Hullo and well met, droogies! On this fine day, I sat down at my computer to typey-talk with Paul Michael Anderson about his new book, Standalone. Anton was a cheap fucker with the booze this goround, so don't expect better than that from the introduction.
-Hiram Grange
Hiram Grange: Alright. Heads up before we get going. Fucking internets out in my airstream and the asshole who runs this site only paid me with a bottle of Hunter Rye instead of the usual McClellan. Don't expect much patience from me.Who the hell are you, again?
Paul Michael Anderson: By the bottom of the bottle, do you really notice? I'm Paul Michael Anderson. I write things for shits and giggles.
HG:Yes. I do. Some of us have class. Oh yeah... This is about yer pretty little bit of words, right? Something about the renders of flesh and bone that live in the earth?
PMA: Others have alcoholism. You make it work. I mean, you could just call it a slasher, but that sounds better. I'm stealing that. All writers are thieves.
HG: Sooooo... Care to be a bit more specific, instead of just being snarky?
What
The
Fuck
Is
It
About?
PMA: Your mom. BUT, your mom is actually one of a million billion versions of your mom and, once a month, a certain number of your moms have to be killed to keep existence on an even keel. The people who do the killing exist outside of time and space.However, these killers have, in their own way, upset the balance themselves, and all their victims have gained a kind-of anti-sentience and they're intent on bringing existence down.
HG: Oh. The usual extra dimensional bringer of the end times shtick.
PMA: Sort of? The killers are regular people, pulled from their own dimensions. It's the lovechild of CABIN IN THE WOODS, JOHN WICK, and MONSTERS INC.
HG: Do they know Bothwell?
PMA: I don't even know Bothwell.
HG: Seems like her kinda thing. Always getting other people to do her dirty. Could see her working through other dimensions.
PMA: These guys are the stereotypical "just-following-orders". Each side of the conflict has a legitimate stance for their success. Like, they're bad guys. They're not bad guys through mitigating circumstances--they do the job and they're good at it. To us, their victims, they're evil. Our view is not going to change.
HG: So did I, until I figured out I was being played. I get that drill. Poor fuckers.
PMA:These things happen.
HG: That they do. You ever get neck deep in the shit, or do you just pass along other people's tales? Have you ever stared into the face of a zombie housewife and her army of garden gnomes?
PMA: Haven't done that, but I've been stalked across decrepit summer camps. I was supposed to be officiating this wedding, see, and we all crashed out there. Except the abandoned cabins--this was in the mountains of South Carolina--kept catching our attention. Like, lights going on in the middle of the night, breaking branches. By the second day, the day before the ceremony, all hiking trails were closed off by agreement. The best man was hospitalized from overnight exposure. Never could tell us what happened to him.
HG: I'm impressed the guy lived through it. Ran into some nymphs once. Krakow, I think. They worked like that. Yer lucky. Coulda been fucked to death. Any of them look like Jodie?
PMA: Never met any nymphs, so I don't know, unfortunately. Or fortunately? I have no idea if being fucked by a legion of Tinker Bells would be horrific or not. Wait, she's a fairy. I get my mythological creatures confused. However, I did write a story about a guy who got turned into a water nymph (sorta) once. He winds up eating a bunch of people. Absorbs their memories.
HG: Eating? Or EATING? Winkwinknudgenudgesaynomore
PMA: Scarfing down on people like they're the new hot special at Golden Corral. Fucking a water nymph is probably the most natural, yet awful, colonic known to existence.
HG: I could see it. Like eating street food in Calcutta during the monsoon.
PMA: Unlike Captain America, I don't understand that reference. Never been to Calcutta. Monsoons, I get, though. I dig rain.
HG: The water, if its pure enough, can wash away plenty. No so much so when it runs through shit smears and old rot though.
PMA: Tell Lady MacBeth that. She'd find it comforting.
HG: Hey now. Every single one of us has some blood on their hands. No point in stressing over it. Just drink a bit of the beautiful green or some nice aged brown and calm the fuck down. Maybe a puff or two of some good sticky Presbyterian.
PMA: There's always those options, true.
