Let Us Sleep Now - My Influences

The dystopian-thriller film Children of Men (directed by Alfonso Cuarón)

It’s been a very long time since I last posted here (much longer than I intended), but I will grant myself some leniency since most of my time and effort was spent finishing my second book and first full-length novel Let Us Sleep Now. The reason I’m posting now is because we’re approaching the final days before my book releases into the world and I thought it might be fun to discuss the various artistic influences/inspirations of the book.

As you might have guessed from the picture above a significant influence on my upcoming novel’s tone and genre was the 2006 dystopian-thriller Children of Men. The film is set in a near future where humanity has become sterile resulting in a sudden end to pregnancy and childbirth. In the following decades society has started to collapse as humanity prepares for its inevitable end. Though my book deals with overpopulation and a global one-child policy, a problem on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, I was greatly inspired by the film’s gritty tone and portrayal of how such an issue becomes yet another way for those in power to widen the racial and economic divides already present in our society.

When I first started writing Let Us Sleep Now I didn’t initially picture it as a crime-thriller, but it gradually began to morph into one as some of my favorite crime films, such as Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight and Martin Scorsese’s The Departed, surfaced in my well of inspirations. In retrospect it makes sense though since the two main characters that drive the plot forward are a Population Control officer and a protestor turned guerrilla/freedom fighter. So while this isn’t your typical “cops and robbers” tale by any means there are definite parallels to those types of stories.

Psychedelic-horror film Mandy (directed by Panos Cosmatos)

I’ll do my best to avoid spoilers for the film, and my novel as well, but another unexpected inspiration that one of my editors picked up on is the 2018 film Mandy starring Nicolas Cage. It is a very trippy horror film and those familiar with it may notice certain similarities involving terrifying drug hallucinations and bizarre religious sects. That’s all I dare to say about that for now…

On the more bookish side of things, since this is a novel after all, it would be remiss of me to not mention the two literary giants of Philip K. Dick and Flannery O’Connor. If we’re being honest pretty much any urban-dystopia/cyberpunk writer is indebted to Philip K. Dick whether due to his prolific number of novels or the many film adaptations of his works, such as Blade Runner, Minority Report, or A Scanner Darkly. He’s been given the retrospective moniker of “Grandfather of Cyberpunk” due to his overwhelming influence on the genre though his work predates the term by several decades.

According to Wikipedia, “cyberpunk is a subgenre of science fiction in a dystopian futuristic setting that tends to focus on a ‘combination of lowlife and high tech’, featuring futuristic technological and scientific achievements, such as artificial intelligence and cybernetics, juxtaposed with societal collapse, dystopia or decay.” While I wouldn’t consider my novel Let Us Sleep Now to be a cyberpunk novel it does share some similarities with the genre. Some aspects of my book that are inspired by Philip K. Dick’s novels are: unique religious movements, fictitious mind-altering drugs, questioning what is real, and philosophical dilemmas of morality.

Those familiar with Steven Spielberg’s film adaptation of Minority Report may also notice the inspiration for my novel’s mechanical arachnid named Franklin.

The “Queen of the Southern Gothic” also known as Flannery O’Connor has always had a significant impact on my writing. O’Connor’s work shined a light on the darker areas of Southern life exposing the religious hypocrisy and the moral/cultural decay of a region living in the shadow of an overwhelmingly ugly past. Speaking as both a Christian and a Southerner herself, O’Connor once said, “I think it is safe to say that while the South is hardly Christ-centered, it is most certainly Christ-haunted.”

As someone that was born and raised in the South, I’ve also seen aspects of its darker side as well. Many of the same folks that will hold the door for you and end their sentences with a polite “yes ma’am” or “no sir,” common hallmarks of ‘Southern hospitality,’ will be the same ones that single you out and turn on you the moment you display the first indications of nonconformity. I’ve often joked that in the South even the serial killers are devout Christians. In my novel Let Us Sleep Now a faction of domestic terrorists known as “the Revenants of the Confederacy” use a unique blend of historical revisionism and corrupted spiritualism to justify their heinous acts of brutality.

Let Us Sleep Now releases on Amazon in paperback and e-book on July 1st! I hope you’ll join me on this journey into an alternate future that could share glimpses into a world not-so-different than our own.

The Underrated Joy of Camp

The Marvel film Guardians of the Galaxy exemplifies camp in its unusual cast of characters and zany world

Upon the publication of my first book Black Flowers I anxiously awaited the reviews as well as the reactions of my friends and family. With a short story collection that covered such a wide variety of genres and topics I was curious to see which stories really connected with people all the while fully expecting to ruffle some folk’s feathers. To my genuine surprise, the story that received the most polarizing reaction was not the one dealing with systemic racism or the one dealing with gender fluidity, but instead it was my nostalgic ode to the campy blockbuster films of my childhood titled “Pulp Mythology.”

The story is an outlandish noir/sci-fi romp contrasted within the setting of a small, Mississippi town during the Reagan Era. The entire story’s events take place over a single night as a punk rocker named Leaf searches for her missing friend, Bennie, who’s gotten in way over his head with the theft of a historical artifact involving a shadowy, ancient cult.

The story’s humorous tone and elevated action scenes are like nothing else in the collection, which most likely played a part in the polarizing response it received. Initially, several people told me it was the low point of my book (which was disappointing since it was by far the most fun for me to write), but in the time since then I’ve had some people tell me that “Pulp Mythology” was their favorite story, leading me to believe it’s more of a matter of taste rather than poor writing.

So using this story and experience as a starting point, what exactly is meant when something is called “campy” and is this style still relevant in a time where every film and novel is being praised for its commitment to “gritty realism”?

Camp: Definition and Origins

In Susan Sontag’s book of essays entitled Notes on “Camp” she says, “The essence of Camp is its love of the unnatural: of artifice and exaggeration.” There is a “spirit of extravagance” and a bold willingness to be over-the-top, often pushing the boundaries of what’s considered good taste. She continues, “The whole point of Camp is to dethrone the serious. Camp is playful, anti-serious . . . One can be serious about the frivolous, frivolous about the serious.”

In an effort to trace the origins of the camp style or aesthetic one will find a strong historical association (especially in its early years) with queerness and the gay community. Many believe the word “camp” comes from the term “se camper” used among the French gay community meaning “to pose in an exaggerated fashion.”

The 19th century writer Oscar Wilde is most often considered to be the forefather of camp. Wilde is known for his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, which caused an uproar among the prudish Victorians for its homo-eroticism, as well as for his flamboyant lifestyle, controversial opinions, and bristling sense of humor. Wilde famously commented on Charles Dickens’s novel The Old Curiosity Shop concerning the overly-sentimental and melodramatic death of a child character by saying, “one must have a heart of stone to read the death of Little Nell without laughing.” Wilde considered Dickens’s book to be an unintentional comedic masterpiece specifically because it was meant to be taken so seriously, laying the groundwork for the genre of “accidental camp comedies” of the future.

Ernest Thesiger as Dr. Pretorius in The Bride of Frankenstein

Another important link in the history of camp and gay culture is James Whales’s 1935 film The Bride of Frankenstein due to the director’s sexual orientation and the exaggerated, eccentric performance of the film’s antagonist Dr. Pretorius, portrayed by the openly bisexual actor Ernest Thesiger. Whales reportedly instructed Thesiger to play Pretorius as an “over-the-top caricature of a bitchy and aging homosexual” setting the stage for the (somewhat controversial) ‘sissy villain/queer antagonist’ trope used in innumerable films in the decades that followed.

Another, arguably the most influential, connection that camp has with the gay community is that of drag queen culture. Drag queens are (typically) gay men impersonating females in an exaggerated or caricatured manner. Drag queens rose in popularity due in large part to the campy/trashy films of writer/director John Waters. Waters’s early films, most notably Pink Flamingos, starred the drag queen icon known as Divine and were full of boundary-pushing, gross-out humor, and intentionally over-the-top acting.

John Waters and Divine at the New York premiere of Female Trouble

Camp Goes Mainstream

In the 1960s camp, both as an idea and a style, really began to take off and reach larger audiences far beyond the gay community with its most mainstream exposure being the Batman television series starring Adam West and Burt Ward. The Batman series was massively successful and influential despite what one might expect due to its cheap costumes, eccentric performances, outrageous scenarios, and hammy narration. The public’s growing awareness of tongue-in-cheek humor and irony (both important elements in intentional camp) allowed the tv series to become a hit. Camp had now become the expression of the ‘hip kids,’ thanks in part to the subversive antics of Andy Warhol in the art world and Susan Sontag’s 1964 essay “Notes on ‘Camp’” which defined the word in an academic sense for the first time.

In her essay Sontag separated camp into two general categories, “Camp is either completely naive or else wholly conscious (when one plays at being campy). In naive, or pure, Camp, the essential element is seriousness, a seriousness that fails.”

In the writing world, the acceptance of camp style into the mainstream allowed genre fiction, typically considered a “low art” and relegated to the cheap, pulp magazines of the past, to break down the barriers of the “high art” world and intermingle with the lofty concepts of literature.

A prime example is Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five which mixes the historical war novel with dark comedy and science fiction. Slaughterhouse-Five was chosen as one of the Modern Library’s 100 best novels of all time, received a fiftieth anniversary edition from Penguin’s prestigious Vintage Classics imprint, and is taught in high school English classes all while containing time-traveling aliens that resemble upright toilet plungers with a hand on top and a single green eye called Tralfamadorians.

