I hate Gary A. Braunbeck.
Never met the guy. Almost everything I've read before now has been a short story of his. I hear the legend of him, the stories about him - the kind of super nice but still a little morose guy. (There should be a whole lot more hyphens in that sentence, but I'm kinda too lazy to type them.) Maybe flaky. Maybe not there when you're talking to him. But I've never met him. I can't confirm nor deny these accusations.
What I can confirm is TO EACH THEIR DARKNESS fucked me up. It messed me up like Jeff Strand's PRESSURE, and probably more impact to Mr. Braunbeck, Ketchum's THE GIRL NEXT DOOR.
DARKNESS, as it shall be now known for purposes of this writing, cuz - as stated - I'm lazy and shit, is the first book that actually made me cry. Conlon's THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE, is the only book that raised the hair on the back of my neck, a phenomenon I thought but a construct of fiction until I'd experienced it. But, again, Braunbeck fucked me up. Like THE GIRL NEXT DOOR, I know I'll be thinking about this book on a daily basis for the next few months.
It's not fiction, but has fiction in it. Braunbeck's fiction. And one of the reasons I hate him is because it's sooooo damn good. The man who purports to be a reader of elementary understanding, writes literary, beautiful prose like few can, and has received the accolades and awards to prove it. I'm a writing geek. The "I used run-on sentences here for this reason and I used three-word sentences here for this other reason" is the type of thing I could talk to people about for days. I love the ins-and-outs of writing. The craft. The art (more on that to follow). The experience.
Gary, and I shall call him Gary because, again, because I'm a lazy fuck and am tired of making sure I've spelled his last name correctly, breaks down the craft on the nuts-and-bolts level while still showing the macro side of writing.
However, to think this is a book about writing, about horror in all its various media, is to sell it short. What this book is about is a writer, and possibly one of the finest writers of genre fiction in the past fifty years.
There's a section where Gary explains how a character has the benefit of explaining his motivations through dialogue - be it in film or on the page. The Definition of the Self. He gives an example of "The Messiah on Mott Street" from Serling's NIGHT GALLERY, and wrote his passage so well about it that I sought out the episode. Then he spends most of this book defining the DOTS by exposing himself in a rare, touching and emotionally draining fashion.
I cried, yes, like the pussy I am, when he wrote about his sister at the ELP concert. Afterwards, I felt even more like shit when I realized, it was the one episode in his life where things could have, should have, must have went wrong, but everything turned out okay. But the way he conveyed the anxiety over the incident hit me hard. Suffice it to say, I wouldn't wish his life on anybody.
So, for Gary...
When I was nine, I killed my brother.
Not in a way I could be convicted of, nor a way an adult would blame me for, but now that I'm almost forty-five, a way I still will never deny.
Daniel Patrick Anderson was my parent's favorite, and my sister and I would've hated that except we knew he had the right to be. He was the one who gave affection even after we laughed at him. He was the one that was far more outgoing. He was the one that you couldn't help but like.
And I killed him.
My sister and I always had a heated sibling rivalry. A rivalry that in later life, I got my ass handed to me. I struggle to take care of my family, she could take care of mine, hers, and a small city in Nicaragua. Yet, in 1977, I was winning. I was older, stronger, and damnit, Danny liked me better. I made sure of this by taking him to walk with me to school.
That was a no-no.
We lived two miles from the school and had a special city bus designated to take us to and from Spangler Elementary. But I wasn't as cool as Danny. Nor as tough. I was the smallest kid in my class except for my mouth. I got in a lot of fights. I never won one. So, I liked walking to school. I even more liked walking home from school - after a day of bullying and being so quiet that I'd almost rather piss my pants than ask for a bathroom pass. As such, being Danny's older brother, I often, and by often,I mean daily, mocked him for not walking home.
So, on April 20, 1977, my mother was five minutes late picking him up. And he walked. And he ran across Seventeenth Avenue. And he didn't make it. And I killed him.
