Inkwell: Authors and Artists

    
Will~Just read your post more carefully. I agree on the Genre bit;
Genres are handy convenient limiting things. The experimental story I
posted at my Excentrica blogger, To Earth, got a comment basically
saying that until a writer was well known, and had an established
style, anything not in Genre was a mistake.
After discussing it back and forth via the comments section I directed
him to Terry Windling's Interstitial Arts site at
http://www.endicott-studio.com/index.html; since Neil is one of his
heros, I was figuring that he might take Neil's word on it if not mine.
He just kept insisting that everyone wrote in one Genre or another,
always...
  

    
jen and neil - looks ike I'm outnumbered *grin*. I just never could
see CvT as scary. I wanted to throw things at him, but I didn't find
him scary. Alternatively I may be immune to him after innumerable
Christmas showings of TSoM on tv.

PS guys - I am enjoying the other conversation, I just don't think I
have anything useful to say at the moment. But don't stop. This is
interesting.
  

    
Jo~I'm *not* a guy, and I can prove it.
<evil grin>
  

    
*sigh* - you say it but you don't mean it

<scarier grin>
  

    
    Erynn -- oh, well, thank you.
    The books will be there when you get to them.  One of the great
things about books.  You can go hang out with Steinbeck or Shakespeare
or whoever whenever the need arises.
  

    
Jo~Don't make me send those artistically draped, pregnant-with-first
child photos to you.
<Evilest Grin Allowed On Topic>
You'll just have to take my word for it until we meet at a Con or
something.

Mike~Sure, you can hang out with them, but cemeteries are always so
cold and your read end gets wet sitting down for a good chat...
  

    
>>My post was not necessary,

But really, when you think about it, none of them are.  :-) 

Writing is intensely personal for me, probably because I'm one of
those silly goth poets. ;-)  I somehow always seem to channel something
of myself into the words, and they read (for me) with strong emotion.
I _have_ had shrinks read over my stuff (bleah) and it's, well,
"interesting".

Still, I don't know that I would say I know anyone based on their
attempt at writing fiction/poetry/lyrics/etc - I feel more confidant
saying I know the people who post here, than I would saying I knew
anything other than what the back jacket said about any given author.
No real way to know what was original, and what's Shakespear rewritten
in a not-obvious form.  ;-)

Thank you, everyone, who was nice about my raptor post. :-) It's
something I miss, and something that really touched me in a way that
was completely unexpected and unrealised until years later. There
really is a sense of magic to those creatures, and perhaps spending day
in and out with them allowed some of that to bleed over into my life.

But not enough to make The Sound of Music tolerable. *grins*
-Kelly
  

    
Kelly: I loved your post, too.  Kevin and I stopped at a raptor refuge
in England on our last day there, and had an incredible time.  They
signaled to an eagle sitting in a tree over a mile away, and it flew to
us within moments.  It was such a rush when that fierce, wild-looking
beauty flew in at us!  After the exhibit, they let a few of us fly a
small hawk, which still makes me smile every time I think of how that
felt.

Rick: Oh no, the books!  I'm really not looking forward to moving
ours, either.  Especially since there are so many more than there were
four years ago when we moved in, even though we've weeded them out
several times.  Thinking of you as you walk through the sadness.  New
things will appeal to you sooner than you expect.

Will:  It doesn't need monsters.  As Neil and Terry said, people think
up the really evil stuff.
  

    
People *are* the Really Scary Stuff.
  

    
This turned into something of a personal essay.  I'm sorry it's so
long.  If I were a professional writer, I'm sure I'd have edited it
into something much more graceful and succinct.  But I'm not.  I'm just
curious and sincere.

---------

Ninave, I’m so glad you brought this up!  I’ve actually been thinking
quite a lot about horror lately, so I’m really interested in discussing
it.  I was thinking about bringing it up over at the Thingie
newsgroup, to see if they were willing to talk about it, but wasn’t
feeling quite daring enough.

Hi.  My name is Pam, and uh... I don’t *get* horror.

