NecronomiCON 2013 after-report

Elizabeth Bear once told me that Providence is a non-Euclidian city, that it has never been properly mapped, and that you cannot fathom it's complexity. I should listen to her more.



Aside from the 'getting there' problem (I stayed off-site , requiring me to drive in each morning. I got lost two days out of three), NecronomiCON 2013 was massively awesome. I met a lot of people who I respect (Liard Barron, Cody Goodfellow, John Langan, Joe Pulver, Scott Adam Glancy), reaffirmed friendships with people I've met in the past (Wilum Pugmire, Jack Haringa, Lois Gresh, Dr. Faye Ringel), and generally enjoyed myself having conversations with well-read Lovecraftians. The programming was pretty good, although I found the more specific panels ("Lovecraft and Sex, Gender, and Sexuality," "The Long Shadow: Lovecraft's Influence") to be more satisfying than the general ones.



I would estimate that the female-to-male ratio was probably 1:5, but that's a quantum leap over previous Lovecraftian conventions I have attended.

Either there's a curse on me, or proofreaders are in sharp decline. With the last three books I purchased at conventions, I've cracked the first page, and discovered a typo. This particularly egregious in the case of Cody Goodfellow's Deepest, Darkest Eden, because Nick Mamatas is such a stickler about typos. SLightly more annoying was picking up a copy of Undead and Unbound with a magnificent cover by Paul Mudie, which I have a story in. The table of contents lists my story as being on page 199, when it actually starts on page 197. Weird. And unique to my story. All the rest start on their listed pages.





Friday's lunch I spent with a gentleman whose name I don't remember. We chatted at the bar of Viva Mexica, an excellent and reasonably priced Mexican place close the Hotel Providence. Wonderful talk, and a cool place. But I'm wondering if anybody tell me anything about this statue? It appears to be a Mexican, or perhaps Aztec, woman with a bow. I've never read any stories about Mexican or Aztec women shooting archery, so I'm very curious.



Creativity was on diplay everywhere. Here, Larry Elig sits with his quite astonoshing hand-sculpted Cthulhu. It's beautiful.





Providence was very welcoming. Once you got in, of ocurse. The convention was split between two different buildings, meaning the con-goers got some much-needed sunshine moving from the Biltmore to the Hotel Providence. And even that wasn't bad because the troad was lovely and antiquarian. The buildings in downtown Providence are from a different era. And they're quite lovely. I didn't mind walking down this road a couple of times a day.



And so I went to the Hotel Providence for a panel, and was stunned by the clock they have in there. If anything ever should stand in for Brian Lumley's de Marigny's clock, it's this bad boy. The maitre'd was kind enough to provide me with a fact sheet, which tells me it is circa 1900 from the CDilbert Company of Winsted, Connecticut. It's in the Egyptian Revival style, and made of walnut.





Saturday was more panels, and fewer pictures. I was getting wrapped up at the con, the air of Providence, and all the wonderful Lovecraftian stuff. It was wonderful, and I had a magnificent lunch with Cody Goodfellow and Wilum Pugmire. Meals like that are like rock and roll camp. You're having a conversation with people whose opinions really matrter to you, and they're listening and conversing with you. There's nothing like a conversation about tradecraft, or the process, with a cxouple of creative people. Magnificent conversation is part of the reason I drove myself to write. I remember listening to Tim Powers talk about the conversations he has had, and I desperately wanted to be part of those. Now, I'm starting to be part of them. And it's wonderful.

Sunday was the last day, but the panels were excellent. The guests were tired, so there was a bit less filtering going on between the brain and the mouth. A lot of honest opinions from some very interesting people who love Lovecraft. Special shout-out to Lois Gresh and Caitlin Kiernan for their fascinating insights into HP Lovecraft and the sexual nature that seethed under the surface of his writing.

The last lunch was with Jack Haringa and John Langan, both excellent writers. But they can sustain a dick joke longer than my Pathfinder group. Way longer. Guys, Michael Sisco's Member is neither that long, and isn't all that hard. And that's all I'm saying.

I regretted leaving Providence, but sleep was something I needed, and it was a long way back to the haunted Green Mountains. I loved Necronomicon, and plan on getting a better package for 2015. I want to go to the prayer breakfast, I want to go too the special meet and greet for gold members. Next time, when the stars are right.

We Will Only Pass This Way Once...

If you've got sharp eyes and pay attnetion to details, you will notice that there's a story in the 'published' section of this blog that is not on my web page. "Death on the American Family Farm" was sold to Undead Press's anthology Book of the Dead, one of several presses run by Anthony Giangregorio. Anthony has been at the center of some controversy recently, and I think it's time I weighed in on this.

