Five of My Favorite Non-Horror Novels

A while back, I rattled off a list of five of my favorite horror novels of all time. But because no one should restrict their literary diet to any one genre (not even someone as tunnel-visioned as yours truly) today I thought I’d recommend five of my favorite non-horror novels of all time.

mdMoby-Dick: or, The Whale

by Herman Melville

I almost didn’t want to include Moby-Dick on this list because, just like Frankenstein last time, this is one of those books whose status as a towering classic is such that it feels a bit silly to “recommend” it. Recommending Moby-Dick is like recommending food or shelter or oxygen. Nonetheless, if I’m going to be listing my own personal favorite novels of all time, I can’t avoid including it.

It was in high school that I first read Herman Melville’s timeless tale of a vengeance-crazed captain hunting down the titular white whale. I had no interest, really, only giving it a shot because it was one of the titles on a required reading list I was given for English class, and because I found a battered copy for pocket change at a thrift shop. Of course, my English teacher never actually tested the class or asked us to write any papers proving we had read any of books from that list, but my effort wasn’t for naught. In spite of myself, and completely independent of its iconic reputation, I fell in love with Melville’s masterpiece. It’s not hard to see why, with its epic action, character-driven narrative, vivid language, and ambitious integration of both Christian mythology and Shakespearean dramatics. Much like with Frankenstein, though, what captivates me most to this day is Moby-Dick’s thematic resonance, that multi-layered depth which lends itself to academic study and perpetual reinterpretation. It ensures that, no matter how ingrained in pop culture the images of Ahab and Ishmael and that monstrous whale might be, Melville’s book endures. Always relevant, never hackneyed, this one’s a “classic” in the truest sense.

451Fahrenheit 451

by Ray Bradbury

Look at that, a Ray Bradbury book made my previous list, and another one is making this list. It speaks to Bradbury’s range, consistency, and ability that he produced not just one but two prime examples of what I would consider some of the best novels ever written. And in two different genres to boot! Ironically, Fahrenheit 451 may not technically qualify as a horror novel, but as a reader it has much the same effect on me. Being a very, very vocal advocate for my beloved horror genre, I often get asked what the scariest book I’ve ever read is. Without any hesitation, my go-to answer has always been Bradbury’s tale of a future society in which censorship is official policy and government-employed “firemen” burn books by the thousands.

See, vampires and werewolves don’t really scare me. You know what does? Apathy. Illiteracy. Anti-intellectualism. I’m scared of the status quo. I’m scared of a system designed specifically to deny marginalized people a voice. I’m scared of cultural infantilization, of uniformity and nationalism and political correctness. I’m scared of forces that suppress diversity and creativity, forces that uphold an obsolete establishment to the detriment of growth and progress. I’m scared of those who are willing to neither learn from the past nor contribute to the coming future. I’m scared of someone else deciding what I should or shouldn’t see, read, think, and say. More than anything, I’m scared of how, with each day, the society of Fahrenheit 451 feels less like a fictional dystopia and more like an emerging reality.

sadeJustine; or The Misfortunes of Virtue

&

Juliette; or Vice Amply Rewarded

by the Marquis de Sade

What’s this? Two for the price of one? Oh yes, if I mention one of these books I certainly can’t omit the other. With this duo, the Marquis de Sade gave birth to a pair of twins, sister novels that are the yin to each other’s yang, sparring partners who continuously pose and answer questions to and from one another. In doing so, they deliver something that is itself greater than the sum of its parts. First, there’s Justine, the titular protagonist a naive and uncompromising idealist whose pride and sense of moral superiority offer little protection from the perverse cruelties of the real world. Juliette’s, meanwhile, embraces the idea that humankind is just another animal, and an imperfect one at that. A libertine who indulges all of her appetites, no matter how extreme, she ultimately finds a life of fulfillment and peace.

Similar to George Bataille’s Story of the Eye, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s Venus in Furs, and Pauline Reage’s Story of O, Sade’s salacious sisters are dark, debauched, boundary-pushing works, driven as much by philosophy as by sexuality. Together they perfectly embody the Sadean school of thought. Their characters are less living people and more exaggerated metaphors, anthropomorphic symbols fashioned to explore such controversial topics as man’s state of nature, the blurry dividing line between sex and violence, and the hypocrisy of socially acceptable morality. Not at all for squeamish readers, Justine and Juliette may be cruel, nihilistic, blasphemous screeds of unabashed pornography, but they are also astoundingly ahead of their time, precursors of a sort to the later works of Frederick Nietzsche and Thomas Ligotti. Even so, what’s wrong with a little porn and nihilism anyway, right?

flatFlatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions

by Edwin A. Abbott

I often credit horror giant H.P. Lovecraft for opening my eyes to the possibility of worlds beyond human understanding, but the truth is that Edwin A. Abbott’s Flatland had just as much an impact on me, although through a slightly more circuitous route. Before I ever read Flatland itself, and long before I read Lovecraft at all, I grew up reading superhero comics. I also grew up broke, so my childhood funny-book collection was a patchwork of whatever off-brand back issues I could find for cheap. That’s how I chanced upon a somewhat obscure series called 1963, an Alan Moore project published by Image in the early 90s that parodied Silver Age capes-and-tights books. One of the issues featured a Green Lantern-esque hero fighting a villain he could only barely perceive, a villain who hailed from a higher dimension. In the resulting adventure, Moore subtly name-dropped Abbott’s book, and my imagination was blown wide open.

When I finally discovered Flatland myself years later, I found a high-concept corker set in a two-dimensional space occupied by sentient geometric shapes. The protagonist? A literal square, one whose entire understanding of reality is challenged when he is visited by a sphere from three-dimensional space. Though originally intended as a satire of social class hierarchies (and, sure, it still works well in that regard), Flatland’s most remarkable contribution is the way it encourages readers to seriously consider the probability of worlds beyond humanity’s own limited perceptions. After all, if a two-dimensional being would be oblivious to the existence of a third dimension, doesn’t it follow that a three-dimensional being would be oblivious to a fourth dimension, or a fifth, or a sixth, and so on? Keep in mind that Flatland was published in 1884, more than 30 years before Albert Einstein put forth his theory of relativity. Today, the idea that there is more to reality than the five physical senses and three or four dimensions that mankind perceives has become central to not only my own fiction writing, but to my very philosophy of life. And while Moore may have first planted the seed in my head, and Lovecraft later helped it bloom, it is ultimately Abbott that laid the groundwork before anyone else.

I’m Goin’ Nuts!

gnoh

Here’s a very cool bit of news. As of today, it’s my pleasure to announce that yours truly has joined the staff of The Ginger Nuts of Horror, the UK’s largest independent horror website.

A die-hard supporter of all things macabre, GNoH has long provided the internet’s genre fiction community with thoughtful and enthusiastic book and movie reviews, author interviews, and more. For years, I have been a regular GNoH reader. Now, I’m proud to say I’m a GNoH contributor as well.

My first review, of Andrew J. Stone’s morbid bizarro fairy-tale The Mortuary Monster, from StrangeHouse Books, is up now. Check it out!

Roots Run Deep: Why this Spoopy Tree Matters

wfa

My favorite writer is H.P. Lovecraft.

I can remember a time when saying that garnered quizzical looks from most people, and the familiar owl-song of “Who?” Nowadays, being a lover of weird fiction and saying you venerate Lovecraft is like being in a metal band and citing Black Sabbath as an influence. It’s so much a given it’s virtually meaningless. For me, though, Lovecraft’s impact is not limited to a superficial aesthetic focused on tentacles, mystical tomes, and malevolent alien gods. For me, Lovecraft’s impact, though based in fiction, is evident not just in my creative endeavors, but in the very fundamentals of my worldview, the way I understand reality.

It was Lovecraft who introduced me to the idea of humanity’s ultimate insignificance in the grand scope of the universe, as well as the idea that the five senses and three spatial dimensions mankind can perceive are far from the limits of possible existence. Cosmicism. Atheism. Mechanistic materialism. These were radical concepts when I was still a kid reading Goosebumps books, rifling through paperbacks at a yard sale and fatefully finding an anthology of stories by Machen, Blackwood, LeFanu, and, yes, Lovecraft. In many ways, he helped make me who I am today.