Left: Penguin’s hardcover Vintage Classics edition of Slaughterhouse-Five; Right: an artist’s interpretation of a Tralfamadorian

As the decades passed, camp, of the naive and intentional variety, could be seen everywhere. For those looking retrospectively there were the earnest yet cheap and hastily-made horror and sci-fi films of the ‘50s, such as Ed Wood’s Plan 9 From Outer Space. The dedicated cult following of “midnight movies” like The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which proudly celebrated drag queens and the great B movies of yesteryear, further cemented camp’s cultural status throughout the 1970s and beyond. The term “midnight movie” originates from a time when low-budget, horror films were shown on late-night television because the rights were so cheap and easy to obtain that it could make up for the relatively small viewership and less-coveted time slot for advertisers.

Another element associated with camp and midnight movies is that of the horror host. Horror hosts (beginning with Vampira in the 50s, continuing with Elvira in the 80s, and later Joe Bob Briggs in the 90s with TNT’s MonsterVision) would introduce the films peppering their monologues with horror puns and using their own extravagant personas to help foster a sense of community in the viewership and give them a reason to keep tuning back in week after week. The concept of the horror host was most likely inspired by horror comics such as Tales from the Crypt’s use of a humorous narrator known as the Cryptkeeper.

During the 80s, big-budget, blockbuster films even got in on the fun. Successful film franchises like Ghostbusters, Back to the Future, and Honey, I Shrunk the Kids created a blueprint for many movies of the following decade with their intentionally zany premises, quirky humor, and overall light-hearted tone while delivering large, elaborate action sequences. In the 1990s, there seemed to be a return to many of the concepts that were popular in the Fifties (such as alien invasions, secret government organizations, and monsters terrorizing society) though updated with new technology, better special effects, and modern perspectives. Like any self-respecting kid of that era, I absolutely ate this stuff up so when it came time to write a short story collection I couldn’t resist penning a nostalgic homage to the influential stories of my childhood.

Conclusion: Is Camp Still Relevant?

So, amid the Christopher Nolan-esque landscape in which we currently find ourselves, is there still a place for the silly, tongue-in-cheek antics of the camp style? Well, looking to the resounding success of the colorful and playful Guardians of the Galaxy franchise it appears that a significantly large audience still thinks so. In fact, Guardians was such a big hit that it caused Warner Brothers Studios to hastily re-edit the nearly completed film Suicide Squad in a desperate attempt to reshape its dark tone into a more fun and irreverent one.

One can also look to the popularity of the television show RuPaul’s Drag Race which takes camp humor back to its early roots in the gay community. On a related note, last year the prestigious Met Gala Fashion Show (a fundraiser for the Metropolitan Museum of Art) was centered around the theme of camp fashion, which was pioneered by the drag queen community. Just like Slaughterhouse-Five, this is yet another example of the “high art” world embracing something that was once viewed as “low art” for weirdos and degenerates.

The tradition of midnight movies is still going strong as well with Tommy Wiseau’s unintentionally campy film The Room, which many people lovingly refer to as the “best bad movie of all time,” becoming a cult classic. Tommy Wiseau and the making of The Room were later the subject of James Franco’s Oscar-nominated film The Disaster Artist. The Syfy channel has basically built its entire reputation on low-budget schlock such as its surprisingly popular Sharknado film franchise. Looking to online culture, there was also the crowdfunded, short film Kung Fury (a hilarious send-up of 80s police action movies) by David Sandberg that more than tripled its initial Kickstarter goal culminating in a budget of $630,000.

Left to Right: Beni from The Mummy; Aqua-fluorescent alien tech from Independence Day; The tiny yet powerful weapon (The Noisy Cricket) from Men In Black

Pictured above are elements from three campy blockbuster movies I grew up watching that directly inspired my story “Pulp Mythology.” The main character’s best friend is named Bennie, all of the futuristic tech emits an aqua-fluorescent glow, and one character carries a small yet immensely powerful weapon that she wields throughout the story. So, yes, I made my story intentionally and proudly campy because I love camp. It was a hell of a lot of fun to write just as, I imagine, many of its cinematic inspirations were.

The joy of camp, at least for me, is that it allows your sense of humor and imagination to run wild without always having to be concerned with strict realism. There is nothing wrong with grounded, dark and gritty stories, in fact many of my favorite stories have those traits (including many of the ones I write), but let’s not force all stories into those restraints simply because it is the prevailing trend. Artists should have an abundance of paints on their palette that they are permitted to work with, whether they are of the darker variety or the brighter ones.

So in summation:

¡Viva La Camp!

Indie Press vs Major Publisher: Is one really better than the other?

Amid the global coronavirus pandemic and the temporary shutdowns and event cancellations it has caused I’ve seen a lot of talk about supporting small businesses. This is because small businesses will inevitably be harmed more by these shutdowns than the massive international corporations, especially since they can always ask for government bailouts as witnessed in the 2008 Economic Recession.

As a small business owner myself I think this show of public support is wonderful and makes this the perfect time to discuss the differences between independent publishers (indie presses) and major publishers.

The Entertainment Industry Overview

In the entertainment business, whether we’re talking about music, films, or books, there are two distinct lanes to choose from when creating and releasing your art into the world.

For musicians, there are the major labels: such as Universal Music Group, Sony Music Entertainment, and Warner Music Group; and the indie labels: such as Epitaph Records, Sub Pop, and Rhymesayers Entertainment.

For filmmakers, there are the major studios: such as Walt Disney Pictures, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and Paramount Pictures; and indie production companies: such as A24 Films, Northern Lights Films, and Troma Entertainment.

For writers, there are the major publishers: such as Penguin Random House, HarperCollins, and Macmillan Publishers; and there are the indie publishers: such as Tin House Books, Coffee House Press, and Two Dollar Radio.

For the sake of brevity and because I’m a writer, I’m mostly going to be focusing on the publishing industry in this post. Just in case you somehow ended up here without being aware of this, I am the owner of my own indie publishing business, Dark Currents Press, so I might have a bit of a bias in this conversation but I will try to maintain my objectivity as best as I can.

The Publishing Industry

Preconceptions about Quality: Self-Publishing vs Traditional Publishing

Thanks to the ease of dissemination brought about by the internet there was an explosion of self-published books at the turn of the millennium.

The pros of self-publishing are that it gives writers much more control over the final product, they keep a much higher percentage of the earnings than in contracts with traditional publishers, and they are able to get their work out to the public at a much faster rate than with the traditional publishing model, which can often take a year or more after the final draft of the book is completed. The cons of self-publishing are how easy it is to publish a book online and the fact that many self-published writers think they can simply forego the essentials, such as hiring professionals for developmental and line editing, interior design/text formatting, or cover designers.

These are typical examples of the cover quality of many self-published books, out of respect for the authors’ privacy I have obscured their names.

Unfortunately, thanks to the overwhelming number of shoddy, amateur-looking self-published books out there, there is often a stigma attached to self-publishing that remains to this day.

But the times they are a-changin’ and many self-published writers are now going that extra mile to give readers the same level of quality and professionalism that they’ve come to expect from traditionally published books.

Enter The Age of the Indie Press

In order to escape the negative connotations that often come along with self-publishing many writers have now formed their own publishing businesses to put out not only their own books, but the books of other writers they believe in as well. Many of these small publishing businesses, or indie presses, create a specialized “brand” centered around writers in similar genres or styles and some are regional presses focusing on writers from a particular area or works that take place in a specific region, such as the American South, the Midwest, or the US-Mexican border for example.

Indie presses are often used as a way to help legitimize the work of indie authors by placing their works under the umbrella of a professional publishing company rather than simply publishing them under the author’s name. Many of these independent publishers do all of the same things that the traditional “Big Five” publishers do (such as editing, formatting, cover design, and marketing), just often on a much smaller scale. Some of these presses have a staff of just one person that has enough financial capital to hire the various freelance editors, designers, and marketers to get books created and distributed for their writers. Others have a small team of professionals that collaborate to do all of these things “in-house” for the writers they work with.

Even with all of this being said, books published by indie presses still often receive unjust criticism in comparison to the books put out by traditional publishers although they might exhibit a greater artistic vision or have even more care put into them, just as films by indie production companies or albums by indie music labels.

Bruja from Civil Coping Mechanisms, Greener Pastures from Apex Book Company, and Coyote Songs from Broken River Books

Above are three indie press books from my own personal library that have stunning covers and beautiful writing that withstand comparisons to any books released by the “Big Five” traditional publishers.

But Doesn’t Higher Budget Mean Higher Quality?

Traditional thinking would often lead one to believe that the greater the budget of an artistic project the greater the quality is of that artistic project, but often big investors limit the creativity of the artists. Writers often find themselves restricted by what they can or cannot say in a book based on the publisher’s concerns of commercial success. Big investors afraid of taking risks have long been known to ruin artists’ works, such as when big movie studios reshoot scenes and change storylines against the director’s wishes or major record labels “shelve” albums that are too experimental or unusual for mainstream audiences. This type of thinking in the world of major book publishing causes many writers to chase the trends of previous successes rather than breaking any new ground.

For example, let’s compare an indie press book with a book from a major publisher and see if commercial viability is always a good determiner of artistic quality.

