The story that I had in mind would be nothing more than a novella (I never outline but can usually gauge the length of a story in my head). But then as I started writing it, a character appeared out of nowhere, a very minor character that was nothing more than stage decoration. While the protagonist and another character were leaving a building, they passed a janitor. Why there had to be a janitor there, I had no idea, but the janitor appeared in my head and so I placed him there. And it wasn’t until a few chapters later did the real reason for the janitor’s appearance become apparent, and suddenly what had only been a novella-length work turned into a full-blown novel. The first draft ended up at around 120,000 words and that only took me a few months to write. Then, after a major revision a few years later, it came down to a respectable 100,000 words. Eventually I signed with a new agent who loved the book and he went out with it but, unfortunately, none of the major publishers wanted to take a chance on it as it wasn’t your typical zombie novel.
BN:
Well, that is interesting—writing without an outline—seems to work for you, though. I think the publishers made a mistake by not taking on the book. We don’t need another typical zombie story; we need a book like yours with fresh thoughts and a new plot idea. Your main character in the book, Conrad, just keeps running into trouble at every turn. Did you have to add in-law and marriage problems along with everything else he had to deal with?
RS:
Isn’t it a rule of fiction that you don’t want to make it too easy for your protagonist? :-) As it was many years ago when I first wrote this book, I honestly don’t remember if it was a conscious decision to go so in-depth with Conrad’s wife and sister-in-law. Actually no, that’s not true. When that particular scene I mentioned before with the janitor happened and turned the work into a full-fledged novel, I knew it was important to find out more about Conrad’s wife. And when I did, I found this character who was stuck in this seemingly unhappy marriage. She became a fascinating character in and of herself, and the more I wrote about her, the more I realized just how important it was to show the dynamic of Conrad’s life when he wasn’t hunting zombies. After all, he just wanted to be happy, at least as much as a dead person like him could be happy.
Also, in retrospect, I think Conrad needed the wife and sister-in-law to help show just how different he was from Philip, who eventually becomes the novel’s antagonist. Conrad and Philip are both zombie hunters but are completely different. The thing I’ve always found most interesting about Philip is that he is, obviously, a product of his upbringing. He may be extreme in his methods, but he is just following along with exactly what he had been taught to do, which was to track down and kill the living. I found that, after writing the novel, there was a subtle hint of social commentary about our world and, well, terrorists. Why do they hate Americans? Because that’s what they’re taught from the very beginning. They know no other way.
BN:
In the book, the living dead are the normals, and the living are the zombies. I noticed you made sure that your character’s dialogue made sense, for example, “I should expire you right now” instead of “I should kill you right now” (since they are already dead), and also they never said anything about their “life”—instead it was their “existence.” Was it hard keeping the dialogue consistent while writing the book?
RS:
From what I remember, it wasn’t too difficult to keep these straight. I knew right away that they obviously wouldn’t say the same things the living humans would say and had to think of something to switch them out with. And “existing” and “expiring” seemed to make the most sense, and I think they work pretty well. But I should note that it wasn’t until I read through the novel again recently to prep it for this e-book did I notice that I had previously referred to the dead’s living rooms as … living rooms. It was such an obvious mistake I couldn’t believe I’d missed it before and quickly went and changed them to the proper “existing rooms.”
BN:
Do you think a zombie apocalypse is likely to happen? Would you be a survivor?
RS:
A year ago I would say no, a zombie apocalypse would not be likely to happen, but then you have something like the recent earthquake in Japan and what happened at the nuclear plant and you have to wonder if something like that could happen again, but even more terrible, and if too much radiation was given off … well, it’s something I definitely don’t want to think about. But would I survive? Sure, I remember all the rules Jesse Eisenberg’s character came up with in
Zombieland
.
BN:
If you were starting over, knowing what you know now about the book, is there anything you would do different? Is there something you wish you would have included in the book? Something you wish you would have left out?
RS:
You know, I don’t think I would change a thing. As I mentioned, this novel had been sitting on my hard drive for quite some time, and if I had wanted to change something, I definitely would have done it. In the end, though, I’m very happy with how it turned out, even years later.
But I will mention the idea had crossed my mind to create a sort of religion for the animated dead. Like, I thought it would be interesting for them every week to attend some kind of church service which would be, of course, mandatory. Plus, it would provide something different to the dialogue for when they cursed or, as we would do, take the Lord’s name in vain. But, had I done that, it would have created another complexity to the novel, and I think the book had enough complexity already. In fact, I think the main reason I didn’t end up doing that is because, ultimately, it wouldn’t have added anything essential to the storyline. Plus, the novel is already so fully charged with a social commentary on brainwashing and government control that I figured adding religion to the mix might not be the best idea.
BN:
Thank you again, Robert, for the opportunity to learn more about your book. Is there anything else you want to say to your fans? How about some sage advice you could give to aspiring authors and young people who enjoy writing—any thoughts?
RS:
Thank you, Bill, for reviewing the novel and interviewing me. I wouldn’t say I have any fans, at least not yet, but I would like to thank those readers who have taken a chance on this novel or any of my other work. With so much to read in the world right now, the fact that any of you would take a few hours or more out of your day to read something I created means a lot. And to aspiring authors, I guess the best advice I can give is to just never give up. It sounds cheesy, but it’s the truth. Rejection oftentimes turns young writers off right away, but rejection is just the nature of the game. Everyone gets rejected, even the pros.
