Jeff VanderMeer's Blog, page 39

The American Book Center: The Weird and Ann VanderMeer in Amsterdam, Dec 8

My wife Ann VanderMeer, co-editor of The Weird, our 750,000-word, nearly 1,200-page anthology of weird fiction covering 100 years, will be in Amsterdam soon and is doing an event at the American Book Center. It's Thursday, December 8, starting at 18:30. My understanding is that she'll be saying a few words about The Weird, answering questions, and signing books. If you're in the city that week, consider stopping by. This is the only European event for the book, and there's more information at the ABC site.

And don't forget—we've posted this week's content on Weirdfictionreview.com, including an essay by China Mieville, fiction by Caitlin R. Kiernan, and more!

In other news, SF Book News has chosen The Weird as their book of the month for December. Also, it's available for Kindle now to non-North American readers.

The American Book Center: The Weird and Ann VanderMeer in Amsterdam, Dec 8 originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on December 1, 2011.

The Journals of Doctor Mormeck (Mountain)–Entry #27

Thanks again for keeping up with my serialized novel The Journals of Doctor Mormeck. I've now topped 52,000 words. For those who haven't been following along, the story before the three latest entries can be found here and the most current entries can be found in the archive.

If you like what you've been reading, please support a full-time writer. Paypal to vanderworld at hotmail.com—much appreciated! Donations above $21 will entitle you to a free copy of initial stand-alone book appearance. Donations also keep me writing.

There is a battle on this planet, between the arctic army with its ghost whales and the European interlopers, that marks the culmination of the time-loop, after which as I have described, all recedes to the beginning of the conflict, reset as if solely for the angels' entertainment. The clash of cultures and weapons occurs again, generals and underlings performing their alloted roles like actors in a play.

But at this point, this battle before the Renewal, as I call it sometimes, it's almost as if the Grim Lighthouse is there, in the background, and if it were a sentient being it would be snickering at the destruction it has wrought. For surely even if it is not the cause, it gains sustenance from such a spectacle? It's just a mental construct, I suppose, an intellectual exercise to while away the re-born hours as I surveil, and one that makes me feel as if there is some link between this place and my beloved Marty, that by spying on this increasingly barren landscape, these dying men, I am somehow by some not yet understood process standing beside her, or at least somehow present, wraith-like, in her life.

This battle, which goes nameless because of the re-set, is stranger than anything that comes before it, because the Europeans unveil a weapon that causes true harm to the ghost whales: a flat, angled canon made out of a shiny black metal that fires something more akin to a gout of flame than a cannon ball. These gouts of flame shoot out like miniature comets with a great frictionless bellowing and cut great ungodly tears in the ghost whales. There is no process of attrition as with the Europeans' other weapons, and so as beneath the whales the two sides founder through cold marsh and ghastly forest, fighting hand-to-hand, running calmly to positions to take aim and fire, to reduce another's skull to a fragmented mass of brain and bone with some limp skin whispering around the edges…the ghost whales sound out their agony, the comets taking out enormous pieces of them so that they are more empty spaces than ectoplasmic flesh…and at a certain point the whale can no longer maintain its shape, and somewhere in the backlines the handler shrieks, blood explodes from their brain, and the whale dissolves…and in dissolving, into globules that flicker green-and-blue, it becomes in essence a series of plummeting wraith-bombs. Splashed by one as it hits rocks or earth below, engulfed by one, men of either side see things they were not meant to see. For the arctic army, these are at least visions they know of from stories and legends. For the Europeans, it is a horrifying other-ness their brains cannot comprehend, and the haunting take a physical toll, until their flesh is translucent and they are stumbling around, blind and screaming, sometimes all that remains visible, for awhile, is a leg and foot or a head displaying the most terrible rictus of pain and fear. (This is why I evoke the Grim Lighthouse: these soldiers become what I would call localized versions of the Grim Lighthouse, with no illumination to lead them past the shoals.)

It is horrible to watch, but when you have been on surveillance for the time-loop twenty or even thirty times, you grow accustomed to it, as you would almost anything. Is that a human trait or a living mountain trait? I have no way of knowing.

