Edward Lorn's Blog, page 14
April 2, 2017
March 31, 2017
My Semi-Fictional Life #163 (“Why are some readers too stupid to understand certain books?”)
“The first duty of the novelist is to entertain.” ~Donna Tartt
Sorry for the clickbait-y headline, but we need to talk. I will digress before I get to the point, but, please, stay with me. Thanks.
I’m sure somewhere out there, there’s a review of mine wherein I call someone a big ol’ dummy-head for digging a book that has sub-standard literary merit: like a James Patterson fan, or, Tom Cruise forbid, a member of Stephanie Meyer’s rabid fanbase. I don’t think there is, but I’ve been reviewing for a long time and I’m bound to have said something stupid in one of my posts. The point I’m trying to make is this.
I strive to constantly educate myself. I take pride in learning something new every day. I have been an asshat in the past. In certain sectors, I am still an uneducated asshat. But I always take pride in admitting when I’m wrong. So if you find an old review from the year 2000 B.E.E.S.( Before E.’s Education Spike) that says “You’re dumb if you like this book”, please know that the dumbass who wrote that post no longer lives here. Again, I don’t think a review like that exists, but it might. Apologies if you find one.
I said all that to say this. I’ve come to the theory that there are no stupid fiction readers. Settle down, Cynical Internet Rage Machine, I’m about to explain.
Point #1:
Fiction, by definition, isn’t real. Everything going on within a work of fiction can be subjective. You shouldn’t expect facts in a work of fiction. You can expect a certain level of accuracy in historical fiction and hard science fiction, but even there, you have to understand that you are reading fiction. Meaning, you should not take anything in a work of fiction as fact. Even fictional novels about real people should be taken with a grain of salt. So if a reader enjoys a book of sub-standard literary merit, they are not automatically stupid. Likewise, if they do not understand/enjoy a book that has been awarded the coveted “Smarty-Pants Book of the Month”, they’re not automatically stupid. Could they be an idiot? Most definitely. But you should not judge them on their reading preferences. And here’s why.
Point #2:
The quote at the beginning of this article is from Donna Tartt; someone who can be a bit polarizing due to writing like a modern-day Dickens. Flowing prose, a billion pieces of punctuation laying about like mines in a Serbian playground, verbose descriptions of mundane things, and so on. I’ve only read one of her novels – The Little Friend – and I was not entertained. Even so, she’s correct. The first job of any novelist is to entertain their reader. I will always believe that.
You can choose to write literary fiction the likes of which Jonathan Franzen and David Foster Wallace writes/wrote (respectively), but you risk alienating some of your readers: those readers who are only there to be entertained. Likewise, you can choose to write simple Cat-in-the-Hat style prose with the intent of being accessible to everyone but the illiterate: James Patterson, Dan Brown, Stephanie Meyer, the list goes on.
Fiction is an escape from reality. If an author allows someone, just one person, that escape, they have done their job. If a book is so very smart that only one person (outside of the author) understands its message, the author has done their job. Meaning, the information is there, it’s simply not accessible to every reader. If a book is so very easy that everyone can read it but is shitpanned by every literary-minded reader who stumbles across it (I hate to say this but it’s true…), the author has still done their job.
Because reading is subjective. And if the fiction you consume allows you an escape from this toilet-bowl of a world, I can’t hate on you. If I have in the past, this is my apology to you. I’m sorry.
Read whatever the fuck you want. And…
“If you find something you love, pimp the shit outta it.” ~Paul Elard Cooley
Take care of each other,
E.
March 21, 2017
My Semi-Fictional Life #162 (Please Read – Signal Boost for Frank Errington)
Hello peeps. If you spend any time in the horror community, you might have run across a reviewer by the name of Frank Errington. He’s simply an all-around good dude in an all-around crappy situation. He needs a kidney. Currently he’s looking for a live donor. I asked him if I could boost the signal with my blog and he said sure, so below, as today’s Pic of the Day, you will find an image of Frank and a phone number. You can call Frank direct and he’ll give you info on how to find out if you’d be a suitable donor. I tried, but the transplant people told me my prediabetes automatically disqualified me. Maybe you can help.
Take care of each other,
E.
Pic of the Day
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March 17, 2017
My Semi-Fictional Life #161 (Book Tour Update)
Looks like we’ll be leaving the day after Labor Day and stopping in the following cities:
Birmingham, AL
Tulsa, OK
Amarillo, TX
Houston, TX (maybe, more details next month)
Albuquerque, NM
Phoenix, AZ
Palm Springs, CA
New Orleans, LA
Actual locations, dates, and times of Meet-and-Greets coming next month. If you’d like to meet me, now is the time. The next one might not be until next year and, if it happens, it’ll be East Coast only.
Looking forward to seeing as many of you as possible.
E.