The critics, including Brian Keene, Nick Mamatas, and several people who Anthony has bought stories from, are right. Undead press and Anthony Giangregorio are ignorant, unethical publishers that I wouldn't to go near if they offered ten cents a word.

Ultimately, this is my own damn fault. I was just starting out, I was looking for a sale to boost my ego, so I sent a story off to a penny-a-word publication. And I got in. And that was the beginning of my trouble.

Giangregorio called me. On the phone. Helpful hint to gentle readers; if you have Brooklyn accent, people will already thing you're a used-car salesman. Trying to hustle them by asking if they have any other stories is a big put-off. So when he asked, I said I didn't. Which was a lie, but I felt like I was getting hustled. Which, it turned out, I was.

The Book of the Dead was published, and immediately came under attack. In those days, I hung out at the Shocklines forum, where a lot of horror professionals (and a few schmucks) talk shop. John Skipp, co-edtor of the seminal 80's Book of the Dead objected to Undead Press's use of his title. Like a real pro, Giangregorio got defensive, pointing out that you cannot copyright a title, and was really rude to the person he claimed the anthology was an homage to (See Nick Mamatas' documentation of this on his blog.

A few days later, it came to light that Giangregorio had used characters from the Dawn of the Dead, which is an enormous copyright no-no, and also completely frikking stupid.

I don't think that the illustrious Mr.Giangregorio messed with my story, but by the time I had one in my hands, I was already too embarassed to read it. I have a single copy, and it's not even in my personal collection of my work. I won't give him a blessed dime. It seems like he's getting worse, no longer content to merely suck, he's inserting bestiality and bad grammar into stories he's bought. See Brain Keene's blog for this sack of crap.

Be smart. Know your publisher, and if somethig smells fishy, it probably is. The reek of something like this is very hard to wash off, even if everyone else has forgotten about it.

Now, let's never talk about this again.

The Big Fan-Fic Kerfluffle

Well, somebody blew up about fan fiction, and SF being a fairly small community, there's been a bit of discussion about it.

And it's been interesting to hear various people weigh in on the discussion. Predictable, I find the most interesting and cogent thoughts to be from writers of my generation, and who I've met.

Charlie Stross has a very well thought-out post on his attitude toward fan fiction using his characters or settings.

Nick Manatas presents a very interesting case of what copyright is and what it is not, using the rather complex case of HP Lovecraft as an example.

Me? I'm essentially still a fanfic writer, although I've gotten paid decently for one of them. And, as Silviamag said in the comments of Nick Mamatas' post, "I'll say it again: the day there's erotic lesbian fan fiction of my work is the day I've made the big leagues."

Brian Keen Must Die!

"By Way of Thank You"
by John Goodrich

What really killed Brian Keene wasn’t his writing, but taking a break from it.

He had been spending a lot of time in the nearly-inaccessible concrete bunker in the bowels of the defense installation he called The Compound. His home, his safe haven from the hordes of ravening FUKU, as well as semi-human zombie fanciers. Here he wrote his books and stories, and, on occasion, posted to the Internet.

He’d just finished a particularly difficult scene, and figured he deserved a bit of down time. Maybe he would go look at That Message board.

“FINALLY PUBLISHED!” was the thread’s title. With more trepidation than hope, Brian clicked.

“YeAZ BiTcHeZ!” gushed the post. “The Crapola anthology series took my story. Cost me $200 for the processing, but they really liked “Zombie Slumber Party Slaughter.” They said I could be the next Stefanie Myer with my talent. All I need is to get sdome notice, which I’ll get once Crapola hits the stands! Who’s a thought it, published on my first story!”

Brian ground his teeth. He’s typed this response so often his fingers already knew where to go as he thought about what to have for lunch.

“No. Look, kid, money flows to the author.” The words ripped across the screen like a jackrabbit with an M-80 up its tailpipe. “These assholes at Crapola are ripping you off. They aren’t distributing your story. Nobody worth anything reads Crapola. You’ve just flushed your money down a dirty but well-worn toilet.”

He clicked the “send” button, and wandered around the site to see if there was any worthwhile conversation to be had.

A few minutes later, the thread had been lengthened by a single response. He took a deep breath, readied himself for the usual ignorant rebuttal, and viewed the thread.

“Don’t be h8tr, dudzor” the message ran. “I’ve been working on this writing thing for six weeks, and you old guyz don’t like to see the new guyz coming up to kick ur assez. Yeah, I didn’t make any momney off the sale, but people can and do read the Crapola anthologies. That’s why they charge so much—they get great distribuition. In a couple of months, someone else will pick up my storey, and I’ll get a contract for a couple of books. They said I will be the horror’s next Sephanie Meyer.”