Please keep that in mind when I say the following:

H.P. Lovecraft was an awful fucking person.

As a reader and wanna-be writer, I deeply respect Lovecraft’s work. I think he was brilliant, an artist misunderstood in his own time and often misunderstood still today. And there are many details of his life that are pitiable, unfair, and deserving of sympathy. Still, human beings don’t come in simple binary terms, just good or just bad, but rather shades of both. In many ways, Lovecraft was a good person. In just as many ways, though, he was an awful one. It is up to each of us, as individuals, to weigh his sins and virtues and come to our own judgements about whether he was one more than the other. But you cannot deny that he was awful in certain ways. And, my oh my, we’re not talking about bad hygiene here. We’re talking about racism, homophobia, misogyny, anti-Semitism.

It doesn’t matter if Lovecraft “softened his more extreme views later in life” or if he “was just a product of his time.” It doesn’t matter that he eventually married a Jewish woman or befriended a gay man. He still penned poems about how grotesque and subhuman people of color were. He still supported Hitler, for fuck’s sake. No matter how much we hem and haw and try to undersell the contemptibility of it, the fact remains: Lovecraft is on the wrong side of history.

Separating the art from the artist will only get you so far here, because a huge and important dimension of Lovecraft’s fiction derives specifically from despicable prejudices. His fiction brims with subtext about the “purity” of races and the “horror of miscegenation.” Even his less overtly bigotry-laden pieces are affected by it (and, as depressing as it may be to acknowledge, they arguably even benefit from it). They all express a shrill, hysterical dread of “the Other,” a fear Lovecraft was able to write about like no one else before or since.

Of course, Lovecraft is hardly alone in his awfulness. Any writer dead long enough for his or her work to be considered “classic” has more than a few skeletons in the closet: Rudyard Kipling was racist, Norman Mailer was homophobic, Charles Bukowski was sexist, Roald Dahl was anti-Semitic, and so on and so on. The ugliness of an artist’s beliefs does nothing to diminish the importance of their art, but the importance of their art does nothing to diminish the ugliness of their beliefs either. Just as people are so complicated and multifaceted that we cannot simply boil them all down to just “good” or “bad,” our approach to thinking about the authors who came before us must likewise be complicated and multifaceted.

As much as we want things to be simplified, nothing is ever truly simple. We can put Lovecraft on a pedestal for his contributions to storytelling while also taking him down a peg or two for the prejudices which directly led to those very contributions. That’s not contradictory or hypocritical. It’s just complex. It requires nuance, but it’s the same as the ability to be happy with the person you are now while still regretting the mistakes you made in the past that hurt others. We can do both. We have to do both.

See, progress is not made from simply recognizing the errors of history and that’s it. We have to learn from them, too. You are happy with the person you are not just because you are aware that you once did wrong, but because you regret those wrongs and have vowed to not repeat them. You have become a better person. You have changed. Progress comes from change; change is necessary.

Which brings me to the reason I sat down at my laptop just now: The World Fantasy Awards.

I know, I know. This is old news. The debate over Lovecraft’s racism and the WFA bust has been beaten into the dirt by now and the last thing the world needs is one more jabroni jumping in to regurgitate a bunch of opinions that plenty of other people have already stated and that even more people have viciously ripped apart. But, fuck it, this is my blog and I haven’t had my say yet. I may be a nobody with (at the time of this writing) naught but a handful of small-press publications to my name, which may mean that no one gives a good goddamn about which side of the fence I’m even on. Nevertheless, it’s the year 2017 and that means every over-opinionated loudmouth with an internet connection on Earth gets to at least pretend someone out there is listening.

Well, I’m over-opinionated. I’m a loudmouth. I’ve got an internet connection. And I live on the planet Earth. So, here we go. Let’s pretend.

First a quick recap, for all you nonexistent hypothetical readers who actually give a crap but who somehow don’t already know the details: For years, the World Fantasy Award has been shaped like H.P. Lovecraft’s lantern-jawed noggin. In recent years, a campaign kicked off with an eye toward changing the award to something that, y’know, doesn’t perpetuate casual acceptance of institutionalized racism. This resulted in a schism between those in favor of the proposal and those against it. Eventually, the World Fantasy Convention, which oversees the WFAs, announced they would change the award. There was some more outrage, but the pro and anti camps gradually stopped squabbling as the memory of the whole thing faded into the background. Because, hey, there’s other bullshit going on.

Then, the day came. Just recently, the new WFA was finally unveiled and it was…

A tree.

A spoopy tree, with a moon behind it.

Obviously something to lose your shit over, right? I mean, it’s not like the U.S. president just bombed the ever-lovin’ hell out of Syria and Afghanistan is it? This is wayyyy worse.

In any case, the WFA is back in the limelight again and the pro and anti crowds are squabblin’ anew. Ah, just like old times.

For what it’s worth I personally like the WFA’s new look. I think it’s a lot of things: simple, elegant, timeless, primordial, atmospheric, evocative. Others say it’s meaningless, or that it looks like a cheap Halloween knick-knack. Whatever. At least it’s not a pewter dragon. Evaluating the aesthetic quality of the sculpture ultimately comes down to personal taste, and thus is an entirely pointless debate to have. There’s no reason to complain, unless you’re a whiny, Lovecraft-obsessed, fedora-tippin’ douche bag who thinks it’s an utter travesty that ol’ Howie got shown the door in favor of a piece of kindling. Boo. Fucking. Hoo.

By my tone here, I’m assuming you can tell where I stand on this whole thing.

Remember what I said about change and how important it is for progress? The WFA is a perfect example of that kind of change. It’s not just a shrugging compromise to them goshdarn politically correct snowflakes. I’ve made my feelings on this subject known before: I hate political correctness. Meaningful, respectful change made in the name of progress, inclusion, and justice, however? That I like.

Listen, making the award a bust of a single author was pretty dumb to begin with, regardless of why it was done (and, yes, believe it or not there is a decent justification for it beyond just “We loves us some Lovecraft,” just ask Gahan Wilson, the guy who designed it).

Besides the potential PR blunder of accidentally picking a vile goddamn racist, such an award becomes a celebration of the author it depicts more than the one receiving it (remember this point, we’ll come back to it later). What if the winner doesn’t like Lovecraft? Has never read Lovecraft? Is not influenced by him? Is completely ignorant of him? How does that honor Lovecraft or the award-winner?

What if the vein of fiction the winner works in has little to no connection to Lovecraft’s work? After all, “fantasy” is a pretty broad category. The idea that Lovecraft would be an appropriate representation of all possibilities that the word could convey is obviously ridiculous. It would necessitate someone asserting that Lovecraft embodies the entire spectrum of fantastic fiction on a fundamental level to such a degree that no living writer could ever not in some way be a reflection of him. And even I, the guy who attributes his entire understanding of his place in the cosmos to Lovecraft, won’t go that far.

“But what about the Oscars or the Grammys?” you say. “No one ever thinks changing them would be a good idea.” That’s true. Except the Oscar is a bald, naked knight and the Grammy is a friggin’ phonograph. Neither, you’ll note, are responsible for a poem called “On the Creation of Niggers.” Nor did either, to my knowledge, ever called homosexuality “repugnant” or refer to homosexuals as “damned sissies” and “cake-eaters.”

And don’t come at me with that “B-b-but the Hugos” claptrap; it was dumb naming them after some guy, too. Besides, the Hugos got all kinds of problems of their own.

Those of you who don’t know what it’s like, try this: Check your privilege for a second and put yourself in the shoes of someone who deals with racism, anti-Semitism, or homophobia in a very real, painful way… every… single… day. Imagine that in spite of the systemic prejudices working against you, you accomplish something so extraordinary that it merits a prestigious award. Now imagine you get the award, and it’s shaped like the face of someone who famously, unabashedly derided you, and everyone like you, as repellent and barely human, and who advocated Nazi-esque eugenics as a way of purging your kind from existence. Imagine being asked to pose with that award and smile. Imagine being asked to put that award on your shelf and have it look down on you every day of your life, a reminder of just what kind of legacy you labor in the shadow of.

