Happy Holidays You Mutant Lovers

Bestial Cult of Hathor Wallpaper inspired by a weird tale from Matthew Sawyer’s Horrid Tales of Wister Town.

Give a book this Christmas – Matthew Sawyer’s storefront at LULU.

For more artwork by the artist, visit his Sawyerarts gallery at Deviantart

You’re Writing Wrong

I read a lot, and I set 99% of books right back down again. The problem with most fiction is it throws off my rhythm. See, my writing pursues a flow. And popular fiction lulls me into complacency. If I read too much, it’s like I spend all my time driving thirty miles an hour. Then when I’m on freeways, I’m uncertain of traveling over fifty five. And in that situation, my passengers would rather get out and walk. That’s what happened to me, so I write my own terrors and fantasies.

My complaint is many writers drain the action from their stories – probably unconsciously and automatically. And that is what I try and avoid. Summed up briefly, I sincerely believe ‘did’ should be ‘does’, ‘said’ should be ‘says’, ‘told’ should be ‘tells’. Everlastingly, I quest for an Active Voice, a Present Tense. Word choices are the bricks in that path I pave for myself.

Again considering the mental state of questionably sure and professional writers, and their publishers, I do wonder if they recognize the weakness of their manuscripts. The fact readers often aren’t provided online previews of their works, especially on Amazon, suggests they hide the truth. They trick readers into purchasing their books under the pretense of trust. And they defend their position with the pretentious shield of copyright.

The defense is simply a timid ruse. Authors and publishers don’t need to behave this way. For instance, look-up Cory Doctorow on the Internet. This author releases his digital work under the Creative Commons license. Whole books of his are available to read online. And I know the man sells more printed books than most other authors. Simply, many writers forbid the luxury of perusal freely available in libraries. Online, their books are comparably shrink-wrapped as if they sit on the shelves of Scientology bookstores, all hiding truly nonsensical craziness within.

Putting the topic of availability aside for another day, let’s return to my combined subjects of Present Tense and the Active Voice. I’m asking why authors add past tense participles to their verbs. I know English grammarians will argue the liberty of my definition (visit LEARNING ENGLISH GRAMMAR and see yourself), but in my own opinion, the past participle ‘-ed’ merely helps masquerade sentence structures as Present Perfect tense. The extra syllables often do not need to be present. They’re as speed bumps upon hoity-toity residential roads and streets within school zones.

Why do authors make readers slow down and process extra text inside their heads – breathe those extra sounds aloud? I avoid that excess for the sake of flow. As writing is, many authors already use big words that interrupt their stories and send conscientious readers to dictionaries. Loyal fans, especially, should not be subjected to posted speed cautions. In example, I make my case with long dead and inexplicably persistent HP Lovecraft. The man, and each of his troupe of just-as-dead and lingering authors, might have gained wider distribution and fame in his lifetime. All he and his followers need is an editor enforcing minimum speed limits.

Look at this passage from HP Lovecraft’s ‘The Lurking Fear’ (better retitled simply ‘Lurking Fear’, if my opinion is bothered with) -

“The stormy vigil reminded me shudderingly of my ghastly night on Tempest Mountain. My mind turned to that odd question which had kept recurring ever since the nightmare thing had happened; and again I wondered why the demon, approaching the three watchers either from the window or the interior, had begun with the men on each side and left the middle man till the last, when the titan fireball had scared it away.”

Mindful of my preference, I’d revise the text to read -

“Shudderingly, the stormy vigil reminds me of my ghastly night on Tempest Mountain. My mind turns to that odd question which keeps recurring – ever since that nightmare thing had happened. Again, I wonder why the demon, approaching three watchers either from the window or the interior, had begun with the men on each side. The middle man was left last, when a titan fireball had scared it away.”