Well, that's not what I intended when I started this silly blog.
I write, though. I want to write as well as Gary, but probably never will.
Which brings me to Gary's arguement about art. He contends that art can't be created, but it happens as a happy circumstance. The fact he shows his first brush with art as a friend who can fart a song, I believe, kind of underminds his hypothisis. I agree a lot with what he says here. Art is a happy circumstance, BUT, it usually occurs when somebody is trying to create art. Gary writes at length about Van Gogh - well, maybe not at length, but he discusses him. Van Gogh created art that few can deny. He also did so while trying to create art. The idea that art is happenstance doesn't work for me. Most of what artists try doesn't turn out to be art, but almost all art is the result of somebody trying to create it. So there. That's my main bitch.
I just want to express, I read a book that touched me - and not like one of the later passages in the book. For those that write, all we hope to do is hit a nerve - touch an emotion that means something. Gary has succeeded like no other non-fiction book I've ever read.
I hate you, Gary A. Braunbeck. And that's the nicest thing I can say.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Holy Cow!
Kind of funny how time slips by. Didn't realize how long it'd been since I visited here. And it's not like I've had nothing going on - I just didn't feel all that comfortable talking about it. That's how I roll.
However, based upon the number of hits on the blog lately, apparently, people are expecting me to say something. Probably expecting me to say something stupid, because again, that's how I roll.
I suspect all the recent traffic here is because of the new project that's in presale right now -SNUTCH LABS PRESENTS: TALES FROM THE YELLOW ROSE DINER AND FILL STATION. So, as I'm rusty at the blog thing, let's discuss that.
I want to focus on one of my favorite writers in the whole world - Kim Despins. Kim is working on a novel right now, but has been a short-story specialist up to this point - a woman after my own heart. She's a writer who you forget is there, which is the best kind. You read her stories, and she doesn't step on them. It's only story you read, and when you're done, as a writer, you try and figure out how she turned you inside out and got you lost in her prose. It's seamless.
While there's a beauty in that, there's also a brutality in what she writes. Her story "Skin" is in HORROR LIBRARY IV. Where to get? Here: HORROR LIBRARY IV. I have several friends with stories in this anthology, but while Kim's might not be your favorite when you finish, might not be the most well written in your opinion (it's very well written), might not be the one that makes you pick up the book, six months after you read the anthology it'll be the one you remember.
As far as the Yellow Rose offering, Kim does what she does best. She attacks a trope in the genre and turns it upside down. Kim, I think, will freely admit she wrote a gypsy curse story. But if one does something original with a trope, it makes it all the better. Why is LET THE RIGHT ONE IN such a powerful vampire movie? I believe it's because we're all tired of vampire movies, yet they found someway to make it fresh. This is what Kim does with her story, DOSHOLO. The title translates to "guilt" in Romanian, but I'm sure you knew that.
Here's an excerpt from the second section of the story:
Rae sat smoking a cigarette in her car, an older Camry she hated because it had been her dad’s first. She flicked ashes at the cup holder, missed and left more burn marks in the upholstery. Parked outside Corey’s apartment, she waited for the throbbing in her ankle to subside enough she could press the accelerator.
Corey had gone back to the Harvest Fair for the concert.
“It’ll look suspicious if we’re not there,” he’d said. “Besides, I want to go dancing.”
“You? Dancing?” Rae had spent countless evenings trying to pull Corey out onto the dance floor at one bar or another.
“Why not,” he’d said. “After tonight, maybe we should celebrate being alive.”
He’d also threatened to break up with her if she went to the cops. That, and go to her boss about the stash of pot she kept hidden at work for her night shifts. Rae barely made rent already. Losing her job meant moving back in with her dad. They’d barely spoken since her mother and brother died.
Ma and Danny. She’d worked so hard to forget that day, to think of them as if Danny were off at school and Ma divorced and happy in another town.
