House of Leaves

I HATE "House of Leaves." I've read that book off and on for the better part of a year, and I hate it. Just to be extra-wanky, I'm doing what they did throughout that book, which is color the word "house" blue every fucking time it would show up in the text. Ooooh, are you scared, yet?!

Look, the book became a bestseller, has some kind of cult status associated with it, but the fact is, it's a shit sandwich of a novel. I've found it almost impossible to get through, with all the nonsense addenda the writer threw around the core of the story.

I'm not going to summarize it. If you want a good haunted house story, check out "The House Next Door" by Anne Rivers Siddons. That's worth your time, and is more scary than anything in "House of Leaves."

If, however, you love, I dunno, "Ulysses" and want to feel like you're not just reading a book, but experiencing it, then by all means read "House of Leaves" and blabbity-blah.

It was a debut novel, okay, I get it. An audacious debut, but in my opinion, for all the wrong reasons. This book is editor bait! I can just see some jaded New York editor reading the manuscript and going "HOLY SHIT! I've never seen anybody do THIS before with a novel."

And there's a reason: it's a gimmick.

Of course, now you're wondering what's incensed me so about it, right? Now you'll want to read the fucking book, see what I'm talking about. Go ahead, if you want. Fool that I am, I think a writer has an unspoken covenant with their reader, to take them on a trip worth taking. And this book subverts that covenant -- it is the literary equivalent of a one-man band, with the jackass standing there with a bass drum on his back, cymbals on his knees, a trombone in one hand, a harmonica necklace, a kazoo in the corner of his mouth, and a trumpet in his other hand. He can make a lot of noise with it, might even be able to make a little music with it, but I look at something like that and think "Why not just play one instrument REALLY well, instead of trying to impress us with all the fucking shit you can do? You look like a jackass, you are a jackass, move along, wankbag."

The book is bullshit. And it's just exactly the grade of bullshit that there are douchebags out there who will cleave to it and revere the book in a totemic kind of way, as an art object. It's the kind of book that a writer can get away with once -- because it is a fucking gimmicky contrivance -- you can't make a career out of that, unless you want to be a one-hit wonder.

So fuck you, "House of Leaves." Fuck you very much.

Weather or not

Pretty autumn day, great weather, although very windy, as it usually is in Chicago this time of year. But all of the sun made it nice.

I'm a bit sleep-deprived. Had a surreal dream last night where I had acquired a Sly & the Family Stone picture holder, one of those multiple-frame holders, and this one was festooned with silver glitter and other brightness, and had pictures of Sly featured. I remember in the dream thinking that was pretty great, touting it as the funkiest frame, ever. And it came with a bonus Sly lapel pin.

What a goofy dream...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBIA7hZE0l0

Guilt by Association

I swear, The Association might be the most evil band in pop music history. It's bad enough that they did "Cherish" (among other smash hits of mawkish sunshine pop) but they also did this one...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXN7wkSRVZg

I am so going to write a scene in a story where something absolutely horrifying and/or terrible happens to a character while that song is playing. It simply must be done.

See?

Toldja I'd be back.

I'm working on several stories right now, long and short. Short story of the moment is either horror or perhaps black comedy. I'm hoping to get that done in a week or so. Long fiction is alternately real-world ('adult contemporary' -- is that the bogus term for it?) or perhaps horror. Maybe a bit of both.

Also, I'm going to throw a few stories the New Yorker's way. Why not? I haven't done that in awhile. Keep'em entertained.

It's a challenge being noticed when you're in Flyover Country (e.g., that vast expanse of land between New York and LA). Sue me, I live in the Midwest, in Chicago.

I'm not doing National Novel-Writing Month this year, after having played a few times at that in previous years, completing books in a month's time. It's doable, and I've done it, and while it's fun having a kind of deadline gnawing at your leg a bit, I have nothing to prove where that is concerned, so I'm not doing NaNoWriMo this year, and never will again.

I'll move at my usual choo-choo train locomotive pace, racing along, banging out words, and hopefully folks will read them.

If you're really nice, I'll even put some of those stories here, although I haven't decided what, yet, will go here. You'll know. I'll preface the subject line with "Fiction:" so there's no uncertainty.

And if you try to steal my story, I'll take your thumbs, simple as that.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Using "wicked" in the old-school way, like "Damn, that was totally wicked, Dude!" Like "gnarly" only more so. More to come....

"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance."
--Japanese Proverb