In January 2005, Quill & Quire ran a piece in which Helen Reeves, editor at Penguin Canada, said she had been appointed to seek out “cutting edge” writers. Seven months later, she said the term “cutting edge” is still the thing she’s asked most about in interviews.
“The whole thing about ‘cutting edge,’” Reeves says, “is that it was a way of pointing out that we want to keep Penguin’s list fresh, that we’re looking for new, interesting voices. Material that comes from a very unusual place.” She believes that the bigger the market, the more room there is for experimentation. “I’m looking for more than just the literal detail of everyday life.”
In 2004, Penguin acquired the rights to new author Craig Davidson’s first short story collection (Rust and Bone) and first novel (The Fighter). Reeves says the thing about Davidson’s writing that appeals to her is that he brings genre influences to his literary writing. His background in dark fiction colours the tone of his work, with more attention being paid to plot and character than is typically the case in a lot of Canadian fiction.
Davidson says of his previous writing, “That’s one thing I’ve learned from writing horror: You’ve got to have strong characters, so that when something awful happens to them, it really hits home.”
Reeves and Davidson agree that when it comes to genre, there’s a certain stigma attached to the term, but both say it’s important to read outside of your comfort zone, to read as much as you can in as many styles and types of writing as possible—especially if you want to be a writer.
Though Davidson says it’s great to be considered “cutting edge,” because the term implies an unwillingness to compromise to the mainstream, there’s a downside to the label, too—from both the author’s and the publisher’s points of view.
“The problem with saying you’re going to be publishing cutting edge books,” Reeves explains, “is that it really sets you up for a fall in some respects. It’s hard enough for a first-time author to deal with the whole process of being a new writer, being reviewed, and having critics going out of their way to find what’s wrong with these books. Saying, ‘This is cutting edge, this is the future of fiction,’ just gives another reason for everyone to rip the books apart.”
Davidson doesn’t consider his writing particularly cutting edge, because the term implies that it’s somehow ahead of the pack. He says of his short story collection, “They’re simply stories about people and their relationships, but it takes a more visceral look at them.”
You wouldn’t know it by reading The Kite Runner, but, like Davidson, internationally bestselling author Khaled Hosseini wrote and sold horror stories, too. It’s this inherent edginess that gives both writers’ work a gritty clarity. But it’s a grittiness that caused Davidson to run into a wall of rejections when he first started submitting to Canadian literary journals. But rather than acquiesce to their conventions, he kept writing the edgier material that would eventually make up Rust and Bone. Of the experience, Davidson says, “In the Canadian pantheon, yes, my work might be cutting edge, because it was written aggressively against the work being published in most Canadian literary journals.”
Davidson’s grateful to be mentioned in the same breath as writers like Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club), Mark Danielewski (House of Leaves), and Bret Easton Ellis (American Psycho). And with blurbs for his first book from Ellis, as well as Thom Jones, Peter Straub, Joseph Boyden, and Clive Barker, it’s clear that he’s following his own advice about reading and taking influences from every genre.
In the end, though, Davidson would prefer to be called just “edgy.”
“There’s cutting edge, then there’s edgy. Saying ‘cutting edge’ puts you at a whole different level, like you’re somehow beyond the curve. Whereas edgy just implies that the work has some rough edges,” Davidson says with a wry grin. “And that it may not be your mother’s reading material.”
*Originally published in Quill & Quire
Publisher’s Weekly had this to say about Khaled Hosseini’s internationally bestselling first novel, The Kite Runner: “Stunning . . . an incisive, perceptive examination of recent Afghan history. . . . It is rare that a book is at once so timely and of such high literary quality.” Now, certainly everyone reading this has either read or at least heard of Hosseini’s novel. But what you all probably don’t know is that he used to write horror stories.
It’s okay, I’ll wait here while you catch your breath, slap your jaw back into place. It’s true. Khaled Hosseini, whose first novel has sold over four million copies, used to slave away in the ghetto of horror fiction—and not so long ago, either. I shared pages with him in a 2002 small press dark fiction anthology called Dreaming of Angels—our stories were side by side. I like to think that some small measure of his success might still rub off on me through sheer proximity.