One last thing: Imagine being told that your feelings on this matter are irrelevant, that you should be grateful to get this much, because the integrity of a fucking paperweight is more important than your integrity as a person.

Tell me, would you feel celebrated? Would you feel respected? Would you feel honored?

That’s what an award is supposed to do, honor its recipients (see, I told you we’d come back to this).

If you want to honor Lovecraft, build a fuckin’ statue in your backyard. Do anything you want, that’s all about you. But awards are not about you. They’re not about famous dead guys either, I don’t give a shit how important they are. Awards are about the people who win them, period. They are about the present and the future, not the past. They’re not memorials. Making an annual award into such a thing, at the expense of the people living in the here and now, is indulgent, morbid, and gross. It’s a neverending act of masturbation, like an ouroboros circle-jerk.

Granted, some will say it’s not about honoring just Lovecraft, but rather the values Lovecraft symbolizes, i.e. the values that the aforementioned Gahan Wilson cited when explaining why he chose ol’ Howard’s ugly mug in the first place. Wilson said: “The point of the awards was, is, and hopefully shall be to give a visible, potentially usable sign of appreciation to writers working in the area of fantastic literature, an area too often distinguished by low financial remuneration and indifference.”

Notice how he said “hopefully” there? That’s because things change, even the meanings of symbols. Don’t believe me? Ask the swastika. Nowadays, Lovecraft’s face has a lot in common with a swastika in some circles, whether we like it or not. Them’s the breaks. Adapt or die.

Seriously, do you want to be a dinosaur when that inevitable meteor called progress comes hurtling towards this hunk of rock we call home? Do you want to be on the wrong side of history like your homeboy Howie was?

Time marches on. Change is vital for the betterment of culture. That’s not to say legacies don’t remain important, but not to a degree where we should cling to them to the detriment of evolving paradigms. If anyone should understand this, it’s people who work in the arts. The best art has always been about shaking up the status quo. Lovecraft himself did this, in his own way, by subverting humanity’s egoism and superstitious mysticism with his philosophy of cosmicism and tales of sanity-shattering extradimensional malignance.

Believe it or not, change does not automatically delete the past from existence. Making the new WFA into a spoopy tree doesn’t send a ripple back through time transforming the previous years’ awards into spoopy trees too. Nor does it erase all those contributions to genre fiction Lovecraft is responsible for. It’s just like a Hollywood remake of a beloved classic; stupid people will bitch and moan, but the original is still available on DVD, just as good as it ever was. Nothing is “ruined.” No one’s talking about wiping Lovecraft’s name from the history books, denying his influence, or revoking his “Inner Circle of Literary Icons” membership card. All anyone wants is to promote a more nuanced understanding of what Lovecraft represents in his totality, not just the parts we want him to represent. Understanding is more meaningful than unquestioning reverence, don’t ya think?

At the end of the day, as I said before, the WFA is a fucking paperweight. Is it really worth getting bent of shape over? Is it really worth alienating already marginalized sectors of the literary community?

Even Lovecraft knew the final truth: Humanity is but a dust mote lost in sprawling, indifferent universe. The entirety of Earth’s history adds up to little more than a fraction of a split-severed second when contrasted against the vastness of infinity. Our differences are trivial, and we ourselves are trivialities.

It’s not important. You only think it is.

Get over it.

My Top Ten Favorite Vampire Movies (+1)

So a bunch of us horror-scribblin’ nerds on Facebook have been sharing our top 10 favorite vampires movies as of late. Like the good conformist that I am, I thought I’d throw my two cents in. And since it’s been more than a month since my last blog post (sorry kiddos, I’ve been distracted hammering away on a couple new story ideas), I figured instead of just doing a list on social media I’d write a little about each of my picks here to tell you why I love them so.

I’ll make the same disclaimer I always do when ranking any of my favorite anything: Remember that this is not a list of what I consider the “best” vampire movies of all time. These are simply my personal favorites. There are a whole bunch of reasons to like a movie other than just technical accomplishment, most of which are subjective, such as nostalgia or other biases. Nothing wrong with that. So just keep it in mind before you ask me why your favorite vampire movie didn’t make my list, or how in the hell I could’ve possibly liked that piece of crap, or whatever.

And, yeah, I cheated. I was able to narrow my list of favorites down to 11 but couldn’t bear to cut even one more after that. So fuck it. This is my website, not yours. Bite me.

Without further ado, in no particular order, here are my Top 10 Favorite Vampire Movies (+1)…

nos

Nosferatu

No, not the bloated, overcooked Warner Herzog remake. F.W. Murnau’s silent film classic is a moody, stylish chiller. Despite being a lawsuit-worthy copycat of Bram Stoker’s genre-defining novel Dracula, I’d argue it’s actually superior to any “official” adaptation to come after. Yes, that even goes for the Bela Lugosi one. Murnau’s twisted, otherworldly visuals exemplify how black-and-white filmmaking can utilize light and shadow to get under a viewer’s skin skin better than any color picture ever could, and actor Max Schreck’s performance as the gnarled, inhuman Count Orlok is genuinely unnerving. Nosferatu’s vision of the vampire as a loathsome, plague-carrying parasite remains to this day the prototype for every bloodsucker story more interested in being scary than in portraying the undead as misunderstood heartthrobs.

marMartin

If you only know George Romero as “that guy who makes all those zombie movies,” you’re missing out. Chief among the overlooked gems in the man’s filmography is 1978’s Martin, an inspired low-budget masterpiece that brilliantly deconstructs vampire tropes. The film’s namesake sanguinarian believes himself a centuries-old creature of the night, but is he? He can’t suck blood, so he slashes his prey with a razor. He can’t hypnotize his victims, so he knocks them out with a syringe full of sedatives. He has visions of a life lived hundreds of years ago, but are they memories or just fantasies? Martin informs everyone who will listen that much of the vampire myth is just that: Myth. Yet he still claims to be one. When you strip the vampire of all its supernatural trappings, what’s left? Is there really anything to it but outright lunacy? And, in the end, what’s more dangerous, the reality or the myth? The answer might surprise you.

letLet the Right One In

Based on the novel by John Ajvide Lindquist, this Swedish film (skip the American remake; it’s redundant at best) is a bittersweet portrait of loneliness and unlikely friendship, every bit as alternately delicate and deadly as its frozen setting. It introduces us to Oskar, a 12-year-old outcast who spends his time trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube and daydreaming about murdering the bullies who torment him, and Eli, a girl (or is she?) about the same age (or is she?) who lives a sheltered, secretive existence in the apartment next door. They soon find kinship in their shared isolation and hidden darkness, but when the man Eli lives with is caught while attempting a murder meant to feed Eli’s bloodlust, she is forced to reveal her true nature to Oskar. With its methodical pacing, haunting atmosphere, tender performances, and powerful themes of love, morality, adolescence, and alienation, Let the Right One In is undoubtedly one of the best vampire moves in recent memory.

froFrom Dusk till Dawn

This is one of those movies I can watch over and over and over. From Dusk till Dawn was directed by Robert Rodriguez, written by Quentin Tarantino, based on an idea by K.N.B. EFX co-founder Robert Kurtzman, and flaunts a cast featuring Harvey Keitel, George Clooney, Salma Hayek, Danny Trejo, Juliette Lewis, Tom Savini, Fred Williamson, Michael Parks, and Cheech Marin. What more could you want? Telling the story of the most out-of-control barroom brawl in recorded history, this gory grindhouse throwback pits a pair of psychopathic bank-robbers and a faithless preacher against a whole army of vamps in a slimy Mexican strip club called The Titty Twister. It’s a real special effects pigout, taking inspiration from the mythological associations bloodsuckers have with such cuddly critters as bats, rats, and snakes to unleash some of the gnarliest, nastiest fangbangers you’ve ever seen slither across a screen. Without a doubt the raunchiest, rockingest entry on this list, turn off your brain for this one, kids, and turn up the volume.

