This is the first foreign version of Breathers to hit the shelves, so it’s kind of an exciting day here for Andy and Rita and the rest of the group at Undead Anonymous. Not to mention me. If I knew how to say “Woo hoo!” in German, I would do so right now.

The Italian edition is scheduled for release in October, with the UK version set for publication in March 2011. The Russian translation should hit the shelves sometime next spring.

During my recent trip to the World Horror Convention in Brighton, England, I had the chance to meet with Donna Condon, an editor with Little, Brown in the UK. Having already sold the rights for Breathers to Germany, Italy, Poland, and France, we hadn’t been able to find a publisher in the UK or Australia, so I was hoping to remedy that.

As it turns out, I had a great conversation with Donna, not only for Breathers but for Fated, which led to the sale of rights for both titles in the United Kingdom. So never underestimate the benefit of attending conventions.

So far, in addition to the UK, the rights for Breathers have been scooped up by Germany, Italy, Poland, and Japan, while Fated is slated for release in Brazil, Germany, and the UK. As soon as I have images of the foreign covers, I’ll be sure to post them on my web site.

And yes, I realize I mentioned France earlier but have left them out of the schedule. While the rights to Breathers were sold to France, that version, which was already translated and ready to go, unfortunately never made it into print due to unforeseen circumstances. Which is disappointing for many reasons, one of which was the title. It was supposed to be released last fall as Comment J’ai Cuisiné Mon Père, Ma Mère… et Retrouvé L’amour (or roughly translated How I Cooked My Father, My Mother… and Fall in Love Again).

I’m hoping another French publisher picks up the rights and keeps the title. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to the upcoming foreign publication schedule for both Breathers and Fated.

Breathers
August 2010, Germany (Heyne Verlag, Munich)
{Title: Anonyme Untote (Undead Anonymous)}
September 2010, Italy (Valter Casini Editore, Rome)
March 2011, UK (Little, Brown)
(Territories include Ireland, South Africa, India, Australia, and New Zealand)
TBD, Poland (Amber Publishing Ltd, Warsaw)
TBD, Japan (Ohta Publishing Co.)

Fated
November 2010, Brazil (Leya Brasil, Sao Paolo)
Spring 2011, Germany (Droemer Knaur)
September 2011, UK (Little Brown)
(Territories include Ireland, South Africa, India, Australia, and New Zealand)

You board your 11:40pm flight and get as comfortable as you can, hoping to catch some sleep during the five hour flight. But you’re not sitting in first class, so you know that’s not going to happen. Especially since someone a few rows back thought it was a good idea to bring their two three year old boys on the overnight flight and one of them screams and throws a tantrum every twenty minutes.

You land at Ft. Lauderdale at 8:00am EST, awake now for twenty-three hours, and rent your car from Budget and get on the Florida Turnpike to drive up to Orlando for your book signing later that evening. As you drive on the Turnpike, you blow through the SunPass lanes, the prepaid/pre-registered lanes that avoid the hassle of having to stop and pay the tolls or dish out exact change. You do this because the guy at Budget who checked you in told you that was how it worked and the credit card you rented the car with would get charged for the tolls. As you blow through toll after toll, you read the sign that says $100 per toll violations and wonder if you’re racking up a lot more than toll charges.

You get to Orlando at noon and spend a few hours having lunch and hanging out with Tommy Castillo, zombie artist genius and karaoke god (who sang “The Rainbow Connection” in the voice of Kermit the Frog in Winnipeg) and eventually realize you’re about to pass out, so you crash on his couch but can’t sleep because his two dachshunds have decided they really, really want to climb all over you and lick your face. So you rest instead.

At 6:00pm, after a shower and a change of clothes, you’ve been awake for thirty-three hours, so you drink the 5-hour energy drink you bought at the airport and head over to Barnes & Noble in Colonial Plaza for your 7:00pm signing. Geoff and the crew at B&N make you feel welcome and have up great displays and there are actually people waiting there for you and you talk and read and sign and it makes the fact that you haven’t slept in a day-and-a-half worth it.