Michael Wehunt’s Greener Pastures (above, center) is a literary horror anthology currently published by Apex Book Company and it is one of the best books that I’ve ever read. The stories are interesting, original, and unnerving while also containing beautifully-written, poetic sentences. The book was also nominated for two literary awards, the 2016 Shirley Jackson award and the 2017 Crawford Award.

Here is an excerpt from Greener Pastures:

“A small, bright laugh came from somewhere close. He heard it in his ear in the same instant. Rustling ahead, the faint crunch of gravel. When he reached the corner, the vast black space opening before him, he paused and looked up. No moon hung in the endless stars.”

Now let’s compare this independently published book to one released by one of the “big five” trade publishers Simon & Schuster (who as of Jan. 2019 reported an annual revenue of $830 million).

A Shore Thing was a novel written by Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi known from reality tv show Jersey Shore and “collaborator” (a.k.a. ghostwriter) Valerie Frankel. The novel is about two cousins that party over the length of one summer while looking for guys to hook up with and possibly finding love along the way.

Here’s an excerpt from A Shore Thing:

“Gia danced around a little, shaking her peaches for show. She shook it hard. Too hard. In the middle of a shimmy, her stomach cramped. A fart slipped out. A loud one. And stinky.

The DJ said, “Whoa, girl, what’d you eat?”

Now I’m sure some reading this right now are thinking, “C’mon now, you cherry-picked these examples to make indie publishing look good and traditional publishing look bad.” And to be honest, you would be correct but it still proves my point. Whether a book is published by an indie press or a massive traditional publisher says nothing about the quality of that book.

Indie Presses Still Fighting The Stigma

The unfortunate truth is that independent publishers and their writers will have to continue fighting for credibility in the literary world while anyone with enough fame (or infamy) to sell units can get the backing of a major publishing house and suddenly they are now a “real” writer.

As a writer that formed my own small publishing business I learned this the hard way as I went around donating copies to libraries and attempting to establish partnerships with independent bookstores in my area. Most of the libraries were very kind and receptive but one required me to fill out a form listing my book’s accomplishments, notable reviews, and if it was professionally edited, which left a bad taste in my mouth since I felt like I had to prove myself just to give them a free copy of my book, and I am well aware that traditionally published authors would never be asked to do these things.

Even independent bookstores, which are small businesses themselves that have struggled to remain relevant in the post-Amazon/online age, discriminate against indie authors. Some bookstores like Back In The Day Books in Dunedin, FL were extremely receptive and encouraging (seriously go support them because they’re awesome), but another unnamed bookstore I spoke with was rather cold and condescending until they looked up my book online then their tone quickly changed.

In the most ironic turn of events yet, many self-published and indie press authors that have built large, loyal fanbases are now being picked up by major publishing houses. So it seems that even the major publishing companies are having to admit the legitimacy of these indie writers since they’re now offering them contracts.

A few well-known examples are: Hugh Howey’s Silo series was published in physical formats by Simon & Schuster and Penguin Random House (UK) as he simultaneously published the ebook versions through his own indie press, Broad Reach Publishing; Andy Weir’s serialized, self-published novel The Martian was later re-published by Penguin Random House and adapted into a successful Ridley Scott picture; Thomas Ligotti was published by numerous indie presses, such as Silver Scarab Press and Subterranean Press, before being published by Penguin Random House in 2015.

Conclusion: Support Indie Presses/Independent Artists

So I hope in this somewhat lengthy post of mine I’ve convinced you of the importance and relevance of independent writers and independent publishers in the literary world.

Here’s a list of twelve indie presses to get you started:

Apex Book Company - publishes science fiction, fantasy, and horror, including the excellent Greener Pastures by Michael Wehunt

Akashic Books - publishes urban literary fiction, political nonfiction, and a successful line of international crime noir anthologies

Two Dollar Radio - a family-run outfit founded in 2005 with the mission to reaffirm the cultural and artistic spirit of the publishing industry

Press 53 - North Carolina-based publisher of short fiction and poetry collections, including a successful anthology series of strange tales from the South called Surreal South

Quirk Books - as the name implies they publish quirky, unconventional, genre-blending books, such as the wildly popular Pride and Prejudice and Zombies as well as Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children

Valancourt Books - small press in Richmond, VA specializing in the rediscovery of rare, neglected, and out-of-print Gothic, horror, sci-fi, LGBT, literary, and Victorian fiction

Soho Press - specializes in literary fiction, international crime series, Young Adult, and memoirs

Undertow Publications - celebrated Canadian publisher of dark, weird, horror, and fantasy fiction (fun side note: their art director made the cover for my book Black Flowers)

Coffee House Press - a nonprofit press based in Minneapolis, Minnesota that publishes literary novels, short story collections, poetry, creative nonfiction, book-length essays, and essay collections

The Accomplices - a partnership of three indie presses: Civil Coping Mechanisms / Entropy / Writ Large Press that aim to amplify marginalized voices and identities, particularly writers of color, through traditional and new media publishing, public engagement, and community building

Feminist Press - educational nonprofit press founded to advance women's rights and amplify feminist perspectives

Wave Books - independent poetry press based in Seattle, Washington, dedicated to publishing exceptional contemporary poetry, poetry in translation, and writing by poets

The Artist and The Critic: Part II

“To my home girls here with the big butts,

Shaking it like we at a strip club,

Remember only God can judge us,

Forget the haters cause somebody loves ya”

-Miley Cyrus

I started the first part of this essay with a quote from Aristotle and now I’ve begun the second part with a Miley Cyrus lyric to illustrate something they share (other than a poetic way with words, of course) and that is that they both received criticism.

In Part I we discussed Professional Criticism, that is, people that do it for a living or receive monetary compensation in some form for their critiques, their relationship to artists, and how they influence the way art is received by culture.

In Part II we’re going to cover Non-Professional Criticism by the general public, the “wannabe” critics, haters/internet trolls, and overly-sensitive/moral outragers and their relationship to art, artists, and censorship.

Much like the first part, this can be used as a primer for any aspiring artists out there if you’re wondering what to expect. I’ll be sharing some of my own experiences with non-professional criticism I’ve received with my debut, short story collection Black Flowers.

Non-Professional Criticism

A month or so after my book was released it had received a positive professional review from the online review site Reedsy Discovery and it was selling fairly well, but I had only received a handful of customer reviews on Amazon and I felt that I needed more to boost the book’s reputation (as well as its ranking in the mysterious Amazon algorithm) so I posted a free copy on another website for honest reviews by the general public. That’s when I had my first real encounters with negative criticism and I won’t lie, it hurt a little bit. The first two readers I got did not finish it and left comments stating why, the first was vague and the other quite detailed. I was starting to feel a bit down until my first full review came in and it was quite charming, the reviewer admitted that she liked the book so much that she actually purchased it in paperback after reading the digital review copy for free (for me that was the highest of all compliments). The next review I received, though rating it three out of five stars, seemed to be the most nit-picky and negative of all. This reviewer I would consider to be a case of the “wannabe” critic, which I will explain further in a bit.

As this was taking place I also took impromptu polls from friends and coworkers who had read my book to ask them their favorite and least favorite stories and received completely contradictory advice from one person to the next. One person’s favorite story would be the next person’s least favorite story and so on until I realized that these conclusions were mostly coming down to genre preferences rather than anything inherently wrong with any of the stories. Thankfully though it seemed that the general consensus was that I was a skilled writer, some people just don’t care for open-ended stories or particular genres very much and that’s fine.

My book is still receiving reviews as we speak, but my current take on the general public is partially what I already knew and that is that most readers prefer to read only one or two genres and rarely venture outside of those. The majority of people seem to prefer action-heavy, plot-centered stories with unambiguous endings. These are the same traits you will find in most commercial fiction that tops the best seller lists each week. There are readers that prefer a more flowery, “literary” writing style that centers more around character development and the complexities of identity, but I would say these folks are in the minority though a higher number of these books will go on to become lasting classics than their commercial brethren.

Black Flowers contains commercial, mainstream stories alongside more “literary” stories, which can be a mixed bag for those that prefer one or the other, but since I like both it’s exactly the book I wished to create and I couldn’t be more proud of it. With that being said let it be known that if you are going to try something different or be experimental a lot of the general public may be confused, not “get it,” or simply just not like it because it’s not what they expected or what they’re used to. If you’re lucky public perception may change with time, as for myself I think it’s still a little too early to tell because a good portion of the reading public has yet to read my book but that’s just the way of life for the indie artist.

Now I’d like to discuss the “wannabe” critic, the “wannabe” critic has mistaken their pretentiousness and negativity for true criticism. Unlike actual critics that can often appreciate skillfully told stories even when they exist outside of a genre they personally prefer, these “wannabes” consider something bad if they simply don’t care for that genre. Instead of having a list of pros and cons like many actual critics and attempting to provide constructive criticism for the artist, the “wannabe” takes pleasure in mercilessly tearing apart other people’s works while hiding behind the veneer of “elevated language” that they stole from an actual critic’s review that they read online one time. Another common aspect of the “wannabe” critic is that they often operate in anonymity not realizing that actual critics, much like artists, build a following based on their reputation and are held accountable for the things they say. You can’t take pride in providing “brutally honest” reviews when you shield yourself from any criticism or no one is going to take you seriously.

