we aren’t supposed to talk about those kinds of things in polite company.

Wouldn’t it be nice to tell your grandchildren where you were when people finally decided to get their shit together?

Major thanks to Jared Ewy who inspired me to write about some of these thoughts because of his 9-11 post today.

A Long, Long Way to Go



The writing has been stalled a little bit on the book.  I have big ambitions to get it going again.  I feel like I have probably 80% of the plot worked out, 66% of the structure and over half of the chapters written or at least outlined.  I was feeling overconfident of course, because this weekend I had a chance to read some chapters to a friend of mine.  Like actually sit down and read them out loud.  Do you do this in your writing?  You might not. Odds are you don’t.  In my mind, the words were all great, the story was compelling, but when I read them, it was like I was reading a newspaper printed on a piece of Swiss cheese.  The holes and gaps were distracting.  The reaction I got from my audience was more than enough praise to continue with the project, which really is the point, isn’t it? Say what you will about the artist’s drive to produce something they value themselves, but seriously, don’t we all secretly, in our heart of hearts want someone else to enjoy our stories too?

I don’t think there is any shame in that.  At least know the kind of monster you are.  Some people write because it is a compulsion and some people write for attention.  I just want to be honest here and break it down to what it really is:  a performance.  You don’t see actors performing entire plays on their own in their homes do you?  Then why would any writer want anyone to read their work when they could just as comfortably write a book, put it on a shelf or leave it on their hard-drive, indifferent as to whether or not anyone would ever read it?  It is silly and pretentious to say you, as an author, don’t write for your audience.  Don’t play to the audience, but at least be honest with yourself and say you would get a thrill seeing that book on a shelf.  Otherwise, you are either lying or crazy.

Having had my work heard and received well, I realized that the audience it failed to impress was me.  I know I’m a better writer than that.  Granted this was first draft stuff, but I found myself frustrated with the quality of my work.  It resonated with my daughter’s honest review of my book, Song of the Cinder.  She’s 14.  Which means she has no filter when it comes to cutting dear old dad down to size.  She liked the book.  Said it had all sorts of excellent things about it, but I killed her favorite character, almost predictably and the ending felt rushed.

She was right.  The ending was rushed.  I had spent five years on the story from the first short story I had written to the novel it eventually became.  Not saying it wasn’t fun to write, and well-received, but also she was right.  At some point I told myself I needed to just finish the damned thing.  I needed to move on creatively from that story and it was a make or break situation.  Sorta like that old car restoration project your uncle has had up on blocks in his yard for the last twenty years.  Either finish the damned thing or sell it to someone who will!

However, no matter how perfect and well-centered teenaged daughters might be I thought of her advice when I was cleaning her room the other day.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I badgered her all summer long to clean her closet.  She wouldn’t even break stride while she texted her friends and she would simply say, “Okay, I’ll do it tomorrow.”  Well, shortly after sending her back to her mom’s house for the week, I decided enough I-will-do-it-tomorrows had passed.  I chucked two large garbage bags of crumpled up drawings, half-finished projects, and clothes that hadn’t fit for years that had accumulated at the bottom of her closet like some sort of sludge, ideal for the preservation of organic material that could be fossilized for later study by scientists long after humanity has wiped itself out.

I couldn’t even blame her.  She had emotional attachment to a lot of these drawings, though they were treated like garbage, ultimately.  The task must have been completely overwhelming.  That two foot by five foot area may as well have been the Marianas Trench.  She needed someone impartial, cold and unfeeling towards the sentiment of the accumulated crap she had collected there over the years.  She was too close to it to even know where to begin.

Maybe that’s my problem with the book.  Scrivener is an awesome tool for writing, but in some ways I think it makes it too easy to start something, lose it, and never finish it or have to keep restarting it because you can’t find it.  I wrote Cinder on Word, one chapter at a time, rather than one scene or segment at a time.  I compiled it in Scrivener and dumped it into a PDF file for publication.  I have been no better off with it as a writing tool, because it isn’t much help in letting me do the job.  So either I need to figure out a way to stop struggling with the tool, or ditch it outright and go back to what has worked.

Anyway, one thing I do need to do is continue to focus on chiseling away at the novel.  Jumping around might be attractive, but really it’s a matter of getting the words down.  If I write all the fun scenes right off, then what motivation have I got to write the meat and potatoes of it later?  None, really.

So, maybe for your writing, consider reading it outloud to someone else.  Even if they love it, they might just be impressed that you can put words down on paper, or maybe they are jealous and cut your writing down because you finished something that wasn’t a text about how dismal and dark existence is and how High School has no meaning.  I don’t know.  But I do know that maybe at some point I really need to rip and tear, chuck things I haven’t looked at in forever, and just clean out the closet.