“But they’re not, are they.” Rae said to the empty car. And the gypsy knew it. She lit another cigarette from the stub of the one she’d just finished. Now she was responsible for another death. I’m a curse, she thought.
“You’re smoking now?”
The voice came from the back of her mind and was no more substantial than the smoke she blew out the car window.
Yeah Ma, she thought and flicked ashes at the cup holder. Her mother’s voice frequently popped into her head, mostly when she was doing things her mother wouldn’t have liked. And it’s not the worst thing I’ve done.
A commercial played on the radio – some annoying ad for a monster trucks rally – and she turned it off. Rae slid deeper into her seat and let her eyelids drift to half-mast. She wanted to pick up Corey, drive somewhere out of reach of the streetlights, put in Pink Floyd, smoke and watch the stars. She wanted to forget.
“Cigarettes will kill you.”
She jumped and in the rearview mirror caught a glimpse of someone in the back seat. When she turned around, her mother sat amid the litter of discarded fast food bags and empty soda cans. She still wore the navy blue suit with white piping that they’d buried her in. The faint odor of formaldehyde tickled Rae’s nose.
Ma? she thought, unable to take a breath deep enough to allow her to speak.
“Oh, now you acknowledge me. I expected you to just ignore me like before.”
“Ma, I didn’t-”
“You didn’t? Then where were you when I was dying? When I needed you most? Where?”
Rae scrambled for the handle, pushed the door open and fell onto the street. When she stood, the car was empty. The throbbing in her ankle became spikes of pain. She moaned, let out a shaky breath and fumbled for her cigarettes.
“Doesn’t family mean anything to you?” Ma stood just behind her right shoulder. Her curly red hair flared out like a halo, although Rae didn’t think she looked very angelic. The sagging skin of her mouth turned down in a sneer. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. “You left me for dead.”
The woman who’d raised Rae and who’d never lifted a hand to her in anger pulled back and slapped Rae across the face. Her acrylic finger nails raked her cheek. Rae staggered back.
“You’re not my Ma.”
END EXCERPT
This is the example of writing I was talking about. I dropped you in a story about a third of the way through, yet you can pretty much piece everything together to this point. There's continuity. There's also a skill that drops just enough information among the action so the reader learns more about the characters with each sentence.
If you're interested in following a writer who has a huge upside, Kim would be a solid bet to check out. And do a brother a favor, check her out in a book that I have a story in, as well.
YELLOW ROSE DINER AND FILL STATION
However, based upon the number of hits on the blog lately, apparently, people are expecting me to say something. Probably expecting me to say something stupid, because again, that's how I roll.
I suspect all the recent traffic here is because of the new project that's in presale right now -SNUTCH LABS PRESENTS: TALES FROM THE YELLOW ROSE DINER AND FILL STATION. So, as I'm rusty at the blog thing, let's discuss that.
I want to focus on one of my favorite writers in the whole world - Kim Despins. Kim is working on a novel right now, but has been a short-story specialist up to this point - a woman after my own heart. She's a writer who you forget is there, which is the best kind. You read her stories, and she doesn't step on them. It's only story you read, and when you're done, as a writer, you try and figure out how she turned you inside out and got you lost in her prose. It's seamless.
While there's a beauty in that, there's also a brutality in what she writes. Her story "Skin" is in HORROR LIBRARY IV. Where to get? Here: HORROR LIBRARY IV. I have several friends with stories in this anthology, but while Kim's might not be your favorite when you finish, might not be the most well written in your opinion (it's very well written), might not be the one that makes you pick up the book, six months after you read the anthology it'll be the one you remember.
As far as the Yellow Rose offering, Kim does what she does best. She attacks a trope in the genre and turns it upside down. Kim, I think, will freely admit she wrote a gypsy curse story. But if one does something original with a trope, it makes it all the better. Why is LET THE RIGHT ONE IN such a powerful vampire movie? I believe it's because we're all tired of vampire movies, yet they found someway to make it fresh. This is what Kim does with her story, DOSHOLO. The title translates to "guilt" in Romanian, but I'm sure you knew that.