I’m really terribly embarrassed about it, and it makes me feel like a
bit of a freak.  Especially in this company, because it seems that
there’s a lot of crossover in this Neil-ish audience to the horror
market.  Or, at least, what looks like horror to me.  Which is not
necessarily what others among you might consider horror.  Apparently,
one woman’s gut-wrenching horror is another woman’s delicious
*frisson*.

And that’s the part I’m really interested in hearing from others
about: What is horror to you?  Why do you like it?

It’s obvious to me that my experience isn’t typical.  Because horror
is excruciating to me.  It’s not pleasurable and I don’t enjoy the
journey.  

Please don’t get me wrong.  I’m not arguing against the artistic value
of horror.  I believe that there are truths that can only be told past
the dark side of the moon.  And those are worth getting to.  But as a
reader, I don’t care for the stroll through hell to get there.  As
JaNell said, it’s redundant.  Been there.  Done that.  Don’t really
want a return trip ticket, thanks.

In my search to plumb the unfathomable, I’ve gone looking for what
other people have to say.  These are a few of my favorite articles on
the subject in the past couple of years.  They helped, but I admit that
they were like reading a travel brochure of Madagascar.  I cognitively
grasp the concepts, but they don’t sink in... they’re an alien
landscape to me.  I can’t imagine a world in which horror feels like an
ice cube in _9-1/2 Weeks_ any more than I can really imagine living on
Mars.  Never been there.  Not likely to ever get there. 

Women and Horror: 
http://www.thespook.com/2001-08/thespook-2001-08f.pdf

Saving Horror:
http://www.eventhorizon.com/sfzine/commentary/winter/0399.html

On Dark Stories(From Neil’s journal on 10/30/01): 
http://www.nytimes.com/2001/10/30/opinion/30HAND.html

Since I’m asking others to talk about their experience, I’ll try to
explain mine first.  At the risk of sounding like an idiot, the best
way I can explain it is an analogy.

There’s a scene in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ where Harrison Ford falls
into the archeological dig, smack into the middle of a LOT of snakes. 
Shortly after that, he comes face to face with a rearing cobra snake
well within striking distance. 

And if you watch carefully, you can see the light glare off the glass
panel that’s between them, keeping Harrison Ford safe.

As I understand things, at least 80% of the world will watch that
scene and not worry about a thing.  Even if they don’t know about the
glass, they know that it’s Hollywood and there’s no way in hell
anybody’s going to do anything that might put an A-list actor in danger
of being bit by a poisonous snake.  This is where I veer off from the
norm.  What other people seem to know is not what I know.  In my
experience of watching the movie, there is no glass.  Whether literal
or inferred, there is no glass.  In my world, not only will the snake
bite him, it will bite you, it will be poisonous, and it will damn near
kill you.

It means that I don’t think snakes are fun and I don’t mistake them
for anything tasty.

(Please bear in mind that I’m not insane and I can tell Hollywood from
reality; I wasn’t worried about Harrison Ford, either.  This is just
an analogy.  And I don't even mind snakes, actually.)

Neil said: 
> I've only ever written two horror stories (sandmans 6 and 14) 

But there are degrees.  Shadows vary in intensity, and so do reactions
to them.

I could not finish _24 Hours_.  No amount of determination and
self-flagellation could make me do it.  Like Appalachian snake
handlers, I can build up a tolerance to very specific sorts of
snakebites with time and repetitive desensitization.  So I suspect that
the next time I try to read it, I may make it through.  But it’ll be a
while before I try again.  And it’ll stay with me a long, long time. 

The thing is, though, that I reacted similarly to the wedding gift
story in S&M to a lesser degree.  (Sorry, I can’t remember the title.) 
And _Babycakes_.  Not because I miss the... irony, or the creative
convention.  But because the darkness looms larger to me.

I wouldn’t consider Mike’s LHT a horror novel, but there is a horrific
scene in it.  It was obviously intended to create that visceral
reaction he spoke of.  But I reacted just as strongly, in a different
way, to the elves and to the bullets.

And Gene Wolfe wrote a short story with a shadow at the heart of it
that he says a lot of people seem to miss.  But that story brought me
to an abrupt halt in reading that short story collection for weeks,
because it bothered me so much.

