BRAIN NUGGETS

So this past week I was rescuing several boxes of books from storage and taking inventory of what had survived the Great Book Purging of 2005 (a story for another blog). The highlight of the task was discovering that the books I thought we lost in the move from Morgantown (a couple of rare first editions of Charles Grant's Oxrun Station novels, Ramsey Campbell's THE NIGHT OF THE CLAW written as "Jay Ramsey," and the original hardcover of Robert McCammon's MYSTERY WALK) had made the trip after all, deciding to stowaway underneath my stash of Jack Ketchum British editions. I also unearthed a copy of Kirby McCauley's anthology DARK FORCES, and a sudden yet pleasant jolt of nostalgia charged through me.

This book, first published in 1980 as an attempt to duplicate the critical and financial success of Harlan Ellison's DANGEROUS VISIONS in the horror genre, was my gateway drug. Essentially everything I learned as a writer, or came to love as a reader, started here.

I was 13 and found the book on the new arrivals shelf of my library (a bit strange, considering this would've been 1988). The column of names down the front and back covers meant little to me, but the phrase "A Short Novel by Stephen King" certainly did. It had been roughly a year since I'd started reading the Maine Man, and was devouring anything of his I could get my hands on. I checked it out, and cracked it open the moment I got home.

And was disappointed to discover that the short novel in question was "The Mist," which I'd just read in SKELETON CREW earlier that summer. (Makes me wonder what would've happened if I'd scanned the table of contents there in the library.)

With two weeks to kill and no new King story to read, I figured I might as well read the rest of the book. It was the first creatively eye-opening experience of my young life.

Suddenly there was more to read in the world than just Stephen King and that new guy--whatsisname, the future of horror--Clive Barker. It was here that I first encountered such luminaries as Richard Matheson (whose story, "Where There's a Will," written with his son Richard Christian Matheson, remains one of my favorites), Robert Bloch ("The Night Before Christmas," which I would come to learn was vintage Bloch), and Theodore Sturgeon ("Vengeance Is," which floored me on first read). (Ray Bradbury also chimes in with "A Touch of Petulance," but I was well aware of him from the third grade, when I read THE HALLOWEEN TREE.)

It was also my introduction to such future titans as Charles Grant ("A Garden of Blackred Roses"), Ramsey Campbell ("The Brood"), and Dennis Etchison ("The Late Shift"). It gave me my first glimpse of Edward Gorey's macabre and engrossing art ("The Stupid Joke"), as well as the regional flavor of Davis Grubb's Glory, West Virginia ("The Crest of Thirty-Six"). It also marked the first time my jaw hit the floor from a perfectly twisted ending, courtesy of Edward Bryant's "Dark Angel" (still my favorite of the lot).

I'll refrain from listing the entire TOC here; suffice to say my literary apprenticeship began in these pages, though it didn't really hit full swing until Douglas Winter's anthology PRIME EVIL came out in paperback the following year. And while I'm far from a master of my craft, I will say that my work has been richer for having read these stories, and that I owe a debt of gratitude to the authors who penned them. And there's plenty of lessons to still learn within.

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Speaking of learning writing lessons, those of you who remember my story "The Leech Carrier" may be interested to hear that I've been sending it out again to prospective editors, though lately it's met with little success. Most recently, I was fortunate enough to receive some feedback on it, thanks to Nick Mamatas, editor at Clarkesworld Magazine (and author or MOVE UNDERGROUND and UNDER MY ROOF).

You ever get caught doing something you knew was probably wrong, but did anyway? That's how I felt when Mr. Mamatas called me out on my use of cliches and expository dumps. I'd had a niggling feeling way back during the first draft that I shouldn't be using them (sorry to be so vague; if you've read the story you'll probably know what I'm referring to, if not then I don't want to incriminate myself), but I kept them in each time I'd polish the manuscript in between submissions. Well, now that I've been officially called upon the carpet for them, it's time to get rid of them, which means revising a substantial amount of the narrative.

Problem is, it's been so long since I first wrote it I wasn't sure if I could muster up a fresh angle; I mean, the statute of limitations had pretty much run out on the idea.