So I took in my disgusting and inappropriate boredom to following the path of each floating whale-drop as it slipped from the disintegrating body and splashed to the earth. It was as if there might be some mystery to be solved just in examining one tiny element of the battle in detail.

And there was, although it did not reveal itself to me until yesterday. For on following one living bomb at the very, very end of the time-loop, I saw it dislodge a pebble as it fell harmless, and that pebble touched another, and for an almost imperceptible moment I saw a kind of temporal fault-line, something that used the natural lines of its environment with such sinister cleverness that it might as well have just been the erosion of the stones, the sharp lines of the blades of grass. But it wasn't. It was something else. Something that I think holds the answer to the time-loop. Something that I think explains why the time-loop concerns the angels.

I haven't told Gabriel. I want to watch it again, and again, to be sure, and do some research in the library. To know what I'm watching.

Or who I am watching.

Or what might be watching me.

The Journals of Doctor Mormeck (Mountain)–Entry #27 originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 30, 2011.

Hibernation? Not Quite…News of The Weird, Sir Tessa, and More

First off, our Thanksgiving did involve birds, but not turkeys, as chronicled by the mighty Sir Tessa, whose quest for bears ended in turmoil involving Fred, the Beagle, and some talons.

Second, I just reviewed the Crichton/Preston novel Micro for the LA Times. In a nutshell…lifeless with some exceptional descriptions of miniature things made big. You can find pulse-pounding thriller entertainment elsewhere that's much better.

Third, we posted the fifth week of Weirdfictionreview, including fiction from Caitlin R. Kiernan, an essay by China Mieville, interview with Liz Williams, and Leah Thomas's web comic. Go check it out, including this blog post which details some great press for our The Weird anthology.

Fourth, no, this blog is not in hibernation, and I'm not in hibernation. We're just working on a lot of stuff, including a very cool Cheeky Frawg website, more content for WFR.com, a little something I'm writing called The Book Murderer, and some short story assignments and more book reviews. I'll resume my serial novel The Journals of Doctor Mormeck shortly and some other posts for this blog will appear.

As noted down-stream, I am taking on critique work right now, too.

Hibernation? Not Quite…News of The Weird, Sir Tessa, and More originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 29, 2011.

Dominik Petr's City of Saints, for Gallery Nemesis

Our friend Dominik Petr just finished a piece based on my mosaic novel City of Saints & Madmen, for a showing at Gallery Nemesis in Prague (December). It's pretty darn cool. Previously, he'd done material for Veniss Underground.

Dominik Petr's City of Saints, for Gallery Nemesis originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 22, 2011.

A Manifesto for The Weird?

There's a lot of nonfiction and fiction today at Weirdfictionreview.com, most of it focused on Michel Bernanos and Jean Ray.

But there's also Scott Nicolay's Dogme 2011 for the Weird. It's basically one writer's credo about what he thinks will keep his weird fiction more original and unique.

You might or might not agree with it, but I think it's useful to think about. It's a list that most if not all of my own fiction adheres. In thinking about what weird fiction is, and how engages with the reader, it's absolutely right to put forward, for example, the idea of not using werewolves, vampires, or zombies. Nothing can ever stop being innovative or fresh in a good writer's hands, but the field is so overcrowded with these archetypal monsters that the effects created in fiction using them are not really part of the weird. They belong to horror or other types of fiction. There cannot be the frisson of discovery or of encountering the unknown crucial to the weird, due to the baggage these monsters bring with them. They have been overly contextualized.

Anyway, love it or hate it, I suggest you go check out Nicolay's points.

A Manifesto for The Weird? originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 21, 2011.

The Journals of Doctor Mormeck's Avatar–Entry #20

Thanks again for keeping up with my serialized novel The Journals of Doctor Mormeck. I've now topped 51,000 words. For those who haven't been following along, the story before the three latest entries can be found here and the most current entries can be found in the archive.

If you like what you've been reading, please support a full-time writer. Paypal to vanderworld at hotmail.com—much appreciated! Donations above $21 will entitle you to a free copy of initial stand-alone book appearance. Donations also keep me writing, because I will have to switch over to guaranteed paid work soon otherwise.

