Phantom vs. Phantom at Babel Clash

“More Judging a Book by its Cover(s)”: Phantom vs. Phantom

Guest blogging at Babel Clash with Vandermeer and Durham

As a lead up to our reading next week (Nov. 20th, Borders on Boylston Street in Boston, 7pm), Jeff Vandermeer, David Anthony Durham, and little old me are guest blogging for Borders SF blog, Babel Clash.   The idea is that we’ll be blogging about certain topics presented to us.  First up is cover design, and my first post is here.

Tod Goldberg on No Sleep till Wonderland

“No Sleep till Wonderland delivers on the tremendous promise of The Little Sleep, simultaneously paying homage to classic noir fiction while creating a damaged and irrevocably lost anti-hero in PI Mark Genevich, who is always on the verge of emotional and physical collapse. This is a novel filled with black humor but an even blacker subtext that makes the reader question the nature of reality and self; heady stuff for a crime novel, for sure, but Paul Tremblay is a fearless writer and No Sleep till Wonderland is positively magnetic fiction.”—Tod Goldberg, author of Other Resort Cities and Simplify

MT Anderson’s FEED

So I’m a little late in reading this incredible book.  Cut me some slack.  I’ve been busy.

Feed is a satirical/dystopian novel, where all folks have feeds implanted in their brains, so they can chat and watch TV and most importantly get commercials and updates on their favorite products, and order them from inside their head as well.   I love that Anderson’s anti-consumerism message is so loud as to not be missed, but subtle enough that you the societal and individual consequences of the feed implant are surprising and creepy as hell.

The real triumph of this book is his narrator Titus.  Titus is vapid, shallow, superficial, but compelling.  Titus’s character and voice is the product of the culture, and while he’s generally a deplorable person, particularly to Violet (a girl who didn’t get a feed until later in life, and isn’t afraid to ask questions about what is happening around her) , we do feel empathy for him, for what he has become.   Couldn’t have liked this book more.

A personal aside:  After finishing a book, I tend to go to amazon and read reviews for a larf.  Yes, a larf.  It’s odd, but I think I get more lathered-up-angry at negative reviews of books that I didn’t write, than my own.  Not that FEED got many negative reviews, but the ones it did get were so miss-the-point-stupid, with complaints about Titus not being likable.  Really, people, I swear, if you use “the character wasn’t likable” as a criticism of fiction, I’m going to put you on my must-kick-them-in-the-shins list.

If I were to narcissistically get a paragraph tatooed to my chest…

…it would be the following from Kent Allard’s blog review of The Little Sleep:

Some readers of mysteries want the written version of a CLUE game, where a dogged, brilliant investigator unravels clues until everything is revealed. These readers may not find The Little Sleep to their liking. The book is far more about Genevich’s struggle to make it through his disability than about Miss Marple figuring out who killed the vicar in the cloakroom.

Yeah!  Down with Miss Marple!

Somewhat related…my father used to work for Parker Brothers, before the soulless corporate whores of Hasbro bought out the company and shut down the plant in Salem, MA, and when CLUE the movie came out, we got to see an early, free screening.  One with multiple endings.  I don’t remember much of the flick, but I remember the butler, Tim Curry.

 

Phantom reviewed in Publisher’s Weekly

And it’s a good review!

Phantom Edited by Paul Tremblay and Sean Wallace. Prime (www.prime-books.com), $14.95 paper (256p) ISBN 978-1-60701-200-9

Ghosts, disaffected wives, deserted towns, obsessive journalists and children who never existed haunt the pages of this stunning, elegant and frightful anthology of “literary horror” assembled by Stoker nominee Tremblay and World Fantasy Award–winning Wallace (Bandersnatch)… deliciously creepy book of horrors that prove all the more terrifying for their everyday nature.”

The review gives a nice shout out to Steve Berman’s “Kinder,” Lavie Tidhar’s “Set Down This,” and Stephen Graham Jones’s “The Ones Who Got Away.”  Yay!

Kill Brian Keene!

I Killed Brian Keene But It Really Wasn’t My Fault, I Swear, It’s Complicated, But I Was Sort of Used Like Reggie Jackson in The Naked Gun, Not Used Like Enrico Pallazo, and Yeah, This Title Still Rocks Despite the 20 Year Old Pop Culture Reference, and It’s Still Hard for Me to Believe Nordberg Was OJ Simpson

by Paul Tremblay

My friends, colleagues, and secret members of the Elitist Horror Cabal had warned me repeatedly. They said, “Paul, stay away from Shawklynes.” Shawklynes was like the-wild-wild-west of horror message boards or something, so I’d heard. They said, “People are catching a virus, even those who only surf and lurk within the threads.” Now, I found the virus bit hard to believe, but they were adamant, and insistent, and all the other ents and ants. They said, “It’s called the ‘dagsbrowne’ virus. It corrupted your brain via the text on the message board. It was infecting folks and turning them into crazed zombies with the requisite hunger for flesh, though that hunger was specific to horror writers with book deals.” The dagsbrowne virus sounded familiar to me, but I thought it was some sort of foot fungus or rump rash. Apparently I was mistaken and they were very serious about this virus being a threat. They said, “Paul, you are beautiful and everyone loves you. Don’t go to Shawklynes. Enjoy your family and take the kids trick or treating. Stay away from the computer on Halloween.”

They said this to me in one collective voice, speaking unanimously like a Greek chorus. Still, I did not heed the warnings. I needed to see and read the message board for myself. Oh, I was such a beautiful and loved fool!

