I read (or rather, listened to) Edith Warton's short story collection, The Eyes. I see from this why she became popular. These are good stories with 3D characters. This was a good example of what you can do in the short form. There was a hint of the paranormal in her stories. That made them a little more interesting. I think this might be the case where the book she is known for isn't her best book. Old Man and The Sea was a horrid book. The Red Pony wasn't that good. Hemingway and Steinbeck didn't actually win their Nobels for these books; they won them for their body of previous work.
I also finished Peaceable Kingdom. All I can say is DAMN. Jack Ketchum is the best damn writer. He can go the gamut, from spatterpunk to surreal implied horror, and each one is a gem. Talent and commitment to craft, with a perseverance to keep going through the low periods, he defines great writer for me. When people tell me that there aren't any well-written horror stories, or ones that actually scare, I point them first to Ketchum. I really hope he starts getting more notoriety in the general public.
I finally got Erica to pick up the books for my thesis from her school's library. One will help immensely. Gradually, I'm getting enough info on Bearwalking. A passage here and there, an article from some long out of print magazine... Graduate level research can be a pain. I love explaining that to people without degrees. "Why can't you just go to the library, find a book on the subject, and write a report on it." Yes, even with all the books that have published, there are still topics there aren't books written on; even if Lincoln Park didn't have the worst library I have ever seen for research. If there was already a book on the subject, I wouldn't need to write one. Brian Frost already ruined one of my ideas for a non-fiction book. He did a very good job though. I'm actually glad he wrote The Essential Guide to Werewolf Literature. If he hadn't, or had done it poorly, I would have felt the need to write it. And that would have taken time away from my fiction, and forced me to read thousand of horrible werewolf novels. Not that I don't have plenty of non-fiction topics. I love writing non-fiction. When I'm done with my current novel, I would like to publish a good book devoted to the Bearwalk.
Take Camus' Stranger, and turn him into a hick farmer. Mix a dash of Humbert from Nabakov's Lolita. It is a good novella, but not great. It seems like an excellent back plot to a novel. If there was something else happening that drove Ethan, it might have been better. As it is, he appears as apathetic as Camus' character. He wants things, but never really attempts to get them. He doesn't stand up to his wife, indeed the first time he says he lied was to her about her pickle dish. A pickle dish she never used anyway, for fear of it being broken. I was reminded of my Memere's china from the porcelain shop that did Napoleon's. The language was pretty interesting. It holds the local flavor, without being oppressive. That in itself doesn't make a good novel. The novel seemed to me too much like most "literary" novels.
I also finished Perfume. The ending was perfect. It was unexpected but fit logically so well. It wasn't really a horror book though. He didn't even show us 24 of the murders. The last murder was better described than the first, but still not as sense-ual as the other events. What about the smell of the blood? Some of the sense of detatchment worked well towards the intent. Grenouille didn't consider the bodies as humans, just carriers of scent. I loved the 7 years in a cave. The stench of his body had become a fog, a fog of nothingness since he had no body odor. This worked for me. The last part was over the top, but remain completly believable in the world of the novel. I did not question the logic of anything.
A Choir of Ill Chlidren by Tom Piccirilli. Remember this book. I forgot to talk about it in my last post. If you have not read it, go out and get it. It will be coming out in mmp from Bantam on June 1st. This is Southern Gothic fiction at its best. It reads like Faulkner, if Faulkner hadn't let his writing get in the way of his writing. The stream of conciousness flow so well you are locked into the story even more. The asides to the reader also work. They do pull the reader out, but that is to the story's benefit in this case. If the reader gets too submerged in the novel, it might become too surreal and lose the effect. The asides give a breif gasp of air before submerging fast and deep back into the murky bayou of this novel. I read this with Updike, so the regionalism of the prose style was very evident. I also saw the influence of the horror genre writers (and not just because there are names of Pic's writer buddies slipped in as character names). Our Dark Father has really outdone himself with this one.
Withces that reminded me of the crones from MacBeth, a deformed siamese triplet brother. One head of which spouts poetry to the coke-head reporter girl from New York. A bajou girl with her own relationship issues with the family. A raging storm that treatens to destroy the town, that may be damned anyway. Characters that a so unique, they would become caricatures if it wasn't for Pic deft handling of their backstories and how they fit into the plot. They are at the same time over the top, and completely believable. This is one of those books that sticks with you like bad gumbo.
I finished listening to October Country. It was a special treat to hear Bradbury himself reading it. That is the perfect way to get a story, exactly as the author intended. I wish there had been more of Uncle Inar. I liked those stories. Bradbury is a great weird fiction writer. I loved the images he invoked, and the odd twists he put into the plots. That said, there was little emotional response. I see why people like his shorts, but they don't make me afraid, or feel anything at all really. They are still great stories, but they don't get the brain a spinning, and the cold sweats to pop out like some writers.