Here's an excerpt from the second section of the story:
Rae sat smoking a cigarette in her car, an older Camry she hated because it had been her dad’s first. She flicked ashes at the cup holder, missed and left more burn marks in the upholstery. Parked outside Corey’s apartment, she waited for the throbbing in her ankle to subside enough she could press the accelerator.
Corey had gone back to the Harvest Fair for the concert.
“It’ll look suspicious if we’re not there,” he’d said. “Besides, I want to go dancing.”
“You? Dancing?” Rae had spent countless evenings trying to pull Corey out onto the dance floor at one bar or another.
“Why not,” he’d said. “After tonight, maybe we should celebrate being alive.”
He’d also threatened to break up with her if she went to the cops. That, and go to her boss about the stash of pot she kept hidden at work for her night shifts. Rae barely made rent already. Losing her job meant moving back in with her dad. They’d barely spoken since her mother and brother died.
Ma and Danny. She’d worked so hard to forget that day, to think of them as if Danny were off at school and Ma divorced and happy in another town.
“But they’re not, are they.” Rae said to the empty car. And the gypsy knew it. She lit another cigarette from the stub of the one she’d just finished. Now she was responsible for another death. I’m a curse, she thought.
“You’re smoking now?”
The voice came from the back of her mind and was no more substantial than the smoke she blew out the car window.
Yeah Ma, she thought and flicked ashes at the cup holder. Her mother’s voice frequently popped into her head, mostly when she was doing things her mother wouldn’t have liked. And it’s not the worst thing I’ve done.
A commercial played on the radio – some annoying ad for a monster trucks rally – and she turned it off. Rae slid deeper into her seat and let her eyelids drift to half-mast. She wanted to pick up Corey, drive somewhere out of reach of the streetlights, put in Pink Floyd, smoke and watch the stars. She wanted to forget.
“Cigarettes will kill you.”
She jumped and in the rearview mirror caught a glimpse of someone in the back seat. When she turned around, her mother sat amid the litter of discarded fast food bags and empty soda cans. She still wore the navy blue suit with white piping that they’d buried her in. The faint odor of formaldehyde tickled Rae’s nose.
Ma? she thought, unable to take a breath deep enough to allow her to speak.
“Oh, now you acknowledge me. I expected you to just ignore me like before.”
“Ma, I didn’t-”
“You didn’t? Then where were you when I was dying? When I needed you most? Where?”
Rae scrambled for the handle, pushed the door open and fell onto the street. When she stood, the car was empty. The throbbing in her ankle became spikes of pain. She moaned, let out a shaky breath and fumbled for her cigarettes.
“Doesn’t family mean anything to you?” Ma stood just behind her right shoulder. Her curly red hair flared out like a halo, although Rae didn’t think she looked very angelic. The sagging skin of her mouth turned down in a sneer. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. “You left me for dead.”
The woman who’d raised Rae and who’d never lifted a hand to her in anger pulled back and slapped Rae across the face. Her acrylic finger nails raked her cheek. Rae staggered back.
“You’re not my Ma.”
END EXCERPT
This is the example of writing I was talking about. I dropped you in a story about a third of the way through, yet you can pretty much piece everything together to this point. There's continuity. There's also a skill that drops just enough information among the action so the reader learns more about the characters with each sentence.
If you're interested in following a writer who has a huge upside, Kim would be a solid bet to check out. And do a brother a favor, check her out in a book that I have a story in, as well.
YELLOW ROSE DINER AND FILL STATION
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Back to work
As I'd mentioned in a previous post, I kind of let the whole collection thing get in my way far too much. The professional thing would have been to move on and have a billion stories and novels ready while I waited those four years. But, I let things get to me. I was horrified that the people I told would think I was in some way not truthful.
