Wow

A childhood friend of mine read "Aegis," and he offered a very thorough commentary on it, which I had to post, because it was pretty amazing...

I finally got a chance to read your story yesterday, and I'm very glad I did. I'm sure others have gnawed over Aegis' characters, dialogue, plot, etc. the way wolves do with visceral matter still recalicitrantly adhering to a shoulder; so, I'm taking an alternative approach. I really enjoyed the way you described Euryale's home. It encapsulated her.

Many other writers utilize the setting as an enlarged prop which, at times allegorically, queered the lines of subjectivity and objectivity along with the character herself. The semiotic effect between her home and herself seems to oscillate to the point that, in spite of her secrecy, it exposes her personality. From Julian's initial encounter with her home until his final confrontation, you reveal Euryale's character in the same way one tours an historical manor, converted into a museum. Reading it in that perspective, I see her not as a tragic heroine, but a waste of life and an intended blight upon humanity, as she saw herself through her gods' perspective: "'the ... curses they bestow upon us, the less fortunate.'" Her property presents itself as an oxymoron: wild yet conservative, no trespassing yet enter if you must. Both she and it weigh visitors with a scale for earnest sincerity (or ... do you really wanna' go there).

The garden grants Julian a first impression of Euryale's persona. After bypassing the reclusive compound's "impassible" fence, that contradictorily was "not entirely adequate to the task," he observes the "well-tended" wild roses all pink and white, with nary a red one. While Julian recognizes the maintained order, he fails to regard the significance of color. I believe that you reveal that their owner has a strong degree of control without passion, as evident with the absence of red blossoms. The wild variant of roses might imply that she does not inherently align with our laws and culture, a bit more than marching to the beat of her own drummer. From the wild roses wrapped around one of her victims (the statue of a trespasser), I infer that she enthralls her victims, regardless of their entry, until it's too late for them. The flowers (and their stems) ensnare her prisoner, granting no quarter, and obliging a permanent suffering. She even explains that "'no one enters my garden without invitation.'" Euryale knows exactly who walks her grounds, or rather, interacts with her; how intimate they familiarize themselves with her, is entirely up to her. She weighs their desire and determines the degree of wanting.

Her home's interior allegorically mirrors her mind. Throughout the hallways and front rooms, paintings of landscapes and portraits of those she knew are displayed; "every inch of the walls was taken up with paintings." These paintings show her age and travels - the teleological significances. Yet, they hang dispassionately, with more affection to the frames or imposed prisons containing them. She brings him into the cold living room which presents a culturally modern look to make visitors suppose she's image conscious. But, it's the coldness Julian feels about the room which informs the reader that Euryale cares little for it or the occupants frequenting it. She even frankly admits to Julian that her talent for painting is "adequate" at best. He completely misses her dispassionate take on life, as if it now bores her. Later on in the story, she hints about the artwork in her other rooms, paintings of others that knew her more intimately, but these memories share the same apathetic feel as they hang on her walls and consume space in her immortal memory. Julian recognizes upon his entrance on the grounds that, "the house felt lonely, and he felt sympathy with that." As his interaction with her continues, he fails to understand that Euryale, too, experiences those pangs, and that the house mirrors it.

Only when he arrives at her inner sanctum does he begin to realize Euryale's banality and lack of panache. For her, this room is her inner sanctum - where she conducts her work and where she reveals her identity. It's spartan minimalism denies any interpretation; its blank white walls, mundane track lighting and glass block windows (which eliminate any inspiration from the reality outside) present an uninspiring studio, and Julian calls it like he sees it: "'You're not a sculptor, you're a fraud' ... " She may have relocated some of her work or other memorabilia around to other rooms, like Clive's to her bedroom, but this studio is where the magic (or lack thereof) happens in her existence. Her bland studio explains much about her thoughts and life, along with the mirror - capturing her true being and revealing something as devoid of vivacity as the statues she damns.

"'You're not even an artist, you're a monster.'" Yep, even the house with its snake-like Gothic slate tiles and cold iron gate hint at her nature: taloned hands, snakes for hair, controlled wild garden flowers imply a subtle mythical creature who desires to "'remind people that nightmares still walk the world.'" This self admission confirms what her guest Julian felt all along. Moreover, her distaste for the word monster reinforces her earlier self description as one of the cursed less fortunate. Yet it's the subtlety that I cannot shake. Julian wanted to see her. He repeatedly ignores all the warnings she offers and pays attention to her seductive mystery to the point that he exposes himself as he truly is, through his artwork. She weighs his earnest sincerity and finds it not wanting but appealing. Just like the house, it gauges visitors (desired or undesired) and determines whether its facade keeps people away or grants the more determined access to its interior. Once inside, the walls and rooms subtly show nothing more than the disdain for life and her history, until one reaches her studio and observes the absence of everything - a living being devoid of a soul.

Salinger and LitFic

This piece talks about Salinger being credited with the creation of the literary short story. Perhaps "blame" would be a better word?

Year's End

A new short story idea came to me while driving about today:

• Roadkill

It's gonna be fun. The story was busy trying to write itself while I was driving, and I made mental notes and plan to work on it this week, maybe as soon as tomorrow.

I'm going to try to be super-industrious and do a short story a week in 2010. We'll see how it goes. I like the challenge of it. It's not so hard coming up with the ideas, as it is getting the time to write them. But all part of making 2010 a good year.

Wrongful Logic

I am going to try to sell a collection of my short stories. A longshot, to be sure, but everything is, where writing is concerned, and I'd like to think that anything will increase my odds. Something really is better than nothing.

The collection will be entitled "Wrongful Logic." I picked 12 of my short stories for it, mostly horror, a little science fiction and literary. A good cross-section of my work:

• Bait
• Chosen
• Maenad
• A Monsters Sleeps Inside Me
• White Meat
• Entropy's Vestal Virgin
• Pigeon Man
• Airlock
• The Atomic Baby
• Mermaid's Smile
• The Shape
• Living With Syn

I think that's a decent sampling. I have enough short stories for a couple of anthologies, but this would be a nice "how do you do?" from me to a casual reader, before they dove into some of my long fiction. I should tally it up, see how many words that would be.

79,602 words. So, that'd be a decent-sized book.

The challenge will be getting the interest of anybody in the publishing world on that. But it'll be another iron in the proverbial fire, so that'll keep me warm in the coming winter months.