I went to the message board and my infection was almost instantaneous. As I clicked and read thread after thread, I felt the fires of my rational thought extinguish into smoke rings of avarice, jealousy, paranoia, and sloth. The true horror of my infection was the shred of self-awareness that remained as if only to maintain the grips of the narrative of this true tale of woe. I continued to read and descend into the gob of the virus, and then, at some point, I do not remember when as I’d lost time and more than a few teeth, I was in my car, driving on the highway, alone, pointed south, and heading toward Brian Keene’s house.

Hours of suffering passed. I parked my car askew in Brian’s driveway and lurched to the front door. My skin had a greenish hue, and I was a little sleepy. But mostly I was filled with virus fueled rage, and a hunger for Keene’s salty and cinnamon sweet (so I’ve heard) flesh.

I rang the doorbell daintily.

Brian opened the door and said, “Hey, Paul? What are you doing here, man? Come on in, it’s cold out, bro.” He was holding a rescued kitten and he wore a nice flannel, something my favorite uncle might’ve worn. He also wore a big, cuddly smile. The virus cringed and thrashed within my blood.

I grunted.

Brain said, “You don’t look too good, Paul. You feeling okay? Here, let me wrap this blanket around you. I knitted it myself. And I’ll put some soup and cocoa on for you too, pal.”

I followed him into the kitchen. The blanket was warm, but the virus told me lies. It said that the blanket was woven from the souls of a thousand despairing horror writers. The soup was warm and delicious. But the virus told me it was poison and eating one drop would ensure that I would never get published anywhere ever again. The virus liked the cocoa, though.

I said, “I think publishing my work at Stabstabbystab.com would be good for my career. Or I’m gonna use a new small press that features cover art not worthy of a third grader. Or I’m going to add zombies to 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Little Women.” My voice was modulated in a way that was very scary.

Brian said, “Geeze, Paul, those sure don’t sound like good ideas to me, but I’ll still love you like a brother anyway.”

I said, “I think mid-list and well published horror authors are killing teh genre. It’s all the mediocrity preventing brilliant minds from getting published by the rich elite in New York City. Our ebooks and vanity published efforts are better than everyone else’s stuff, and you know it. I think that in order to get published it’s not talent and countless hours of hard work, but you need to only know the secret handshake and you’re keeping the secret handshake…um… a secret from us slathering hordes! Slathering hordes, I say!”

Brian said, “Paul? What are you saying? You don’t really believe that. What happened to you?” and manly tears of despair flowed out of his puppy dog eyes.

With the very last ounce of myself I yelled, “Run, Brian! I’m infected by the dagsbrowne virus! You’re not safe around me! Run!”

Brian said, “Dagsbrowne virus? Isn’t that a foot fungus? Or rump rot? I’ve got some talc if you need it. No wonder why you’re not yourself, bro.”

Poor, trusting Brian. I stood up quickly from the table and then I pushed in my chair quietly as I didn’t want to disturb the rest of the house. I launched myself at Brian and his demise is too gruesome to detail. Suffice to say, I enjoyed Brian’s brain like so much breakfast grapefruit.

So you see, Brian’s horrible death is not all my fault. I was used like a weapon by the virus, which while currently dormant, could re-emerge at any time. It’s too late for me, but please do what you can to inoculate yourself against the virus. To quote Kevin McCarthy: It’s already here, and you’re next. You’re nnnn….nnnn…. er…
(*transformation warning*) wait, that McCarthy guy was in a famous movie with aliens or something, the guy who wrote that was a mediocre hack so if I rewrite that book and add zombies then I’ll be as big as Stephen King and know the secret handshake…(trails off irrationally)

*If you enjoyed this or any other killing of Mr. Keene on ‘Kill Brian Keene on Your Blog Day’ please consider throwing a couple of bucks the way of the Shirley Jackson Awards.  Paypal donate button here.*

Taught my first horror writing workshop!

I spent Tuesday and Wednesday night at Emerson College.  Stacey Friedberg and Gangsters in Concrete (the school’s lit magazine) invited me to teach a 90 horror writing workshop and a follow-up open mic reading.

Tuesday night: I’ve taught math for more years than I care to admit, but I’ve never taught a writing class. I was excited and a little nervous.  But I think it well.  27 students came to the workshop, which was great.  These folks didn’t have to be there (weren’t mandated by their profs to be there), so it was cool and gratifying to see so many students interested in horror.

Despite it being the least commercially viable form of horror, we spent most of our time discussing literary horror.  We talked about the best (or most effective, most memorable) horror being transgressive, and not being safe.  We talked about treading carefully with tropes (including twist endings).  The students performed a handful of exercises and my only regret is that we ran out of time for them to work in groups and compare the results of their last and most detailed exercise.  I gave them a handout full of resource links, and answers to two horror-ific questions, the answers provided by my kind and generous writerly friends.

Wednesday night: I went back to Emerson to be the judge during an open-mic scary story contest reading.   I was very impressed by Andrew’s stories (both of which were much better than most of what I’d seen in slush piles).  I read “The Teacher” at the end, took some questions, then we spent an hour talking about favorite horror movies.

Big thanks again to Stacey and everyone at Emerson College for inviting me and making me feel so welcome on campus.   I’m very much looking forward to seeing the spec fic issue of Gangsters in Concrete.

ahem…tweet

I’m on twitter now for those who can only stand me 140 characters at a time.

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Story from PHANTOM at Fivechapters

Phantom, (the literary horror anthology I co-edited with Sean Wallace), will be available soon. In the mean time, go to Fivechapters.com to read one of Phantom’s stories: Stephen Graham Jones‘ amazing “The Ones Who Got Away.”

Happy Halloween!