Now, the collection has been out for almost two months. The reviews have been great, the sales have been strong, and I'm thrilled it's over. It'd be nice to get a little more reader feedback, but...
Thing is, it's been very anticlimactic. Basically, I just have another book in my house. I knew it wouldn't change my life, but I guess waiting for as long as I did, I thought I'd enjoy seeing it released more than I have.
So, I spent a couple of weeks in a bit of a free fall, and a couple more focused on deep introspection. I'm ready to get back and give this a strong push.
I'm twelve chapters into my novel. This will be a huge challenge for me. I might not have attended college for a psych degree, and I think the one that I purchased for $29.99 and three proof of purchase from gallon Thunderbird bottles isn't really valid. However, I'm pretty sure I have a touch of the OCD. I've never finished anything unless I finally sat down and erased all I had, then finished the story in one sitting. And yes, this goes for my 13,000 word chapbook that I just had accepted. Talk about a long fucking day.
So, I'm about twenty percent done with the novel. I see rough waters nearing. But, I'm going to try and have this finished by July 31. The first draft. My plan is to pop in here each Sunday and just spout off about how it's going.
To make matters even worse, I woke up yesterday and was closer to 250 pounds than I was to 200 for the first time ever. A buddy of mine decided he'd do the P90X thing with me. Yes, this isn't smart to try these both at the same time, but I feel I have to make up for the time I lost wallowing in self pity about the collection.
Anyways, if you want to feel better about yourself, check in now and again. For if I crash and burn, I promise it'll be spectacular.
Oh, and now for something completely different. Thanks to Lee Thompson, who asked me some questions. I answered them. My wife called me a smart ass.
Now, the collection has been out for almost two months. The reviews have been great, the sales have been strong, and I'm thrilled it's over. It'd be nice to get a little more reader feedback, but...
Thing is, it's been very anticlimactic. Basically, I just have another book in my house. I knew it wouldn't change my life, but I guess waiting for as long as I did, I thought I'd enjoy seeing it released more than I have.
So, I spent a couple of weeks in a bit of a free fall, and a couple more focused on deep introspection. I'm ready to get back and give this a strong push.
I'm twelve chapters into my novel. This will be a huge challenge for me. I might not have attended college for a psych degree, and I think the one that I purchased for $29.99 and three proof of purchase from gallon Thunderbird bottles isn't really valid. However, I'm pretty sure I have a touch of the OCD. I've never finished anything unless I finally sat down and erased all I had, then finished the story in one sitting. And yes, this goes for my 13,000 word chapbook that I just had accepted. Talk about a long fucking day.
So, I'm about twenty percent done with the novel. I see rough waters nearing. But, I'm going to try and have this finished by July 31. The first draft. My plan is to pop in here each Sunday and just spout off about how it's going.
To make matters even worse, I woke up yesterday and was closer to 250 pounds than I was to 200 for the first time ever. A buddy of mine decided he'd do the P90X thing with me. Yes, this isn't smart to try these both at the same time, but I feel I have to make up for the time I lost wallowing in self pity about the collection.
Anyways, if you want to feel better about yourself, check in now and again. For if I crash and burn, I promise it'll be spectacular.
Oh, and now for something completely different. Thanks to Lee Thompson, who asked me some questions. I answered them. My wife called me a smart ass.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The mailman has finally delivered!
After five years, and now on it's third publisher, the once mythical, now really truly here, POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY has been released. Okay, it might not have been as bad as Guns and Roses Chinese Democracy, or John Skipp's Mondo Zombie, but it's been quite the journey.
I'm part elated, part vindicated, part just effin tired.
I'm really glad it's here. It's been like an albatross. Well, I let it become one, anyway. I'm very proud of it, but it's very much a time to move on for me as a writer.
Anyway, please buy it...PLEASE
I'm part elated, part vindicated, part just effin tired.