At 9:00pm, you get on to the I-4 to Tampa because you’re booked at the Hilton in St. Petersburg, courtesy of the editors of Zombie St. Pete, the zombie anthology you wrote the introduction for and the reason you’re in Florida in the first place. You get on the Interstate and see the EZPass lane and blow through the gate, the same you’ve been doing all day long, only this time under the red light instead of the words DON’T STOP it says WAIT FOR GREEN. You don’t notice this in time, so you don’t stop. An alarm sounds behind you and you wonder if you’ve just earned yourself a ticket for running a red light. But at least you can write it off.

At 10:00pm, you pull off the freeway to use the bathroom at Burger King and because you haven’t eaten in eight hours, you cave in and order a BK Big Fish value meal. You decide that the BK Big Fish is considerably superior to the Filet of Fish from McDonald’s. You also realize you’ve just used the word “superior” to describe fast food.

At 11:00pm you check into the Hilton in St. Petersburg and you’ve now been awake for thirty-eight hours. Before you go to bed, you get on the Internet to post a few comments to Twitter and to check e-mail. Only the Hilton doesn’t provide free Internet service and because this annoys you, you go downstairs in your jeans and bare feet to sit in the lobby instead. The next morning, you cave in and pay for the Internet service.

S.G. Browne has written more than four dozen short stories and five novels, including Breathers: A Zombie’s Lament. His first three novels will never see print. S.G., known as Scott to everyone but his parents, started writing short stories in 1990, most of them inspired by a steady diet of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Peter Straub, F. Paul Wilson, and Robert McCammon. Scott watches very little television, except for LOST, and spends a lot of time wishing he lived in Tahiti. (And yes, that’s me when I bleached my hair).

Tell us about your first zombie experience. How did you lose your undead virginity?
In sixth grade with my two best friends. Okay, that sounds a little weird, but they came over to my house and we watched Night of the Living Dead on Creature Features hosted by Bob Wilkins. Back then, you couldn’t see NOTLD unless it came on television, so we had to watch it with commercial interruptions and without the naked zombie scene or the scenes where they’re eating BBQ Tom and Judy. We cheered when Ben kicks Cooper’s ass. And we laughed and made fun of the cemetery zombie who was staggering along like someone had kicked him in the nuts.

NOTLD Triva: By the way, for those who don’t know, Cooper’s wife also played the role of the bug-eating zombie.

What’s your favorite zombie film?
Well, I have to go with Night of the Living Dead simply because it set the standard and I still think it’s one of the creepiest movies I’ve ever seen. But if I had to pick another zombie film that’s a little less classic zombie, I’d have to go with Evil Dead 2. I love Bruce Campbell.

Other than a reliable weapon, what one item would be on your Must Have List for the zombie apocalypse?
Comfortable shoes. I figure if I’m going to be running away from zombies, especially if they’re those fast bastards, then I don’t want my toes cramping up or shoes that rub and give me blisters.

If you could have a pet zombie, what would you name it and who would you feed it?
I’d name my pet zombie Sparky and I’d feed it Christian conservatives, athletes who lied about using steroids, and people who turn on their cell phones during movies.

What’s the first thing you remember reading that inspired you to want to become a writer?
The Talisman by Stephen King and Peter Straub during my sophomore year in college. While not my favorite work of either King or Straub, the story pulled me in and took me on a journey that left this world behind, and I thought: I want to make people feel this way.

Who’s your favorite author?
While Chuck Palahniuk has definitely been an inspiration and I would have to consider him a candidate, Stephen King is the reason I wanted to become a writer. I believe that when all is said and done, he’ll be considered one of the greatest story-tellers of the 20th century.

What’s your favorite word?
Dude. I know some people think “fuck” is more versatile, but you can say dude ten different ways and give it ten different meanings simply by changing the inflection. In both Breathers and Fated, I have a character who regularly uses “dude” as part of his vocabulary.

Fun fact: Ten years ago on New Year’s Eve in Santa Cruz, I backed into a BMW while parking my car and the owner of the BMW was still in it. We both got out and the conversation went like this:
Me: “Sorry dude.”
Him: (Appalled) “Sorry dude?”
Me: (Speaking slowly) “Yeah. Sorry dude.”

What’s your favorite non-zombie film?
That’s really kind of a tough call. My snap answer would be Fight Club, but depending on my mood, I could throw Being John Malkovich, Alien, or The Graduate into the mix.

