Wade and I connected recently and he has motivated me to resurrect Writer's Wednesday here on my Writing World, the mid-week interview. Thanks for that, Wade!
Let's kick off with who Wade is:
Wade
Peterson has been writing stories all his life but didn't realize it until
recently. He's poured a lifetime of playing tabletop role-playing games,
listening to 80s and 90s hair metal, electrical engineering misadventures, and
collecting dog-eared fantasy & science fiction novels into his current
series, Badlands Born. Wade has lived and worked across much of the United
States and lives in Dallas, Texas.
Wade's first book is Badlands Born (reviewed on Writing World HERE!):
She tried to
take the easy way out. But life after death is killer…
Jasmine Shaw believed being dead would solve all her problems. But instead of reconnecting with her deceased twin brother, she wakes up in a grim desert afterlife where zombies want to munch on her brains. And no sooner does she escape that fate than she’s pursued by an indestructible psycho samurai.
Harried and terrified, Jasmine teams up with an Eighties glam-rocker wannabe to navigate the unforgiving landscape. But with a horde of flesh-eaters and the katana-wielding nutjob hot on their heels, all roads seem to lead to ruin.
Will Jasmine find her sibling at the passage to Heaven, or will she be skewered by a warrior’s blade?
Badlands Born is the first book in the gritty post-apocalyptic Badlands Born fantasy series. If you like complex heroines, gruesome ghouls, and Eighties Easter eggs, you’ll love Wade Peterson’s page-turning tale.
And now we speak to the man himself ...
Hi, Wade, and welcome!
Every writer feels the pull of a story and
yet the why and when is different for all. What was your proverbial
light-bulb moment? In other words, what sat you down to start writing for the
first time?
I was reading a media tie-in book for the Rifts
tabletop role-playing game and nearly threw the book at the wall half-way
through. I was so disgusted that of all the stories possible in such rich and
complex game world, the author went with something plain and forgettable. In
that moment of frustration and supreme arrogance I remember thinking "I could
write something better than this." A few months later I was devouring
books on writing and workshopping my short stories with other writers in town.
So many of us follow the adage 'write what you want to read'!
Tell us a bit about your process. Do you have
a schedule? Do you plan or are you a seat-of-my-pants writer?
I have the most mental energy in the morning so
I write until lunchtime and get everything else done in the afternoon. After
dinner I'll write some more, or else read. I'm very much a planner and I
outline all my stories, bookmark images, and map out my setting so I don't get
lost and confused along the way. Once I start the draft, it's a
by-seat-of-your-pants experience. I would say my outline sets the story's guide
rails and waypoints but it's vague enough that I can surprise myself with something
that arrives organically.
Now that the world has changed due to a pandemic, how has your writing changed?
Pre-pandemic, I always had the house to myself
but now my wife and kids working and taking classes at home I've had to deal
with a few more distractions. On the flip side, having everyone around and
knowing I only have X-number of distraction-free periods each day keeps me from
procrastinating and these past few months have been some of my most productive.
The pandemic hasn't changed my current book in
progress, but it might affect the next one. It would be nice to say these are
unprecedented times but the more I see the range of reactions to Covid-19, it
seems like we're no different than humans dealing with other pandemics like
Spanish Flu, Cholera, or the Black Death. For all the advances we've made in
medicine and building a modern, rational society we're still just as flawed and
biased as our ancestors.
Many writers in the present either write far more or find themselves unable to write. Have you experienced one or the other in this life-altering time we now live in?
I'm writing far more than usual, partly because
my family is now around to see me if I slack off, but also because it's great
escapism. Plus, as the author, I have control over what happens. Good can
triumph over evil, cleverness can overcome brute strength, and hope is never
lost no matter how desperate times might seem. It beats the hell out of reading
variations on the same headlines every day.
Ain't that the truth! Fiction has certainly helped us cope in these times, whether as reader or writer, or watching a show on Netflix and others :)
On a more personal front, which four words
would you use to describe yourself?
Funny, thoughtful, quiet, strong.
Which four words would you use to describe your work?
Fantastical, humorous, gritty, human.
Often personal fame and prominence for your work go together, but frequently authors prefer remaining in the background while hoping their work will assume the limelight. Is this true for you, or don’t you mind a bit of fame?
That's an interesting question. Since I don't
write under a pen name, I'm stuck with whatever fame or infamy my work
attracts. Would I mind fame? When I think about famous authors these days it's
usually because they've said something awful and social media is out with their
torches and pitchforks. I'd like to think I could handle fame well, but I suspect
I'd make a hash of it somewhere along the way and be on the receiving end of
something similar. Doesn't sound like fun, but on the other hand, it always
makes my day when someone sends a note saying they appreciated my book. I admit
that little ego stroke is nice, so I'll risk it.
