Pleasurable Reading, Shaded Giants

The best thing I did as a reader in 2018 was intentionally refocus on reading what I like. For too many years, I’d been reading a blend of things that I thought I should be reading as a writer, trying to expand my horizons and do right on multiple counts. In the process I purchased books to support various authors, causes, etc… and developed a 100+ title TBR pile. Some I was more eager to read, some less, and I’d find myself “sneaking” books from the public library. Also, thinking longingly of re-reading old faves (I’m an inveterate book-revisitor).

Reader, something really had to give. This was more than vaguely clear in 2017, but by the end of 2018, it was no longer vague. Last year I finished reading 69 books and 37 graphic novels/trade collections, and I set aside unfinished maybe 10 books. Some months I was tearing through books, others limping. The slower months were overwhelmingly those when I was reading “shoulds.” Part of the slowness was lack of interest, part frustration at seeing weak writers praised or succeed, part simply a lack of desire to read.

That last part should have been a big clue. Many writers read quite a lot, outrageous quantities compared to the average American, and for a very long time I was one of them.  For a whole bunch of reasons, however, I reached a point in this decade where I was barely reading 2 books per month. Last year, giving myself license both to chuck books I wasn’t enjoying and to seek out authors and books likely to square with my interests, I read more like 6 books per month, 9  if you include comics.

Social media, the blessing/curse (blursing?) of our time, has been a blend of good and terrible in all of this. On the one hand, I’ve heard of books and authors that I wouldn’t otherwise have, some wonderful! One example of this is Matthew Bartlett, author of a host of genuinely strange neo-Decadent fictions. He can write, is a mensch, and is justifiably something of  a darling in contemporary weird fiction… but much of his work is self-published, or from small presses. And so, like many authors these days, he’s almost entirely absent from libraries. Without social media, and Facebook in particular, I would likely never have heard of him (check out Gateways to Abomination).

On the other hand, the literary market is beyond saturated, leading to endless PR and social media touting of “brilliant,” “important,” “essential,” “vital,” “outstanding,” etc. authors, and while I realize people want to help their friends and sell their own work, too often this is false advertising. (Ditto blurbs, in which I no longer place any stock whatsoever, as guides to whether I’ll like a book.) Whether it’s the literary fiction community, the weird fiction community, the YA community, or whatever, people ride high horses all the livelong day about this shit, and as someone wisely pointed out to me in 2018, literary communities are endlessly incestuous and precious. Paying too much attention to them can be fatal to taste and joy.

I thought about this much more this past year as I read and re-read various popular authors. These are folks with well-developed chops for carrying a narrative along: Stephen King, Karin Slaughter, John Sandford, J. K. Rowling, Neil Gaiman, etc., and of course I’m continually dipping back into Lovecraft, James, Machen, etc. Newer authors like Paul Tremblay or John Langan, or newcomers like Christine Mangan, have plenty of firepower in this regard, too. These are folks who have honed their craft and developed stories that work in the contemporary market.

marcus aurelius statueThere are so many different kinds of “good book,” or course, and the lists of authors you find in quality writing books like Delany’s About Writing include a host of different modes and styles. That’s a good thing! That said, as I focused in on heavier hitters, in terms of sales, reviews, etc., I likewise have been more apt to notice the green-eyed monster lurking under the faces of friends and writers I follow online, some bigger and some smaller.

Gaiman, King, Rowling, etc. are common targets for these complaints, and I get the frustration about the stiff competition to publish, but many people publicly and privately say boneheaded shit about authors who are titans in the field, as if the ability to win over readers is a bad thing. Part of that’s art-community nonsense, and building of various kinds of social capital, but to state the obvious, popular authors are successful in publishing. Luck, connections, family money, and so on do play into many literary careers, no question… and a lot’s been justifiably written about racism and sexism in publishing… but beloved authors are beloved. That you, Struggling Author, are not beloved does not mean that your favorite target is a literary shyster.

Reader, this blog post has grown unwieldy, and I’ve excised the 20% of it that would bring the wolves howling, in so far as anyone reads this blog. That, as a fellow writer I know who’s rarely online says, is part of the problem of talking about reading when you’re a writer. Anything other than glowing praise is at best going to result in silence. I offer no slings or arrows for anyone in particular here, but take it as you will that I no longer see “hidden,” “overlooked,” “obscure,” or “little-known” as signifiers of anything other than historical or market success.

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Grotesquely, Capriciously Depraved

matthew bartlett's gateways to abominationMatthew Bartlett has gotten heavy praise from many corners of the horror and weird fiction worlds. This is primarily associated with Gateways to Abomination, his self-published 2014 short fiction collection [Amazon|Goodreads], which I just finished reading the other day. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s a nice guy (via social media at least; perhaps a strangler in person, though I hear good things), easy to get along with, and thinks interesting thoughts. One instinctively wants him to do well, being the nice fellow that he is, and so I decided to give his book a shot. As I read, my eyebrows rose, with shock and admiration.

Reader, Gateways to Abomination is a strange book. It’s not Strange, or Weird, though it may partake in dashes of various aesthetics, nor is it Decadent or Grand Guignol. Even calling it “truly fucked up” doesn’t quite get it. “Singularly odd” isn’t far off the mark.

Horror is an expansive genre, and I can see this book fitting on a horror bookshelf well enough, but honestly? Not many people write this kind of stuff. Really. It’s like Sprenger and Kramer went over to the Devil and were reborn for the sole purpose of creating a concept album out of Les Fleurs du mal, inexplicably setting it in Massachusetts. The subtitle, “Collected Short Fiction,” is not technically inaccurate, but it’s also… different than most other collections. The book is thematically unified, with various recurring motifs, characters, etc., and I think it’s a real rarity: a book that, with time and luck, could become a cult classic. People throw that term around way too often, but I could see it working here.

Why do I add my voice to the many praising this book? For the simple reason that it’s something that I would like more people to have a chance to enjoy. If you read a lot of horror, you’ve probably heard of this book (I suspect). If you don’t, you might like it if you enjoy William S. Burroughs; grotesque things; David Lynch; visceral footage; Joris-Karl Huysmans. This is a book worth your time if any of that resonates with your literary or artistic sensibilities, and he has other work out there as well, including a 2016 collection entitled Creeping Waves.