But as far as an all-time favorite, I’d have to go with Star Wars. I’ve never had a movie-watching experience like the first time I saw Star Wars at the theater in 1977. Awestruck pretty much nails it. And I’ve still never been part of an audience that cheered and applauded and booed like that. It gave me chills. I think my mouth was hanging open the whole time.

If you weren’t writing about zombies, what would you write about?
I’d probably write romantic comedies, but with an odd or quirky twist. Hmm. Come to think of it, that’s what I’ve done with Breathers and Fated. Okay, no romance in the next book!

If you had a theme song that played when you walked into a room, what would it be?
“Bullwinkle Part II” by The Centurions. I first heard it on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. You can give it a listen here: Bullwinkle Part II – Pulp Fiction

Shameless self-promotion bonus question: What’s coming up next?
My second novel, Fated, is scheduled for release in November 2010. Fated is a dark, irreverent, supernatural comedy about fate, destiny, and the choices people make to screw up their lives. You can read the synopsis at www.sgbrowne.com. Also, later this year, my short story “Zombie Gigolo” will be available in the zombie anthology The Living Dead 2, edited by John Joseph Adams.

Although I didn’t contribute a story to the anthology, the editors were kind enough to invite me to write the introduction.

The event kicks off at 5:00PM on Saturday, February 27, at the St. Pete Pier and will include signings by yours truly and the contributors to the anthology, readings from selected stories, live music, and Thrill St. Pete’s reinterpretation of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” It should be a zombie good time. So if you’re in the area and can’t get enough zombies, come on by and join the fun.

In addition to the release party, I’ll be in Florida a few days before appearing at bookstores in Orlando, Sarasota, and St. Petersburg. You can see the details and schedule of the release party and my signings on the Events page or to the right of this post under Upcoming Events.

Hope to see you in Florida!

Happy Thanksgiving!

BREATHERS – Chapter 28

In light of my recent displays of “spirited rebellion,” as she put it, and my father’s exponentially increasing resentment towards me, my mother thought we might patch up our problems and differences if we all sat down and shared a nice, family Thanksgiving dinner together.

“Just like old times,” she says.

The three of us are sitting around the dining room table in a stifling, uncomfortable silence. My father shovels cranberry sauce and turkey into his mouth, refusing to speak to or make eye contact with me or with my mother, while Mom abandoned her attempts at making conversation after my father told her to “Shut it.” Now she just sits in her chair, holding back tears and biting her lower lip as she picks at the stuffing and green beans on her plate.

My parents don’t appear to be in the holiday spirit.

Meanwhile, I’m thankful just to be eating at the table. It’s the first time my parents have invited me to join them for a meal since my third day back, when one of the stitches on my face popped and a piece of rotting tissue fell into my mother’s homemade gazpacho.

Needless to say, Mom hasn’t made it since.

Fortunately, my stitches seem to be holding fast these days, better than I would have imagined after four months. So I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful for a lot of things, more than I would have imagined barely more than a month ago.

I’m thankful for my support group.
I’m thankful for Rita.
I’m thankful for meeting Ray.
And I’m thankful my speech is returning.

It’s still rudimentary, but when your vocabulary has consisted of grunts and screeches that make Leatherface sound like a Rhodes scholar, anything is an improvement.

In addition to “I Eeta,” I’ve managed to vocalize a few other expressions:

“Ooo ook ate.” (You look great.)
“Sss eese.” (Yes please.)
“Hank ooo.” (Thank you.)
And “Ow oo I ell?” (How do I smell?)

Coming from a nine-month old in a high chair with creamed corn dripping down his chin, the brief explosions of half-English would probably sound adorable. But coming from a thirty-four-year-old decomposing half-corpse with mashed potatoes and gravy dripping down his chin, well let’s just say it’s probably not going to make anyone reach for the video camera.

So I keep quiet and eat my dinner and look around the table, at my disappointed mother and my brooding father, at all of the food and splendor of this silent, oppressive Thanksgiving feast, until my gaze falls on the turkey with its blistered skin and its vanishing flesh. The more I stare at it, the more I realize that I can relate to it, empathize with it, and it strikes me how much we have in common. True, it’s dead and cooked and partially devoured, but is that so different from me?