This lack of accountability paired with their negativity creates a very thin line between them and the haters/internet trolls currently plaguing the internet who merely wish to antagonize and demean others due to their own low self-esteem.

Let’s talk for a second about the importance of accountability when it comes to artists and criticism, if you hide behind a fake name and fake picture and harshly criticize or insult the art of someone that put themselves out there, I’m not going to mince words here, you’re a coward. You fire shots from a safe distance then slither back into the shadows while others put their names and reputations on the chopping block for their work. If you have a harsh critique to give then stand by it, put your name and face on it, otherwise you’re proving you can dish it out but you can’t take it.

Though the internet has made it much easier, the cowardice of the anonymous critic is nothing new, as this quote from the 19th century preacher Charles Spurgeon illustrates:

“Never write what you dare not sign. An anonymous letter-writer is a sort of assassin, who wears a mask, and stabs in the dark. Such a man is a fiend with a pen. If discovered, the wretch will be steeped in the blackest infamy.”

One of my personal favorite responses to anonymous critics, online haters, and internet trolls is the music video for “The Sound” by The 1975. The video shows the band performing in a glass box as a crowd of people gather round hurling insults at them while humorously flashing quotes pulled from the internet. The video ends on a high note with the band calmly watching from outside the box their critics have now placed themselves in:

Since this has been a hot topic as of late, the last thing I’d like to discuss is the overly-sensitive, moral outragers and their relationship to art, artists, and censorship.

Before the film Joker was released it received a standing ovation at the Venice Film Festival, which made it seem like it would have a smooth, easy road ahead on its way to the box office. Then came the controversy…

During the film’s pre-release viewings for critics both Time and Vanity Fair published reviews calling the film “irresponsible” and worried that the film’s depiction of a mentally ill loner turning to violence would inspire real-life acts of violence. Later, the military stirred the pot even further by issuing warnings to law enforcement based off of online threats that resulted in an increased police presence at theatrical showings of the film. Ironically, all of the controversy only seemed to help the film rather than hurt it since, at the time of writing this, it is on the verge of making $1 billion dollars worldwide.

I bring up the Joker film controversy in order to show the latest example in a long history of moralists attempting to censor art that they disagree with or that makes them uncomfortable. This type of moral outrage over art is not exclusive to either side of the religious/political spectrum. For example, conservative Christians have a long history of boycotting/protesting musicians they disagree with, such as Marilyn Manson, Judas Priest, Slayer, or even the Beatles.

On a personal note, I’ve received criticism for sex in my book from both sides. Prudish Christians don’t like the explicit nature of some of the sex scenes while one “hyper-woke” reviewer apparently felt I wasn’t explicit enough when she commented that I used a “problematic” sexist trope by closing a scene when the female character was about to receive pleasure. This would be a perfect example of the old adage “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” Something I’ve learned as an artist is that people are going to bring their own personal baggage to their interpretation of your work. They sometimes interpret something you do as a political or moral statement when it actually isn’t meant to be one. There are genuine cases when issues need to be discussed and people should be called out for things they do and/or say, but for some people these days it seems like getting offended is their new favorite hobby or like it’s some new type of social currency. In many cases I think it is just a cry for attention and the need to feel “better” than someone else.

“You’ve got to always realize that you’re being criticized by the fashion of the day and when the fashion changes everyone forgets about that.” -film director, Brian de Palma

Ultimately, if you ever want to feel empowered as an artist when the critics, professional or otherwise, are trying to tear you down just tell them the same thing that football players say to those on the sidelines:

“I’m making plays on the field as you make comments from the bleachers.”

On Criticism: The Artist and The Critic

“There is only one way to avoid criticism: do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing.” -Aristotle

So I’m going to do my best to avoid ranting or being petty here but I do want to be upfront about my bias for the artist or creator. There are several professional critics whom I greatly admire and hold their opinions in high regard and while I find art criticism/art curation a valuable and worthwhile enterprise I simply don’t believe that being a critic requires as much courage, effort, or risk on their part as it does to be an artist/creator. That’s not to say that critics risk nothing because an authentic critic will go against the grain even if it means putting his or her reputation on the line, but honestly artists do that with every work they release to the public.

With that said I want this to be an encouragement and act as a sort of primer of what to expect for all of my aspiring artists out there, whether you do painting, sculpting, writing, filmmaking, musical performance, etc. It takes a lot of guts to put yourself out on display and bare your soul to the public knowing full well that it’s not going to connect with some people and others will even ridicule you for trying (even more so if you are hoping to make a living out of it). Though if everyone listened to those small-minded people, there would be no more art and what a sad, empty world that would be.

In this essay I intend to explore two different forms of criticism:

Professional Criticism - as in, those that cover and critique art for a living or, at least, receive some form of monetary compensation for it and their relationship to artists as well as how they influence the way art is received by culture.

Non-Professional Criticism - the general public, the “wannabe” critics, haters/internet trolls, and overly-sensitive/moral outragers and their relationship to art, artists, and censorship.

Professional Criticism

In Alejandro Iñárritu’s 2014 film Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) Michael Keaton plays washed-up, Hollywood actor Riggan Thomson. A couple of decades prior Thomson was the star of the extremely successful, superhero film franchise Birdman (a very meta role for Keaton since his real-life career mirrored his character’s at the time). In the film’s storyline Thomson is now trying to revive his career by writing, directing, and starring in a Broadway play in hopes it will cement him as a “true artist.”

There are countless obstacles in Thomson’s path but the biggest one is the influential theater critic Tabitha Dickinson. At a chance meeting in a bar Thomson attempts to get in the critic’s good graces by buying her a drink when she informs him that she hates him and his kind (Hollywood actors) and she’s going to give his play a terrible review without having ever seen it.

The following exchange about the differences between the artist and the critic ensues:

(Warning: Graphic Language)

I love this scene because as childish as Thomson might behave in it I believe every artist has wanted to say something like this or felt this way toward those critics that harshly and thoughtlessly review works of art without respecting the time, effort, and money that has often gone into them. I also believe this scene brings up an important aspect of the world of art criticism and that is the subject of “gatekeeping.”

Gatekeeping in the art world is when a person, thing, or institution keeps others from having access to something, that something often being exposure to a larger audience. Exhibition directors at museums, wealthy collectors, and, of course, well-known critics are all good examples of gatekeepers in the art world since they are often the deciding factors of who receives the acclaim and recognition and who gets shoved aside. Major book publishers, Hollywood film studios, and major record labels can also be considered gatekeepers as well, but a positive review from an established critic can greatly help a writer, filmmaker, or musician break into all of these industries.

This illustrates the power wielded by some professional critics and, just as portrayed in the film Birdman, that power can be abused causing much resentment toward these critics by many struggling artists, especially when artists often feel that those same harsh critics do not have the talent, patience, or work-ethic to create the very art that they disparage.

Artists’ often antagonistic relationship with critics will occasionally boil over into humorously barbed statements such as this one by writer Brendan Behan:

“Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it’s done, they’ve seen it done every day, but they’re unable to do it themselves.”

This is a widespread sentiment among many in the art community, but is it actually true? Are there instances where critics have turned into artists?

An example we can look to is film critic Chris Stuckmann. Stuckmann has been uploading film reviews on Youtube for a little over ten years and has gained quite a significant fan base, myself counted among them. Within the last few years he has begun making very small-scale independent film shorts and taking them to various film festivals.

The following are some of his comments on transitioning from a film critic to a filmmaker:

“…film criticism has never been my goal in life, filmmaking was always and still is my goal… The internet, and honestly I’m a part of this, takes so much focus on whether or not what you created is a masterpiece and it might not be. More than likely it isn’t, but you still got together and you made something and that’s just insanely inspiring.”

I really like seeing a critic learn what it feels like to be on the flip side of that coin and coming to the realization that everything you create won’t necessarily be utter perfection but understanding the significance in having the courage to put yourself out there and make something, which is so much more than most people (critics included) can say.

As I mentioned earlier, many critics also don’t understand or respect the fact that a lot of money, time, and labor has been spent on the artists’ part, and this is especially true for the smaller, independent artists that are funding their own projects. Stuckmann saved up his own money and spent $17,000 for his film short Auditorium 6. Now I don’t believe that working on a smaller scale or a micro-budget should make your project free from criticism but I do think that should be taken into account when it is being compared to the major productions with massive budgets.

For example, I’m sure most critics (professional or otherwise) that read my book Black Flowers will compare it to the works published by the major publishing companies with massive budgets and marketing teams never taking into account that I wrote, published, and marketed it funded by the money out of my own pocket. Altogether, I spent just over $4,000 hiring freelance professionals: two editors, an interior designer, and a cover designer; then created my own publishing business, Dark Currents Press, in order for my book to stand a chance in competing with the big dogs in the marketplace. And to be honest, I think I did a damn fine job and I would do it all over again because this is the culmination of a life-long dream for me.

Now that I’ve covered the art community’s relationship with the world of professional criticism and how much established critics can help or hinder an artist’s reach, I want to end this section on an uplifting note for all of my frustrated, struggling artists out there. The following are a few examples of when an artist or piece of art was not initially well-received critically, but the art/artist has withstood the test of time, been re-evaluated, and/or gained a cult following:

-The crime, horror, and science fiction/fantasy writers that got their start writing for the cheap pulp magazines of the 1920s-30s were once considered “low-brow” or “lesser” artists than their literary counterparts at the time. Now these writers, such as Raymond Chandler, H.P. Lovecraft, and Edgar Rice Burroughs, are published in the Penguin Classics series which is reserved for works considered to be enduring literary classics.

