Have You Submitted Anything?

“What are your plans over Christmas vacation?”

“Well, I really don’t have any, beyond spending the mornings writing.”

“Have you submitted anything?”

This conversation between my mother-in-law and myself took place in the kitchen Christmas Day, as I basted the honey-glazed ham I make every year. My mother-in-law is a sweetheart, always asking about my writing even though she has never read any of my work (it would not be to her taste, to put it mildly) and won’t ever read this blog. She is the type of person who is interested in anything anyone does, always curious, always open, always learning. You hear the cliched stories of the in-laws from hell, but I’ve been blessed with the opposite.

So I answered her truthfully: no, I haven’t submitted anything since last spring. Trying personal circumstances played a part (it takes time to find new places to submit to), but there are two primary reasons: lack of confidence in the work, and lack of confidence in the self. It’s a toxic mixture any writer must deal with, and for me the response to it is usually to put my head down and just keep working. You have to believe it will get better. And so I’ve done that this year, as I always do, but what I’ve been putting on paper doesn’t seem inspired to me. It doesn’t seem good enough. Worse, there are actually some good ideas in it—I just can’t seem to bring them to fruition. Which makes one feel they’ve reached the limit of their talent, and anything beyond is unattainable. Thus the toxic mixture.

In October I attended a concert by Worm Ouroboros, a band whose imagery—musical, visual and written—has always moved me. The concert kicked something loose in me, and for the next ten days I wrote every night, inspired, the nagging self-doubt voice for once silenced. It was a magical ten days, the kind of thing that shows up every so often to remind a writer why they do this in the first place. If I could bottle that feeling, that space! When that magical period ended, I had the first draft of a story that felt fresher, truer to myself than anything I’d done in a long time. There was some great writing in it.

But it’s never that simple, is it? As the story had evolved, the tone of the characters had changed greatly, and what I had in my hands was a story with tone shifts too jarring to be believable. That’s fine; it’s a first draft, and these things happen. So I worked on it over the next six weeks, rewriting and resolving the tone issue and all the other fun stuff you do when revising. Tweak after tweak after tweak. Finally this morning I realized I was too far in it and needed to step back. I’ve lost perspective as to whether it is anything worthwhile or just another piece of hacky garbage. To make it work, I had to drop many of the best passages of writing, and while you can’t be sacred about anything when revising, I fear I’ve lost the magic of it. Or am I just holding on to the memory of that first draft, the magic of the words flowing, instead of being an adult and making the damn thing work.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s fine, maybe it’s garbage. Right now I can’t tell. But the fear of losing the magic is very real, and not just so far as this story goes. I’m 44 and I’m still writing, but it’s debatable whether I’ve written anything worthwhile. In a letter to a friend recently I said “writing is 98% hard work and 2% inspiration.” That 2% is so, so sweet, allowing you to slog through the other 98%. Yet it’s hard not to feel like I’m getting worse at this somehow. I like to think I don’t hold a lot of illusions about myself; I’m not some great undiscovered talent. But I would like to see a story published someday.

So I’ll keep trying, mother-in-law. And if I ever do get one published, I’ll owe it at least in part to you, because you keep encouraging me for no other reason than you have a kind, sweet heart and want to see me achieve a dream.

Pulsar

The buzz in my head? I'm going to eat it. Bzz bzz bzz. Larger and larger it grows. I will stretch my jaws and turn them inside out and eat it. I don't care how large it grows, I will grow larger. I will feel it vibrate in my teeth. It will scorch my throat as it goes down, sizzling electrical impulse against warm soft tissue. I may jerk like a marionette, but I will swallow all of it. And when I do, when it is in my stomach and the acids are doing their work, I will become something else. It won't matter what that something else is, because it will be quiet, and even though everything will stil hurt, there will be no pulsing noise in my head. The pain can be free, can shape me into whatever form it needs. Big, small, flat, tall. There will be no electricity at all.

