Boo! And a Review

Been lax with this blog again; the balance of writing to editing has shifted toward the latter of late. Which is okay, as I love it almost as much as I do writing. However, a couple of writing-related events have gone unacknowledged, so here:

I have a new story out there. It's one of nine tales by independent writers in a new Halloween anthology, entitled Boo! And although its theme is Halloween, it refuses to be typecast as an outright horror anthology, with the stories ranging deftly across mood and genre... although my own story, with the cumbersome title of "Ambergris, Camphor, Laudanum, Myrrh," is unquestionably horror, and particularly unpleasant horror at that. Grab the book, it's under a buck.

Another activity I seem to find less and less time for is reviewing. Recently, I had the pleasure of reviewing JT Sather's hybrid memoir/self-help book about surviving tough economic times, How to Survive When the Bottom Drops Out. I'll reproduce it here.

Let me first get the negative out of the way. I'll say one word: editing. And pretty much leave it at that, because that one aspect is the only real impediment to the enjoyment of JT Sather's short nonfiction book, How to Survive When the Bottom Drops Out.

Otherwise, this lively hybrid of memoir and how-to book is, in its unique way, both gripping and endearing. As you read through Sather's accounts of good times and bleak times, scary moments and funny ones, you find yourself helplessly rooting for the protagonist thanks to his infectious good cheer throughout. Whether attempting to save a friend on an ATV from an encounter with an onrushing train or battling a sudden storm on the largest manmade lake in the United States while at the helm of a twenty-six foot cabin cruiser, Sather's practical yet genial advice never comes across as smug or know-it-all, always rich with both humour and common sense and expressed in a manner that is unique to the author, a genuine voice I'd probably describe as full of gritty bonhomie if I were far more pretentious than JT Sather.

Simply put, JT Sather is a born storyteller. And a funny one, without a mean-spirited bone in his body.

He covers all the ground you would expect from a man who clearly wants to pack everything he can into this all-too-short life: friendship, pain, love, work (and its absence), sex, couch surfing, Vegas, romance, dogs, dominoes, dancing, karma, cliff jumping, Yoopers, children's health scares, cheap beer, free sandwiches, skiing accidents, kindness, good times, the nostalgic power of music, and a chameleon-like adaptability, all while maintaining a genuine core honesty and refusal to take advantage of others, even in the hardest of hard times. It's the ultimate tale of paying things forward, and it's all true.

Read it; it might even save your hide if, like many, you've been caught through no fault of your own in the economic downturn. It will certainly help you stop feeling sorry for yourself. But at the very least, if you read this book you will come away simply liking people more, and that's a precious thing, however tough the times.

Drink for the Thirst to Come

I finished a book last night that I'm going to need to expound upon. A collection of short horror stories by Lawrence Santoro, it's intriguingly and even poetically titled Drink for the Thirst to Come. This is a book that jumped out at me from the endless conveyor belt of social network promotions we are subjected to at every turn, for two reasons: the aforementioned lyrical title, and a cover picture for which "creepy" is an altogether inadequate adjective. There is something about the face on that cover—suggestive of a mutant, broken Christ-figure hounded to the world's last margins—which dredges up long-forgotten nightmares and something closer to existential disquiet and an awful pity than out-and-out horror.

And for the most part, the stories themselves operate in a similar vein.

But let me rewind. For far too long, certainly since reading John Claude Smith's The Dark is Light Enough for Me, I've been looking for a collection that might scratch a certain maddening itch: it would need to be dark, very dark, but written by someone fully in control of their narrative and characters, adept in the language of unease. Outright gore is fine, even familiar tropes of the horror genre, but I want to get below the surface, take a peek at the stuff that fills me with a disturbance that won't dissipate. I suppose I've been foraging for sickening, shuddering nightmares to prove to me I'm not alone in my own. A twisted kindred impulse. So I downloaded Santoro's collection to my Kindle and left it there a while, savouring the anticipation.

Until one day, the urge to open it finally arrived.