HG: So... Extra dimensional axe murderers and water nymphs that suck your brains right out. Is an okay Saturday.
PMA: Yay on the first, nay on the second. We're not talking "eating" in the Biblical sense, fam. But that's a short story I did years ago. That is probably the next weirdest thing beside the extra-dimensional axe murderers. The axe-murderers are, by definition, more violent, however. Weirdest thing *I wrote*
HG: Better'n apes with chips in their brains. Can confirm that.
PMA: Do the chips control the apes? That's apt to fuck up your day.
HG: Why else would put a chip in a chimp? To run Linux?
PMA: Data storage. Brain's have immense space capabilities. There *are* more innocuous, though monstrously unethical reasons, to do it. However, if you ARE going to do such a thing, why not go full evil? My thinking was a bit circular there. Yep, controlling apes. That works.
HG: Circular thinking seems to be your thing.
PMA: Great mental cardio. Don't underestimate it.I'm preparing myself for those thick Sudoku books when I'm 70.
HG: Must be nice. Expecting to live that long.
PMA: I have to outlive everyone else. All those other Xennials laughing at their false acceptance of death and being ready to die now--I go the other way, and have an iron determination to dance on their graves. I will pick up smoking again just for that event.
HG: Eh... Grand scale: 1 year or a hundred is just a blip and gone. Dust. Wind. You know the deal.
PMA: True, but I'm not part of that grand scale. *This* is my grand scale, and I gotta make the most of it, if only for snarky spite.
HG: You'll get a glass tip for that. Not much more, though.
PMA: Don't want much more than that. Barely that.
HG: Well, we're about at the end of what an 8 buck investment will buy this shitheel paying me, so is there anything else you wanna say?
PMA: No, I'm good. Well, not good. Marginally contented. Standalone, the new book, comes out in September from Perpetual Motion Machine, and, until then, I'll be doing more interviews like this. Well, not like *this*, but you get the idea.
HG: Fare ye well, whilst I get back to my Foster collages.
PMA: Good luck with those. They're a booming market.
Paul Michael Anderson is the author of the collection Bones Are Made to Be Broken, as well as the novellas I Can Give You Life, How We Broke (with Bracken MacLeod), and the upcoming Standalone, and dozens of short stories, articles, and reviews. You can find him on Twitter under the inspired handle @p_m_anderson.
Paul Michael Anderson: By the bottom of the bottle, do you really notice? I'm Paul Michael Anderson. I write things for shits and giggles.
HG:Yes. I do. Some of us have class. Oh yeah... This is about yer pretty little bit of words, right? Something about the renders of flesh and bone that live in the earth?
PMA: Others have alcoholism. You make it work. I mean, you could just call it a slasher, but that sounds better. I'm stealing that. All writers are thieves.
HG: Sooooo... Care to be a bit more specific, instead of just being snarky?
What
The
Fuck
Is
It
About?
PMA: Your mom. BUT, your mom is actually one of a million billion versions of your mom and, once a month, a certain number of your moms have to be killed to keep existence on an even keel. The people who do the killing exist outside of time and space.However, these killers have, in their own way, upset the balance themselves, and all their victims have gained a kind-of anti-sentience and they're intent on bringing existence down.
HG: Oh. The usual extra dimensional bringer of the end times shtick.
PMA: Sort of? The killers are regular people, pulled from their own dimensions. It's the lovechild of CABIN IN THE WOODS, JOHN WICK, and MONSTERS INC.
HG: Do they know Bothwell?
PMA: I don't even know Bothwell.
HG: Seems like her kinda thing. Always getting other people to do her dirty. Could see her working through other dimensions.
PMA: These guys are the stereotypical "just-following-orders". Each side of the conflict has a legitimate stance for their success. Like, they're bad guys. They're not bad guys through mitigating circumstances--they do the job and they're good at it. To us, their victims, they're evil. Our view is not going to change.
HG: So did I, until I figured out I was being played. I get that drill. Poor fuckers.
PMA:These things happen.
HG: That they do. You ever get neck deep in the shit, or do you just pass along other people's tales? Have you ever stared into the face of a zombie housewife and her army of garden gnomes?