“You fucking idiot!” He didn’t type it, he screamed it at the screen. Not for the first time, he wished for a device that would let him slap sense into someone through the Internet. Since he didn’t have one, he was just going to have to school this numbskull with words that would probably bounce of his thick skull. But he had to try.

The light in the bunker flashed. That was the doorbell. He only switched it on when the wife was out… dammit. She was out shopping. Food or clothes or something. He wished he’d paid more attention to where she was going.

Nothing to do but go see who it was. He considered dropping the intruders sight unseen into the pit trap that he reserved for Jehova’s Witnesses. But it might be someone he wasn’t expecting. Someone he liked.

He looked through the peeohole. They were lawyers. They didn’t even have to open their mouths and he knew they were lawyers. They wore stereotypical pinstriped suits, with the red power ties that should have died in the ninties. Their hair was immobile, even in the November breeze.

What the did lawyers want with him? Not pushing the button to dump them into the oubliette took more willpower than had gone into his first book. Lawyers. He took a deep breath, calmed himself, and checked the loads of the weapons cache. When he was ready, he opened the door.

“Mr. Keene?” The lefthand lawyer was wearing sunglasses on an overcast November day. He clearly thought he was Mr. Smith from the Matrix. “Mr. Brian Keene?”

Brian let out a small, dejected sigh. He was about to be served.

“Yeah that’s me.”

“We are the representatives of PublishNorthAmerica, the publishers of Crapola. We understand you’ve been advising one of our authors not to pay for publication. Not to mention the slanderous ways in which you attack out client, PublishNorthAmerica, whenever they come up.”

“Wait a second. Didn’t your little trip out here cost a little bit more than you made from any of those little guys? You guys charge more by the hour than that guy paid you.”

“You have been a thorn in our side for some time, Mr. Keene. Now it is time to rectify that.”

Keene’s easy smile was confident, and the smirk on the lawyer’s face faded.

“What’s black and brown and looks good on a lawyer?” the author asked.

The lawyers exchanged glances, wasting valuable time as the Rotties charged them. A gruesome gurgling was followed by the wet crunch of bone, and then a sloppy licking sound.

As the dogs were about their work, Brian noticed the black van that was parked on the street. Even as he was wondering how much more cliché his visitors could be, the van’s side door opened, and two more men in black suits stepped out. The left one even had sunglasses.

“Fuck this.” Brian pulled a pistol off the wall and unloaded. The two went down in crumpled heaps. This was going to be a big mess.

The black van’s door opened again, and a squad of black-suited figured leaped out, this time carrying an array of assault rifles and pistols. He could almost hear the Propellerheads music as they charged, firing with all the accuracy of Hollywood Nazis.

Bullets smacked against walls, and the concrete of the Compound echoed with thunder as Brian returned fire. They were all on the ground in a few seconds, and Brian was reloading.

The van vomited more black-suited bodies, as if they’d stowed some sort of clown car in it. But their tactics were movie simple: run forward, guns blazing. Running and gunning, they were as accurate as a Dan Brown novel, cliché as an exploding car.

Wait a minute.

Brian pumped four shots into the van’s engine block.

True to form, it exploded in a fireball that would have made ten kilos of plastic explosive proud. The van vaulted backwards, nose over end, before coming to rest in a smoking, burning heap.

The quiet was sudden end eerie, the only sound the panting of the Rotties and the greasy crackle of flames devouring burning van.

Not much later, The Wife drove up. He watched her cascade of red hair as she slung the kid, then threaded her way across the corpse-strewn yard.

“Half the county heard that explosion,” she said. “And there was only one place it could come from. You’ve got quite the mess to clean up.“

Brian rolled his eyes. “Me? But this isn’t my fau—“

Her glance was so sharp he never felt the cut. Just fell to the ground, the world turning black.

“I warned you before,” she said, somewhere beyond the black cotton that smothered the world. “Never mess with the redhead.”

 
Today is Brian Keene Must Die day. Brian will be killed in dozens of horrifying ways in blogs across the blogosphere for a very good cause. Please consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards.

Someday I’ll be one of the cool kids and hear about these before they happen. I owe Brian for a very good headbanging that I desperately needed a few years ago. Thanks, Brian.

Leaving the Wedding in Tears

Mood: Gruntled


Another new experience. Dark Scribe Press sent me a copy of Unspeakable Horror: Terrors from the Closet, which my story was a bridesmaid (I made the initial cut with an invitation to rewrite, but didn't get all the way to the altar). Dark Scribe Press kindly sent me a free copy. I probably would have picked it up anyway, since I want to read more of Lee Thomas's work. And there's the morbid curiosity of wondering if the stories are better than mine. I know that I cannot be impartial, and that the editors' taste is not my own, but I've been given the opportunity to pick at this particular scab.