-The director John Carpenter’s horror/sci-fi film The Thing was initially a critical failure and box office bomb when it was released to theaters in 1982 with critic Roger Ebert referring to it as a “disappointing,” “barf-bag movie” with “superficial characterizations.” It is now considered an extremely influential horror classic with groundbreaking practical effects and scenes of unparalleled tension and suspense.

-The British indie-pop band The 1975’s self-titled, debut album was a commercial success but was panned by the majority of music critics. British music magazine NME named them the “Worst Band In The World” only to perform a complete 180 two years later with their second album I Like It When You Sleep, For You Are So Beautiful Yet So Unaware of It by awarding it their “Album of The Year.”

The artistic landscape is littered with thousands of other examples I could use, but I believe I’ve made my point. If you are an artist that has labored and struggled over your work only for it to be met with harsh criticism and rejection don’t throw in the towel and give up. The aforementioned artists were once there as well, but all of them were either re-evaluated with time, took a while to find their audience, or came back with an explosive piece of art that made those critics eat their own words.

“…When courage dies, creativity dies with it. …fear is a desolate boneyard where our dreams go to desiccate in the hot sun.” -Elizabeth Gilbert

Next week in Part II of this essay on criticism I’ll cover Non-Professional Criticism in the age of the internet, what to expect, and some of my own personal experiences with it. Catch ya later, folks!

Epilogue (an outtake from Black Flowers)

I’ve always found deleted scenes from films and b-sides from albums interesting so with that in mind I decided to share a story that didn’t make the final cut for my short story collection Black Flowers.

There are a few different reasons why the editor and I decided to remove it. Most of them coming down to where its placement in the book would be and it feeling fairly similar to some of the stories that were already present.

With that being said in order for the story to fully make sense I would recommend having read Black Flowers since there is a connection to the last story in the collection called “Coda,” otherwise you might be a little confused when you reach the ending.

“Epilogue”

Ayinde stepped carefully through the underbrush trying to avoid making noise but somehow he knew his presence was known. How had he never seen this place before? It wasn't even far from the usual hunting grounds. He'd been warned of places like this. His people knew that danger sometimes lurked within the seemingly familiar.

Ayinde looked up trying to locate the full moon in an attempt to reorient himself but it had disappeared from the sky. He heard a bird chirp in the distance; its call sounded distorted and somehow reversed. As he searched the trees an ominous hum rose around him. He could see the bird now, it fluttered unnaturally, twitching and shaking as water droplets lifted off the ground and burrowed into the feathers on its back. It jerked its head in his direction then stopped upon making eye contact with him. It leapt from the branch and flew backwards through the air in a manner he'd never seen before.

He was once again aware of something watching him. He'd come here to hunt but now he'd inadvertently become the prey. He crouched low to the ground, tightly gripping his hunting spear as he approached a large body of water. Ayinde cupped his hand in the water and brought it to his mouth. He thanked Oshun, the river goddess, as he splashed some on his face and neck to cool off. He stared into his reflection in the water and thought he saw the outline of something behind him. A shudder ran through his body as he spun around but there was nothing there.

As he faced the lake once again he saw a dark figure standing on the shore of the opposite side. It shared a strange combination of animal and insect-like features. He surmised it to be a predator of some kind based on the exposed fangs and claws and, unfortunately, he'd caught its attention. For the moment he was thankful the two of them were separated by a large body of water, then it sprinted across the top of the lake toward him. Its tall, lean body impossibly supported by the surface of the water as if it had no weight at all.

He no longer had time for speculation, now he turned and ran.

~

Ayinde sprinted into the high grass hoping he might be able to lose the creature that was surely closing the distance between the two of them now. He could hear it panting and the light pat-pat of its feet on the ground somewhere behind him. He moved in a zig-zag pattern thinking that it might confuse it or, at the very least, make him a little harder to catch. It dawned on him that he was instinctually heading back to his village, bringing the danger to his people. He must try to take care of this predicament on his own like the heroes of old and like his grandfather, one of the most venerated warriors of his tribe. Heroes bravely fought for their communities rather than cowardly raining calamity down upon it.

On the hill to his right he saw a large tree and darted toward it. He'd scaled to the top within a matter of seconds and now awaited the beast with his hunting spear drawn. Without warning the tree folded in on itself and collapsed into the ground, taking him along with it. He listened to the rocks and soil churn restlessly around him as he was forced deeper and deeper. The dirt fell away and he saw a large subterranean chasm open up beneath him. He clung to the roots of the tree by his fingertips but he could feel his grip slipping. The roots broke free from his grasp and he plummeted into the chasm.

As he descended further into the abyss he watched a dim light grow with increasing brightness as he neared its source. Streams of hot air ran over his face and limbs as he discovered he was reaching the earth's core. Oceans of liquified rock broiled for as far as he could see. Suddenly he rocketed past them and ascended back through the earth's crust to the opposite side of the surface. Ayinde burst free from the ground in a plume of dust, throwing rocks and soil in every direction.

Then he saw a twin planet suspended parallel to his own as he sped toward its surface in a spot identical to where he'd been submerged with the previous tree before. Another treetop (or was it the same one?) folded into itself, taking him along with it once again, repeating the entire process until he was ejected from the planet's opposite side. Then he was jettisoned to the next replica of his planet as he seemed to be stuck in an infinite loop, faster and faster. Ayinde shut his eyes unable to watch any longer for fear of going insane.

He finally reopened them when he felt his rate of descent slowing. He saw his village from above; now there were several of the creatures chasing his fellow tribesmen. Whenever the tribesmen tried to break away from a path leading to the village the creatures would circle around and force them back to the village as if they were herding them like sheepdogs . . . but for what purpose?

He struck the ground with a soft thud.

~

Ayinde rose to his feet and looked around. Up the hill stood the same tree he'd fallen into earlier; his hunting spear now lay at the base of it. He lifted his hunting spear from the ground, careful not to touch that cursed tree again.

If the beasts were intentionally rounding up the hunters and pushing them back toward the village, then they were already aware of its location and hoping to use it as a point of convergence. He could only guess at their purpose for rounding all of his people up into one spot, but he doubted it was for anything good. He decided to stand his ground against the monster even though he knew his chances of survival weren't very high. He crouched into a defensive position and prayed for Ogun, the god of warriors, to guide his aim as he awaited its arrival.

The moment its head rose from the tall grass he lunged forward, hurling the spear through the air. There was a ripping sound as it made impact but the outcome was not as he'd expected. His spear had left a gaping hole, not only in the creature but in the environment as well. It was as if he was looking at a painting with a tear in its canvas. Beyond the tear was no blood or bodily fluids, only a void into which his spear had vanished. The tattered edges of the hole quickly rethread themselves together and the beast continued on undeterred.

 He was now without a weapon, but he was determined not to give up. As the beast charged, he grabbed a large stone from the ground and leapt into the air swinging wildly at its face. He landed several blows with the rock as the creature lifted him off the ground with its thin but surprisingly strong front legs. He stared into its blank, unfeeling eyes as it let loose an ear-piercing wail in his face. Then his free hand fell on something cold and metallic around its neck, a luminescent collar of some kind. He smashed the rock against the collar repeatedly not quite sure of what it would accomplish, if anything.

After a series of merciless blows the collar came off in his hand. The creature ceased wailing and grew strangely calm. It gave him a confused expression, chirped softly at him, then turned around and disappeared back through the tall grass. He stood in place for a while examining the bizarre collar, then he darted down the hill back towards his village.

~

As he reached the village he saw his tribespeople panicked and mothers clutching their children tightly as they ran. In the distance were brilliant flashes of light approaching as a massive gust of wind swept across the savanna toward him. It blew through the village tearing off the roofs of several huts. At first he thought the light and wind must be the fury of an approaching storm, but then he saw it.

With each flash of light another member of Ayinde’s tribe ascended into the air reaching impossible heights. Then he noticed the strange sky—what he had previously mistaken for stars were the twinkling spires of an upside-down cityscape. He saw several of the greatest warriors of his tribe traveling up the shafts of light. One of the men was his close friend, Kaseko; he grabbed Kaseko's ankle desperately trying to bring him back down to the earth but soon found himself under its thrall as well. Ayinde released his grasp but it was too late. He was now being lifted high into the air above the village.

He looked below to see the roofs of the huts growing smaller and smaller. It appeared as if little ants were scurrying about around the shrinking huts and he realized they were his tribespeople. He returned his eyes to above and saw each warrior disappearing inside of the structure. A mechanized mouth opened wide and he closed his eyes preparing for the end.

When he reopened them, all was silent as his eyes adjusted to the blinding brightness. He found himself standing in an entirely white room by himself. He could not tell where the room ended or if there were walls or a ceiling, so he began walking with his hands stretched out in front of him. He approached what he believed to be a wall when his hand passed through it, startling him. He took another step forward and passed through entirely, stepping down into a silver corridor.

Ayinde looked back at the silver wall where he'd entered and lifted his hand to it. His fingers brushed along the cold, metallic surface of the wall. It was completely solid now so one thing was for certain: he wouldn't be going back the way he came in. He looked along the corridor realizing he could go either direction. He chose randomly and started walking as he approached what appeared to be a dead end when the corridor shifted, transforming into an open field of waist-high grass blowing in the breeze.