I’d like to focus on those last three words in PW’s review: “high literary quality.” Is it somehow possible that Hosseini could have reserved his best writing—his high literary quality writing—for just his first novel? Or is it more feasible that he would bring the knowledge of his craft to whatever he wrote, including the horror? It’s pretty safe to say that Hosseini’s horror would show many of the same flashes of brilliance that his first novel does. After all, it’s the same writer, just writing different material.
Now that we’ve established at least one case—and there are many, believe it—in which a writer who has gained fame for his more mainstream work has a genre skeleton lurking in his literary closet, we come to the point of this article: genre fiction isn’t necessarily crap. As with every other kind of fiction, it depends who’s writing it. It’s not the material, it’s the way it’s handled. Think of your favourite author—go on, imagine their monumental talent, their unwavering consistency of voice, their astonishing command of the language—now imagine that author writing a zombie story, or a ghost story, or a science fiction fantasy-western. Do you think your favourite author would suddenly forget how to write? Do you believe they’d suddenly become totally useless at stringing sentences together? Do you think they wouldn’t be capable of bringing their brilliance to whatever literary canvas they put their hand to? Of course they would.
So why is genre fiction so routinely sneered at?
Well, for one thing, Canada has exactly zero major publishers with spec-fic imprints, whereas the U.S. has several—there are even a couple of majors that specialize in genre fiction. Canada has no mass-market outlet for it at all, so we get what we’re given, and what’s been coined “Can Lit.” This is fiction stereotyped as being highly detailed narratives in which nothing much happens—but very beautifully, and usually in the prairies. Generally, nothing blows up, no hideous creatures attack people, no aliens threaten to take over the planet, and there’s not many serial killers stacking the bodies up like cordwood. But just as the stereotype for Canadian literary fiction isn’t always true, the same can be said about genre fiction—Canadian or otherwise. Not all of what is termed “horror” or “science fiction” by unimaginative marketers is fast-paced action-oriented genre tropes—vampires/werewolves/zombies/serial killers/elves/dragons/aliens/robots/spaceships. A lot of what’s being written by genre writers at the top of their craft is a mixture of many influences—a lot of them literary: Jonathan Carroll, China Miéville, Stewart O’Nan, Graham Joyce, Kelly Link, Peter Straub, Susanna Clarke, Chuck Palahniuk, Octavia Butler, Ray Bradbury, Ursula K. LeGuin, James Morrow, Iain Banks, Neil Gaiman, Kurt Vonnegut, Clive Barker (one of Hosseini’s favourites), and, yes, I’ll come right out and say it—even Stephen King, most notably in his 1999 novel Bag of Bones. These are writers whose subject is, most times, quite dark, but who can write about that darkness beautifully, and with great subtlety. No shambling zombies, no predictable serial killers, no done-to-death vampires. There are writers out there—new ones and old—who are blurring the lines, creating moving, engaging, well-plotted, but also incredibly well-written fiction that defies categorization.
This is not to say, however, that people who read exclusively genre fiction are not just as snobbish when it comes to literary fiction—the kind with a capital ‘L.’ Genre readers can be just as pig-headed and narrow-minded when it comes to broadening their scope to encompass the Margaret Atwoods, Alice Munros, Joseph Boydens, David Bergens, and Mordecai Richlers of the literary world. They complain that it’s too pretentious, nothing happens, there’s no plot, no recognizable story arc, too many details, not enough action. They equate reading it to watching paint dry. And I say that they, too, are losing out on some great fiction. It’s just different fiction. Not necessarily better, not necessarily worse.
It’s the writer, not the subject matter, that dictates quality.
Wouldn’t it be grand if Canadian publishers bought some of this well-written genre fiction—and just release it as “fiction,” leaving aside the pointless labels? Can Lit needs to shuffle off the stereotype it’s been burdened with. It needs sharper teeth, a more defined darkness. It needs some action. I want something to blow up in a Can Lit novel.
Reading Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner, I see glimpses of his horror stories—the crisp style; the honest, realistically drawn characters; the well-structured plot and solid pacing. It’s all there. Hosseini’s experience with genre material helped shape his literary fiction. It didn’t hurt his craft, it improved it, helped broaden its appeal.
A good writer is a good writer is a good writer.
A lot can be learned about the craft by reading—and writing—genre work, just as a lot can be learned by reading and writing literary fiction. Writers can benefit from both, and combining them is the best thing that could happen to Canadian fiction.