It still smarts a bit. The stories are good (I'm only half-way through it), so far the standouts are Michel Scalise's "I am the Shadow that Walks There" and Joy Marchand's "Black Annis." Overall, it's a book I would have been squeeingly happy to be in. But yesterday, that bastard Nick Mamatas told us how every "quiet horror" story ever written goes. Unspeakable Horror contains at least two quiet horror stories, and Mamatas is not wrong.

Also, I see that the horror is a bit less visceral than the story I sent (since renamed "Not an Ulcer"). I hadn't considered that my horror was particularly hard edged, but I can see that the editors were looking for something less gruesome and uncomfortable as my story. And, if I'm honest with myself, better written.

Professionalism lesson of the day...

Know when to shut up.

Case in point, the fascinating, if incredibly one-sided 'argument' between a group of professional authors and the editor of SNM Horror Magazine.

Mission: Networking!

Mood:






Mission Accomplished

I took Saturday and went to Boskone 45, Boston's largest and primarolty literary SF convention. There I met several Neconites and using information gleaned from them, crashed the New England Horror Writers' dinner. And I met (OK, met and remembered, because I've apparently met Jack before) Jack Haringa, who is cool, classy, a great conversationalist, and a also an appreciator of Muppets, Nick "I don't have to write, I'm a Stoker-Nominated author!" Kaufmann, Paul G. Tremblay, F. Brett Cox, who , it turns out, works at the same university my father used to, Lon Prater, and of course Nick Mamatas. I did a lot of networking, at least as far as I could shout down the table.


I'm interested in following the development of the latest horror award, the Shirley Jackson Awards, and not just because I've been to her house. Jackson is, however, the origin of the myth that we stone people to death in Bennington. This is a dirty lie—Jackson lived in North Bennington.


The collaboration between David Conyers and I has been sent off to the editor. I think it came out rather well, and am hoping that it gets into the anthology.

Top 10 Great Things About World Fantasy Con 2007

World Fantasy Con was head-spinningly awesome. More writers and topics and editors and all-around delightful people than you could shake a wizard's wand at. I could go on to a hundred or more by being specific, but I'll just tease you with the top 10 great things about World Fantasy Con 2007:

10. Picking up a copy of Nick Mamatas’s Move Under Ground and then starting to set it back on the shelf, only to discover the author was standing behind me. I bought it, and he signed it. Nick remembered that I submitted “God of Chickens” to him without me having to prompt him, which I thought was pretty cool of him. Nick’s a neat guy to talk to.

9. The constant “Holy shit, Walter Jon Williams/ Charles Vess/ Kim Newman/ Lynn Abbey/ Tim Powers” moments as Walter Jon Williams/ Charles Vess/ Kim Newman/ Lynn Abbey/ Tim Powers and literally dozens of other familiar names walked by. It was extraordinarily difficult not to geek out at the parade of fantastic authors who have influenced, entertained and exhilarated me of the years, and I did not succeed every time. They were without exception polite, which cannot have been easy. I will try very hard to restrain my enthusiasm at the next convention, but at the same time, I want these people to know that their work is absolutely marvelous. I must find some balance.

8. William Jones. The man himself–he who bought my first story. We had a long conversation (long enough that the bookseller we were standing in front of shooed us away) about the publication process, what’s going on with Chaosium and Elder Signs Press, why short stories are a good thing, and what’s up next for us both. Awesome guy, and a very important conversation for me.

7. ST Joshi is a stunningly personable man. Those who have only read his commentaries simply cannot understand what an warm and delightful conversationalist he is.

6. The stories. When authors get together, they trade stories about writing and publishing. Like the one about the guy who got a rejection letter and posted a huge rant about it on his blog. A publisher who wanted to give him a three-book deal, looked him up, saw the rant, and decided he might be too difficult to work with. Note to self, be more polite when posting to blog.

5. F. Paul Wilson and Tom Monteleone’s stories. These guys are the veterans of the book trade, and they have a million and one stories, all of the fascinating. Any ending you can imagine to something that starts off with “So Peter Straub, Stephen King and I went out to find the sleeziest strip club in Ottowa” falls short of the actual story. I’m sorry, but it’s simply the truth.

4. Learning that Elizabeth Bear used to play in my CoC campaign! Yes, that Elizabeth Bear.

3. Gary Frank. The thing to do at a convention is to follow Gary around, because he goes some extremely interesting places. And while he does so, he talks a lot of sense about marketing yourself, convention etiquette, and generally how to work conventions to your advantage. Gary’s an old hand at cons, so his advice is useful and practical.