And I began to read...

...and was hit with the most profound sense of disappointment. This wasn't the sobbing monstrosity I was expecting. For starters, the font/typeface was beyond ugly, bordering on the unreadable. And I was immediately disoriented by the opening story for which the volume is named. The tone of the narrative was like nothing I've read in a long while. Phrases seemed strange, hyphen-heavy (oh, enough, David!) and awkward: "the green-forever", "just-up corn", "down-rushing mud." Already, from this vantage point, I can see I was reacting to my own shattered expectations and allowing the admittedly awful font to influence my overall response to the words on the page.

Let me just say this: I am more than glad I persevered.

This first story takes an age to get going, coughing and rattling like an ancient jalopy before roaring into unexpected life. Okay, the font doesn't get better, but the sense of reading something truly worthwhile sure does. It is a quest story set in a post-apocalyptic world, but that description is like saying Riddley Walker's about some weird kid in a Kent of the future. And returning to those opening passages now, I see something I completely missed first time around: Santoro's writing style itself is a comet that comes closest to being captured by the orbit of a star named Bradbury than anything I've read in a long, long time. Yeah, go back and read that slightly awkward sentence again. I mean it. And because on this occasion I had been looking for a Barker or possibly even a Ligotti, I almost missed out on the equally dark treats that followed.

I don't want this post to get out of hand, so I'll resist a blow-by-blow account of each individual story. Suffice it to say, there is plenty here to creep you out, all the way down to the follicles, to turn your stomach, to genuinely frighten you enough to want the lights turned back on for real. Even the stock monsters of horrordom appear in altered form, disguised enough to terrify anew via the delayed shock of recognition. The voice is often perfect for each story. Gruff, strange, foreign, familiar. Settings and mood are never repeated one story to the next. New Orleans here. Chicago there. 1940s England elsewhere. The most common theme is one of haunting. Again, not ghosts per se, but something cold and spectral seen through dirty gauze in an infected room. A feeling we ourselves are the ghosts trying and mostly failing to engage with the world within these pages just out of reach. A world we might be better off avoiding, all the same. Speaking of which, I have encountered many an atrocity, both in fiction and in real life, sadly, but there's one story here I would seriously hesitate to recommend to anyone with even the slightest tenderness in his or her heart. I'll merely describe "Little Girl Down the Way" as one of the most harrowing horror stories I never want to read again. It is vile and yet it is brilliant. And I almost hate myself for even admitting that.

Alongside the frankly bizarre font issues throughout, let me issue one more word of warning: these stories, almost without exception, are long. They occasionally ramble and twist, taking tangents that occasionally work and that sometimes don't. But sit with them, stay with them, prop them up when they flag, let them reciprocate, and as Santoro suggests in his foreword, read them aloud. Taste the writhing sounds of life itself trying to make sense of the darkness, defining its own opposition to that negation of all things.

No doubt there's some moral here, something along the lines of the serendipitous defiance of expectations, but, whatever, I'm glad I pushed through and found myself in a very odd and eldritch dimension indeed, perhaps not the one I was expecting, but one that scratched another itch—a crawling, anxiety-ridden itch—I didn't even know I had.

Two 5 Star Reviews in Two Days

Dissolute Kinship: A 9/11 Road Trip was reviewed twice in two days this week, and both were of the 5 Star variety. They were also genuine, emotional and compassionate.

The first came courtesy of a promising Peruvian writer named Patricia Awapara whose own work is remarkable in that English is not her native tongue. The review is on Amazon, but I'm also going to link to Patricia's own website in an attempt to give her more exposure (although I suspect her blog gets more hits than my own). Anyway, here's her kind review:

From the moment I picked up the book, I was moved by David Antrobus’ words. Beautifully written, this short story starts moments after the world goes into shock about the 9/11 tragedy. The author takes a road trip, from Canada to New York. He describes the city’s emotional state and his reaction to this horrific event with much insight and warmth. His words took me back in time. I felt as though I was there with him, with all those people. I felt their hurt and despair. It made me cried, but his word also carried hope and unity. I recommend it!