Living on a far-distant planet, Doctor Mormeck works for strange beings that might or might not be angels by conducting surveillance across a hundred thousand alt-Earths. Complicating things are a transdimensional race of intelligent komodos wreaking chaos throughout the worlds. When an avatar of Mormeck is sent to a war-torn winter city to investigate a mysterious Presence, the doctor will become embroiled an ever-widening conflict.

Dear Pavlov:

I am writing another of these letters I am not sure I will ever send…but it makes more sense to write to someone than to just keep a diary. I feel the need for what I write to be intended for someone else, to have some sense that there is another who knows what I know.

This place in the hills skirting the vast forests is strange and unsettling. I know why, because I have been traveling for so long—headlong and in secret, with so many encounters along the way. To now stop, to be in one place? It feels unnatural. I already feel a restlessness deep within me that I quell with long walks that erase the boundary between day and night. Because I know it would be best to stay here, to guard that which I sought until the right moment arrives. (I know some of this will sound like I speak in vague riddles, but I am trying, in my way, to be honest with you.)

After some thought, I have taken on the disguise of a doddering old man, using an old photograph of Tolstoy that I saw on my travels as my model. Surely, some half-recognition even among those who have never read or seen him may create for me some sympathy? Or perhaps not. Now it seems like a risky model, and that someday I may hear from behind me "Tolstoy!" and suffer unforeseen consequences. But it is too late to change, I think.

I live in the empty, half-ruined cottage on the hill that I found per your instructions. It may be a mess, with little furniture, but the fireplace works well enough that I can pretend to others that I fully live there…even as each night I become tiny and rest in the matchbox bed I have constructed for myself. The few people in this area seem to respect me, or at least do not cause me trouble, even the inhabitants of the town some ten miles distant, although I do not go there much.

Perhaps I am not worth troubling in this disguise, or perhaps the habit I have taken up of loud muttering and of smacking about with my cane discourages them.

I even have a neighbor, although her place is at least a mile distant across the hills; I have yet to see it, only the curling smoke from what I imagine must be the chimney. When I go to the well we share, I see her sometimes: a woman as old as I supposedly am, surprisingly spry and full of good humor. This woman, whose name I do not yet know, must be as poor as I am, given her clothes, but she acts more like royalty of the forests. She picks wild mushrooms and herbs and strides through the wilderness as if she is afraid of no one and no-thing. She knows the paths and shortcuts so well she must have grown up here; indeed, sometimes she will appear so abruptly, as if from out of the air, that she has startled even me. Sometimes I wonder if she has already penetrated my disguise. Do I not walk enough like an old man? Do I not scowl enough? Am I as preternaturally spry as she is? Perhaps I will talk to her soon, if for no other reason than that she makes me curious…and to quell the voices in my head.

Or the voice, rather. I think I have alluded to this before, but I will say it plainly: I have a demon within me that I cannot get out, and I do not mean a demon like "the demon of drink" or "the demon of anger". I am quite literal, and knowing what you do of me, perhaps you'll understand the truth of that. I maintain control of this demon, but at a cost, that price being the need for constant vigilance. Even while asleep I must try to be on guard. Not that I sleep much—I do not needit much and spend most of the night in that more monstrous form familiar to you—roaming across the hills, through the creeks and streams beginning to thaw, even through the edge of the mighty forests…although not more than the edge, because I believe it would be too easy to become lost. There are creatures here almost as dangerous as me, including tigers I have only seen from afar.

Still, no matter how careful I am, I slip. The other day, I mistook a meteorological phenomenon as evidence of the presence of a mortal foe—I had been on edge for hours—and in the aftermath of this false sighting was drained—angry and frustrated at my situation. I passed through the forest fringe under the moon and in the next blink, I stood amid the remains of a mighty bear that I had slaughtered and dismembered, the disembodied head now staring up at me darkly. For a moment of horrible anguish, I thought I had destroyed exactly what I came here to preserve. My demon had found a way to get to me, and I barely remember the moments of its control.