Now, which of you budding authors out there is going to write the first-ever prairie apocalypse novel?
*Originally published in Quill & Quire
In the art of writing, is one more important than the other?
Do we need all five to craft a well-written tale?
I was recently talking about this subject with a friend who had read one of my stories about a multiple rape and beating victim that is trying to come to terms with her past. She said it was refreshing to read a story written by a male that handled the female character properly and believably. After some perfunctory blushing and such I thanked her for her compliment and we discussed the subject further.
We got to talking about what elements about me, personally (and in the writing of the tale itself), could have made my female character more believable than someone else’s. Some people think that experiencing what you’re writing about is the key; that having lived through whatever story you’re telling goes a long way to the believability of the tale. Others feel that any good writer can weave a believable yarn out of thin air, having never done any of the things they’re writing about. Then there’s the question of caring about your characters and the events they go through: how much of the success of your story depends on the emotional attachment you have to it?
I have never hit a woman, have never even been present when one has been struck, yet my story opens with a somewhat brutal rape scene. The scene was written entirely from my imagination, and culled, unfortunately, from the stories of far too many of my female friends. It was tough to write ’cause all I kept picturing was an amalgam of all of them experiencing the rape/beating. So there was emotion behind it; I cared a lot about the character I called “Julie” because it was all those women I cared about rolled into one entity.
Was that what made the scene believable?
Would someone that knew no rape victims have been able to get the same effect from just doing research on the subject and then simply using their imagination in tandem with the facts? I don’t know. Possibly so. Would someone that has had those experiences write it better? I think so, yes, because if they’re a writer, they have the imagination, and if they’ve been through it, then they have both the emotion and the experience, too.
I think the best possible result for any story would be to have all three elements in your hip pocket, but in horror fiction, that’s not always possible. If it was, many of us would be rotting behind bars right now.
How is it that someone can actually make you believe in the story you’re reading? What in their craft enables them to transport you to their world?
Well, one aspect that hasn’t been breached yet is talent—the ability to shape your thoughts and words in such a way that the reader becomes a silent observer in your story—a willing or, in some cases unwilling, participant in the events. Without this, the other three aspects are pretty much useless.
But then, there’s the subjectivism of personal opinion—the final element: the reader—to throw into the whole mix, too. What some people think is a talented writer, others call shit. I suppose the same could really be said about imagination and emotion, too. One person could read a book and think it was incredibly imaginative, and the next person thinks it’s dull, lifeless drivel that has been explored many times already and by far better writers. One guy could get into a story to the point where he’s basically experiencing the same emotions as the characters, so he deems the story extremely emotional; another person reads it, leans back, yawns, and scratches his balls.
The only real steadfast aspect, it seems, is experience, ’cause either you’ve been through something or you haven’t.
The trick, though, in fiction in general—and even more so in speculative fiction—is to write your story so the reader thinks you’ve been through it, even if it’s not possible—like space stories or zombie fiction. The reader knows full well the author is not floating around in space or has recently awakened from the dead to come crack some craniums and dip into some tasty grey matter, but while the words are going through their heads, being processed through the filters of their own experiences, talents, emotions, and imagination, they float into the realm of suspended disbelief.
And that’s exactly where every fiction author should be striving to trap them. Until the very last page of the book.
The reader’s own experiences are often what inform their opinions of good writing, so it’s bound to differ from reader to reader, and this, my friends, is The Gathering Place, the Place Where All Elements Coalesce.
The reader is the most important part of any written equation. They act as reflective surfaces that assimilate then interpret what they’re being told. The reaction relates as much to the reader as it does to the story. The tale is pointless without it being read by someone, so it only makes sense that the final judgement must intrinsically include them.
If the reader does not believe in the story, it falls flat; if the reader does not believe in its characters, the story falls flat; and if the writer does not believe what he’s writing . . .
The story will fall flat.
There’s a whole multi-linked chain that ties everything together in fiction, and if one link gets snapped, you’re fucked. Dead in the water. Floating around, wondering what the hell just happened. That’s when you go over your manuscript again and again with not just a fine-tooth comb, but a big fucking axe, chopping superfluity, reshaping cardboard characters, and cutting the scenery so you can smell every fetid odour seeping up through the soil, taste every hunk of flesh the shuffling zombie rips off and crams into his slobbering yap, feel every slice of the serrated blade as its dragged across flesh, and feel, too, on an entirely different level, the emotional bludgeoning brought on by the death of that character, see the heartache in someone’s eyes, the splash of bright-red arterial blood as it arcs into the air, every reflective glint from the sun hitting the windows of the buildings in your fictional city—and hear every piteous moan, every dragging footstep on the pitted, hardwood floor.
