"I've been meaning to ask, where'd you go last weekend?"
"NWA Ren. Faire. I work it every year." The Thin Man raised an eyebrow at me. "Did you put it on the weblog?"
"You didn't tell me to."
"It's your blog, cat, not mine."
Well this was going nowhere so I asked, "How was it?"
"Good, except for my part of course. I'm a lousy performer but they keep me around for the novelty. Jingly Bits played both days and, of course, the Ladies of the Salty Kiss were there with their pyritical humor."
"Pyritical?"
"Yea, fools' gold," he said with a grin. "I'm rather fond of that pun."
"Seems like a strange setting for you, a Ren. Faire instead of a SFF convention."
"It's not so different really; it's still all about the stories. And this is the only Faire I do. I'm pretty loyal to it because of the people. I tell you, cat, Raccoon is growing like a weed. Easily six inches taller. Makes me want to sing 'Sunrise, Sunset'."
"Raccoon?"
"I'm not going to put a kid's real name on the web but the relevant people will know who I'm talking about. Anyhow, it's really about the extended family, just like the conventions. By the way, the Kiss has a new book so put them over on the links list and send people there way to take a look at it."
I decided to keep fishing for information as long as he was talking. "You doing National Novel in a Month this year?"
"Yeah, in theory. I'll support the people doing it and play along. I'll shoot for 50K more words on my current projects--won't get there but I'll try. I can't try a true novel in a month like most people do because I can't wait until November to start a new project but I support the idea."
"How come?"
"I support anything that makes people who say they want to write actually write. I'm sick of hearing people say 'I could write a book' like it's some kind of weekend hobby project so I'm in favor of anything that makes 'em put up or shut up. I love my job but it's work, hard work, even if all you're writing is junk. I figure most people don't even know how much labor is involved in just typing that many words."
"Does that mean you're going to start updating your 'work in progress' bars on the blog?"
"It's your web, cat, not mine."
"Well are you going to at least tell me the numbers so that I can put them up?"
"Okay. Current short story: done. How's that?"
"You're a real peach to work for, you know that?"
"I try."
"Can I have a hint for the contest? About the music?"
He shrugged. "No Styx. I have every Styx, DeYoung, and Shaw album they've cut but I don't have any of them on CD, just on cassette, and I only had my CDs while I was working on the book."
"Anything else?"
"Okay, one more. The first chapter, 'Subject Real', wasn't written to any music. I did most of the work on the road and during a convention. That's all you get today."
Well, it's a start.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Halloween Reads
Over on his weblog the other day, William Jones was talking about scary books and movies for Halloween. Me, being the child of a black cat, I'm not so keen on the celebration—too much noise and too many kids—but surprisingly, the Thin Man really enjoys it. So I cried until he came over to read the screen, thinking he'd enjoy the discussion. Instead, he stared at it with that vulture-over-a-crag scowl of his, snorted, and muttered something about Philistines.
"How did this happen?" he grumbled. "I mean, what in the world short circuited in the cultural psyche where people 'don't feel like reading Something Wicked This Ways Comes again?' Blasphemy! It must be a plague born of ignorance; maybe people are too far removed from the work and don't really know what a masterpiece it is."
GB
I suspect this may be another case where he has missed the forest glaring at a tree because the statement in question was a minor segue rather than a main point. "I could put your book review of it up on the blog," I offered. In situations like this, it's best just to humor the crazy person until he calms down.
"No. Save it. Put it up on a nice day when no one is thinking Halloween. The book is too good to be dismissed as mere Halloween fare. Besides, it's not horror. It's dark fantasy and coming-of-age and true art. It's a tale of hope, not fear." He paused, adding, "Come to think of it, the entire concept of a horror novel may be on oxymoron. Most so-called horror books are bloated and drag."
"Henry James, Turn of the Screw," I countered.
"Trust me, cat, that book dragged."
"Shirley Jackson, House on Haunted Hill."
"Disturbing, yes, and scary but not, I think, truly horror, not in the traditional sense. Nice try and a good read but not the same."
I played my trump card. "What about William's book? The horrippilating one."
"The Strange Cases of Rudolf Pearson," he supplied. "Damn fine book that but one that proves my point. It's episodic, interconnected short stories. Cat, I'm not convinced that the best length and form for horror is the novel. It's too long to hold the suspense without a break plus the reader has to put it down. It physically can't be read in one setting and that disrupts the flow. I don't say it can't be done but I do think that it's certainly not optimal. No, the best length for horror is the novella."
"Not short story?"
"Long short stories, yes. Not these little bits of 2000 word fluff that splash some gore around, jerk a few strings, and run away again."
I'll admit, I should know better. I went one question too far. "What about movies?"
Like I said, I should have known better. I had to sit through the two hour lecture about the virtues of the printed word and the dangers of a post-literate society before he wound back to actually answer the question I had asked. He calls it putting things in context; I call it blasted annoying. "There are no horror movies. Maybe Nosferatu," he says at last. "Certainly none made in the last fifty years."
"Alien?"