I also listened to The First Dog, and other Chippewa/Cree stories. It has been a long time since I heard stories like this. I remember Chief telling stories, you never knew how much he embellished. I was struck by the narrative structure. There is an almost constant going back to explain a point, or character. Much of this stems from a story that isn't written down has a lot to remember. You can't go back and edit like you can on the written page. A good storyteller has few of these, this guy wasn't great. His dialogue was passable, even good at points. That is always a big part for the kids, who always sit the closest during the storytellings. When the storyteller starts in with a chipmunk voice, or an old hag, all the kids love it. I also noticed that there was a LOT of telling. There is little of the flowery language, mostly because the teller has had to remember the plot points. That is what's considered important, the "prose" style comes last, if at all. I have heard some great people who could invoke some verbal images the likes of which are rare even in print. Those stories are that much more chilling. This telling was like a fairy-tale, a story stripped down to its essential parts. I could see myself at the fire, with a single drum beating time. I think I would like to be a storyteller sometime.
I finished Bob's The Black Lodge. I have gained a new respect for him. Normally that comes from a work being so great it hurts. I've been talking to Clegg, Pic and Keene for a while. They are such down to earth people. I read their works and am floored that I know someone who writes that well. It makes me feel humbled and elevated at the same time. I wish one day to truly join their ranks. Bob does not fall in that category. He has long said that he is not that good of a writer, if he can make it anyone can. He is right. His book is good. The plot is unique and well-researched. The dialogue is pretty good, as is the general prose. But, it isn't one of those great books that you run out and tell all your friends about. It is a great example of a good midlist author. I was entertained while I read the book, and that is all most readers ask for. It is a testament to a writer as a whole package, and not just blindingly sublime writing. So many times we forget the business aspect, the career positioning stuff. It gives me hope. If Bob can do it so can I. I'm very glad Bob is doing this class on the writing of the book. I look forward to learning how and why he wrote the book the way he did.
I also listened to Eudora Welty read some of her stories. I'm struck by how small and powerful she sounds. She sounds like a young girl, but has the strength in demeanor of someone much older. Perhaps she was sick when I saw her. That time she looked frail and old, you could hardly hear her speak. I loved her diction. She captured her locale perfectly. I would like to do that with Jack's tribe's voices. It is so simple, yet elegant. It doesn't sound like the lifted Proustian prose you think of when you think literary fiction, but it was pretty good.
I finally got all my stuff in, past the deadlines, but they're in. Not only did I have the Seton Hill deadline, but the Hacker's Source deadline that I forgot because I was so focused on my novel. I also need to rework "The Axe" for Borderlands, and another piece for the Detroit Writer's Voice contest. I need to get back on schedule with my projects. I've already written all my deadlines on my calendar, that way I can see them every time I go into the fridge. This period was also a good lesson in forcing oneself to write. I threw my muse out of the writing room. He just sat there, his red eyes mocking me from his sharp blue face. He didn't want to leave at first, he bounced off the lathe and plaster and back at me. I figured if my muse won't help me get this done, fuck him. I'm doing it by myself. Waiting around for some vague muse isn't getting my ass in the chair and the book written. The typewriter clacked away to Waylon Jennings as the fog of my mind was forced away. I often turn to my old Smith-Corona when I'm stuck. Something feels extremely comfortable, like when I thwacked out my first story, long before the cares of the world were known to my feeble mind. Part of misses the time of blessed ignorance. I would sit in my room with the sun warming my face. All I had to do was sit and think about crazy adventures for my characters. It's like skiing, when you go back to why you love it, it becomes fun again. That will help drive the passion for the craft.
I started really getting into Perfume. I love this book. I feel the olfactory senses blossom as I read. I have always been a sensory person, this is my kind of book. My only critique is the lack of the "money shot." Suskind does that Hitchcockian pan away and then come back when the murder is done. It can be striking if done well, and it might work into the plot later, but I still like to see some splatter.
I know this is a writing journal, but sometimes life beats so hard on our writing life that the two can't help but merge into a horrid beast of reality. I came home after school today to find half of my house cleaned out. Things have been bumpy, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. Still, today it feels permanent. For the last three and a half years, Erica has been my companion, my best friend, confidant, lover, wife, and so much more. A big part of me still loves her. That other chunk still has no idea how to feel. I really wish I could make myself feel, well, something. It feels empty. Perhaps the fights have run their course and both of us have had enough. I feel like Anne of a Thousand Days. I wonder what my one perfect day was. The day after her suicidal tendencies and mental breakdowns, before my getting fed up, and eventually mad. There must have been one day in there where we both loved each other, where both of us were equally happy. I wish I would have paid more attention, I would have made that day last forever. The day when our hopes and dreams didn't clash their brassy helmets together. The day when just staying in each other's arms was enough. When the whole world floated away and all I cared about was those eyes that mirrored love in their dark glassy pupils. Many of the little quirks that would have driven me mad if it was someone else, with her they were made the very things I loved.