Emotion, imagination, experience, talent, and the reader.
In the art of writing, is one more important than the other? Yes, but they’re all heavily dependent upon each other.
Do we need all five to craft a well-written tale?
Yes, I think we do.
But I once co-wrote a story about a boy strapped to a metal table, four-inch nails jutting from his ribs, his intestines pulled out from his torso and crammed into a garbage bag full of green Jell-O.
I think I’ll pass on the experience factor for that one, thanks.
What, exactly, happened to those old favourites of yours? That novel or movie that you saw when you were younger that had such an incredible impact on you? Why is it when you go back to it—older, wiser(?), more jaded, perhaps—it doesn’t seem to hold quite the same level of magic anymore?
It’s the same product—same characters, same actors, same setting, same writing, same everything. And yet . . . something is missing. Something intangible. Something that struck a nerve in you all those years before.
At the end of it, you think, “Yeah, that was pretty cool.” But there’s that disappointment that it’s not the same revisited. You’re not floored, flabbergasted, flummoxed, or any other cool ‘f’ word like that. You sort of sigh a little, scratch your head, and try to remember exactly why you were so bowled over by it the first time round.
Well, there’s the obvious answer: You’ve grown up a bit. You’re not a teenager anymore. People change every day, if only in minuscule increments (or, I suppose, in grand, sweeping, revelation-like epiphanies if you, say, get struck between the eyes by the Light of God or some such), but for us mere mortals, the change is gradual, like erosion.
Picture tiny bits of whatever the magic was tinkling off and shattering in your wake as the days, weeks, months, years pass, and you’re none the wiser. Silent, tiny crashes of its essence already too far behind you, or too obscured by the rattle of your newfound maturity to be noticed.
Things get louder as you get older. Why do you think older people can’t stand loud music? It’s too much now. Didn’t used to be—they used to rock till sunrise just like you do now—but those days are gone. Now you just want everyone to shut the hell up and get off your porch.
One of my bits of not-so-shiny-anymore nostalgia is the film Fright Night. Man, I used to think that film kicked ass. I watched it a few months ago and thought it was pretty lame. No idea why I initially thought so highly of it. Bad acting, bad hair. Cheesy but not cheesy enough to be entertaining simply for its blatant fromage factor. It bummed me out.
For my girly, Sandra, one of hers was Michael Slade’s Ghoul. Still a great book, and far better crafted than a lot of the other Slade efforts since, but not the same effect as before. Has she simply read more, read better in the intervening years? Maybe. Or perhaps her tastes have changed, refined. Maybe she needs more now as a reader than what Ghoul has to offer. Who knows? Whatever the reasoning behind it, though, it’s definitely a different animal. An animal, yes, but tame. Declawed. Neutered.
Sure, some movies and books stand the test of time for an individual, but a good chunk of the ones you used to absolutely adore in every way leak their life out into the dirt over the years—stabbed in the gut and left to bleed to death slowly.
What strikes me as profoundly sad is that we cannot recapture that feeling. No matter how hard we try to think back to the reasons we dug this film or that book so heavily, we can’t salvage the memory, the emotion. It seems irrevocably lost. Those are pieces of who we used to be, who we still are, and we can’t even imagine them anymore, despite the vague, deep-down tremors of how those pieces of art made us feel 10, 15 years ago.
Maybe those chunks of our psyche, our experience, have been swallowed by the job, the wife or husband, religion, sex, drugs (I refuse to add rock ‘n’ roll, damnit!), bills, kids, other movies, other books, other people even. Those bits of us that reacted so strongly to certain films/bands/TV shows/books/etc., have been integrated into our new selves, our new souls.
Maybe they’re gone forever. Or maybe we recall some of them when we’re old and rocking on our porches, a nice, cool beer in our hands. Quick snapshots of our teenage emotions, quickly crisped in a bursting synapse. Bubbles that build quickly then pop in our heads, leaving us mentally chasing the feeling down into the muck of our minds.
