Ten Books

Over in the world of Facebook, the “Ten Books” meme is making the rounds.  As you know, Bob, this is the prompt where you’re asked to name ten books that have had a lasting impact on you.  And as pretty much everyone who’s responded to the meme has noted, it’s the kind of list-making that is subject to change almost the moment it’s done.  I’ve been tagged to do it by both Paul Tremblay and Jack Haringa.  So here you go:

1. Stephen King Christine:  This was the book that made me want to be a writer.  I read it in paperback during the fall of my freshman year in high school, and experienced something like a conversion experience.  It wasn’t just that I wanted to write fiction–previously, I’d wanted to work in comics, preferably as a writer-artist–I wanted to write horror fiction.  It had something to do, I think, with his ability to bring together something that looked like the world of my daily experience with the material of the fantastic.  All of King’s work has been tremendously important to me, from his stories and novellas to novels such as The Shining, Pet Sematary, and Misery, but this was the one that started it all.

2 & 3. Peter Straub Ghost Story & Shadowland:  I first read Straub at King’s suggestion (in Danse Macabre).  Then I reread him.  Then I read him a third time.  And so on.  I loved his work from the get-go, but for as much as I got from it, I was aware that there was a great deal I wasn’t getting.  I found that incredibly cool.  If, as Nabokov says, the literary is that which we are always re-reading, then Straub’s work is literature of the highest order.  These may be my desert-island books:  they work as narratives in their own right; they engage the history of the genre in which they participate; they do all kinds of other remarkable things.  These are the books I would most like to have written, myself.

4. T.E.D. Klein Dark Gods:  I knew T.E.D. Klein as the editor of Twilight Zone magazine, and it may have been in the pages of that publication that I read a review of Dark Gods, his collection of novellas, which made it sound like the kind of book I had to read.  To my delight, the local library had it, in hardcover.  It’s a virtuoso performance, one in which Klein, with seeming effortlessness, inhabits four distinct modes of supernatural horror.  At a sentence level, he’s one of the finest writers to have attempted the horror story, which helps to give his stories the richness and depth of much longer works.

5. Charlotte Bronte Jane Eyre:  I read Jane Eyre during my junior year in high school, for my Honors English class.  I don’t know what I was expecting–something dry and tedious, I suppose–but I was completely swept up by Jane’s voice, by the passionate intensity of her response to her life’s changing (and challenging) circumstances.  It didn’t hurt that there was a humdinger of a Gothic plot at the heart of the book, either.  I think there was something, too, about the way that Bronte explored her character’s moral processes that really struck a chord with me.  Jane is highly conscious of not only what she wants to do, but why she wants to do it–and why she should or shouldn’t do it–and this resonated with my adolescent self.

6. Charles Dickens Great Expectations:  The first time around, I hated this book.  My response may been influenced by the fact that I was reading it two days before I was due to take a test on it for the same Honors English class in which I read Jane Eyre, and I was having a hard time with it.  In comparison to Bronte’s prose, Dickens’ struck me as tedious, meandering.  Needless to say, I didn’t do particularly well on the test.  I gave the novel another try during my undergraduate years, in a course on the Nineteenth Century English novel, but I didn’t like it much better, then.  It wasn’t until the summer of my twenty-fifth birthday, when I was house sitting for a week, that I though it might be time to take yet another crack at the book.  This time around, I was entranced.  Dickens’ writing now seemed to me a kind of proto-stream-of-consciousness, his often baroque figures indexes of Pip–his narrator’s consciousness.  Pip’s mind is a fairly Gothic place to begin with, and, like Jane Eyre, to which this novel increasingly strikes me as a kind of twin, there’s a heck of a Gothic subplot within his story.  What struck me most about the book the last time I read it, a few years ago, is the utter ruthlessness Pip displays towards himself and the great expectations that shape his life.  It’s a fierce, sad story, one of the greats.

