David Nickle's Blog, page 9
October 27, 2011
Something FIshy...
Hey Yard-Apes... please don't be offended, but my first blog post in many weeks is not here, but over at Tor.com, for Monster Mash week: Swimming with the Fishes. I hold forth on the pallid charms of creatures beneath the sea for quite some time, skimming the surface, as it were, on such subjects as the Cthulhu Mythos, Jaws, and the extraordinary work of Catalan author Albert Sanchez Pinol in his novel Cold Skin.
If I haven't commended you to this guy's work, let me do so now. Cold Skin is a short novel, about an encounter just past the turn of the last century, between a depressive north-European and a race of Lovecraftian mer-people, on the beaches of an island near Antarctica. It is a bleakly beautiful novel of isolation, obsession and perversion. It goes where H.P. Lovecraft hinted, but dared not venture. It sets up Pinol's second novel, Pandora In The Congo, magnificently.
You should please go read it, before the movie adaptation comes out.
September 16, 2011
Looker
It's been awhile since I've had a story interpreted by the folk at Pseudopod - the venerable horror podcast. They've always done a fantastic job of it with three of my stories previously - The Sloan Men, The Inevitability of Earth and The Radejastians. Today, Steve Cropper's reading of my story Looker (originally published in Michael Kelly's anthology Chilling Tales) goes live. Just finished listening to it, and damn... it's hard for me to tell whether the story itself stands up, because Steve's reading is so good.
Check it out, right here.
Check it out, right here.
August 7, 2011
Herman and I...
You know you're a proper monster when Kevin Nunn, Toronto Renaissance dude, immortalizes you in bronze -- or the next best thing, papier mache painted to look like bronze. And so it is with Herman Sloan, of the Monstrous Affections cover:
... and my short story The Sloan Men, which is even now available to read right here. Kevin presented this sculpture to my friends/publishers Brett Savory and Sandra Kasturi, and the two shocked me with it during a mid-summer visit yesterday.
I am gobsmacked.
August 1, 2011
What's wrong with us?
It happens to all of us at one time or another. We're at a party, the wine if flowing freely, and it comes out that we write, read or view stories of a particular genre. And to keep the conversation going, one of the other party-goers wonders: why would we wish to dwell on the ideas and feelings that emerge from that particular genre? Doesn't real life have enough of those things, without having to dwell upon them further in fiction and film? Or, to get right to the subtext: Aren't we a little unbalanced, for turning our imagination there, and away from more wholesome things?
And we always respond: What is wrong with enjoying a little vicarious despair through the occasional re-reading of Raymond Carver's stories in Cathedral, or samples of the little-known Canadian author Margaret Atwood's early ouvre? What have you got against a bit of vicarious frisky lovin', such as Jennifer Cruzie pens? Aren't there enough of those things extant in life, without having to dwell upon them in story?
Well, we don't really. Because really, nobody suspects the morals of people who enjoy mainstream realistic fiction, or worries about the mental health of people who write and read a lot of romance (well, not much). But we who enjoy horror fiction - we raise questions... insinuating questions.
(More After the Break)
Sometimes, those questions can also be provocative and illuminating. The other night, I was out with friends at a party, and a fellow I'd never met started in on those lines. "I have to admit that I don't like horror," he said, to me and a few other horror writers. "Why would you wish to dwell upon such a thing constantly?"
He was coming at it from a Yogic perspective. If I took him correctly, he was starting from the notion that literature ought to help us reach for higher planes beyond the realm of the physical, and was curious as to how horror fiction could possibly fit into such a notion. To his mind, the genre was all about generating a simulacrum of mere physical fear and by that definition alone, it could not get beyond the Body, couldn't be worthwhile to a reader interested in growth. So what good is it?
This is a tricky question for an artist to face - tricky, verging on ugly. Jiang Qing, the wife of Chairman Mao, was infamous during the Cultural Revolution in China shutting down performances and works of art that she believed did not reflect the tenets of the revolution. Measuring the worth of art to the extent that it either services or subverts an agenda is to set foot upon a very slippery slope.
The other writers present had the good sense to step off that slope, and one by one note the hour and excuse themselves. I myself did not. I have some ideas about horror fiction that I think do elevate it, and I trotted them out.
To begin with, I pointed out some obvious matters: horror fiction can be about spiritual matters and often is. Transcendence is a major theme in modern horror. The difference is that horror fiction often brings a skeptical eye to the idea of transcendence. The protagonist in Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House certainly transcends the physical when she enters Hill House; by the end, her transcendental experience takes her from her body, and into the house itself.
One might argue that transcendence is also a powerful operant in William Peter Blatty's The Exorcist. There, little Regan catches a glimpse of the other side - and the other side comes here for a visit - through the cracks in the cosmos that emerged, as far as we can tell, from the unintended side-effects of Vatican 2.
The works of H.P. Lovecraft all speak of transcendence - with great and thoughtful nervousness. The ancient beings that inhabit the higher planes of existence are a constant presence, and Lovecraft's protagonists are forever transcending towards them, screaming all the way.