Give us an overview of your books to date,
and know that we love to read excerpts. Share with us your favourite bit of
writing from your latest book.
The Badlands Born series is my love letter to
the 1980s. It starts with our hero Jasmine waking up in an afterlife created by
her long-dead 17-year-old brother, who loved nothing more than MTV and
B-movies. He created the perfect world for himself and abandoned it when things
began breaking down and turning it into his personal hell. Jasmine doesn't know
if she's tough enough to find her brother but she embarks on a road trip
through hell anyway, dodging zombies, cannibals, and motorcycle samurai.
In this passage, Jasmine has just escaped her captors and
freed her friend Helgo, a shaman-engineer in charge of keeping the airship Caliphate
of the Clouds's zombie-powered engines running. She'll need his help
freeing her other friend Cally before they can leave for good.
*
“Nice of you to drop in, girl,” Helgo said.
“Captivity hasn’t improved your sense of humor.”
“Or yours.” He nodded to the guard and grinned his black-toothed grin. “Thank you again. Seems I owe you two lives now.”
“You can start by helping me find Cally.”
“We should leave. The Caliphate is on fire.”
“I know. I’m the one that started it.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“We can leave once we get Cally out of the hareem.”
“Is that all, sneaking a girl out of the holy-of-holies?” He blew out a short laugh. “Then we better make some help.” He moved toward the guard’s body and began straightening it out. “Go bring me that toolbox and then give me a hand with this one. We don’t have much time.”
Helgo dipped his finger in engine grease and painted glyphs and sigils on the overseer’s body. He hummed a song in the back of his throat as he worked, waving Jasmine to silence when she was about to ask what he was doing. After humming three songs, both Helgo and the corpse were covered in greasy tattoos. He grunted as he rose and looked about.
“What do you need?” Jasmine said.
“Need a wire about yea thick,” Helgo said, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
Jasmine cast about the room and found a cable running between a console and one of the machine’s outer pods. She held it up, and Helgo shook his head.
“Bigger. That’s a baby python. I need its mother.”
Jasmine went farther inside the machinery and found a larger cable. She stood and gasped as she caught a glimpse inside the pod. Beneath the translucent glass lay a thin, blackened body. The hair looked like patchwork, frazzled in one place, down to smooth scalp in others. Then it hit her: a deader. She was in an engine room, surrounded by deaders.
“Any luck?” Helgo called out.
“There’s one the size of my wrist,” she said.
“That’ll do. Hang on, I’m coming back with some cutters,” Helgo said.
He shuffled toward her, careful not to rub his grease marks against the pod frames.
“They’re all deaders, aren’t they?”
“Sure are. They’re powering the Caliphate, and keeping it aloft, but they’re overtaxed. They’ll burn out before long, and then the Caliphate becomes a gilded rock.”
He twisted a brass plug where the cable met the pod and pulled it free. He measured out about ten feet and snipped it with the cutters.
“So what are you doing?”
“If we’re going to get your friend out of the harem, we’ll need a weapon. I can’t get these deaders decoupled without blowing us all the hell up, so I need an alternative. Here.” He handed her the cable’s plug end and shuffled back toward the overseer’s body, stuffing the cable’s severed end into the dead man’s mouth.
Jasmine wrinkled her nose at the plug. “We’re not…”
“Jump-starting a corpse? Nah. Just plug that in when I give the nod.”
Helgo started humming again, a sickening upbeat song that tickled at Jasmine’s memory. A song some girl had played over and over again at her birthday party and they were all supposed to learn a choreographed routine that went along with it. Jasmine had never quite gotten the hang of it and always seemed a step behind no matter how many times the birthday girl made her repeat it.
Helgo nodded, and Jasmine plugged the cable into the socket, still trying to remember what the name of the damned song was. She jumped as a blue-white light shot from the corpse’s mouth with a sharp crack. The cable skittered along the floor, showering sparks as it bounced. The body convulsed in seizures while Helgo clapped and hopped from foot to foot. The convulsions intensified as Helgo clapped faster until the body jerked its torso upright. The head turned and tracked Helgo’s cavorting form with unseeing eyes. Helgo’s clapping changed to syncopated triplets, and the overseer’s body rocked forward and rose to its feet.
Helgo stopped and let his arms go limp. Jasmine unplugged the cable and blinked blue and green after images from her eyes. The overseer stood still, staring ahead. Jasmine caught her breath, then rounded on Helgo.
“I thought you said—”
Helgo shrugged. “I lied. Do you want to take more time arguing about it or get off this tub?”
Jasmine stared at him for a moment, then said, “Fine.” She pointed a finger in his face. “But don’t do it again.”