I have a long wait here, Pavlov, and I must learn more patience. Sometimes I imagine you in your office, making life-and-death decisions for your men and presiding over the defense of your small part of the winter city. I wonder how you are, what you are thinking, how heavily or lightly your command pressed down on you. I imagine that you are thinking of your plans after the war and that leads me to believing I may see you then. I imagine wandering the streets of Moscow in my Tolstoy disguise, but with my bear carefully trimmed and wearing presentable clothes. I am looking for your address, and finally I find it: a broad, thick door with a golden door knocker. I imagine you opening that door and the look of recognition on your face despite my disguise, and our handshake, as of old friends seeing each other after a long time. Perhaps you have a pipe in your mouth, perhaps not, but you look rested and relaxed. We talk for a moment in the hall, and then you lead me into the living room for tea and cake with your family…and later, in your study, over whisky, we share the story of our adventures since last we met.

Of course, until then I am just an old man/giant lizard writing a letter by candle light in a falling-apart cottage, but it is a calming and comfortable thought, nonetheless.

Now I will end this letter because the old woman is knocking on my door for some reason. Please take care .

Your Friend, K

The Journals of Doctor Mormeck's Avatar–Entry #20 originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 21, 2011.

Reading The Weird Free Web Comic: Borges, Blackwood, Jean Ray, and More

Over at Weirdfictionreview, We've posted episode #4 of Leah Thomas's intriguing web comic on Reading The Weird, which has become two mysterious characters' epic quest across weird fiction. This latest installment is one of my favorites, as the story arc begins to become darker. That the series features the axolotl from Cortazar's famous story is great, too.

Leah Thomas's interview about the comic and her reading as a kid is really wonderful, too.

Meanwhile, we just did an interview for Ireland-based radio program Arena that will run next week, about The Weird compendium, and features have appeared at the Guardian online and the Financial Times, with more to come.

Reading The Weird Free Web Comic: Borges, Blackwood, Jean Ray, and More originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 19, 2011.

Weird Fiction: Going Kafkaesque, Weird Editor in Amsterdam, WFR Book Reviews, and Real-Time Weird Review Update

Over on Weirdfictionreview.com, we've gone "Kafkaesque," posting the entire introductory essay to the new anthology by John Kessel and James Patrick Kelly, along with an appreciation of Alfred Kubin. (And don't miss fiction from Leena Krohn, interview and two pieces of fiction from Michal Ajvaz.)

Meanwhile, my co-editor on The Weird: A Compendium of Strange & Dark Stories will be appearing in Amsterdam on December 8th at the American Book Center to do an event in support of the anthology.

Weirdfictionreview.com now has a regular book reviewer, too: Maureen Kincaid Speller. For information on how to send her books, click here.

Finally, both Maureen Kincaid Speller and Des Lewis have continued their story-by-story reviews of The Weird compendium, with Maureen's latest here (the sidebar used to have the other entries, but you may have to search for them). Des, meanwhile, is up to posts Five and Six.

Weird Fiction: Going Kafkaesque, Weird Editor in Amsterdam, WFR Book Reviews, and Real-Time Weird Review Update originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 16, 2011.

Put That Margaret Atwood Down! Now! I'm Not Kidding, Weird

Interested in more on The Weird?

Or check out Weirdfictionreview.com…

Put That Margaret Atwood Down! Now! I'm Not Kidding, Weird originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 15, 2011.

VanderMeer Critique Service: Open for December

I'll be freed up for taking on more fiction critiques to commence December 1st. If you're interested, contact me at vanderworld at hotmail.com for rates and more information. I'm equally at home with stories as with novels, and I also am experienced with all types of fiction except Westerns, so…

The full critique service provides you with handwritten specific comments on the manuscript itself and an email of comments that apply not only to your story or novel but also your writing in general. Usually, I provide a summation and then also a break-down into elements like Characterization, Dialogue, Setting, etc. My goal is not to get repeat business because I give you something comprehensive that carries forward into your future fiction.

For those coming here for the first time, I'm a World Fantasy Award-winning editor and writer who has edited several critically acclaimed anthologies and made the year's best lists of Amazon, the San Francisco Chronicle, Washington Post, and more. I've taught several times at the Clarion Writers Workshops, once at Odyssey and at the Hugo House, Brisbane Writers Festival and other international events, and done mainstream literary workshops as well as focused on fantastical fiction.

VanderMeer Critique Service: Open for December originally appeared on Ecstatic Days on November 15, 2011.