7. Flannery O’Connor The Collected Stories:  Another writer I hated the first time I read her.  This was in my senior year of high school, in my College English class.  We had to read the stories in Everything that Rises Must Converge, along with O’Connor’s second novel, The Violent Bear It Away.  I had no problem navigating O’Connor’s prose, which was lucid, compelling, but the characters she portrayed, the situations in which she placed them, were unlike anything I had encountered before, the very definition, I suppose, of that trite term, Southern Grotesque.  My initial impression was of unpleasant people in unpleasant circumstances that seemed humorous in a sinister kind of way.  What helped me out of my adolescent priggishness was a remark about O’Connor I encountered in Stephen King’s Danse Macabre, in which King called her possibly the finest writer of short stories in postwar America (or words to that effect).  Well, if Stephen King thought O’Connor was good…I went back to her stories, and now, I saw their deep similarities to the horror narratives with which I was more familiar (and comfortable).  These were narratives about women and men whose lives were upended by catastrophes whose metaphysical dimensions were full of terror and awe.  As for the eccentricities of their characters:  what does it say about me that, the older I’ve gotten, the less extreme they seem to me?

8. William Faulkner The Sound and the Fury:  I read The Sound and the Fury during the my first semester of college, in my Honors English 1 class.  We had to read the first two of its three stream-of-consciousness sections with no forewarning, and the result was disorienting, confusing.  (For those who haven’t read the book, the first section inhabits the mind of a severely-mentally-handicapped man; while the second places the reader inside the consciousness of a college student on the day he’s going to drown himself.)  During the next class, however, in one of the great teaching performances I’ve been present for, the professor took us back into those mazes of prose and pointed out the threads that would guide us through them.  What had seemed formless, chaotic, slowly resolved into a kind of glorious Gothic coherence.  I went back re-read the first half of the book, and raced to the end.  At a certain point, I seemed to fall through Faulkner’s winding syntax, into the narrative, whose small cast of characters seemed like players in some kind of strange, mythic drama.  This started me off on a Faulkner kick that extended over the next several years, from As I Lay Dying through Absalom, Absalom, Light in August, and Go Down, Moses.  I agree with those who call Faulkner the American Shakespeare, and while I think Absalom, Absalom may be his single greatest accomplishment, The Sound and the Fury remains closest to my heart.

9. Henry James The Collected Stories:  The last writer on this list I hated the first time through.  (Funny how that works, though, isn’t it?)  I read The Turn of the Screw during my senior year College English class.  I was primed to do so by my old friend, Stephen King, who had had very complimentary things to say about the novella in Danse Macabre.  This time, though, King’s praise was not enough.  I experienced the same problem reading James I’d had the previous year with Dickens, namely, the language was so dense, so labyrinthine, that I became lost in it, rereading the same sentences over and over again and still not fully comprehending them.  Interestingly–well, to me, anyway–what turned me onto James was reading one of his very last stories, “The Jolly Corner,” a few years later, in college.  It’s a story whose prose if even denser than that of The Turn of the Screw, which you would think would have put me off it, immediately.  Yet at some point not very far into it, I realized what the story was about:  a man who was being haunted by the ghost of the man he might have been.  That conceit electrified me, and while I wouldn’t say I raced through the end of the story, I finished it in a state of intense attentiveness.  With that one story, my attitude towards James underwent a sea change, and since then, I’ve been slowly making my way through his work, sometimes at the rate of one or two new things a year, sometimes revisiting texts I’ve read before.  I think his stories are my favorite of his work–and I’m stretching the definition of story to include things like The Turn of the Screw, The Aspern Papers, and In the Cage, which are at least substantial novellas.  What I love most about James is the way he traces the responses of his characters to their situations, which quite often, when you boil it down, are fairly melodramatic.  He is the great cartographer of perception, and I learn something from him every time I (re)read him.