I've put myself into my novel, perhaps too much so. That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger. It also makes us cynical and bitter. I miss the simple joys of life. I've been examining my descisions. What would have happened if I hadn't fallen in the Nagano trials? What if I would have joined the Air Force Academy? What if I would have taken that skiing scholarship? What if I hadn't given up robotics to pursue writing? What if I had gone to Carnegie Mellon in the first place? What if I never played rugby? What if I had dated more, would I have married someone else? What if I wasn't born deaf? What if I had a bigger body? What if I had gone to Wayne State instead of Seton Hill? So many descisions we make through the course of our lives. All affect our future. From the woman we choose to marry, to what we eat for lunch. Who knows what would have happened in the butterfly effect of life. Some things we choose, some are chosen for us. I wish I could play God in life like I can in fiction. Life has no happy ending.
I started drinking last night, just a little rum to start the creative juices flowing so I can get my submission in on time, and events transpired to get me completely wasted. Now, that happens very rarely. I have a high tolerance, and don't drink to excess. I had my college days like everyone else, but even then I wasn't as big of a drinker as many of my friends. Granted, my friends are rugby players who are known for drinking. I can usually drink and not get drunk, a social drinking attitude many of my mates lack. I think a part of that comes from my family. My dad grew up on what used to be an Anishanabee/Ojibwe rez. He did not drink almost at all. He saw many of his famil and friends ruined by the drink. That also brings up an interesting stereotype that is even supposedly base partly on fact. Most people have heard that Indians are drunk. Hell, in one of my classes at U of M, one of my profs said it. It was in my Afro-American Lit or African-American novel, or teaching in a multi-cultural society class (I can't remember which). We were talking about the stereotypes. How not all black people really like fried chicken, watermelon, etc. How that isn't like Indians who really are all drunks. Needless to say, I was inflamed. I let lose with a tirade that prompted a private apology from the teacher. It seems like some stereotypes die hard. Regardless of the validity, it seems I've had that weight over my head since I've been old enough to drink. My mother is great at reminding me whenever I go home and have A beer. Where they grew up, you were either a drunk, or didn't drink. There was no middle ground.
Now, how does this relate to writing you ask? Well, it seems writers get the same stereotype put upon them. We sit in front of our keyboards writing. Many of the best drink and smoke while they write. The drive to create is metted out with an equal share of self-destructive tendencies. What do we do when the prose won't flow. You can try to do something else, but your mind won't let you. My mind keeps reminding me I should be writing. I feel bad for doing anything else besides sitting in my windowless room typing ream after ream of brillant prose. A realist knows that won't happen all the time. The muse is not a realist. So we fight against her the best we can. Some do not win the fight. I love Shirley Jackson's work, but what it took to get that work from her tortured soul killed her. We focus so much on our work, we can forget life around us. Writers have a strong weight around our necks. Every word we put down will follow us long after we are dead, in a way that even flesh and blood offspring fail to do. That is a hell of a lot of pressure to put on a bunch of squiggly black marks put down on bleached and pressed pieces of wood pulp. Writers also have the added pain of seeing the world through the poet's lens. We are more perceptive to the world around us. Emotions hit us harder, senses are more noticed. We have to train ourselves to put all that we experience into our writing. All the scents and sounds, feelings and pain. Every sour tang that curddles our lips is fodder for our imagination. Perhaps the liqour is a way to artificially numb those senses so we can stop the muse, or to release them and call her into our presence. Nobody ever said it was a perfect plan. No look at the horror writer. You think Proust had demons, what about Lovecraft? Our JOB is to delve into that darkness, wrestle with the demons, and pull them kicking and screaming into the amber light of twilight. We feel the fear, but go on in spite of it. Why are my favorite stories the ones that kept me up for three nights, afraid to shut my eyes, afraid of what the darkness would hold. Perhaps writing is a way to exorcise these demons, but it goes far deeper than that. We find ourselves going deeper and deeper in, until there is no way out but to go even deeper and hopefully come out the other side like Dante down the crack of the Devil's icy ass.
I'm a loner by nature, have been since I was born. I was born functionally deaf, so my formative years were a different millieu than most. I always preferred my own company to that of others. My imagination, my demons, were my friends. I'm not an outgoing person, my speach impediment is a big cause of that. Teaching has helped enormously in that. I'm forced to stand in front of a class full of kids and teach them, and I've become pretty good at it. I guess in the end, it comes down to dealing with the demons. They will never really quiet, but I can at least learn to live with them.