Also, with how technology is making it so very easy for writers to upload their work on the Internet, I think it’s important to remember to have patience. Make sure your work is the very best it can be before you eventually try to have it published, be it by yourself or with a major publisher. Because you only get one shot with new readers; if they aren’t impressed right away, you’ll probably never get them to read anything else you write, no matter how good it might be.
Continue
reading for an excerpt from Robert Swartwood’s supernatural thriller
The Calling
.
When eighteen-year-old Christopher Myers’ parents are murdered, something is written on his bedroom door, a mark in his parents’ blood that convinces the police the killer has targeted Christopher as the next victim. To keep him safe, he travels away with his estranged grandmother and uncle to the small town of Bridgton, New York. And it’s in Bridgton that he meets an extraordinary young man who has come with his father to stop an unrelenting evil. Soon Christopher learns of the town’s deep dark secret, and how his parents’ murder was no accident, and how he has been brought to Bridgton by forces beyond his power—forces that just may threaten the destruction of all mankind.
Advance Praise for
The Calling
“
The Calling
is a powerful, gripping and terrifying novel, the sort that possesses your whole life while you’re reading it; it’ll stalk you through the day, and inform your dreams. Swartwood has delivered a novel that will become a classic.”— Tim Lebbon
“Robert Swartwood’s
The Calling
is a diabolical rocket sled of a psychological thriller. Told through the vivid, almost druggy point of view of a young man on the edge, tangled in a web of tragedy and surreal horror, Swartwood’s novel gets under the skin and stays there. Highly recommended.”— Jay Bonansinga
Prologue
L
ife isn’t fair.
It’s an old adage, a tired cliché, but you know this to be true. You’ve known it all your life, ever since you were a boy.
Like when you were forced to eat all your Brussels sprouts before being allowed to leave the dinner table. Or when you twisted your ankle on the first day of middle school practice and couldn’t play soccer for the rest of the season. Or when you asked Lydia Mynell out and she said no and then avoided you for the next two weeks, which you later admitted was a pretty impressive feat in itself as your lockers stood side by side.
Life isn’t fair, but who said it would be?
Your parents certainly didn’t.
Not your father, an intelligent, hardworking man who has been laid off three times from jobs at which he excelled. A college graduate, he now works as an assistant grocery manager at the local Giant, earning much less than he did at all of his previous jobs.
Not your mother, a smart, compassionate woman who teaches children with special needs. You were thirteen when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. You were fourteen when she began her treatments, when she lost her hair and over the course of five months went through at least a dozen different wigs.
Your parents are a testament to the fact that life isn’t fair, yet they’ve never complained. Even when your father worked at a temp agency to help make sure the bills were paid on time, even when your mother lay in what everyone believed was her deathbed, they never said boo.
They always stayed positive, no matter what happened. Always smiling. Always holding hands. Always telling you they loved you.
It’s because of them you began to understand it doesn’t matter that life isn’t fair. No matter what it throws at you, how many curveballs, it’s your job, your purpose, to do your best. To never complain. To always put one step in front of the other and keep walking.
Then one morning, the day after your high school graduation, you wake to a faint distant buzzing noise. You open your eyes, roll over in bed, and look at your alarm clock. It’s eleven-thirty. The distant buzzing is coming from your parents’ room. You’ve heard it for as long as you can remember, and it’s okay, because soon the buzzing will be turned off.
You roll back over, reposition the pillow, and close your eyes.
And still the buzzing continues: a repetitive
bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp
that has begun to drill into the side of your brain.
You sit up, propping your elbow on the bed, and yell for someone to turn it off. You wait a few moments for a reply, maybe even silence, but all that answers you is the buzzing.
You yell again, louder this time, and glance back at your own alarm clock. This early morning insanity has been going on now for five minutes. It feels like an hour. Grumbling under your breath, you throw off the sheets and get out of bed.
Opening your door, you yell for your father. No answer, so you yell for your mother. No answer still, none except that annoying low
bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp
, which is much louder now that you’ve stepped into the hallway. You call out one final time, but when still no answer comes, you start to make your way toward their bedroom.
Their door is closed. You knock, once, and call their names. Once again, no answer comes, and for the first time in the couple of minutes you’ve been awake, you begin to worry.
Placing your hand on the doorknob, you notice you are shaking.
When you open the door the first thing that hits you is the smell. Like a massive fist, it knocks you back just a couple steps, and for a moment you aren’t even aware of what you’re staring at: you aren’t aware of the two bodies on the bed, of all the blood.
Your stomach tightens. The house begins to spin. Putting your hands to your mouth, you back away. You realize you’ve stopped breathing and in your throat bile is rising, and you look around the hallway, at once feeling frightened and alone.
A dream, you tell yourself, this is just a nightmare, and any moment now you will wake up, you will open your eyes to the sound of a distant buzzing coming from your parents’ room—the same very buzzing now crying out inches from their dried blood and cold flesh.
Bile is still in your throat, but you’re able to keep it down, you’re able to start breathing again. Lightheaded, disoriented, you turn away and head toward your room, the only thing you still know and trust.
And you see it.