10. Samuel Delany The Einstein Intersection:  I must have known Delany’s name during my teens, when I was reading a lot of science fiction of the Asimov/Clarke/Heinlein/Niven stamp, but I didn’t actually read him until I was in college, at the recommendation of a friend who had discovered his shorter early novels.  Of those, the one that thrilled me was The Einstein Intersection, in which Delany mixed together the stuff of classical myth with legends of the American west and contemporary pop culture, bracketing his chapters with excerpts from his notebooks.  It was a bravura performance that had as much in common with things I’d been reading for my classes (i.e. Faulkner, The Waste Land) as it did science fiction tradition.  I’m not sure I realized this at the time, but years later, I would see the book as similar to what Straub had been up to in Ghost Story and Shadowland, a breaking down and re-combination of the elements of its genre.  When I returned to the horror field in my late twenties, Delany’s work, along with Straub’s, was a kind of guiding star to me, an example of how much you could accomplish in fantastic fiction if you possessed sufficient ambition. It was a kind of license to try weird things, to approach narrative from new and different angles.

There you have it.  In the process of working on this entry, though, I’ve come up with a list of what I guess you might call honorable mentions, so I thought I’d end with them:

Clive Barker  The Books of Blood

Edward Albee  The Zoo Story and The American Dream

Samuel Beckett  Endgame

John Barth  “Lost in the Funhouse” (story)

Gabriel Garcia Marquez Love in the Time of Cholera

Rainer Maria Rilke The Duino Elegies

Willa Cather My Antonia

William Kennedy Ironweed

Virginia Woolf  To the Lighthouse

Angela Carter The Bloody Chamber

 

Writing Process Blog Tour

The fabulous Irene McGarrity has nominated me to be part of the Writing Process Blog Tour (an honor which was, in turn, bestowed upon her by the talented William Boyle). As I understand it, the idea of this is as a kind of chain-letter of interviews, with each writer answering the same four questions as s/he sees fit, then tagging another couple of writers to keep the ball rolling.

1) What are you working on?

Tonight, I’m about halfway through a story for an anthology of stories inspired by the Italian giallo tradition of movies. It’s one of about eight or nine I have to complete over the next few months, all of them for various anthology projects. I’m also working on what I hope will be my third novel, whose working title is The Tunnel and which concerns a group of workers trapped in a tunnel with a monster. At some point in the midst of all this, I’ll try to finish a very long interview, and write an afterword to a collection of essays on Poe’s influence on Lovecraft.

2) How is your work different from others’ work in the same genre?

I tend to work within the horror tradition (writ large) in a fairly self-conscious way. While I wouldn’t say I abandon narrative conventions as thoroughly as some of the more radical postmodernists, I’m often found in that part of the pool. In this, I’m guided by the examples of writers such as Peter Straub and Samuel Delany, whose narratives often function both as stories and as commentaries on/critiques of the kinds of stories they are. To be honest, I think of my writing as having more in common with that of such contemporaries as Nathan Ballingrud, Laird Barron, Michael Cisco, Gemma Files, Richard Gavin, Glen Hirshberg, Sarah Langan, Victor Lavalle, Livia Llewellyn, Ian Rogers, Simon Strantzas, Paul Tremblay—at least in the sense of what I perceive as our shared commitment to bringing the best of our abilities to the darker corners of the human experience.

3) Why do you write what you do?

Because I love it. Because it speaks to me more than any other kind of writing. Because I’m good at it.

4) How does your writing process work?

It’s changed. When I first tried to write seriously, I would rise early in the morning, seat myself at the kitchen table, and not get up from it until I had written at least a page. In order to get myself started each day, I would rewrite the page I had written the day before, revising as I went. It was a lengthier process, but it resulted in a completed story that had already been considerably revised. In the last few years, I’ve become more comfortable with moving ahead on whatever story I’m working on, taking occasional breaks in my writing to look it over and make any changes I think are necessary. Overall, I’ve become more confident in my ability to write a good story (though there are moments…). I’ve also found that now, I write better at night.

So there you have it. For my part, I’m nominating Molly Tanzer and Paul Tremblay to let whoever’s interested in on their writing processes. They’re both what I would call horror writers—though either might dispute the term—with Molly writing these weird, historical pieces that (may) connect to other things she’s written, creating a whole that’s greater than the sum of its parts; while Paul combines an eye for dirty-realism with a concern for the breakdown of perception and reality. Fun stuff. I look forward to what each has to say, one week from today.