Books Read in 2017

“I just don’t read books anymore.”

“I don’t either, between work and everything else, I just can’t seem to concentrate.”

“I still read…”

“Yeah, but you never stopped. You never fell out of the habit.”

The above conversation took place between myself and two of my friends last month. Neither of them has completely read a book for pleasure in the last several years. Both are highly educated, driven, smart, creative individuals for whom reading for pleasure had once been a regular part of their lives. They’ve simply stopped as their lives have gotten busy and their professional challenges more demanding. This surprised me, as one of these gents in particular was once a great reader of fiction.

Interestingly, both believe that the amount of time they spend in front of a screen in both professional and personal capacity has eroded their ability to concentrate on reading a book, especially novels. It isn’t just the noisy distraction of a screen, though—both also felt that the way they read for their jobs, quickly scanning large chunks of information to pull out relevant pieces, has destroyed their ability to read sentence to sentence, paragraph to paragraph and get lost in a story. They were envious of me, they said, because I never stopped reading, no matter what else was going on. I commented that if I want to remain creatively viable as a writer, constant reading is a must. Upon later reflection, while this is true to a degree, I don’t think my need to always be reading a book is primarily driven by writing. It predates my writing life, and when I stopped writing in the 90s for a while, it didn’t affect my reading. If I stopped writing tomorrow I don’t think it would change my reading habits at all, aside from perhaps freeing up my time a bit more.

I find myself wondering how many variations of the above conversation have taken place in America over the last decade. From a personal perspective, the people I know who read for pleasure (especially fiction) are almost all also writers. There are a few exceptions, and of course my experience is not universal. Yet I don’t think it’s controversial to say that books are not part of the wider culture conversation currently. It’s not that people don’t read, it’s that the hot take culture doesn’t lend itself to the nuanced discussion a good book generally requires. And with the rare exception of something like Harry Potter, books don’t reach widely across the diversity of American culture. It’s not that books are not important: to those that read, they most certainly are. But does a book—let’s limit this to fiction for the sake of argument—ever prompt water cooler talk anymore? I’m just spitballing; I could be off on this. My viewpoint is informed by those I interact with and what I observe, which by definition is a small slice of pie.

Let’s pretend for a moment that this is largely true as far as fiction goes. As anyone who has had a conversation about books with me can attest, one thing that really gets under my skin in much contemporary fiction is the writer as protagonist and, related, the act of writing and books themselves as meta-commentary. There are exceptions to the rule, but in general I find this lazy and narcistic. It too often betrays a lack of interest (or confidence) in exploring the wider world by the author. Write what you know? Authors can remain truthful to emotional experience without making every major character a writer.

I find such an approach limiting, but if a significant part of your audience is other authors or people otherwise heavily involved in writing/publication culture, then maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree. I mean, why not write for your audience? If books aren’t going to engage with the larger culture milieu anymore, then why not engage directly with the subculture they belong to? At the end of the day, this is an academic argument, of course—if you read, you are going to read what interests you, and if you write, you’re going to write what interests you. As it should be. And yet when I read a book like Imagine Me Gone, one of the best, most heart-wrenching novels I’ve read in some time, I’m reminded of what a book that speaks to the wider experience of everyday life can be. A book populated by people, broken though they may be, who live and breathe the same air we do, who are real. It’s a book that I think could find a wide appreciation across a diverse spectrum of cultural experience, but I wonder how it might even find its audience. If any “genre” of fiction has been hurt by this cultural shift, it’s books which don’t have a genre. Books that are, simply, fiction. Now maybe Imagine Me Gone sold just fine—I discovered it via a random best books of the year list—I don’t even know what would be considered selling fine in 2017, and as a reader I don’t care. But I am interested in the ability of a book to find a diverse audience, and to do that it almost has to become part of the cultural conversation (and most likely be published by a larger publication house who can properly promote it to said diverse audiences.) And when does that happen with fiction books these days? Even a book like The Underground Railroad, which with its critical acclaim and multiple high-profile awards is the most recent example I can think of, did not appear to really become part of the larger cultural conversation—and I would argue probably many of those who did opine about it didn’t actually read it. (I’ve yet to read it and therefore have no opinion on it as a work of fiction, though I’ve enjoyed other books by Colson Whitehead.) 