On the other hand, there may be--it’s difficult to imagine what,
exactly--things that I breeze blithely right by that knock other people
on their ass.  (I was never afraid of Captain von Trapp, actually; I
had a childhood crush on him.)

Maybe it’s all just conditioning.  Maybe what's behind me throws a
larger shadow than what's really in front of me.

Obviously, I really need to go to World Horror Con and get educated. 
(Imagine how much courage it takes for me to even be considering it. 
Which I am.)  But I’m really afraid that if I started asking people
there "Why horror?" they’d lynch me or something.  You’re all kind
people; I thought I’d ask here instead.

     *

So why do *I* read these stories and books?  Well, I don’t go looking
for horror, that’s for sure.  

But I will dare certain shadows for the words, the words, the words,
and the sound of her wings.

-Pam
And the Dream King said: "Listen.  If you listen, you can hear them." 
and I thought: "Listen?!?  If I could ever shut them the hell up,
believe me I would!"
  

    
>that knock other people on their ass

Pardon me.  I didn't mean to diminish their collective asses.
  

    
Kelly,  Yes, birds are magical creatures, aren't they? Especially when
they are yellow-headed Amazons named Rio who are latched onto the back
of your neck, flapping his wings madly against the side of your face,
while you are spinning in a circle trying to dislodge the mad creature
from your sweater and send him flying, preferrably not in your
direction for another attack . . .
<ahem> Sorry. I lived with Rio - we called him Ray - for a time in
NYC. The bird had it in for me, and attacked me every chance he had. I
don't think he liked me in his territory; for a long time before I
moved in, the only competition for Vito's attention was a disinterested
cat. I don't know why Ray never went after the cat. It got to the
point where Vito would leave a note on our apartment door: "Knock
first! Ray's out!" so that I wouldn't be ambushed as soon as I walked
in.

Having said that, I was in love with an owl my aunt had as a pet, and
I love penguins. I would be happy never to see another parrot again,
though.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ninave,  as a reader, although I don't like endings that are too
easily tied up in a little bow, I need stories in which the ideal is
possible. I think that in life, too often we resign ourselves to the
thought that reaching an ideal is not worth attempting, because it is
impossible. I need to see examples of perfection, even if it is
imperfect perfection, or fictional perfection. That doesn't make any
sense. Let me throw in an example. I went to a concert quite a few
years ago. I had some of the singer's albums. She is a very political
singer/songwriter, and I am more or less the antithesis of her
political and social beliefs, but I always liked the songs of hers that
weren't political. At her concert, I saw something I never thought
possible - I saw pure, unfiltered, radiant joy. I was in the balcony,
grinning like some loony-toon the entire concert, because I was
watching a woman who was doing the one thing that made her really,
honest-to-god joyful, and it's something you don't see everyday. I
mean, you could feel it, she was just bursting with happiness and
confidence. She was singing about things I didn't agree with, but her
perfect joy was, well, perfect. Every time I catch myself considering a
compromise on something that deeply affects me, I think of that night.
You can't get joy like that by compromising.

The point of the story is that I needed that. That woman was an
example for me, of what is possible, what should and could and ought to
be. Pure, unashamed joy is so rare in life that just that one night
has carried my own hopes and expectations on its back for the past
several years. I saw that joy in one's profession, real joy, was
possible, and it's still my little anti-wind torch when it gets dark.
To be trite. 

So if you are writing endings that work, but make you feel that you
are perpetuating a myth, please remember that it may not be a myth, and
that even if you fully and utterly believe the ideal is not possible,
those endings are sustenance to those of us who haven't given up our
belief in such things. And for those who have given up, even they need
to find what they are missing somewhere - why not stories, if no where
else? 

It's my turn to apologize for the length and content of my post. I
don't usually talk so much, but I think I needed to get that out, for
myself. 
  

    
Pamela,  if you come to World Horror Con, I will protect you from the
frenzied mob of horror-fanatics who would attempt to lynch you.

Actually, though, I don't think they'd mind giving you their whys and
wherefores too much at all. 