I'm really glad it's here. It's been like an albatross. Well, I let it become one, anyway. I'm very proud of it, but it's very much a time to move on for me as a writer.
Anyway, please buy it...PLEASE
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Beaten to the punch
Damn, Erik Williams!!!!
Erik has been a friend of mine for a number of years now. He's a writer that I compete with. Not on an artistic level, or an output level (cuz he's killing me on output), but on a publication level.
I sold my collection (perhaps you've heard of it? POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY - ring a bell?) years before Erik sold his novella, BLOOD SPRING. But, my publisher went belly up, so it's been a bit of a race to see who'd get the first book. I appear to have come in second.
Right now, his novella is available for preorder. Apparently it's shipping on April 9. So, he wins...by a lousy seventeen days.
So, instead of buying five copies of PFP, buy four and get a copy of BLOOD SPRING. Stoker Award winning author Gene O'Neill says: “Erik Williams. Underline that name, put it on the fridge. Erik Williams is the genuine article. If you liked DELIVERANCE, you will love BLOOD SPRING. The writing is crisp, the story compelling and just as terrifying as James Dickey’s masterpiece. Highly Recommended!”
Actually, why don't you still go with the five copies of PFP. Just dig a little deeper and buy Erik's book, too, okay?
Congratulations, Erik. It's a damn fine read.
Erik has been a friend of mine for a number of years now. He's a writer that I compete with. Not on an artistic level, or an output level (cuz he's killing me on output), but on a publication level.
I sold my collection (perhaps you've heard of it? POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY - ring a bell?) years before Erik sold his novella, BLOOD SPRING. But, my publisher went belly up, so it's been a bit of a race to see who'd get the first book. I appear to have come in second.
Right now, his novella is available for preorder. Apparently it's shipping on April 9. So, he wins...by a lousy seventeen days.
So, instead of buying five copies of PFP, buy four and get a copy of BLOOD SPRING. Stoker Award winning author Gene O'Neill says: “Erik Williams. Underline that name, put it on the fridge. Erik Williams is the genuine article. If you liked DELIVERANCE, you will love BLOOD SPRING. The writing is crisp, the story compelling and just as terrifying as James Dickey’s masterpiece. Highly Recommended!”
Actually, why don't you still go with the five copies of PFP. Just dig a little deeper and buy Erik's book, too, okay?
Congratulations, Erik. It's a damn fine read.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Countdown is on
I received an email this morning from the Tom Moran at Sideshow Press confirming the trade paperback version of POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY will be released a month from today. The collection features sixteen stories, several of which are originals, and an introduction by Thomas Tessier.
Yeah, that Thomas Tessier.
I've met enough of the writers I've admired over the years so that I don't have that "idol" thing going on anymore. Well, except for a select few, and Tessier is definitely in that few. I'm humbled by the talent of somebody who could write classics like PHANTOM, FOG HEART and RAPTURE (although I'm even more partial to his short stories - I REMEMBER ME is freaking brilliant). But the truth is, he's about the nicest man you could ever meet and an all-round class act.
And the awesome introduction he's provided doesn't hurt:
INTRODUCTION
Thomas Tessier
Here is a box of very dark and disturbing treats for you, and if you're wise, you'll sample them slowly, savoring each one fully and then perhaps taking a short walk before settling in again to read the next. Because, you may well find it very tempting to gobble them all down in a rush – and believe me, that's not a good idea.
A good idea would be to have a fine sipping whisky at hand.
Sam W. Anderson is a writer who can perform powerfully rough surgery on the reader's psyche, casually obliterating expectations and defying anyone to doubt what he is saying. You won't.
There may be moments when you will think, He just can't do that, it isn't right. Oh yes he can, oh yes it is.
He is superb at recognizing the countless invisible twists of fate that shadow our daily lives, threatening to blindside us at any moment and throw our everyday reality into chaos. Chaos is a feeble word, though, for what some of the characters here experience when Sam delivers the twist.