“I just don’t read books anymore.” This line scares me and makes me incredibly sad. Perhaps both emotions are overreactions. Books do not own a monopoly on storytelling, after all. I’m not a hardcore gamer, but I do enjoy the occasional video game and the evolution of storytelling in games is, I think, one of the most interesting aspects of pop culture in the last twenty years. Games themselves have a novel-like storylines, and involving the player in the story and having their choices dictate the storyline in some cases is a fascinating case of technology changing the relationship between author and reader. That’s just one example, there are others. As a species, we will never not seek out stories—simply having an awareness of existence in this universe means we will create and share stories until humanity winks out (which I hope is a hell of a long way down the road still.) Maybe it’s not a big deal that more and more folks don’t have room for pleasurable reading in their life. Maybe that itch is being scratched in other ways. I truly hope so.

Well, I still read books. Lots of ‘em. And what you have here is my annual overview of the pleasurable reading I did in 2017. This is my fourth year (2014, 2015, 2016) doing this and each year this post grows longer because I don’t know how to shut up. If brevity is the soul of wit, I’m clearly witless. I started writing this Thanksgiving weekend and here we finally are.

Read in 2017

The Wilding, Benjamin Pearcy

The Fisherman, John Langan

A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking

SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome, Mary Beard

Ready Player One, Ernest Cline

The Ruins, Scott Smith

Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen

Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life, Ruth Franklin

Beautiful Children, Charles Bock

The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales, Daniel Braum

Tapping the Source, Kem Nunn

Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina, Misty Copeland

Ramsey Campbell, Probably, Ramsey Campbell

Dear Sweet Filthy World, Caitlin Kiernan

Aurora, Kim Stanley Robinson

U2 at the End of the World, Bill Flanagan

The Wide, Carnivorous Sky, John Langan

Cast a Cold Eye, Alan Ryan

So Deadly, So Perverse: 50 Years of Italian Giallo Films: Volume 1 1963-1973, Troy Howarth

So Deadly, So Perverse: 50 Years of Italian Giallo Films: Volume 2 1974-2013, Troy Howarth

The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Neil Gaiman

American Tabloid, James Ellroy

Sing Me Your Scars, Damien Angelica Walters

Paper Tigers, Damien Angelica Walters

One Minute to Midnight: Kennedy, Khrushchev and Castro on the Brink of Nuclear War, Michael Dobbs

Borne, Jeff VanderMeer

Ghosts of Seattle Past, compiled/edited by Jaimee Garbacik

The Missing, Sarah Langan

The Best Horror of the Year, Volume Nine, edited by Ellen Datlow

Year’s Best Weird Fiction, Volume Three, edited by Simon Strantzas

Imagine Me Gone, Adam Haslett

The Girl on the Train, Paula Hawkins

The Doll Who Ate His Mother, Ramsey Campbell

Sleeping Beauties, Stephen King and Owen King

Paperbacks from Hell: The Twisted History of '70s and '80s Horror Fiction, Grady Hendrix

Death by Black Hole: And Other Cosmic Quandaries, Neil deGrasse Tyson

Everything That's Underneath: A Collection of Weird and Horror Tales, Kristi DeMeester

Strange Weather, Joe Hill

Hit So Hard: A Memoir, Patty Schemel

The Illumination, Kevin Brockemeier

Let’s begin at the top of the peak: Kristi DeMeester’s collection Everything That’s Underneath was not only my favorite weird fiction read of the year, it might have been my favorite read period. The current “golden age” of weird fiction has started to devolve a little too often into a sameness of style and approach (the Lovecraft pastiches in particular bringing back diminishing returns to this reader) and DeMeester’s strong, original and visceral voice is a welcome reversal of this trend. I don’t write too many Goodreads reviews, but DeMeester’s work so shook me to the core and inspired me that I posted the following:

