Friday, August 30, 2013


Tree huggers.

Working on a story, THE PIT...
"At the edge of the field a paved area behind the post office was bathed in the glow of a fluorescent light. Here our skin turned blue. Our lips looked purple. The acne on Paul's forehead stood out in shiny purple mountains like a raised relief map. Blonde hair became green. We looked at our teeth and our tongues and our nails, twisting our hands in front of our eyes. We marveled at how we looked like dead guys. Then we crept across the street and quietly took the trail behind Madrani Market down into the forest..."

Went down to the forest, took a few pictures, saw some tourists on the trail, spoke a couple moments, sold some books. Good times. Danke, Torsten!

Click the link for the free audio story "Rhapsody Grove,"
one of the short stories in AVENUE OF THE GIANTS:

Click the link to hear the freeCro-Mag song:

Much obliged, folks!

Wednesday, August 28, 2013


Ye olde writing room.
This is where I wrote everything now available.

In the winter it got so cold in this windowless shop, the ink in the ballpoint pens wouldn't work.

The Archives Book Store horror aisle sports a poster of reanimated corpse Will Todd covering his grave back up in THE MESMERIZER.

First print book.

Second print book.

First audio book.

Because of a book reading, I was asked to lead a band.

We became CrowMag.

Having had zero experience with music, ten months later we were on the radio.

I got paid for some of LOST COASTER to be serialized monthly. I really love that.

The Hemp Connection buys my books.

Branscomb Radio Shack buys my books.

Lots of businesses buy my books.
Much obliged!

Sometimes I'm invited to read. Always an honor.

I get local street cred as the movie reviewer for The Independent.

I used to write by hand more than I do lately. Need to get myself another nice li'l journal.

As much as I love seeing my books in a wide variety of stores around Humboldt County, even more than that I like seeing them gone.

I'm the Creative Writing instructor for College of the Redwoods at the Garberville site.

For six months on the first Thursday of every month
from 5:00 - 5:30 pm I presented my radio show
I'll put the finished story in print this year with some short stories.

Thanks for checkin' out my literary action!

Friday, August 23, 2013


My name is Stewart, and I’m a novella-ist.

I’ve been mythologizing the redwoods since I used to lean against the big hi-fi stereo in the living room listening to the Beatles. Dad always said to not do that, because leaning against the speaker screwed up the hatching. But I didn’t listen to him. I heard the music.

Years later, when I was eight, I had an ongoing story that I told myself aloud on the paper route about tiny people that lived in another world who rode rabbits and could come into our world through drainage tunnels. I didn’t realize how loud I was saying this until Mrs. Gordon told Bonnie to tell me she liked the story, but could I keep it down because I was waking her up.

That was also around the time that Yvonne and Pat used to ask me to tell them an ongoing haunted house story during recess. Just for fun. Encouraged the hell out of me. They had no idea.

A few years later in high school, I spent a lot of time writing Bladder Magazine, and that one I did eventually have to burn. But good God, those were the years my brother and I constructed a life-size dummy, and were all set to drag it across the far end of the football field during Homecoming halftime, except on our trial run we saw there was just no way it would work, and so wound up chucking it front of his ’74 Gran Torino going forty on the Avenue one night, except, oops, it wasn’t his car—somebody else hit the dummy instead—and kept on going—and that kind of thing would never have happened if I hadn’t shared my Bladder with my brother and my friends, everybody enjoying it just fine at the time.

Eventually, I got hooked on poetry.

Oh, editing and writing for the Cub Reporter, doing the same at College of the Redwoods, and again at Humboldt State University, and writing for This Week News and Review, and even writing for the last ten years with The Independent—Southern Humboldt’s Only Locally-Owned Newspaper—none of that honed my craft as well as several years of that private and devout exploration of the self and the universe through language called poetry. 

Which I generally can’t stand to read. And I never sit around writing poetry anymore, ever since I started sitting around writing short stories. 

But I don’t do that anymore, either. What I do is stand around and write novels.

After I tried novellas, it was only a matter of time before I’d move on to short novels. Been on the hard stuff now for a while.

Heh heh, it’s not like I sometimes travel to my old grade school, and sit there on the playground late at night, whispering spooky stories to my imaginary friends. Don’t be ridiculous. Now the people trapped in time thinking about eternity that I never see live in dozens of countries worldwide. And I get to share my stories with them. 

Indeed, must. On account I’m a story-creating addict. Springing through garish discords of chiaroscuro, rays of a cinnabar moon playing vociferous necromancy upon bedizened timber, double-dyed, all polychromatic, hell yeah, that’s what I do. Well, plus I toolbelt-up. Splittin’ the wood, fixin’ the fences, buckin’ the hay, throwin’ up rooster tails on the ol’ ATV burnin’ brodies, too—YEE-HAHH! Let ‘er buck! Later on, having cracked a brew and whatnot, I’d put on some Neil or some Stones, whip out the pad and pen, and start thrummin’ through those prismatic spinneys.

That’s why I’m here to tell you. Because I’ve been to the cave. And I’m close to the forest. 

Look, something’s going to ruin your life.

May as well be art.

Ad in The Independent

Poster in The Archives book store