I haven’t left off yet!

Sorry, but due to life stuff, I had to take a few days off from the blog.  Luckily it was writing.  Unfortunately, it was writing copy and not working on the book.  I plan on dedicating more time to the book in the next few days, since I am actually pretty sick of writing copy for company blogs right now.

I think this might be a good moment to talk about writing for fun and profit.

The phenomenon known as writing SEO copy or “blogging for dollars” is relatively new, but fairly ubiquitous as far as the internet stands now.  If you have ever clicked on a link, some poor schmuck probably wrote that copy.  Complete with clickbait titles about how Mind-blowing, earth-shaking, unbelievable, shocking, ball-shriveling shit the cameraman saw and kept filming you will never believe!  Yes, clickbait.  I swear the same person that creates porn titles makes these.  Yet we keep on clicking on them.  Now they are tucked into our news feeds on CNN and Yahoo like the heartworm medicine you are trying to sneak into your golden retriever’s food.

Very little of the stuff you read nowadays online is written by writers earning a living wage or editors, fact checkers, etc. that make sure any of this is true.  Even in the early days of online content, there was a buyer beware statement that became kind of a running joke.  “Don’t believe everything you read online.  Including this.”  Then memes appealed to the basest of our insta-gratification monkey on cocaine needs.  Content, regardless of its truthfullness, sorta became optional.  As long as it generated hits.

The way SEO works is Google looks through the content of your “blog” which is really now just a business model for creating random words that string Search Engine Optimization keywords together.  It doesn’t really matter what you say, just as long as Google picks up on those words and when people do a search for them, they bring your page for your business to the first page of search results.  Nobody ever clicks beyond the first page.

The words you put in there might be accurate or helpful or ipsum blahty blah blah blah.  It’s more of a “made you look!” method of advertising.  So when you do a search for “Why do I have white patches on my tongue?” it will probably bring up a dozen or so medical offices in your area, enticing you into their appointment calendar.  Then they can convince you that it’s probably just something you ate instead of what WebMD told you, which is always cancer.

How much do you get paid to generate content?  Well, back in the day, you used to get around $.30 per word.  Which is scale for technical writing. But content mills such as HuffPost changed all of that.  Rather than paying anyone scale, they dropped it down to sweatshop rates.  Some places offer “exposure” which is also the leading cause of death among hikers in Death Valley.

I sometimes get paid anywhere between $2 and $40 per blog.  It varies based on customer or word count.  The article I wrote for Cracked got $100 for a 1500 word article.  Which got heavily edited and I had to share the money and the byline with someone who put almost no effort into it.  By the end of it, the whole process was probably about 30 hours of work.  So that’s minimum wage.  Blogs are more lucrative, but keeping up that kind of pace sucks because they also mean expending writing brain power for informative articles about anything from Alpaca sweaters to painless root canals.  You have to shift gears.  Research.  It’s taxing and trying.  Nobody reads it.  There’s no byline.  The content is owned exclusively by the client, so there’s not even a portfolio I can put them in.  But hey, forty bucks is forty bucks.

Don’t hate the player.  Hate the game.

Writing the book…well, lets just say even if you sell a book to a publisher, in the SF genre, you probably get around $6,000 as an advance.  That drops with each book.  It’s not enough to live on.  Royalties aren’t all that great either unless the book does well.  I have friends who struggle to market their fiction and this is stuff that big deal publishers should be promoting! Self-publishing (which is what I did with Cinder) is even less (unless you recommend it to tons of your friends!)  The bottom line is there is a lot of work going into a labor of love that might not even get you coffee for the month.  I’m not talking a month of coffee. I’m talking about one coffee per month.

So, sure, writing content is selling out a little.  But it allows me to make a little money on the side for a god-given talent and convince myself I’m less of a fraud whenever people hear that I am a writer.

I can answer with confidence.  Yes.  Yes I am. I get paid to write.

How long does it take to write a book?

Answer: It took about five years to write Song of the Cinder. From the first novella I came up with about fighter pilots who tangle with a dragon to the finished product you can buy on or Createspace.

The story itself took about three years. Then two years of editing. Lots of late nights. Lots of rewrites. Lots of procrastination. A year of shopping it out to publishers and agents. Out of 30 of these queries I sent out, I got six partial manuscript requests. Three of those were full ms requests. Unfortunately all of those were a pass, but not because they didn’t like the writing or the story, it’s just they couldn’t figure out an angle to market the damn thing!

So, I decided to self-publish. It became more important for me to let people read the book than it did to rake in that JK Rowling green or sell a treatment to HBO.