Have I ever mentioned that the Thin Man has a stare that can knock birds out of the air? "Fine. That's one," he snapped. "Happy? Name me another."
"Blair Witch?"
"Bah. Couldn't watch it. Bunch of snot-nosed kids, literally, running around with really bad camera work. Hurt my head. Still, you might have a point. The 'reality' schtick works until the novelty wears off but I think the general application is limited. I think we're back to the novel discussion; it can work but not best."
At this point, I'm ready for a sunbeam and a nap so I steer the conversation around to a stopping point. He won't stop but maybe I can escape while he's distracted. "So, no movies, but what about reading for Halloween? Leaving Bradbury for a time when it can be better savored, what would you suggest?"
The answer surprised me. I fully expected a lecture on Poe and Lovecraft. Instead, he sprinted from the room, returning a moment later with a book in his hand. "I'd almost forgotten about this little gem," he said, opening the cover. "Let's see...edited by Stephen Jones...2006...Pegasus Books...H. P. Lovecraft's Book of the Supernatural, Classic Tales of the Macabre. It's an anthology, of course, but here's the beauty: it's a guided tour of the old horror writers. Remember Lovecraft's essay on horror in literature? Well, they went back and assembled the anthology from stories Lovecraft reference in that essay. There's another on by Jones and Carson in 1993 called H. P. Lovecraft's Book of Horror as well. Wish I had that one too..." His voice drifted off and the Thin Man sagged into a chair, leafing through the book. When I made good on my escape, he was still reading.
"How did this happen?" he grumbled. "I mean, what in the world short circuited in the cultural psyche where people 'don't feel like reading Something Wicked This Ways Comes again?' Blasphemy! It must be a plague born of ignorance; maybe people are too far removed from the work and don't really know what a masterpiece it is."
GB
I suspect this may be another case where he has missed the forest glaring at a tree because the statement in question was a minor segue rather than a main point. "I could put your book review of it up on the blog," I offered. In situations like this, it's best just to humor the crazy person until he calms down.
"No. Save it. Put it up on a nice day when no one is thinking Halloween. The book is too good to be dismissed as mere Halloween fare. Besides, it's not horror. It's dark fantasy and coming-of-age and true art. It's a tale of hope, not fear." He paused, adding, "Come to think of it, the entire concept of a horror novel may be on oxymoron. Most so-called horror books are bloated and drag."
"Henry James, Turn of the Screw," I countered.
"Trust me, cat, that book dragged."
"Shirley Jackson, House on Haunted Hill."
"Disturbing, yes, and scary but not, I think, truly horror, not in the traditional sense. Nice try and a good read but not the same."
I played my trump card. "What about William's book? The horrippilating one."
"The Strange Cases of Rudolf Pearson," he supplied. "Damn fine book that but one that proves my point. It's episodic, interconnected short stories. Cat, I'm not convinced that the best length and form for horror is the novel. It's too long to hold the suspense without a break plus the reader has to put it down. It physically can't be read in one setting and that disrupts the flow. I don't say it can't be done but I do think that it's certainly not optimal. No, the best length for horror is the novella."
"Not short story?"
"Long short stories, yes. Not these little bits of 2000 word fluff that splash some gore around, jerk a few strings, and run away again."
I'll admit, I should know better. I went one question too far. "What about movies?"
Like I said, I should have known better. I had to sit through the two hour lecture about the virtues of the printed word and the dangers of a post-literate society before he wound back to actually answer the question I had asked. He calls it putting things in context; I call it blasted annoying. "There are no horror movies. Maybe Nosferatu," he says at last. "Certainly none made in the last fifty years."
"Alien?"
Have I ever mentioned that the Thin Man has a stare that can knock birds out of the air? "Fine. That's one," he snapped. "Happy? Name me another."
"Blair Witch?"
"Bah. Couldn't watch it. Bunch of snot-nosed kids, literally, running around with really bad camera work. Hurt my head. Still, you might have a point. The 'reality' schtick works until the novelty wears off but I think the general application is limited. I think we're back to the novel discussion; it can work but not best."
At this point, I'm ready for a sunbeam and a nap so I steer the conversation around to a stopping point. He won't stop but maybe I can escape while he's distracted. "So, no movies, but what about reading for Halloween? Leaving Bradbury for a time when it can be better savored, what would you suggest?"
The answer surprised me. I fully expected a lecture on Poe and Lovecraft. Instead, he sprinted from the room, returning a moment later with a book in his hand. "I'd almost forgotten about this little gem," he said, opening the cover. "Let's see...edited by Stephen Jones...2006...Pegasus Books...H. P. Lovecraft's Book of the Supernatural, Classic Tales of the Macabre. It's an anthology, of course, but here's the beauty: it's a guided tour of the old horror writers. Remember Lovecraft's essay on horror in literature? Well, they went back and assembled the anthology from stories Lovecraft reference in that essay. There's another on by Jones and Carson in 1993 called H. P. Lovecraft's Book of Horror as well. Wish I had that one too..." His voice drifted off and the Thin Man sagged into a chair, leafing through the book. When I made good on my escape, he was still reading.
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