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

Revision Pending

In consequence to the changes I’ve made to names and the setting in my Pazuzu Trilogy, I am forced to revisit Gaunt Rainbow. She’s a progeny of the trilogy. I don’t feel it’s appropriate to call Gaunt Rainbow a sequel, but rather a continuation of the bleak horror woven within the Shur desert. The story is also more mainstream with a genuine hero – a female protagonist – and a traditional tale about personal relationships. Of course, it’s twisted because the narrative unfolds in the post holy war Shur and alien gods still consume its dead. Nevertheless, those details are secondary. Gaunt Rainbow is Pamela’s story.

The sixth revision isn’t yet finished. I hope it’s complete by the second week in November. Whereas reading the Pazuzu Trilogy isn’t necessary to enjoy Gaunt Rainbow, having read the epic does make its progeny richer – and savvy readers will appreciate the irony of my choice of words used in this self review, I hope.

The fifth revision is still available but honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. The second chapter is especially hairy – with Pamela’s recollection of a death dream that shatters grammatical tense beyond my typical amateurish pummeling. I’m working on that, you critics. Be kind – heck, be supportive – I am getting better. That’s why there have been so many rewrites. I’m teaching myself because Lord knows, I’m not getting any help. Then again, my horror stories all revolve around the premise there is no God. And if I was a superstitious man, I’d say it’s why my whole fruitless effort toward becoming a published author is cursed.

Hang in there all you faithful readers, wherever and whomever you may be. We’ll all eventually get fed. And when I’m rich and famous, we’ll escape the waste. And we won’t continue trips back to my fictionalized hometown. That place is hardly better than my hopeless desert dystopia.

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.

The Passive Voice Sounds Effeminate

I resent the Passive Voice. First, it’s obvious not much in America, or anywhere in the world, can be published in which the subject receives in place of taking action.  Second, the voice embodies my failed relationships. And the listless manner of speech has given me as much of nothing. I’m certain I project and imbue the voice with personality. Mayhap I do so because it’s how my muse had first expressed herself. I may be lonely and that’s why I anthropomorphize inanimate objects and ethereal, medieval principalities, but she’s only undermined my dreams of artistry.

I now fight against her idealistic insistence. The simplicity of “was” had been too easy to resist. All my writing had been soured with the mannerism. Yet I crave professional authorship. So now I overcompensate against the neutered verb. My battle is so fierce, I even judge “said” to be no more than a lurching eunuch. These words encourage Past Tense and no reader wants to live in foregone experience. Readers don’t want to reflect on past history. And, I too, want to live in the present. Despite whole genres available to the fantasy, escapism does not merit dwelling on the past.

As with the suffix “ing,” the Passive Voice is not masculine in any stark respect. She is a wet sponge dripping estrogen. But I am a scalded man and I am inclined to misogyny. Having attained nothing, I hold the fact forth with misplaced pride. Myself being a creative spirit, I join the lodge of Freidrich Nietzsche and Pablo Picasso. Then again, my confined testosterone makes my grandiose and bullies my outlook.

When I write, I describe what I know. And I say, much like my excessive use of commas, the base porifera called the Passive Voice spits when it speaks, covering everything with some rancid, hypocritical dew. I know because I clean-up after her speech. I return to my manuscripts and I find the woman’s saliva speckles my paragraphs. After she speaks, my text sops with unmarketable waste – or did.

I’m becoming a more sophisticated writer and I will prevail. My latter work is testament to the truth. And my writing throughout years does trace my progress. My struggle and present life are documented in my manuscripts. Although, much is hidden in subtext. So much of my thoughts are concealed there in plain sight – things I will not admit aloud. I do confess am an intelligent gentlemen with a malicious Id. Some might think I have a psychotic mind but I would not judge myself so harsh. I’ve got a pseudonym to blunt such sagacity and I will not suffer the verdict.

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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.