“Okay,” he said, though it sounded like another lie. “The harem should be this way.” Jasmine walked toward the bulkhead door, but Helgo stopped her. “Let him go first,” he said, pointing to the former overseer. “They won’t stop us if they think he’s in charge, and he’ll take the first few bullets if they get suspicious.”
“Okay,” Jasmine said. “What was that song you just hummed?”
Helgo grinned his black-toothed grin. “‘Goody Two-Shoes,’ Adam Ant.”
“Of course. I hated that song.”
“Me too. But with deaders, there’s no accounting for taste.”
I'm working on Book 3 of Badlands Born (working
title: Enter the Samurai). It takes place several years after the events in
book 2 and follows the exploits of everyone's favorite (mostly) reformed
psychotic samurai, the Blood Weeper, as he escapes from a prison camp and
searches for the last godling avatar, Prime. But the Blood Weeper isn't what he
once was since the Twins left and every injury or rage-fueled rampage might be
the one that erases him from existence. To save the day, he'll have to choose
between his legend and his fractured soul.
I like to flavor each Badlands Born book's
fantasy with other genre influences. Badlands Born pays homage to
post-apocalyptic movies of the 1980s, while Badlands Cursed borrows from sci-fi
dystopian movies like Logans Run and Clockwork Orange. Enter the Samurai will
put a western spin on the environment and fans of spaghetti westerns or
Kurosawa films might pick out an Easter egg or two along with the others I
planted for everyone who read books 1 and 2.
Enter the Samurai closes out the storylines from the first books and
lights a powder keg that explodes in book 4.
Now for fun, let’s ask about the favourite things we all like to read about …
Favourite book: Player of Games, by Ian M. Banks
Favourite movie: Star Wars (aka Episode IV)
Favourite TV series: Babylon 5
Favourite colour: Blue
Favourite food: Texas-style barbecued beef ribs
Favourite drink: Black coffee in the morning,
Cabernet in the evening
Favourite pet: Cats
Favourite place: Grand Teton National Park, USA
Favourite place to write: at home, in my office,
music blasting.
Favourite season: Fall
Favourite pastime (other than writing!): Cooking
We have a fair few in common :)
Let’s laugh together! Will you share with us your most embarrassing moment?
I was in the student section of a college
football game and while celebrating a touchdown, accidentally launched my
plastic souvenir cup right into my buddy's face. The cup slipped from my hand
at speed and we both thought I broke his nose (thank goodness I didn't). Bad
enough, but everyone around me noticed it and started pointing and chanting
"Asshole...Asshole..." It spread across the whole student section and
soon 8,000 of my fellow undergrads and grad students were pointing and cursing
me out for the longest 30 seconds of my life. Witnesses say I turned
lobster-red and shrunk five inches.
On the flipside, which moment do you regard
as your most inspirational?
I was waiting at the bus stop with my daughter
one morning and a flock of sparrows took flight. This wasn't usually remarkable, but I
happened to pick out one bird and watch as it darted and twisted through the
air in response to the others around it. At the same time, the whole mass
shimmered and turned on itself in the morning light like dancing smoke and I
had the thought "This is all guided by instinct honed over millions of
years." The birds were just reacting but what emerged was a both beautiful
and intelligent; it raised the hairs on my arms and has stuck with me ever
since. It was a moment where the complex was simple and the simple, complex.
There's a metaphor in there that gives me hope I'll never lose a sense of
wonder about the world even as I learn more about how it is put together.
Beautiful ... raised the hairs on my arms just reading this.
And finally, if you could choose one person,
living or dead, you would like to meet, who would it be and what would you ask
of that person?
Anthony Bourdain. He wrote about food, culture,
and humanity like nobody else. If you haven't read Kitchen Confidential, I
highly recommend it as a starter, followed by his collection of essays and
short stories in The Nasty Bits. Here's a guy who had an old-school punk rock
attitude towards haute cuisine and wasn't afraid to show you its less glamorous
underbelly and make you appreciate it all the more. It seemed to me he knew how
to live, which made it all the more confusing when he died by suicide. I'd like
to know what he believed made life worth living all those years until the one
day it didn't.
What changed? Surrounded by friends, why didn't he reach out? What might have changed his mind? If he could answer, maybe we could prevent the next senseless death, and the one after that. I think his passing reminded me be in the moment when listening to friends and loved ones, and be as supportive as I can even if I don't have all the answers.
One of my favourite people, too, and I hear you; most reading this will hear it also.
Thank you, Wade, for taking the time to do this. We appreciate it. Here's to all success in your writing world!
Badlands Cursed is next, folks ...
Head on over to Wade's website to discover more!
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