This is a stunning, darkly beautiful collection of tales. But be warned: these are not "easy" tales to read. DeMeester has little use for the standard weird tale tropes. Even at their most metaphorical, her tales explore, often rawly, themes of abuse (physical and emotional), sexuality, transformation, matriarchy and misogyny. This is writing that is close to the heart even when laden with fantastic imagery. Part of DeMeester's gift is the matter-of-fact presentation of this imagery; never does the reader feel she's writing to show off. There is a fierce intelligence to these tales. Some of these tales are darkly erotic, reminding me of the early work of Livia Llewellyn, but DeMeester's voice is uniquely her own and it's refreshing and inspiring to this reader to see horror and eroticism blended so deftly and intelligently. I was also reminded at times of Hellraiser and the longing to transform and transcend the flesh. I was deeply moved by many of these tales, something that has become increasingly rare in the weird tale arena. I can't wait to see where Kristi DeMeester goes--wherever it is, I will eagerly follow.

All of this is true, and yet it doesn’t even begin to capture the power of these tales. In 2011 Livia Llewellyn published her debut collection, Engines of Desire. The first two stories in that collection, “Horses” and “At the Edge of Ellensburg,” hit me on a deep, visceral level; they were the most impactful—and inspiring—stories I’d read in years. Those two stories feature the weird tale at its most powerful and charging; they are dangerous stories. Almost every single tale in Everything That’s Underneath works on that level. They engage the mind and soul, ready to destroy and transform, unconcerned with whether you are ready for the impact. They don’t fuck around. They are dangerous. This book is a towering achievement, all the more impressive for being (I believe) a debut. Why do I always find time to read? Because a work like this enriches my life beyond compare. This is my church, and DeMeester’s work an altar before which I kneel. Llewellyn’s subsequent works have generally not been to my taste; I truly hope the same doesn’t happen with DeMeester. For now, I cannot wait to read more.

I could repeat pretty much all of the above when talking about Damien Angelica Walters’s Sing Me Your Scars collection. From my Goodreads review:

What a darkly beautiful collection of stories! Tearing, stitching, reweaving...these stories of transformation, defiance, loss and sorrow are told with skill and openness. Transcending narrow genre labels, graceful even at their most disturbing, the tales in this collection will linger long in my memory and, I am certain, reward frequent revisiting in the future. I was not familiar with Damien Angelica Walters' work prior to reading Sing Me Your Scars, but I will now eagerly seek out her past and future projects. Personal favorites include Sugar, Sin and Nonesuch Harry; Girl, With Coin; Paskutinis Iliuzijia (The Last Illusion) and The Taste of Tears in a Raindrop but every story is magical. Absolutely wonderful.

Inspired by Sing Me Your Scars, I sought out Walters’s novel Paper Tigers. Novels are of course a different beast (heh heh), and while Paper Tigers couldn’t match the impact of Sing Me Your Scars, I found it to be a compelling, atmospheric novel with a very-well defined central character. Only a couple of credibility-straining moments which snapped me out of the world Paper Tigers creates keeps it from being a complete success, but if you’re on the lookout for a moody, dreamlike ghost story it’s well worth your time.

Before I move on to the rest of my 2017 book thoughts, I want to say something that I honestly don’t know how to say well, so forgive any clumsiness: It was tremendously refreshing and revitalizing to discover two strong female voices in DeMeester and Walters this year. It’s not that their stories are completely defined by their gender—they are both too talented for that and I refuse to reduce their work to something so specific—but I do think it informs their perspective and adds a much-needed dimension to the weird tale in 2018. It’s not that there aren’t other female writers working in this territory, but there are nowhere near enough, and the vitality of DeMeester and Walters’s work is a refreshing antidote to the staleness that is creeping in more often to the weird tale of late. Their work moved me profoundly, and inspired me on a multitude of levels. If you are in the least bit curious, please consider purchasing and supporting the small presses that give a platform to not only their voices, but the voices of many on the margins of the genre.