I know Lovecraftians will flay me alive, but I don’t care. They don’t love me and I’m only trying to help. I am one of them despite their philistine rejection. And I think of myself as their literary messiah. And like Jesus, I am castaway by my own people. But for those gentiles who will follow my rules for the road, I am the Way. I am the path to immortality. Trust me. L. Ron Hubbard says as much.

 

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Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

I’m Glad This Was Free

I’m just going to say this. I’m sick of critics who have nothing more to say than “I’m glad this was free.” My terse reply are rhetorical questions. I ask “Is this going anywhere, ma’am or sir? Are we going anywhere together? Because if you’re not giving me directions, get off my fraking bus!” And I don’t want to hear people screaming “But we’re heading straight for a cliff!” Shut up, because that’s where I’m driving. I intend to take every soul to Hell. No, I don’t share the interests of Crowley of Lavey , I just want to show you the scenery. My tour guide skills are just a bit novel.

Whereas I do appreciate negative criticism – I do and it tempers my undeserved narcissism – conscientious critics must have something to tell me other than “I’m glad this was free.” That comment is simply not very helpful. In fact, it sounds full of spite. Hey, I’m not the guy that ruined you’re life. I’m something different altogether. Perhaps wholly unpleasant but I wanna be. Readers get my stories for free because they are so roughly polished. I am aware of that fact, if not blunted against being cautious and never publishing my own stuff. I’m an admitted amateur.

I’d love a higher station, but to date no one has come forward to help me and proofread my writing. I don’t have an editor, either. I’ve got no one. Those advantages seem confined to professionals who demand payment. I certainly can’t afford to pay someone. I did that with Pazuzu Book One at Llumina and we see how even that came out. Yeah – don’t read Book One. It’s the second revision of merely the first half my Pazuzu Trilogy. I’m now upon the Ninth Revision of the complete story and it reads sooo much better.

My short stories are not so polished. They are tales I myself have no expectation will make any money – even if each might find themselves as books to some contemporary Satanic bible. They’ve been my practice. Those are my sketches of evil in Southern Wisconsin and its tendrils across the United States. I hoped Lovecraft fans would enjoy them, but I’m wrong. Sorry, although I will not apologize. Whereas Kolob and Teegeeack are not my worlds, neither is much of anything that’s oozed out of New England. I love to go to sight-seeing, though, and I read Lovecraft, but he is but an attraction – a distraction. I’ve got my own house to build and I’m using what’s available to me – all that clutter I’ve collected in forty-plus years. It’s gotta go somewhere. And like anyone hanging paintings in their own home, I got a good idea where everything will hang.

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Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

Cthulhu Doesn’t Hate Me…

…well, not any more than he hates the rest of you.

Although, I admit I’ve been rude in making my introduction. I’d love to meet Lovecraft fans. I’d even love more if they’d recognize my literary contributions. Not to the Cthulhu mythos, but rather my parallel world inspired by HP Lovecraft and the categorization of his mythos driven by August Derlerth. I say that and I know I raise hackles – but what other legitimate fantasy have you diehard Lovecraft fans to get upset about? I offer you something to burn in your dying fires – a sacrifice to Moloch, perhaps?

I could be more professional. More patient. Yet I expect “they,” of anyone, can recognize the social awkwardness we all share. I speak specifically of us folks fond of archaic horror, theology, cosmology and myth. I’m not anti-social. Shy and wary about making new friends, yeah, but I’m truly open-minded. I’m open-hearted tempered by frustrated anger. Dammit, I can’t get into Lovecraftzine.

Like 99% of the blind publishers to which I’ve submitted my stories, Mr. Mike Davis at Lovecraftzine doesn’t bother to even return my messages. I thought the submission guidelines read I don’t necessarily need to adhere to the mythos. Yet it is obvious, the man wants pastiche – as defined by Lovecraft aficionado and horror author W. H. Pugmire. I need no more illustration than the video chats at Lovecraftzine. Those forums are populated with accomplished faces. I watch and feel unwelcome.