refThe Reflecting Skin

I’m probably going to catch some flak for this one, as it’s debatable if The Reflecting Skin has any actual vampires in it at all (although, the same could be said of the previously mentioned Martin). But that ambiguity is one of the things that endears me so much to this oft-forgotten, art-horror masterwork. Told from the perspective of Seth Dove, a troubled young boy trapped in the endless wheat-gold wasteland of 1950s Midwest America, his reality becomes our reality. It doesn’t matter that enigmatic widow Dolphin Blue likely shuns the rest of the world and dresses only in black simply because she’s never gotten over her lost husband; to Seth, it’s obvious she’s a vampire. Nor does it matter that Seth’s older brother, Cameron, just returned home from being stationed in the Pacific, where he helped test atomic bombs; the reason he’s wasting away isn’t radiation sickness, it’s because he’s the vampire’s latest victim. A grim reminder of how scary this big ol’ world is when you’re young enough to still believe in monsters, mysteries, and miracles, The Reflecting Skin is a brooding, surreal, and, at times, blackly comic meditation on the meaning of “American Gothic.”

cirVampire Circus

Honestly, if I didn’t have more self-control, this list could have easily been populated with nothing but Hammer films. From the classic Christopher Lee Dracula series to the carnal Karnstein trilogy to the end-of-the-line oddities that were Captain Kronos and Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires, undead bloodsuckers were always Hammer’s bread and butter, and they did ‘em better than everybody else. Vampire Circus is one of those Hammer offering skewing closer to the “oddities” end of the spectrum, chock-full of gypsy bloodsuckers, animal shapeshifters, body-painted babes, and harlequin dwarfs. It’s also one hell of a piece of eye candy, with its lush, psychedelic visuals. Plus, as a barnburner of a tale about an ancient curse being fulfilled in a plague-ravaged Serbian village by a bunch of undead Cirque du Soleil rejects, it’s a pitch-perfect snapshot of Hammer at its over-the-top, baroque best. Need I say more?

lesVampyros Lesbos

The quintessential lesbian vampire film (a subgenre I’m so enamored with that I may have to do a whole ‘nother top 10 list someday), Vampyros Lesbos is one of Spanish director Jess Franco’s all-time best. Franco is one of those rare filmmakers capable of hybridizing the pinnacle of high-art pretension with the nadir of low-brow schlock. I say that as a compliment. As with all Franco films, the story is secondary here, boiling down to little more than “Um, there’s this hot countess who lives on an island and hates wearing clothes, and there’s this lawyer lady who visits the island on business, Jonathan Harker-style, and she falls under the countess’ sexy spell and becomes infatuated with her, which her boyfriend is none too pleased about; gratuitous nudity and blood-drinking ensues.” What elevates this lurid, languid Eurotrash into something as equally mesmerizing as it is sleazy is the icy beauty of lead actress Soledad Miranda, a riotous jazz soundtrack, and Franco’s signature trippy, arthouse aesthetic.

nearNear Dark

The dirty, RV-driving, leather jacket-clad, ex-Confederate Army vampires of Near Dark are a far cry from the elegant pomp of Bela Lugosi, Tom Cruise, or even Robert Pattinson. These freaks? These are my kind of vampires. Feral and nihilistic, these fangbangers care about only two things: Blood and fun. Written by Eric Red (who gave us the similarly awesome cult classic The Hitcher the year before), Near Dark fuses the horror film with the western to undeniable effect. It vacillates effortlessly between sunburnt honky-tonk hellraising and trance-inducing moonlit ruminations on the implications of an endless, ageless existence spent entirely in the shadows. It also sports a scintillating synth score from Tangerine Dream, and boasts a stellar cast which includes Lance Henriksen, Jenette Goldstein, Tim Thomerson, Adrian Pasdar, Jenny Wright, and, most memorably, the recently departed Bill Paxton. Rest in Peace, Bill. Thanks for the memories.

lettLet’s Scare Jessica to Death

Most vampires are content to simply drain you of your blood. The one in Let’s Scare Jessica to Death, meanwhile, wants something else too. She wants to steal your sanity. Enter poor titular Jessica, freshly released from a mental institution. She needs to get away, so she and her husband move out to a quiet farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Too bad everyone in town is so hostile to outsiders. And they all have strange wounds on their necks. Weird. Then there’s that drifter they met, Emily. She’s been getting a little too cozy with Jessica’s husband. As Jessica begins hearing voices and discovers a local legend of a drowned vampire temptress roaming the countryside, more questions arise. The audience is left to guessing just like the characters onscreen as to how much of what’s happening is real and how much is imagined. More suggestive and subtle than out-and-out horrific, Let’s Scare Jessica to Death is psychological chiller that works terrible wonders from out of the corner of your eye.

lairThe Lair of the White Worm

If you’re familiar with director Ken Russell, you know that when his name is attached to project, you best expect some epic crazy. He is, after all, the same man who gave us Altered States, The Devils, and Gothic. Sure enough, The Lair of the White Worm has got crazy to spare. Don’t kid yourself, this flick was never going to bear more than a passing resemblance to the Bram Stoker novel from whence it takes its name. Starring a young Hugh Grant (of all people) and the seductive Amanda Donohoe, Lair of the White Worm recasts its vampires as the venom-spitting, serpentine servants of a subterranean snake god. The plot is serviceable, but what really stands out here are the visuals. The best word I can use to describe them is “hallucinogenic.” Campy, sacrilegious, and psychosexual, this isn’t so much a movie as it is a weapons-grade hit of LSD in celluloid form.

cronCronos

If you haven’t noticed already, I tend to gravitate towards stories that take a less than traditional stab at the sanguinarian undead. Of the movies listed here, however, Guillermo Del Toro’s feature film debut, Cronos, might just take the cake in terms of depicting a completely unique kind of vampire. It comes in the form of a golden, clockwork insect invented by a 16th century alchemist as a means of attaining eternal life. Chanced upon by an elderly antiques dealer, that’s exactly what it does. But it comes with a price. It mutates the old man, turning his flesh marble-white and imbuing him with (surprise, surprise) a hunger for blood. From there, things don’t quite go where you’d expect, with a dying millionaire soon entering the picture, ready to do anything for a new lease on life. Despite all the supernatural intrigue, the emotional core of the film turns out to be the relationship between the old man and his granddaughter, who never stops loving her pop-pop no matter how inhuman he becomes. A deceptively sweet story influenced as much by fairy tales as the horror canon, Cronos remains one of the best entries in Del Toro’s long and outstanding career.

vamVampyr

We started with a silent film, and now we’re ending with a silent film. Kind of. It’s technically a talkie, but, being Danish director Carl Theodor Dreyer’s first sound production, the furtive filmmaker relied almost entirely on static title cards in place of spoken dialogue. The film’s bare-bones narrative, about an occult investigator trying to lift the vampiric curse that’s befallen a mysterious village, is little more than a patchwork of moments pilfered piecemeal from Sheridan Le Fanu, existing mainly as a framework from which Dreyer could hang this dreamy, depressive tone-poem drudged up from the darkest parts of the unconscious mind. It’s noteworthy how utterly reviled Vampyr was upon initial release, even instigating a riot at one screening. Fast forward to present day, and the film has finally found its audience, even earning a coveted spot in the vaunted Criterion Collection. I guess that’s what happens when you make something ahead of its time. Today, Vampyr stands as an awe-inspiring opus, a nightmare-logic phantasmagoria of morbid, mythic imagery.

Free Speech and the “Death” of Genre Fiction (Part 2)

garth

A couple weeks ago, I acknowledged some of the debate that had been going on in the horror, bizarro, and weird fiction community about allegations of social justice-imposed censorship (my findings: it largely doesn’t exist) and the notion that transgressive genre fiction is either dead or dying (my findings: read on and find out, I’m not going to spoil it for you so soon!). Since I already tackled the whole “boo hoo, SJW’s don’t like me” bullshit last time, now I think we’re about due to take down that “R.I.P. genre fiction” crap too. And considering it’s the start of a brand new year, I can think of no better time to look back at all that 2016 gave us, and to look ahead at all that 2017 promises.