I mentioned Imagine Me Gone in the intro above, and it is hands down one of the most emotionally moving novels I’ve read in a long while. This is the last time I’ll quote from one of my own Goodreads reviews—I only wrote three all year—but the below, written while the last pages were still echoing in me, hasn’t lessened a bit with time:

Heartbreaking, beautiful, frightening...this is the story of mental illness and the strange, wonderful and tragic interlocking of lives that we label with the simple term "family." I love this family so much. I finished this book in tears. Rarely have I read a book that sits so close to the bone. This is the most human of novels, an astounding achievement.

It truly is the most human of novels, a story that pushed me to tears so many times and had me laughing out loud at others. Profoundly moving, deeply sad, heartbreakingly beautiful and just so goddamned real. Imagine Me Gone is everything great fiction should be.

I’m not sure how Kem Nunn’s 1984 debut novel Tapping the Source ended up on my radar, but I checked it out from the local library (support them, friends!) while in the throes of one my periodic “I have no idea what I want to read” episodes. Knowing next to nothing about surfing culture, I found it a dark piece of California noir that, while certainly dated in some respects, was still quite compelling. Turns out the movie Point Break, a completely empty, dumb film that I have a tremendous fondness for, was “based” on Tapping the Source but let me tell you—they have nothing in common beyond character names. Tapping the Source has its faults, but stupidity isn’t one of them…I wouldn’t call The Girl on the Train stupid either, but I’m genuinely curious what the fuss is about. The novel clearly connected with a lot of people, and while I found it a breezy enough read, it seemed to me a very average novel at best. Not bad, not good, just kind of meh. What was it about The Girl on the Train that resonated with so many folks—it seems like one of those increasingly rare fiction novels that crossed over to a wide audience?...

The chill of late winter found me in biography mode. Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life is a long-overdue, exhaustively researched biography of the author of three of the greatest pieces of fiction ever written: the novels The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle and the short story “The Lottery.” A complex figure who struggled with the social mores of her time and a husband who was an ass more often than not, Jackson’s work has not always found the appreciative audience it deserves, especially outside of “The Lottery.” Seeing it all back in print and this excellent biography receiving wide notice warms my heart, I just wish she was here to appreciate it…I read Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography Born to Run during a personally difficult time. I appreciate Springsteen but don’t consider myself a fan (Tunnel of Love being the exception, it is a master clinic in nuanced adult songwriting); however, his storytelling mastery in Born to Run lead me to dive back into his catalog for the first time since my adolescence. I connected with the sense of hard-won hope and struggle in those songs. They brought the belief that better days could still be ahead at a time when I desperately needed it. Springsteen is a funny guy and I enjoyed spending time with him in Born to Run…

Legend? Ramsey Campbell is damn sure one in my book. I covered The Doll Who Ate His Mother extensively in Danse Macabre’s Horror Novels 36 Years Later; I won’t rehash here. Ramsey Campbell, Probably is a collection of Campbell’s nonfiction from throughout his long career. Perhaps my expectations were too high, but I was quite disappointed. The presentation was chopped up and random, it really seemed like an editor just dumped the scraps of paper from Campbell’s filing cabinet on the desk, stapled it together and called it a book. Campbell has written plenty of excellent nonfiction, and you’ll find some of it buried in Probably, but the poor presentation and lack of coherence make it hard to recommend, even to diehard fans…I’m not sure if Neil Gaiman is a legend, but outside of perhaps George R.R. Martin he’s the most well-known author the fantasy field has produced in the last 25 years. His work on Sandman has had a profound and lasting influence in my life, but I’ve often struggled to connect with his novels; only Coraline and American Gods worked on any level for me. So it was with no expectations I came across a used copy of The Ocean at the End of the Lane and decided to give it a shot. And am I ever glad I did: easily my favorite Gaiman novel, it’s a heartfelt work all the more powerful for its brevity (I read it over the course of two of my daughter’s swim practices.)…Caitlin Kiernan is a legend to some of us, but Dear Sweet Filthy World is not one of her stronger collections. It’s not bad but pales next superior collections like To Charles Fort, With Love. If you’re new to her work, start there. Hardcore fans will find plenty to like in Dear Sweet Filthy World but casual readers may struggle to connect…