Speaking of shadows, there's one in here that is more than just chilling. And a child playing harmlessly in a sandbox, it would seem. And some lizards who have been around the block a few times. And a doctor who makes a specialty of lice.
And my own favorite one here, the fever dream “Amongst the Wailing Winds,” in which the nightmare inside and the nightmare outside intersect perfectly. It is deeply felt, and remorseless.
These are horror stories, of course, front-loaded with dread, pain and terror. But as is so often the case with horror literature, merely saying that doesn't tell the half of it. Plenty of writers can produce the shocks and gore, and some of them even think that's all there is to it. Sam W. Anderson can do all of that, and better. He can pull us inside the skin and hearts and minds of his characters, and make us understand, instinctively, how they feel and why they do what they do. Thereby, gets inside our skin too. For some of us, this is what all good writing – and reading -- is about.
There is something deeply evocative about the characters and the western settings in these stories, remorseless in their exploration of the terminal underside of American life -- the vast, inhospitable geography, and the absurd, doomed activities of certain inhabitants -- that reminds me of the profoundly sad, disturbing plays and short stories of Sam Shepard. In this case, Sam W. Anderson uses a rather different literary lens, but he is pulling us into the very same dream -- and nightmare.
It's always a pleasure to celebrate the arrival of a gifted new writer on the scene, and I'm particularly happy to introduce you to these stories by Sam W. Anderson. Now, take a sip, turn the next page and – good luck.
Yeah, that Thomas Tessier.
I've met enough of the writers I've admired over the years so that I don't have that "idol" thing going on anymore. Well, except for a select few, and Tessier is definitely in that few. I'm humbled by the talent of somebody who could write classics like PHANTOM, FOG HEART and RAPTURE (although I'm even more partial to his short stories - I REMEMBER ME is freaking brilliant). But the truth is, he's about the nicest man you could ever meet and an all-round class act.
And the awesome introduction he's provided doesn't hurt:
INTRODUCTION
Thomas Tessier
Here is a box of very dark and disturbing treats for you, and if you're wise, you'll sample them slowly, savoring each one fully and then perhaps taking a short walk before settling in again to read the next. Because, you may well find it very tempting to gobble them all down in a rush – and believe me, that's not a good idea.
A good idea would be to have a fine sipping whisky at hand.
Sam W. Anderson is a writer who can perform powerfully rough surgery on the reader's psyche, casually obliterating expectations and defying anyone to doubt what he is saying. You won't.
There may be moments when you will think, He just can't do that, it isn't right. Oh yes he can, oh yes it is.
He is superb at recognizing the countless invisible twists of fate that shadow our daily lives, threatening to blindside us at any moment and throw our everyday reality into chaos. Chaos is a feeble word, though, for what some of the characters here experience when Sam delivers the twist.
Speaking of shadows, there's one in here that is more than just chilling. And a child playing harmlessly in a sandbox, it would seem. And some lizards who have been around the block a few times. And a doctor who makes a specialty of lice.
And my own favorite one here, the fever dream “Amongst the Wailing Winds,” in which the nightmare inside and the nightmare outside intersect perfectly. It is deeply felt, and remorseless.
These are horror stories, of course, front-loaded with dread, pain and terror. But as is so often the case with horror literature, merely saying that doesn't tell the half of it. Plenty of writers can produce the shocks and gore, and some of them even think that's all there is to it. Sam W. Anderson can do all of that, and better. He can pull us inside the skin and hearts and minds of his characters, and make us understand, instinctively, how they feel and why they do what they do. Thereby, gets inside our skin too. For some of us, this is what all good writing – and reading -- is about.
There is something deeply evocative about the characters and the western settings in these stories, remorseless in their exploration of the terminal underside of American life -- the vast, inhospitable geography, and the absurd, doomed activities of certain inhabitants -- that reminds me of the profoundly sad, disturbing plays and short stories of Sam Shepard. In this case, Sam W. Anderson uses a rather different literary lens, but he is pulling us into the very same dream -- and nightmare.