Self-publishing is a lot of work. It isn’t just your kooky uncle wanting to write his memoirs or your great aunt wanting to share recipes. With a novel you become your own editor, publisher, art-director, marketer, etc. etc. ad infinitum. You have to change hats completely. It really messes with the creative process. Editors can be writers and vice versa, but never at the same time.

So, then it was a month of just messing with formatting and the cover. I took the picture myself. Formatted everything myself. Took care of widows and orphans and wacky page breaks. There are still a few typos in the book. You will see them.

You can buy my book here, here, and here. Enjoy!


Welcome to the Cinderverse

The somewhat cryptic persona and voice in the other posts is from a world close to, similar, and familiar with our own.  Only about a hundred years in the past.  This post is from myself, Clinton A. Harris, writer, dad, a working schlub most of the time kinda like you.

This is the voice of the author.  I’m here to tell you about the process.  Where the stories come from.  Various meanderings and thoughts that contribute to make the novels I hope you will be enjoying soon.

I see the world in a weird way and I like to tell stories about what I see.  To be honest, a lot of the reason I started writing Song of the Cinder was because there weren’t a lot of books that I could get into.  I was tired of the high fantasy books of farmer boys who became kings and I was frustrated with fantasy tropes where the names contained lots and lots of apostrophes.

For a while, I was writing lots of short stories.  I was even publishing a few of them every now and then.  Nobody gets rich off selling short stories anymore.  That’s a writerly tip. You’ll see those every now and then, interspersed with glimpses into the world my writerly friends and first-readers have nicknamed the Cinderverse.

It’s in the writerly bits that you’ll see how the sausage gets made.  In the other stuff, you might find snippets of chapters, things I have scrapped, standalone stories, or just things that have inspired me here and there.

I liked steampunk because of the imagery.  The juxaposition of low-tech and high.  The Victorian aesthetic which was all about form and status.  Details that we no longer see.  There was a level of craftsmanship in the Victorian world that died out shortly after the rise and fall of Art Deco style.  When people could just have a company in China or Japan stamp out things that were built to fall apart en masse, we lost a lot of cool stuff.

This world isn’t quite steampunk though.  I learned that writing short stories.  Editors got picky about the aesthetic.  They wouldn’t publish stories if one or more elements wasn’t just so.  I guess my stuff is more like dieselpunk.  Or maybe even what they would have called Weird Fiction in the 1930s.  I like blending things.  Magic.  Fairy tales.  Cosmic horror.  Heroic fiction.  High fantasy.  Folklore.

In short, I like writing stories I would love to read.

I hope you enjoy them too.

More will follow.  Here are some links to get your own copy of Song of the Cinder.

A good deal on Createspace.

Or if you prefer Kindle and

Fiction by Clinton A. Harris: Song of the Cinder

If you’ve found this site, you are probably thinking you are in the wrong place.  That’s the first thing you’ve been right about all day.  There’s no going back for you.  There’s only one thing you can do about it.  Have I got your attention?


Let’s begin.

My name is Clinton A. Harris.  I tell stories.  Not much else I could tell you about myself is of consequence.  But in my writing, there is a place that haunts me.  World not unlike our own.  What if I told you that in a not-so-different place, there was a time where creatures of the Other world, known in some circles as the Sidhe, Faerie, the Shadowlands, or a dozen other names.

This story, Song of the Cinder, takes place in the year 1918.  The world is at war.  On the border of Gaul and the Holy Roman Empire, armies of the undead rise from the trenches to fight against clockwork automatons. Storms are summoned against artillery and aircraft instilled with the souls of warhorses rule the skies over Europe.

In this world, the Americas were never conquered by the royal houses of Europe.  Colonies are held in trust by the Seven Nations, a confederacy of tribal states, which lease the lands of the New World to European immigrants.  Instead of mastery of the horse, these indigenous people became masters of the sky.  In Europe, the purging of the Other during a bloody war of 30 years spawned an industrial revolution, placing mechanization over the Folk, all but driving them out of the world.  But there are remnants.  Magic and automation are fused into terrifying machines of war.  Ancient beings and curses are used in the theatre of war alongside bombs and bullets.  Poisonous gas that brings the dead to life and nations to their knees.  Witchcraft, legend, and heroes vying for power in a world turned upside down.  A crossroads of myth and industry at the dawn of the 20th Century.

The first story takes place in the middle of the Great War.  American ace, John Lightfoot, witnesses an airship materialize and explode over no-man’s-land. As cities fall to ash, he and his comrades must stop a madman from severing the ties binding the Beast at the Center of Five Worlds before it can return and create Hell on earth.

This is only the first in a series of tales about this world.  The settings and players might be familiar as all worlds echo and resonate in the spaces between them.