As it’s slowly consumed, the bones appear bit by bit, the cartilage and ribs revealing themselves as meat is stripped from the skeleton. Eventually, it will be nothing but a carcass. And I wonder:

Am I being destroyed by Breathers?
Is the process of decomposition gradually consuming me?
Or am I being consumed by the degradation of having to exist in a world ruled by the living?

The longer I stare at the turkey, the more I begin to feel a sort of kinship with it. The more I see it as a metaphor of my current existence. The more I began to understand why Tom would want to become a vegetarian.

Before my father can cut off another slice of breast or tear off another drumstick, I reach over and grab the turkey by its leg and drag it off the serving platter, across the table toward me.

“Hey,” says my father, his mouth filled with stuffing, pieces of it spraying across the table. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Intervention.
Deliverance.
Redemption.

Take your pick. All I know is it feels right.

The turkey overturns the gravy boat on its way toward me, dumping its contents on to the tablecloth and into the cranberry sauce.

“Goddamn it!” yells my father, dropping his knife and fork and reaching for the turkey.

“Honestly, honey,” says my mother, happy just to have some sort of interaction taking place. “If you wanted some more, all you had to do was ask.”

Before my father can grab the other drumstick, I pull the sixteen pound Butterball into my lap, knocking my plate aside and off the edge of the table, where it lands on the hardwood and cracks in two, spilling my dinner across the floor.

“Andy!” says my mother. “Those are my best dinner plates.”

“Give me that turkey,” says my father, who gets to his feet and comes around the table with his head thrust out in front of him the way does whenever he means business. It used to scare the crap out of me when I was a kid. But I’m not a kid anymore. And I’m not giving up my turkey.

I push back in the chair and stand up, more sure of myself than I’ve been in months, and cradle the holiday personification of my essence against my stomach with my right arm as I back away toward the cellar door. Just before my father reaches me, he steps in my spilled mashed potatoes and goes down hard, smacking his elbow on the table.

“Are you all right, dear?” asks Mom, who is still sitting in her chair as if all of this is completely normal.

My father doesn’t answer, just gets to his feet and comes after me. I’ve almost reached the wine cellar door when he catches up and grabs hold of an exposed drumstick. I don’t think he even cares about eating the turkey anymore. He just doesn’t want me to have it.

Part of me wonders just what the hell I expected to accomplish. How I expected this to improve my situation. Another part of me finds this more fun than any recent Thanksgiving I can remember, so I start to laugh.

“This isn’t funny,” says my father, trying to pull the turkey away from me, but I’ve got a firm grip on the other drumstick with my right hand and I’m not letting go. Over my father’s shoulder, I see my mother cleaning up my broken plate as she complains about how we both ruined a perfectly lovely meal.

My father and I continue to fight over the turkey, each of us pulling on a drumstick, skin and meat sliding off in our hands. And I’m reminded of sloughage.

During the initial stages of human decay, liquid leaking from enzyme-ravaged cells gets between the layers of skin and loosens them. Sometimes the skin of an entire hand or foot will come off. As the process continues, giant sheets of skin peel away from the body.

Like the piece of skin that just slipped off the drumstick my father is holding.

If I hadn’t already ruined my appetite for turkey, that definitely did it.

An instant later, the drumstick in my father’s hand rips away and he stumbles back and falls into the antique black buffet hutch containing my mother’s tea cup collection. The hutch topples over backwards and lands with a thunderous crash of wood and broken china cups as I fall to the floor laughing with the turkey in my lap and my mother starts to cry.

Just like old times.

My favorite chapters to read include:

Chapter 4 (Andy helps his dad install the garbage disposal)
Chapter 20 (the attempted retrieval of Tom’s stolen arm)
Chapter 28 (the Thanksgiving dinner scene)

I also enjoy reading Chapter 48, the scene where Andy’s being interviewed by the media at the SPCA, but I don’t read that one as often because it borders on revealing spoilers. That’s one of the limitations I have when doing a reading is avoiding chapters that contain spoilers, since I haven’t done an event yet where everyone has read the book.

But I like to mix things up a bit, not read from the same chapters over and over, and see how the audience reacts. Which brings me to my Reader’s Poll question:

What are some of your favorite chapters in Breathers that you would like to hear at a reading?