I wish I could write Spanish as well as she writes English.

Next up is Linda Rae Blair, another writer I've run into in various social media sites. Again, I am struck by the sheer emotional impact my book has on people. Of course, it was very emotional to write (and to experience), and you always hope you can convey the visceral essence of that, but it's incredibly gratifying all the same when you find you have indeed succeeded. As I said, this is another 5 Star review and is up on Smashwords:

This is a work I knew would be great, knew I would regret if I didn't read, knew would be painful to read—so, what did I do? I put it off, kept it neatly tucked away in my Kindle To Be Reads where it haunted me like a personal ghost. Well, I was yanked from my frozen state into action when someone else's review crossed by screen. "Coward," I called myself and reached for my Kindle. Half an hour later, with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, a knot in my stomach, I knew I was right to read it. Glad I didn't try sooner, but glad I had finally gotten beyond my own PTS. David has done a tremendous job, putting his own perspective to this painful topic, as well as jarring us into facing our own pain in the memory. Thank you, David. It was beautiful, sad, and oh, so very accurate. And, as a southern neighbor, I am so very glad you took the trip that I have yet to face.

I love the way she provides a short backstory for her process in relation to the book. I imagine it sitting on her (virtual) coffee table ticking quietly like a time bomb for months.

Anyway, it goes without saying that I love and appreciate these reviews, and indeed anyone who takes the time not only to read my strange little book, but to throw some thoughts at the screen afterward.

Three In One Week

Reviews of Dissolute Kinship, that is. Varying from the indepth to the brief, all three of them kind and thoughtful and fair. Honestly, I wish I could express the right degree of gratitude toward people who not only bother to read my work, but who then go the extra mile and review it. I hear too many authors complaining about how too few readers review after reading. Well, how often does any one of us take that extra step? I do on occasion, but certainly not for every book. Reviews are gold, but they're not an automatic right.

Anyway to the first: Jim Devitt succinctly delivers the following, in a generous 5-Star review entitled A Grand Perspective:

David Antrobus captures the essence of community and perspective in this vivid account of 9-11. The pages come alive, not with destruction and tragedy, but with hope and meaning. The author opens his mind and feelings, leading us through the process from an outsider's point of view. In the end, he helps us understand by painting a masterpiece with words. He shares with us everything, from the guilt felt while viewing ground zero to the greater understanding how human lives are interconnected. Great job, Antrobus.

I have to say I'm extremely gratified how many readers of this little book get what I was attempting to do, that it was never solely about the actual attacks, but about how we moved on and how we created new connections after being brought together in such initially appalling circumstances.

Okay, on to the next. A.B. Shepherd, in a similarly brief but insightful assessment, has this to say:

This book focuses on the devastation he finds when he gets to New York City following the events of September 11, 2001 and the affecting and poignant way he has of describing what he sees. For some people, like me, who still find the devastation of that day very difficult to deal with, this sometimes evoked more emotion than I expected.

If you want to read a well written first-hand perspective of the visual aftermath of 9/11 this is an excellent book. A literary triumph. It's short length is not a detriment. My only criticism is the off-hand introduction of some very relevant emails that David sent to friends at the time. I feel they could have been incorporated a little more seamlessly.

Fair point about the emails, by the way. As much as they illustrate the more raw, unedited version of my reactions to events and scenes, I never did manage to blend them in a wholly satisfying way.

And finally, Carolyn Steele brings all her experience with trauma to bear in a very attentive and lengthy analysis of my book. I won't reproduce the entire thing here, but if you're interested, check out the link to Carolyn's blog. I will, however, quote some of my favourite parts of her astonishingly empathic response, many of which choked me up, quite frankly:

[T]he traveller in question is a poet, a philosopher and somewhat acquainted with trauma and you have a book that transcends genres such as ‘memoir’ or ‘travelogue’ and even ‘poetry’. It is simply unique.