Full disclosure: I originally planned to write this follow-up within a week after the first post. I don’t know what madness compelled me to try that right before the holidays. Suffice to say, between making plans, seeing old friends, avoiding Trump-supporting family members, buying gifts, wrapping gifts, giving gifts, and, best of all, getting gifts, while simultaneously trying to finish drafts of a couple short stories I needed to have finished before the end of the year, it’s hardly surprising that I’m only now getting the chance. Sorry for the wait.

“He said, as if anyone actually cared.”

Moving on!

Anyway, we currently live in an era where such writers as Laird Barron, Paul Tremblay, John Langan, Joe Pulver, Simon Strantzas, Nick Mamatas, Grady Hendrix, Matthew Bartlett, C.V. Hunt, Tiffany Scandal, Garrett Cook, and M.P. Johnson have all more or less blossomed into their prime at roughly the same time. And that’s to say nothing of publishing houses like Deadite Press, ChiZine Publications, Eraserhead Press, Raw Dog Screaming Press, Necro Publications, Lazy Fascist Press, Bizarro Pulp Press, DynaTox Ministries, Muzzleland Press, Crystal Lake Publishing, Sinister Grin Press, and Hippocampus Press, all of whom are pumping out a constant and consistent conga-line of books that are alternately breathtaking, brutal, beautiful, and bizarre.

On top of all that, we also live in an era where self-publishing and self-promotion are easier and more accessible than ever before. Thus, there are virtually no limits for anyone to be able to read or write something that exactly matches their tastes, no matter how out-of-left-field those tastes may be.

Things aren’t on the wane. If anything, we’re in a goddamn golden age!

I know, I know. For some, it’s not enough that contemporary genre fiction is incredibly dark, thoughtful, and well-crafted. Some of us need our horror to be hardcore, dirty, and gruesome, full of excessive violence, graphic sex, and creative uses of bodily fluids. Well, if that’s you, fret not; we got you covered. The last year or so has seen such releases as The Train Derails in Boston by Jessica McHugh, Reincarnage by Jason Taverner and Ryan Harding, A God of Hungry Walls by Garrett Cook, The Complex by Brian Keene, Season of the Witch by Charlee Jacob, Ritualistic Human Sacrifice by C.V. Hunt, The Con Season by Adam Cesare, and Mayan Blue by the self-proclaimed “sisters of slaughter” Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason.

And these are just the standouts!

Likewise, Splatterpunk Zine, Comet Press, and the aforementioned Necro Publications have all put out anthologies specifically focused on envelope-pushing extreme horror: Comet makes no bones about where their bread is buttered with such releases as Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology and the debut of their annual Year’s Best Hardcore Horror series. The rich mythos of Gerard Houarner’s landmark 1996 erotic-horror collection Painfreak was revisited in Necro Publications’ exhaustive Into Painfreak anthology, edited by Houarner himself, which saw everyone from Wrath James White to Monica O’Rourke to Jordan Krall to Edward Lee, the reigning king of literary gore, delving into the most wretched red depths of flesh and blood. And, hell, no one spelled it out more clearly than Splatterpunk, who released the perfectly titled Splatterpunk’s Not Dead, featuring stellar stories by the likes of Shane McKenzie, Paul Essig, and Jeff Strand.

Maybe you’re more a fan of bizarro fiction, though. Maybe you’re more interested in the so-called literary equivalent of the cult section of your local video store. Is that what you want? Truly outlandish stories that combine the absurdity and reality-warping rules of Saturday Morning cartoons and unrepentant strangeness of Salvador Dali with the scatological, satirical, intentionally offensive humor of John Waters and Lloyd Kaufman and the out-of-control violence of splatterpunk?

Well, guess what; this last year was a damn good year for bizarro too. We got Puppetskin by Danger Slater, Shit Luck by Tiffany Scandal, Bacon Fried Bastard by David W. Barbee, Governor of the Homeless by G. Arthur Brown, Berzerkoids by M.P. Johnson, and Very True Stories Starring Jeff O’Brien by, uh, Jeff O’Brien. Genre workhorses like Carlton Mellick III and D. Harlan Wilson continued to release new works even after nearly two decades of exemplifying the best the movement has to offer, still at the top of their games. And Eraserhead Press’ New Bizarro Author Series turned another year older, still furthering its altruistic goal of seeking out and exposing the world to fresh, young authors who will go on to be the Mellicks and Wilsons of tomorrow.

Tell me, do you know what the most important thing that all these horror and bizarro books I just mentioned have in common is? Sure, they’re all as gleefully confrontational as they are controversial, chock full of murder, dismemberment, self-mutilation, rape, necrophilia, beastiality, cannibalism, abortion, puke, piss, cum, and gore. But, even better, so so many of them are also witty and intelligent and richly thematic on a level that those looking at genre fiction from outside it would likely never imagine, a level that probably too few readers within the genre fully appreciate.

The truth is, today’s hardcore horror and bizarro are as twisted and gratuitous as they’ve ever been. But they’re also a whole lot smarter than they’ve been in years. The widespread and progressive aspect of that intellectual element is a hundred times more meaningful than all the chainsaw gutsfucks in the history of literature; the brains actually enhance the blood and guts. The substance is just as shocking as the superficial. That’s punk as fuck!

I ask you, how much more “alive” could these genres be?

Saying that hardcore horror is dying is like saying that horror in general is dying, and saying that horror is dying is like saying that fear is dying. Fear is a fundamental part of the human experience, one that, no matter how civilized and sophisticated we become, we will always have a need to indulge and thereby purge. And hardcore horror? Well, that’s nothing more than a logical extension of general horror, one that delights especially in the related realms of shock, decadence, and revulsion. All equally fundamental parts of the human experience. Suffice to say, if horror isn’t dying, then hardcore horror isn’t either. As long as there are people who like being scared, there will be people who like being grossed out and disturbed.

Bizarro, meanwhile, is a relatively new genre. So maybe it is just a fad, a flash in the pan doomed to be snuffed out as its 15 minutes of fame comes to an end. Me? I reject that notion, and I do it by rejecting that bizarro is new at all. As a named, codified thing separate from other strains of surrealistic and experimental literature, yes, it’s still just a baby. But bizarro did not just emerge out of a vacuum. It has a long line of precursors that fulfilled our ancestors’ own inherent appetite for the strange and unusual. I’m talking not just about the classical outrageous fiction of William S. Burroughs and Franz Kafka, but also the do-it-yourself middle-finger of punk rock and no-wave, the ero-guro madness of artists Toshio Saeki and Junji Ito, the “you won’t believe your eyes” showmanship and deformity of P.T. Barnum’s circus sideshows, and the brain-melting comic-book psychedelia of Grant Morrison and Warren Ellis.

In my view, while these things may not all be classifiable as pure bizarro, they are absolutely a part of the long-standing tradition that we are now only just beginning to give the name “bizarro.” Therefore, bizarro has always been here. And if it’s always been here, well, I have a hard time imagining it going anywhere.

Still, what about the argument being made that, since so few authors are able to make a steady living creating this kind of stuff, then that alone is proof of genre fiction’s decline? Well the truth is, that has nothing to do with genres, nor quality, nor content. It’s no secret that traditional publishing across the board has struggled to evolve in a way that is sustainable in the 21st century. Without getting too deep into things, I can’t ignore that a perfect storm of rising production costs, falling digital sales prices, oversaturated markets, audience distractions, online piracy, and the popularity of ebooks has shaken the publishing world to its core. There’s a riotous mix of good and bad going on here, and sometimes the two are hard to distinguish from one another. Hell, sometimes they’re actually both simultaneously.

Outside of the “big five” mainstream publishing juggernauts, outside your New York Times Bestseller shoe-ins, your Stephen Kings and your J.K. Rowlings, the reality is that authors who are able to make a comfortable living off of writing and only writing are few and far between, and those that do exist can never rest on their laurels. It’s all about the hustle, y’know? But this goes for every genre, not just the niche worlds of horror and bizarro, or even fantasy and sci-fi for that matter.