PMA: Haven't done that, but I've been stalked across decrepit summer camps. I was supposed to be officiating this wedding, see, and we all crashed out there. Except the abandoned cabins--this was in the mountains of South Carolina--kept catching our attention. Like, lights going on in the middle of the night, breaking branches. By the second day, the day before the ceremony, all hiking trails were closed off by agreement. The best man was hospitalized from overnight exposure. Never could tell us what happened to him.
HG: I'm impressed the guy lived through it. Ran into some nymphs once. Krakow, I think. They worked like that. Yer lucky. Coulda been fucked to death. Any of them look like Jodie?
PMA: Never met any nymphs, so I don't know, unfortunately. Or fortunately? I have no idea if being fucked by a legion of Tinker Bells would be horrific or not. Wait, she's a fairy. I get my mythological creatures confused. However, I did write a story about a guy who got turned into a water nymph (sorta) once. He winds up eating a bunch of people. Absorbs their memories.
HG: Eating? Or EATING? Winkwinknudgenudgesaynomore
PMA: Scarfing down on people like they're the new hot special at Golden Corral. Fucking a water nymph is probably the most natural, yet awful, colonic known to existence.
HG: I could see it. Like eating street food in Calcutta during the monsoon.
PMA: Unlike Captain America, I don't understand that reference. Never been to Calcutta. Monsoons, I get, though. I dig rain.
HG: The water, if its pure enough, can wash away plenty. No so much so when it runs through shit smears and old rot though.
PMA: Tell Lady MacBeth that. She'd find it comforting.
HG: Hey now. Every single one of us has some blood on their hands. No point in stressing over it. Just drink a bit of the beautiful green or some nice aged brown and calm the fuck down. Maybe a puff or two of some good sticky Presbyterian.
PMA: There's always those options, true.
HG: So... Extra dimensional axe murderers and water nymphs that suck your brains right out. Is an okay Saturday.
PMA: Yay on the first, nay on the second. We're not talking "eating" in the Biblical sense, fam. But that's a short story I did years ago. That is probably the next weirdest thing beside the extra-dimensional axe murderers. The axe-murderers are, by definition, more violent, however. Weirdest thing *I wrote*
HG: Better'n apes with chips in their brains. Can confirm that.
PMA: Do the chips control the apes? That's apt to fuck up your day.
HG: Why else would put a chip in a chimp? To run Linux?
PMA: Data storage. Brain's have immense space capabilities. There *are* more innocuous, though monstrously unethical reasons, to do it. However, if you ARE going to do such a thing, why not go full evil? My thinking was a bit circular there. Yep, controlling apes. That works.
HG: Circular thinking seems to be your thing.
PMA: Great mental cardio. Don't underestimate it.I'm preparing myself for those thick Sudoku books when I'm 70.
HG: Must be nice. Expecting to live that long.
PMA: I have to outlive everyone else. All those other Xennials laughing at their false acceptance of death and being ready to die now--I go the other way, and have an iron determination to dance on their graves. I will pick up smoking again just for that event.
HG: Eh... Grand scale: 1 year or a hundred is just a blip and gone. Dust. Wind. You know the deal.
PMA: True, but I'm not part of that grand scale. *This* is my grand scale, and I gotta make the most of it, if only for snarky spite.
HG: You'll get a glass tip for that. Not much more, though.
PMA: Don't want much more than that. Barely that.
HG: Well, we're about at the end of what an 8 buck investment will buy this shitheel paying me, so is there anything else you wanna say?
PMA: No, I'm good. Well, not good. Marginally contented. Standalone, the new book, comes out in September from Perpetual Motion Machine, and, until then, I'll be doing more interviews like this. Well, not like *this*, but you get the idea.
HG: Fare ye well, whilst I get back to my Foster collages.
PMA: Good luck with those. They're a booming market.
Paul Michael Anderson is the author of the collection Bones Are Made to Be Broken, as well as the novellas I Can Give You Life, How We Broke (with Bracken MacLeod), and the upcoming Standalone, and dozens of short stories, articles, and reviews. You can find him on Twitter under the inspired handle @p_m_anderson.
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