Go back to a novel you read and fell in love with years ago; see if it still has the same power. I have a few that actually still do hold up, but I’m afraid to tell you what they are, in fear that in just speaking their names, some of the magic will disappear, and I’m not willing to let that happen. When something is on like that, and it stays on, you have to do everything in your power to keep it on.
Search out the ones that still work, folks, and keep them in a warm, secure place. If you’re anything like me, you’ll need them to go back to them every few years, just to know that they’re still safe.
So the first draft is finished, and now you have to edit the sonofabitch.
Most writers don’t particularly enjoy the task of rewriting/editing, but I do. Not sure why, but I find it sometimes more rewarding than the initial writing.
Now, for me, the best way to avoid tons of rewriting/editing is to do it as I go along, with as much foresight as possible. However, you can only do this effectively to a certain point, because you’re not always certain how things will go with the novel. Barring this luxury, here are some things to keep in mind as you go back to the start, dig in your heels, and begin slogging through those thousands and thousands of words all over again.
Cut mercilessly. No, seriously. Do it. Don’t mess around. If you see words, sentences, paragraphs, even whole chapters that detract from the flow of the story, excise or reshape them immediately. The worst disservice you can possibly do to your book is keep in this dead weight. Chop that passive voice—cut it off at the knees, make it squirm in a puddle of its own blood. It has no place in your book. Nor anyone else’s. Its lack of immediacy drops the reader right out of the story. If you have a character walking down the street, do not say, “He began to walk down the street,” just say, “He walked down the street.” You don’t begin to walk, you just walk—unless the action gets interrupted, in which case “began to” actually works; i.e., “He began to walk down the street when something in his peripheral vision distracted him.” That’s fine. Apply this to every action—walking, running, sitting up, leaning over, jumping around in pain after being kneed in the groin, whatever. Make your characters just do these things, rather than corrupting the image in readers’ heads and cluttering up the flow with passivity.
Show don’t tell. Yes, it’s the most repeated axiom in writing, I know. You know why? Because it’s true. Bring the reader through the action you describe, don’t just tell us about something interesting that happened to your characters in an after-the-fact fashion. Showing us rather than telling us creates immediacy and involvement. So instead of telling us that Joe Blow Character is now a sensitive, loving father who has, unfortunately, had a life of hell and torment and used to routinely wish he’d never been born, show us Joe’s sensitivity by taking us through an episode in his life in which this is demonstrated. Show us through dialogue between characters—and as an integral part of the novel’s story, not just an anecdote—proof that he’s a loving father. Include a scene with his kid in which he demonstrates this through his actions. Include scenes that, in and of themselves, convey to the reader that poor Joe has had a terrible, miserable life, making us understand why he wished he were dead. Telling us that your characters have these important character traits is simply not enough, and it’s not the least bit engaging, which leads to reader apathy and, before you know it, loss of interest to the point that we won’t care what happens to your characters, because we haven’t really come to know them.
Realistic dialogue. Sure, sounds easy, but it’s not. As you’re going through, look very closely at your characters’ dialogue, their interactions. Is the way they’re speaking natural for the kind of person they are? Do you have large paragraphs of information (aka, the dreaded “info dump”) spouting out of their mouths? This goes back to showing, not telling: Just because you’re perpetrating the info dump in dialogue rather than the narrative doesn’t make it any better. It’s still a large, cumbersome chunk of information that should be revealed through character interaction and natural story arc, not in one giant chunk because you’re feeling lazy. Do the extra work to reveal your plot naturally, as if it were happening in real life. Make sure your characters don’t know more than they should, and aren’t repeating crap that a) the reader should already have gleaned from your narrative, or b) the person the character is talking to already knows. These are big stumbling blocks for the reader, and you run the risk of insulting their intelligence, which is never a good thing. Don’t feel you have to drive home your novel’s main points in every scene, and don’t underestimate your readers’ comprehension abilities.
Well, there are three things, anyway, that should help you through the editorial labyrinth that awaits. Cheers, good luck, and have fun with it!
(This is a piece from 2005 that I was asked to write for NaNoEdMo. I’m going to try to make sure as much work is off my plate when January 3rd rolls around, so I’m not giving you folks more old material. But I, for one, think the above tips are just as valid in 2009 as they were in 2005.)