Though he could see no boundaries or walls, he knew he was still inside the massive structure; there was something artificial about this natural scene. He couldn't place his finger on it but something was just off. To his left something began moving towards him through the weeds. At first he believed it was a writhing coil of brown snakes but as it grew closer he realized it was a bundle of twisting, tangled roots. Without warning the roots shot upward, taking on a definitive human shape. As the tendrils fell away he saw a face emerge.

His mother's face.

~

His mother was draped in an elegant white tunic with flowing sleeves and a high neckband. She spoke in a strange yet calming manner. "Hello dear, I'm sure you're quite confused by all of this so I'd be happy to enlighten you. There is much reason for our people to rejoice. The Supreme Creator, Olodumare, has chosen to smile upon us this day. A new race of explorers from above wishes to bring us into their fold. We need only to cooperate and they will bestow humanity with access to the stars through technology and power we could never achieve on our own."

Ayinde eyed her suspiciously, then he saw the faint glow of the luminescent collar beneath the neckband of her tunic. "Your camouflage is the most impressive I've ever seen," he said, "but you are not my mother."

An unsettling grin spread across her face as her demeanor completely changed. "I knew you were different from the moment I saw you fight that Letari of ours." The voice coming from her mouth was no longer her own. Now it was coarse and deep, seemingly coming from all directions at once. "I'm glad there's no need for pretense with you, it's refreshing. I apologize for using your mother as a means of communication but I thought it might make it easier for you."

"Make what easier?" Ayinde said warily.

"Your Immersion. What I said before was the truth. We are explorers from above," she said pointing up at the transforming sky. The sunny day instantly turned to a starry night with a particular section of stars illuminated. "We call ourselves the Halcyon from the Empyrean Galaxy, which is the star cluster you see overhead. We travel throughout the Universe bringing other species into our fold, such as the Letari you encountered earlier."

He gave her a skeptical look. "You call yourselves explorers yet you resemble conquerors, and this so-called Immersion sounds a lot like servitude to me. For instance, where is my mother as we hold this conversation?"

She winked at him. "Oh, rest assured she's still here. This is only a temporary state and our Immersion comes with many advantages. As I have said access to the stars and unimaginable power. Do you really think that primitive Letari beast could have performed those miraculous feats without our technology at its disposal?"

Ayinde was unimpressed. "You're trying to convince me that submission to you is what's best for humanity, but our freedom is more valuable than any advancements you could ever give to us. I know that you're going to do what you want anyway, but the fact that you even present it as if we have an option tells me that you're scared. Probably because I've overcome your beast and your technology once already."

She sighed. "You are perceptive, I'll give you that, but humanity will bow down like all the species before it have. We simply wanted to show mercy, make it a little easier on you."

She brought another glowing collar from her tunic and took a step toward him. His body experienced a sudden paralysis before she clasped the collar firmly around his neck.

~

Ayinde felt as if his mind was a crowded room and he'd suddenly been pushed to the back as someone else took over. He was still looking out through his eyes but he had no control of his body. He passively watched as he left the place where his mother was and stepped back into the long, silver corridor. At the end of the corridor he stepped through a wall of rippling liquid then he entered a large circular room with a window viewing the savanna where his village sat.

There was a strange shimmering being that stood before the window gazing out at the pastoral scene. The figure was so bright that he couldn't look directly at it. He guessed this was one of the Halcyon in its true form, but he couldn't be sure. Then he realized they were not the only two in the room. He recognized members of his tribe as well as those of other neighboring villages. He also saw more of the Letari creatures roaming around. The humans and the Letari both wore the same type of collar that he wore.

He could feel the probing fingers of the Halcyon inside of his head accessing particular memories and knowledge he had. Then something unexpected happened, he saw through the eyes of one of his tribespeople. Then through the eyes of a neighboring villager. Then through his mother's eyes. Somehow, whether or not the Halcyon had intended it, the collars had made all of those that wore them form a strong mental connection with each other.

~

He wondered if it was possible to communicate through this cerebral linking that had occurred. If the Halcyon could send commands to each person's mind and extract information from them, then it seemed reasonable that the villagers might be able to use this conduit to send thoughts and ideas to each other as well. As the Halcyon used his physical body for mysterious interactions with their ship he mentally focused on his mother, attempting to send her a message.

If Ayinde could create a psychic bridge with his mother, assuming she really was still in there somewhere just as he was, then maybe they could work together to find a weakness in the Halcyon's technology and use it against them. He knew it was a long shot, but he also knew the Halcyon underestimated humans. They probably considered them only slightly more capable than the Letari and after witnessing that beast manipulate the environment with the collar he knew a human could do far more once they overcame whatever safeguards were in place.

So he honed in on his mother's mind using one of their most treasured memories together as the jumping-off point. He was a young boy playing out in the grass, pretending to be a skilled hunter like his father when he heard a growl nearby. That's when he noticed the lion cub he'd nearly stumbled on top of in the tall weeds, only the growling wasn't coming from the cub but rather the mother lion a few feet ahead of him. She was ferocious and more terrifying than anything he'd seen in his young life.

Back at the village he burst into his family's hut and into his mother's arms crying without giving her an explanation. For the next several nights the mother lion stalked him in nightmares, forcing him awake screaming until his mother comforted him. When he finally shared the source of his night terrors she hugged him and informed him that even though the danger he'd experienced that day was quite real the female lion was not a monster. It was only a mother looking after her cub just as she would always look after and protect him.

Throughout the years that followed this memory forged their bond as the constant reminder of the fierceness of a mother's love. He used this recollection now in an attempt to reach his mother, but the merging went no further than him seeing through her eyes once more. He started to panic. If he couldn't connect with his beloved mother, his own flesh and blood, then what hope was there? A heavy feeling of sadness began to weigh down on him as he considered his fate and the fate of his people.

~

Ayinde felt his grip loosening on the last thread of hope when the words came: "A single stick is easily broken, but sticks in a bundle are unbreakable." It was an ancient proverb about strength through community that his mother had taught him as a child. Maybe he'd been going about this all wrong. He loved his mother but he also knew there was great power in numbers, and uniting to work toward a common goal was something that humans could excel at when it was absolutely necessary.

Humanity's intellect paired with the capability of mass cooperation is what set them apart from the animal kingdom. It could be used toward destruction, such as grand-scale war, or toward creation, such as towering civilizations. He was now determined to show the Halcyon this side of humanity and make them regret their underestimation of his species. As this thought formed it was as if multiple light switches flipped on at once and an instantaneous merging of minds occurred. He could hear the voices of the tribe members inside of his head, many of them felt scared and alone just as he had.

Ayinde repeated the old proverb and sent it out to each of them. Then it was as if they were each awaking from a deep sleep, soon his entire tribe was ready and waiting. They were a force to be reckoned with but he knew it still wasn't going to be enough against the Halcyon. Then he thought of the people from the neighboring villages; his tribe had disagreed and fought with many of them in the past but all of that had to be put aside for now. This was bigger than any one person or community.

Send the message out to anyone and everyone that will listen, he communicated to the tribe.

And they did . . . .

Soon the people of the neighboring villages were awaking and joining as well. He could feel the psychic resistance growing ever larger. Then something completely unexpected happened—the message just kept on going.

People he'd never seen, from tribes and places he'd never heard of, started uniting with the growing consciousness. These people were different from him in their shades of skin and spoken tongues, but they all had two things in common: they were human and they'd been subjugated by the Halcyon. He wondered how long the Halcyon had been doing this. He'd foolishly assumed his people were their first contact with humanity, now he knew that was far from the case.

Massive amounts of information concerning the Halcyon tech and their way of life flooded his mind. From this collage of disparate details he spotted a chink in their armor that could be exploited. The Halcyon had a safeguard in place for when humans were at the ship's command station. In order for a human to utilize their technology the user's collar had to confirm that the person was not operating from their own personal will but under the influence of a Controller. In typical circumstances a Controller was one of the Halcyon, all of their technology could be accessed based on this single assumption.

The Halcyon were about to pay dearly for this oversight as he allowed his consciousness to merge with the rest of humanity. Through their collected consciousness they entered the command station and his collar confirmed the presence of a Controller. The small pieces of each individual's knowledge assembled into a patchwork understanding of the entire system. Humanity disconnected the ship from the Halcyon network, then turned off the ship’s engine and the craft plunged to the Earth.

Ayinde’s tribe and the neighboring villagers still had their psychic connection and the technology at their disposal, but now without the interference of the Halcyon. Every human aboard formed an energy field around themselves and burst through the ship's hull. He watched the Halcyon vessel explode as they ascended above the flames into the sky. He knew this same scene was being repeated all over as humanity freed itself from its captors.

He reunited with his mother as they floated through the clouds. Her eyes widened with fear when he broke the collar around his neck, but he reassured her with a smile as it crumbled and fell from his body. It had somehow permanently altered him; he was now stronger than ever before. Then he reached out, removing her collar as well, as she continued levitating. It appeared Ayinde was not the only one who'd undergone a transformation. He grabbed ahold of her hand as their eyes searched the stars overhead.

"Mother, it looks like we've got some exploring to do," he said as they drifted out into the aether.