As for me, I think I'd lean toward your conditioning theory. Mom let
me watch horror movies with her and read horror novels at a fairly
young age. My brother and I would hide behind the couch to watch the
horror flicks Mom and Dad would watch when I was even younger. I had
nightmares of marching soldiers and death up until high school. I think
I can read just about any horror novel without flinching because I
spent so much time as a child being horrified. Some very few things
will stay with me for a long time, but most of it I digest very easily.
I don't know whether this is a good or bad thing. It just is.
  

    
Pamela, you said, "Maybe it?s all just conditioning.  Maybe what's
behind me throws a
larger shadow than what's really in front of me."

Yes. Any experience is not just what's happening, or what your looking
at, or hearing or reading; it's a synergistic experience made up of
that plus what you bring with you: the past, intelligence, whatever.
And other factors. I can't, don't want to, read about graphic human
torture, or older men forcing younger girls, for example. I bring too
much with me, the shadow is too big. 

re: Baby Cakes, yes it is brilliant. I get the point. And it changed
how I see Neil, fair or not. That he could so sweetly and seductively,
persuasively... the man could talk you into anything, even your own
torturous death, with that voice. And that's scary, someone having that
kind of power.

Re: World Horror, believe or don't, looks like I'll be there; maybe a
group of us should plan on rooms and such...

Maure~sounds like Ani DiFranco. I've never seen anyone so comfortable
in her own skin...
and ask me sometime about the story of the woman who tried to pick me
up there. Even my mom laughed. : O
  

    
JaNell - please tell the story about the woman who tried to pick you
up. I could do with a laugh.
  

    
On moving books:
When I got married and moved to chicago... oh so many years ago (has
it really been over a decade??) my then wife made me get rid of my
already hefty collection of paperbacks since she didn't want to deal
with moving them or storing them once we got there. 
I deeply regret caving in on that particular point... and wish I had
been able to extrapolate that incident and see what the next few years
were going to be like. *sigh*
Even so... moving the books we DID take was a rather herculean task.
Books always are... 

On "knowing" an author through their work:
I think you can learn some very basic things about an author..
although I don't usually think about the author while reading a book..
I'm too busy thinking about the characters.
I know that Neil likes Norse Mythology... cause he writes about it a
lot.
I know that Mike has a truly whacked sense of humor.
I know that Martha has probably had her heart broken a couple of
times.
Beyond that... I know everything I write has a bit of me in it.. but
it also has a life of it's own. I've got a bit of a psychopath in a
murder musical I've been working on and to get him kickstarted I needed
to give him a bit of my personal past. There's a little chunk of Dan
in this guy, but he sure as hell isn't me. 
Basically, I think that it's easier to assume that an author
understands people than that people understand the author. 

On Bummery Posts
 I deeply believe that we need to embrace our darkness... i spent a
lot of years running away from it. I've written the occasional dark
bummery post just because I felt like kvetching. If it was all I ever
posted, I think I'd have a problem... but I know I'm as interested in
your dark bummery stuff as anything else.

On Cartoon Art Museum:
 can't make it Friday. I'm going to an opera by Gertrude Stein that
heavily incorporates Hindu mythology. The videographer and movement
director from the last show I did are involved with it and it promises
to be extremely interesting.

On Horror:
I'm not terribly into horror... I've found that a frank medical
discussion of things that go wrong with the body/surgical procedures
will creep me the f*ck out whereas even "24 hours" left me with a bit
of a chill but nothing more.

On Parrots:
My friend has a parrot who is a devious little bastard. She'll tilt
her head towards you and look at you plaintively... nudging her head
towards to in a way that says "scratch my head, please... oh, pretty
please." 
If you get your finger within range, she'll jerk her head back up and
try to snap it off.
A friend of mine was gave her owner a kiss on the neck once, and
became the eternal object of hatred of this parrot. Ever since the neck
nibble, she can't be in the same room as the bird, or it'll jump off
it's perch and chase after her, wings extended and beak snapping.
Parrots are *very* possessive of their humans.

Dan
(who isn't at all sorry about the length of this post... so there.) 
  

    
DanW: Oh, boy, could I creep you out, then, seeing as how I work in
surgery.