It's always a pleasure to celebrate the arrival of a gifted new writer on the scene, and I'm particularly happy to introduce you to these stories by Sam W. Anderson. Now, take a sip, turn the next page and – good luck.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
It's over
So, today, my son's basketball team lost in the first round of the playoffs. Maybe with our poor record, that should have been expected, but I honestly didn't think it would happen. Regular season we ended 2-5, but most of those losses were by four points or less, and in the last week, we figured it out. Oh, did I mention I was the assistant coach on the team? So, I'm not biased or anything. Our last win, yesterday, was by twelve points, and, honestly, my son, Nick, was the guy who changed the team's culture.
I'm not going to say my son is a perfect kid. He doesn't live in the same neighborhood as perfect, the same zip code, hell, maybe even the same planet. But I am in awe of my son.
Since kindergarten, we've been "encouraged" to have him tested for ADHD, and we resisted. Like we weren't good parents if he had it, I guess. But now, he's in the fourth grade, and he was miserable. Yes, he's ADHD. Yes, despite everything I wanted, we finally agreed to have him medicated. If you have thoughts on this, and haven't been through it, fuck you. If you've been through it, then you understand the trauma, the lack of self-esteem; you understand. If you got through it without meds, please, PLEASE let me know how.
Nick, who's in the highly and gifted class,- an actual genius IQ wise - and a brown belt, is going to make the honor roll this week for the first time. This week, he grasped if he plays hard, the team feeds off him. In a game, where we lost 14-13, he scored two points, had four rebounds, one foul and numerous - NUMEROUS - times where he caused a jump ball by tying up the opponent. He's not a gifted athlete at this point...he's big and hasn't grown into his body, but he's far ahead of anything I could've ever hoped to have been. (Although, we have the common trait of hitting free throws - Nick was 6 for 6 this year.)
I don't know what karma train I took to get this boy as my son, but it was the best ride ever. No matter what I do - be it writing, curing cancer or making more money than god - raising this boy to be the young man he's becoming is by far my greatest accomplishment. Thank you, Nick, for never giving up. Thank you for fighting every day. Thanks for doing as I say, not as I do. I love you, and have found you're by far the better influence on me, than I could ever be to you.
I'm not going to say my son is a perfect kid. He doesn't live in the same neighborhood as perfect, the same zip code, hell, maybe even the same planet. But I am in awe of my son.
Since kindergarten, we've been "encouraged" to have him tested for ADHD, and we resisted. Like we weren't good parents if he had it, I guess. But now, he's in the fourth grade, and he was miserable. Yes, he's ADHD. Yes, despite everything I wanted, we finally agreed to have him medicated. If you have thoughts on this, and haven't been through it, fuck you. If you've been through it, then you understand the trauma, the lack of self-esteem; you understand. If you got through it without meds, please, PLEASE let me know how.
Nick, who's in the highly and gifted class,- an actual genius IQ wise - and a brown belt, is going to make the honor roll this week for the first time. This week, he grasped if he plays hard, the team feeds off him. In a game, where we lost 14-13, he scored two points, had four rebounds, one foul and numerous - NUMEROUS - times where he caused a jump ball by tying up the opponent. He's not a gifted athlete at this point...he's big and hasn't grown into his body, but he's far ahead of anything I could've ever hoped to have been. (Although, we have the common trait of hitting free throws - Nick was 6 for 6 this year.)
I don't know what karma train I took to get this boy as my son, but it was the best ride ever. No matter what I do - be it writing, curing cancer or making more money than god - raising this boy to be the young man he's becoming is by far my greatest accomplishment. Thank you, Nick, for never giving up. Thank you for fighting every day. Thanks for doing as I say, not as I do. I love you, and have found you're by far the better influence on me, than I could ever be to you.
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