Do me a favor. Next time you pick up a book by an author you admire, one who is maybe frequently critically lauded, one who you probably think “Yeah, he or she definitely has it made,” let me suggest you turn to the bio at the back of the book. Notice how many author bios make mention of the writers being teachers or editors themselves? The reason for that isn’t just because they’re so passionate about the English language (or another subject, perhaps) that they take on side-careers out of the goodness of their hearts. No. Passion is part of it, but a bigger part of it is that they need to make money. The vast majority of fiction authors have day jobs. Fact.

What’s more, this isn’t even anything new. As much as the publishing world has taken hits from the mutating landscape of modern media, in all the centuries of its history, writing fiction has only intermittently been a widely profitable profession. Simply put, if you’re looking for a steady job, you’re sniffing up the wrong tree. Only the most cynical among us get into writing with the intention of defining their success or failure solely by their profitability. That’s certainly not why I’m here. After all, I’m broke as fuck.

Then again, I’m pretty much nobody, so take that with a grain of salt.

Joking aside, art is not an ATM. It’s a vehicle for self-expression. The fact that so many of us have conned our way into getting people to pay us for it whatsoever is a goddamn gift. So, okay, if you’re still pining for the lightning-in-a-bottle days of the ’80s paperback horror boom, maybe then you have a small point when you say that genre fiction isn’the doing so hot, but only in that specific context. And if you’re doing that, then, damn, you are seriously out of touch with reality and just plain deluding yourself. Worse yet, you’re valuing the wrong things. The truth is that there is more high-quality weird fiction, horror fiction, and bizarro fiction out on the market right now than there has been at any other single period in my entire lifetime. If anything, there’s too much awesome stuff out there!

Sometimes I look at my ever-lengthening to-read and to-buy lists and feel anxiety grip me, worrying how in the hell I’m going to find the time to buy and read all this stuff and still have any kind of life of my own. As far as problems go, though, as a lover of genre fiction, it’s a very good dilemma to have. And that’s the only perspective we should be coming to the table here with: that of lovers, readers, fans.

Anyone who says that horror sucks these days, that the current sociopolitical zeitgeist has had a chilling effect on genre fiction, or that dark, extreme, or transgressive literature is on the wane in any meaningful way whatsoever is clearly not paying attention. With how robust and diverse the current offerings on the market are these days, the only motivations I can imagine a fellow writer having to grumble come from a place of selfishness, a fear of getting overshadowed or lost in the shuffle. Because it’s easier to be a big fish when the waters run shallow, right? When they’re deeper, when there’s a lot more room for other fish, that’s better for everyone. Except for the little minnows who don’t get to act like sharks anymore.

In the end, if you’re looking at a horror or bizarro bookseller’s catalog right now, at the dawn of 2017, and you don’t find anything that you think qualifies as legitimately great and/or boundary-pushing, then, simply put, you need to get your eyes checked.

Free Speech and the “Death” of Genre Fiction (Part 1)

censor

Recently, in the horror and bizarro writing community, there’s been a bit of a ruckus kicked up by a certain author going on a tear, accusing his contemporaries of censorship, claiming that genre fiction is on the wane, and opining that the reason for said decline is this supposedly rampant censorship.

I won’t mention the author by name (let’s just call him the Odd Man Out), nor will I level any attacks at him directly. Partially, that’s because the man in question was one of the first members of the fiction community to see anything of worth in my own writing. He gave me a chance, encouraged me when I felt like giving up, and even went on to be the first person to publish some of my fiction. So I owe him. But another part of my desire to not smear him here is that, to a degree, I somewhat respect him for standing up for something he believes in with such uncompromising staunchness. I don’t actually agree with the things he believes, and I don’t agree with many of his tactics either (much of it admittedly reeks of self-promotion disguised as activism). I think he’s wrong. I think he’s behaved immaturely. And I think the cold shoulder he’s received from former friends and colleagues can be attributed directly to his own self-righteous, antagonistic approach. But, deep down, there’s a teeny tiny scrap of integrity in there that, yes, I do respect.

In any case, however you feel about the Odd Man Out, the question remains: Does he have a point? Are the spheres of horror fiction, bizarro fiction, weird fiction, and transgressive fiction dying? Is there really an “epidemic” of forced censorship in the genre fiction community, perhaps perpetuated by some foaming-at-the-mouth mob of hysterical, ideological, left-wing bigots who can’t accept any beliefs divergent from their own?

There’s a lot to unwrap here. So let’s get the bigger, more complex issue out of the way first. That would be the latter one, the issue of free speech versus censorship.

Before we get too deep into this, let me say a few things.

First, I should acknowledge that I consider myself a progressive liberal, as well as a sex-positive feminist and a secular humanist, and I have very little tolerance for racism, misogyny, misandry, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and the like. Second, despite that, I do in fact think that people in general need to lighten up and not be so damn sensitive, and I not only am entertained by but also believe there is legitimate social value in art that is deliberately, unapologetically shocking and offensive. Third, despite that, I recognize that, as a white hetero-leaning cis male, I can say all this from a place of privilege, having not had to deal with anything even resembling the kind of prejudice and stereotyping that might lead, say, a woman or a gay person or a person of color to respond more sensitively to things that I might ignorantly perceive as innocuous. Thus, I strive to be as empathetic as possible without sacrificing my own personal identity and values. It’s a delicate balance, one that I am still very, very far from mastering. But I hope it’s worth something that I recognize this fact.

Having said that, I must admit that I agree quite a bit (though not completely, not by a long shot) with “We Need to Talk About Kevin” scribe Lionel Shriver, who, during her opening address at the Brisbane Writers Festival earlier this year, argued against certain ideas which suggest that if a writer hasn’t experienced something him or herself, they have little to no right to write about it, and if they do have a right, then that right is conditional upon meeting the standards of… I don’t know… someone. The majority? Whoever shouts the loudest?

This is, of course, ridiculous. Fiction writing is all about asking oneself to imagine the world through the eyes of another. No one, not even someone who has legitimately lived that life, has any standing to decree that an author’s individual perception is somehow invalid, even if it is demonstrably inaccurate. Fiction writing, lest we forget, is not to be confused with news reporting. It’s less important to “get it right” than to fully express oneself, and that can include expressing such things as bias or privilege. Creative writing is a very personal art form, one that should reflect the worldview of its author, however skewed or just plain “incorrect” that worldview may be. It’s about subjective reality, not objective reality. Concerns like “respectful portrayal” and “cultural sensitivity” should barely even enter into it, if at all, and then only at the author’s discretion.

It’s okay if you disagree with me. Please understand, I’m not advocating insensitivity. I’m simply saying that sensitivity should not be dictated by some kind of majority-imposed “community standards.” All standards, both aesthetic and ethical, should be decided individually, from person to person. If you read a book and feel the author in question was not adequately “respectful,” that is your prerogative. It’s also you prerogative to make your opinion known as far and wide as you wish. But suggesting that the author “should” have done something a certain way to better meet your criteria, even if you have the masses behind you, is just plain egotism. And putting pressure on an author to feel ashamed or to recognize your own viewpoint as correct over their own is philosophically fascistic.

I suspect the Odd Man Out would agree with me so far. I suspect he would also agree with me when I say that I think contributing to a culture that would actively ostracize those who don’t meet its collectively decided standards is oppressive and backwards. After all, it’s one thing to openly share your criticisms of a piece of work; it’s quite another to argue that your criticisms are objectively correct and to try and scare up a mob of like-minded critics to browbeat the author.

Wait. Don’t leave yet.

See, where the Odd Man Out and I likely diverge is in our understanding of what constitutes legitimate criticism versus mere browbeating, as well as what constitutes a contribution to the aforementioned oppressive, backwards culture. Despite what you may think, I’m not one of those people who equates “freedom of speech” with “freedom from criticism,” as the Odd Man Out appears to be. Nor do I fail to realize that allowing for criticism inherently allows for criticism based on majority opinion, as well as (and more importantly) criticism that comes with real-world consequences. That’s something the Odd Man Out seems unable or unwilling to acknowledge.

