Every time I go to stand up or lift something and I feel all creaky and broken, I think back to all this, and remember how much I prefer groany creaks and leftover breaks to stitches and recovery and PT: I keep these handy/on my phone, so that I won’t get lured into a pickup
Late late late. I feel like the white rabbit. My excuse? Wrapping a big project, putting all my words there. But, c’mon, dude, this isn’t even words, this is just pictures:
Living and dying by Magnum PI growing up, I of course fell head over heels for this color scheme: However, helicopters being far from any reality I knew, and trucks being ALL of my reality, I of course, then, wanted a truck with that color scheme, as Ford was doing in the late seventies: Is
That being Buster’s ‘Welcome home from jail!’ party from ep.5 of the new/current season of Arrested Development, where all the food is limited (“limited”) by his unadventurous palate:
Hey, this tweet got enough hearts that, were it Link, he’d now be functionally immortal. But I guess this is A link, anyway: Never know if you don’t try pic.twitter.com/OIncv7WrqJ — Stephen Graham Jones (@SGJ72) July 21, 2018 Anyway, yes, I subscribe to that philosophy. It’s a big reason I have so many scars, so
Tom Paris, saying aloud the creed I live by, pretty much. And? This is my only persistent problem with intergalactic humans in stories: they always come out of warp at some Mos Eisley of a truckstop and just eat whatever’s being served. I can’t help but think that would be instant death. Not just of
Wending my way through my school’s book-ordering stuff, and I thought, Wait, wonder if I’m in here. Turns out I am. Or, I was, eight years ago. I remember that year, too. I was wondering if I’d ever have another book out. Never really thought I’d have fifteen or sixteen out. Cool. Here’s to eight
I mean, like, literally. Each of these boxes are about fifty pounds, I’d guess: Also the other kind of heavy, though—the Back to the Future kind of heavy, except this is about the past: those are all my papers. Every manuscript, all my undergraduate and graduate files, a bit of teaching stuff, my PhD comps,
Stephen Graham Jones is one of the great writers of his generation, and is not read and celebrated nearly as often as he deserves.#FF him on Twitter as well: @SGJ72 pic.twitter.com/Rs3tf2kEfU — Arinn Dembo (@Erinys) February 26, 2018
Figure everybody needs a Slash-hat, Ozzy-specs kind of author photo. Not that I’ll ever get use this one on a book jacket:
In the shiny new Automata Review: https://automatareview.com/why-i-write-stephen-graham-jones
This is a thrown-together couple minutes—camera crew came to the office, got a reel together to zap to all the news/radio places (thus: I’m on the radio a lot this morning). Also, I hear that I was wrong about Memorial Day. So it goes. Anyway, what I kept getting asked was what’s up with the
http://www.unboundworlds.com/2017/10/long-time-ago-stephen-graham-jones-capturing-star-wars/?ref=PRH96C06AE639&aid=randohouseinc26226-20&linkid=PRH96C06AE639
Best chicken strips in town, and also ever: Dark Horse Bar and Grill. I don’t know what they do to the outside of them, the skin, the batter, but it’s perfect. Best fish and chips in town, and, I’m pretty sure, also ever: Backcountry Pizza. The fish here is somehow very heavy and dense. There’s
For the book that became The Long Trial of Nolan Dugatti, I kept a kind of running diary of the writing of it, The Camopede Files. Was fun. It made me kind of look at my process in a new way, a helpful way. So, when I started Mapping the Interior, I figured I’d try
This must by my first post about food, ever. Anyway, was just commenting on a friend’s pic of a some pie on Facebook—can’t link to it, but the Instagram’d version’s here—and realized that the reason I have yet to try keylime pie (that’s what the pie in question was), even though I promised myself to
This is from Murder by the Book—which shuttered up as soon as I was done, as the rain was coming down, and Houston’s understandably pretty water-shy this summer, and where we were was evidently a place that goes lake just when the humidity gets high enough. That’s the with-specs shot. Here’s the without,where I suspect
Me in my office, playing with all things werewolf related. At least those I could reach without getting out of the camera’s eye. Also some talking, some reading, some injudicious swaying from side to side, like I just spilled koolaid on the couch but nobody knows about it, and I really-really need to get outside, like
Do people say that, “IN” the ABQ, the same way people will identify with a certain area code? Really, I kind of doubt I’m the proper age to try it out, even if it is a thing. But the three-digit rhythm feels right, anyway. As did Mongrels at Bookworks: And, what was cool? They broke
mix Buzzfeed‘s “23 Things that Prove Society is Doomed” with Salon‘s “War & Peace on the Subway: How Your iPhone is Saving Literature,” then angle it through my publicists’ rose-colored glasses, and you end up with something a lot like: 1. Sitting together and reading still counts as socializing: ↳ Via quoteinvestigator.com, once upon a time. 2. It’s
Back in the late nineties, I’d see Stephen Dixon stories all over and flip back to his author bio at the end of the journal or whatever not because I didn’t already know it, but for the rush: it always said he had some three hundred stories published. I had maybe six at the time?
I keep thinking about these two kids who left the theater early. Say, ten minutes shy of the end, right when things were at their goriest, most sacrilegious frenzy. I mean, first and of course, eight- and ten-year-old girls shouldn’t be seeing The Conjuring. Boys either. I’m not even sure I was old enough to
[ this is the script of the pre- and post-words I gave for a charity event Cabin-screening Friday night, down in Manitou Springs ] wolf kisses and bear traps The slasher. We can all make a list of our ten favorite, yes? Which of course we consider the ten best. So . . . that list starts
Man, where to start. How about with John Mellencamp: When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand “Rain on the Scarecrow” came out in 1985, the year Growing Up Dead in Texas happens. Or, that’s when the events happen. Right around that time I remember walking the fence with my
I tried so hard to make a YouTube playlist for Growing Up Dead in Texas. Songs that are in the book and songs that kind of encompass the book. But it wasn’t meant to be; the songs I needed can’t be included in playlists. So, in lieu, I’ll put them all here, in the order that
A while back I was part of the cattle call for what became this article, and just found myself looking this email up as a student was coming to my office to talk about ghosts. So I figured it’d be good if I could see again what I think about them (I know nothing until
by the guys over at Booked. I think we were supposed to go in the area of thirty, not more than forty minutes, so, you know, fifty two, that’s us just completely exercising control, I think. but, I mean, we were talking about zombie and slashers and werewolves (a bit), about horror and hospitals, about
Back in 2005 or so, I was under contract to write a sequel to All the Beautiful Sinners for Rugged Land — they’re gone now, but they were hot for a while, and produced some gorgeous books, and, as far as I know, did the first ever serious book trailer, too (For Henry’s List of