As the narrative takes us deep into Manhattan, the city of New York becomes a character in its own right. Someone you become part of, convulsed with unfathomable grief.

One damaged soul who comprehends the need for repetition, the importance  of outing the trauma, more than most of us…gave the city the only gift he had. When he mentions a sense of shame for having been a tourist in those terrible days, we realise that his processing is not yet done. One day the author will understand that he was the right person in the right place, giving of himself for people who had no more idea than he did why he was there.

I cannot tell you that you will enjoy this book, but I can tell you that you won’t regret reading it. And that you will reread it more than once.

This book is a piece of poetry and a testament to what it means to be human.

See? I defy anyone to not be moved by her words. The bonus is that Carolyn also interviewed me for a podcast to be broadcast soon (watch this space for developments) and if you can get past my annoying Anglo-Canuck accent, you will almost certainly be afforded more insight into the experiences surrounding that maddening little book (and its upcoming sequel).

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David Antrobus also writes for Indies Unlimited and BlergPop. Be sure to check out his work there if you like what you read here.

Mr. Glamour Review

Having also read Richard Godwin's Apostle Rising very recently, I arrived at the soon-to-be-released Mr. Glamour in what I term the "Godwin mindset"; essentially, primed for a police procedural with significant elements of fairly graphic psychological and visceral horror. I wasn't disappointed.

First, though, allow me to dispense with a couple of negatives: the brave new world of independent authors is plagued with what I consider shoddy or inadequate presentation, whereby simple formatting and proofreading, let alone deeper line editing and grammatical issues, are either given a cursory glance or dispensed with altogether. Unfortunately, independent publishers can also find themselves beset with similar problems. While Mr. Glamour improves on Apostle Rising in that regard (in the latter, a pub named The Crooked Key inexplicably becomes The Crooked Fork in one scene), there still remain those irritating typos and misused homophones (cheap/cheep, horde/hoard) that take you immediately out of the narrative. While these issues are not the train wreck endemic to a certain percentage of indie authors, they remain a distraction, albeit one significantly improved upon in the interim between Godwin's two novels.

So, the even better news? Godwin's writing has grown tighter. Don't get me wrong; I enjoyed Apostle Rising, but there were a few flabby sections and the occasional lack of focus. In truth, the novel could have been shorter. Not so Mr. Glamour—which, in its way, is every bit as nasty and sadistic as its predecessor, yet more honed, with much of the fat sliced away. Godwin has sharpened his storytelling edges from those of a well-stropped straight razor to something more akin to the fabled samurai sword that can slice a human hair lengthways. Perhaps that is overselling it, but the relentlessness of the narrative has improved markedly from something that was very good in the first place. At this rate, Godwin has a Silence of the Lambs in him.

Sharing the male/female dynamic of the cop team with his debut, Mr. Glamour takes more twists and turns with the psychology of the killer this time. And not only the killer: these particular examples of the law enforcement side of the equation—Flare and Steele in place of Castle and Stone (could there be a message or clue in their very names?)—are themselves every bit as nuanced and flawed as their adversaries. Okay, perhaps not quite as flawed, but still...

I mentioned sadism earlier, which in the context of such novels is by no means a negative criticism; and this particular sadism is earned every step of the way by the twisted pathology of the antagonist. While not lingering so long on the scenes of literal torture this time around, Godwin has managed to make that leap to the less-is-more school of horror. Again, he doesn't flinch, but he also refuses to leave the camera running throughout, so to speak. Yet the horror doesn't suffer one bit. No, the victims suffer, and so do we the readers, as we find ourselves inside their tormented heads more often.

In short, Godwin has once more created a seamless hybrid of crime and horror novel while retaining some of the dark lyricism, ramping up the atrocities, and tightening both the noose and the narrative, an altogether impressive achievement.

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David Antrobus also writes for Indies Unlimited and BlergPop. Be sure to check out his work there if you like what you read here.