The blurbs and highlighted reviews for this beautiful hardcover are quick to point out that it’s not your typical zombie novel. And with good cause, as readers get to view the apocalypse through the eyes of a depressed and self-destructive writer trying desperately to drink himself into something resembling Charles Bukowski between gigs as a “driller” for the city of San Francisco.

The perspective is a bit jarring at first, but readers that push on will be rewarded with a rich portrait of a young man desperate for a life he doesn’t feel worthy to lead and a love he can never obtain. In the end, the traumatized, post-apocalyptic version of life in the Bay Area offered by Mamatas feels more uncomfortably real than most fantasies about the end of days.

If you’re looking for a thoughtful journey into a wannabe writer’s apocalypse, with zombies, The Last Weekend will satisfy.  Recommended.

Purchase from: PS Publishing, Amazon

Every trip from Indianapolis to Chicago takes me past Purdue University’s impressive wind farm.  No matter how many times I drive past, it always feels like I’ve been transported into a science fiction movie.  Hundreds of windmills, three hundred feet tall, dot the farmland surrounding I-65.

It’s the perfect location.  The relatively small windmill base doesn’t interfere with farming.  And since the land borders one of Indiana’s busiest interstates, no one complains about the noise.  If you’ve never heard wind turbines in action, this will give you an idea of just how annoying they can sound…

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I’m addicted to quotes, always have been.  I stuffed Breaking the World chock full of them, and now it looks like my follow-up novel is demanding its fair share.  I found this while doing research this week.  It’s perfect for the new book.

 “Rights aren’t Rights if someone can take them away. They’re Privileges. That’s all we’ve ever had in this country, is a Bill Of Temporary Privileges. And if you read the news, even badly, you know that every year the list gets shorter and shorter and shorter.”

– George Carlin

For now, I’ll leave you to wonder what the book is about.  Lots of research happening as I sort through the plot, scribble down bits of character, and dream about the possibilities.  I’m hoping to start writing by the end of next month.

On Saturday, I was honored with the Sara J. Larson Award at the tenth (and likely final) Mo*Con. I didn’t know about the award in advance, and I’m still a bit choked up. The award’s namesake was a beloved member of my writing family, gone far too early, and I still feel her impact on my work.

I feel the same way about Mo*Con.

The gathering Maurice Broaddus organized ten years ago grew into something much greater than a yearly convention.  Mo*Con became a place where differences could be bridged, where friendships could be forged, and where family could be found.  In that way, it became the conversation Maurice always dreamed it would be.

If you can’t tell, I already miss it.

Looking around the room on Saturday, award in hand, I couldn’t help but think of something Kurt Vonnegut’s uncle used to say to him.

If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.