Keep in mind, freedom of speech is very important to me, so much so that I have a framed copy of the Bill of Rights hanging on my wall. The idea of art in general, and writing specifically, being maintained as an outlet for unfettered free speech is also very important to me. But freedom of speech is not a one-way street. Freedom of speech not only protects the speaker, but those who speak in response to what that speaker has said. I have the right to say or write anything I want. You have the right to say or write anything in response. Of course, I also have the right to respond to your response, and you have the right to respond to my response to your response. And so on and so on, ad infinitum. As I said, regardless of what the Odd Man Out seems to want, freedom of speech does not equate to freedom from criticism or consequence.

Example: Let’s say you’re a big-time author, a New York Times bestseller. You have a deal with a successful, world-famous publishing house. They plaster advertisements for your upcoming book in widely circulated newspapers and magazines. They even pay for T.V. air time to run commercials. Then, a reviewer reads the book and posts a scathing critique talking about how they were offended by it. Other folks, similarly offended, speak up as well. Lots of folks, in fact. The cable stations refuse to run the ads. The newspapers and magazines do the same. Stores pull copies of your book off the shelves. Eventually, your publishing house drops you.

It’s not because they’re trying to stifle your freedom of speech. It’s because they don’t want their brand associated with yours. This is all, of course, very extreme and very tragic. But none of it is actually about suppression. Most for-profit businesses try to appeal to the widest possible audience, so as to maximize revenues. If enough people want something, they’ll be happy to sell it. If enough people don’t want it, then they’ll wash their hands of it. That’s all it is. You’re still free to say anything you want. Hell, depending on the terms if you’re contract, you can probably take your manuscript to a different publisher if you want.

This is an example of consequence. It is not an example of censorship. You have a right to free speech. You don’t have a right to a well-funded, corporate-backed, nationally visible platform. Sorry to break it to you. It’s not a “mind crime.” It’s business.

Likewise, let’s say you’re a Facebook user who posts a picture of a famous rock ‘n’ roll album cover. Led Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy” as an example. Yes, the one with the naked butts on it. It’s not porn. It’s not explicit. It’s hardly even offensive to most people’s eyes. It’s Led Zeppelin for fuck’s sake! But, uh oh, someone reported it and now Facebook has taken that image down. Let’s go even further down the hypothetical rabbit hole and say that, unlikely as the scenario might be, your post results in your Facebook account being terminated.

Believe it or not, your freedom of speech has not been impinged here. Facebook, regardless of how it may feel sometimes, is not real life. It is not the be-all end-all of social media, let alone self-expression. Facebook is a service. When you joined, you ticked a little box that said “I agree with the terms and conditions blah blah blah,” something like that. I didn’t read it. You didn’t read it. Nobody read it. Doesn’t matter, though, because it’s still a legally binding contract. And if you had read it, you’d know that anything you post on Facebook is subject to Facebook’s standards, not yours. This is a right you gave them. You agreed to it when you signed up. No one forced you to join. Their house, their rules.

Again, these things are consequences. Not censorship.

One last example, for the road. Let’s say you have a blog. You go somewhere, to some kind of group event. You see someone there you find attractive and begin following this person around. Some call it stalking. You call it, simply, having a crush. For the purposes of this hypothetical, it’s irrelevant who’s right or wrong. What is relevant, is that when you get back from the event, you post on your blog about your experience, including the part about you following the person of your unrequited affections around the whole damn time. Some of your readers, of course, don’t find this anecdote as charming as you do. They pepper your comments section with insults. They really dress you down. The person you followed makes it clear that they felt harassed by your behavior, and friends of that person publicly suggest that you should take your blog post down. So you do. You just don’t want to deal with it anymore.

The thing is, no one forced you. You made the final decision. You’re the one who made the whole situation public in the first place. When you post something online, you openly invite the Internet to respond to it. You may not like the response you get.

Consequences. Not censorship.

Now, I know some of the things I’ve said in these last few paragraphs may seem, at first glance, inconsistent with things I said earlier. To wit: Before, I said it’s oppressive and backwards to put pressure on an author you don’t agree with. But now all of a sudden I’m saying that if someone does do that, it somehow doesn’t equate to censorship? That’s crazy, right? Except it’s not. Because, that’s accurate; it’s not “censorship.” It’s unfortunate. It’s shitty. I don’t agree with it, approve of it, or advocate for it. But I don’t agree with, approve of, or advocate for sheltering people from that kind of thing either. It’s an accepted risk we all acknowledge by exercising our free speech.

Listen. We live in tense, troubled times, caught between a new generation that is campaigning for massive, positive cultural change and an old guard that is confused and scared and holding onto the past. I don’t believe in political correctness. But calling out bigoted or predatory behavior is not about being politically correct. What some (including, to my chagrin, the aforementioned Shriver) dismissively refer to as “identity politics” I view as a major part of the ongoing battle for civil rights. This is about basic human rights.

I hate to admit that I would ever agree with Odd Man Out and his “anti-SJW” (*cringe*) stance, but I do agree, on a purely general level, that we could all benefit from taking things in stride more often, having a broader sense of humor, being less sensitive, recognizing that we are not arbiters of artistic ethics, dismissing “cultural appropriation” as a largely fallacious concept too often misused to hold back positive multiculturalism, disengaging with kneejerk outrage culture, and empathizing as much with our opponents as we want them to empathize with us. It’s true, sometimes those of us trying to be empathetic and inclusive try too hard. We can, on occasion, get overzealous and paradoxically err on the side of reactivity instead of understanding. But is that not better than erring on the side of passivity? Because sometimes, it’s not just a matter of an insensitive joke or wrong-headed character portrayal. Sometimes, you’re not dealing with someone who is merely oblivious to their own privilege. Sometimes, you’re dealing with a straight-up piece-of-shit human being.

See, hate is not a difference of opinion. Racists, misogynists, homophobes, war-mongers, etc., they’re not just “opinionated” people. They’re bad people. They’re fucking monsters. Their ideas aren’t “controversial.” They’re vile. Unjust. Destructive. As I said, I’m all for taking things in stride and laughing it off, but there are times when letting something go is just as good as condoning it. When it’s something as indefensible as, say, sexual harassment or white supremacy, we can’t afford to let it slide. We need to be active and vigilant and committed in calling these things out, in standing up against them, in fighting back. The problem with the Odd Man Out (one of them, at least) is that he seems to see hollow, preening moralizing where the rest of us see right versus wrong, good versus evil. He’d probably say that sentiment is melodramatic, or that it’s indicative of delusions of grandeur. I would counter by saying that he is, in this instance, lazy and apathetic.

Maybe you’re like the Odd Man Out. Maybe you don’t agree with me. But remember when I said that everyone needs to decide their own aesthetic and ethical standards? Well, these are my standards. I respect that yours may be different than mine. I respect that freedom. But that doesn’t mean I have to respect your standards themselves, and it doesn’t mean I have to respect you. Nor do you have to respect me or mine. Once again, it’s not a one-way street. That’s perfectly fine.

I’m starting to lose my train of thought now (already been wrestling it like hell just to keep it from going off-track this whole time), and at almost 3000 words, I think this post has gone on long enough.

TL;DR version: Criticism and censorship are two different things, no matter how heated or even personal that criticism may get. How you react to it is entirely up to you. There’s no witch hunt here, Mr. Odd Man Out. From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like it’s other people in the genre fiction community who can’t handle differing viewpoints. From where I’m standing, it looks like it’s just you.

As for all the faithful readers out there with a taste for the outre, fret not. There is no slippery slope here. “Political correctness” (if that’s what you want to call it) has not had a chilling effect on horror and bizarro fiction.

I’ll talk more about that next time, when I post Part 2. But suffice to say, to paraphrase Mark Twain, the reports of genre fiction’s death are greatly exaggerated.

Horror in Times of Strife

d-z

It’s been about a month since the 2016 U.S. Presidential election. I have been overwhelmed with shock and disgust, heartbreak and hopelessness, since finding out that enough of my fellow Americans support a racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, corrupt, lying bully to get that man elected to the most powerful political office in the nation. Those feelings are only now starting to fade somewhat into the white noise of my daily life, not so much diminishing in their awfulness as simply coming to a point where they no longer outpace my ability to cope with them. I have to tell you, in the first few weeks following the election, I was a panicked, pessimistic mess. The only thing that helped me stay sane was a timely vacation in Providence, Rhode Island, with my girlfriend, which I had just begun when the Trump victory (something that felt like America’s death sentence) was announced.