2. Wilum Pugmire. Wilum is so supportive and kind to this fledgling writer. He gave me at least two significant opportunities I would not have thought to take advantage of myself, and we indulged in some highly entertaining conversation. There's no one like Wilum. We've been corresponding for a year, and it was simply a joy to finally meet him.

1. Reading this from “Summation 2006: Horror Anthologies” by Ellen Datlow (p. lii-liii), in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, 2007: "Arkham Tales, edited by William Jones (Chaosium), is, according to the editor’s introduction, the first anthology in which '. . . each story . . . is realized in Chaosium’s adaptation of the cosmic horror sub-genre.' In other words, if I understand correctly, each story is inspired directly by an actual aspect of the ‘Call of Cthulhu’ role-playing game published by Chaosium Press. Despite this, the stories do stand alone, and some do some nice riffs on the mythos, including those of C. J. Henderson, Brian M. Sammons, and John Goodrich.”

My Own Honest-to-God Nick Mamatas Personal Rejection Letter!

Hey, my very first personal rejection letter, this one from Nick Mamatas at Clarkesworld Magazine. He rejected “God of Chickens” a story I wrote specifically to submit to Clarkesworld, and specifically to follow his guidelines. With his permission, I am reproducing his rejection letter here:

John,

Thanks for the story, but it's not for me. I enjoyed the ending and some of the more visceral imagery, but the "kids/teens finding something horrific" aspect drags the piece down. We get a lot of stories that hang on such a structure, and generally the problem is that whatever they find is so much more interesting than the process of finding it, and given more importance in the narrative than character development, that it ends up feeling like most of the story is there just to get us to the monster. As monsters go, the God of Chickens has a lot of potential, but this story would be much more interesting if it began a little bit before where it currently ends. We've all read the one about the little bastards who get their comeuppance before too; the bloody rampage of a God of Chickens and the way he might change the world is fresher and more exciting.


Hm. I find this encouraging (after several days of not finding it so). He does express interest in the story, although he did reject it. It’s funny, though, I nearly changed the ending because the submission guidelines say that “stories where the climax is dependent on the spilling of intestines” are a hard sell.

Hmmm. The guidelines also state that “stories about young kids playing in some field and discovering ANYTHING. (a body, an alien craft, Excalibur, ANYTHING)” is a hard sell, and this is where he categorizes “God of Chickens.” Hm. I have come to be aware that I like stories, horror or not, in which I can connect emotionally with the protagonist. I think Elizabeth Massie’s “Fence Line” was one of the best stories in Lords of the Razor because she treats the character so intimately. Drawn in by the character, I relate to the story much more intensely. However, “Fence Line” is a much longer short story than “God of Chickens”, and just can't afford to spend as much time on developing character—at 4,000 words, I have to get right into the story.

That said, looking at the story, Nick is right–the story is a one-idea story (ie an episode of Seinfeld, rather than The Simpsons), and the first third of the story is getting to the idea. The God of Chickens is interesting, (thank you Nick), but I need to do something further with it. A thousand words of lead-in and character development could be done in fewer words. I tend to lead in with a lot of character development, and I think it would be better if I focused more on establishing the characters in broad strokes early on, and then develop them as the action happens.

The little bastards getting their comeuppance–there’s a complex little question. I don’t see it as getting a comeuppance–there are two characters in the story, and I wanted to have one of them witness what was happening. I prefer that to the narrator telling the reader what’s going on–it allows me to put emotion into the description without feeling like I’m telling the reader how to feel. And I’d rather work through the more sympathetic character, and of course I want to bastard to get it. And again Nick is right–I have to ignore that urge–the morality tale has been done to death since Aesop, and if the audience knows who’s going to get it, there’s no sense of anticipation (unless you really set it up that the audience is just drooling in anticipation of the bastard getting it, something I’m doing with another piece). Since there are only two characters in the story, this leaves me with a conundrum, and my conclusion, once again, that the problem is more with the structure of the story than who actually gets it in the end. Because even if I flip a coin as to who gets glorked and it comes up ‘the bad boy’, it still feels like a comeuppance. If that’s not the end of the story, however, then it won’t have that morality-tale feel to it.

In a few sentences, Nick has provided me with enough though-provoking material that I’ve come up with a rewrite that does begin about where the current story ends and goes on from there. I won’t be able to send it back to him, unfortunately. Clarkesworld doesn’t take re-submissions.

So, a week after the fact, thank you very much for the for the personal rejection, Nick.