It became pretty clear that I wasn't selling my new friend on horror fiction. At one point, he suggested to my companion that he thought women might like horror better than men "because it gives them an excuse to cling to men" and repeated the notion that horror seemed to him to only deal with us as physical beings.
Given the context, I hope I can be forgiven for gently suggesting that while it might be helpful to think of ourselves as spiritual beings, the preponderance of evidence so far suggests that we are no such thing. And that if one found that notion distasteful - or simply the idea of horror distasteful - that my friend need read a coffin full of horror fiction no more than I need to read a stack of cozy mysteries.
But back to my quest to show horror as a legitimate read for people contemplating transcendence. I think it's fair to say that horror fiction has a lot to say about the spiritual yearnings of humanity. Transcendence, and growth, and illumination are powerful themes in the collection of stories, novels and films that make up the genre of horror.
It's just that horror's not selling the idea of transcendence any more than is mainstream literature, cozy mysteries or hot category romance.
For that, you have to go to science fiction.
And we always respond: What is wrong with enjoying a little vicarious despair through the occasional re-reading of Raymond Carver's stories in Cathedral, or samples of the little-known Canadian author Margaret Atwood's early ouvre? What have you got against a bit of vicarious frisky lovin', such as Jennifer Cruzie pens? Aren't there enough of those things extant in life, without having to dwell upon them in story?
Well, we don't really. Because really, nobody suspects the morals of people who enjoy mainstream realistic fiction, or worries about the mental health of people who write and read a lot of romance (well, not much). But we who enjoy horror fiction - we raise questions... insinuating questions.
(More After the Break)
Sometimes, those questions can also be provocative and illuminating. The other night, I was out with friends at a party, and a fellow I'd never met started in on those lines. "I have to admit that I don't like horror," he said, to me and a few other horror writers. "Why would you wish to dwell upon such a thing constantly?"
He was coming at it from a Yogic perspective. If I took him correctly, he was starting from the notion that literature ought to help us reach for higher planes beyond the realm of the physical, and was curious as to how horror fiction could possibly fit into such a notion. To his mind, the genre was all about generating a simulacrum of mere physical fear and by that definition alone, it could not get beyond the Body, couldn't be worthwhile to a reader interested in growth. So what good is it?
This is a tricky question for an artist to face - tricky, verging on ugly. Jiang Qing, the wife of Chairman Mao, was infamous during the Cultural Revolution in China shutting down performances and works of art that she believed did not reflect the tenets of the revolution. Measuring the worth of art to the extent that it either services or subverts an agenda is to set foot upon a very slippery slope.
The other writers present had the good sense to step off that slope, and one by one note the hour and excuse themselves. I myself did not. I have some ideas about horror fiction that I think do elevate it, and I trotted them out.
To begin with, I pointed out some obvious matters: horror fiction can be about spiritual matters and often is. Transcendence is a major theme in modern horror. The difference is that horror fiction often brings a skeptical eye to the idea of transcendence. The protagonist in Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House certainly transcends the physical when she enters Hill House; by the end, her transcendental experience takes her from her body, and into the house itself.
One might argue that transcendence is also a powerful operant in William Peter Blatty's The Exorcist. There, little Regan catches a glimpse of the other side - and the other side comes here for a visit - through the cracks in the cosmos that emerged, as far as we can tell, from the unintended side-effects of Vatican 2.
The works of H.P. Lovecraft all speak of transcendence - with great and thoughtful nervousness. The ancient beings that inhabit the higher planes of existence are a constant presence, and Lovecraft's protagonists are forever transcending towards them, screaming all the way.
It became pretty clear that I wasn't selling my new friend on horror fiction. At one point, he suggested to my companion that he thought women might like horror better than men "because it gives them an excuse to cling to men" and repeated the notion that horror seemed to him to only deal with us as physical beings.
Given the context, I hope I can be forgiven for gently suggesting that while it might be helpful to think of ourselves as spiritual beings, the preponderance of evidence so far suggests that we are no such thing. And that if one found that notion distasteful - or simply the idea of horror distasteful - that my friend need read a coffin full of horror fiction no more than I need to read a stack of cozy mysteries.
But back to my quest to show horror as a legitimate read for people contemplating transcendence. I think it's fair to say that horror fiction has a lot to say about the spiritual yearnings of humanity. Transcendence, and growth, and illumination are powerful themes in the collection of stories, novels and films that make up the genre of horror.
It's just that horror's not selling the idea of transcendence any more than is mainstream literature, cozy mysteries or hot category romance.
For that, you have to go to science fiction.
July 27, 2011
A midsummer night's blog post...
It has been, I note, a while since I last drew yard-apes' attention to anything Eutopian - or indeed anything. And it's not that nothing has been going on, because it has. Or at least, I have been googling my own name. A lot.
There have been reviews by dilligent bloggers, like Bibliotropic, Bonnie at Bookish Ardour, Majanka Verstraete at I <3 Reading, Grace at Feeding My Book Addiction, JD at Bureau 42, (and in a slightly expanded form, at Everything2), the reviewer known as prodigy.
