Joel Sutherland author
The following interview is with Joel A. Sutherland, author of Beached in The Beast Within.
Hi, Joel. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Joel Sutherland like?
A: Hi, Matt. I used to haunt this forum all the time, but lately time has been scarce. Other than my job and personal life, I’ve been finishing my first novel, FROZEN BLOOD, which is scheduled for release on December 28, 2008, by Lachesis Publishing. Devout Graveside Tales fans might know me as one half of the editing team behind FRIED! FAST FOOD, SLOW DEATHS (with my wife, Colleen Morris). A day in the life of me? I’m a librarian, a husband, a current Masters student, a new homeowner, a lover of walking the dog, and obviously a writer and editor. It’s a quiet life, but that suits me just fine.
As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?
A: Writer’s block. The easiest way to overcome it is simple: BIC. Butt In Chair. Whenever I get stuck or find the thought of writing to be less than tantalizing, I sit down and force some words out. They’re often crap, but they also often lead to something decent. And it doesn’t count if you’re checking your emails every five minutes, playing Solitaire or surfing the Internet for funny Youtube videos. BIC.
You were the co-editor of Graveside’s first anthology FRIED! Fast Food, Slow Deaths. Has having been in the editor’s chair changed the way you submit fiction to new markets?
A: I appreciate rejections much more now. It made me realize that the editor on the other end isn’t against me in any way, and that sending me the rejection is probably not a terribly pleasing process for them (maybe better than receiving them, but still). I hated sending them out myself, but it’s a natural part of the process, and receiving them doesn’t faze me nearly as much anymore.
Are there any upcoming projects that you’re working on, editing or otherwise?
A: Now that FROZEN BLOOD is about to be released, I’ve turned my attention to my second novel. FROZEN BLOOD is set primarily in one house, with three characters, over the course of only a couple of days. So naturally, the next book is going to take place across the world, with dozens of characters, over a couple of years. I need to shake things up.
Where can we see more of your work?
A: People reading this are probably werewolf fans, right? Perfect! One of my only free online stories is a werewolf story. Here’s the link:
http://afterburnsf.com/ViewArticle.aspx?ArticleId=23b64ed0-f92e-4d09-97da-a3200ca4501b
I have stories currently available or forthcoming in many anthologies and magazines, including, The Undead: Skin and Bones, Robots Beyond, Read By Dawn (Volumes 3 & 4), and Tales of Moreauvia. For all the info please check out my website:
When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?
A: Well, I thought aquatic animals would make for a unique angle, so I left that idea to percolate in my mind. I was surprised by the story that grew around that thought. It’s unlike anything else I’ve ever written: somber, introspective and (gasp!) a love story. In a twisted kind of way, that is.
Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Beached?
A: A fisherman’s wife, stricken with grief but unable to let go, waits on the beach day and night for her lost husband to return. What returns to her is far from what she expected.
Thanks, Joel!
My pleasure!
And now, here’s an excerpt of Beached from The Beast Within:
BEACHED, BY JOEL A. SUTHERLAND
The moon was full the night my husband disappeared. I won’t say ‘died,’ because he’s not dead. He was gone?for twenty-nine days, without a trace?but he came back. Not how I pictured he would, but that’s okay. I’m not particular. He came back.
Those twenty-nine days changed me, of that I have no doubt. The townsfolk, they thought I lost it, thought my mind was set to wandering, never to come back. They didn’t tell me outright, but I knew. I heard the whispering. But I wasn’t crazy. Just patient, is all. There’s a difference. And loyal. Not like the other wives at all.
My husband, his name is Eddie, and perhaps you’ve heard of him. He was a fisherman. He had his own boat and hauled the cod and lobster in day after day and night after night, until one morning he didn’t come back. The news had been warning of the storm for days before it hit, and I begged Eddie not to go out. He turned to me and said, “Babe, I gotta fish,” then kissed me hard and walked out the door. He always kissed me hard?never those light, insignificant kisses on the cheek. He kissed me like he meant it, and I loved him for it. The rescue workers never found his boat, Happy Tidings, or the other three fishermen who worked with Eddie. Their names were Jack, Charlie, and Robert. I was told their names were in the local paper, too, but all the articles focused on my Eddie. That probably irked the other wives, maybe made them a mite jealous. But he was the man running the show, and the most important, plain and simple.
I was in bed, not sleeping really, just lying, resting my eyes, listening to the storm. The wind was howling like a goddamn wolf out there, Aaaa-rooo!, and I heard hail clattering all over the roof, sounding like nothing less than a horde of demons scampering about. Tree branches clawed at the sides of our little home, raking and scratching the aluminum siding. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had been dreaming of Happy Tidings capsizing on a wave and tossing Eddie out of the wheelhouse like a child’s toy. I dreamt of him drowning. I dreamt of throwing myself in after him. I didn’t want to dream anymore. I awoke with a shout, my bedclothes drenched in sweat. It gleamed on my skin in the wan light coming from the window and tasted salty on my lips, like seawater. I washed then stood before the window. I couldn’t see much?the rain-slicked glass obstructed my view?but the light from the full moon was so bright that I could see a little. Trash and broken branches whipped through the air and along the sand, while frothy white waves crashed on the shore. The rhythmic pounding of the Atlantic was always so soothing to me, but not that night. That night I had visions of body parts being spewed from the water, of blood-red waves rolling towards me. I stood there silently until the sun replaced the moon.
Once the storm had died down, I stepped outside and onto the beach, feeling the sand squish through my toes. The strong smell of saltwater filled my nose, and I remarked to myself that the air smelled clean and fresh. There were tables and chairs strewn around the beach, and a thick line of greenish seaweed where the waves had reached. A crab picked at a decomposing fish. People milled about, picking up and straightening out and keeping themselves busy. I scanned the horizon. It was perfectly flat. No boats broke the ruler-straight line that separated water and sky.
My heart stopped beating.
“Any sign of Eddie, Sheila?”
I jumped. It was Gracie, my neighbour. She held gardening shears in one gloved hand, a few jagged sticks in the other. Any sign of Eddie? Of course there wasn’t. Why the hell was I standing out there so early in the morning, gazing at the ocean? “No, no sign,” I said.
I waited. The sun hit its zenith then arced down to the west. I breathed, but did little else. I tried not to think. Not thinking was impossible. If I was hungry, I didn’t feel it. Friends saw me and brought me water, soda and lemonade, the glasses wet with condensation. No one said a word to me but Gracie. She asked me to come inside, asked me if I’d go to her place to eat dinner, asked me if I was all right, asked me all the questions anyone could ask a person in my position. Eventually I stopped answering. When she brought me a ham and cheese sandwich on a paper plate it sat on the sand beside me until she came back out and took it away, muttering about bugs. I scratched my shoulders, my forearms, and my calves until my skin was covered in red spider webs where my nails had passed. I guess I was itchy, but I didn’t feel it at the time. All I knew was that I had to wait for Happy Tidings. I had to wait for Eddie.
No related posts.
Add A Comment