Hey, folks. This is my first post here since my friend Davey Pig Wilson asked me to join the crew. I’m really not that big of a blogger (my own LiveJournal is mostly used for ChiZine Publications updates these days), but Dave says I’m in a somewhat unique position, being a writer, editor, and full-blown publisher (CZP is now my full-time gig).
Anyway, Dave said I can talk about anything so I figured I’d just blather on a bit about where CZP is currently at, since that’s what’s been occupying 90% of my time this past year.
We’ve published seven books to date, with another 12 coming next year. The first seven have been very critically well received, and the sales have been fairly solid, too. We do both beautiful signed limited edition hardcovers, available exclusively through Horror Mall, and unlimited trade paperbacks, available directly from our site, through all the major online retailers, as well as nationwide across Canada through our sales force, The Literary Press Group and their distribution arm, LitDistCo. We’re also currently in negotiations with a very well-known distributor in the States, who’ve offered us US and UK distribution. We also recently began releasing digital editions (PDF, MOBI, EPUB) exclusively through Horror Mall.
So yeah, things are going pretty well. But a lot of you reading this either know me, or at least know that I used to work as an editor on the educational side of publishing. For those who don’t know me, I worked for Harcourt Canada for seven years, then Scholastic Canada for three years. So why the switch to trade publishing? Well, I was canned from Scholastic back in November of ’08, so the decision was sort of made for me.
And I can honestly say it’s the best thing that could’ve happened.
Sandra (Kasturi, my wife and business partner in CZP) and I had released two titles by the time I got sacked from Scholastic (after 10 years in educational publishing, my heart was simply no longer in it and it had become evident in my quality of work). but we’d always intended the print offshoot of Chiaroscuro: Treatments of Light and Shade in Words to be quarterly. Once the job loss situation settled in, though—helped not at all by the crushed economy—we decided it was either keep hunting (probably fruitlessly) for another educational job I would probably loathe in two months, or sack up and dive in with both feet.
With Sandra’s full support, I sacked up and we decided to increase production—shit economy be damned!
Our first seven books include novels, novellas, and short story collections from Brent Hayward (Filaria), Robert Boyczuk (Horror Story and Other Horror Stories), Lavie Tidhar & Nir Yaniv (The Tel Aviv Dossier), Daniel A. Rabuzzi (The Choir Boats), Robert J. Wiersema (The World More Full of Weeping), Claude Lalumière (Objects of Worship), and David Nickle (Monstrous Affections)—the latter of which has received starred reviews by both Quill & Quire and Publisher’s Weekly. And our spring 2010 line-up consists of offerings from Nicholas Kaufmann, Douglas Smith, Gemma Files, Simon Logan, Tim Lebbon, and Philip Nutman—many of which will be launched in Brighton, England at the World Horror Convention in March.
Having done this for nearly a year now, it’s hard to picture doing anything else. I love every aspect of it. Don’t get me wrong—running a business is a fuckload of work, and the stress of not having that paycheque every two weeks (something I’d never previously been without) takes a bit of getting used to. But when you’re doing something you’re proud of, something that you made happen, that you were in control of from start to finish . . . goddamn. I feel nearly as much pride when I get an author’s book back from the printer and hold it in my hands as I do when I get one of my own novels or short story collections in the mail. That feeling of excitement and potential is there nearly monthly, and it’s a feeling I could never have had if I’d stayed on at educational publishers.
I don’t believe in all this shit about things being “meant to happen”; I don’t think there’s any such thing as “destiny.” I believe we create our own paths and we either drive down them or we step the fuck off and go in another direction, for better or worse. But sometimes we get pushed off our paths, and sometimes it’s for the best, even though it doesn’t seem like it at the time.
So yeah, I’m one proud motherfuckin’ small business owner right now, and I hope, with the help of Sandra, Erik Mohr (our brilliant book designer), and Matt Moore (our publicist) to build this little machine into a force to be reckoned with. If you’ve heard of us and have bought our books, thank you so much; if you’re only hearing of us for the first time, I sincerely hope you’ll come along for the ride.
Brett Alexander Savory
Co-Publisher, ChiZine Publications (CZP)
p.s. – We’ve been an invite-only press since our inception, but sometime around mid-November we’re going to open our doors to all and sundry. So polish up those manuscripts, and keep watching the website!