It doesn’t matter if the chapters contains spoilers or are chapters I’ve already mentioned, but I’d like to hear what you think. And everyone who responds either here or on UndeadAnonymous.com will be included in a random drawing for a chance to win a personalized and signed copy of Breathers. Feel free to answer more than once and on both sites, but only one entry per person for the drawing.

All comments posted up until Friday, November 13th at 11:59PM PST will be entered in the drawing.

Though my favorite movie clip was from the classic The Vampires Night Orgy, which prompted a discussion about how vampires have the best orgies, werewolves have the best pajama parties, and zombies have the best pot lucks. Though I can’t take credit for the discussion. That goes to Emily Fear and Maureen White of Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Pittsburgh, who graciously hosted me at their booth for the weekend signing books with Jonathan Maberry and eating gummy body parts.

In addition to the wonderful staff at Joseph-Beth, I met a bunch of zombie authors from Library of the Living Dead and Permuted Press, including, Rhiannon Frater, Eric S. Brown, Rob Fox, Kody Boye, Kim Paffenroth, and James Melzer, among others. You can read about all of the authors on the Author Page of the Horror Realm web site.

I also had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Pus, the force behind Library of the Living Dead, as well as Rebecca May, Sandy Stuhlfire, Rich Dalzotto, and the rest of the organizers of Horror Realm. Having never traveled to an event on the east coast south of Manhattan (and even then, not since 2002), I hadn’t met the majority of those who attended the convention but soon found myself enjoying their company and sharing in the camaraderie of the weekend.

However, in addition to the wonderful memories, I also brought a cold back with me from Pittsburgh and have been laid up the last couple of days trying to kick it out of my apartment, so if you’ll excuse me, I have to go exorcise my germs with some green tea and a shot of vitamin C.

Next time I’ll talk about why I think Tom Cruise should win the lifetime achievement award for running in movies.

Although I’ll be hanging out and available most of the weekend, I do have a couple of scheduled signings and readings:

On Friday, from 6-7PM, I’ll be doing a sit and sign in the Dealer’s Room with Jonathan Mayberry, author of Patient Zero and Zombie CSU.  If you’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Jonathan, he’s a great guy.

On Saturday, I’ll be doing a reading followed by a Q&A from 11:30AM-12:30PM, followed by a solo sit and sign in the Dealer’s Room from 12:30-1:30PM.

So if you’re in the area, come on by. There’s lots of zombie goodness to be had.

So consider this the last installment dealing with the What, Where, Who, When, and Why of Breathers.

On the back cover of Breathers, the copy reads:

For fans of Max Brooks’ The Zombie Survival Guide and zombie aficionados everywhere…

Truth is, while I bought a copy of The Zombie Survival Guide in 2004 and read through parts of it and enjoyed the dry and amusing take on zombie preparedness offered up by Max Brooks, I never really looked at it as anything similar to Breathers.  I was more of the opinion that fans of Chuck Palahniuk and Christopher Moore would enjoy my novel, which has been confirmed by a number of readers who asked me if I’d ever read either Palahniuk or Moore.  So that makes me happy, since I consider both of them talented novelists and influential in my own writing.

However, since The Zombie Survival Guide was a widely read humorous zombie novel, my publisher thought it would make sense to tie the two together and reach out to those fans.  Several readers commented that the comparisons between the two novels weren’t really relevant, while one reader went so far as to complain about the comparison and bash me for not measuring up to Brooks’ caliber of writing in World War Z.  Which is kind of bizarre because nowhere on the cover copy does it mention World War Z.  Whatever.

Is there a point to this?  I’m not really sure.  It’s late, I have an early morning call with my editor to discuss her thoughts on my next book, and I want some Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream but my freezer only has frozen edamame and Morningstar sausage links.  So naturally, I’m distracted.

But I think where I was going with this was that I didnt’ read World War Z until after I’d finished Breathers and had a publishing contract because I didn’t want to be influenced by any zombie fiction.  And while I enjoyed WWZ and found it a compelling and fascinating read, again, there’s not really any point of comparison between my writing and that of Max Brooks.  Though I think you can be a fan of both of us and still respect yourself in the morning.

Onward…