There’s a tumor made of pages exploding out of my ribcage. There’s a tickertape parade ravishing my skull. When I speak, all kinds of odd words come out of my mouth, handwritten in black ink on a long, narrow strip of vellum. Where’s the beak doctor when you need him/her?
Don’t expect too much around these here parts for awhile–just fits and starts. We’re awash in weird reading for the Compendium of Weird Fiction and a typical day revolves around work on the Steampunk Bible interwoven with weird reading. Things begin to swirl together. Some stories never leave you alone. Others fade. Ann comes home and reads what I’ve thought was great and finds some of it crap, and I squint at it again and most of the time agree. It’s a lurching progress, and it’s a love-hate process.
Ligotti and Kiernan were the worst. Too many possibles. Relief, in a way, that some Lovecraft is too dated, some too long, and some too minor.
Looking for that feel–the feel of the weird, which isn’t your standard ghost story or post modern or fantasy with an edge of darkness, but something palpable, something where you’re already not where you think you are, and you’re probably not coming back.
Oh crap. The cat just did a hairball. That’ll bring you back.