Yes, there are many authors with much mythos material, all better written and more evil and grandiose than I’ve mustered to date. They deserve publication, recognition and readers, too. I know I’m not special. Yet I am unique. We weird tales authors do draw upon the same sources – mainstream religions, Egyptian and Sumerian mythologies. Nevertheless, I am different. Anti-Pastiche? There is that prefix. I think that’s worthy some unholy recognition.

Whereas mainstream Lovecraftian authors propagate the ethos – and I merely make use of the conventional meaning of the word “mainstream,” I’m more subtle. I’m more insidious than Stephen King’s Yog-Sothoth graffiti found inside his novel The Stand. I substitute my own monsters and gods. You see, and I’ve mentioned ofttimes, I have sketchbooks I’ve kept since High School. They are my collective Necronomicon. Those books are the source of my recurring visions. What more real-world parallels do you readers not see? My Pazuzu Trilogy is the Cthulhu mythos reborn, reincarnated for the early 21st century. Yes, there are others but this is mine. It is worthy of your attention. Please, read me. All I need are twelve devotees and this story will rise from sands and spread across the world.

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Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

Debbie’s Exasperated Hellmouth

Debbie’s Hellmouth is the book I’ve been shopping around to Old World publishers and I can’t get one interested, so f*** those guys. I just need readers, people who buy self-published stories. And if I can’t get those, then f*** you too. My stories die with me. And so goes the world. Everyone sees I write horror stories, right? Visceral horror, and that’s part of Debbie’s Hellmouth. And an expansion of my Wister Town stories.

My Wister Town forays expand my Lovecraft-inspired mythology into the real-world – Southern Wisconsin, in fact. Wister Town is a fictionalized version of my hometown. How it got that name is another story – a two-sided tale. I won’t say but I’ll toss clues. Think Lovecraft’s ghostwritten The Mound, my pseudonym and derogative nicknames for Swiss immigrants. Put them together and you’ve got a mystery. With some detective work, readers can discover who I really am and assume my thoughts. That is, of course, if people are interested. To that I reply “I’ve warned you about me.”

What have folks to worry about? Well, Debbie Menon is a real estate agent back in her hometown, Wister Town, Wisconsin. She finds herself ensnared in a Hellish mess when she attempts to sell a damned house – damned as in evil. I’ve tried appealing to young women with Debbie; an independent, artistic spirit who is slightly mad and blasphemous. I had hoped a professional publisher would help me tell the story – give me legitimacy as an author, but alas, I am still a suspicious, unknown author.

So what is this story about?

Debbie Menon has a unique pseudo-Victorian house she must sell – because her soul is held in proxy for that same disowned portal into Hell. Yet the evil nature of the place makes it un-sellable. Fortunately, Debbie’s not totally helpless – she’s been to Art school.

Locally, the place is known as the Witch’s house and stands in gossipy Wister Town. The house is named for the mysterious Betulha Dohrman, whom no one has ever seen. The old woman had vanished with an unannounced debt. That debt becomes the onus of the Mikelmeier Real Estate office. The selling agent, Debbie Menon, too, once lived near the house in this small, Swiss-themed city.

Debbie had moved away to Los Angeles so that she might utilize her Art education and find work, but that didn’t work-out. Consequently, she’s moved back. Home again, she falls in love with a city alderman, Jerry Leutenegger then quickly establishes a career selling real estate. The Witch’s house becomes the bane of her otherwise successful and happy life back in southern Wisconsin.

Debbie learns her soul is held in proxy until an owner is found. This is where the story of Debbie’s Hellmouth begins. The house – or specifically the tumorish and displaced widow’s watch atop the faux-Victorian home – wants to break loose and spread evil. Elements of that evil already pester the residents of Wister Town.  What happens now with this cursed house only worsens the situation.

The Pocketbook is currently available from my storefront on LULU – here.

Ebooks available from Amazon – here.

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