March 13, 2017
My Semi-Fictional Life #160 (Ruminating on Death)
I’ve always had an irrational fear of death. My fear does not stem from the ramifications of my atheistic mindset, I do not fear hell or some other fairy tale fate, but simply the idea of no longer existing bothers me. It is sad to think that, one day, I simply will no longer be. I will one day become a science experiment, as I intend that my body be harvested for viable organs and used for educational purposes. I mourned my own passing by just thinking of people mourning my passing. Certainly those who truly love me will miss me, and I felt sorry for those I would leave behind. I never want to be the source of grief for anyone. The thought of doing such upsets me.
It wasn’t until just a few weeks ago, actually, that I discussed my fear with my wife. I’d gotten to a point in Don Delillo’s White Noise where the title comes into play and the author brings up fear of death. One of the characters talks about how uncommon it is to always have death on the mind and how upsetting such an mindset can be. I’d always thought that my daily and nightly ruminations on how and when I would die was normal. So I asked my wife if she thought about dying at least once a day. She said no. That blew my mind. You mean to tell me that not everyone worries themselves to the point of restlessness thinking of when and how they will die? I found that fascinating.
I’ve always thought this way. For as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined how my eventually passing would play out. Sometimes those imaginings grow quite dark and I am left anxious and physically ill. Like I stated above, this is an irrational fear.
But all that changed when I found this quote from Mark Twain:
“I do not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.”
That put things into perspective for me. I’ve long been chained to logic. If it doesn’t make sense, I’ve no use for it: religion, racism, xenophobia, sexism, etc. And the only reason worrying about my death made sense was the fact that I will, one day, be no more. I will die. I will no longer exist, both physically and mentally. But when I try to think about what I was before birth, the logic of worrying about what will happen after death breaks down. I was perfectly fine not existing, once upon a when, I will be perfectly fine not existing in the future.
You might find this strange beyond belief, but that brought me such inner peace. I feel like a new person. I say that without an ounce of hyperbole.
Yes, I still think it will suck for those who care about me, but I won’t be around to worry about that, now will I?
Take care of each other,
E.
My Semi-Fictional Life #159 (A Rage Review of THE ROANOKE GIRLS)
Sigh… Language warning and whatnot. This one’s not going to be pleasant.
I’m so goddamn tired of the same-old, predictable shit. For that reason, among the many more you are about to read below, this review is going to be rage-y as fuck. If you manage to not get offended by the contents, I hope you enjoy this review more than I enjoyed the book.
First and foremost, BOOBS! There were so many mentions of funbags in this book, I had to recheck the cover to make sure this wasn’t written by a dude. Every few pages, in the first 30 pages, the author mentions “big boobs” or “plumb breasts” or some variation on knockers/melons/feeders/tigolbitties. I counted eight times in those first 30 pages. Everyone was described by the size of their bosom. We get it. Roanoke girls are stacked! Whoopty-fucking-do. The author goes on to space out her tit-mentioning, but only because the cast doesn’t grow. No need to describe the same chesticles over and over again unless they change, right? Right. Moving on…
I don’t know if anyone was paying attention when I first started reading this, but I mentioned how creepy it was. That was the first 13 pages. Can we say, “False start?” Not sure what I caught in those first 13 pages, but all that atmosphere dissipated like a good fart, one that doesn’t linger and upset the kinfolk, within the very next chapter. Oh, I felt uneasy later on. Don’t get me wrong. But that feeling of discomfort was for all the wrong reasons.
Next, and this is a first (paradox?), I had to delete two of my status updates because my jokes, my motherfucking goddamn sonuvabitching jokes, ended up being fucking spoilers. Lemme spell this shit out to you. I was fucking around, goofing off, as I am wont to do, and my goofiness ended up being a plot point. That’s never fucking good. Well, maybe if this was a parody, but no, it’s serious fiction. Which brings me to…
This novel (for lack of a better word) has the most unintentionally-funny fight scene at the end of it. The big denouement had me in tears not because it was sad but because it was mountainous – or, as the kids are saying, HILL AREAS!
These are the jokes, people. Fuck you, don’t judge me.
Sexual dysfunction brought on by childhood trauma seems to be popular right now. Are that many of us being molested and growing into sex-starved fuck-puppets? Is this the new us? Are there any parents/grandparents/uncles/aunts/neighbors/clergymen/pets/inanimate objects in existence who are not out here diddling their children? You’d think this world was nothing but pederasts and pedopiles and hebephiles, what with how it’s the plot or subplot of every goddamn literary thriller. I’m not making light of this topic. I have my own past and that’s none of your business. But you’d think that, with all the safe-space-seeking readers out there, you’d see less of this stuff, not more.