Giallo cinema has long been a passion of mine, and Troy Howarth’s two volume set So Deadly, So Perverse is an essential companion for hardcore fans and newcomers alike. I particularly appreciated the approach—rather than a more academic overview, both books consist of reviews of every giallo film as per Howarth’s definition. One can always quibble at the edges—“why this film and not that one?”—but every essential giallo film is covered here, and a ton more besides. Pour some J&B, slip into something comfortable (preferably with black gloves) and enjoy—just hide all the knives…I had high hopes for Ghosts of Seattle Past, but it disappointed—anyone not already familiar with the cultural history of the area will find a disjointed, random book, albeit one that has a couple of choice interviews. A for effort, C- for execution…The endless photos of classic horror paperback covers from the 70s and 80s makes up for Paperbacks from Hell’s uneven text. The text would have benefitted from a better thematic framework and a more in-depth approach would have been appreciated by this reader (subtitling this a history of 70s and 80s horror fiction is false advertising.) That aside, there’s nothing terrible about it, and those pictures! Damn! Recommended as a nostalgia kick for fans of the genre…I have the utmost respect for Neil deGrasse Tyson but his written work too often makes me miss Carl Sagan. Neil’s touch is somehow leaden, even though he has a playful sense of humor. It’s not fair to compare anyone to Sagan, I know. We desperately need rational voices that can bring science to the masses, and Neil deGrasse Tyson is our best emissary right now, so his work transcends whatever minor style critiques I may have of it...

King of the Hill: Quiet year for Stephen King, no solo works but instead we get two co-written books. The first, Gwendy's Button Box, I surprisingly haven’t read yet (as a hardcore Constant Reader, I generally pick up all major King works on the day they come out.) No particular reason, I just didn’t feel strongly drawn to it. I’ll probably get around to it in 2018. The other novel, co-written with his son Owen King, is Sleeping Beauties. I shared my thoughts on Sleeping Beauties back in October so I’ll not rehash here…Joe Hill followed up last year’s novel The Fireman with a collection of four novellas, Strange Weather. The title is an intentionally obvious nod to his father’s first four novella collection, Different Seasons, and this homage is either charming or annoying, depending on your wiring. Maybe not the wisest move, as I found Strange Weather to be uneven and even tentative at times. Only the first story, “Snapshot,” really worked, and even it felt top-heavy with several eye-rolling, “are you serious?” plot choices. There was one way in which I was very much reminded of Different Seasons: in that collection, the second tale “Apt Pupil” was, to my young mind, one of the most disturbing stories I’d read up to that point. I was fascinated and deeply uncomfortable with the exploration of Nazi attraction, concentration camp fetishism, random killing and guns. Not a hint of anything supernatural. The second tale in Strange Weather, “Loaded,” provided a similar level of uncomfortableness, though not fascination, as Hill struggles to come to term with our current culture’s gun fetishism. An understandable goal, but the tale was thoroughly unpleasant to read (which I’m sure was intentional) and I still don’t know if it worked as a piece of art or not. I admire the intent if not the results. I also hated the story and felt depressed every time I picked up the book until it was finished. “Loaded” is probably deserving of its own post at some point as I’m still struggling to articulate how I feel about it. Strange Weather is not a strong collection given Hill’s talent, but thanks to “Loaded,” it will probably stay with me far longer than it really should…