It seems that this story means as much to my muse as it does to me. This afternoon I could hear the gears cranking upstairs as various plot elements were debated, as new approaches to the narrative were given dry runs through the ol' gray matter. It'll take some time, but I think I'll at least have something to make another draft of. See, I really like this story, and I'd like the chance to give the rest of the world a peek.

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Last week my MySpace friend Jeremy C. Shipp sent out a call for recommended movies. Since I couldn't possibly post a blog without opining about films, here's what I suggested:

BLACK SABBATH--I wrote about Mario Bava's classic a couple of months ago, so I won't repeat my opinion here. I will, however, reiterate that if you haven't seen this yet, rectify that now.

SLITHER--James Gunn's ode to icky '80's horror films. Chock full of in-jokes, and filled to bursting with all types of gags (both the humorous kind and the disgusting kind), this was one of the most entertaining films I've seen in years; as I told Jeremy, this movie is proof that gross-out horror can be both witty and intelligent. (Also, for those of you reading this on MySpace, somewhere amongst my Friends you'll find Gunn's profile, as well as stars Michael Rooker and Gregg Henry; do yourself a favor and check them out.)

THE ABANDONED--I might be doing a separate blog about this one in the future, so I'll be brief. This is the feature debut of Nacho Cerda, director of the infamous short AFTERMATH. A ghost story set in Russia, it frequently plays so subtly that it verges on boring; bearing that, it also contains some of the creepiest imagery and atmosphere of the past decade. Fans of the aforementioned Mario Bava will enjoy this one.

THE BLACK PIT OF DR. M--If you've never experienced Mexican horror cinema from the '50's and '60's, you're missing out; there's plenty of overlooked gems to be found, this being one of them. What begins as a fairly standard take on the scientist-out-to-cheat-death plot slowly builds to a nightmarish third act as the seemingly disparate story elements come together to doom our hero. And, as typical of the subgenre, the black-and-white cinematography is so lush you'll easily look past the cornball dubbing.

HELL'S HIGHWAY--Relentlessly fascinating documentary from Brett Woods about Highway Safety Films, an unassuming company out of Mansfield Ohio, who strived to make teenagers better drivers by subjecting them to the most godawful footage of highway accidents imaginable (those of you who graduated prior to the Clinton administration will know the films I mean). Despite a mostly talking-head approach to the subject matter as various cameramen and law enforcement officials tell the sordid tale (punctuated by grisly clips of HSF's catalog), this is a truly, er, engrossing film. And if you decide to Netflix this one, be sure to add the bonus disc, which features three of the films in their entirety--including SIGNAL 30 and HIGHWAYS OF AGONY, both of which were on Mr. Ricco's driver's ed curriculum at good ol' CAHS, and were seared into my memory long before I popped this disc into my DVD player.

THE APOCALYPSE, COMING THIS FRIDAY

So this morning I show up for work, and as I climb the stairs to the projection booth I grab the Arrival schedule for the coming week. This is the list of what new films are coming in, their running times, what theater is playing what, showtimes, etc. I scan the list, curious as to what movies we're inflicting upon the general public.

My heart grows cold as I read the titles.

THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM (ok, I'm not too concerned about this one, since it might actually be good)

BRATZ (from the novel by Jane Austen)

HOT ROD (this looked promising until I saw the entire trailer)

UNDERDOG (a movie so bereft of humor that they repeat the same jokes in the trailer; are we really getting rid of RATATOUILLE for this?)

DADDY DAY CAMP ("Directed by Fred Savage"--insert your own joke here)

Can you hear that sound? It's the music from "The Omen," isn't it?

I can't help but feel like a low-level employee in the tobacco industry, or maybe a messenger for the Third Reich--not directly responsible for the ills unleashed upon the world, yet still a cog in the big evil machine that's created them. And right now you're probably saying, "Gee, Scott, overreact much, do you?", but then you probably haven't seen the teaser for the upcoming ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS movie.

So if you need me, I'll be under my desk praying for deliverance for us sinners. And if you happen to see a figure in black riding a seven-headed beast, be sure to tell him Tuesday ticket prices are $5 all day, free popcorn included with the price of admission.