My point is this: I’m fucking tired of reading about it because it’s fucking predictable. Not because it’s disgusting or triggering or any other topical reason, but because I fucking expect it. It’s gotten to the point that I open up a literary thriller and think “I wonder who’s gonna be molested in this one?”
The moment the killer hit the screen, so to speak, I knew who she was, and as soon as the molester hit the screen, I knew who he was. (I called both of them in my second and third updates, which I have since deleted by request because spoilers) As soon as the red herring hit the screen, I knew who it wasn’t. There’s a long-lost-then-returned love interest. One of the characters is a downhome cop who used to be friends with the main character. (I’m telling you, folks, there’s nothing new in this book.) One of the characters is even a motherfucking V.C. Andrews cast member. Oh, you remember ol’ V.C. Andrews. Motherfucking Flowers in the Attic motherfucking V.C. motherfucking Andrews. Amy Engel attempted to emulate one of the worst word mills in modern literature. In fact, now that I make that comparison, that’s all this book is is a reboot of Andrews’ early career. Tom Cruise help us all if this shit gets popular again. In the name of Brad Pitt, amen.
In summation: Holy shit this was bad. If you’re looking for a book wherein you can predict the outcome in the first 50 pages, read this motherfucker. If you were offended by this review, damn sure skip this motherfucker. Most importantly, if you were spoiled during this review, good. Now you don’t have to read it.
Final Judgment: Contender for Worst Book of the Year 2017… and it’s only March. Fuck my life.
Many thanks to the publisher (because I didn’t have to waste my hard earned dough on this book) for supplying the review copy of this shit-fest. I think it goes without saying that this is my unbiased opinion. I understand that they can’t all be winners, but I’ve come to expect so much more from your company (Crown Publishing). Then again, good friends of mine loved this book, so what do I know? smooches
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March 10, 2017
My Semi-Fictional Life #158 (A Reading from Craig Saunders)
Hello peeps. I have an author buddy by the name of Craig Saunders. He and I have written a book together, which we’re currently shopping around. We hope it sticks somewhere so you can one day read it. Anyway, he’s got a new book out called HIGHWAYMAN. Buy it. Read it. Become a fan. All that.
Anyway, he’s made a video of himself reading an excerpt from the book. It’s not just a video of him reading a book though. He’s quite the entertaining chap. Watch it. Laugh. Then buy the book.
Did I mention you should buy the book? Go on then.
Video of the Day
March 9, 2017
My Semi-Fictional Life #157 (Some Thoughts on FOG WARNING)
Hello peeps. Personally, one of my favorite reads out of the books I’ve written is FOG WARNING. I was able to do so much in that story in such a small amount of time, as well as give a glimpse into the mind of an addict addicted to pain medicine. We (humans) are not defined by the substances we consume but the way we treat our fellow human beings. Sometimes, those who we perceive to be the worst of us can prove their worth. They only need the right set of circumstances. Dr. Brent Cummings, for me, was that guy. A dude with a bad past and a horrible present trying to do something with one of many possible futures. It is one of my most personal pieces.
When the book was first released, I’ll admit, it didn’t do sell well. The reviews were great, but the sales were lackluster. Several reasons behind this, but one of the simplest ones is that some readers wrote the book off as another doctor-addicted-to-pain-pills story, ala House and Grey’s Anatomy. It is so much more, and I wish more people would give it a chance. That being said, there’s a special edition coming that I feel will give the book a second life.
In the meantime, if you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it. I truly feel it’s one of my best works. Especially give it a read if you plan to read THE SOUND OF BROKEN RIBS this summer. The books, while not sequels or continuations of each other, follow some of the same characters and are both set in my fictional town of Bay’s End. And that’s all I’ll say about that.
See you later,
E.
March 8, 2017
My Semi-Fictional Life #156 (“Margins” a Free Story)
Hello peeps. The Kindle version of my long(ish) short story “Margins” is free for the next five days. If you grab the book, you can then get the newly released audiobook narrated by Margy Stein for only $1.99 through Audible. Why not grab both? Margy is good people. Show her some love. You guys rock.
Here are your links:
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March 7, 2017
My Semi-Fictional Life #155 (Unpopular Opinion Time!)
My taste in literature has drastically changed in the past year. My love for horror has dwindled as authors of dark fiction continue to churn out the same old monsters and plot lines and uninspired prose. Everything is a reboot or re-imagining or retelling. I’ve been leaning more toward postmodern and literary fiction because it’s unpredictable. Just as dark and horrific (sometimes darker due to the attention to emotional detail), and in nine cases out of ten, much better written. I wish someone would bring back intelligent horror; ideas that are thought-provoking and interesting instead of retreads and tributes. The genre has devolved into a collage of poorly-written homages.
I understand the comfort in the same old, same old, but the genre has been spinning its wheels. There really is no mystery behind why so many horror publishers are in trouble. It’s sad to see, but the reason behind it is obvious.
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