Ellie at Curiosity Killed The Bookworm reviewed Eutopia here, and after I sent a thank-you note, asked me some questions then posted the interview here.
The Philidelphia City Paper reviewed Eutopia along with some others earlier this month, here.
Eutopia made it to Poland - or at least to the Polish sf blogger who writes Machaniczny czlowiek, and who reviewed it extensively here, in Polish.(Google translates it here)
Most of the reviews are generally positive, but as I suspected when I wrote it, the book is not for everyone. With that in mind, kudos to Morsie Reads, and Bending the Spine for giving Eutopia a try.
There have been reviews by dilligent bloggers, like Bibliotropic, Bonnie at Bookish Ardour, Majanka Verstraete at I <3 Reading, Grace at Feeding My Book Addiction, JD at Bureau 42, (and in a slightly expanded form, at Everything2), the reviewer known as prodigy.
Ellie at Curiosity Killed The Bookworm reviewed Eutopia here, and after I sent a thank-you note, asked me some questions then posted the interview here.
The Philidelphia City Paper reviewed Eutopia along with some others earlier this month, here.
Eutopia made it to Poland - or at least to the Polish sf blogger who writes Machaniczny czlowiek, and who reviewed it extensively here, in Polish.(Google translates it here)
Most of the reviews are generally positive, but as I suspected when I wrote it, the book is not for everyone. With that in mind, kudos to Morsie Reads, and Bending the Spine for giving Eutopia a try.
June 20, 2011
The Call of...
... never mind what it's the call of. Just watch.
Happy belated Father's Day, yard-apes.
Happy belated Father's Day, yard-apes.
June 15, 2011
The Feeger Oracle
Seen through the lens of pain, the Oracle wasn't all that demure.That bit is a passage from Eutopia. The illustration is the work of Brian Prince, a graphic designer who surprised and delighted me a week or so ago with an email and this lovely rendering. Brian earns his keep doing matte paintings and other sundry things, and his website, http://www.bprince.com, gives a fine tour of them all.
She stood tall like her brothers, and her black hair hung near her waist, and she seemed strong, with thick hips and large, full breasts and flushed cheeks and lips. But the Oracle paid a toll, and Andrew could see it in her eyes, at once wide and sunken, ringed dark; and her odd posture, bent and swaying in the dark cloth of her home-wove dress. She held a bundle wrapped in cloth and twigs, the way a mother might hold a baby.
June 1, 2011
The World's Biggest Bookstore. Sunday.
I will be there.The World's Biggest Bookstore, which so far as I can tell is exactly that, will be having a big old ChiZine Publications Party this Sunday. Dedicated yard-apes will have heard me make mention of this before, but now it's just scant days before the event. So I make mention again.
Me, Brent Hayward and Gemma Files are going to be at the WBB (located in an unassuming little storefront on Edward Street just west of Yonge Street) at 2 p.m. Sunday. I'll be reading from Eutopia: A Novel of Terrible Optimism. Brent will be reading from his starred-review-in-Publisher's-Weekly, New-Weird-ish novel The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter. Gemma, from A Rope of Thorns, volume 2 in her prickly (in more ways than one) weird western Hexslinger series.
This is also notable for those who wish to acquire a retail copy of Eutopia: A Novel of Terrible Optimism. As of this writing, an ordering mishap has meant that for now, the only part of the Chapters-Indigo retail chain that's carrying the book is the World's Biggest Bookstore. As of this writing, there are 35 copies there. Some of them are signed now. I will take care of the rest on Sunday. And also read a scary scene.
As you can see from the photo, there are also copies of the story collection Monstrous Affections, and the somewhat hard to find The Claus Effect, co-written by Karl Schroeder and me.
Thanks to Jessica Strider for the photo!
May 20, 2011
OOPS revisited.
A little electric contraption inside played a song every time you opened it. Da, da da Da. Da, da da Da.
He hadn't heard the song in nearly ten years, but he would have recognized it even if it hadn't been Sarah Michelle Gellar on the front of the card: wooden stake clutched in one hand, hovering over her breast – her airbrush-smoothed face unmistakably stricken.
Whatever had happened with that stake, she hadn't meant it.
Inside, one word:
OOPS.
In honor of the Rapture (coming tomorrow, we're told).... thought I'd share with the Yard a short story, which appeared last year in the 'zine No More Potlucks. OOPS. It should help get you sinners into the mood.
May 10, 2011
An endcap in Toronto....
Thanks to Jessica Strider, who sent me this photo, of an endcap display she set up at The World's Biggest Bookstore on Edward Street in Toronto, featuring my books and also an interview she conducted with me earlier this year. The World's Biggest is, you'll note, stocking Eutopia now - at this point, the only Chapters-Indigo outlet that is. Hopefully, books will make it to other outlets over the next week or so.Next month (on June 5 at 2 p.m., to be precise) I'll be at the World's Biggest Bookstore to sign books and read, along with fellow ChiZine Publications authors Gemma Files (Rope of Thorns) and Brent Hayward (The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter).