~

Gene leaned back in his computer chair and removed his glasses as he lightly massaged the bridge of his nose. He spent several minutes staring at the blinking cursor with a growing sense of accomplishment. He still needed a fresh set of eyes to look over the manuscript and give him some feedback, but his wife was asleep with the baby. So he picked up his cellphone and dialed a number.

"Hey Mom, sorry to bother you this late, but I’d really like your input on a piece I just finished . . . ."

On Writing and Mental Health

It’s been a few weeks since my last post because I needed some time to deal with some of the worst anxiety I have ever had. The timing was pretty terrible too since book marketing advice says the time right after a book launch is the most important, but I decided my well-being was more important than a book. Unfortunately the book was the cause of my anxiety, though in retrospect I now know that I have always been dealing with anxiety this was just the thing that brought it all to the forefront. Anyways following a severe panic attack a few days before Black Flowers released my wonderful and supportive wife made me promise to go to a doctor, which I did. I am now happy to say that I have medication for it and I’m doing much better now.

This whole experience got me thinking about how the act of writing affects writers’ mental states in both positive and negative ways.

Disclaimer: I am not a mental health professional. This is just a layman’s point of view so take anything I say with a grain of salt.

I’m sure most people are aware of the examples of writers with severe depression that have committed suicide, such as Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, David Foster Wallace, and so on. There is also the stereotype of writers being alcoholics thanks to a few well-known ones, such as William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, and so on. While I am aware other types of artists and creators have also dealt with depression and alcoholism, why are these so strongly linked to writers in the popular consciousness? Is there any real connection or is it just a popular misconception?

I don’t intend on providing any definitive answers on this topic (since I don’t think I’m qualified to do that), but I do want to examine it and provide my own viewpoint as a writer. Does writing create depression and alcoholism or does it draw people that are already prone to these things?

I believe that writers tend to already have these problems and turn to writing as a way to deal with them. There are obvious exceptions but many writers are lonely introverts, many turn to writing for an escape similar to the reason many people abuse alcohol, many use writing as a way to conquer their fears and remove the filters for honesty, and to gain self-confidence and the courage to say the things that others won’t. I know from my own personal experience that I am much bolder in my writing than I typically am in everyday life. I feel like my writing represents the truest, most honest version of myself since I have had the time to consider all of my feelings and experiences before putting words to paper. I can be more thoughtful than the snap judgements people often make in daily conversations even when dealing with tough or sensitive topics that they haven’t had the time to fully think through yet.

In modern psychology there is a form of treatment called “writing therapy” or “journal therapy” where patients are asked to write about their emotions and past trauma they have experienced to gain mental and emotional clarity and come to a deeper understanding of oneself. This is another thing I can attest to as a writer, as an angsty teenager I often felt that the only way I could deal with my inner turmoil was by expressing it through poetry. Now as an adult I still often feel that my writing is a form of therapy for me to work through my feelings toward the conservative, religious upbringing that I had and now strongly disagree with. I also feel that writing gives me a safe form of escapism, gives my life purpose, and allows me to leave something behind as a sort of testament to my short time spent here on earth.

Now that I’ve listed many of the positives I think it’s time to cover the negatives of writing as a profession or at least in a public forum. The negatives come from societal pressures and the fear of public backlash. In this extremely sensitive age where every aspect of public figures’ online history is being dug up, scrutinized, and judged with the intention to “cancel” their career or publicly “drag” them on social media it can be a nerve-racking experience to put yourself out there. This is made even worse for someone that is already prone to having anxiety to start with. While I do think it is wonderful that the internet has allowed many voices that have long been dismissed and ignored finally be heard, I’m not going to pretend that there also isn’t a lot of groupthink and mob mentality occurring as well.

Many writers have a fear of being labeled “problematic” for dealing with sensitive or controversial topics, especially if they discuss issues still ongoing in society today. To bring things back to my own personal experiences much of my anxiety concerning Black Flowers had to do with the last story in the collection called “Coda.” This story deals with a teenager caught between the dangers of racial profiling by the police force in his city and his friend who has turned to drug-dealing to escape a life of poverty. I feel that this story is one of the most important and relevant things I’ve ever written, but it has also been a constant source of anxiety for me and the main contributor to the panic attacks I experienced recently.

I’ve also received some criticism from the more conservative, religious people in my life for some of the sexually explicit scenes I’ve written. Ironically, one of these stories’ themes is about overcoming religious guilt and shame to live a more fulfilling and authentic life, but that must’ve been lost on them. I don’t regret having written those scenes since I feel they were essential to the story and I’m not ashamed of writing about sex since I don’t think it is dirty or wrong.

Not to mention that the bible has some pretty explicit scenes as well despite what many uptight Christians would have you believe. “But she added to her promiscuities, bringing to mind her youthful days when she was a prostitute in the land of Egypt. She lusted after their male consorts, whose sexual organs were like those of donkeys, and whose ejaculation was like that of horses. She relived the wicked days of her youth, when the Egyptians touched and fondled her young and nubile breasts.” Ezekiel 23: 19-21. Or “Onan knew the children wouldn't be his so when he slept with his brother's wife, he wasted his semen on the ground, so he wouldn't give his brother children.” Genesis 38:9.

Now why didn’t my Sunday school teacher ever go over these verses, I wonder? If this level of detail is important to God then I think it should be important to me as well. And here is an excerpt from an article in Psychology Today titled “Overcoming Religious Sexual Shame” by clinical psychologist David J. Ley:

“Religious people are at heightened risk of developing sexual disorders, and feeling at a loss to deal with them or get help. Sadly, when people within religious communities seek help for their sexual concerns, they are most often told to suppress or ‘battle’ their sexuality, or sent to pseudotreatments such as sex or porn addiction programs, where their sexual desires are portrayed as a form of sickness. Shame creates a feedback loop of pain, fear, dysfunction and self-hatred, which is the true root of most sexual problems.”

Now I know it may seem like I’m being a little harsh here but I grew up in the Bible Belt and went to summer camps as a child where I was lectured about the evils of masturbation and having lustful thoughts. So this is me taking back my piece of mind and letting everyone know that I will not be bullied or guilted into censoring my art for you. That’s precisely how writers get driven into alcoholism and depression to begin with. I want my writing to continue to be therapy for me and if I can make some money from my art then that would be great too, but the former is far more important to me and my mental health than making a living off of it will ever be.

"Pulp Mythology" excerpt from Black Flowers

Okay so this will be the last short story excerpt I post from Black Flowers before it releases in a few days. Hope you enjoy this little sneak peek.

Disclaimer: There are suggestive themes and explicit language.

She sat in the back booth of the diner with an unlit cigarette hanging loosely from her lips and one hand shoved in the pocket of her leather jacket, tightly gripping the snub-nosed .38 revolver as she waited for the woman to show. Her eyes gazed out the window over the wet pavement of the nearly empty parking lot. The waitress eyed her suspiciously as she made her way over.

She knew she must be quite a sight, even aside from the green hair cut into a messy mohawk that partially hung in her eyes and the studded jacket. There was now a puffy black eye and a fat lip to accompany her already attention-grabbing looks.

"Rough night?" asked the waitress as she removed the notepad and pencil from her apron.

She laughed with a lack of enthusiasm. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Now you don't have any intentions of lighting that up in here, do you honey?"

She smiled at the peculiarity of the question, withdrew the cigarette from her lips with her left hand, and placed it behind her ear. All the while never lifting a finger from the gun in her jacket pocket. "No, just knowing it's there will help calm me."

The waitress gave her a wink and a nod, "Well that's quite all right, as long as we have an understanding. Our owner's father who used to smoke two packs a day just died from lung cancer, so he doesn't allow smoking in any of his establishments anymore. Probably an overreaction that's gonna hurt business but hey, I don't make the rules, I just enforce them. So what can I get you tonight?"

"I'll start off with a coffee. Black. I'm waiting for someone."

"One black coffee coming up, sweetheart."

The waitress turned around and got the coffeemaker brewing a fresh pot. She heard the door chime as someone entered and she turned to see a tall, redheaded woman in a form-fitting, green dress with a large purse slung over her shoulder approaching her. Leaf had to admit she was more than a little impressed. The lady was a knockout; she usually didn't go for the prissy-looking bitches, but exceptions could be made now and then.

"Are you Bennie's friend? Miss Cartwright?" asked the redhead.

"That'd be me. Sit your pretty little ass in that booth and we'll have a talk," she said with a smile as she bit her lip ring in a suggestive manner.

Okay, cool it, Leaf. This woman probably intends on killing you before the night is through; she's not interested in going to bed with you.

The redhead set her purse in the booth beside her and got straight to the point. "If you know where Bennie is, tell him that if he returns our property now there will be no repercussions. If he keeps us waiting, though, he is endangering himself and everyone he cares about, including yourself, Miss Cartwright."

"‘Leaf’ is just fine," she said, appearing unaffected by the woman's threats. "So that's your deal, huh? Return your stuff or you're going to kill us? Not even going to butter me up a little bit? I've seen jackhammers with a more subtle touch."

"Well, Miss Cart . . . Leaf, if you prefer," she said with a malicious grin. "We happen to be on a rather tight schedule, so forgive me if I don't have time for common niceties. Your friend Bennie's theft has upset many years of planning for us."

"First of all," Leaf interjected, "I don't know where Bennie is. I'm still trying to find him myself, and second, it might be helpful to know what it is he took. So, when and if I locate him, I'll know what to return to you."