Jo: Oh, lord, after that whole little bit about not forgetting you...
I forgot you.  I'm so sorry about not getting your PhD funded. 
Obviously the reviewers have all gone senile.  I'm sending you virtual
margaritas, a mariachi band and a lovely little souvenir keychain with
a bunch of people mooning the camera that says "Sunbun-nies" on it. 
*hugs*
  

    
wooo hoo!!
  

    
Yeah Dan! Be unrepentant! 

Jo~ "The MicroDyke Story"
(Now, before anyone gets all het up about me using the word "dyke",
bear in mind that this woman was *living* the stereotype in her
personal appearance; that I myself have little room to talk; and that
I'm dern well not Politically Correct nohow. :P)

Sometimes, I let people influence me. Sometimes I even take their
suggestions. Now, Charles DeLint had mentioned Ani diFranco, even
quoted her, in a place or two, and my friend Kevin Pickle is fanatical
about her, and I'd liked what I heard on the radio, so I went to her
latest Knoxville concert. Alone. I have all my adventures alone, by
choice.

I was one of the few women there not wearing a wifebeater (tank top),
hemp necklace, or short utility hair. Very few men there, too. And you
have to understand, I'm about 5'7", long wavy brown hair, v. curvy, in
a dark blue knit silk tunic top with low v-neckline and side slits. Not
the usual for the crowd. 

About midway through the concert, I look down to see this teetiny,
maybe 5' tall, cute as a bug muscular microdyke in a wifebeater, jeans,
short hair and all, staring up at me.

"Wanna beer?"
I stuttered, "Um, no thanks, I have to drive."
"Sure?"
I nodded, confused.
Finally, after seeing her smile over at me every time I looked over, I
got it. Duh. She was trying to pick me up. Good grief, how funny! 
It wasn't her gender, it was her size. I would have crushed her.

When I told the story to my mom she couldn't stop laughing. She said
I'd have smothered her under one of my...
never mind, y'all can figure that one out. I said, "Mom, she would
have smothered to death no matter where she was at."

Some of my friends have said that that was probably the point... ; >
  

    
*grin*

I don't have a similar story. But I do entertain myself by scaring off
unwanted guys trying to pick me up by going into excruciating detail
(complete with laboratory jargon) when they ask me what I do.

the best bit is the look of blank confusion that takes over their face
before they go away.
  

    
JaNell,  yes, that is who it was. I thought it better not to mention
her name, because what that night brought me was more important than
the connotations her name brings up, and I didn't want to detract from
what I was trying to say. I do that enough on my own. Also, I went to
subsequent concerts and was alarmed at how different she is on stage
now. The first time I saw her was many years ago, and I hadn't seen her
live for, I don't know, four or five albums, before seeing her again.
Maybe she's just grown up, but she's sadder now, or maybe somewhat
bitter - but that seems a little harsh. I don't know, there's just a
spark missing that I thought was there before. It may very well be me.

I like your micro-dyke story. Megan always seems to pick up
girlfriends or boyfriends at Ani concerts. I had to drag her away
kicking when she had caught the attention of Julie, the bass player two
(one?) tours ago. I don't know how she does it. There's a reason she's
the Notorious Red-headed Sister #3.
  

    
Megan is definitely dangerous, Maure, and you tell her I said so; next
time I see her, that hair is mine.

The story is funnier told in person, with gestures; the woman only
came up to (doing the "shoulder-high" gesture); her whole head was only
a little bigger than my (gesture)! the thing is, I don't like beer...
  

    
When I hear the word Horror, I always think of the old slasher movies;
people running around screaming and gasping in, well, Horror. I like
to read what some people may categorize as Horror. But I don't really
think it is. Most of the stories that I read and write tend to leave me
with (or at least take me through) an Eerie feeling. So it is my
belief that they should change the genre name from "Horror" to "Eerie".
Usually much more fitting. In my opinion, anyway. 
   I used to read about serial killers, not because I admired them,
but because I was curious as to why they came to do what they did. A
lot of people would look at that book collection and think I was
seriously deranged for wanting to read that stuff. I think it was
informative. Real life Horror is always the hardest for people to come
to terms with because there are parts of them in all of us. Because
they're human. Not Werewolves or Vampires. 
For instance, if you want to read a really good Horror (or Eerie)
story, read the biography of L. Ron Hubbard. Now there's a really
intriguingly scary man. 
  I really hope that my stories (or characters) don't reflect too much
on me as a person. I write some pretty sick shit sometimes. Mostly
things that people don't want to see in themselves or elsewhere. But
then, since it came from my mind, there must be parts of me in there
somewhere. 
And I agree with everything Dan said...
  