Pleasant surprises are the best. I didn’t go into John Langan’s novel The Fisherman with any great expectations as my familiarity with his work was limited to a couple of short stories which weren't to my personal taste. But my oh my, was The Fisherman ever to my taste! A fantastic novel full of believable characters even as the circumstances get more and more Lovecraftian strange through the tale’s progression. Fantastic pacing too. So much did I enjoy it I decided to give Langan’s short stories another crack with the collection The Wide, Carnivorous Sky and this time many of them stuck. Recommended for fans of the genre…Borne was another pleasant surprise. Post-apocalyptic weird fantasy isn’t really my cup of tea, and after the first ten pages I thought I was going to abandon it, and then for whatever reason Borne just clicked and I blew through the rest of it. VanderMeer’s Southern Reach Trilogy is the highwater mark of weird fiction this decade; following it up with a smaller, more intimate tale was smart and ultimately successful. Curious to see where he goes next…

The Illumination has two awesome ideas driving it: randomly one Friday night all pain started to shine brightly and continues to do so forever after, allowing all of us to see each other’s pain. Second, a private journal of daily one sentence love notes, written by a husband to his wife, passes through many hands following a fatal car accident. Both are strong, beautiful ideas (I was especially taken by the daily love notes which capture the intimacy in the mundane of long-term relationships) but unfortunately, after a strong start, Brockmeier can’t drive them anywhere interesting. The episodic approach could have worked, but his protagonists and their settings get duller as book goes on, and when he dropps the author on a book tour character in towards the end, it just falls apart. So much potential, but the book doesn’t get there. Try his other novel The Brief History of the Dead, it’s much stronger…My friend handed me a copy of Ready Player One and said I had to read it. Good on him, because I loved it. I guess there is a movie coming out and the book seems quite popular currently, so good for Cline. If I’d read a plot summary of the book I would never have touched it; this is why you need friends to recommend books. Algorithms cannot do so as successfully, friends will turn you on to something you would not have tried otherwise…I love a bleak novel where you are fairly certain from the early pages the fate awaiting the characters ain’t gonna be a happy one, and The Ruins delivered in spades. Absolutely loved it and now I want to read more of Scott Smith’s work…Sarah Langan seems to have disappeared but I’ve enjoyed all three of her novels, with The Missing the strongest of the three plot-wise (Audrey’s Door has slightly better characterization.) Yes, it’s nothing new, and you can see echoes of classic King, Straub, et. al. But those three chords still ring true in the hands of a talented player, and Langan is talented. To my knowledge she hasn’t published any novels or collections since 2007 and I sure hope she hasn’t walked away from writing. It would be a loss for the horror genre…

My thoughts regarding American Tabloid can be found here; James Ellroy is a thorny treasure…Cast A Cold Eye is an enjoyable quiet horror read from the early 80s…Beautiful Children is a dark, fucked-up novel and I mean that as a compliment—the vibe is very Requiem for a Dream (one of my all-time favorite novels) so don’t say you weren’t warned…The tales that make up Daniel Braum’s The Night Marchers show promise but aren’t all the way there yet…The Wilding has its moments, at times reminiscent of Deliverance (minus any squealing pigs), one odd character choice throws the book off a bit and keeps it from achieving greatness but it’s still a worthwhile read with the central characters well developed...

And with that, dear friends, I’m calling it good. I realize there are a couple of non-fiction works and anthologies I didn’t opine on, I hope you can live with the disappointment (and if you can’t, email me and I’ll be happy to jabber on.) Please consider supporting your local library, local independent bookseller, and small presses to the best of your capability if you don’t already do so. All of us read and write because we passionately love to do so, and the more channels that can remain open, the more voices have a chance to be heard. See ya in 2018!