It’s also been about a month and a week since I started this blog. I originally planned to follow up my first post, a rundown of five of my all-time favorite horror novels, with a rundown of five of my all-time favorite non-horror novels. But with the wounds of the election still so fresh, I didn’t really feel up to being the guy saying “Hey people, I know we’re all scared of this rising, regressive new regime which values violent self-interest and religious fundamentalism over compassion, logic, or basic human rights… but, c’mon, let me tell you why I like Moby Dick!” I’m sure I’ll get around to boring you with my fanboy gushing eventually, but for now I think I’ll take this opportunity to bore you with some pseudo-intellectual pop psychology, philosophical wankery, and Cliff’s Notes-style genre history lessons instead.

See, while everyone (including yours truly) was pissing themselves over the grim possibilities of life under Herr Trump, Bram Stoker Award-winning horror writer and fellow Pennsylvanian Brian Keene took to social media and posted the following message to his Facebook wall:

“A Message to Young Horror Writers:

Stephen King and Texas Chainsaw happened in the shadow of Watergate/Vietnam.

Splatterpunk happened in the shadow of Reagan.

Vertigo Comics happened in the shadow of Thatcher.

My generation’s success happened in the shadow of Bush Junior.

Now it’s your turn. Go write about monsters and truth, because that’s our job, and there’s folks your age that are going to need it. Horror always does well in times of trouble, because people are seeking to escape from the very real monsters of the world, and curl up with safe, comforting, make-believe monsters. Don’t let those people down.”

Well said, and totally accurate, though admittedly small comfort (upon first glance) to those of us more worried about the well-being of ourselves, our loved ones, our country, and even the world as a whole than about the quality of the media we consume or the profitability of creating it. In that vein, Keene was deluged with negative comments accusing him of shrugging off people’s very real concerns in favor of quipping something along the lines of “Well, at least the horror genre’s going to be booming again, hurr hurr.” I’m not going to sugarcoat it, there’s a teeny tiny kernel of truth inside that response. Like I said, Keene’s words totally accurate but also, on the surface at least, not much more than a very minor comfort. In the grand scheme of things, it feels like a virtually infinitesimal, utterly petty comfort indeed. It’s hard to give much of a shit about make-believe monsters when you’re worried about losing your health insurance, your right to marry, or even your citizenship.

That said, I think a lot of Keene’s detractors were merely lashing out, taking their fresh pain and fear out on someone who ultimately didn’t deserve it.

Someone who ultimately was right.

Make no mistake, Keene was right. Horror does thrive in times of strife. These things are facts, not opinions. In addition to the examples he provided, it’s worth noting that the explosion of so-called “torture-porn” in horror cinema (embodied by the Saw and Hostel franchises) happened in the shadow of the War on Terror, which shoved the brutal realities of combat, as well as graphic videos of hostages being beheaded, into the faces of a previously sheltered young generation. In the ’80s, the horror genre, in all its various forms and formats, became increasingly fixated with displays of gore, transformation, mutation, and disease, all in the wake of this new ravager of human bodies called AIDS. In the ’60s and ’70s, as New Age spiritualism rattled the cages of established Western religions, the Satanic sacrilege of William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist, Ira Levin’s Rosemary’s Baby, Jeffrey Konvitz’s The Sentinel, and the like reached a fever pitch. In the midst of the ’50s, when Cold War anxieties and McCarthyist oppression closed in on the American psyche from both sides, the pop cultural zeitgeist was under constant invasion from body snatchers, shape-changing things from another world, and unstoppable, absorbing, individuality-erasing red blobs.

Why? Why does horror thrive in times of strife? Are audiences looking to replace their real-life terrors with more easily conquerable fictional ones? Or maybe horror booms not because of audience appetites, but because of creator motivations. Is part of horror’s function, perhaps, to hold a mirror up to society and show us its reflection, warts and all? Certainly a genre preoccupied with “bad things” will have a lot to work with in times when bad things are in no short supply.

Is this all a meaningful form of self-expression, an act of political protest, an indulgence in escapism, or just fear-mongering opportunism? I suspect, in truth, the answer is “all of the above,” though the dreamer in me would like to believe that the overall mixture is such that the fourth option is in the minority.

When all is said and done, few genres of art and entertainment can capture the heart of an age better than horror, because horror is the genre that, more than any other, recognizes that said heart is often quite black. Fear is an ever-present puzzle piece of the human experience; we never feel truly and completely safe. In that sense, it is a common ground that unifies us all.

Of course, art in general is at its most vital when emotions are heightened, when sometimes love or joy, but more likely dread or rage, burn in your veins with such heat that you just have to find a way to let some of it out, be it onto the page or canvas or whatever. That’s why horror never completely goes out of style. Looking at those times when it most definitely is in style, however, one surely finds that not only its popularity but also its overall quality tends to rise and fall alongside the misfortunes of man.

When Keene pointed this out, I think some of his readers misinterpreted it as an attempt to latch onto some kind of flimsy silver lining. I think, in the haze of their hysteria, they saw a sleazy, insensitive bid to ring personal benefit out of a situation that could otherwise spell real horror for millions of innocent people. They saw encouragement for aspiring writers (like myself) to take advantage of others’ misfortune, spinning pain into profit. But they failed to see what Keene’s real intent was, or what I at least believe it was.

That is, he was making a call to action.

Keene’s political viewpoints are different from my own, no doubt. But his call to action is about as apolitical as one can be. It’s not unlike the calls to action others have made as of late: A reminder that, yeah, you’re scared and angry and bitter, but there are a lot of other people out there who feel the same way, people suffering under even worse circumstances than yourself, and what those people need right now is for someone to help them out.

Look, I get it. You’re frightened. Maybe you feel betrayed. You want to crawl into a cocoon of selfishness and just not care anymore. As I said earlier, I’ve been there. I’m still there, to a degree. It’s taken me a long time to shake off the worry and the hopelessness. It’s not just sour grapes because my “side” lost in this election. I genuinely feel like the bad guys won here, and I believe a lot of people are going to get hurt and that a dangerous precedent has been set. This election was not just any old presidential election; the stakes were real.

They still are.

Here’s the thing we have to remember: A battle was lost, admittedly a very big battle, but the war goes on. You don’t get to give up. You don’t get to just throw in the towel because things are about to get a hell of a lot harder. You do that and you’re no better than the people who got us into this mess. More than ever, we need to stand together and strive even harder to make sure things keep going forward, not back. We have to be willing to go farther than we’ve ever gone before. We have to protect the people we love, defend those who cannot defend themselves, call out corruption and deception wherever we find it, and anytime we lose we have to get back up and go at it again. The bad guys won’t stop fighting to mold the world in their image. Being a good guy means that you don’t stop trying to mold it in yours either.

“Go write about monsters and truth, because that’s our job, and there’s folks your age that are going to need it,” Keene said. He wasn’t talking about making the best of a bad situation. He was talking about doing your best even within a bad situation. There’s a difference.

As different as his politics may be from mine, I know Keene isn’t a fool. He isn’t selfish or callous. Nor is he so consumed with being a writer that writing is all he cares about. When he said “go write” he wasn’t saying to do only that. He was saying to continue on, continue standing up for what you believe in, but also remember that, as a writer, you have an additional tool in your toolbox that a lot of other people don’t have. You have a forum through which to help your fellow man in a manner that is important and meaningful in its own way. You can engage with your own fears and the fears of others. You can be the comfort for someone else that you yourself have sought.

So go out and contribute. Do something. Campaign for positive change. Donate to charities. Protest against inequalities. Run for office. Raise awareness. Stand vigilant. Speak out. Volunteer. Vote. And through it all, write. If you’re a writer, you write. That’s what you do. Take all of your anxieties and use them as fuel for your own fiction. Take that fiction and use it to attack the demons plaguing the world we live in, or use it to comfort readers who feel alone in their terror. Better yet, do both!

Don’t just crumble under the weight of your fear, sorrow, and rage.

Do something about it.