    
I don't know where I stand on horror.  *Needful Things* is the book
that got me started, and King remains one of my favorite writers.  I
mean, no, he can't end most stories to save his life, but the man can
*write*.  My father read everything, and so I have to.
But on genre, to be honest, I resist any and all genre classification.
 Maybe it'll make it harder to get published, I guess, if I'm not
writing straight-science-fiction, or fantasy story, but, you know, I'd
rather go through that extra year doing it my way than write something
that's not mine (and besides, it makes me happy, and that's good enough
for Maure, so it's good enough for me).  My second novel has a time
machine, but I really wouldn't call it science fiction, by any stretch
of the term.  The story I mentioned I wouldn't call horror.  It's
called "Murmur", and it's very disturbing, and it's twisted, but
horror?  I just don't know.
You know, a couple of months ago, I started wondering about fear. 
Like, pure fear.  I hadn't felt it since roughly Michael Jackson's
video for *Thriller*.  I was, like, five, maybe six, and I wouldn't
walk upstairs by myself for a year after I saw that movie.  For some
reason, I got to thinking about not having been terrified for a while,
about how I was more worried about credit cards and rents and
girlfriends and suchlike.  And I asked people when the last time they'd
been really scared had been.
And then September 11th came, and I got scared.  It's... well, I was
gonna say funny, but I won't; when I was a child, maybe seven, my
grandmother gave me a book, sort of like an encyclopedia but meant to
be read.  Just random articles.  You could turn to a page and go
"Really?  Really?  Huh.  Didn't know that.  Thanks," and then close it.
 One of the last passages was on Nostradamus, and it mentioned his
prediction of the Destruction of New York and the start of World War
III in the late nineties.  I was six or seven, and that petrified me
for years.  And then I kind of grew out of it.  I went to school, got
grades, got a car, all that stuff.  Went off to college.  Didn't think
much of it.
A year and a half before it happened, I started having recurring
nightmares again.  I'd be in a basement apartment in Jersey City which,
for some dream-logic reason, would still have a view of Manhattan, and
I'd watch it come down.  Not every night, but once a week, definitely,
and often more than that.  And then it happened, while I was on
Madison Avenue.  I rode the Hoboken Ferry home and watched that third
building collapse, and it was like something out of one of my
nightmares (well.  In daylight.  But still).  That scared me more than
Michael Jackson.

JaNell- that was a good story.  I laughed me arse off.

Maure- that's always the sexiest, most beautiful thing I ever see. 
Just those single moments of pure joy.  Rocking on and on.  Like, that
movie, *Bring it On*.  My sister couldn't be a cheerleader, so I had to
be big-brother-guy and bring her, and there was a moment where Kirsten
Dunst rocked out to a punk song, and it remains one of the sexiest
things I've seen in a long while.  Really, all it takes for me to fall
utterly in love with a girl is to see her lose herself dancing.  That's
cool.

Pamela- loved your post, but your correction had me rolling.
  

    
Pamela - My definition of horror is when I can't go to sleep in the
same room as the book I'm reading.  Stephen King's "Nightshift" and
"The Excorcist" are good examples of that peculiar reaction. They both
had to be read in broad daylight. And somebody had to be in the house
with me.

Will - Not to worry, Nostrodamus' so-called prediction of the attack
on NYC was debunked.  There's a website specifically dedicated to that
sort of thing. Anybody remember a book from the late 70s called, "The
Late Great Planet Earth?"  

Does Harlan Ellison write horror or fantasy?  And how do writers feel
about these categories?  Do you get any say about your own genre
designation?