Debussy’s “La Mer”

As any of my more hip(ster) friends will tell you, my musical tastes, like so many of my other tastes, are eclectic (to put it mildly [and kindly]).  I’ve never considered myself particularly well-acquainted with classical music writ large, but there are a couple of composers whose work I know and enjoy.  Claude Debussy is one.  Here’s a link to a nice performance of “La Mer,” which suggests the ocean to me as do few other pieces of music.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOCucJw7iT8

 

Readercon–The Aftermath

This past weekend, I attended Readercon for the first time in a couple of years.  I had a blast.

I have to admit, I’m tempted to leave things there.  So much happens over the course of a convention that it’s difficult to know how much of it to describe in what amount of detail.  I suppose the principle reason for me to attend an event such as Readercon is to meet readers, and to connect with writing friends old and new.  I had a chance to do the former a number of times, signing more books than I have before and talking to a number of younger writers who told me they had read and even analyzed my stories (this last produced in me the disquieting revelation that I am no longer the new writer I still think of myself as).  As for the latter:  the weekend was an embarrassment of riches, from rooming with my old pal, Paul Tremblay, to hanging out with Paul and the other board members of the Shirley Jackson Awards, to spending time with the charming Glen Hirshberg, whom I’d met before but never had the chance to talk so much with.  And this isn’t even mentioning brief discussions with folks like Michael Rowe, Jeffrey Thomas, Mike Griffin, Justin Steele, Shawn Bagley, and Sean Moreland.

In the midst of all of this informal talking, there were panels, one on ghosts I attended and one on zombies I took part in, both of which sparked so many ideas I had to scribble them down on the nearest available surface.  There were also some spectacular readings:  Gemma Files’s dazzling reading/performance of her story in the new Fearful Symmetries anthology; Michael Cisco walking an intellectual tightrope with ease and grace as he read an excerpt from his novel-in-a-workbook about unlanguage; Glen Hirshberg giving a magisterial reading of a late chapter from his new novel, Good Girls.  There were good meals sprinkled throughout, perhaps none better than the Friday night dinner at the local Thai restaurant that’s become something of a Readercon tradition–at one point, I looked at the long table of eighteen people associated with horror and dark fantasy, and thought, If this were the con, with maybe a couple of additions, I’d be quite pleased.  Sunday morning brought the annual Shirley Jackson Awards, whose winners reacted with joy and grace.

Then it was back home, but even there, Michael Cisco joined me for a drive/conversation that took in Robert Aickman’s stories, Thomas Ligotti’s anti-natalism, Roberto Bolano’s fiction, and the pros and cons of owning a house in the  mid-Hudson Valley.

There were folks who weren’t at the con that I wish had been, especially the Three Musketeers of Toronto, Richard Gavin, Ian Rogers, and Simon Strantzas.  I also wish I’d found a way to spend more time with Peter Straub, and Livia Llewellyn and Robert Levy.  Overall, though, I can’t complain.

So that’s Readercon 2014.  Did I mention I had a blast?

Readercon!

Starting tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be at this year’s Readercon.  Readercon was one of the first conventions I went to as a newly-published writer, all the way back on 2003, and it has remained among the most consistently rewarding professional gathering I attend.  Here’s my schedule, for anyone who happens to be at the con:

 

Friday July 11

2:00 PM    EM    Fearful Symmetries Group Reading. Gemma Files, John Langan. Fearful Symmetries is a new all-original anthology edited by Ellen Datlow, published by Chizine Publications.
7:00 PM    E    Autographs. Glen Hirshberg, John Langan.
8:00 PM    F    Creating and Embodying Genres. John Clute (leader), Samuel Delany, Chris Gerwel, John Langan, Yves Meynard. In discussions of literature there is a tendency to identify books that establish a genre as separate from books that embody that genre, as if the former creates the conditions which the latter successfully fulfills. Consider for instance Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire vs. Laurell K. Hamilton’s Guilty Pleasures, Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle vs. Harry Turtledove’s Southern Victory Series, and Michael Moorcock’s The Warlord of the Air vs. K.W. Jeter’s Infernal Devices. What is the relationship between such books? Is it only historical distance that makes us look at a book one way instead of another? And what about works contemporary to but eclipsed by the genre-creators and/or embodiers—where do they fit in?