The waitress set a steaming cup of coffee down in front of Leaf and then turned to the redhead. "And what can I get for you, darling?"

"Nothing. I'm fine," said the redhead coldly without making eye contact with the waitress.

"Excuse my friend's manners . . . Debbie, is it?" said Leaf as she glanced at the waitress's name tag. "She's had a really rough night as well. She just had her heart broken by a no-good man."

The waitress perked up. "Isn't that a damn shame?" She slapped her hands down on the table and leaned in close to the redheaded woman. "Some of these men around here just don't know how to treat a lady, do they?"

The redhead sat there quietly without responding, growing more annoyed by the second.

The waitress looked at Leaf and said, "That bastard isn't the one that gave you the shiner there, is it?"

Leaf could hardly contain her amusement. "As a matter of fact, it is."

The waitress pursed her lips angrily and began shaking her head, "I knew it, I just knew it. My friends think I'm crazy but I've always said, 'A man that'll break your heart'll just as soon as break your nose.'"

Leaf couldn't keep from snickering and the waitress eyed her with distrust, now suspecting she was being made fun of. Leaf regained her composure and responded with complete seriousness, "Don't worry, Debbie. I knocked him flat on his ass for it. He'll think twice before putting his hand on either one of us again."

Debbie smiled. "All right, now that's what I like to hear. I—"

"On second thought, I'll have the number two with a side of eggs and some coffee," the redheaded woman blurted out in a desperate attempt to derail the conversation.

"Well, all right, darling. No need to get all excited. Coming right up." The waitress rolled her eyes at Leaf as she wrote down the order on her notepad and sauntered off to the kitchen.

The redhead shot a look at Leaf that was sharp enough to cut diamonds. "May I ask why you did that?"

Leaf shrugged and smirked. "Figured it'd piss you off. Worked, didn't it?"

"I believe you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm not the type of person you want to play games with." Her facial expression was intensely serious and something in her eyes told Leaf she truly might not want to anger this woman . . . .

All right so the countdown is finally coming to an end, Black Flowers will be out this Saturday and hopefully my anxiety doesn’t do me in before that happens!

"The Evil Among Us" excerpt from Black Flowers

So the following is an excerpt from the first story in my short story collection Black Flowers. I just wanted to give people a little sneak peek before the book releases in less than a week. Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: There are implied mature themes and some explicit language.

Jim awoke to find a tall, thin man in a suit standing beside his bed. A faint glow filtered in from the night-light in the hall as Jim’s steady breathing turned to frantic, shallow gulps of air. Who is this man? Why is he here? What does he want?

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, little fella,” the man said with an artificial tone that reminded Jim of a radio disc jockey.

“Who are you? Where’s my mom?” Jim attempted to sound as calm as possible in order to keep the man from noticing that he was trembling beneath his covers.

“I’m one of your mother’s friends. No need to worry – she’s asleep in just the other room.”

Jim was afraid to contemplate on just what exactly the term “asleep” might imply.

“I see you’re into baseball,” he said shooting a quick glance at Jim’s glove. “You know, I also used to play baseball when I was your age. It is America’s favorite pastime, after all.”

“Mooooom?” Jim said barely able to raise his voice above a whisper.

“Don’t worry, slugger. She’s just in there,” he said pointing to Jim’s door and down the hallway to his mother’s room.

“Moooooooom!” Jim said raising his voice to that of a slight yell, betraying the fright he had tried to conceal.

“Aw, now don’t be that way!” The man sat down on the bed next to him and placed his hand on Jim’s blanket-covered leg. “I don’t wanna hurt you. I just wanna be your friend.”

The man’s face was now only a few feet away from Jim’s. He could faintly see the man’s toothy grin and vaguely smell the spicy scent of his cologne.

“Winston, step away from my son right now, or I’ll blow your goddamn brains out!” Jim could just barely make out the silhouette of his mother in the doorway holding what appeared to be a small revolver.

“Ella, I was just talking with him. Right? We were just talking about baseball, weren’t we?” He turned to Jim.

“Get the hell away from my son, and get the hell out of my home before I put a bullet in your head.” His mother’s voice was calm and steady now, but Jim recognized the fury that lay beneath.

“All right, all right,” the man said as he lowered his head and slipped by her out the bedroom doorway. “You got the wrong impression, though.”

She turned to Jim. “Are you all right?”

He nodded.

She followed the man through the front door with the revolver raised the entire time. The door shut behind her.

A few moments later, she came rushing back into Jim’s room and sat on the bed next to him, placing the revolver on his bedside table and taking his head into her hands. She kissed his forehead and cradled him against her chest. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her disheveled hair hung in strands across his face and she began to sob quietly, clinging to him. He could smell the alcohol on her breath.

“I won’t let this ever happen again, sweetheart. There won’t be men coming here anymore, I promise,” she said as she gently rocked him back and forth in her arms.

They stayed this way for what felt like hours to Jim. Then she silently crawled beneath the covers with her dress still on and the two slept, her arm across his chest and his back pressed against her. . . .

Anyways that was a short excerpt from “The Evil Among Us.” I will probably post an excerpt from another one of the stories later in the week for those interested.

What is southern weird?: Part II

Okay so in my last blog post I described and gave examples of the southern gothic genre, similarly in this one I will attempt to explain what the genre of weird fiction is in order to demystify what I mean when I describe my upcoming book Black Flowers as “southern weird.”

Firstly, let me begin with a quick description of weird fiction that I will later expand upon. Weird fiction is a somewhat slippery term used for strange, dark stories that blend horror, science fiction, and fantasy together often exploring the limits of humanity’s knowledge or individual encounters with the unknown.

When we left off I mentioned how HBO’s crime anthology series True Detective was a good example of the more grounded, realistic side of the southern gothic with only possible hints of the supernatural. In season one, those hints at the supernatural and occult were actually writer/creator Nic Pizzolatto’s nods to a somewhat obscure work of weird fiction. Fans of the show may remember the cryptic mentions of the “Yellow King” and “Carcosa,” which sent fans off theorizing in a million different directions similar to the show’s two lead detectives, Rust and Marty.

True Detective ended up having its own explanations for these terms, but in real life these are references to Robert W. Chambers’ book of short stories, The King in Yellow, that was published in 1895. In The King in Yellow the titular character is an ominous, shadowy figure in a play that shares his name and he lives in the kingdom of Carcosa. The reader is only given brief, albeit disturbing, excerpts of the play throughout the book and it is rumored that anyone that reads the entire play will completely lose their mind . . . so pretty creepy if you ask me.

Anyway, The King in Yellow‘s importance to the genre of weird fiction has less to do with its own contents and more to do with who it later influenced, which was a writer by the name of H.P. Lovecraft. Howard Phillips Lovecraft, though not the earliest writer of weird fiction, is by far the most well-known and most closely associated writer with the genre. Lovecraft was one of the first writers to popularize the term “weird fiction” as well as one of the first to define it and explain what made it distinct from the gothic ghost stories of the old days.

The majority of Lovecraft’s stories were first published in the cheap, fiction magazines known as the “pulps,” referencing the poor quality of the paper. Pulp magazines reached their peak of popularity in the 1920s and 1930s with such titles as Unknown and Weird Tales.

Weird Tales is the magazine that published the majority of Lovecraft’s fiction and seemed to be the one he connected with the most. Though I have not found this explicitly stated anywhere, I suspect the magazine’s title and content might have played a big part in why Lovecraft referred to his chosen genre as “weird” since it was in the very title of the magazine. In the time period when Weird Tales was first being circulated the genres of horror, science fiction, and fantasy weren’t clearly defined, distinct classifications as they are today. So in magazines like Weird Tales they were often lumped together and seen as a “lower” art form separate from the “higher,” more respectable art form known as “literary fiction.”

Lovecraft’s extremely influential contributions to weird fiction include a pantheon of ancient extraterrestrial gods known as the Cthulhu Mythos (the most famous being the octopus-faced god Cthulhu) and a pessimistic philosophy known as Cosmic Horror concluding that humanity’s existence and any of its actions are completely inconsequential in a vast and uncaring universe.

Recently many modern-day critics have stated that weird fiction was merely an insufficient placeholder term for the three, now, very different and distinct genres of sci fi, horror, and fantasy. Mostly due to the fact that the publishing industry has been using these terms for decades to classify and sell certain books. Others disagree though, some readers love the thrill of the unexpected and strangeness that comes along with reading a “weird” story and writers of the “weird” enjoy the freedom that comes along with being able to blend various ideas into new forms to create original concepts and stories.

In 2012, Jeff and Ann VanderMeer compiled a collection of 110 stories by various writers spanning over a century of time that was titled The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories. Many have seen this massive collection as the definitive book of so-called weird writing. On a side-note, some of you may recall the recent film starring Natalie Portman called Annihilation which was based on Jeff VanderMeer’s weird fiction novel of the same name.

… So this ended up being a bit longer than I had originally planned so I’m glad I decided to split it up into two parts. I hope I did a good job of explaining what southern gothic and weird fiction are so that people can understand where I’m coming from with my own literary-hybrid of “southern weird.” In summary, I take the misfit characters and dark Southern settings of the southern gothic and combine them with all the scientific, fantastic, and horrific ideas of weird fiction.

Okay, so we’re clear as mud, right? Right! See ya next post.