Saturday July 12

11:00 AM    ENL    Absent Friends. Michael Cisco, John Langan (leader), Sonya Taaffe, Gordon Van Gelder. In the past year, the field has lost many beloved writers, editors, artists, and fans. Come join us as we celebrate their lives and work.
1:00 PM    CO    The Shiny, Candy-like Zombie: Commoditizing the Undead. Scott Edelman, Max Gladstone, Catt Kingsgrave, John Langan, Sarah Langan (leader). On Twitter, M. John Harrison wrote about the appeal of zombies: “You can hate them without feeling wrong. You can kill them like eating sweets. Then you’re hungry again & you can kill more. They’re fully dehumanised. There’s no off-season, no moral limitation. They’re the *enemy*. What’s not to love? They’re what we really want.” So do we like zombies because they’re the consumer-friendly, ambiguity-free face of implacable evil? Are they, in fact, the most perfectly commoditised monsters?
7:00 PM    CO    Reading: John Langan. John Langan. John Langan reads an excerpt from the novel-in-progress, The Tunnel.

Sunday July 13

11:00 AM    F    The Shirley Jackson Awards. Chesya Burke, F. Brett Cox, Jack Haringa, John Langan, Sarah Langan, Kit Reed, Paul Tremblay. In recognition of the legacy of Shirley Jackson’s writing, and with permission of the author’s estate, the Shirley Jackson Awards have been established for outstanding achievement in the literature of psychological suspense, horror, and the dark fantastic. Jackson (1916–1965) wrote classic novels such as The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle, as well as one of the most famous short stories in the English language, “The Lottery.” Her work continues to be a major influence on writers of every kind of fiction, from the most traditional genre offerings to the most innovative literary work. The awards given in her name have been voted upon by a jury of professional writers, editors, critics, and academics, with input from a Board of Advisors, for the best work published in the calendar year of 2013 in the following categories: Novel, Novella, Novelette, Short Story, Single-Author Collection, and Edited Anthology.
12:00 PM    G    Horror for Diverse Audiences. Gemma Files, Nicholas Kaufmann, John Langan (leader), Shira Lipkin, Jennifer Pelland, Shveta Thakrar. Stereotypes and -isms often come from the id, from a place of deep fear. Horror writers have made use of this for ages, particularly describing monsters and monstrousness in ways that evoke racial anxiety, sexual anxieties, and fears of bodily change. However, that only works if your audience is in the racial majority, sexual majority, and able-bodied. What is the place of horror based on normalized fears for someone who doesn’t or can’t identify with the norm? How can writers effectively write horror for diverse audiences with diverse fears and anxieties? Can horror be a tool for expanding social empathy and social justice?
If you see me, please feel free to come up and introduce yourself.  At my autograph session on Friday, I’ll have a special gift for the first few people who show up, so if you want something signed, please bring it.

Beautiful Stranger

I don’t usually do these kinds of things, but I was tagged for one of those Facebook things where you’re supposed to link to a song starting with a letter the tagger gives you.  I was given b, and when I did a quick google of songs starting with b, I came across Madonna’s “Beautiful Stranger.”  I’ve liked a number of Madonna’s songs over the years, but this one has a personal resonance for me.  When my wife, Fiona, and I started seeing one another, she was finishing her dissertation at Penn State and I was living in Gardiner, NY.  I used to drive down to see her on the weekend, taking my little, three-cylinder Geo Metro onto interstates where single and double tractor-trailers roared along beside me.  The car had no air-conditioning, so I kept the windows rolled down and blasted the radio.  That was the summer the second Austin Powers movie, The Spy Who Shagged Me, debuted, and this song was all over the airwaves.  I’d hear it on my the down, when my heart was trip-hammering with anticipation, and I’d hear it on the way back, when I was already counting the days till I returned.  To this day, whenever it comes on the radio, I recall those early days of the relationship that would lead to our marriage, the incredible good fortune that befell me.